♡ AN: initially wrote this for 30.Kinktober BREEDING KINK, but strayed from the prompt quite a bit
♡ TW: noncon/dubcon, abortion, toxic ex-boyfriend, yandere, bullying, stalking, feelings of guilt, running away/found again
♡ FEM reader
Your name fires off his tongue like a warning shot out of the clear.
You stand stock-still as it rings through the air, a sharp chill succeeding it, before you, wide-eyed and ashen, look up to find that unwanted stare glaring back at you.
It had been a day like any other. You’d been on your way home from work, maneuvering through the turbulent streets in favor of stuffing yourself inside the overcrowded subway. You had leftovers waiting for you in the fridge and the remnants of a bottle of red you’d very much been looking forward to all day long.
You hadn’t been paying attention, eyes on your phone, opening your notes to see if there was anything on your shopping list that required you to drop by the supermarket first—hoping there wasn’t, with fingers crossed—when, out of nowhere, you’d bumped right into someone.
It was a day like any other. But opening your eyes, a feeling sank heavy in your belly at what you saw, a feeling you’d nearly forgotten, whispering at you in hushed and urgent whispers as though scared to be heard.
Run.
Shell-shock has you by the throat, making you swallow thickly beneath a flared breath, trying to keep cool, the same way you would when encountering any other wild animal—no sudden movements—talking to him just so, like a beast who could and very likely would kill you if you weren’t very, very, very careful.
“Hi…”
His lips move, talking to you, but you’re unable to catch any of it over the sound of your own blaring heartbeat. Ears ringing, rushing with blood, feeling faint, looking at the ghost-of-suppressed-past as if he’d come only to remind you of what you can’t forget.
“Grab coffee with me?” he asks eagerly, eyes bright, beaming, loud, looking as surprised as you felt, though without the fear, to have bumped into you like this—like a scene straight out of a movie.
It’s all odd and nothing short of terrifying. But even odder and more horrifying still, there’s a smile on his face—giddy looking, of all things.
It was a good imitation of normalcy. You’re sure, from an outsider's perspective, it couldn’t have looked any different from two estranged sweethearts stumbling into each other, a much-awaited long time, no see. And yet, despite the effort, none of it relieved the feeling of being robbed at gunpoint.
“Uh—I was just, uhm…” You struggle to find the words. Your throat is like a dry well, heaving up empty buckets, delayed in answering the first question, “Heading home.”
Eerily sharp, inspecting you like a security screener, his eyes don’t dither, and neither does his voice—pressing on, just as keenly as before, insisting, “My treat? For old times' sake?”
You can’t help but regard it the same way you would the gun being cocked. “Uhm…” Praying to whomever might take pity enough to listen to you, while you empty your purse for all the measly value that it’s worth.
“Okay.”
You’re led away by a grip on your wrist. It’s not too tight—nothing you wouldn’t be able to rip yourself free from if you tried—but for some reason, it still feels impossible. It’s the same when he ushers you down on a seat by a tiny two-seater table inside a cute sundae cafe while he goes to stand in line to order. Despite the many inner voices, some whispering and others screaming, telling you to go now that he’s got his back turned, you remain right there, statuesque, trying to remember how you’d usually make your feet move, but coming up empty-handed with a feeling of utter foolishness that all but jeers at you, telling you that you only have yourself to blame.
“I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just bought the most expensive thing,” he returns with two flamboyant, syrupy mocha coffees topped with whipped cream and marshmallows, sitting down opposite you.
“That wasn’t a brag—I’m just—I don’t know what to say…”
He seems nervous, too. Or no, not nervous, but excited, sitting strangely straight-backed on the tiny wooden café chair, both his hands wrapped around the acrylic of his cup, fingers locked, glistening wet with dewdrops dripping down its sides—it’s impossible to tell if any of it’s genuine or not.
You don’t touch your own. Actually, you don’t do anything. You just end up sitting there. Waiting, wondering, in anxiety, still rattled by the shock, partly in disbelief, thinking—hoping—you only fell asleep in your cubicle back at the office and are having the strangest nightmare you’ve had in a while.
“You’re nowhere to be found,” he suddenly states after your silence, making you snap out of your ponder, blinking at him, still startled to see him sitting there, in the flesh.
You can only muster up a “What?”
It makes him laugh—an awkward, slightly impatient type of laugh. “I mean.” He scratches the back of his neck and looks off to the side as if sheepish about something, explaining, “I couldn't find you anywhere on social media.”
Your face blanches anew.
