summary: you promised yourself; new year, new you. no more friends-with-benefits junk, no more splitting pastries and staying the night and pretending it’s nothing. this was the year you’d finally cut clark kent off for good- until you pull away a little too well and clark realises you were never temporary to him, even if he was to you.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: happy new year my darlings!! verrrry slight smut, lots of yearning from you in this one, slight angst, clark being a pining domestic work husband, friends with benefits trope, what better way to kick off 2026 than with clark being super romantic?! enjoy!!
New year, new you.
That's what you kept repeating to yourself, over and over and over again, as Clark pulled you in for a mind-numbing kiss on New Year's Eve; precisely three seconds into the dreaded 2026.
2026 would be the year of change. Of course, you'd also told yourself that last year- only back then, it had been in the form of self-help and wellness (you had yet to step back into that fancy gym you were still paying a hefty membership for). This year, it was a little more personal than that... less vague.
Because this year, you were finally going to end whatever the hell was going on between you and Clark Kent.
It sounded so simple when you framed it like that- clean, decisive, adult. Your mother would be proud, though she'd shake her head and mutter obscenities about how on earth you allowed yourself to be in this position in the first place.
You convinced yourself it would be easy; a resolution you could fold neatly into the mental list you kept somewhere between drink more water and stop doom-scrolling before bed.
End it. Let go. Move on. Let the tides roll in and the earth spin and the universal threats disappear, one by one- you could do this.
You even let yourself feel proud for a moment, standing there in the glow of cheap string lights you'd both taped to the ceiling, Clark’s hands warm at your waist, his mouth familiar in a way that made your chest ache.
Seven months.
That was how long it took for his apartment felt like a second home; already housing a drawer for you, a toothbrush and a couple late-night reads.
It was long enough that you knew which mug he reached for first in the morning, and how he liked his eggs when he cooked breakfast- which was often, because Clark was the kind of man who cooked breakfast for you without being asked, who moved around the kitchen with quiet certainty.
The type of guy who always remembered to buy oat milk because you once mentioned it made your lattes taste more like a Sunday morning than regular milk ever did, so now it was a staple on his shopping list, as essential as eggs and bread.
It was also long enough to have found out- only three months in- that he was the same man who often tore red and blue through the vast Metropolis sky.
It was a one time thing.
Initially.
"It was lovely, Clark. I, just..." you grimaced as you twirled a loose strand of hair around your finger, bottom lip bitten in reluctance as he blinked back at you through black rims.
It had been the morning after a hazy, slightly tipsy night- one where you’d practically begged to jump on top of him, and a bewildered Clark had insisted on double-, triple-, quadruple-checking that you were of sound mind before even thinking about giving in.
When you eventually proved yourself sober, the moments that followed quickly became the best three and a half hours of your entire life.
Tangled sheets. Drooling, face-down, into his navy pillows with nothing but your body giving into everything he needed and was allowed to take.
In your entire lifetime, no man had ever come close to how Clark made you feel.
And that was exactly why you couldn't have it happening again.
"...I'm just not looking for a relationship." you'd finished guiltily.
You half expected Clark to pout. He had that doting charm about him, the vibe that he lived off of being loved and wanted, simply unable to function otherwise.
So when all he did was give you a slight nod and a small smile back, you had to admit- even you felt a little bit crushed.
"That's okay, I understand. I still had fun last night." he'd said softly.
"Yeah," you smiled, "Me too."
Eagerly, you left it at that, wrapping up the conversation with a query that was strictly work related and nothing more.
The workday carried on. Printers still jammed, deadlines were still handed out like candy, and you managed- impressively- to keep your thoughts about your delicious coworker out of the office and safely confined to your bedroom.
But then, of course, came the Planet's annual Summer Party on the rooftop.
And even you knew it probably wasn't going to end well.
Champagne. No Perry. All floors of the Daily Planet congregating to celebrate the paper's quarterly wins; bylines and headlines and front pages toasted to by drunken patrons and loose reporters. Who said journalists didn't know how to have fun every now and then?
Lois insisted that you come; claiming that you didn't even have to drink if you didn't want to.
"Just come for the social," she'd said, and you'd been so bogged down with work that, in that moment, you very distractedly agreed.
But predictably, a few glasses of Merlot had you raking the crowd for that familiar pair of broad shoulders again; his mop of dark curls, the frames, the sparkling blue eyes that soon bore into yours fifty minutes later as Clark pressed you up against the wall of a supply closet.
"Easy, sweetheart," he rasped in your ear, roaming hands hungrier than his tone, "Gonna have to keep quiet for me. You can do that, right?"
You'd nodded, teeth clenched tight as Clark planted a trail of kisses from your jaw, down the skin of your stomach (exposed by the open shirt he'd skillfully managed to unbutton with one hand) all the way down to the plush of your thighs.
"Good girl."
And when his mouth finally found the heat collecting between your legs- tongue soothing the ache that had been growing for him since the very first time- you swore you could see stars.
The next day, you both agreed to being friends with benefits.
No strings attached, the biggest cliché to grace both of your lives that day.
At least, that was the label you’d both agreed on back in June, when the weather was warmer and everything felt lighter. Back then, it felt possible to keep things casual because neither of you were really looking too closely at what casual meant.
You had agreed because truthfully, you didn't know what you wanted. It wasn't like you were emotionally inept. You liked Clark, everything he was and everything he stood for- but relationships were often complicated, and there were far too many things going on in your life to justify adding another.
"Who's got time for a boyfriend nowadays, anyway?" Cat once scoffed, flicking her hand up dismissively as you clung onto her every word, "It's all a big game everyone's playing. Best not to take part- it can get pretty messy."
So you kept it easy. You googled what it meant to be 'friends with benefits', and you stuck to the steps like gospel. You left immediately after breakfast. You didn't stick around for a cuddle. You never called him babe and baby and tried not to combust when he hit you with the sweetheart and darling.
You followed his queues instead of inciting your own. You even looked away when a new reporter joined and she was punchy like Lois and kind of looked like you, and on her very first day, she gravitated toward Clark while he remained none the wiser.
Sure, your entire body had gone rigid and you had to read a couple hard-hitting articles on micro-anti-feminism and how to avoid it, all while turning emerald green with envy- but hey, at least you tried.
When Clark finally noticed, a familiar curve took to his dimpled smile as he asked you- lightly, one arm secure around your waist- if you were jealous, you just rolled your eyes and told him to stop being stupid.
Even so, you never saw him linger with her after that. And in time, she left him alone.
Nevertheless, you told yourself you could do this.
But seven months later, standing in his arms as fireworks went off somewhere outside the apartment, you knew you couldn’t.
Clark kissed you like he always did.
Slow, unhurried, like it was Christmas day and you were a gift he'd been promised all year. Like there was nowhere else he needed to be but right here, right now, with you.
His thumb brushed your jaw absentmindedly, a touch so familiar it almost hurt, and you closed your eyes because if you looked at him for too long you might do something reckless. Like ask him what you were to him. Like tell him you were falling in love with him.
You didn’t say anything when he rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in. Stayed silent when he smiled that soft, private smile that always felt like it was meant just for you.
And you didn’t say anything when he murmured, "Happy New Year," like it mattered, accompanied by a gentle kiss on the forehead. Not even when he turned you around, swift and slow, plush lips planted against the nape of your neck as he pressed you up against the glass wall of his apartment; sliding himself in, making you his, though you knew it was far from the truth.
You told yourself it was the last time you’d let it feel like this.
The thing about falling in love with Clark Kent was that it didn’t happen all at once. The world wasn’t that kind. You fell quietly, dangerously, without an ounce of warning.
It happened in the way he always brought you a pastry when he got himself a coffee, even if you hadn’t asked. How he never forgot that you hated nuts but almond croissants were the only exception, matching your order after claiming casually that he wasn’t much of a sweets person himself. He'd eat with you, eagerly, as if he didn’t want you to be alone at the table.
You could feel it in the mornings, mostly; how your heart would thump when he’d pad around his apartment barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, handing you a mug before you even asked as a towel hung languidly off his waist. And then he’d listen- really listen- when you talked about your day, your frustrations, your half-formed dreams. Never looking away when you spoke, never even alluding to the idea that he had better places to be.
It didn’t mean anything, you told yourself. He was just kind. Clark Kent was kind to everyone. That was his way of being in the world.
But kindness like that felt personal. And that was the problem.
By the second week of January, you were exhausted from pretending you didn’t want more. The constant mental gymnastics ruined you; the never-ending reminders of the rules you’d set together, of the agreement you’d made. Casual. No expectations. No pressure. No future-talk.
So, you started pulling away.
At first, it was subtle. You took longer to respond to his texts. You declined invitations with vague excuses- busy, tired, rain check?
You stopped staying the night, even when he asked you to, even when he looked a little disappointed but nodded like he understood.
The drawer in his apartment stayed untouched. Your toothbrush sat neatly next to his in the holder, a reminder of the sudden change of heart.
It was a necessary evil. A way for you to get the space needed to get your feelings under control, to remind your heart who was in charge; even as every step away from him felt like pressing on a bruise.
Clark noticed. Of course he did. Years and years of looking out for danger meant that he had quite a knack for spotting abnormalities in behaviour.
When it came to you, it was no different.
He noticed when you stopped showing up at his place unannounced because you 'were in the neighbourhood.' His sweaters, previous victims of your own forgetful nature of never packing a complete overnight bag, suddenly ceased to be stolen. The conversations between you both were lighter now, safer; your smile easy but not as relaxed as it could be.
He didn’t say anything at first. He never pushed. That, too, was part of why this hurt so much.
It was a grey afternoon towards the end of January when he finally asked.
You were sitting across from him at your usual café, the one with the scratched wooden tables and the barista who knew your orders by heart. The scent of coffee beans filled the air like the world's most burnt car freshener; delicious and dizzying, the perfect way to describe how your brain had been feeling all week.
Snow clung to the edges of the windows, and the world outside felt muffled, distant. You liked it here. Oddly enough, it felt like a bit of an escape from the outside world.
Clark slid a plate toward you- an almond croissant, still warm. He watched as you stared at it for a moment, your throat tight.
"Everything okay?" he asked you.
You nodded, but beneath the table, your fingers found a way to combat the discomfort. They tugged and pulled and twiddled with the other, nervously, without rest.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." you said, clipped. You felt rude, but at that point, anything was better than the feeling of helplessness.
"It's just..." his eyes narrowed slightly. One hand steadied your plate, and the other used a wooden knife to cut your pastry in half.
You waited for him to continue, the sweet aroma of candied almonds filling the air between you.
"You’ve been kind of… distant," Clark said gently. No accusation. Just concern. Gently, he placed the knife back on the table. “Did I do something?”
The question landed heavier than you expected. You shook your head quickly.
"No. No, of course not."
He watched you for a moment, those steady eyes searching your face like he was trying to read something between the lines.
"Then what is it?"
You took a breath. Then another. You hadn’t planned to do this today.
You’d imagined this conversation a hundred times in your head- maybe in the quiet of his apartment, or yours, where your confessions could be swallowed, rejected, or reshaped in private, without anyone else seeing.
You’d pictured having control. More confidence, rehearsed words sliding off your tongue exactly as you wanted. But Clark had a way of disarming all of that, disarming you.
One look, one small tilt of his head, and all your careful preparation was ready to unravel, threatening to leave your heart out in the open.
“Really,” you said, forcing a small smile, “it’s no big deal.”
He didn’t look convinced. But again, if there was anything he wanted to say, he kept it to himself.
For the next two weeks, it carried on like that. And it broke your heart every single time.
You left him on read more often than you even opened his messages. You showed up to work hours earlier than Clark did so you could slip out before he arrived, minimising the time spent in the same room.
You buried yourself in assignments; drowning in research, spreadsheets, articles that demanded every ounce of your attention- but never quite enough to quiet the ache when you saw him out of the corner of your eye.
"Everything okay between you and Smallville?" Lois quipped once, raised eyebrow packed with a mirage of other questions you didn't have the answers for.
You'd nodded; lips taut, head down, like you had been for weeks and weeks.
"We're fine."
Clark kept noticing, and you could feel it. But he didn’t press.
He adapted quietly, finding little ways to bridge the distance you’d built. If you came in early, he lingered a few blocks away, returning with coffee and a pastry for both of you to enjoy on your lunch break instead; carefully placing yours on the edge of the table so you could pretend it wasn’t about him, that it was just a routine, a convenience.