He’s been looking for you? The thought makes your gut twist even tighter. You knew he would, but still? Has he been looking for you all this time? Did you really just stumble into him at random, or was all of this some twisted act? Why? What does he want?
Why can’t he just leave you alone?
You grab your drink, if only to let the taste of sugar distract you. Answering curtly, “Oh, yeah, I don’t use my real name anymore. So many scammers and stuff, you know...” You take a sip, aggressive enough to give you brainfreeze—thinking anything’s better than this burn that’s all but consumed you from head to toe.
He lifts his drink up to his mouth as well. “Smart girl. Glad to see you finally protecting yourself.”
You both drink for another long pause.
He drums a beat on the table while looking up at the ceiling, then out the window, in some way looking like he’s thinking up things to say, and in another way looking like he’s holding himself back from saying what he really wants.
He looks older—you notice against your will—bigger. Not surprising, given the years that have passed since you last saw each other, but still, you’d have thought he’d never grow out of that ever-present and ever-cocky smile of his. Right now, he seems, somehow, somewhat normal, sitting there—dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. You don’t know why it strikes you as odd. It isn’t, really. You’re sure he wore the same things back then, but still, it seems off for some reason.
You suppose, what’s weird about it is that it makes him look like any other average person you would bump into on the street, even when he’s the farthest thing from it.
It just doesn’t make much sense—none of it.
“So, how’ve you been?” he asks suddenly, once again popping the awkward silence like an overinflated balloon at a little girl’s birthday party.
You keep waiting for a high-pitched cry to break out.
It’s those types of questions—trivial nothings anyone would ask anyone. Anyone but him. In his mouth, it’s a script, like an actor treating the world as his stage. He does it well, though—fitting in—he always has. But you know better this time than to believe it, having experienced it first-hand, how it only runs skin deep.
“Good,” is all you offer. Forgetting to return the question.
He doesn’t seem to mind. Unbothered, continuing on with his dialogue as if on cue, “Must have been hard moving away. Dropping everything like that. So suddenly.”
It’s more probing than his previous ask, more personal—but you’d say it alludes to more about him. Something about his tone, something accusational, something not quite polished enough to suit that fluffy exterior, making way for a bit of the real him to peek through, enough to make a fresh chill run down your spine.
You don’t have an immediate answer. Too caught up in the feeling of imminent threat—at the edge of your seat waiting for him to lose patience, as if he’d lunge at you from across the table, uncaring of the people around—even though, logically, you know he’d never do anything in public. Your thoughts from earlier return. Why is he doing this? What does he want? Why? All these years later, why can’t he let you go?
There’s another airy laugh before he flashes you a big grin. “I have to admit,” he says, chuckling. “It kind of felt like you were running away from me.”
He says it as a joke, but you know it isn’t. It’s got clear intentions—he wants to make you squirm, to make you beg, to apologize, to cry, and do all those things you used to do when he got upset.
A part of you still wants to, feeling like it’s the safest option. You almost indulge it, but instead you steel yourself. After all, you ran away from him for a reason.
And all these years later, you’re not about to go running back.
“I just needed to get away, is all,” you excuse. “I’d been so cooped up, I barely knew who I was or what I wanted out of life.”
It’s not really a lie. Then again, it’s also far from the full truth of it. And by the looks of him, you both know it. The way he eyes you calmly—hunting and hauntingly. That fluffy exterior, like sheep-skin on a wolf, peeling away, too rotted to hold itself together.
“Hmph.” Tilting his head, he eyes you condescendingly. “Yeah, you always were a bit of an airhead, weren’t you? Always following me around like you didn’t know where to go without me,” he grins, speaking as though it’s all fond memories. “Not that it ever bothered me, of course. Actually, I kind of miss it. Don’t you?”
You nearly flinch, almost making your drink fall and crash onto the ground, wishing you’d just left when you had the chance. If only you’d been able to shake the shock out of your body enough to allow your feet to move.
“It's a long time ago,” you say, voice thin, looking into the foam halfway down your fountain glass as you take another sip. Wherever the conversation is headed is not somewhere you want to go—especially with him leading the way.
“What does that mean? You don’t remember?” he snickers, knowing you do.
“We used to have so much fun…” His voice slips into a lower murmur, spilling your shared secrets over the table-top. “You’d sneak me in through your bedroom window at night. I’d have to climb your rose-wall like you were Rapunzel. Tch—you were so cute, shushing me, thinking your parents were gonna wake up.”