He hoped for a chance- however brief- that you might eat with him like you used to. But when you murmured the familiar, apologetic, "I’m so swamped with this article, Clark… I’m really sorry." he only nodded, letting you retreat back to your work without protest.
Polite, understanding, sweet Clark Kent. Who broke you in two when he placed his own pastry bag on your desk when you weren't looking, alongside a little post-it note he'd written carefully for you to find.
Doesn't taste the same without you.
CK
Sometimes, you caught his eye across the newsroom. You forced that broken little smile, the one meant to hide the storm inside, and felt your chest tighten as it met his. Isn’t this what you wanted? you wondered, even as your own heart ached. But every traipse of guilt pulled you back, building walls you weren’t sure he’d ever try to climb.
Part of you hated yourself for it. But you couldn't stop. It had become an obsession of sorts, to see just how far you could push him away and protect your own.
But somehow, someway- Clark stayed.
Even when your avoidance grew more obvious; translating into the way your shoulders stiffened as you typed furiously, head down, coffee cup shivering in your hand.
He stayed incessant, determined. He'd reach across the divide without demanding anything in return; encouraging notes on your laptop, texts he didn't expect answers to, even a few private conversations with Perry on being re-assigned some of your deadlines- like that was the problem. Gestures so small they could be ignored, yet impossible to overlook.
Each one pressed quietly against your heart, a reminder that he was there; steady and patient, refusing to let go, even when meeting him halfway felt impossible.
You took that year's Valentines Day as PTO.
You simply refused to deal with the thousands of bouquets you'd have to walk past on your commute to work- never mind the constant reminders that you were single by everyone else happily taken in the office. Even Lois had started dating someone new, and though it had taken him a good few months, Jimmy was finally starting to warm up to Eve.
You hadn't expected anyone to reach out. Long holidays had never been your vibe, so your fellow colleagues got used to you using your paid time off for the odd Monday or Friday throughout the year. Truthfully, this wasn't too out of character for you.
Except, just as you were finally settling in for the night- the intro to How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days playing quietly on the TV- you heard it; three gentle taps against the window of your fire escape.
No introduction needed. You didn’t have to ask who it was.
Half of you stayed still, almost hoping he’d go away on his own, respecting the invisible boundary you’d built. But when the window began sliding open with that familiar, deliberate creak, any hope of solitude evaporated.
The heavy, careful thuds of his boots followed as he stepped into the apartment. Even from here, you could hear the subtle drag of his cape against the floor.
A little laugh escaped you, more habit than humour as you tried to keep it light, "Superman. Didn’t know I was on your patrol list tonight."
Clark didn’t respond. No joking retort, no teasing smile, not even a soft apology for entering unannounced.
The silence pressed against you, heavy and unfamiliar and so unlike him, you had to double check it wasn't somebody else in a long cape and matching suit.
You turned slowly to face him, heart thudding in a way that had nothing to do with movie soundtracks or casual quips. For a moment, you drank him in; the symbol of Hope, Metropolis' hero, reduced to a pained expression in the middle of your apartment.
Then, Clark spoke. His voice came out quiet and careful, like the mere premise of saying the words out loud was frowned upon.
"I’ve… upset you, haven’t I?"
Your stomach dropped. It wasn’t accusatory, but every word felt like it landed straight in the hollow space your own avoidance had carved.
With a slight shake of your head, you opened your mouth to speak- but the words got caught on their way out.
You had rehearsed so many excuses, so many ways to explain your distance- but right now, none of them seemed enough.
He took a step closer, boots soft on the floor, cape brushing lightly behind him. "I’ve done something wrong," he said again, softer this time, almost a whisper. "I need you to tell me what."
It was patient. Gentle. Lashes of Superman's assertion peeked through Clark's tone. But beneath the calm, you heard the subtle ache he’d been carrying for weeks- the same hurt you’d been trying to avoid taking accountability for.
You forced a small, tired smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes.
"You haven't done anything, Clark."
"I have. I know I have," his jaw flexed at his words, "Otherwise, we wouldn't be like this. You wouldn't be so far away from me,"
"It's not you." you said again.
"Then what is it?" he pressed, eyes shining with a quiet plead. "Please... I... I've thought about it. I've retraced my steps and thought about everything we've ever done and I can't- gosh, I can't work it out. It's my fault, I know that, but I don't know how,"
You stared at him, chest tight, words caught somewhere between your mind and your mouth.
"Please tell me how."
Everything you’d been running from, every careful plan to keep him at a distance, all of it was collapsing in a single moment.
You’d kept him at arm's length for months; convinced that space would keep your feelings contained. But right now, just looking at Clark made it impossible to pretend any longer.
It wasn’t about something he’d done. Not at all.
It was you, and only you, struggling against the truth you could no longer deny. The fear of ruining what you had kept you quiet. But staying silent in this moment felt cruel, and the thought of walking away from this- from him- without ever speaking your heart, was unbearable.
So the words tumbled out before you could stop them, fragile and raw;
"It’s my fault, Clark. It's not yours,"
His eyes snapped up from the floor to meet yours. You continued, sadly.
"I stopped wanting casual."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Clark didn’t speak. He didn’t rush to fill the space. He just stood there, thinking, like he always did before saying something important.
You braced yourself.
You’d rehearsed this part- the gentle letdown, the apology, the reassurance that you were amazing but he just wasn’t in the right place.
You could handle that. You had to. You'd already done the brunt of it, the hard work of pulling away and allowing him time to do the same. He hadn't taken the opportunity then, but he could now; all Clark had to do was leave.
Nod, turn around, fly back home or towards whatever threat he'd ignored just to be here, with you, right now.
But he didn't.
Instead, after the long stretch of confusing silence where the cogs seemed to turn restlessly in his head, he finally spoke.
"You know..." he started slowly, swallowing thick, "I eat breakfast at home."
You blinked, thrown. “What?”
“I eat breakfast at home,” Clark repeated, a faint, almost nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “Every morning. I'm not really hungry when I get to work.”
You frowned, confusion knitting your brows.
“Okay…”
“And I don’t actually like almond croissants that much,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re fine. Just… not my favorite.”
Your heart started pounding, like it sensed something before your brain did.
“But you love them,” he went on, voice steady yet soft. “And I know you don’t like eating alone. Especially in the morning. So I suck it up, and I have one with you every morning for breakfast. Just because you like them." he paused then, as if contemplating on what to say next.
"I did that way before we even started this whole thing. Didn't know who I was trying to fool, even back then. Does that seem casual to you?"
The city noise seemed to fade into the background. You stared at him, chest tight, emotions colliding all at once- shock and fear and something dangerously close to relief.
Clark's words begged to be answered. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to even nod a reply, far too stunned with disbelief.
"I didn’t realise you thought I didn’t want more," he said truthfully, brows knitted at your expression. "I thought I was giving you space. I didn’t want to push you into something if you weren’t ready."
You laughed weakly, a sound caught somewhere between a crack and a breath. "I was the one who didn't want anything,"
Clark’s expression softened in a way that made your chest ache. "And now?"
"I'm scared." you said, honestly. He simply shook his head.
"There's nothing to be afraid of."
"There is," you said back, "Because at the start, I didn't want anything. I couldn't. And now, I want everything."
"What's so bad about that?"
The words hung between you, fragile and terrifying. You weren't too sure of your surroundings anymore- the candle that you'd lit prior to his arrival merged into everything else in your cosy little apartment. All you could focus on was Clark.
And all he could see was you.
In a sweatshirt far too big, hair far too unruly to have expected company tonight. Yet he looked at you like you like you were something to be praised; sacred, not an emotional wreck in a faded Metropolis Meteors sweater who couldn't even look him in the eye.
It was his turn to take you in, for his gaze to graze over the way you simply existed. His shoulders relaxed, eyes following suit as his lips parted.
"I love you." Clark said softly.
The ringing in your ears halted, long enough for his words to begin to register. He'd just theown you completely off balance, yet he carried on like it was nothing.
"And I think I have... for a long time. Way before any of this," he cleared his throat. "But then we started doing that benefits thing, and I panicked because, well, I- it's not me. And I wanted to do this right."
Outside, trickles of rain start to fall, quiet and steady, like the world was holding its breath. Inside, Clark crossed the threshold of your living room and took your hand, warm and solid and real.
"Then why did you agree to it?" you asked, though your mind was still fighting to catch up with his words.
He loved you.
Clark Joseph Kent was in love- with you.
Every memory you ever shared clouded over, replays of all the times you spent tangled in each other's arms. All the lingering looks, the pauses and pecks you assumed were Clark's personal quirks when it came to 'casual sex'- now coming together to prove you so, very wrong.
Especially when he chuckled lightly, not all humour, most of it apologetic and said, "Figured I'd rather have a part of you than nothing at all."
It was the most gut-wrenching thing he could have said.
Because while you were adamant on not giving in, on staying far away in fear of getting hurt, Clark dove straight in; suffering the repercussions of every single day you were at war with your own mind, yet choosing stick by you anyway.
"Maybe," he then said, carefully, as though not to scare you. His hands found yours, taking it with a gentle squeeze. "we can stop pretending this is casual."
Your fingers tightened around his. The ache in your chest didn’t disappear- not completely- but it shifted, softened into something that felt like possibility.
"I'm not good at this sort of stuff, Clark," you warned him, swallowing thickly.
You saw his dimple before anything else. He began to smile, soft and slow, pleased with your (albeit reluctant) way of letting your heart win for once; for letting it drive everything you'd kept under lock and key.
"You don't need to be. Not with me," Clark said, cupping your jaw as a broad thumb trailed over your lips, "We can work it out. Together."
And for the first time that dreaded countdown, you let yourself imagine a resolution you hadn’t written down.
Something less neat, and more terrifying. Something real; with Clark at the forefront.
"Alright?" he asked you then, a question behind the glimmer in his eye as his nose brushed against yours.
You tilted your head upwards, braving the weight of his gaze. You nodded slowly, hammering heart worsening as Clark's grin widened.
The warm brush of his breath ghosted across your lips, causing your body to relax further into him as you spoke back,
"Alright."
And Clark didn’t rush it.
You’d kissed plenty of times before. They were all careless, fleeting, stolen in the middle of moans and gasps, or in the quiet aftermath of everything that had happened beneath the sheets- but this was different. Entirely.
This kiss was steady, sure; weaving itself into the promise of a conversation you would definitely have later- but for now, it could wait.
He lingered, giving you time to breathe, to notice the small tremble in your fingers as they tightened into a fist against his chest. And then, he leant his head down, and kissed you properly.
His lips were warm, his movements unhurried.
The act felt familiar- Clark felt familiar. The faint bitterness of coffee lingered on each breath, softened by something sweet as he pressed a flat hand on your lower back and pulled you closer; almond, sugar, comfort, home.
oh my lord have i missed you all ! (i say that, i was definitely around - just haven't been able to write with all the festivities going on!) but i hope you all had a wonderful christmas and an even happier new year <3
as always, thank you for reading and supporting :') so much love for you all x
A/N: hey the title rhymes. Hi angels! Part 2 is finally here, by heavy demand! And uh... for those who thought I was gonna fix everything with this part?? No, I'm here to make it worse! Woo! (Don't hate me, I did warn you lmao). So, enjoy the angst! Hope it's worth the wait x
Summary: continuing on from Part 1 - You return after the ‘blip’. Five years is a long time, and a lot of things can happen in that time. Where does that leave you now?
Word count: somewhere in the 2.7k zone idk
Warnings: ANGST. Angst squared, if you will. Broken hearts everywhere. Broken hearted reader. Broken hearted Matty. A brief broken hearted Frank coming in for the rescue. Not a happy ending. Mentions of divorce and the religious thoughts surrounding that, the Blip and the devastation it would've caused, break ups, brief jealousy, heavy denial, anxiety, lots of crying and I just want to hold onto him forever & ever. This is unedited coz I'm lazy and like to just throw things out into the void and die like a warrior.
There’s a vicious, relentless pounding behind your temples when you finally begin to feel the darkness pulling at your mind recede. With the constant stab of pain, everything returns—the apparent lost time, the strange new world that had grown during your absence, the relationships that had also changed during those five years.
Five whole years.
It might as well have been an eternity.