You stay silent as he laughs.
“Yeah, always such a goody-two-shoes. Remember how much you choked on your first drink? Granted, I’d maybe overshot the vodka on purpose. Your first smoke was just as bad, but shit—your first hit of the good stuff was the worst. You couldn’t stop coughing, and after your fourth hit, you weren’t even able to move. But I took good care of you, didn’t I? Getting you into your PJs and tucking you in tight. You remember?”
He doesn’t really give you any time to answer or stop him.
“I almost got you to take your first tattoo as well if you hadn’t been such a scaredy-cat. Tch—but no worries, I took a lot of your other firsts to make up for it.” Humming, his eyes go lazy—pictures of it all playing out behind them. “You really let me get away with everything… Like a Barbie doll—you’d let me dress you up the way I liked, and undress you wherever and whenever I wanted.”
He takes a moment to admire your face, all flushed and pouty, avoiding looking back at him, before he grins with another sly scoff. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
You think you might get sick if you stay any longer, and still, nothing—not even the feeling of that all-too-familiar collar being clasped around your neck—is enough to convince your body to get up and leave while he continues to tighten the leash.
“You’re right,” he admits when you don’t say anything. “It is a long time ago. It’s just… looking at you makes it feel like yesterday.”
You could say the same. Although you can’t say those would be the memories you’d choose. Or, at least, you wouldn’t have phrased them like that. Rather, you remember the time his hand left a bruise around your throat so deep you had to wear a scarf for two months waiting for it to disappear, and the way he’d lick and suck on it every time you were alone—telling you he was kissing it better when he was actually just making it worse. Or the time he didn’t allow you to wear a sweater to a party, forcing you to choose between leaving it in the car or walking home by yourself all the way to the other side of town, and the way he’d shown you and your bra off to everyone inside when you’d conceded—later praising you with sweet nothings and heated kisses in an off-limits bedroom even when you were begging him to take you home. Or that time he’d knocked your father’s teeth out in the driveway for having warned him to stay away from you. Or how, when you’d told him you had decided you were getting the abortion, he’d called you a baby-killing bitch, and said he’d never look or speak to you again if you went through with it.
You’d made sure he stood by those words. You’d made a decision and packed your bags, leaving your childhood home behind you with goodbye kisses to your parents, promising them you’d keep in touch despite moving as far away as your savings would allow. You took the first job you could get and worked your way up with only a high school degree to back you up.
You’d erased all traces of yourself—practically faking your own death.
And you hadn’t seen him since.
“Give me your contacts?” he asks, pulling his phone from his pocket, spinning it around, and sliding it across the short distance of the table separating you.
“Your phonenumber,” he clarifies. “It would be nice for us to catch up. It’s been so many years, I was beginning to fear we might never get the chance.”
You can’t really say that you agree. But the sight of his phone already in front of you, waiting for you to indulge him, somehow and someway, you still don’t have the guts to say no to him, even when typing up the numbers feels no different from signing a deal with the devil.
Finally—and thankfully—he releases you a short while after that.
He’d offered to walk you home, but you made up an excuse on the fly about going to see a friend—not sure if you were convincing or not.
Paranoid, you still get on the subway to another part of town, now a little happy about the crowd, before hailing a cab to take you back.
The stairs up to your apartment feel like an eternity, even as you rush up the flights. Your hands, cold and slightly trembling, struggle to put your key in the lock. And when you finally step inside, you instantly collapse against the door, breath knocked out of you, shaking from head to toe.
A phantom in your stomach makes the tears rush down your cheeks like acid rain, corroding the skin in its wake. It’s every emotion at once—shame, guilt, anger, terror.
You’re overreacting, you’re aware. But it doesn’t help. Thoughts racing, telling you you’ll have to move again, even farther away this time, maybe even out of the country, to someplace faraway he’ll never find you. But how did he find you? If he found you once, he’ll do it again. Meaning you’re not safe. There’s nowhere you can go. It’s only a matter of time before he hunts you down again, and again, and again, and again.
You clamber across the faux wood, running to the kitchen cabinet to pull out that bottle of wine along with a glass, topping yourself off to the very brim. A few drops spill over onto the floor in the rush.
A pling comes from the floor while you drink, making your eyes snap to view it—whole body on edge and convinced it was something deadly, only to see your phone where you’d left it on its back, screen lit.
You stare at it, regarding it with apprehension. Then, despite not wanting to move, your feet take you with them anyway, slowly walking over until you’re standing right above it, spotting an unknown number at the top, followed by an unwanted text.
it was good seeing you
made me realize how much I really miss you
maybe I can see your place this weekend. wanna know what you’ve been up to…
anyway tell your friend hi, and call me when you get home. let’s plan another…
There’s more to the messages, but you can’t see it without opening the chain. You only stare at it as it is. Reading it over and over. Unsure what you’re looking for outside of wanting it to go away until the screen goes back to black, snapping you out of it.
You end up leaving it there—choosing to walk yourself over to the couch instead. But you don’t really know what to make of yourself once you’re there, either—whether you want a sitcom as company or if you prefer the silence.
The silence gives room to more thoughts, and too many of them are bad, so you put on the first recommended thing.
More plinging from the floor disturbs your binging. Still, a full five twenty-minute episodes pass before the singular plings are exchanged with ringing.
You let it ring until it stops. Ignoring it without pausing the show in front of you. You just keep drinking your wine, staring at the screen without catching any of the contents, as more plinging and ringing chimes from the floor.
You close your eyes, and a couple of stray tears slip free from your waterline. You don’t even dare move. Sitting there, stiff and scared and helpless, like you’re back in time and still just a hopeless girl stuck beneath his thumb.
Funny enough, it’s when the noises stop for a full episode that you finally get your legs to move, slipping out of the blanket you’d wrapped yourself in, toes numb against the cold floors as you walk back over to your phone. You don’t know why—you still don’t want to look, but an indescribable urge all but forces you to open the chain, eyes peeled as you scroll through a mile of messages, each one worse than the one before…
it was good seeing you
made me realize how much I really miss you
maybe I can see your place this weekend. wanna know what you’ve been up to all these years without me
anyway tell your friend hi, and call me when you get home. let’s plan another date
don’t mean to blow up your phone, but your accounts are private, you need to accept my friend request
I know you’re with a friend, but it only takes a minute to reply
you should get better at checking your phone. what if it was something important?
pick up the phone, I need to talk to you
I’m not angry, I just really want to hear your voice
answer me
why are you being like this? we had a nice date and now you’re just going to ignore me?
you haven’t changed at all you know that? you’re still that same flighty fucking bitch you always were
answer the fucking phone right now
I swear if you keep ignoring me I’m gonna come over and make you regret it
Breath shallow and weak on your upper lip, you stare in deafening silence as another message is typed up. Three dots jumping, slowly compared to the rapid beat of your heart.
last chance
You almost toss the phone away when it rings, but manage to maintain your grip, breath coming out heavy—so heavy that the screen catches dew on every outtake. Finger hovering over the green button, somewhat itching to slide it, but remaining placid until the ringing eventually dies out, reverting back to the text chain.
You click the number at the top, slowly tapping Info, then the two red words at the bottom, blocking him. Then, you go back to the cartoon still playing on the TV and re-drape yourself with your still-warm blanket, hugging yourself tightly. Eyes sliding to peek at your phone now and again, relieved to see it simply lying on the coffee table, calm as usual.
You spend the weekend inside, ordering take-out. Using your computer to check out if you’ve left anything to be found online that could help him find your address if he somehow managed to check out your socials despite you blocking all his advances. You don’t think so, but still, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow able to track you. It’s all silly, but even so, you end up deleting your accounts across every platform just in case, not even leaving your phone number in the end, thinking you’ll get a new one as soon as you can.
You consider staying home sick on Monday, but you wind up going anyway after double-checking that the office website and Facebook page hadn’t publicized your name or picture anywhere.
Still, you’re a nervous wreck all day, hardly getting any work done, even when you skipped lunch to sit in your cubicle. You keep wracking your brain with the same question—how’d he even find you in the first place? Was it really just some fucked up coincidence? Is that even possible? For him to just suddenly show up out of the blue, multiple cities away from the last place you saw him so many years ago? Had you maybe mentioned you wanted to move here? You’re certain you didn’t, you’re certain this place wasn’t even on your radar before you made the decision. Did your parents tell him? No, they wouldn’t, right? Maybe not on purpose. Using the work computer, you check out their profiles. But, just as you’d requested, there isn’t a single post about you or the few times they’ve flown out to visit you. Actually, scrolling through, it’s squeaky clean from top to bottom, so much so that it’s as if they didn’t have a daughter at all.
It doesn’t make any sense. How the fuck did he find you?