Your whole life, everything you knew—gone. It doesn’t seem real, it’s just not possible, and yet here you are. Here you are in a world that still feels so familiar, and sickeningly not. Your thoughts are a vicious storm in your mind, merely intensifying the throb running along your forehead. Your system flutters between confusion, denial, mourning.
It’s enough to make you want to simply fall back into the blissful void of unconsciousness, until—
“Sweetheart?”
Matt.
Your heart still jumps at his gentle rasp, a part of you longing to just soften into his hold and cling to him like you’d done so many times before, but you can’t. He’s not—he’s not your Matt. Not anymore.
It’s hard to pull away from the fingers tracing your cheek, and when you open your eyes, they wince from the light shining through the large windows. He’s knelt on the floor beside you, a frown of concern creasing his brows as you slowly shift on weak limbs until you’re sitting upright on the leather.
You study his features through raw, hazy eyes, and it’s only now you notice the subtle changes you had missed upon your return to the apartment—the few more creases lining his face, the extra spatterings of grey strands amongst his dark tresses. His hair… it’s shorter too, now that you’re really looking. How had you not seen that? Not noticed?
Maybe it was the panic. It had to have been. You didn’t notice anything else when you ran in. Your surroundings had changed within a second, everything was all just so confusing and mad—you had just wanted him, you wanted home. Turns out, you had no home to return to. No one to return to.
There must be so many others. The pain must be immense throughout the world. Lovers returning to mere memories. Parents returning to kids left behind, now years older and practically strangers. Children returning to homes that were no longer there, lost amongst the new world and without anyone familiar around them to find comfort in. God, they must be so scared.
Matt’s hand returns to your face, the backs of his fingers testing the feel of your forehead before ever so slowly trailing away until they rest where your pulse thrums through the skin of your throat. It’s not necessary—he’d hear it across town. Maybe he’s seeking physical reassurance that you’re really here, right in front of him.
“Talk to me,” he pleads quietly, “say something, anything.”
You find nothing worth speaking. You doubt you’d even have the strength to speak with how dry and heavy your tongue feels in your mouth. His hand moves, fingers hot on your skin as he cups the underside of your jaw and this time, you don’t quite have the strength to pull away.
All you want is this.
His touch, his presence—him.
“Sweetheart, I—” he stops, head tilting ever so slightly towards the door.
You watch him stiffen, tension rolling through his shoulders as he rises from his knelt position before turning towards the door to the apartment expectantly. It takes longer for your senses to catch up, but eventually the dull thud of boots hitting the flooring outside of the apartment hits your ears—
Frank.
Where was he through all of this? Had he been left to carry on with life, trying to make sense of a world left in ruin? Or had he been washed away with the breeze, just like half the planet? Universe? You want to ask Matt, but words seem to fade away on your tongue.
He doesn’t bother knocking—he never has.
While there had been some stirrings of indifference between him and Matt after everything that happened, there was still a solid foundation of respect, which quickly extended to you the more you attempted to coax the beaten and bloodied man into your clutches for some much needed medical treatment. You were more than acquaintances, a little less than friends—just close enough for him to feel comfortable coming and going from the apartment should he have ever needed patching up.
“Apparently it’s been a while,” Frank mutters gruffly as a somewhat greeting once he’s stepped into the apartment, and you feel the same air of confusion and denial radiating from him.
He had been gone then, like you. How is he handling this? Does he feel as lost as you? As scared? You’d always thought him to be someone not exactly immune to the feeling, but at least stronger than others. As much as you feel for him, hurt for him, knowing exactly the type of thoughts and feelings that plague him, you find comfort in the fact that you weren’t alone in this.
Matt doesn’t respond, and Frank sighs tiredly, eyes flashing briefly to the side under his heavily bruised and swollen brow.
“I ain’t here to fight, Red.”
Matt’s tongue flicks over his lips and he gives a humourless huff, still not relaxing from his defensive stance. Maybe he was expecting Frank to be pissed and burst in like a raging bull with red in his vision, seeing as he and Karen had something brewing slowly between them all those years ago, but Frank doesn’t seem to be interested in any violence whatsoever.
You’re not even entirely sure what he’s here for.
“Well, Karen’s not here—”
“I know, she was with me,” Frank rumbles deeply, head tilting as he appraises Matt, “told me the happy news—congrats.”
It’s not insincere, but it’s damn near close.
His gaze moves to you.
He studies the way you sit, drawn in on yourself and cuddling your chest in an effort to hold yourself together. You can feel how raw and swollen your eyes are, and when you finally manage to tiredly lift them to meet his, Frank seems to soften.
It’s only slight, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know his mannerisms well, but you see it.
“I was thinkin’ you might need a place, after hearin’ about—” he swallows, jaw rolling ever so slightly. He exhales sharply and shifts on his feet, “You got anywhere to go?”
He’s here for you?
Matt intervenes immediately. “She’s staying here, Frank—”
Staying here? In the apartment you used to live in? That he now lives in with another woman? Was his idea to leave you sleeping on the couch alone, while they sleep in your bed together? No, it’s not your bed anymore. It’s their bed. Their apartment.
Five years of Daredevil and regular concussions must’ve really killed some of his brain cells. Is he even still Daredevil? Maybe married life changed his perspective on his dangerous nightly habits. Maybe his perspective changed on a lot of things. Is he even the same Matt you had left behind?
Frank’s head tilts, his eyes narrowing into a scowl as they flick back to Matt. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t askin’ you—was I, Red?”
“No,” you finally rasp in reply to his earlier question before Matt could retort, voice rough and weak in your throat, “no, I don’t.”
He nods, expecting your answer. “You got a bag?”
“I don’t know if I have any things left,” you mutter, bitterly wondering where your belongings went. Storage? Donated? The trash? How long did they leave it, did Matt leave it before tossing it all away? Like you’d never even existed, like you’d never even mattered. “Do I have anything here, Matt?”
Matt baulks at the ice coating your tone, and it’s unfair. You know that. Deep down you know you’re being unfair, a part of your mind gently reminding you that you probably would’ve thought and done the same in his position should it have been reversed, but you don’t care.
The familiar bite of anger, pain, still stirs relentlessly in your system and it trumps all reason and logic.
You had a life, and now it’s in complete ruins.
What are you supposed to do with that?
Frank nods sagely, “We’ll get you some things, ain’t gotta worry about that. You comin’?”
As much as you want to reject the idea of leaving, as much as your heart screams at you to stay with Matt because he’s all you know, he’s all you have, and he was telling you how much he loved you only mere hours ago… you give a minimal nod, and shift to stand from the couch.
It wasn’t hours ago—it was five years.
Five years.
Matt instinctively steps in front of you to keep you from moving any further, his tongue darting across his lips in an apparent panic, “You’re going with him?”
“Can you give us a minute? I won’t be long,” you ask Frank quietly, aching at the way Matt’s anxiety seems to heighten at your words.
Frank gives a single nod, and then slips out, the door clicking quietly shut behind him. Matt ignores it, every sense focused in on you and the way your heart beats a broken rhythm in your chest, the way your nails pick at the cotton of your sleeves, the way fresh tears smell building on your lash line—
“I have nowhere else to go,” you mutter, body now numb to feeling and just utterly exhausted from the onslaught of emotions the day had thrust upon you. “I can’t stay here, Matt. I can’t. Seeing you two—God, it’ll kill me. I can’t do it.”
Why you? Why did it have to be you?
A part of you wishes it would’ve been Karen in your place, uncaringly and unknowingly torn from her life to leave everything she ever loved behind, only to return to a world that had survived, that had moved on without her… and you don’t even have the energy to feel guilty for such a thought yet.
It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t even Matt’s.
“Sweetheart,” Matt pleads softly, hands seeking and taking your hands tightly, “just—just tell me what to do. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
The thought is immediate—would he leave her? Could you ask that of him? Could you expect him to just drop and abandon everything he’s built during your absence?
You want to.
You want to tell him to break it off with her as soon as physically possible, to kick her out so you could be at home where you’re comfortable and with him and just act like nothing happened—
—but you can’t.
You can’t bring yourself to say the words.
What would he think of you asking a question like that? Would he even do it? You know how he feels about divorce, what his religion thinks of divorce. His whole belief system, his life, his God… would he abandon it all for you?
Looking at him now, how he physically pleads with you with those soft, lost eyes looking for guidance, you believe that maybe, just maybe, he would.
But you can’t ask that of him.
You could never, and would never, ask that of him.
Unless—
“Were you happy?” You ask softly, eyes bouncing between his where they rest just left of your face.
He blinks, a slight frown forming between his eyes in an effort to make sense of your unexpected words, “What?”
“Before I—” you take a breath, tongue rolling along your lips to moisten the sudden dry skin, “—before I just materialised back onto the street… were you happy? With your life? With her?”
Without me?
Say no.
God, please say no.
You begin to wonder why you asked. Maybe you’re a glutton for punishment, maybe you think nothing could possibly hurt any more than it already does, but when his expression falters, when his mouth opens and nothing seems to make it past his lips, you know that’s not possible.
This… this seems to hit the hardest.
He was happy.
He was happy before you came back.
He was happy without you.
And it’s… good.
It is.
Of course you don’t want him to be anything but that. He had found what he wanted from life—some normality, some peace, and it’s with that understanding that you realise you have no place here anymore. At least not with him. You have no part in his life now, and it shreds that last little untouched piece of your hopeful heart to absolute ruins.
Denial still pulls at your mind, still blatantly refuses to accept that five years had actually passed. You’d been nothing but a distant memory to him, to your friends, to the world, and yet, everything is still so vividly fresh for you. You only got out of bed, held him, kissed him, a few hours ago—a few fucking hours!
Five years.
“It’s okay,” you mutter, as his saddened eyes flutter in a panic, “I want that for you, Matt. I’ve always wanted that for you, even if that means I’m not—that we’re not—”
You ache at the thought of being apart from him, a feeling he had already experienced and endured.
“Three years,” he says quietly, brokenly, a slow gathering of tears building along his lash line, “three years I searched, I waited, I prayed… if I had known—if I had known you… I wouldn’t have—”
—moved on.
You envision Matt lost in the organised pews with dozens of other faceless mourners, on his knees and weeping into his closed hands, begging for the strength to finally let you go. He was granted it, after enduring agony for such a stretch of time, and now it’s all fallen to pieces at your return.
“It’s okay,” you repeat softly, the feeling of your heart beating in your throat choking the words, “it’s okay.”
“No,” he shakes his head, face creasing as the tears begin to make their way down his cheeks, “no, it’s not. I’ve only just gotten you back. You’re back, and now—now I—God. I can’t say goodbye. Not again. I can’t.”
“So don’t,” you say simply, a fresh build of your own tears streaking your cheeks, “we won’t say goodbye. Just… just forget. Forget I ever came back, Matt. Everything will be as it was.”
He recoils sharply, as if you physically struck him. “I can’t do that—”
“Yes, you can. You have to, we all have to.”
“No, I won’t—”
“You told me to tell you,” you croak weakly, the feel of his coarse stubble piercing the soft skin of your palm as you cradle his cheek, “you told me to tell you what to do, and that you’ll do it. Well, this is it, Matt. This is what I’m telling you to do—forget I ever came back. It’ll be easier for everyone. You can keep what you had—what you have, and I—”
And you?
What will you do?
Where will you go?
Your hand falls from his face, only for it to be snatched up and returned to its previous spot with his own pressed tightly against it to keep it there. His tears smear against your skin, the evidence of his heartbreak an obvious reminder that he never let go completely.
There’s something still held for you within him, it just wasn’t the same as when you left.
His forehead comes to rest against your own, and you weaken into the familiar comfort of his touch, just for a moment. You don’t want to let go, don’t even know if you can. There's nothing left to be said, nothing left to be worked out. This is just it.
Why does it have to be this way? Your stomach churns at the idea of walking out for good. How can you? Nothing has changed for you—everything you feel for him is right there, right there where it’s always been, and you can’t do anything with it.
You indulge in the moment a little longer, stretching out to softly press your lips to his with the bittersweet taste of a loving goodbye—one last time. You savour the feel of him, his lips, so warm, so soft and sweet and familiar—
—and then pull away, the air filling the space between you lingering with the memory of what could have been.
He lets your hand fall away this time, pained haunted eyes scrunching closed as you further the distance between you until you’re at the door to the apartment. The quiet exhale of a sob reaches your ears as you open the door, and you dare not look back at Matt falling apart as you close it softly behind you.
Summary: General Organa asks for your help to find a traitor in the Resistance, and you’d do anything for the cause. But your empathic abilities are constantly distracted by someone whose feelings are stronger than anyone you’ve ever met, Poe Dameron. (~2.7k)
Contents: Love at first sight, Poe is so sweet, fluff and a kiss, reader's gender/pronouns not mentioned or described
-----
Leia’s communication was only 3 words, “come visit us,” followed by a set of coordinates.
She’d always played things close to her chest.
You’d told her if the Resistance ever needed help, to count on you. As an empath, the constant stress and hope of war was no place for you on a day-to-day basis. You preferred to live alone, but your heart was always with the Resistance.
You helped coordinate drop zones and supply runs. Put people in touch with each other. Anything that could be done by the small comms relay that was set up on your forgotten corner of the outer rim.
A week or two in person, though, would be manageable. You found yourself looking forward to talking to people face to face again.
You landed on the warm, jungle planet that was the current Resistance HQ. The afternoon sun was hot, but not sweltering. It was lovely and a lot like the planet you’d been living on.
The mood on base was good. There had been a minor victory that had lifted spirits recently. Some were worried about the next battle, whenever that might come.
There was curiosity about the small ship of people who had arrived, you among them. The bustle of people parted to make way for passengers disembarking, but also for one man. You felt him before you could see him.
Love rolled off of him like a wave breaking through a levee.
You stepped back automatically.
You could not be near this guy. He felt too much. It drowned out everything else. While it was surprisingly comforting, it wasn’t what you were here for.
“Stop,” you said gently but loudly, letting him know not to come any further.
You could all but smell the leather from his jacket from here, feel his dark, curly hair between your fingers.
His smile faltered, a little like a puppy who’d been shut outside all alone. He waved from behind the people bustling back and forth between you two.
“I’m Poe Dameron,” he yelled. “Leia sent me.”
You nodded. “She should’ve known better.”
One of his dark eyebrows winged upward. He scratched a hand through his messy hair. “Not really sure what that means, but I’m supposed to escort you to her. Call me Poe.”
He felt bad, thought you didn’t like him.
That wasn’t it at all. Of course you liked him, right away. Your gut always knew about people. Poe was… well, there were a lot of words your heart wanted to use to describe him. You settled for thinking of him as distracting.
You’d wanted to get a read on people as you walked around base for the first time, and into the command center. But if Poe Dameron was with you, he’d be the only thing you’d feel. You just knew it.
But he was here now, and you didn’t want to be the one who put that look on his face.
“I’m sorry,” you apologized as you walked up to him.
Poe took your bag, his beautiful eyes examining your face. He could tell something was off about you, which was strange in itself. Your ability wasn’t something most other people could sense.
“I’m an empath. You have extraordinarily strong emotions,” you said, standing closer to him. His feelings were like a warm blanket around you, cozying you in toward him.
The corners of his mouth turned down. “Oh, I’m sorry, do I make you uncomfortable? I can get someone else to take you to Leia.”
And he was sweet.
You smiled, trying to put him back at ease, cursing Leia for sending you a guy to be halfway in love within 30 seconds of landing here.
“Not uncomfortable exactly,” you explain as Poe leads you toward the central building. “It’s weirdly nice actually. Like wearing earplugs or something. You’re the only thing I can feel. Usually a place like this would be chaos. I’d probably be panicking by now.” You paused. “Which is probably why Leia sent you. She knew you’d help me adjust to being around people again. She never stops being brilliant, does she?”
Poe grinned. “Sounds like her. We’re playing chess and she’s playing… well, nothing. She’s just practically omnipotent sometimes.”
You laughed. “She’s more powerful than almost anyone in the galaxy. She’s just humble and hides it well.”
Poe waved to almost everyone, smiling, as you walked with him.
“She prefers to let other people take the credit,” he said. “A lesson she’s always trying to teach me.”
“You’re not an egomanic, Poe. Your excitement and optimism just outweigh your forward-thinking sometimes.” You gave him a pained smile. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk to people about themselves without them asking.”
“No, it’s interesting. And accurate,” Poe said as he paused outside an open hangar door.
His brown eyes looked into yours, crinkled at the corners.
“No, but thank you,” you said before he could speak again.
His head tilted. “You can read minds too?”
You shook your head. “Your emotions are so strong I feel like I can sense what you’re about to say. As much as I’d love to hang out with you, I’m here to work.”
Poe bit his lower lip briefly, but it wasn’t in his nature to give up after the first try.
“I was going to ask you to come with me to dinner tonight. Doesn’t have to just be the two of us if you don’t want. I’m happy to introduce you around. Probably a better idea. Leia might not have told me you were an empath, but she did tell me why you’re here. She and I have been trying to figure it out for weeks.”
He was worried, agonized over the idea of a mole in the Resistance. The idea that someone he considered family could betray them caused him almost physical pain.
You reached out and squeezed his arm.
“Why don’t I come find you later, see how I feel. I’m sure I’ll have questions and it seems like Leia’s going to tell me that you’re the person I should bother with them,” you said.
Poe’s long eyelashes waved slightly in the breeze. He was feeling something about the way your hand felt on his arm. You pulled back.
“You’re not a bother,” Poe said. “I’m happy to be your feelings shield any time you want.”
Not a lie. He really would be happy to help you whenever you needed, and you knew he was eventually going to ask you out on a real date. Poe had decided, at least part of him had, that you were his.
You weren’t even sure if he knew it himself.
And you definitely weren’t ready to deal with it.
*****
A few days around base, even though you assured him you were more comfortable, Poe had found lame excuses to bump into you no less than five times.
Sometimes he wanted to check you were okay. Sometimes, you felt his gaze on you for long stretches of time before he came up to say hi.
You caught yourself daydreaming about him more than once.
Unavoidable because he was the dictionary definition of “dreamy,” but it was more than that.
Poe’s spirit was everywhere.
You’d yet to meet anyone who hadn’t been touched by his kindness or mentorship.
Yet to meet anyone who hadn’t heard you were new to base.
Poe had evidently told people to be nice to you. Helpful and part of the positive atmosphere that he couldn’t help but create, but also it felt like wherever you went, he lingered in the air. Like an aura that was always protecting you.
A handsome aura with a neck that you wanted to bury your face against. Arms you wanted to surround you. Thighs that you could sink your teeth into.
“Hey. What’s making you smile like that?”
Poe’s voice made you jump so hard you almost fell off your stool in the mess hall. You immediately felt your face get hot as you stared at your bowl of breakfast mush.
He sat down next to you, reached out and brushed the knuckle of his pointer finger down your cheek.
“I hope you were thinking about me,” he said, half-jokingly. His grin widened when you didn’t respond. “Well well well, seems like you’re not the only one around here who can sense feelings. You were thinking about me.”
You picked up your tray and stood up. “I have work to do.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Poe said, resting his arm casually on the long, metal table. “The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can talk about ‘us.’”
You glared at him, but there wasn’t any anger in it. “Lower your voice, please.”
Poe pretended to think about it dramatically. “No, I don’t think I will. I haven’t felt this good in a year and a half. You were thinking about me,” he repeats, obviously delighted.
He reached out and ran his hand down your arm.
“I think about you too,” he said, quieter, looking up at you from his seat.
Your breath caught in your chest. It built pressure behind your ribcage and breast bone. It was almost painful.
As used to holding back your emotions are you were, it felt impossible to do with Poe.
He stood, his body close to yours, almost putting himself between you and the rest of the room. He smelled clean, the faintest hint of oil and something masculine that made your stomach clench.
He knew the way he affected people, of course he did. Until this moment, though, he’d had no idea that he affected you like this.
You felt that he wanted to say more, really ask about your feelings, but to your surprise, Poe felt a little nervous about your answer.
“You okay? I was just teasing you. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said.
His dark eyes, almost as infinite as space itself, searched your face.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” you say with a reassuring smile. “I just didn’t expect this. Any of this.”
“What?” He asks.
“You.”
Though Poe didn’t technically have any special abilities besides his piloting and capacity for hope (and his hair), how unafraid he was of his feelings was like a power in itself. He had no idea how rare that quality was.
That he wasn’t afraid to celebrate out loud or to cry in front of others. That he was maybe the only person you’d ever met who meant it every time he asked how someone else was doing.
That he was in love with you.
That warm haze of Poe’s feelings you’d been snuggled into hadn’t just been his good heart and a crush.
It was love.
And even though you’d never been one to believe in this sort of thing, you’d fallen in love with him at first sight too.
“We can’t talk here. Can we go somewhere private?” You asked him.
He nodded, his hand on your lower back. He led you out of the mess hall and down the hallways to the guest quarter wing. He punched in the default code to an empty room and you felt like you could breathe again when it was just you two.
“When we first met, you being all I could feel was almost overwhelming,” you said. Your hands scrunched up the fabric of your pants. “Now, I can’t imagine feeling any other way.”
Poe’s brown eyes got big.
“Don’t say anything yet,” you said desperately.
Poe’s lips pressed together so hard, the skin around his mouth went white.
“I think I know what’s going on with the mole. Or what I mean to say is, I think the information that’s getting out is from the transport pilots that the Resistance is hiring. Maybe even the one who brought me here. I’m not sure. I’m almost positive they’re doing it for the money. People are starving out there. I should’ve felt it sooner, but on my way here I was so nervous it didn’t occur to me to examine absolutely everyone.”
“That’s not your fault. We never would’ve known at all if it weren’t for you,” Poe said, unable to keep silent. “Leia said she's working on shutting down the leak. I’m sure you figured out I’ve been trying to check in on you, but I thought you were trying to avoid me. You were busy.”
He scratched his jaw awkwardly.
“I know this is selfish, but is there any way you can stay?” Poe’s words were fast, convincing. “Your work here is done, but we haven’t even really talked. Not about important stuff. Not that you have to talk to me about important stuff. We could just go outside and walk, or whatever, or sit down. Um. That’s not really a good date. Sitting on the ground. And I haven’t even asked you on one. Damn… I sound like an idiot.”
He rubbed his hands over his face. He snapped his fingers, a grin back on his face.
“I know what our first date should be. There’s this patch of jungle here that looks like home. My home. Yavin. Pretty pond with bioluminescent fish, tiny purple guys. It’s kind of a hike to get there. The trees are too close for a speeder. But the further we get from base and people, the better for you, right?” He was excited, gaining momentum. “We’d be alone. We’ve never been alone before.”
“I’ve been alone for years,” you said quietly, realizing this was the start of your entire life changing.
Poe’s empathy reached out for you like a hug. Enveloping you in his understanding, his determination that you never feel alone, his certainty that you wouldn’t be. You’d have him.
“So,” Poe said softly, “will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, and I’d like you to show me around base some more. If I’m going to be spending more time here, I’d like to know the ins and outs.”
His face broke into a huge smile. “Great. Yeah, definitely. I don’t really have an office, or I’d let you set up there.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But you can stick with me if you need a mental break. Although, I’m usually doing a million things at once. My brain’s all over the place. Probably not the most relaxing for you.”
“It’ll be perfect,” you reassured him. “All I need is you.”
You felt embarrassed, knowing how it sounded. Poe, however, found it completely adorable. Irresistible.
His hands reached for yours before he even realized it.
You felt something unexpected from Poe. Relief, some loosening of a tension inside of him that neither of you knew he’d had.
In your short time on D’Qar you’d seen how much Poe gave himself to the cause, with everything he had. He hadn’t realized that he also needed support. Someone to champion for him, hold him, smile just for him.
You wanted to do those things so badly. So, so badly.
As tangled as your feelings were with his, you had no idea who’d kissed who. But it was electric, like melting together, the heat driving your lips and tongues and hands over each others’ bodies.
If this was loving Poe Dameron, then you never wanted to do anything else.
Your mind was a hazy wash of him, his emotions and yours. Poe was the one to hold your face in his hand and break the kiss. You felt hypnotized by him.
His chest lifted and fell with heavy breaths. He held you close, mouth tucked against your skin.
“First, a first date,” he said. “Then, a second.”
“I never took you for the old-fashioned type,” you said with a teasing smile.
Poe looked a little hesitant. You knew what he felt.
“I’m not. I’m all systems go, usually, when I find someone I’m really interested in. Not that this is like that. This is very different,” he clarified. “What I’m trying to say, and I don’t really know how-“
“I know,” you said quietly. "I feel the same way."
“Of course you know,” he lifted his face to smile at you.
“So,” you used your fingertips to brush the curly hair off of his forehead, “tomorrow, our first date. And then…”
Poe kissed the tip of your nose. Your mouth drifted toward his, feeling the word forming in his throat before he could even say it.
His lips against yours, you smiled before he spoke. A one word emotion that you’d never felt from anyone, and certainly not from yourself
“Forever,” he whispered.
Poe Dameron masterlist :: main masterlist :: Join My Fic Taglist
katsuki is hopelessly in love with his best friend until you waltz into his life and warp it beyond his recognition.
rating: mature, 18+, MDNI
wc : 10.4k (holy fuck)
tags : mild to heavy angst, fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, gn!reader (they/them pronouns), afab!reader, unrequited love (not between reader and kats), depictions of mild depression, genderfluid!denki, queer!katsuki, reader has a quirk, oral (reader receiving), p-in-v intercourse, unprotected intercourse (wrap it b4 u tap it pls!), soft katsuki, and they were roommates :0, Not Beta Read, i think that’s it T^T
an: this is the first thing i’ve genuinely written in over a year and jesus it was like i was possessed writing it LMFAO incredibly self indulgent and i had a lot of fun writing it! i hope you guys enjoy it (pls rb n leave feedback pls pls pls)
read on ao3
the warm light of the coffee table lamp casts a beautiful shadow across the planes of eijirou’s face — his sharp, angular nose, smooth cheekbones, plush lips that form a sheepish smile — and katsuki can’t even appreciate it, not with the absolute bullshit that pours from his best friend’s lips.
“the fuck you mean, you’re moving out?”
the words come out a lot harsher than katsuki intends, but he can’t even bring himself to feel guilty, not even when kiri’s face screws up in clear disappointment.
“well, uh, i told you, this new place is closer to my agency so it makes more sense. the commute’ll be much shorter and, uh…” he trails off then, a pretty pink blush spreading across his nose, highlighting the small spattering of freckles that katsuki is certain he’s the only one who’s ever noticed, a broiling heat setting alight in his stomach.
he feels like he might die.
“and.. kaito finally asked me to move in with him.”
there it is. fuckin’ kaito.
katsuki is far from an idiot — people call him a lot of names (brash, inconsiderate, a righteous asshole), but never dumb. they couldn’t unless they were outright lying.
part of what makes katsuki so intelligent is his observance.
of course he’s noticed eijirou’s late nights, his suspicious absences at group get togethers, the sweet smiles he makes as he taps at his phone screen, the fucking hickies.
bakugou katsuki is not stupid. he’s incredibly observant. especially when it comes to the massive crush he’s been harboring on his best friend for the last three years.
he’s not entirely sure when his reluctant tolerance of the bright redhead shifted to something more but he knows he’s been viciously, painfully pining over him day in and day out in the weeks (months, years) since.
and it’s not like kirishima hasn’t had partners before. he’s nearly impossible to resist with his intense attentiveness, his willingness to go above and beyond for those close to him, not to mention his insane physique, built from long hours out on the field and in the gym.
it’s no wonder katsuki has been in love with him for as long as he has been — eijirou is perfect.
perfectly imperfect, of course. he gets upset when katsuki sorts his clothes for him (“i’m an adult, okay? it makes me feel like you’re parenting me, man.”) or when he lectures him on his diet, or when he shuts him out after being friends for so long (when his feelings become too much to handle), but eijirou’s the only one who’s stayed.
katsuki has tried flings and a few more serious relationships but those have ended quickly because he’s just too much.
too loud. too frustrating. too closed off. too him.
but not for eijirou. never for eijirou.
that’s why when kiri mentioned he was talking to this new guy, he brushed it off. it would be like all the others who would eventually break it off because of the long hours at work or eijirou’s boundless enthusiasm and katsuki would be there to pick the sopping wet, heartbroken kiri off the ground and put him back together. they didn’t deserve him anyway.
but this kaito? apparently katsuki’s eagerness to ignore eijirou’s flings made him blind to what was happening — eiji wasn’t his anymore.
he’s moving out.
he’ll be gone forever.
subconsciously, katsuki realizes he’s been silent for far too long and that eijirou’s face has lost the hurt and is now painted with concern and confusion.
fuck, even now, he’s concerned. he cares so so much, except in the way katsuki craves.
“uh,” kirishima’s gentle voice breaks him from his thoughts, a big hand finding its way to katsuki’s knee, “are you okay dude?”
the touch sears through the expensive black joggers katsuki is wearing and he flinches so hard, he jostles the coffee table to his side. he barely sees kirishima’s brows furrow as he launches himself to standing, the telltale burn behind his eyes signaling the incoming wave of tears.
he can’t see katsuki like this, he fucking can’t.
katsuki marches to the kitchen, opening up the fridge and blankly staring into it while he tries to will the water back into his face and still the turmoil burning in his chest.
it feels like he’s aflame, like he’s suffocating, drowning.
he can hear kirishima’s steps behind him but thankfully stopping a reasonable distance away as he calls his name again, desperation coloring the word.
fuck.
with everything he has in him, katsuki grabs a random bottle from the refrigerator (a smoothie eijirou made for him with far too much kale and too little milk and a little note attached with his name and a smiley face. he’s gonna be sick.) and turns to face him, a strained, shaky grimace painting his lips.
“that’s-“ his voice cracks hard and he desperately clears his throat, blinking hard when he sees eijirou reach out for him and stop. “that’s fuckin’— that’s great. ‘m happy for you.”
the words feel like glass inching their way out of his throat and while he knows he sounds anything but, the words seem to do the trick, kirishima’s face lighting up like a fucking christmas tree.
“that means so much to me, man!” this time, he doesn’t stop himself from wrapping katsuki up in a hug, the full body contact sending a wracking shiver through his body. “and don’t worry! we’ll still hang out all the time and i’ll — yes! — finally be able to introduce you to kaito — you’re gonna love him, and-“
katsuki has to tune him out, if just to keep a hold on his sanity because otherwise, he’s gonna break.
he keeps it together through the rest of the conversation about kaito, tuning in only to give time appropriate grunts and hums while pretending like his entire world isn’t imploding in on itself.
he keeps it together, miraculously, as kirishima packs up his things, the evidence of their entwined lives for the past five years disappearing into cardboard boxes over the span of a few weeks.
he even keeps it together when he meets kaito on the move out date, even if it’s just barely. kaito is handsome — tall, taller than katsuki, with windswept brown hair, bright brown eyes and a dimple in his left cheek. if he wasn’t so fucking in love with eiji, he wouldn’t mind taking a piece out of him, but as it were, the sight of kaito makes him genuinely sick to his stomach.
it’s even worse that kaito is so nice. his quirk is even nicer — some nature type that makes it impossible for plants to die when touched by him. they turn to him like he’s the fucking sun and eiji does too.
by the time all kirishima’s stuff is packed up in the back of kaito’s truck, bile is burning at the back of katsuki’s throat as he says his final goodbye to kiri in the way of a bone crushing hug that doesn’t last as long as he wishes, as he craves.
kiri sends him a blinding smile as he climbs into the passenger seat of the truck, looking all too at home against the worn blue leather seats.
it’s now when katsuki wishes he was a little less observant because the hand kaito gently places on kirishima’s thigh and the subsequent full body blush makes him sick.
he waits on the curb the appropriate amount of time as the pair drive away before racing back into his building, up the stairs, into his unit and straight to the bathroom, kneeling over the toilet and heaving, chills wracking his body despite the sweat on his brow.
nothing comes out (praise whoever above because katsuki hates vomiting) and he slumps against the porcelain, resting his heated skin against the toilet seat.
he thought… fuck, katsuki has no idea what he thought, but he didn’t expect it to hurt this bad. he feels a little like he’s dying and lot like he’ll never be okay again. that kirishima walked out with his heart and all he’ll be for the rest of his life is a walking husk of a human being.
a wave of nausea overtakes him again and he debates leaning back over the toilet, but exhaustion overwhelms him and he falls asleep against the wall of his bathroom, sweaty, sick, and heartbroken.
(the next morning, he wakes up to a pounding headache and two texts from eijirou.
he drinks a shit ton of water first and pops an advil before opening the messages.
EIJI (18:21) : just got to kaito’s! dude it’s so nice i can’t believe ill be living here now ><
katsuki has to take a deep breath to fight against the wave of pain that hits him right in the gut, but he keeps reading, the second text simultaneously warming him and twisting the knife.
EIJI (18:25) : i’m gonna miss you so much kats T^T so weird living without you
he stares at the message until his vision swims before liking the second message and turning off his phone, tossing it onto the couch and trudging to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.)
the next few weeks prove to be incredibly difficult.
a new case is brought to best jeanist’s desk and as the best sidekick at the agency, he’s placed in charge of heading the search and capture of an elusive invisibility quirk villain.
the days are long and exhausting, and more often than not, he doesn’t even have time to miss kirishima or notice his things missing from the apartment — he gets home, makes a barebones meal and collapses on the couch for what feels like a four hour nap until he has to turn back around and do it all over again.
it’s sustainable until it isn’t.
a few too many missed meals and restless hours of sleep has him passing out in a morning briefing, prompting best jeanist to send him home for a mandatory two week “vacation.”
it’s a prison sentence, is what it is.
at home, there’s nothing to distract him from the utter lack of kirishima, from the idea that the one person who has seen all of him and loved him anyway has left.
most days it’s too much to bear, so instead, he sleeps.
the usual tidiness of his space slowly deteriorates as he wastes away, waking only to scarf down whatever is left in his refrigerator before going right back to bed.
his friends text him often — hanta, denki, even fuckin’ hitoshi — but he ignores them all. the texts from kirishima are the hardest to delete, all concerned words and pleas for them to just talk, but he does it anyway.
it’s better this way, he tells himself. this way, no one else is dragged down by his self pity.
izuku ends up being the one to break the streak on day nine of radio silence.
a knock resounds at his door and he ignores it, pulling his blankets high above his mussed blonde hair, effectively hiding him from view as he hopes whoever is there spontaneously combusts or, better yet, just leaves.
when the knocks stop, he believes the latter has just occurred and he sighs in relief, completely missing the sound of metal creaking and his doorknob falling to the ground.
he’s debating on taking another melatonin to find the sweet release of sleep once more when his bedroom door opens up and he startles, launching up out of bed, hands and quirk at the ready to destroy the intruder, but he’s slow, too slow.
izuku is on him in a moment, pinning him to the bed and disregarding his gnashing teeth and cursing to look him over with a detached gaze.
“katsuki,” he says, voice firm in effectively shutting him up, despite the way he wriggles for freedom (so ineffectively, it’s embarrassing), “you look like dogshit.”
a harsh bark of laughter escapes katsuki’s throat and even from his angle where he’s pressed into his pillows, he sees izuku’s expression soften.
“you’ve lost your tact, deku,” he responds, his words gravelly from disuse. izuku scoffs but lets him up, taking a step over a pile of clothes on the ground to lean against the desk opposite of the bed.
with his newfound freedom, katsuki sits up, absentmindedly rubbing his now sore shoulder, the pain oddly grounding. izuku watches the motion with the intense focus he’s carried throughout his entire life, though he’s a far cry from the boy who used to break his bones and cry over injured birds.
now, he’s built like a brick house, forest green curls tapered into a flattering modern undercut, the fat from his cheeks transforming into something more chiseled and adult. his eyes aren’t as soft either — they’re tired and, as he looks at katsuki’s form, tinged with worry.
“where have you been? no one has heard from you in a week.”
katsuki rolls his eyes, looking away from the gaze that pins him, the gaze he tried so hard to get to look at him without fear. there isn’t a hint of fear in them now, but katsuki is afraid there’ll be disappointment and that’s almost worse.
“none of your fuckin’ business,” he grunts out and he immediately knows it was the wrong response. besides eijirou, izuku knows him the best and after all they’ve been through, he doesn’t deserve this.
he never deserved any of it.
with that thought spinning around in his head, katsuki rubs a hand over his face with a quiet curse, leaning back against the headboard.
“fuck, i’m sorry,” it comes out as a mutter, but its effect on izuku is instantaneous. the previous hardness of his expression melts and he moves closer, his bushy brows furrowing together. katsuki can barely look at him but he does anyway, he makes himself. izuku deserves that much (he deserves so much more but one day at a time).
“we’re just worried about you,” izuku says quietly but without pity. never pity. “what’s going on?”
maybe it’s the way izuku’s freckled face reminds him far too much of eijirou’s own spattering of constellations or maybe it’s the fact katsuki hasn’t eaten in over fifteen hours, but he shatters in that moment, crystal tears filling up carmine eyes.
if izuku is startled at katsuki’s sudden change of emotions, he doesn’t show it, instead moving to envelop katsuki in his arms, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of his shoulder and let go.
katsuki tells him everything and by the end of it, his head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and his eyes are puffy and red, but he feels better than he did all week.
izuku just looks thoughtful from his place sitting near the end of katsuki’s bed, the pair parting somewhere in between katsuki’s admission of throwing up when seeing kaito and kirishima together and his accidental confession of stealing one of eijirou’s hoodies from one of the boxes (it sits right under his pillow, but izuku doesn’t need to know that).
“i’m really sorry, katsuki. that fucking sucks,” izuku ends up saying and katsuki’s initial reaction is anger. he spills his heart and guts out to izuku and all he gets is that sucks? but when he opens his mouth to give deku a piece of his mind, he realizes that it does suck. it sucks royal ass and there’s nothing he or izuku can do to fix it - at least not yet - but the acknowledgment, without any attempt to give advice or make everything better, does wonders for katsuki.
he pushes out a watery laugh, his lip ticking up into a smile - for the first time in weeks - and izuku lights up a little. “yeah. it really fuckin’ does.”
the smile izuku sends back is blinding and for the one thousandth time, katsuki is reminded why the symbol of peace is just that.
they talk for a little while longer before izuku forces katsuki into the shower. he takes a long time, letting the scalding hot water turn cold before he emerges to find that his childhood best friend has started cleaning up the mess that has become of his apartment.
katsuki watches on for a moment until izuku raises an eyebrow at him and offers him a trash bag which he takes wordlessly, a wave of affection crashing over him so quickly tears come to his eyes. he blinks them away but he doesn’t miss the knowing smile izuku sends his way.
the pair work together in relative silence until the apartment is spotless and katsuki’s stomach is grumbling something fierce. izuku makes his way to the fridge but is met with nothing but a half carton of eggs and a rotting smoothie in the far corner, a sticky note attached to the lid. he fixes katsuki with a small, sad smile before digging through his drawers for a takeout menu.
when the food arrives, katsuki finishes it in record time and he can’t tell if it’s the fact they remembered to make it extra spicy or if it’s because he literally can’t remember the last time he had an actual meal, but it’s the best thing he’s eaten in a long time.
after they finish, izuku turns on the television and they both spend the evening shit talking a d-list hero film until they fall asleep on the couch, bodies slumped against one another, holding each other up.
—
that night seems to have knocked something loose in katsuki because the next morning, he wakes with his first alarm and heads to the gym for the first time since his mandatory vacation. by the end of it, his arms are burning from quirk overuse and he’s completely wiped, but he feels more like himself than he has in ages.
he finally texts his friends back (barring one) and they greet him back with high levels of enthusiasm and concern. it feels good to be received back into the fold with the love he’d thought he’d lost, his cheeks hurting with how much he’s smiling as the messages roll in.
katsuki finishes out his sentence and goes back to work on the fourteenth day with an earnest apology to best jeanist and a new lead on the villain after pouring over the case files in between hyperintensive workouts at the gym. best jeanist is quietly impressed, but the squeeze to the shoulder he gives katsuki tells him he was more worried about him than he let on.
the next few weeks pass in a blur, but this time it’s more pleasant. he watches shitty movies with izuku, deletes instagram when he sees a photo of kaito and kirishima on holiday in america, starts attending a pottery class on the weekends he has off with mina and denki, continues to ignore the texts from eijirou that are becoming more and more infrequent as time goes on, smokes with hanta and shinsou one evening and laughs harder than he ever has, and life feels like it’s slowly gaining its footing once again.
he realizes three months after kirishima had moved out that he should probably start looking for a new roommate or downgrade to something more reasonable. he seriously considers the latter, but when he looks at the space he cultivated right after he graduated from ua, he realizes he can’t quite give the place up.
he posts an ad on craigslist that night.
the next time the group goes drinking (kirishima is suspiciously absent, despite his reentry into the country a few days prior — mina mentioned it), katsuki brings up his roommate problem and denki latches on, his cheeks pleasantly flushed from the wine he’s been sipping on.
“oh, oh! i know - i know the perrrrfeeccttt roommate for you,” he slurs, toying with the earring dangling from his ear and fixing his excited gaze on katsuki’s face. “they’re like.. the besttt, dude, you’d - you’d love them.”
the words are vague, but when katsuki opens up his mouth to ask for more details, denki’s eyes widen and he rushes off to the bathroom, a hand over his mouth, nearly tripping over the his platform shoes and maxi skirt.
the topic of the roommate is quickly forgotten then, but it resurfaces a few days later at pottery class.
katsuki is glaring holes into the side of his slightly lopsided vase on the pottery wheel, internally going through the steps to see where he went wrong. denki to the left of him laughs and chatters as he makes his, frankly, hideous ceramic, the clay warped beyond recognition.
something in his one-sided conversation brings his attention to katsuki who’s startled at the sound of his name coming from denki’s mouth.
“yo, you still looking for a roommate?” he asks, tilting his head as a strand of hair falls from the lengthening ponytail at the back of his head. without alcohol in his system, denki looks a little more hesitant to be approaching this topic, but does so when he isn’t met with a howitzer to the face.
the group doesn’t know much of anything, just that kirishima and katsuki aren’t talking, so they tend to tread lightly around the subject. katsuki appreciates it, genuinely, but he’s not going to shatter at the sound of eijirou’s name - not anymore. it hurts still, of course, but the pain has dulled to a steady hum that he can ignore if he tries hard enough.
“yeah,” he grunts, turning his eyes back at his vase. “why? you got someone in mind?”
denki grins, showing off the lightning tooth gems on his canine. “hell yeah! i’ll give you their number — they teach the watercolor class here on tuesdays and they’re so cool.”
he speaks about you with obvious adoration and katsuki belatedly wonders if the two of you are dating, but doesn’t voice this curiousity, instead wordlessly handing denki his phone to put in your contact as “ROOMIE” with what feels like a hundred paint emojis after it. katsuki smiles at his friend’s antics and can’t quite bring himself to change it.
the colorful contact remains untouched for about another week until he gets a rent notice and remembers the little paint palettes in his phone.
in the middle of his morning workout, he taps out a quick text to you, before tossing his phone to the side and promptly forgetting about it.
katsuki [09:27] : Hey. I’m Bakugou. Denki gave me your number. I’m looking for a roommate. You interested?
ROOMIE [10:16] : oh hey yeah i’m interested
ROOMIE [10:17] : do you want 2 meet td
ROOMIE [10:17] : i’m at the cafe on 5th n cherry
ROOMIE [10:17] : in the back
ROOMIE [10:19] : i’ll b here 4 a while
ROOMIE [10:19] : just come whenever
katsuki only sees the message at the end of his workout a half hour later. the number of messages in a row and less than ideal grammar makes him turn up his nose but he quickly taps out an affirmative, before dapping izuku up and heading to the showers.
he makes it to the cafe twenty minutes later, scanning the place to see what he assumes is you tucked away in the back corner, your table full with books, papers, paints, your laptop and at least four empty cups of coffee.
katsuki raises an eyebrow at the sight but walks over anyway, telling himself he’s doing denki a favor by meeting someone he thinks so highly of so he won’t feel too bad when he tells him it’s not going to work out.
you don’t look up when he stops at your table, too occupied with the piece of art in front of you, your face twisted up in intense concentration.
you’re quite pretty, he notes subconsciously, the hard set of your eyes and one track focus reminding him an awful lot of himself when he’s swept into a difficult case. your complete unawareness gives him more time to take you in, though, so he can’t even bring himself to be too annoyed.
you’re wearing a bright yellow chargebolt hoodie that clashes terribly with your garishly pink acid queen baggy sweatpants. a pair of cellophane socks cover your feet where they’re stretched out in the seat across from you and your shoes (made to look like the red ones from deku’s costume, jesus christ) sit haphazardly beneath the table, empty.
it’s such a bizarre sight, katsuki almost laughs — almost — but he doesn’t, instead opting to knock your feet off the chair opposite you so he can sit down.
“a big fan of heroes, huh?” he asks, the action coupled with his words startling you so bad, your knees hit the underside of the table, threatening to upend all the precariously balanced objects decorating the surface.
you look angry at first before you realize who it is and once you do, you just look relieved. it’s an unusual reaction, one katsuki rarely gets from anyone who isn’t actively in danger, especially strangers.
“you scared the absolute shit out of me,” you say tiredly, rubbing a hand over your face and sighing. katsuki watches you recognize your own impoliteness in real time, a sheepish smile spreading across your lips.
pretty.
“fuck, sorry,” you extend a paint splotched hand to him and he takes it, shaking it firmly before it falls back to his side, fingers tingling. “i get super into shit and completely forget where i am. kami gets onto me about it all the time. says i’m prime villain bait or some shit. i think he’s saying it most of the time to freak me out, but he might actually be right. don’t ever tell him i said that though.”
katsuki can’t help but stare at you as you ramble at him with the familiarity of someone who’s known him for months, not just a few minutes. it’s uncomfortable in a strangely nice way and he can feel his muscles loosen as the nerves melt away.
“aw fuck, i’m sorry again. i didn’t introduce myself.”
you give him your name, offering your hand out for him to shake once more which he does with an amused look painting his expression. you don’t seem to notice, your attention being grabbed by the piece in front of you again.
“i’m bakugou,” he offers after a moment of silence. you don’t even look up when you respond.
“i know. you sent me that text, remember? also you’re like, super fucking famous, dynamight,” you look up at him through your lashes, teasing, and heat unexpectedly blooms on the back of his neck.
what the fuck?
in a bid to gain back control of the conversation (and himself) katsuki asks, “what’re you workin’ on? dunceface said you’re a painter or some shit.”
your nose crinkles at the moniker, but you don’t say anything about it, instead turning the sketchbook around for katsuki to look at it.
the piece is stunning, but it’s visceral and he can’t help but lean back a little when looking at it, stomach dropping.
a deer lays on the ground, gutted, blood, guts and viscera pouring out of its abdomen as a figure just out of frame reaches inside and pulls out its heart.
katsuki is disgusted but intrigued and that feeling only amplifies when you press a finger to the painting and activate your quirk.
suddenly, the hand in the painting moves so realistically he flinches — he can hear the deer’s heart beat, can hear the way the blood trickles through the blades of grass, can smell the coppery tang and can feel the rush of spring wind blowing past his face.
it’s like he’s there, in the piece, and he feels both a little sick and also so alive.
“holy fuck,” he whispers, shivering, and you laugh, deactivating your quirk, bringing him back to the real world. the sounds of the cafe flood in, replacing the smell of blood and spring fields with coffee and loose tea leaves. he shakes his head, eyes a little blown when they look at you.
your expression is playfully amused as you bring your sketchbook closer to your person, resting your head on the palm of your hand.
“sorry,” you offer, but you don’t sound very sorry at all, “should’ve asked before i used my quirk on you. not everyone likes that shit.”
the words are so nonchalant but you look like you’re poised to watch him get up and leave, never looking back. katsuki doesn’t think he could leave if he tried.
“nah,” his voice feels raw so he tries to clear it but the feeling doesn’t go away. “you’re good. just surprised me, ‘s all.”
your mouth parts in muted surprise and you tilt your head, appraising him like you’re seeing him for the first time. katsuki feels surprisingly bare as you study him, but he doesn’t drop his eye contact, despite the heavy pounding of his heart from your intensity.
the pair of you sit in silence like that for a moment or two longer before you break it, asking him if he wants something to drink. before he can tell you he doesn’t drink coffee though, you flag down the waiter, ask for a hot cup of tea (“darjeeling or oolong,” you ask the waiter, not even sparing katsuki another glance, “he doesn’t look like he fucks with green tea.” it’s true. he doesn’t. his heart does a stutter step in his chest.) and when it arrives to the table, katsuki asks you to move in with him.
you agree.
—
the move in process is so quick and easy that when it’s done, it feels like you’ve been living there for years.
your belongings integrate seamlessly into his own. your books about art history and watercolor technique find their way onto his bookshelves filled with classic japanese literature and hero history.
(he comes home one day to see you propped up on the couch with a thick book on the origin of quirks and heroism in japan that you stole borrowed from his collection. he just cocks his head at you when you meet his gaze and you shrug.
“i’m not japanese, i don’t know any of this shit,” you say in way of an explanation. “besides, this is important to you. i wanna learn.”
you turn back to your book like you didn’t just completely shake the foundation of katsuki’s world for a moment and he stumbles off to the kitchen, heat burning at the tips of his ears.)
your plants find their way on every windowsill and while, once upon a time, it would’ve made him think of kaito and that sick, curling jealousy would wrap around his chest and squeeze, now? it just makes him think of you.
(it helps you can’t really keep them alive so nearly every other week the two of you are replanting something new in the pots and vases katsuki makes in pottery class.)
your favorite foods join his in the refrigerator and the two of you take your meals together more often than not. katsuki cooks and you clean, either eating on the couch while watching a documentary or at the dining room table as you talk and talk and talk.
(the first time katsuki misses dinner, you wait up for him, even forgoing your own meal to eat with him when he returns at 2 in the morning.
“don’t do that shit again,” he grumbles when he finds out what you’ve done, his scarlet eyes piercing your own. you shrug, unafraid, tired eyes trailing lazily over his tank top clad form.
“don’t tell me what to do,” you retort after a moment, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “i like eating with you.”
your honesty, unabashed and loud, always bowls him over and he has to take a sip of his ice water to feel steady again.)
the relationship between the two of you is easy, for once, and katsuki finds himself looking forward to coming home, to you and your witty comments, sharp intelligence, and your uncanny ability to see right through him.
he swears it must be a hidden quirk, the way you seem to just know — know what he wants and needs without even asking and your accuracy rate is pretty much unbeatable.
after a particularly bad mission where the property damage is unusually high and the civilian casualties match, the leading hero news journalist puts out a scathing piece about him, sending him into an emotional spiral.
you find him that afternoon, curled up in bed, staring at the window blankly. you crawl up in bed beside him and you don’t speak, don’t offer him coddling words of “everything’s gonna be okay,” or “you did the best you could,” because if that was katuski’s best, he doesn’t fucking deserve to be a hero. not at all.
but no, you don’t offer him empty words of placation. instead, you brush a lock of his hair off of his forehead and look at him with that all-seeing gaze, your expression neither soft nor hard, but understanding.
“you’re not gonna let that shit happen again, right?” you ask, tilting your head. katsuki shakes his head vehemently, the mere notion of the same amount of dead bodies on his watch sending a fire through his chest as he sits up.
“fuck no.”
“good. now come here, i painted something new and i need to see if i get ‘good job’ or ‘holy fuck that’s shitty’ eyebrows from you.”
and that’s that.
you’ve even given him a nickname and it inexplicably makes his skin feel tight, like he needs to tear it off and show you, like it’s a display of how you make him feel.
it’s a lazy sunday afternoon, one he’s required to take off by best jeanist, and he’s spent it next to you on the couch, listening to a few of your records while you paint a forest scene, a skittish doe front and center with rivulets of water streaming from beneath it.
occasionally, you’ll activate your quirk and katsuki can suddenly hear birds chirping and the creak of the wood before he’s back in your cramped flat, the sounds of city sounding below.
it’s jarring and yet, comforting, both your presence and the quirk, in a way that still doesn’t make sense to him yet.
“bambi, are you even listening to me?” the term of what he assumes is endearment startles him out of his thoughts and he eyes dart to yours, an amused expression on your your brow.
“who the fuck are you callin’ bambi?” in his shock, he can hardly conjure up the ability to sound pissed, confusion instead hijacking his words, making them come out soft and gruff.
“you, idiot,” you reply, like it makes all the sense in the world. “you’re like a deer to me. something in you is skittish, afraid and yet, you’re still so beautiful.”
what the fuck.
katsuki’s breath completely evaporates from his lungs and he feels like he’s going to pass out at your frank words. it doesn’t help that you don’t break eye contact or look embarrassed to have said something so, so… intimate.
he can’t even begin to parse through how to respond to something like that, but you know that too, flicking a little bit of paint water at him with the tip of your brush. he sees the olive branch for what it is and he grabs it with both hands, the annoyed sound rising from his throat on autopilot as you laugh, but your eyes are still so knowing.
he thinks about that day everyday after with sickening butterflies flapping around in his stomach and those only magnify when you choose to call him the new nickname every single chance you get.
katsuki would not dream of stopping you.
—
it’s about two months into you moving in with him and he’s going out drinking with the squad. he’s invited you about thirty times but every time you decline, citing that you’re behind on grading art projects and that show you were looking forward to is airing tonight.
(you’re a substitute art teacher at the local elementary school, a fact that genuinely shocked katsuki when he found out.
you’d laughed, wide and unapologetic at his reaction.
“i know i’ve got quite the potty mouth but i clean it up for the kids,” you say, eyes twinkling. “they kinda love me, i think, but it might just be the bob ross videos i put on for them every friday.”)
katsuki chooses not to push but he knows that he’ll end up cutting the night short, just so he can sprawl next to you on the couch and watch you paint.
you seem to know it too (how?? secret quirk, it must be) if the knowing look you give him isn’t enough as he goes to change.
when he returns to the living room, he’s clad in a nice black button down that’s unbuttoned enough to show off the strong planes of his chest and his thin gold chain, and a pair of black jeans that fit him and his tiny waist incredibly well.
katsuki knows he looks good in this outfit, but he finds himself uncharacteristically nervous as he stands in front of you, your eyes dragging down his body as slow as molasses, igniting the skin as though it was a physical touch.
your eyes meet his once again, molten and hot, and katsuki’s knees nearly buckle at the sight. he’s never seen you look like that - not at him, not at anyone, and he finds that he quite likes to be the center of your attention in this way.
“you clean up nicely, bambi,” you murmur, your voice a lower timber in comparison to your normal speech.
the blush spreads immediately to all visible parts of his body and he can fucking see you holding back a grin. “fuck off,” is all he can say before he spins on his heel, grabs his keys, and marches out the door.
it takes everything in him to continue walking, out and up to the train station and then to the bar, because all he wants to do is turn right back around, back to your home and back to that lava-like gaze you pinned him with earlier.
it’s you that’s racing around in his mind when he pushes the door open to the bar, but all thoughts come to a complete, grinding halt when he sees kirishima at their usual table, surrounded by all their friends and grinning like he’d never left.
he looks different - after all, it’s been about a year since katsuki had seen him last. his hair is longer and his roots are grown out, his skin has taken on such a warm glow and it, impossibly, seems like he’s gotten even bigger somehow.
it’s also impossible to miss the black band on his ring finger signaling a new engagement ring which he figures is what they’re meant to be celebrating tonight, eyes belatedly catching on the comically tiny “i’m engaged!” sash hanging around his chest.
the sight of kirishima sends the most heinous bolt of anxiety through katsuki and now he really just wants to call you to come get him and take him home, to make him forget all about his unrequited love. he moves backwards to do just that, but he’s already been spotted by kirishima himself.
fuck.
katsuki is frozen as kirishima’s happy expression falters when he meets his eyes, cycling through shock, disbelief, stark hurt and then utter relief.
he can see the way kiri’s mouth forms “katsuki” from a distance as he puts down his drink and moves towards him, his feet completely frozen until they’re standing face to face (face to chest, really) for the first time in months.
“hey,” kirishima says, hesitantly, breathlessly, as his hands flutter uselessly at his sides, like he wants to just pick katsuki up but is stopping himself. “can we, uh, can we go outside and talk?”
katsuki just nods because what else is supposed to do? and as they move out, he catches the worried gazes of their friends watching the pair of them from the table. denki and izuku, the latter of whom knows the most (everything) and the former who managed to figure most of it out on his own.
(“takes one to know one,” he’d said, bitterly when he’d confronted katsuki a few weeks ago about his unexplained mandatory leave all those months ago. katsuki was confused until kaminari flipped around his phone to reveal a photo of him and hanta pressed tightly together in an embrace that was strictly platonic and yet, horribly intimate.
katsuki’s lips drew together into a tight line as he settled against the brick wall kami was leaning against, trying to light the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.
“you’re too good for plain face,” he says after a moment, attempting to channel his inner you, blunt and honest. “you’re gonna find someone better.” and just like all his thoughts as of recently, they’d flitted right back to you.
denki had watched his face carefully, cigarette unlit, a thoughtful look crossing his own expression.
“yeah,” he concedes, “i will, won’t i?”)
katsuki gives the pair of them a nod, holding up a hand to izuku who looks like he wants to follow them out of the bar, despite the pounding in his chest and the way he suddenly feels unsteady on his feet as they leave the building to step right back out into the cool, fall air.
kirishima’s stance is awkward and since neither of them smoke, they both just stand there, barely looking at each other and waiting for the other person to speak up first.
“fuckin’ hell- what’d you wanna talk about kirishima?” katsuki grits out, tired of the waiting game and suddenly, immediately, so exhausted. all he wants to do is be curled up beside you, with your all seeing eyes and gentle utterances of “bambi” in his ear.
the tact he’d lost in his haste to get this over with stings kirishima whose brows furrow in annoyance. “what do i want to talk about? i haven’t seen you in a year, bakugou, not since i moved out and you completely cut me off with no explanation whatsoever. i want to know why. what - what did i do wrong?”
his voice breaks on the last word and it sounds so sad, so uncharacteristically eijirou, that katsuki flinches, finally looking over at kirishima to see a broken, pleading man who lost his best friend for nothing more than silly, stupid feelings.
at once, katsuki feels all the fucking idiot asshole he is and it’s staggering how much that thought makes him feel like shit. he could’ve reached out, he could’ve, but he was so worried that he wouldn’t have been able to keep it together, spending time with kiri, and as time passed, the issue became that so much time had passed and he had no idea how to navigate this all over again.
he runs a hand over his face, leaning against the brick facade of the bar. “fuck,” he whispers, gravel crunching underfoot as kiri steps closer.
“i - i miss you, kats,” kiri’s voice comes out quiet and thick, “i got engaged and all i wanted to do was call you, but you weren’t there, you weren’t speaking to me and i-“ he takes a shuddering breath and katsuki’s eyes fill with tears.
“i was in love with you.”
the sounds of the street fade out as katsuki finally turns to look at kirishima, the tears falling down his cheeks.
“wha- bakugou, what?”
“i was in love with you and i couldn’t fuckin’ - i couldn’t do it. not to myself, not to you.”
kirishima face is drawn, pale and mouth gaping. his mouth closes, then opens again, then snaps shut, his head shaking in disbelief.
“why didn’t you - fuck - why didn’t you ever say anything, man?”
katsuki scoffs, the sound wet with grief. “are you shittin’ me? why the hell would i do that?”
kiri shrugs, long, dark lashes sweeping his cheekbones, leaving tiny wet marks. a year ago, the sight would’ve filled katsuki with rabid butterflies, but now it remains just an observation, one made passively and without thinking.
“i should’ve told you somethin’, i fuckin’ know that now, but i was - i was scared. scared of you hating me, scared of losing you. but i went and fucked that one up anyway, so,” katsuki laughs, self deprecating, and kirishima shakes his head vehemently, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him into a tight hug.
katsuki’s throat is tight as he gives into the embrace, burying his face into kirishima’s shoulder.
“you haven’t lost me, kats, and you never will,” kirishima whispers, pulling apart far enough to press his forehead to katsuki’s, red eyes meeting red. “i mean, who else is gonna be my best man?”
katsuki’s eyes widen and he takes a step back. “don’t fuck with me.”
kirishima shakes his head, a wet laugh escaping his lips. “not fucking with you bro. you’re my best friend. i want you there beside me on the happiest day of my life.”
after everything, after the year of no contact and the absolutely shitty way katsuki treated him, kirishima still wants katsuki by his side?
he’s honored, he’s out of his depth, he’s fucking nauseous, and he really wants to go home and tell you.
“i met someone,” he blurts and kirishima looks startled at the change of subject, but takes it in stride, a smile tugging at his face.
“that’s so great, dude, congrats! what’s their name?”
katsuki breathes it out and when he does, he realizes something, the force of it hitting him like a steel beam to the head.
“i think i’m in love with them.”
kirishima blinks, taking in katsuki’s tense form. he looks like he’s about to run away.
“i’m so happy for you, kats. really, i am,” kiri says, before being taken off guard yet again by the hug katsuki initiates.
“of course i’ll be your best man, shitty hair. i fuckin’ missed you too,” he murmurs and he hears kirishima sniffle. “i gotta go but text me and we’ll get lunch tomorrow or some shit, okay? i’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
he pulls away to see eijirou’s big wet eyes stare down at him with unabashed care and love, and katsuki feels his heart swell.
he got his best friend back and now it’s time to get you.
kirishima agrees to the meetup wholeheartedly and lets katsuki go with a hearty pat on the back and a shouted “good luck!” over the sound of the rain that started up during the last moments of conversation before going back inside the bar.
katsuki considers blasting his way to you, but he knows the optics would be incredibly unfavorable and his pr department would have his head, so he races to the train station instead and hops aboard, his mind racing with thoughts of you.
his hair is plastered to his forehead with rain by the time he gets to his apartment building and the button up is molded to his body like a second skin. he’s uncomfortable, of course, but he hardly pays it any mind because before he knows it, he’s unlocking and pushing open the door to your shared flat.
he’s home.
you startle from your place upside down on the couch, your paints and sketchbook cluttering the coffee table at the side while the tv plays an ancient looking cooking show quietly.
katsuki is bowled over by the sight, the weight of what he now knows as love sending him stumbling a little on his feet. he has to hold onto the doorjamb to keep his footing.
you sit up, observing, and you tilt your head. “you’re back early,” you comment, curiosity lacing your words.
he nods, not trusting his voice as finally steps past the threshold, kicking off his shoes and putting on a pair of hideous hawks themed slippers that you’d bought for him on your own birthday.
you hum thoughtfully before standing and disappearing down the hallway, katsuki’s eyes glued to you as you go. he can hear the sounds of you rummaging around in the bathroom, his feet frozen to the floor when you return, a fluffy towel in hand.
“you should shower, of course,” you say with a grin, opening up the towel and draping it over his head to dry it before moving on to the rest of his sopping body. “but i figured i’d keep you from dripping all over that ugly rug you’re obsessed with.”
katsuki doesn’t respond, can’t, and you don’t push or question, instead diligently wiping him down until he’s marginally more dry, eg, not actively dripping on the hardwood.
you move to go dispose of the towel and katsuki’s hand shoots out, not of his own volition, to hold you in place. it’s here he notices how close you’ve been standing to him, your breath wafting over his collarbones.
“bambi?” you question, unafraid of him, just lightly confused, but you don’t move away from him, somehow picking up his need for closeness without him saying anything, and he snaps.
“i love you,” he whispers, the explosion in his chest coming out in just those three gruff words, his carmine eyes boring into your own with an intensity you match.
a small smile spreads over your lips and your eyes light up, joy thrumming over your skin. “i love you too, katsuki.”
it’s perfect and katsuki can’t stop himself from cupping your face and pressing your lips together.
the kiss is gentle and chaste, your hands dropping the towel, coming up to rest on his forearms and holding him in place as you move your lips softly against his own.
katsuki feels like the rest of the world could implode right now, could be on fire or flooding or being overrun by villains and none of it would matter, not a single fucking thing because you’re in his arms and you’re kissing him back and you love him.
these thoughts ignite a hunger in him, a flame stoking in his belly, and he pushes further into the kiss, his hands sliding from their place on your face. one cups the back of your neck while the other slides down your back, pressing you firmly against the front of his body.
he’s almost giddy, having you like this, and he’s sure you can feel it because you’re smiling into the kiss like this is the happiest day of your life.
he thinks it’s his.
you continue trading kisses like this in your foyer, but it only escalates when your tongue flickers across katsuki’s bottom lip and you sigh softly, back arching against him.
katsuki has to break apart from you so he doesn’t consume you in that moment, but you don’t go far (you never do), your foreheads pressed together while you breathe in each others air.
“fuckin’ hell,” he chokes out and you laugh. “can i please - fuck - i need you.”
his honesty shuts you up quick and you nod, biting your lip. “take me to bed, bambi.”
and that he does.
katsuki’s hand finds yours and he pulls you towards his bedroom — you’ve been in there countless times, to watch movies, to nap, to read with one another, but of course, it was never like this.
the tension is thick but it’s not uncomfortable at all. you walk over to his bed and plop down on it like you’ve been in this situation a thousand times. the action soothes any residual anxiety katsuki might’ve had as he walks over to you, your heated gaze tracking his movements the entire time.
“take this shit off,” he grumbles, tugging at the garish all might crewneck covering your abdomen and you swat his hand away with an amused look.
he can feel his pout forming at your smile, but you just shake your head. “don’t tell me what to do, bambi,” but still, you raise grip the bottom of the thick fabric, lifting it up and over your head before letting it drop to the ground, leaving you bare.
or almost bare, if not for the objectively hideous, brightly colored, thin, cheap and lacey dynamight themed underwear covering your body.
“what the fuck is this?” katsuki doesn’t mean for his question to come out so reverent, but seeing you clad in his colors sends a bolt of heat down his spine so strong, he’s quite literally never been harder in his life.
you don’t seem to notice (but you always do), tilting your head at him with a grin playing on your lips. “they were on sale. didn’t think you’d ever see them.”
katsuki’s brows furrow at that, his hands tightening from their place on your hips. “who the fuck else was going to?”
you shake your head, like there’s something he isn’t getting. “no one. it’s always been you.”
“fuckin’-“ katsuki surges for you, claiming your lips with his with an urgency that had previously been lost. you respond in kind and this time, you’re letting out all these quiet gasps and sighs, writhing beneath him. he has to see you fall apart.
he reluctantly detaches his face from yours, kissing down your neck and sucking marks into the thin skin there, one of your hands sliding up to tangle into his hair, keeping him close.
a moan escapes him at the feeling of your fingers on his scalp, nearly getting lost in the mindless action, but he has to keep going. he makes it to your chest, laving his tongue over one of your nipples, flicking the hardened bud with the tip.
“f-fuck, bambi,” you outright moan and katsuki has to grind down against the mattress, his free hand sliding to pinch and pull at your other nipple.
your body can’t figure out whether to arch towards or away from his ministrations, which katsuki takes special delight in. you’re always so in control of yourself, even when you’re not, so it’s beyond rewarding to be responsible for your destruction.
“bambi - fuck - ‘suki, fuck me,” you groan and katsuki’s eyes roll back before he pulls off your nipple with a pop, his lips red and slick.
“nah.”
“nah?” you parrot, leaning up on your elbows with the closest thing he’s seen to annoyance directed at him written all over your face.
“nah. ‘m gonna make you come first.” katsuki grins, feral, and you shudder.
“get to it then, hero.” the moniker, while meant to be sarcastic and biting, just makes katsuki moan, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your (dynamight !!) underwear and tossing them to the floor.
he leans in, propping up one of your legs over his shoulder to bury his nose in the crease between hip and thigh, inhaling deeply. you smell sharp and tangy and so you that he couldn’t stop himself from taking a lick, entrance to clit, if he tried.
you sigh at that first touch of his wet muscle, melting in the bed while one hand remains buried in his hair and the other splays above your head. you watch him move with that intense look and you don’t look away so he doesn’t either.
he doesn’t look away as he slurps loudly at your entrance, tasting the wetness that’s gathered there with a pleased hum. doesn’t look away as he swirls his tongue around your clit, pulling a sharp gasp from your chest. doesn’t look away as he picks up pace, swirling, flicking and sucking until you’re chanting his name and “bambi,” your body tensing up as you buck your hips up into his face. doesn’t look away when you cum hard, soaking his lips and chin to which he eagerly groans, slurping up all you have to offer.
you pull him up to stop him from licking you through your aftershocks, kissing him hard once he gets to eye level.
“please,” you beg, eyes wide and urgent. who is he to deny you or himself?
katsuki stands and shucks off his boxers in record time, wrapping a hand around his cock that’s hard and leaking, the tip bright red.
your eyes eat him up hungrily, lingering on the way his precum spills over his knuckles with every slow stroke.
“i’m gonna suck your pretty cock tomorrow, preferably before breakfast,” you comment breathlessly. katsuki has to wrap his fingers around the base of his cock to keep himself from coming in that moment, taking a deep breath and glaring at you when you giggle.
“condom?” you shake your head, leaning back and spreading your legs to show off the wet mess he’s made of you.
“‘m clean and i’m in love with you. fuck me. now.” you can’t even sound commanding, not with the whine lying beneath your words, giving away how bad you want him. how bad you want this.
if the way katsuki’s cock legitimately jumped at your words is anything to go by, he obviously feels the same.
“goddamit, can’t fuckin’ say shit like that to me, jesus,” he rambles, crawling back onto the bed and notching the fat head of his dick into your entrance before leaning down to kiss you, open mouthed and messy.
he pushes into you when your tongue is halfway down his throat and he nearly chokes on it. you’re so soft and wet and velvety — he’s gonna cum so fucking fast, holy shit.
of course, you know it too, know him like the back of your hand because you squeeze even tighter around him and slide your hand down between your bodies to rub frantically at your clit.
“you - oh, god, you feel so fucking good bambi, fucking me so well, always taking care of me,” your words slur together as your eyes roll back, his hips slamming into yours at a quick pace.
he wants you to cum first, wants it more than anything, but the dirty talk coupled with the way you feel clenching around him has him shooting off faster than he expected, a low, long whine leaving him.
his hips stutter against yours and fireworks go off behind his eyelids. it feels like he’s coming forever as he humps into you and that feeling is only prolonged by you coming around him, your cunt clenching so tightly, you force him out, his spend spreading all over your mons and pelvis with a choked groan.
after another long moment, he slumps against you, exhausted and happier than he’s ever been.
you hum contentedly, wrapping your arm around him to pull him half on top of you, your body succumbing to the tiredness that’s so quickly overtaken you.
“i love you, katsuki,” you whisper, the phrase thick with sleep and emotion. katsuki feels burning at the backs of his eyes so he buries his face in the crook of your neck to hide, kissing your shoulder when the words don’t come.
you know, though. you always do.
—
“fuck, bambi, we’re gonna be late!” you screech from your (now) shared room, the sound muffled from where your head is buried in the closet.
by the door, katsuki is trying (and failing) to tie his bow tie, the red fabric remaining uncooperative in his hands. he groans in frustration, raising a hand to run it through his hair but stopping short when he remembers how you painstakingly fixed it for him a few hours ago.
“i know! it’s this stupid fuckin’ tie!” he shouts back, staring at himself in the little mirror you purchased, smiling a little despite himself when he remembers that trip to the home decor store with you, picking out new items that represent the both of you for your apartment.
speak of the devil, you step up behind him, looking gorgeous in a red, floor length dress, wrapping your arms around his waist.
“you look really good bambi,” you grin, fingers dragging down his abdomen to rest on his waistband, but his hands stop your downward motion while he gives you a halfhearted glare through the reflection.
“don’t start that shit,” katsuki turns around in your hold to face you, your hands immediately finding his undone tie. you work efficiently, face so scrunched up and focused that katsuki can only lift your face to press a kiss to your lips.
you melt, kissing him back easily and when you pull away, his lips are tinged with your lip products, marked by you. “you have a little something…” you trail off, wiping it away, not realizing how he stares at you like you’re the sun and he has no other choice but to revolve around you.
“marry me,” katsuki blurts, heat burning at the tips of his ears after a moment of you looking at him in utter disbelief.
he worries for a split second that you’re going to say no, but then your face splits into the most blinding smile he’s ever seen.
“are you proposing to me right now, bakugou katsuki?” you tease, fingers toying with the tie around his neck.
he nods, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you closer to him. “so what if i am?”
you laugh and nod, tears filling your lash line as the lighthearted facade drops to reveal you, earnest and honest and so so in love with him.
katsuki has no idea how he got so lucky, what he did in a past life to have you in his life and agreeing to be with him, in his life forever.
“of fucking course, i’ll marry you,” you say, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. “and i want nothing more than to make love to you on our brand new ikea sofa, but if we’re late to kiri’s wedding, he’s gonna kill me and make you watch.”
even the empty threat you make through your happy tears centers you in katsuki’s life, like you know that you are the center of his world, of his entire universe. you always know, know him better than he knows himself and there isn’t anyone on this whole earth who he’d rather be with than you.
he doesn’t tell you any of this though, blinking back tears instead and agreeing with a laugh, before finally ushering the pair of you out the door.
the thing is, katsuki doesn’t have to tell you.
you already know.
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