Well… it wasn’t easy…
The contractor he paid was one out of a dozen others before him. He suspects the first eleven were amateurs who only did a deep dive through the web, as if he couldn’t do that on his own. But this last guy, he was legit. A lot more expensive, too, but after years of trying to find you, he wouldn’t complain, especially when the guy somehow managed to track you down in less than two days' time.
He could barely believe it once he pinged him in the middle of the day with a picture of you—candid, you looked to be on your way somewhere, probably home with the somewhat tired look on your face, dressed in drab work clothes he’d never picture you in, older now and still, you were as beautiful as the day he lost you.
And, after so many years, he’s not about to let you slip away again. No matter how stubborn you are.
He watches you climb the stairs outside your building, tired in your step. You’d stayed late at the office, made him wait all day until dark, but somehow it was fitting. Romantic, in one way, and deserved in another—hunting you while you’re all alone at night. This way, he could make you pay a little, freak you out, scare you—get you to really regret it.
“Hey.”
You whip around like a bunny who’d heard a twig snap—eyes round, hand down your purse, stopped in the middle of fishing for the keys.
“What—what are you doing here?”
You sound worse than you did at the cafe. Just like his own, you’ve let the mask slip. Might as well, given there’s no one else but the two of you around.
“Why’d you block me?” He ignores your question in favor of posing his own. It’s a stupid thing for you to ask, anyway, given how obvious it is.
“What?” you continue to act stupid, still with your hand in your purse, trying to be smooth while you carefully feel around for your keys as though he can’t see exactly what you’re doing.
“You blocked me,” he clarifies, standing at the bottom of the short ten-step staircase, looking up at you. “Why?”
He can spot you swallowing thickly, in fact, he thinks he can even hear it, followed by your cheap excuses, all spluttered out like nervous word-vomit, still trying to keep up the charade in fear of the reality staring you in the face, “Oh–well, you know, I'm sorry–I sorta just keep touch with close friends so—”
“No boyfriends then,” he states—this time, fully like an accusation.
Your shoulders hike, and goosebumps break out across your arms. Still, you try to stay strong. “You’re not-”
“Careful.”
A heavy silence ensues at that.
The wind blows softly through the empty street. Everyone’s either eating a late dinner or already in bed with a movie. Meanwhile, you’re here, on the steps, looking down at him, waiting for a sudden air-strike or alien invasion—anything to make it break the deafening quiet.
When nothing happens, you find no other option but to break it yourself. Mustering up the courage, you finally break the act, asking him what’s been on your mind all along, “What do you want?”
A grin breaks out across his face then. Stating the obvious, “I want you to invite me in.”
Your hand whitens with the death grip you're giving your bag, stiffening up like a cadet trying to put some bite into her bark. “And if I say no?”
The smile curls, becoming something vile. “I’ll invite myself.”
You whip around, keys in a panicked hand, stupidly jabbing at the lock with no tact to make it work.
“Don’t.” He’s behind you before the first tear drops, and you let out a choked whimper, feeling his presence at your back like something from a horror movie. “Don’t make me angry.” He cyphons the chills out of you, voice tepid and smooth right at your ear, speaking to you like a lover. “You don’t want that. I don’t either… Just invite me in.”
You sniffle, biting back a cry, shaking against his chest as he wraps both arms around you.
Feeling possessed, you fiddle with the keys against the lock again, hand shaking so much that you drop them on the floor. Startled, you rush down to pick them up, promptly and still as clumsily trying for the lock.
Arms around you, his cold hand grasps yours, steadying it as he helps you slide the key in place, turning your hand in his, twisting it until the lock comes undone. He puts his paw on the knob and pushes down, letting the door swing in.
Another paw on your waist guides you inside with a steady nudge.
You black out as you climb the stairs one step at a time, feeling the rhythmic repetition lull you into catatonia. This time, when you reach the door, he confiscates the keys from your hand, and you let him, only silently watching as he effortlessly puts them in your lock.
“You know… I’ve been trying to find you for a while,” he mumbles against your neck, nosing your jawline, lips on the underbelly of your chin. “A really long while.”
You jolt as the door slams to a close behind you, feeling faint—as though he’s about to bite your throat out now that he finally has you alone. And yet, despite your body being immobile in light of the impending death threat, all he does is hold you, murmuring more words against your ear.
“It makes me feel like—I don’t know... maybe you were hiding from me.” You hold your breath, feeling stormed by his voice, twisting about in your head, leaving little room for anything else. “Do you really hate me that much?”
Overwhelmed, in some last-ditch effort, you try pushing him away while shaking your head, needing to get away, needing space to breathe, to think, to stop this urge of playing dead like you’re some helpless animal stuck on a hunter’s jaws.
But he only clicks his tongue at the attempt. Letting you go with a harsh push that has you drop to the floor. He follows quickly, on top of you, with a fierce grip around your throat.
“I told you already, don’t do that,” he repeats—tone tighter now, vexed. “I don’t want to be rough with you, but I will if you make this difficult.”
“Please–” you squeak, both hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to pull him off without succeeding.
He only tightens the hold as he leans down, teeth gritting, “Please, what? What do you think I’m gonna do that’s so goddamn bad? I’m genuinely curious, please what?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling spit fly from his gnashing, barking the words at you with his face only a short foot away.
“You afraid to say it or something?” he laughs, something just shy of unhinged. “Is he gonna kill me or fuck me—that’ what you’re thinking?”
There’s a silence. You keep your eyes closed while it prolongs—not sure what you’re waiting for—the latter or the former.
“I should kill you,” he says then. “Fucking off the way you did—my kid in your belly and all. What the fuck did you do, huh?”
You croak with another cry, stabbed with that same feeling from before, strangling your guts into unbearable knots.
“Yeah, thought so.”
You don’t even notice his hand when it lets go of your throat and joins the other in cradling your face—tenderly, but cagingly, holding you steady as you choke on your own onslaught of tears.
“How about I let you pick, hm?” he says, voice suddenly soft again, as if there’s kindness in giving you a choice, like he’s asking if you’d like chocolate or ice cream. “Which one do you want? Either I kill you—” His thumbs rub your cheeks while his forehead dips against yours. “Or we make a new one.”
The proposal doesn’t ease your sobbing, only further spurs it on as the ache inside gets twisted anew.
And still, he presses on, “Answer me, which is it?”
You shake your head, a sniveling mess, struggling to breathe, drowning under the pressure.
“Wow…” he grumbles coldly. “You’d really rather die?”
Letting go of your face, he straightens himself, looking down his nose at you like you’re this pathetic thing before abruptly scoffing, “Tch, it's not like it’s anything new. I mean, let’s be real, how many times have we done it, huh?” There’s a new sharpness to his tone as he continues, seething at you as he lays both hands down flat on either side of your head, catching your hair beneath his fingers. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve met a bigger slut than you, always begging to get fucked. That was always your answer to everything. Whenever you made a mistake, you’d make it up to me with sex, whenever I was upset, you’d calm me down with sex, whenever I wanted to talk to you about us, about our future, about wanting to make you my wife, my world, my fucking everything, you’d always shut me up with sex.”
He’s panting by the end of it—both in the same state, heaving for air through the thick of it. The touch of something hot dripping on your face makes you finally open your bleary eyes, blurry vision slowly focusing on the sight of his own reddened ones staring back down at you.
“Did you ever even love me? Hm? Even just a little?” his voice cracks as he asks it. Impatiently demanding your answer this time with tightness in his throat, “Come on, answer me.”
Still, you remain silent in shock as you try to make sense of the expression on his face and how it, despite everything, still has this godawful ability to make you want to reach out and give him every part of yourself in the hope it’ll be enough to make him happy.
“Answer me!”
This time, as he bangs his fist down next to your head, the answer all but springs out of you like convicts in a prison break, “Yes! Yes, I loved you—I love you… I–” It all pours out of you like it’s something you’ve been holding back since the day you left—feeling like a deathbed confession, this white-hot guilty burden you’d been denying, trying desperately to convince yourself wasn’t true.
“You lying to me?” he pushes, as needy as it is threatening, with lips down by the corner of yours and hand back to caressing your throat.
“No–no, I’m not lying–” you promise, putting your own hands by his pulse and cheek, looking at him as all those old feelings retake their rightful spot inside you, festering like a sickness you never fully got rid of. “I love you, I really–”
He kisses you then, and you, feeling desperate for any type of comfort, accept it with greed.
“Yeah?” he asks against your wet lips, gruffly, tasting you with rightful abandon, like he’s only retaking something that’s always belonged to him.
And you indulge him, beyond tired of fighting, you accept the crude peace of surrender all too easily. “Yes–”
He smiles against your kisses, grinning widely with a low snicker, pulling your lips between his teeth before letting go. Brow to brow, nose to nose, he takes your puffy eyes in with his.
“Then I forgive you.”
♡ BNHA – Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto, Naoya ♡ HQ – Kuro, Atsumu ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ WB – Suo
♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist
