↝ Finally deciding it was time, you and Bakugou broke the big news to your kids.
⋆ PAIRING: dad!/divorced!/prohero!bakugou x mom!/divorced!/ teacher!reader
⋆ WARNINGS/TAGS: fluff; kids; divorce
⋆ WORD COUNT: 1.7K
A/N: i got home in philly around 5 so apologies for the late post! i realized that this series will be over in two weeks before april even starts... crying. also i've been working on the prologue/prequel and so far it's over 8k words for the initial draft lol
Second Time Around Masterlist / part XIV / part XVI
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Summer break finally came around and the kids were overjoyed beyond reason. You were also happy to have a little bit over a month of a break but you also needed to look for a summer job. Typically every summertime you’d get a temporary job, like at a convenience store or a nearby restaurant, to help pay the bills for the month of a paycheck you wouldn’t receive.
And you didn’t mention anything to Bakugou, knowing he’d immediately drown you in money. It wasn’t that you wouldn’t be grateful or wouldn’t want his help… you just couldn’t help but feel guilty.
Once Suki and Katsuo finally woke up for breakfast at noon, it was the first day of summer you didn’t want to scold them for waking up late, you fed them breakfast.
As they ate you said, “Dad’s coming over for dinner. We’re gonna go out and eat so pick where you want to go.”
Suki and Katsuo nearly cheered and clapped and immediately started discussing potential restaurant options, for once not arguing immediately.
You smiled at them but there was a tight feeling settling in your chest.
The kids chose an American restaurant, to which Bakugou groaned about. They wanted burgers and fries and as Bakugou drove you all to the restaurant he complained, quietly to you, about how every kid just wants junk like burgers. And when you reminded him that he had bought all of them burgers in the past he just told you to be quiet.
And as you sat with your family at the restaurant, half-listening to Suki talk about a new animated show she loved and that Katsuo called lame, which of course led to an argument, you kept fiddling with your hands, subconsciously picking at your nails.
Bakugou reached down and held your hand under the table. You looked up at him and smiled, knowing he recognized how nervous you were. He mirrored your smile and tilted his head towards the kids and you nodded.
You cleared your throat. “Okay, kids? Stop fighting for one second.” Suki and Katsuo immediately stopped, still glaring at each other and you held back a laugh. It was astounding how they always had energy to fight. “So, there’s a reason why we wanted to take you both out for dinner.”
Suki analyzed your face, and saw how much you were fidgeting and looked at Bakugou, who’s forehead had a thin sheen of sweat, and she gasped loudly, a hand going up to cover her mouth. “You’re having another baby?!”
Katsuo choked on his water, looking at you with a bewildered expression. “You are?!”
“No, we’re not!” Both you and Bakugou exclaimed in unison.
“We’re not havin’ anymore kids,” Bakugou said firmly.
You nodded. “We’re happy with two kids. More than happy.”
Suki pouted, leaning back in her chair and Katsuo let out a breath of relief. “I wanted to be a big sister…”
Katsuo snorted. “Well, being an older sibling isn’t that great.” Suki immediately punched him in the arm.
“As I was saying… what I wanted to say was...” you paused to look over at Bakugou who smiled at you softly for you to continue. “Your dad and I are… seeing each other.”
Katsuo smiled widely, obviously not surprised at all since he already knew. All three of you looked over to Suki, gauging her reaction. “Seeing each other? Of course you guys are… you’re sitting right next to each other,” Suki said, dumbfounded and confused why you'd make such a big deal out of this.
Bakugou held back the urge to laugh in his daughter’s face. Katsuo rolled his eyes. “That’s not what that means, idiot.”
“Baby, Mom and I are dating,” Bakugou clarified for her.
“Dating…?” Suki repeated softly and you nodded.
Katsuo furrowed his brows. “Dating? Why don’t you guys just get married? You’ve already dated and been married before.”
“I know but… it was my idea to take things slow. I wanted to do it all right this time. And there's no rush so we wanted to take our time,” you explained and Bakugou agreed.
Katsuo glanced over to Suki. “Well, I’m happy for you guys,” Katsuo said, hoping his saying that would encourage Suki to say something… anything.
“Suki?” Bakugou called gently.
All three of you watched as Suki’s lip quivered as she stared down at her food and she burst into tears. She covered her face with her hands, attempting to muffle her sobs since you were in public.
Your heart dropped. All this time you were worried about Katsuo’s reaction when you actually should’ve been worried about Suki. You assumed with how much she loved Bakugou and you and how much she loved it when you were all together that this would be great news for her. Had she only wanted the family together but not actually want you and Bakugou to be together?
Bakugou slid his chair closer to Suki, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she continued to cry. “You okay?” He asked gently. Even Katsuo felt like he had to do something to comfort his little sister, his hand hovering over her slightly as he tried to assess what he should do. He was also convinced Suki would be jumping for joy from the news.
“I-I,” Suki choked out. “I’m not c-crying ‘cause I’m sad."
The three of you watched her with confusion as she sputtered out, "I’m s-so happy.”
You felt like your heart got twisted in your chest and you were so relieved. Suki looked up from her hands, her bottom lip jutting out and her wet cheeks glistening under the harsh light. Her matching crimson eyes she got from her father were puffy and even redder than usual.
“I-I always wanted us to be a b-big happy family. And I’m so happy,” Suki said in between her sobs.
Bakugou scooped her up in his arms, squeezing her tight on his lap. “Oh my baby,” you said, your voice cracking as you started crying with her. You grabbed her hand and she gripped you tightly. Bakugou looked off to the side, blinking rapidly in an attempt to prevent his own tears from falling.
Bakugou kissed her head and you caressed her hair as she continued to cry against Bakugou’s chest, clinging onto him.
Katsuo let out a laugh. “You’re crying that hard ‘cause you’re happy?”
Suki clenched her teeth, pulling away from Bakugou's chest and she grabbed a handful of fries and launched it at her brother who attempted to dodge them as she continued relentlessly to pelt him with food.
“Mom!” Katsuo complained, shielding his face as ketchup and salt and pickles drenched him.
“Okay, okay that’s enough,” you said, although it was funny to watch for a moment.
Suki stopped and called her brother stupid under her breath. Then she turned and looked up at Bakugou and then at you with bright eyes. “So are you going to live with us, Dad?” She asked with anticipation, sniffling.
“Dude, let them figure all that out on their own,” Katsuo scolded and you gave him a look, wanting him to be nicer to his sister who was already emotional at the moment.
Suki glared at her annoying, nagging brother but nodded. “Okay…”
“We’ll figure that all out later, alright?” Bakugou said and Suki nodded her head against his chest.
“I feel better now,” Suki announced as she jumped off Bakugou’s lap and sat back in her chair, rubbing her eyes to rid them of any tears. Then her eyes lit up. “But now that you guys are dating that means we can go on family trips! Oh, and go to the park together and the mall and…” Suki continued to ramble until Katsuo told her to shut up, resulting in yet another fight.
Bakugou grabbed your hand in his, above the table this time, and you smiled at him. “Told you it'd all work out, huh?” He whispered and you nodded.
Katsuo stopped mid-fight, noticing the exchange between his parents and held back a smile as Suki continued to yell at him.
“Bye, Dad!” Suki said, with a wave, Katsuo followed suit as Bakugou parked his car in your driveway.
You leaned over and gave him a peck on the lips and before you could get out, Bakugou held your arm. “Can we talk?”
You blinked. “Of course.” You called Katsuo’s name and tossed him the house keys, telling him you’d be right inside. Turning back to Bakugou, you asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong but…” Bakugou paused. “When Suki mentioned movin’ in… thought it’d be nice to have us all together.”
He looked back at you, his fingers twisting and fidgeting with a ring on your right hand. “You wouldn’t have to worry about a mortgage and I’d take care of you. Take care of everything.”
You looked stunned and Bakugou quickly added. “Even if you don’t wanna live together, I’d still take care of everything. Bills, groceries, you name it I’ll cover it.” He laced his fingers into yours. “Tsuo told me you’re lookin’ for summer jobs. You don’t have to ‘cause I’ll take care of you.”
You shook your head. “I can’t let you do that, Kats.”
“Baby, just let me do this for you,” Bakugou said with a stern expression. “You always put so much stress on yourself and I wanna do this ‘cause I love you. So fucking much.”
You bit back some tears, and cupped his face, caressing his skin with your thumb. “God, you’re so sweet.” You paused for a moment before saying, “Can… Can you give me some time to think about it?”
Bakugou exhaled through his nose but nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”
You leaned in and gave him a kiss, chuckling at your lipstick staining his lips. But he didn’t care. “Oh, and we need to figure out how we want to split having the kids for their summer break.”
“It’d be easier if we just lived together.”
You sighed. “I know, I know. I’ll think about it.”
Bakugou smiled and nodded and kissed you again. You both heard a squeal, and when you looked up towards the house and saw Suki watching you both through Bakugou’s windshield. Once she realized you were looking at her, she yelped and ran inside, yelling to Katsuo, “I’ve never seen them kiss before!”
❛ father figure. ❜ — 18+
⤷ ft. izuku midoriya
⤷ ch. 2 — prev ch. | next ch. | table of contents
synopsis: your twenties are supposed to be wild, but you didn’t expect “wild” to mean weeping into a broken espresso machine on your first day at the coffee shop. but mr. midoriya — 40, silver-fox, city’s most legendary hero and, apparently, a connoisseur of terrible puns and black coffee. he’s patient, he’s kind, and somehow he keeps showing up whenever you’re about to crumble. soon, you’re knee-deep in a sweet, chaotic adventure with a man twice your age who still blushes when you flirt but has no shame kissing you breathless behind the pastry case.
tags: older!izuku midoriya(he's 40), college au(you're 20), age gap, you are quirkless, to be added!
morning comes in quietly. sunlight sneaking through the cheap blinds in slats across your sheets. for one blessed moment, there’s just warmth, that half awake haze where nothing hurts yet and you can pretend today is a day off. then your alarm goes off—some cruel tune you picked thinking it’d be less jarring—and reality hits.
you drag yourself out of bed with the little grace you have in the mornings, stretching your arms overhead until your spine cracks and your toes curl against the cold floor. there’s a dull ache in your calves from standing so long at work yesterday, a little bruise on your pride and a promise to yourself that today will be better, or at least survivable.
you check your schedule pinned to the wall: communications and calc back to back. because, in a moment of academic bravado, you convinced yourself you could conquer both public speaking and mathematical (oh the) misery in the same semester. you take a moment to offer a silent prayer that physics remains a distant threat—like a storm on someone else’s horizon.
as you brush your teeth, you hear it. your roommate’s voice—shrill, climbing up and down the scales like she’s trying to tune an orchestra with her emotions. her boyfriend’s tone is lower, steady but stubborn. you don’t need the details. it’s always the same script. the drama of dorm life: two young hoes locked in a battle over who gets the last word and the last slice of pizza.
you check your phone while rinsing toothpaste from your mouth, and there it is—dorm mother’s reply, short and to the point:
“i’ll have a word with them after classes. no more unsupervised guests, and i’ll remind them about the policy. let me know if there’s any more trouble.”
you actually sigh in relief, gratitude humming in your chest like a small, defiant victory. maybe, just maybe, the scales of justice still tip toward the righteous—those who buy their own chips and respect quiet hours.
you move quietly, grab your bag, slip on sneakers, and tiptoe past the kitchen. your roommate and her boyfriend are still at it, their argument swelling and dipping in waves. you catch a flash of her hair as she gestures wildly, his arms folded, both of them so caught up in the thunderstorm they don’t even notice you. perfect.
you slide out the door and close it softly behind you, the hallway’s silence a balm. the air outside is crisp, sun just bright enough to make you squint, the world bustling but not yet overwhelming. you breathe in deep, savoring the cool morning, and march off toward class, bag bumping against your spine, mind racing with formulas and half-finished presentations and the ghost of yesterday’s kindness—a memory of curls and a voice telling you you’re doing good.
the city yawns awake around you, and for the first time all week, you almost believe it when you tell yourself: you’ve got this.
the classroom is a boxy old thing on the second floor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, those fake wood desks bolted in pairs. the air is heavy with last night’s janitor soap and the faint, desperate smell of burnt coffee. you would never.
you scan the room for familiar faces, but it’s all strangers—hoodies pulled tight, faces ducked into phones, earbuds wedged so deep you wonder if they even know they’re here. you spot a guy in the back wearing sunglasses indoors, probably hungover, and a girl near the window who’s already got a stack of color-coded index cards and the glazed look of someone bracing for war.
nobody talks. not even a little nervous chatter, not even a bored sigh. it’s comically ironic, given the whole “communications” thing. you half expect someone to start a group exercise on “the art of awkward silence.”
you slide into a seat toward the middle—close enough to the action, not so close you’ll get picked on, not so far back you’ll look like you don’t care. you set your bag down with a thud that sounds louder than it should, then pull out your laptop, flipping it open as if you’ve got important emails (you don’t). your notebook comes next, the cover already curling at the edges. you click your pen a few times, filling the quiet with something other than your own nerves.
the professor isn’t here yet. a few students look up, blinking around like startled owls, then quickly look back down. someone’s tapping their foot. the girl with the index cards already looks like she’s memorizing the periodic table out of spite. which is stupid given that this class doesn’t require that.
you glance at the clock, chew the inside of your cheek, and resign yourself to a morning of being surrounded but somehow the loneliest person in the room. this is fine, you tell yourself. you can handle silence. you just wish it didn’t feel so much like being invisible.
notes ready, browser open, you wait for the professor to show up and officially kick off another day of pretending to be a functioning adult.
you sit there with your laptop open, cursor blinking like it’s mocking you, and your mind does that annoying thing where it refuses to stay in one place.
half of you is already at work later, picturing the coffee shop in that weird romantic haze your brain insists on painting over yesterday’s trauma. maybe you’ll see him again. maybe he’ll be there at the same time, patient in line, freckles and silver strands and that calm voice that makes your nervous system unclench. maybe you’ll actually get to ask his name properly, or at least stop staring like you’re trying to solve a mystery.
and then the other half of you remembers the oat milk woman. remembers the way a stranger’s disappointment can feel like a slap. remembers how fast a good mood can turn into you standing by the syrup rack with your eyes burning.
you’re still stuck in that mental tug-of-war when the door opens and the room changes.
your comms teacher walks in like she owns the air. she’s a middle-aged woman with a sharp bob, a cardigan that looks soft but expensive, and that expression older women get when they’ve seen enough nonsense to develop immunity. her heels click against the tile, and the whole class quiets in that instant, like everyone collectively remembers they have bills to pay someday.
“good morning,” she says, bright but firm, setting her bag on the desk like it’s a gavel. she surveys the room, eyes sweeping over hoodies, phones, slouched shoulders. “today, we’re focusing on interpersonal communication. specifically, first impressions and active listening.”
a few people shift like they just got threatened.
she smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “which means,” she continues, clapping her hands once, “you’re not going to sit there like statues. you’re going to practice.”
you straighten automatically, pen hovering over your notebook. the girl with the index cards looks like she’s about to ascend into another plane of anxiety. so real twin.
“here’s how it’s going to work,” the professor says, pulling up a slide. “you will pair up with the person next to you. yes, you. do not make that face at me.”
a low ripple of discomfort spreads through the room. chairs creak. people glance sideways with the energy of trapped animals.
your stomach does a small, unhelpful flip.
the girl next to you turns like she’s been bracing for impact the entire time.
she’s got a neat little stack of paper already, hair pulled back tight, and a nervous energy that makes her movements too precise. her eyes flick to your laptop, your notebook, your face, like she’s trying to decide if you’re safe.
“uh,” she starts, then clears her throat and tries again, more confident. “hi. i’m hana.”
you blink, surprised by how normal that feels in a room full of people acting like speaking is illegal. “hi,” you say, soft, and you offer her a small smile. you give her your name.
hana’s shoulders drop just a fraction, relief sneaking in. “okay. cool. so we’re partners.”
you both glance toward the front where the professor is already handing out instructions, already talking about eye contact and mirroring and the sacred art of pretending you’re not terrified. you lean a little closer to hana so you’re not half-yelling across the desk.
“what do you wanna do?” you ask. “we have to do, like… first impressions and active listening, right?”
hana nods quickly. “yeah. we could do the interview thing. like, one of us asks questions and the other answers, and we practice reflecting back what we heard.”
that sounds… manageable. not fun, but manageable. like getting a vaccine. you nod. “okay. yeah, i can do that.”
she pulls out a pen and flips to a clean page. “do you want to go first or me?”
“you,” you say immediately, because you’re still recovering from being perceived in public yesterday and you’d like to ease into it.
hana laughs quietly, like she understands. “fair.”
so she asks you basic things—where you’re from, what your major is, why you picked this class—and you answer, cautious at first, then a little more relaxed when you realize she’s not judging you, she’s just doing the assignment. you do your best to look at her, to nod, to repeat back her answers when it’s your turn, like the professor wants. you catch yourself mirroring her posture without meaning to, and it’s almost funny. almost.
the professor walks around, listening in, offering little corrections. “don’t rush. pause. let it breathe.” she taps the edge of someone’s desk. “look at their eyes, not their shoes.” she pauses near you and hana and gives a satisfied nod like you’re both doing fine.
and somehow, despite the awkwardness, it passes.
the rest of comms slides by in little chunks of lecture and practice, and by the time you’re packing up, hana gives you a small smile that feels like a truce. you exchange numbers “for class stuff,” and it’s not a best-friends moment, but it’s something.
then your second class comes and goes like a jagged breeze—sharp, fast, a blur of notes and numbers and you trying not to stare at the clock every two minutes. calc is calc. it doesn’t care about your feelings. it doesn’t care that you worked a shift yesterday and you’re running on stubbornness and redbull. it just sits there, smug, full of symbols that look like they were invented to punish you.
when it’s finally done, you step outside and let out a long breath like you’ve been holding your lungs hostage.
the walk back to the dorm feels like shedding armor piece by piece. your shoulders loosen. your jaw unclenches. you can feel the weight of your backpack and the fact that your body is still tired in a very human way.
you make it upstairs, open your door, and the first thing you see is your bed.
your heart actually lifts. your bed in full view, your pillow, your blanket, the little dent where you slept last night. it’s pathetic how happy it makes you, but you don’t even care.
you drop your bag, kick your shoes off, and launch yourself onto the mattress like it’s a reward you earned in battle. the sheets are cool. the comfort is immediate. you press your face into your pillow and groan, muffled, letting the day leak out of you.
you’re smiling before you even realize you are, because for a minute it’s just you, your room, and the sweet promise of resting your eyes before you have to drag yourself back into the world for your shift
and then you wake up a few hours later,
your alarm is screaming, that bright, unforgiving sound that makes your soul try to exit through your ears, and your cheek is stuck to your pillow because, yes, you drooled. not a cute little dot either. a full betrayal. you blink blearily at the ceiling, mouth open, hair doing whatever it wants, and for half a second you consider the radical option of simply not participating in society.
then the alarm keeps going and you remember you have a shift, bills exist, and you are not rich enough to be dramatic. maybe not yet.
you slap your phone until it shuts up, groaning like an old house settling. your throat is dry, your eyes feel gritty, and your body is still warm and heavy from the nap, reluctant to become a person again.
you sit up, wipe your mouth on the edge of your sleeve with zero dignity, and swing your legs over the bed.
“okay,” you whisper to yourself, like you’re coaching a scared animal. “move.”
you get ready on autopilot. face washed. deodorant. hair tamed into something that looks intentional. you pull on clean clothes that say i’m employed and not i live in a blanket fort. you dab on a little lip balm, maybe some mascara if you’re feeling ambitious, and you practice a customer service smile in the mirror that looks slightly haunted but serviceable.
presentable. alive. technically functioning.
you grab your bag, check you’ve got your keys, and step out of your room.
and immediately, you hear it.
your roommate’s voice is sharp and high, slicing through the apartment like a siren. “are you serious right now?”
her boyfriend answers, defensive and lazy, like he’s annoyed she’s making a big deal out of something he already decided wasn’t a big deal. “bro, it’s only fifteen bucks.”
“don’t call me bro.” she snaps.
you pause just long enough to catch the rest, standing there in the hallway like you’ve walked into the middle of an episode you didn’t consent to.
“you took it from my stash,” she says, furious in that specific way that means she’s more hurt than mad. “that’s my cash. you didn’t ask!”
he laughs like it’s nothing. “it’s fifteen dollars, man. i’ll pay you back.”
you roll your eyes so hard it feels like stretching. you do not have the energy for other people’s terrible relationships today. not your circus, not your clowns, and you have espresso to attempt to make.
you don’t announce yourself. you don’t comment. you don’t even look at them.
you just step out, close your door behind you, and lock it with a firm click that feels like drawing a boundary with a steel marker. your hand stays on the knob a second, just to make sure it’s really locked, because you’re not about to come home to your room mysteriously “borrowed” too.
their argument continues in the background, a muffled mess of accusations and excuses, but you tune it out like you’ve been training for this your whole life.
you head down the hall, keys cold in your hand, shoulders squared, mind already switching into work mode.
coffee. orders. smiles. survive.
and maybe, if the universe is feeling generous, freckles and silver strands again, waiting somewhere on the other side of the day
the moment you step into the shop, it hits you all at once. that familiar blend of espresso, sugar, and sanitizer. the quiet hum of the fridge. the soft clink of someone setting cups down. it’s almost comforting now, in a “stockholm syndrome but make it coffee” kind of way.
your coworker spots you immediately and lights up like you just walked into her living room instead of a workplace.
“hey!” she calls, bright and genuinely happy. “how were classes?”
you shrug your bag off your shoulder and let out a little breath, like you’re happy to be somewhere you at least know the rules. “they were actually really good,” you say, and you’re a little proud of yourself for it. “my partner in comms didn’t avoid conversation.”
she makes a face like she’s been personally victimized by the concept. “oh my god, i had people doing that in mine,” she says, leaning on the counter. “like… bitch. it’s literally talking class. the whole point is that we talk. let’s go.”
you laugh, the sound coming easier than it did yesterday. “exactly. i was like, are we all okay? are we scared of words?”
“apparently,” she says, rolling her eyes. “everybody wants the credit, nobody wants the eye contact.”
you nod, and it feels good to be able to joke with someone who gets it, someone who doesn’t look at you like you’re new and therefore disposable. you tie your apron on, tuck your hair back, and glance toward the bar like you’re bracing for battle.
“okay,” you say, practical now. “what do we need done before rush?”
your coworker straightens up, switching into that work rhythm that says she’s done this a hundred times and can do it half-asleep. “bet. um—we gotta restock lids and sleeves, wipe down the pastry case, refill the syrups, and please, for the love of everything, check the milks. yesterday we almost ran out of oat.”
you snort. “noted. no oat milk crises on my watch.”
“good,” she says, pointing you toward the back like she’s assigning you a quest. “you do milks and lids, i’ll handle syrups and the case. and if anyone gets spicy today, just send them to me. i woke up with violence in my spirit.”
you grin, already moving, the pre-rush routine settling you into something steadier.
and as you start pulling cartons from the fridge, stacking them in neat rows, you find your eyes flicking to the door without thinking, like a reflex.
the first few customers trickle in, and you watch the line form with the same dread you’d reserve for a pop quiz you forgot existed.
your coworker clocks it too. she leans in a little, voice low like she’s giving you battlefield instructions. “okay. breathe. you got this.”
you let out a slow sigh and adjust your apron, like tightening armor. “do i though?”
she points toward the office area with her chin. “manager’s in today. if we need backup, ring her. she’ll come out.”
you nod like a serious professional, like you’re not already mentally rehearsing your “sorry about that!” smile. “okay. cool. reinforcements.”
“we got this,” she repeats, firm, like she’s trying to hypnotize you into competence
you nod again because you want to believe her. you do. you want to be one of those people who floats through rush hour like a graceful caffeinated fairy.
but inside your head, your confidence is doing that thing where it shows up late, takes one look around, and turns right back around. still, you straighten your shoulders and put your hands on the register like you own it, like the touchscreen doesn’t have the power to ruin your life.
okay, you tell yourself, internally, in the tone of someone giving a pep talk to a wall. today we are brave. today we are capable. today we will not kill ourselves.
the bell over the door rings again. another customer steps up.
your coworker shoots you a quick thumbs up from the bar, already pulling shots like a machine. you inhale, paste on your best smile, and decide to lean into the delusion.
because honestly? confidence is just lying to yourself until your body believes it.
“hi!” you say, cheerful, professional, only slightly haunted. “what can i get started for you today?”
please let it be black coffee, you think. please let it be someone who believes in simplicity and minding their business.
and the line inches forward, the day unfolding, and you keep telling yourself, over and over, like it’s a mantra you can survive on:
we got this. we got this. we so got this.
do we?
a few hours in, the rush finally breaks. not in a satisfying, victorious way, either. more like the universe gets bored of tormenting you and wanders off to harass someone else.
the shop goes quiet enough that you can hear the fridge hum and the faint pop of ice settling in the bin. you wipe down the counter for the third time just to feel productive, then lean your elbows on it and stare into the middle distance like a person who’s seen too much.
in your head, you’re being so dramatic about it.
because this was not the dream.
this job was supposed to be your little aesthetic moment. the soft life. the tumblr girl fantasy. you know the one: you in a cute oversized sweater, softly lit by golden hour through big windows, casually journaling between customers, maybe doodling hearts around your notes while some arctic monkeys song plays, and the regulars all love you, and you’re mysteriously charming but also deeply misunderstood.
instead you’re here in an apron that smells faintly like milk and regret, with a highlighter stain on your thumbnail, standing under fluorescent lights that make everyone look like they’re being interrogated. there is no golden hour. there is only golden syrup. there is only the espresso machine, waiting like a stalker.
and now the lull is long enough that you actually pull your notebook out, flipping it open to a calc problem you swore you’d do “later.” you tap your pen against the page, sighing, because the world insists you be both employed and academically competent, which feels greedy.
you’re mid-internal rant—mid i can’t even romanticize my suffering properly—when the bell over the door rings.
and you look up.
and there he is.
the man, the myth, the gorgeous legend.
he steps in like he’s just been dropped into a different planet for five minutes of air. black and green curls, silver strands catching the light. freckles. tired. he’s got a briefcase in one hand, but it looks like it’s been through something with him—scuffed at the edges, clasp a little crooked, like he’s been opening it and shutting it all day without thinking.
his shirt collar is slightly off, tie loosened, jacket missing. disheveled in that way that should not be attractive, but unfortunately is, because it makes him look human. like a man who’s been holding the weight of something and is finally letting it slip.
he pauses just inside the doorway, scanning the room like he’s checking if it’s safe to exist for a minute.
then his eyes find you.
and his face softens, like his day just got a little easier without him meaning for it to.
he walks up to the counter, calm as ever, and you feel that ridiculous flutter in your stomach like your body is betraying you on purpose.
“hey,” he says, voice low and warm. and even that one word feels like a hand on your back again, steadying.
your brain scrambles, trying to keep you professional and normal and not a person who just internally called him a legend.
“hi,” you manage, and your smile is real before you can stop it. “uh… welcome back.”
he lets out a small breath, almost a laugh, like he’s relieved you’re here. “yeah,” he says, glancing down at the menu even though you both know he’s not here to complicate your life. “i think i need caffeine more than i need oxygen right now.”
and something about that cracks the last of your tension, because same. because you’ve been living that exact sentence since monday morning.
you giggle. it slips out before you can catch it, soft and a little too sweet, the kind of sound that makes you want to clear your throat and pretend it was just a cough. you hate that your body keeps acting like a hopeless romcom extra.
“do you want black coffee?” you ask, already reaching for the cup like you were born to pour the simplest drink known to man.
he blinks, genuinely surprised. “you remember.”
you lift a brow, deadpan, because you refuse to be cute about this. “sir… that is literally the easiest order in the world.”
his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh, and the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes make him look even more unfairly handsome. you can see the exhaustion on him up close now, the faint shadow under his eyes, the loosened tie, the way his briefcase sits a little crooked in his hand like he’s been gripping it all day without thinking.
he shifts, suddenly awkward, like you caught him being human. “right. yeah. i just,” he clears his throat, and there’s this brief, shy pause that doesn’t match the broad shoulders and the steady presence at all. “you can call me izuku. or midoriya, if that’s more comfortable.”
it’s so earnest it almost knocks you off balance. most men who look like him do the whole smooth, practiced routine. he looks like he’s trying to be polite without overstepping, like he’s offering you a choice and hoping you don’t think he’s weird for it.
you nod slowly, because you are a professional. you are an adult. you are definitely not thinking about how his voice is doing something to your spine.
“alright,” you say, and you can’t resist the tiniest bit of trouble, the little bite of formality like a tease you can pretend is customer service. “mr midoriya.”
he freezes.
his eyes flicker, and for half a second his expression shifts into something you can’t place. not irritation. not anger. it’s softer than that. almost startled. almost… affected.
then he exhales, slow, and the tips of his ears go faintly pink, like his body betrayed him too.
“mr midoriya,” he repeats under his breath, like he’s tasting it, like it lands heavier than it should.
you keep your face neutral, but inside your head you are screaming, because what was that! what was that little change!? why did that feel like you just tugged a thread and the whole world tightened.
you turn to grab the coffee, giving yourself a second to act busy, to hide your smile, to keep the moment from swallowing you whole.
he clears his throat like he’s about to give a speech, and it’s so unexpectedly awkward coming from a man who looks like he could walk onto a magazine cover and make it look effortless.
“um,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to the side like he’s searching for the least intrusive way to be curious. “what’s your name?”
you can’t help the smile that tugs at your mouth, because it’s sweet.
you tell him.
and the way his face softens when he hears it makes your stomach do something small and embarrassing.
“that’s a nice name,” he says, like he means it, not like he’s tossing out a compliment for points. then he adds, quieter, “i hope today’s been good.”
you shrug, honest, because you don’t know how to pretend with him. “it’s better,” you admit. “i still screwed up some orders, but… it’s okay. it’s coffee…not the nuke codes.”
he laughs and nods like he understands exactly what that costs, the effort it takes to say it’s okay when your nerves are fried. “you’re doing great,” he says. “from what i can see.”
your throat tightens in that annoying way it does when someone is kind and you’re not used to it. “thank you,” you say, and you mean it.
as he shifts his briefcase, you notice the jacket hanging off the arm he’s carrying it with. there’s a tag on it, clipped near the inside pocket, and you only catch it because you’re close enough and your eyes snag on familiar letters like a reflex.
u.a. high school.
you blink, then look back up at him. “wait… u.a.?” you point gently, like you’re not trying to be nosy but your curiosity is already sprinting. “do you teach there?”
his laugh is quiet, surprised, like you caught him in something he forgot he was wearing. he rubs the back of his head, curls shifting under his fingers, silver strands catching the light. it’s a gesture so boyish it doesn’t match the depth in his eyes at all.
“yes…” he says, then pauses and adds, “and no.”
you tilt your head, confused, and he looks almost bashful about it, like he’s about to admit he owns a yacht when you just asked what he does for fun.
“i’m the principal,” he says.
there’s a beat where your brain doesn’t connect it.
then it does.
your eyes widen and you lean back a fraction like the information has physical force. “oh shoot!” you blurt, too loud, too excited, instantly mortified. “that’s so cool!”
he laughs again, bigger this time, and the sound fills the quiet shop like warmth. “is it?” he says, rubbing his hair again like he’s trying to hide behind the motion. “i’m glad to hear that.”
you stare at him like he just casually announced he runs the moon. “that’s… like. that’s a huge deal.”
he shakes his head a little, smile tugging at his mouth, but you can see it in the way he stands, in the way the tiredness sits on him like a mantle. he doesn’t wear importance like a crown. he wears it like responsibility.
“it’s mostly paperwork,” he admits, as if that makes it less impressive. “and trying to keep everyone from setting something on fire.”
you laugh, because it really does sound like the most u.a. thing in the world. like it’s tradition at this point. paperwork, fires, teenagers with too much potential and not enough fear. and for a second the whole shop feels gentle again. the steam curls up from the cup like a soft ribbon. the afternoon light hits the counter in a warm stripe. the grinder is quiet. even the bell over the door seems like it’s resting.
you ask, almost automatically, because it’s the only normal question your brain can find. “how are the kids?”
and oh, he lights up.
it’s subtle at first, the way his expression opens, but then it’s like you handed him something he actually wants to talk about. his shoulders ease. his eyes get brighter. he leans a little closer over the counter, not invading your space, just settling into the conversation like it’s a chair he’s glad to finally sit in.
“they’re good,” he says, and the word good sounds like a thousand small victories. “tired, but good. we’ve got a first year who keeps trying to overcompensate, you know? super talented, but they think they have to be the loudest person in the room to be taken seriously. and then there’s this other kid who’s the opposite. barely speaks, but the second they move it’s like… everything clicks. they’re incredible.”
he’s talking with his hands a little, not big gestures, just those small movements that show he’s genuinely engaged. there’s warmth in his voice, the kind you hear from people who love what they do even when it drains them. he goes on a tangent about a student who finally nailed a rescue drill, about another who brought him a thank-you note that made him “have to step into the office for a second,” and he laughs under his breath like he’s embarrassed by how much he cares.
you mostly keep up. you nod where you should, smile at the right parts, throw in a soft “that’s sweet” when he mentions the note, a quiet “oh no” when he mentions someone detonating something they were not supposed to detonate. you can tell he’s trying to keep it casual, like this is just his day, but there’s pride threaded through it, careful and sincere.
and while he talks, your brain finally starts lining things up like puzzle pieces that were scattered across the floor.
the freckles you’ve seen in photos, but never this close. the curls that you’ve watched bounce on a screen during old interviews, back when you were younger and the world still felt more heroic than it does now. the way his voice sits in your memory like a familiar song you haven’t heard in years. the way he says “they’re doing great” with the same steady conviction he said it to you, like encouragement is part of his blood type.
your gaze drops, almost on instinct, to the tag again. u.a. high school. principal. and then your eyes flick back up to his face and the realization hits so hard it feels physical.
deku.
izuku midoriya.
not just some kind man with a soft smile and tired eyes. not just a principal with a briefcase and a gentle laugh. he is the name that used to fill headlines. the boy who became a symbol. the hero who fought tomura shigaraki. all might’s successor. the hero everyone watched, everyone talked about, everyone held their breath for. you’ve seen him on screens, in textbooks, in those documentaries they play on anniversaries. you’ve heard people say his name like it’s a piece of history.
and he’s standing in your coffee shop, asking for black coffee, listening to you like you’re the important part of his day.
your eyes widen before you can stop them.
the air feels different, suddenly too thin, like your lungs forgot what to do for a second. your pulse jumps, a sharp, hot beat in your throat, in your wrists, in the soft space under your ribs. part of you is starstruck, yes, because how could you not be. but another part of you is something else entirely, something a little more intimate and embarrassing, because now that you know who he is, that kindness lands heavier.
it means he could have been anything here. distant. untouchable. polite in the shallow, practiced way famous men are polite when they don’t want anyone to get ideas. he could have hidden behind his title and let the world do the bowing.
instead he’s here, smiling at you like you’re real, like your first-day nerves mattered, like your name deserves to be said properly.
you realize your hands are still wrapped around the edge of the counter, knuckles lightly pressed into the laminate, like you’re anchoring yourself. he’s still talking, still mid-thought about a student who reminds him of someone from “back then,” and your brain is trying to catch up to the fact that the world’s biggest hero is standing three feet away while your heart acts like it wants to embarrass you on purpose
and you can’t decide which part is worse.
that you didn’t recognize him immediately, or that you did, and you still want him to keep looking at you like that
his smile falters the second he sees it, the way your eyes go wide, the way your whole face shifts like you just watched the floor move under your feet.
he straightens, suddenly alert, and the gentleness in him sharpens into concern so fast it’s almost reflexive. like he’s trained for people’s fear.
“hey,” he says, soft but urgent. “what’s wrong? are you okay?”
you blink, stunned, and it comes out before you can polish it into something normal.
“oh my god,” you whisper, then louder, because your brain is sprinting ahead of your manners. “you’re deku. you’re… you’re the hero deku. the one who defeated shigaraki and all for one.”
his eyes widen like you just said a forbidden word in church.
for a split second he looks like he might actually drop his briefcase. he doesn’t, but his grip tightens, and his shoulders pull in, like he’s trying to make himself smaller in a room that already isn’t watching. he stammers, caught between a laugh and a panic response.
“i— i mean,” he starts, then stops, then tries again, voice tripping over itself. “i— um. hi. i’m—”
you stare at him like you can’t believe he’s standing there acting like you caught him stealing cookies.
“oh my god,” you say again, because apparently your vocabulary is gone. “why didn’t you tell me? i’m literally in awe.”
his cheeks go pink immediately, the color creeping up like a tell. he rubs the back of his neck, curls shifting, silver threads flashing. “i don’t usually— i mean i didn’t want to— i just—”
you’re still reeling, words tumbling out in a rush because your mouth has no brakes. “you’re all might’s successor—like… i heard about that from your interviews and everything and—”
you stop mid-sentence like you just heard yourself from across the room.
oh no.
you feel heat flood your face, instant shame, because you just said that out loud. like it’s gossip. like it’s something you’re allowed to bring up in public, even if the shop is quiet and nobody’s listening. you clutch the edge of the counter, mortified.
“sorry,” you blurt, softer, eyes dropping. “i’m sorry. that was— i didn’t mean—”
he leans forward, gentle, shaking his head fast. “no! it’s okay,” he says immediately, like he’s trying to soothe you before you fully spiral. “really. it’s okay. you didn’t do anything wrong.”
then, in the most ridiculous twist, he looks genuinely sheepish. “i’m just… surprised anyone still knows.”
you snap your head up, offended on his behalf so quickly it’s almost funny. “surprised?” you repeat, incredulous. “sir. you are the savior of japan. surprised?”
his eyes go even wider, like he’s about to apologize for existing. “i— i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—”
“don’t,” you warn, pointing at him like you’re scolding a cat. “don’t make me mad.”
he takes it literally. you see it happen in real time, his posture tightening, his expression shifting into instant concern like he’s preparing to de-escalate a crisis. “oh— i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to upset you, i—”
you inhale, then burst out laughing, because of course he did. of course he’s the kind of man who would take that seriously.
“it’s a joke,” you tell him quickly, waving a hand. “it’s a joke, mr midoriya. i’m not actually mad.”
he exhales like you just disarmed a bomb, shoulders dropping, the tension slipping out of him in a slow, relieved breath. and then he laughs too, quiet and a little embarrassed, rubbing at his hair again like it’s his default response to being flustered.
“okay,” he murmurs, smile returning, warmer now. “okay. thank you.”
and there’s something a little different in his gaze this time, like your awe didn’t scare him off, like your messy honesty didn’t make him retreat. like he’s still here, still looking at you, still letting you be close enough to see him blush
and you hate how much that makes your chest feel full, right there behind the counter, with the coffee cooling between you like a small, ordinary thing holding up something enormous
he hesitates like he’s weighing something, then he glances toward the little tables by the window, the ones that always look prettier when nobody’s actually sitting at them.
“um,” he says, and his voice drops a little, careful. “do you… want to sit down and talk for a minute? if you’re not busy.”
for half a second your whole body goes light, giddy in a way that is not dignified. your brain does a tiny victory lap like, oh? he wants to talk to me? like, on purpose? voluntarily?
and then, like the universe heard you feeling joy and decided that’s not allowed, the bell over the door rings.
another customer walks in. then another right behind them. the line begins its slow, inevitable resurrection.
you groan under your breath, shoulders sagging like you’ve been personally betrayed. “no,” you whisper, almost mournful, then louder with a little laugh as you look back at him. “i can’t. i’m sorry. i wish i could but—duty calls.”
he immediately shakes his head, gentle, no pressure at all. “that’s okay! it’s okay, really.”
and then he does something that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor.
he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pen, and grabs a napkin from the dispenser. he scribbles fast, shoulders hunched slightly over the counter like he’s trying to keep it private, like he’s aware of the world.
he slides it toward you.
“here,” he says, voice low, earnest. “if you have any questions… just text my phone.”
you stare at the napkin like it’s a sacred relic. like it might burst into flames from how unreal it feels. you can see the numbers, neat but slightly rushed, and underneath, his name, like he’s reassuring you it’s really him.
you open your mouth and nothing coherent comes out at first.
then he checks the time and you see the shift in him, that abrupt tug of responsibility. he mutters a quiet curse under his breath like ‘of course i have a meeting’ , almost comically human for a man you now associate with world-saving documentaries.
“i’ve gotta go,” he says, already half-stepping back. “but it was really nice to talk to you.”
you find your voice at the last second, warmth in it you don’t even try to hide. “same,” you say. “really.”
he gives you one more smile, softer now, like he’s reluctant, and then he turns and heads for the door, briefcase swinging at his side. the bell chimes as he leaves, and the cold air slips in for a second before the door shuts again.
you don’t even breathe until he’s gone.
then you look down at the napkin in your hand and your brain finally catches up.
oh my god.
oh my god you got his number.
you feel your face heat up like you’re twelve and you just got a note passed to you in class. you fold the napkin fast, like you’re hiding contraband, and shove it into your pocket so quickly you almost fumble it. you glance up, paranoid, like the manager is going to materialize and confiscate it like it’s against policy.
the customer in front of you clears their throat.
you snap back into work mode, forcing your smile into place, but your heart is still thudding too loud, and the napkin in your pocket feels like it’s glowing through the fabric.
“hi,” you say, voice only slightly shaky. “what can i get started for you today?”
and inside your head, all you can think is: i have deku’s number. i have izuku midoriya’s number. in my pocket. like a normal person. like this is a thing that happens to me.
you make it through the rest of the shift on pure muscle memory and secret adrenaline.
orders blur together. lids, sleeves, syrups, smiles. you’re polite, you’re efficient, you’re only a little dead behind the eyes. the napkin stays in your pocket like a tiny glowing coal, heating up every time you move, like it’s reminding you it exists.
every time you reach for a cup, you feel it.
every time you wipe the counter, you feel it.
every time the bell rings, you half-expect him to walk back in like you hallucinated the whole thing.
but he doesn’t.
eventually the rush dies, the shop quiets, your coworker says goodbye, and you clock out with the kind of relief that makes your whole body sag. you walk home with your phone in your hand, thumb hovering like it’s scared.
okay.
this is the moment.
you pull the napkin out and unfold it carefully, like it’s going to disappear if you breathe wrong. the numbers stare back at you. his name. real, neat, human.
your heart starts doing the dumb thing again.
you open your messages. you start a new text. you type… and delete. type… and delete. you stare at the blinking cursor like it’s judging you. you try to talk yourself into being chill, but your brain is doing gymnastics.
what if he regrets giving it to you?
what if it’s his assistant’s number?
what if he thinks you’re weird?
what if he never answers and you have to live with that forever?
holy anxiety.
you inhale. exhale. inhale again.
you’re not going to be weird. you’re going to be simple. normal. polite. like a person who knows how to exist.
your fingers finally move.
you greet him with your name, then a simple: from the coffee shop :)
you stare at it, then add one more line because you’re terrified he won’t remember and also because you want him to.
you said i could text you, so… hi.
you hover over send so long your thumb goes numb. then you do it.
you hit send.
the message whooshes away and your stomach drops like you just jumped off a cliff. you clutch your phone to your chest for half a second like it can protect you from your own choices, then you slam it into your chest then pull it back up because what if he replies right away.
you stand there, legs buckled under you, staring at the screen like it owes you money, breathing too fast, trying to act like you’re not losing your mind over a simple “hi.”
and when your phone stays quiet, you whisper to yourself, half prayer, half threat:
“please don’t let me regret this.”
your phone lights up so fast you nearly drop it.
your stomach does that swoop again, like your body is determined to make every single interaction with this man feel like a rollercoaster.
izuku: hi! i was beginning to think you weren’t gonna text me!
you stare at the screen, wide-eyed, mouth slightly open, because he said it like he meant it. like he was actually waiting. like he wasn’t just being polite.
your thumbs hover, then immediately start typing like they’re trying to outrun your nerves.
you: ahh no! sorry 😭 the shop got so busy after you left i could hardly find the time
and the second you send it, you stare at your own message like it just betrayed you.
because you know that is a fat lie.
the shop did get busy, sure, but the main reason you didn’t text was because you were shaking in your boots like a victorian girl getting courted, clutching your pearls and panicking about a single word.
another message pops up.
izuku: that’s fine! how are you? are you still there?
your chest warms in this stupid, tender way. are you still there. like he actually cares if you disappeared. like he’s checking in.
you type back quickly, trying to sound normal, trying to sound like a person who doesn’t melt into a puddle over basic consideration.
you: i’m good!! just got off work, heading home now :)
he responds almost immediately, and it makes you imagine him standing somewhere with his phone in hand, maybe leaning against a wall, tie loosened, still half in work mode but making space for you anyway.
izuku: are you safe? do you need a ride back?
you blink at the screen, a little stunned. it’s so… old-fashioned, almost. so protective without being weird. the kind of question that belongs in another time, when men walked women home and meant it.
your first instinct is to refuse, because you’ve been taught your whole life not to be a burden, not to take up space, not to accept things that might cost someone effort.
you type, and send something honest, but still panicked.
you: oh god i don’t wanna inconvenience you at all 😭 i’m okay!!
his reply comes back steady, no irritation, no ego, just that same warm patience you felt across the counter.
izuku: none at all. but i understand.
and something about that makes your throat tighten, because he didn’t push, but he also didn’t pretend he didn’t mean it. like the offer was real, and your comfort mattered more than his pride.
you keep walking, phone in hand, streetlights starting to blink on, and you can feel the night settling around you while your screen glows bright and alive, the conversation humming like a little secret pulse in your palm
you hesitate with your thumb over the keyboard, because part of you feels nosy, and the other part of you is still trying to reconcile that the man texting you is the same one you watched in grainy anniversary documentaries.
but curiosity wins. it always does.
you: can i ask something? how old were you when you… saved japan
it takes him a second longer this time, like he’s choosing the simplest version of the truth, the one that won’t turn your night into a history lecture.
izuku: i was 17.
your eyes widen all over again, even though he can’t see it. seventeen. you can’t even remember what you were doing at seventeen besides stressing over finals and thinking heartbreak was the end of the world.
you: 17 is insane
you: okay wait how old are you now
his reply comes back with that same gentle humor, like he knows exactly how wild it sounds when you put it on a timeline.
izuku: 40.
you stare at the number like it’s a dare.
your heart thumps once, then you type before you can overthink it.
you: i’m 20
there’s a pause. not long, but long enough for you to imagine him blinking at his phone, curls falling into his eyes, brain buffering.
then:
izuku: omg lol
izuku: you weren’t even born when i did it
you let out a laugh that’s half horror, half delight, because he said it like he’s genuinely amused, not weirded out. like the math is funny, not heavy.
you: yeah 😭
you: my parents talked about it. they said it was super crazy and intense
you can almost picture his face softening at that, the way people do when they realize they’ve become a story other families tell at dinner. not a headline, not a symbol, just something parents remember in their bones.
izuku: it was intense, yeah
izuku: i’m glad your parents were safe
izuku: it’s… strange hearing it described like that now
your steps slow a little as you walk, the sidewalk quiet under your shoes, night air cool against your cheeks. you can see your dorm building ahead, windows lit like little squares of warm life, and you’re holding your phone like it’s something fragile.
because it is, kind of.
it’s him, on the other side of the screen, making room for you in his evening.
and now the age gap is sitting between you like a fact on the table, not scary exactly, but real. seventeen-year-old him saving the world. twenty-year-old you learning how to survive a coffee rush without crying. forty-year-old him asking if you got home safe.
you type, slower, softer.
you: do people still bring it up a lot?
and you watch the little typing bubble appear, then disappear, then appear again, like he’s choosing how honest to be with you tonight
izuku: yeah. often, actually.
izuku: i look like an older version of myself from back then, so it’s easy to tell who i am…
izuku: but i love when people come up to me and talk about it. it gives me a sense of relief.
you slow down on the sidewalk without meaning to, like your body wants to make more room for the weight of what he just said. relief. not pride. not glory. relief, like he’s been carrying that story in his chest for decades and it still helps when someone looks at him and says, i remember. you did it. we made it.
your fingers tighten around your phone for a second.
you: that’s so sweet. i’m so happy for you.
you stare at the text bar, then keep going,
you: i’m sure it wasn’t easy.
you: for what it’s worth, i’m proud of you. everyone is.
you hit send and immediately your chest feels warm, like you placed something careful in his hands and hoped he’d accept it.
the city around you is quiet in that late-evening way. streetlights glow in soft halos. a car passes, tires hissing over the pavement, and your breath fogs faintly in the air. you can see your dorm building now, the familiar front steps, the lobby light, the world returning to its normal scale.
but inside you, something feels different.
because you’re not just walking home from a shift anymore.
you’re walking home knowing you spoke to him. you made him smile. you told him you were proud, and it mattered enough that you can almost feel the space it landed in. there’s a strange, steady pride blooming in you too, secondhand but real, like you’re carrying a little spark of history in your pocket alongside your keys and your student id.
the man who saved japan asked you if you got home safe.
that thought follows you up the steps, through the door, into the light, glowing quietly behind your chest like a secret you’re not ready to let go of yet
you make it back to your building with your phone still in your hand, shoulder pressed to the cool wall by the entrance while you fumble your keys. the lobby smells like somebody’s microwave crime and cheap air freshener. you kick the door shut behind you and exhale, safe in the most unglamorous way possible.
your phone buzzes again.
izuku: do you go to school?
you unlock your room, slip inside, and let the door click shut like a blessing. you drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and flop onto the edge of your bed, thumbs already moving.
you: yeah!
you: i’m currently in my second year… i think 😭
you: idk anymore lol i’m always working and studying. i forget
you can practically hear his laugh through the screen.
izuku: lol i get that
izuku: well, if you ever need help with class, just let me know.
izuku: if you’re comfortable with that. we can go to a cafe or somewhere public too if that helps.
you stare at the message, and your heart does that stupid little flutter again.
because it’s forward. not in a creepy way, not in a pushy way. just… direct. like a grown man who doesn’t play games. like he’s offering you a real thing, a real plan, with your comfort built into it from the start.
and you hate how much you like that.
you smile at your phone like it’s going to smile back.
you: that would be really nice :)
then, because your brain insists on self-sabotage, you add:
you: hopefully your wife or kids don’t mind… if you have those?
the second it sends, you hold your breath. because if he does, you’ll feel like you stepped into someone else’s life without meaning to. because he looks like the kind of man who would have a whole soft domestic world waiting for him, and you’re not trying to be anybody’s sidepiece—er—problem.
his reply comes quick, like he doesn’t even have to think about it.
izuku: lol no
izuku: no kids or wife. don’t worry.
you blink at the screen.
your first thought is a surprised little, unhelpful: how?
your second thought is worse: oh.
and then your brain tries to behave, tries to be normal, tries not to grin like you just got handed permission.
you type carefully, like you’re stepping onto a floor you’re not sure will hold.
you: oh! okay 😭
you: i just didn’t want to assume
and as you send it, you sink back onto your bed, phone warm in your palm, the room quiet around you.
izuku: haha no, i understand. thank you for being considerate.
izuku: what are you up to tonight?
you can’t help the soft little smile that creeps in. considerate. he noticed. he appreciated it. your heart does that warm, fluttery thing again like it has no dignity. you kick your legs out on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a second while you decide how honest you want to be. then you pick honesty, because it’s easier than pretending.
you: probably just studying and watching shows… or i might sleep early. not sure 😭
you: i’m tired
you: you?
there’s a pause, the typing bubble appearing, disappearing, like he’s answering between tasks, between responsibilities. then his message comes through, calm and matter-of-fact, like this is just his normal.
izuku: i’m grading papers right now.
izuku: then i’m meeting up with an old friend, and heading home after.
you picture him at some big desk under warm light, stacks of papers, sleeves rolled up, glasses maybe, hair mussed from running a hand through it too many times. the image is annoyingly domestic. annoyingly attractive.
you: oh fun!! what are we doing?
izuku: just a few drinks.
izuku: he wanted to show me some support gear stuff.
you hum, intrigued. support gear stuff could mean a million things, and coming from him it sounds oddly wholesome and a little dangerous, like a normal night for him includes the kind of gadgets people write documentaries about.
you: that’s actually so cool. i feel like your “few drinks” nights are probably not normal people “few drinks” nights 😭
and you can almost hear his laugh again, the one that warmed up the coffee shop, as you tuck your phone closer and glance at your open notebook like you’re going to study, but your brain is already wandering to the idea of meeting him in a cafe, sitting across from him while he explains something complicated with that patient, earnest focus, and you trying not to stare at his hands the entire time
izuku: haha no, it’s normal.
izuku: at the pub catching up, and then he’s showing me what his new gear can do.
you smile at your screen, imagining it. him in some quiet booth, shoulders finally unclenched, actually letting himself be “just a guy” for an hour. it’s weirdly sweet. and also, in your head, “normal” for him still sounds like someone accidentally detonating a coaster.
you: that must be so fun though. like… doing hero stuff. even when it’s casual.
you can almost feel his reply before it comes, like you’ve started to learn his rhythm.
izuku: have you ever thought about being a hero?
your thumbs still. your chest tightens in that small, familiar way, because it’s such an innocent question and it lands right on an old bruise.
you stare at the message for a beat, then decide not to sugarcoat it. you’ve been honest with him so far. you don’t want to start performing now.
you: ha. i wish…
you: i’m quirkless.
the typing bubble appears immediately, then vanishes. then nothing.
your stomach drops.
of course. you think. of course that’s where the conversation dies. because quirkless is still a word that makes people uncomfortable, even now. even with all the speeches and the “anyone can be a hero” posters. people say they believe it until they’re standing in front of you and you’re the proof test.
you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, suddenly aware of how vulnerable it feels to say it out loud to someone like him.
then your phone buzzes.
izuku: really?
it’s only one word, but it doesn’t feel like disgust. it feels… surprised. like he’s looking at you differently, not worse, just sharper, more focused. like the world tilted.
you exhale slowly, feeling sheepish anyway because you can’t stop yourself from wanting to soften it, to make it less awkward.
you: yeah. that’s why i just go to normal college to do normal people stuff later in life.
you pause, then add, half-joking because that’s how you survive.
you: i’m special i guess 😭
you stare at the screen after you send it, heart thudding, because it’s the kind of joke that’s hiding a truth underneath.
and you don’t know yet if he’s going to hear the joke… or the truth.
your phone buzzes again, and for a second you brace without meaning to. like you’re about to be handled with pity. like you’re about to get the awkward “oh… okay” that people give when they don’t know what to do with you.
instead you get this:
izuku: no… i’m quirkless too.
izuku: well, to be honest, all might gave me his quirk and the rest is history…
you stare at the screen so hard your eyes go dry.
your mouth actually falls open.
“holy crap” doesn’t even cover it. it’s like the world just shifted in your hands, like something you thought was impossible just casually became a fact.
your thumbs go a little clumsy because you’re suddenly full-body shocked.
you: holy crap. really??
you: also don’t worry i won’t tell a soul. like ever.
you: but that is so cool you could do that!!
you hit send and immediately feel your heart pounding, because that’s not just a secret, that’s a secret. the kind that has weight, the kind that changes how you see him all over again. and it also makes something in you soften, because it means he’s not looking at you from the outside.
he’s answering from inside the same room.
and all the sudden it makes sense why he’s not like dynamight, shoto, froppy, or uravity.
his reply comes slower, like he’s choosing his words carefully, like this isn’t something he tells often, even if he’s told it before.
izuku: yeah.
izuku: it was the best time of my life.
and then another message follows, longer, gentler, the way he speaks when he’s trying to steady someone without making them feel small.
izuku: being quirkless doesn’t mean you’re less. it just means you’ve had to build yourself differently.
izuku: people forget how much courage it takes to keep showing up when you don’t have the same advantages.
izuku: you’re still here. you’re working, studying, taking care of yourself. you’re doing something hard, every day.
izuku: that’s not nothing. that’s strength.
izuku: and you don’t have to prove your worth by fitting into someone else’s definition of what matters.
your throat tightens, sharp and sudden, because it hits too close. because you’ve spent your whole life swallowing that quiet fear that you’re behind everyone else, that you’ll never be impressive in the way the world celebrates.
and here he is, the most famous hero alive, texting you like he’s dead serious, like he wants you to believe it.
you blink hard, staring down at the glow of your phone in your dim room, the dorm noise muffled outside your door.
for a second you can’t even think of anything clever to say.
you just feel it, warm and aching and steady, like someone put a hand over your heart and told it to stop apologizing for beating.
and when you finally type, it’s simple, because anything else feels too small.
you: i… thank you.
you: i didn’t know i needed to hear that 🥺
your finger hovers over send, then presses it, and you sit there with your knees drawn up, realizing you’re smiling even as your eyes sting a little.
you’re still quirkless.
but you don’t feel small, not in this moment.
not when the boy who became deku is telling you, quietly, that you were never less to begin with.
you stare at his messages for a second like they’re warm enough to melt the edges off your day.
you: you’re so sweet. wow.
it’s simple, but it feels honest, and you send it before you can overthink how soft it sounds.
his reply comes quick, like he’s embarrassed by praise but can’t help answering it anyway.
izuku: thank you. that’s really kind of you to say.
and there it is again, that steadiness. that careful courtesy. it makes you smile into your pillow like you’re twelve and you just got a note passed in class, except you’re twenty, in a dorm that smells like detergent and someone’s questionable ramen,
the warmth lingers, then your brain, traitor that it is, pulls you by the sleeve into the next thought.
and you are very, very aware that in the normal world, a forty year old man does not hand his number to a twenty year old woman behind a coffee counter unless there is a reason. a real reason. even if it’s innocent, even if it’s wholesome, even if it’s “help with calculus,” you still want to understand the shape of it. you don’t want to be naive. you don’t want to be the girl who assumes and then gets embarrassed later.
so you type, thumb hovering, heart doing a nervous little tap dance.
you decide to be direct. if he’s grown, you can be grown too.
you: can i ask you something kind of blunt 😭
you: what was the real reason you gave me your number?
you stare at the screen the second it sends, stomach tight, because now you can’t un-ask it.
the typing bubble appears instantly.
and it’s so obvious he’s panicking that you almost laugh out loud. like you can see him on the other side rubbing his hair, blinking too much, mentally tripping over his own feet.
finally, his message comes through in pieces, like he’s typing faster than he can think.
izuku: i mean
izuku: i just thought you seemed nice
izuku: and you looked like you were having a hard day
izuku: and i wanted to make sure you were okay
izuku: and also i wanted to talk to you more 😅
izuku: if that’s not weird. i’m sorry. i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.
you read it once, then twice, and your chest does that soft squeeze again, half flattered, half stunned by how sincerely he’s trying not to cross a line. you can practically hear the anxious apology in his voice, can practically see the way he’s probably sitting there with his phone held too close, brows knit, like he’s bracing to be told he messed up.
you bite your lip, smiling.
you: you’re stammering through text. that’s adorable.
there’s a pause, then:
izuku: i’m not adorable 😭
you can tell he’s trying to be stern about it, and it just makes it worse. it just makes it cuter. manly and awkward all at once, like he’s got the shoulders of a grown man and the nervous honesty of someone who never learned how to flirt without feeling guilty about it.
you shift on your bed, phone warm in your hand, and you type slower this time, gentler.
you: you’re not making me uncomfortable. i was just curious.
you: i’m glad you wanted to talk to me more.
and in the quiet that follows, you can almost feel him exhale through the screen, the tension easing a little, the conversation settling into something that feels like a door left ajar on purpose
you stare at the screen for a second, heart still doing that nervous little sprint, and something in you just… tips.
maybe it’s the way he apologized so hard you could practically hear him. maybe it’s the way he’s been gentle without being flimsy. maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired and you’re done pretending you’re not curious about what this is.
either way, you decide to be brave.
you take a breath. you aim. you fire.
you: okay… since we’re being so honest 😭
you: i think you’re really handsome
the second you send it, your soul leaves your body for a moment. you stare at your phone like it’s about to explode. you bury your face in your pillow and groan, muffled, because who says that. who do you think you are. you peek back at the screen like you’re checking if you can still delete it (you can’t).
typing bubble. it appears.
vanishes. appears again.
you can tell he’s losing it and it makes you smile into the pillow even as your stomach flips.
then his reply comes through.
izuku: ah— thank you so much..
izuku: i think you’re really pretty!
you freeze.
you genuinely freeze.
because he didn’t dodge it. he didn’t deflect. he didn’t respond like a celebrity. he responded like a man. a warm, flustered, honest man who just called you pretty like it was the simplest truth in the world.
your entire body goes hot.
you clutch your phone to your chest so hard it’s ridiculous, like you’re trying to physically hold the message in place. you roll onto your back and let out the softest, most mortifying squeal, kicking your feet once like you’re possessed by a teenage spirit.
“oh my god,” you whisper to the ceiling, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.
you hug the phone tighter, eyes shining, heart pounding, and for a second you’re just lying there in your dorm bed, hair a mess, blanket tangled around your legs, feeling like you just got handed a tiny piece of magic.
and the worst part?
you already want to make him say it again.
you’re still warm from the pretty message when your brain does that thing where it suddenly wants context. like it’s building a file folder labeled izuku midoriya: intentions, history, danger level.
you type slowly, trying to keep it light even though your curiosity is real.
you: can i ask something else?
you: why haven’t you settled down?
you: also if these are weird questions pls tell me 😭 i’ll stop
the typing bubble pops up almost right away, and when his reply comes, it’s gentle. no annoyance. no defensive edge.
izuku: that’s okay!
izuku: well… to be honest, i had someone for a few years, but we decided our lives were just too different.
izuku: that was in our 20s. since then i haven’t really focused on relationships or settling down.
izuku: is that… good? i don’t know.
that last line makes your chest pinch. not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s so human. like he’s asking permission to have lived the way he lived.
you swallow and type back without thinking too hard.
you: wow… that’s so sad.
you: have you tried after them?
his answer feels honest in that straightforward way he has, like he’d rather tell you the plain truth than dress it up.
izuku: yeah. a few dates, but nothing really stuck.
izuku: what about you?
you stare at the question. your first instinct is to joke, to dodge, to act like you’re too busy for romance because you’re cool and independent and above it.
but you’ve been honest with him. and he’s been honest with you. so you type it, simple and a little vulnerable.
you: i haven’t had a proper date or a relationship, to be honest.
the message sits there on the screen, plain as daylight.
and in the quiet after you send it, you can almost feel the shift. not judgment. not pity. just attention. like he’s taking you seriously, like he’s choosing to handle your honesty carefully.
and somewhere in the back of your mind, that earlier offer echoes again, suddenly sharper:
a cafe. a public setting. help with class.
not a grand romance confession. not a reckless move. just the first step a careful man would take when he actually wants to get to know you for real
the typing bubble pops up and stays there longer than usual, like he’s thinking, like he’s choosing his words with both hands.
then his message comes through, and it’s so earnest you almost choke on your own air.
izuku: well… if you’re available, and you’d like to…
izuku: i can take you out on a proper one.
izuku: if that’s something you’re interested in doing.
izuku: if not, that’s no problem too!
izuku: i think everyone deserves to experience a proper date 🙂
you stare at it.
your brain goes blank for a full second, like it short-circuited. then your whole body reacts at once, heat rushing to your face, your stomach flipping, your feet kicking out against your blanket like you’re trying to expel the excitement.
you squeal. you actually squeal, high and muffled because you slap a hand over your own mouth like that’ll contain it. you clutch your phone to your chest, roll onto your side, and bury your face in your pillow, shaking with a silent laugh like you’re losing your mind.
your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.
and of course, because the universe loves timing, that’s when you hear a knock.
“hey,” your roommate calls through the door, suspicious. “are you okay?”
you freeze mid-giggle, eyes wide, cheeks flaming, phone still pressed to your chest like contraband. you scramble upright, smoothing your hair like she can see you through the wood.
“yes!” you squeak, voice cracking on the word. you clear your throat, try again, calmer. “yes. i’m fine!”
there’s a pause on the other side, like she’s deciding whether to believe you.
“…okay,” she says slowly, then you hear her footsteps fade away.
the second you’re sure she’s gone, you stare back down at the message, glowing on your screen, that little smiley face sitting there like he really meant it.
you inhale, exhale, try to calm your hands, fail.
because now you have to answer.
and the truth is, you already know what you want to say.
you stare at the screen like it’s daring you to be normal.
you are not normal.
your cheeks are hot, your hands are warm, your heart is trying to sprint out of your ribs, and the only thing your brain can come up with is teasing, because if you treat it like a joke you won’t combust.
you: you’re making me blush omg, mr midoriya 😭
the reply comes so fast it’s like he’d been holding his breath.
izuku: sorry!
you laugh into the quiet of your room, bite your lip hard enough to ground yourself, and for a second you just watch his message sit there, that one word carrying so much nervous sweetness.
then you type with shaking thumbs, because you can’t dodge it. you don’t want to.
you: yes. i’d love to.
you hit send and immediately your body turns into a disaster.
you bury your face in your pillow like it can absorb the embarrassment and the joy at the same time. you muffled-scream, kick your feet once under the blanket, and clutch your phone like it’s the most precious thing you own.
because you just agreed.
you just said yes to a proper date with izuku midoriya!
and your pillow smells like detergent and dorm life and a little bit of panic, and you’re smiling so hard it hurts, and you’re already trying to imagine what “proper” means to a man like him without letting yourself get ahead of the moment
your phone is still warm in your hand, and you can feel another buzz coming any second, like the night is about to keep unfolding whether you’re ready or not
you peel your face off the pillow like you’re resurfacing from the ocean, hair a mess, cheeks still hot. your phone is right there in your hand, glowing like a tiny portal to consequences, and your practical brain finally kicks the door down.
because you’re excited, yes, but you also have a budget. and you’re not about to show up to a date with deku himself and discover you can only afford a water.
you type, trying to sound casual, trying not to sound like you’re mentally calculating your bank account in real time.
you: wait 😭 are we splitting it? just so i know how much to bring
his reply comes back with zero hesitation, like it’s not even a question in his mind.
izuku: no, i’ll cover everything. just bring yourself.
izuku: i’ll let you know the details once i reserve something.
you stare at the screen.
your eyes widen.
“reserve something” sounds so… adult. so intentional. so proper. your brain immediately flashes to him in a nice coat, standing outside a place with warm lights, holding a door open for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
and then you think of what you expected.
like maybe he’d mean a cute little fair date. or something silly like dave and buster’s, sticky floors and arcade lights and you both laughing over skee-ball, you in sneakers, him pretending he’s not competitive while absolutely being competitive.
your thumbs move before you can stop them.
you: holy f— 😭
you: i thought it was gonna be like… a date to the fair or something silly. like dave n busters
there’s a beat, and you imagine him blinking at his phone, that gentle “oh” face he makes when he realizes he might’ve assumed wrong.
izuku: oh!
izuku: i mean… unless you’d like that, then we can do that instead?
and that right there makes your chest go soft again. because he didn’t get offended. he didn’t insist. he immediately made room for what you might want.
you sit up straighter, suddenly determined.
you: no!!
you: i’ve always wanted to like… dress up and stuff for my date
you: i’m so excited, mr midoriya 😭
you can’t even help it, the way you clutch your phone again, grin pulling at your mouth like it’s stuck there. you picture yourself in something pretty, hair done, perfume on your wrists, walking into a real restaurant like you belong there.
and you can almost picture him too, silver strands in his curls, sleeves crisp, that soft, steady smile waiting for you like he’s proud you showed up.
your phone buzzes again, typing bubble starting, and you’re already bracing for whatever sweet, flustered thing he’s going to say next, because this is happening. this is actually happening.
izuku sits alone in his office with the kind of quiet that only happens after the building has finally stopped breathing so loud.
the fluorescent lights are off, thank god. he keeps the desk lamp on instead, warm and low, casting a soft pool of light over the mess he swore he’d clean up before the semester started. the window behind him shows u.a. at night, the grounds dark and orderly, the faint outline of training fields like sleeping giants.
his inbox is a hydra.
he scrolls through emails with the same resigned patience he uses on first-years who swear they “definitely had it under control” two seconds before something explodes. there are parent messages, district memos, a budget thread that makes his eye twitch, and three separate student requests for deadline extensions that all say some version of “i’m so sorry please i’ll do better.”
there’s a neat little stack of papers to grade, too. he’s already halfway through, red pen moving in tidy strokes, feedback written like he’s trying to build people instead of just evaluate them. he pauses occasionally to sip his now-cold tea, jaw working as he rereads a paragraph, brow furrowing with that familiar, earnest focus.
then his phone lights up.
your name flashes across the screen, and something in him softens so fast it feels like a physical shift. shoulders easing. eyes warming. his thumb hovers a beat before he taps it, like he’s savoring the anticipation in a way that makes him feel embarrassingly young.
your message is simple. bright. excited.
and it hits him right in the chest.
he bites his lip.
because oh my god.
he’s done a lot of things in his life. impossible things. terrifying things. things that made headlines and history books. but this? this feels different. this feels like standing at the edge of something delicate and hoping he doesn’t crush it by holding it wrong.
he stares at the screen for a second too long, heart doing that annoying, traitorous flip.
he’s forty. he’s supposed to be composed. he’s supposed to be smooth.
he is not smooth.
he rubs the back of his head, curls shifting under his fingers, silver strands catching in the lamplight. his mouth opens like he’s about to say something to an empty room, then closes again. the office is quiet enough to hear the hum of the computer fan and the faint click of the clock on the wall, each second loud like it’s counting down to him making a mistake.
he exhales, then makes a decision with the same energy he uses when he tells a student, “yes, i’m sure, no, i don’t need to think about it longer.”
he opens his contacts.
scrolls. stops.
aizawa. long retired, of course, but still the kind of person who answers texts like he’s doing you a favor by not ignoring you.
izuku types fast, urgency spilling out like he’s reporting an emergency, because in a way he is.
izuku: mr aizawa i need help immediately!! how do i take someone on a proper? what do i do?
he stares at the message the second it sends, cheeks warming, already regretting the multiple exclamation points. he looks like the principal of u.a. he’s texting like a first-year who forgot to submit an assignment.
the reply comes back with the speed of a man who has never once been impressed by izuku’s reputation.
aizawa: are you serious.
another buzz.
aizawa: if you don’t ask your damn classmates, izuku midoriya.
izuku makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan, and covers his face with his hand. his fingers press into his brow as he smiles despite himself, because of course aizawa would say that. of course he’d be dry about it. of course he’d treat “how do i date” like “how do i submit a purchase order,” equally irritating.
he drops his hand, still smiling, and rubs his head again like it’s going to shake the nerves loose.
his classmates.
he thinks of them and feels his stomach twist in a new way. they’re grown now, too, lives complicated, families, jobs, the whole sprawling web of adulthood. and it’s not that he can’t talk to them. he can. he does. but this feels… private. new. fragile.
he hasn’t told anyone yet.
he’s not sure he wants to mention it to his friends before he even knows what it is, before he even knows if you’ll show up and look at him the way you did in that coffee shop, bright-eyed and surprised, like he was a person and not a monument.
all might is gone. the thought comes in quiet and heavy, like it always does. the absence is old now, worn smooth by time, but it still aches at the edges when izuku reaches for guidance out of habit and finds only memory.
he looks down at the screen again, at your earlier messages, at the way you called him mr midoriya like it meant something.
maybe he should ask bakugo.
he imagines bakugo’s response with perfect clarity: an insult, a barked laugh, and then, somehow, actual advice disguised as yelling. bakugo would act like it’s stupid and then show up with a list, because bakugo has always taken things seriously when it matters, even when he pretends he doesn’t.
izuku hovers over the contact, thumb suspended.
maybe not.
maybe he’ll wing it.
the idea makes his stomach flip again. winging it has never been his strongest skill. he’s a planner. a notebook guy. he likes lists, details, back-up plans. he likes knowing he’s making someone comfortable.
he glances at the paperwork on his desk, the neat stacks, the tidy world he can control, then looks back at his phone where everything feels bright and unpredictable.
he exhales slowly, long and careful, and his gaze drifts to the window again, the dark campus stretching out beyond the glass, calm and waiting, while his phone stays warm in his hand like a small, living thing he’s not quite sure how to hold without dropping.
it’ll come naturally.
with the right person.
likes, comments, reblogs appreciated!! i hope you enjoyed <3 if you'd like to be on the taglist hmu!! (˶˃𐃷˂˶)
a/n: HELLOOOOOO, shall we get into this messy situation? also feel free to leave comments about anything else yall may wanna see, also im literally on such a roll, back to back updates/posts, MY WRITERS BLOCK IS GONE FRRRRR, bruhhhh not this fic being longer than tamsy's loool whoops
tags: hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, slow reconciliation, also for the sake of the fic and my plot they have devices but their main form of contact is still the chokers
He doesn't expect you to be up, it was pretty late into the night.
The lights in his room are dim, only the lamp by his bed still on, casting a warm glow that feels strangely out of place for the state he's in–uniform scorched, knuckles raw, the faint metallic smell of blood clinging to him no matter how many times he washed his hands.
"You should be asleep."
Enjin says, voice rough as he steps inside.
You look up at him immediately, relief flashing across your face so fast it almost hurts to see, followed just as quickly by something tighter. Controlled.
"You're late."
You say.
Not accusing, just factual.
"There was an issue with the mission."
He replies, already shrugging off his jacket like this is normal. Like almost getting crushed under collapsing concrete doesn't still echo in his bones.
You stand, slowly, like you're afraid sudden movement might break something.
"Semiu said you were hurt," you murmur.
He scoffs lightly. "I'm fine."
Your eyes drop to his shoulder, the way it sits wrong. The stiffness in his movements. The bandage peeking from beneath his sleeve.
"That bandage isn't regulation," you say quietly. "Who patched you up?"
"They said it was nothing," he mutters. "Just a precaution."
You don't answer right away.
"You could've been killed," You say.
You've seen what 'almost' looks like. You've cleaned it off the floors.
Enjin exhales through his nose. "I wasn't."
"That's not the point," you insist, stepping closer. "I waited up because I didn't know if—"
He cuts you off before you can finish.
"This is my job."
The words hit harder than you expect.
"I know," you say quickly. "i'm not saying it isn't. I just—"
"You knew what you were signing up for," he continues, firmer now. "This is how it is. I can't afford to hesitate out there just because someone's worried."
Someone, like you weren't anything to him.
You stop walking.
"I wasn't asking you to hesitate," you say carefully. "I just wanted you to be careful."
Enjin rubs a hand down his face, fatigue bleeding into frustration. "I know you're scared."
You blink. "That's not—"
"You want me to slow down. To change how I do things," he says, already shaking his head. "You want something safer."
"That's not what I said," you reply, voice barely above a whisper.
But he doesn't hear it. Or worse–he chooses not to.
Then he says it, "You don't belong in this part of my life," he says, quieter now, like he thinks that makes it kinder. "And I don't want you getting hurt because of it."
Your jaw tightens.
"I clean up after people like you," you say. "Don't talk to me like I don't know what this costs."
The room suddenly feels very small, the atmosphere shifting to something more colder.
You stare at him, trying to understand how concern turned into distance so quickly.
"So... what?" You ask. "You're pushing me away for my own good?"
He doesn't deny it.
You nod once.
"Okay," you say.
The words land heavier than any argument could have.
You step back, then past him, heading towards his door. Enjin turns, confused, something uneasy sparking in his chest.
"That's it?" he asks, "You're not going to say anything?"
You pause in front of the door, hand resting on the handle.
"I tried," you reply quietly. "You already decided how I feel."
Then you disappeared out the door, leaving enjin standing in the aftermath of his own words, heart pounding, realizing far too late that this silence isn't anger, it's absence.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
He wakes up to stillness.
Not the peaceful kind—the wrong kind.
For a moment, Enjin stays where he is, eyes half-lidded, waiting for the familiar signs of you moving around in his room. The rustle of fabric. The faint clink of your gear. You're usually gone before him, slipping out quietly after late shifts.
But the room doesn't change.
He reaches out without looking.
The space beside him is cold.
Not freshly abandoned—unused. The sheets are smooth, the pillow gone entirely. Not faint antiseptic scent lingering to the fabric. No trace of you at all.
He sits up.
Your things are missing. Not everything—just the things that mattered. Your toothbrush, the spare towel you always hook too low on the rack, the small container of gloves you kept in the bathroom because it was easier than walking back to you own room.
Your own room.
The thought settles unpleasantly in his chest.
'Maybe you just left early', he tells himself. Maybe you didn't want to wake him. That would be normal. Reasonable.
He checks the time.
Too late for that.
You would've been back by now if you were coming back at all.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
The hallway outside his room is already busy when he steps out, the hum of HQ settling into its daytime rhythm. He scans faces without meaning to—a habit he's never been able to shake—and spots you near the elevators.
You're in uniform.
Cleaner-issued jacket zipped up to your throat, gloves tucked neatly into your belt. Your posture straight, composed, professional.
Like someone who didn't spend the night waiting for him.
"Morning," he says, automatically.
You glance up.
"Morning," you reply.
Your tone is neutral. Easy. Like this is any other day.
Relief flickers in his chest—brief and unearned— until he realizes you don't stop walking.
"You.. uh," he starts, falling into step beside you. "You leave early?"
"Yes."
One word, nothing more.
"You didn't come back last night," he says.
You press the elevator button. Once. Patiently.
"I had an early shift," you reply.
The doors open, you step inside.
He follows before he can stop himself.
"That's not—" He exhales, lowering his voice. "That's not what I meant."
You look at him then, really look at him. There's no anger there, no hurt. Just distance.
"I know," you say.
The doors slide shut.
The ride down is silent.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
It keeps happening.
You don't wait for him anymore. Don't hover when he's injured. Don't remind him to eat, or rest. or stop pushing himself so hard. When he speaks, you answer. When he asks, you respond.
You just never offer anything first.
By the third time he sees you pass his dorm without so much as glancing at the door, it clicks.
You didn't forget.
You chose.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
"You don't look at me anymore," he says later, the words slipping out before he can temper them.
You're standing by the sink in the infirmary wing, washing your hands with practiced precision.
"I am," you say calmly. "I just don't need to."
That stops him cold.
He watches you finish up, dry your hands, adjust your gloves.
"You told me i don't belong in that part of your life," you add, finally meeting his eyes. "So I stopped acting like I did."
Then you walk past him, down the corridor that leads to your dorm—not his.
And for the first time since that night, Enjin understands.
This isn't anger.
This is you listening.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
He corners you by accident.
That what he tells himself, anyway.
You're leaving the infirmary wing when he spots you ahead of him, moving with the same steady efficiency you always have. He lengthens his stride without thinking, catching up just as you reach the junction that splits toward the dorms.
"Hey," he says.
You stop. Turn. Wait.
Patient.
"Yes?"
The word is neutral. Open-ended. It shouldn't feel like a wall. It does.
"I—" He pauses, scrubs a hand over his jaw. "Can we talk?"
You glance down at the time on your watch.
"You have ten minutes."
Ten minutes. Timed. Contained.
He swallows, "Okay."
Silence stretches between you. He realizes too late that he expected you to fill it. You don't.
"I didn't mean what I said," he starts. "About you not belonging."
You nod once, acknowledging the statement. Not accepting it.
"I know you were tired," you reply. "And hurt."
The understanding in your voice throws him off balance.
"That's not—" He frowns. "I'm not asking you to excuse it."
"Good," you say gently. "Because I wasn't planning to."
His shoulders tense.
"I just don't want you shutting me out," he admits. "You don't have to punish me for it."
That's when it goes wrong.
Your expression doesn't harden. It softens.
"I'm not punishing you," you say. "I'm adjusting."
The words land cleanly. Surgical.
"You said I don't belong in that part of your life," you continue. "So I stopped acting like I do. That's all."
"That's not fair," he blurts.
You tilt your head slightly. "Why?"
Because he doesn't have an answer, not one that doesn't circle back to his own fear.
"You didn't even give me a chance to explain," he says instead.
You meet his eyes. "You explained plenty."
The timer on your watch beeps softly.
"I have to go," you say.
He steps forward without thinking. "Please. Just... come back tonight. we'll talk. I'll listen."
You hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then you shake your head.
"I don't want apologies right now," you say quietly. "I want consistency."
You step around him, already turning away.
"And Enjin?" you add, not unkindly. "If you're going to decide what I can handle... then you don't get to be surprised when I stop offering you everything else."
You leave him standing there, apology unfinished, chest tight, realizing something crucial far too late:
Silence isn't something he can talk his way out of.
It's something he has to earn his way back from.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
The quiet helps.
You didn't realize how loud things had become until you stepped back into your room and closed the door behind you. No residual heat curling along the walls. No heavy presence filling up the space before you even set your bag down.
Just clean air. Clean lines, Control.
You sit on the edge of the bed for a moment longer than necessary, letting the stillness settle into your bones. Your hands don't shake when you take off your jacket. That's how you know you made the right choice.
At work, nothing changes.
You scrub blood from the tile floors. Restock trays. Prep beds for the next wave of cleaners who come back in pieces they pretend don't hurt. You move around the infirmary with practiced ease, careful not to linger where you don't belong.
You don't ask about Enjin.
You don't need to.
You saw his chart. The redacted sections. The timestamp that ran too long. You recognize the bandage pattern before he ever stepped through the door that night.
YOu weren't afraid of the danger.
You were afraid of loving someone who decided what you could handle without asking you.
That's the part he still doesn't understand.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
You knew he would try to talk to you.
He always does—head on, decisive, like words are something he can overpower if he pushes hard enough. You give him the time. Ten minutes. Enough to hear him out without folding.
He apologized.
Not the way you needed.
He asked you not to shut him out.
As if that's what this is.
You're not shutting him out.
You're listening.
He told you that you didn't belong in that part of his life.
So you stopped standing in it.
That's all.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
That night, you sit on your bed and scroll through tomorrow's schedule. Early shift. Late clean-up. The usual. You make a mental note to swing by Semiu's room later—not because you needed saving, but because you want something familiar that isn't complicated.
Your phone buzzes.
A message from Enjin.
Can we try again? I'll do it right this time.
You stare at it for a long moment.
Then you set the phone face-down on the bed.
Not because you don't care.
Because if he's going to come back into your life, it won't be on your knees or in fragments. It won't be because you missed him enough to forget what he said.
It will be because he understands why you stepped away—and chooses you anyway.
You lie back, staring at the ceiling, steady and awake and resolute.
If he wants you back in that part of his life...
He's going to have to make room for you first.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
He waits this time.
Not outside your door like he wants to. Not pacing the hall like a caged animals. He waits until you come to him—or rather, until circumstance forces you into the same space.
It's late. HQ is quieter than usual, the kind of lull that settles in after a bad week. You're finishing a final check in the infirmary supply room when you sense him before you see him.
He doesn't speak right away.
You straighten a tray. Close a cabinet. Wash your hands.
"You're allowed to talk," you say eventually, without turning around. "I'm just not required to respond."
He exhales. Slow. Controlled. Like he's bracing for impact.
"I won't waste it," he says.
That gets your attention—just enough for you to face him.
He looks... worse.
Not injured. Not visibly, anyway. Just stripped of the certainty he usually wears like armor. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, eyes fixed on you like he's afraid if he looks away you'll disappear again.
"I was wrong," he says.
No qualifiers. No excuses.
You wait.
"I didn't push you away to protect you," he continues, voice rougher now. "I did it because I was scared. And instead of admitting that, I decided for you. I made your concern into a flaw."
Your fingers curl slightly at your side.
He swallows.
"You waited up for me," he says quietly. "You always do. And i treated that like a liability instead of what it was."
Care.
"I told you that you didn't belong," he adds, and this time the words almost break him. "When the truth is—I didn't know how to make room for you without feeling like I was risking everything."
You look at him for a long moment.
"And?" you asl.
"And I don't get to ask for you back like nothing happened," he says. "I don't get forgiveness just because I regret it."
Good answer.
"I don't expect you to came back to my room," he continues, "Or to speak to me the way you did before. I just—" He hesitates, then forces himself to finish. "I just want the chance to earn back what I broke. On your terms."
The room is quiet again.
You step closer. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You don't get to rush me," you say, "You don't get reassurance. And you don't get access to parts of me you decided you couldn't handle."
"I know," he says immediately.
You study his face, searching for impatience. For bargaining.
There's none.
"But," you add, softer now, "that doesn't mean I'm done."
Something fragile flashes through his expression. Hope, reined in hard.
"You hurt me," you continue. "And I'm not ready to forgive that. not yet."
"I'll wait," he says.
"I know," you reply. "That's why I'm still here."
The space between you feels charged now—not desperate, not frantic. Careful.
You reach up, fingers brushing the front of his uniform, just once. Testing.
He doesn't move.
"You don't get to make things better," you murmur. "You get this because I want it. And because I trust you won't mistake it for permission."
"I won't," he breathes.
The kiss is slow. Uncertain. Not consuming—grounding.
His hand lifts like he wants to touch you, then stops short, waiting.
You pull back first.
"That's all," you say.
He nods, throat tight. "Thank you."
You pause at the door, glancing back once.
"This doesn't meant I'm coming back tonight," you add.
"I know," he says again. "Sleep well."
You leave him standing there—not forgiven, not abandoned.
Just accountable.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
It's been a week.
Not long enough for things to be normal. Long enough for patterns to change.
Enjin doesn't hover anymore. Doesn't watch you like he's waiting for the ground to disappear beneath him. He asks before touching. He listens when you speak. When you don't, he lets the silence sit where it belongs.
You notice the way he starts checking mission briefings before exit plans first. The way he lets Semiu know when he's late instead of assuming you'll just wait up. The way he stops himself every time he almost says don't worry.
Tonight, you finish your shift late.
Again.
You expect to pass his door and keep going.
Instead, you stop.
The door slides open at your touch. He looks up immediately—not startled, not hopeful. Just present.
"You don't have to stay," he says.
"I know."
You step inside anyway.
The room feels different. Less occupied. Like he made space and didn't fill it back in.
You stand there for a moment, then speak.
"You said I didn't belong in this part of your life."
His jaw tightens. "I did."
"I do," you correct quietly.
He meets your eyes. "You do."
No argument. No fear hiding behind it.
You exhale, something easing in your chest.
"I'm not ready to forgive you," you say.
"I know."
"But I'm not done trying."
His breath stutters. He doesn't move.
You close the distance this time.
When you kiss him, it's not hesitant. It's not desperate. It's measured—a decision.
You pull back first, resting your forehead against his.
a/n: ok i am back with zanka's part in this little angsty scenario, im acc so happy with how this one came out icllll, also most of the time these a/n are literally me writing my thoughts as i write these fics lmaoo, bon appetit!
divider creds: @/cursed-carmine
tags: hurt/comfort, zanka might be a little ooc, reader is the same age as zanka, swearing, lmk if i missed any
For Zanka, you were one of the few people he really liked, someone who tolerated him more than most.
He's loud, teasing, and always provoking you with his sarcastic demeanour, but you always bit back at him.
Rolling your eyes at his sarcastic words, laughing at his stupidity.
To him, it was simple. It meant you chose him, that's what it was like in his head. It was an emotional connection that he hadn't felt with anyone else before.
He always preferred training alone, but whenever you would show up, he would never say it outloud, but liked it a lot when you would join him.
Training with you was something else, it always pushed him to be better than the last. He never really saw you train with anyone else, so in his head it was your guys' thing.
Or so he thought.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
It was just another day, surprisingly there were no missions for once so it was a rare day off. Zanka had every intention of spending it with you.
Normally around this time you were in the lounge relaxing or grabbing a bite to eat.
He walks in and his eyes zero in on you, but unlike every other time he’s seen you, you’re with another cleaner that came from the southern branch for a few days to support.
You looked like you were hitting it off with him too, it had Zanka feel weird at the sight.
Not the most outgoing type, he just sat off to the side trying to look like he was minding his own business.
He was hyper focused on you from his peripherals, the way you let out a hearty laugh that he himself hasn’t been able to get out of you, the way conversation between you two just seems to flow so smoothly.
A laugh he didn't know how to earn.
It was bothering him, more than he would like to admit.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
Later on in the day he was determined to spend time with you for real this time, no backing down if you're with someone else.
He scoured HQ looking for you and no dice, until he went outside to the training grounds.
Zanka heard sounds of something colliding in a rhythmic fashion. It sounded like people training.
He got closer to the training ground and saw it.
You, and that cleaner from before. You guys were sparring, but what really made it worse was how seamless you guys looked, it was almost like an elegant dance.
Now he was bitter, and the resolve of taking you away even if you were with someone else faded away.
He turned around quick and stomped away, unaware that you actually did notice him in your periphery but couldn't do anything about it due to your current situation.
Zanka felt like he was being replaced.
The feeling lingered longer than it should have.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
Later that evening, when the lounge filled back up with voices and movement, Zanka found himself there too–arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes already searching for you.
You were there again.
Laughing.
Not with him.
Zanka didn't mean to say anything
"So what, am I just a warm-up now?"
He said, the words sharp before he could stop them.
"Didn't think you'd replace me that fast once you found someone better."
The smile dropped from your face immediately.
Not anger, not confusion.
Just hurt.
You didn't argue. You didn't defend yourself.
You just picked up your things and walked away.
The second your smile drops and you leave, the energy in the room dies.
No one laughs, no one backs Zanka up.
Enjin lets out a low whistle, the usual grin wiped clean from his face.
"Damn, man."
Enjin exhales his smoke slowly.
"That was unnecessary."
He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't argue.
And that's what makes it sting–Zanka doesn't get rescued.
Riyo cuts quicker and cleaner, never one to sugarcoat.
"What the hell is wrong with you? You really thought that was okay?"
She looks at the door you just left through, not even sparing Zanka a glance.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
The next day passes like any other.
Zanka tells himself that you just need some time, you'll come back to him later and say something snarky like you always do.
But you don't.
Another day passes before he finally catches sight of you in the hallway.
"Hey."
He says, easy, like he hasn't been replaying your expression in his head all night.
You slow for half a second, not enough to stop.
"Excuse me."
You say quietly, stepping around him.
There was no bite or anger in your tone, just distance.
Zanka turns and watches you walk away from him.
The silence doesn't feel like punishment.
No, it feels like an absence.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
By the third day Zanka knows it's not a coincidence.
You're still your usual self–laughing in the lounge, focused during briefings, sharp during training.
Just not with him.
He catches it in the small moments.
The way you lean closer when someone else speaks, or the way you respond immediately when Riyo calls your name.
He tries his luck once more, this time softer than before.
"You good?"
You don't look at him,
"I'm fine."
You say, already turning away.
The words are polite, the distance isn't.
That's when it hits him.
You didn't go quiet because you were angry, you went quiet because silence was safer, cause hoping hurt more.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
You were sitting at the edge of your bed, the soft light of the lamp barely illuminating the room.
The door clicked open.
Zanka steps in, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight.
His usual swagger was gone, replaced by something more fragile and jagged.
"Hey,"
He starts, his voice rough, trying to sound casual.
"Uh... mind if I–"
You don't answer, you don't even look up. Just staring aimlessly at your hands.
"I... I just wanted to talk,"
He said, voice ragged.
"I thought–fuck, I thought you'd just snap at me or yell and I could—"
"You didn't think about me at all,"
You said quietly.
His chest tightened, running a hand through his hair.
"I... I screwed i[. I didn't think. I–ugh, I can't even explain—"
You stayed silent, calm, letting the weight of the room and your absence press against him.
"I haven't... I haven't heard your voice in three days, and it's–fuck, it's killing me."
He admitted, his voice breaking, letting himself be vulnerable in front of you.
You finally looked at him. no warmth, no relief.
"You don't get to just... fix this with words."
He sank to the ground, head in his hands.
"I'm such an idiot.. I almost ruined it. I can't believe I said that. I–God, I love you. I didn't mean to hurt you."
He ran a hand down his face, beginning to pace the small space like he could erase the distance if he moved fast enough.
"I–I can't stop thinking about it,"
He muttered, voice raw.
"About that look on your face... the way you just... walked away. Do you know what that did to me? Fuck... it's like I can't breathe without hearing your laugh, seeing your eyes, and i ruined it. I ruined it, didn't I?"
You stayed still, silent, letting him collapse into his own chaos.
"I'm begging you,"
He whispered, voice breaking, reaching toward you and pulling back as if the wrong move could break you for good.
"I'll do anything. I'll fix this. I'll shut up. I'll... whatever you want, just–please... don't... don't leave me like this."
His hands shook now, fingers brushing the edge of yours without touching.
"I wasn't thinking, I was a complete idiot. I–I can't believe I hurt you... not you. Not you of all people, You're the only one... the only one I..."
His voice faltered intro a strangled breath.
"I love you. I can't stand it. I can't stand being in the same room and not being able to reach you. Please... please let me try. Please let me make this right."
Zanka's hands were full on trembling now, hovering near yours like he was afraid you'd be repulsed by his touch.
"Please... I can't keep going like this,"
He whispered, voice hoarse.
"I can't... I need you to know. I—"
You finally moved. Not fully toward him, just close enough that your shoulder brushed his.
He flinched, eyes wide.
"Zanka..."
You said softly. Just one word.
Not angry, not forgiving. Not entirely warm–but enough to make him see the tiniest crack in your wall.
"I don't... I don't know if I can trust you,"
You admitted quietly,
"Not yet. Not after that.
He sank lower, forehead nearly kissing the floor.
"I get it,"
He breathed.
"I–I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. But I can't—"
He cut himself off, voice trembling like he was on the verge of tears.
"I love you. I can't... I can't hide it anymore. And I won't... not from you. Not ever."
Silence filled the room, heavy and electric.
You stared at him, your hands tight in your lap. The weight of all the days he'd been gone from you, all the pain he'd caused, pressed between you like a living thing, almost tangible.
Then, almost instinctively, he leaned forward, slowly, cautiously... and pressed his forehead to yours.
Just a touch. A tentative confession in the form of physical closeness.
"Please..."
He whispered again, his breath hot against your face.
"Just... let me love you."
Your breath hitched.
He could feel it. Your warmth radiating off you in calming waves, the rise and fall of your chest. His heart hammered in his ears.
Slowly, like a fragile unfolding of a flower in the dark, your hand lifted, resting lightly against his arm.
He froze, then let out a shaky laugh, half relief, half disbelief.
"I... I swear,"
He whispered,
"I'll spend every day making this right. I promise. I... I love you."
This time, you didn't pull away, not fully.
You let the corner of your lips twitch upward, small, quiet, but enough.
He closed the gap, pressing his lips softly to yours–hesitant at first, trembling, like the weight of his guilt and longing was finally spilling into something real.
The kiss was tentative, messy, but full of truth.
It said everything he couldn't put into words: the apology, the fear, the love, the desperation to hold you close again.
When you finally pulled back, just enough to look into his eyes, the tension in the room had shifted.
Still fragile, still raw. Still not fully healed.
But for the first time in days there was a spark of hope between you–messy, aching, and entirely yours.
That night, Zanka stayed glued to you, arms wrapped around your waist, head resting against your chest.
Your fingers combing through his hair, lulling him, letting him feel safe for the first time in days.
He let out a shaky sigh, closing his eyes. For the first time since the incident, he could breathe again.
a/n: hello my lovelies! i'm so sorry i've been so m.i.a. but im back with some inspiration and my latest fixation which is gachiakuta (if u havent watched or read it i highly recommend cause its so freaking good). im still writing for lads but i just had some crazy writing block for my caleb fic that i finally got over! im probably gonna add gachiakuta to my list of things that ill write for just cause the characters can be written in various different ways and i love that!
divider creds: @/cursed-carmine
tags: hurt/comfort, characters might be a little ooc, Tamsy being the calculating man that he is (also slight spoilers to tamsy's behaviour if you haven't read the manga), slightly suggestive if you squint
a/n: ok i was acc gonna write for enjin, zanka, and arkha in this too but i ended up making tamsy's longer than i anticipated so im gonna post the other characters individually as well so they can all have their spotlight moment, also because im impatient and i wanted this out ASAP when i finished it
masterlist
Being part of Team Eager was no simple task, you constantly had to keep your feelings for your team leader in check around others. Although pretty much everyone at HQ could tell you had the hots for Tamsy.
Part of you felt like he already knew, with the way he would leave lingering touches along your back when passing by, or the way he would sit just a little too close to be considered friendly in the lounge.
You always looked to him for his input on how you can make yourself a better asset to the team, always wanting to improve and not be a burden.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
You were currently in your room getting ready for another mission, you fastened your belt that carried your vital instrument as the briefing replayed over in your head.
Collapsed city sector. Multiple levels. Poor visibility.
Tamsy had called it "manageable."
He always did, but it was anything but that.
You weren't one to complain too much since it was always like an opportunity that was set to push you past your limits, and you did so every time.
You made your way out to meet up with the rest of the team.
Rudo was set to join you guys as well, Enjin wanted him to get more experience using his vital instrument and Tamsy readily agreed.
You took your place in the back of the car, listening to everyones chatter. Tamsy was talking to Rudo about the terrain of the mission with unusual interest, it was almost like he knew exactly what we were getting ourselves into, more so than Semiu did.
You felt uneasy.
You don't know if it was just the nerves settling in or something else entirely.
That was when Tamsy said that one thing that set off all the alarm bells in your head.
"This environment will force growth."
You always trusted Tamsy, never once questioning his reasonings for anything.
But this felt different, more dangerous, like something unpredictable was going to happen.
You brushed off that feeling, not wanting it to interfere with your headspace too much that it affects your performance during the mission.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
Upon reaching the mission site everything felt off, it felt insanely calculated. Like the terrain was specifically designed for a purpose.
A purpose you didn't know would create a crack in your trust.
Tamsy inspected the site with interest, it was a perfect battleground for Rudo to get a better grip on his powers.
His very special field, The Vertical Ruins.
Upon entering the building you felt that uneasy feeling come creeping back.
There were many floors, some accessible, some not.
You guys split up to cover more ground, everyone ascended while you chose to stay at the main level.
Sweeping through the place you noticed multiple stairwells, most of them being blocked or forcing you to go either up or down in a very narrow capacity.
'That's gonna be a problem if we encounter trouble.'
You thought to yourself.
Your vital instrument required a more open space, it was one of the flaws you were trying to work out and it seemed like that would be your main concern today if you encounter anyone.
You ascended one of the stairwells, you could faintly hear Tamsy and Rudo a couple of floors above you.
That was also the unfortunate moment you saw it. The rest of stairs were blocked off by rubble that fell from above creating a massive hole in the floor.
Not long after you heard it.
Footsteps, multiple, coming from below. You knew it wasn't any of your teammates, which meant only one thing.
Trouble.
You pulled out your vital instrument from its place on your hip, the lack of space made things difficult but not impossible.
'You got this.'
You gave yourself a quick little pep talk and got ready to fight.
It wasn't easy, you had multiple enemies flocking you with no end in sight unless you got some back up.
Eerily enough it felt like you had eyes on you from above, brushing it off you focused on the situation at hand.
It was beginning to get increasingly difficult to manage many enemies while preventing yourself from getting injured, you reached for your choker to request back up.
"Multiple hostiles below. I'm pinned."
There's a pause.
Not long, but long enough.
Then,
"Hold position," Tamsy says.
"Rudo, push forward."
That line is lethal.
You aren't just left behind. You're deprioritized out loud.
You froze in shock, not expecting that response.
In those few moments it took you to recover you failed to see the enemy dealing a painful strike to your side, knocking you off your feet and stealing the breath from your lungs.
You harshly collided with the wall, your head taking most of the damage as you clutched your now bleeding wound.
You weren't raised a quitter so you forced yourself back onto your feet, the adrenaline now coursing through you coupled with the sheer anger you felt from the situation.
Not long after you slumped against the wall, finally getting through the horde of enemies.
As the adrenaline wore off the pain became intense, you could feel your vision darkening.
In the distance you heard a voice, you couldn't make out who it was, but you caught bits and pieces of what they were saying.
"Stay.....you're.....be ok.....with me."
Then you were out like a light.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
By the time you came to, you were lying on a bed in the infirmary. Eishia noticed you were awake and came rushing to your side.
"Don't move too quickly please. You're healed but you'll feel a bit of discomfort because you hit your head pretty hard, but no permanent damage."
You groaned as you grabbed your head, a splitting headache now gracing you.
Eishia let you be after doing a quick check up. Not long after the door to the infirmary opened and in came the last person you wanted to see.
Tamsy.
You felt your eye twitch, recalling that moment again when he left you stranded leading you to your current predicament.
"The mission was a success, and it looks like you're doing well now too."
He came in to check on you as a leader, not like someone who hurt you.
A check in, status report.
You didn't want to confront him, you just wanted some clarity.
"When you told me to hold my position, were you sure I'd be okay?"
You wanted to give him a chance to explain himself, a chance to prove you're just reading too much into things.
But he doesn't, he danced around the question saying how he had multiple fronts that he was observing and that he was confident in your abilities, intervening would've just disrupted the flow of the mission.
To Tamsy, this was reassurance. To you, it sounds like distance.
"So, you didn't hesitate?"
Tamsy doesn't understand why it matters, but he answers anyways.
"No. I didn't need to."
You felt your heart fracture, it hurt more than you imagined.
Tamsy expected some push back, emotion, anger. But you give him nothing, instead you just nod.
"Okay."
That's it, nothing more. The conversation ends there, no room for anymore discussion on either end.
Tamsy takes that as a sign that you accepted his explanation and that you just need some space now. So, he takes his leave quietly thinking that things are going to be normal.
They won't.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
Over the next couple of days you did everything you could to avoid him. Taking longer routes to avoid running into him, you stopped seeking him out for advice, for his approval.
You didn't want to put yourself in a position where his decisions affect you emotionally.
'If he doesn't hesitate, then I shouldn't either.'
You thought to yourself, not wanting to be the one who gives in first like a fool.
You needed time to sort out your feelings. Being a cleaner meant finding anything even remotely close to romance was a struggle with how demanding your work can be.
So when you fell, you fell hard. That's what made the whole situation hurt even more.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
Tamsy noticed the change in your demeanour.
You no longer ask him what he thinks, you don't wait for him, and you for sure don't align yourself under his oversight.
You're not angry, you've become independent, and that was never what he wanted.
It takes a couple more days of the silent treatment before he cracks first.
It was late at night when everyone was supposed to be asleep, everyone but you and him it seemed.
He spotted you in the lounge grabbing a cup of water.
"Why are you avoiding me?"
He breaks the silence with his question, his voice has an underlying touch of annoyance.
"I'm not."
You start,
"I just don't need to know what you think before I act anymore."
The realization hits him square in the chest, his certainty cost him the closeness you guys had.
Tamsy noticed how your voice held a sense of eerie calmness. No bitterness, no blame.
Just acceptance that you don't need to rely on him to be better, to do better.
For you, it was like the final straw.
For Tamsy, it was the first real crack he felt between you guys.
You walk past him out the lounge, heading towards the stairwell to go to your room.
He follows closely behind you, determined not to give up. Calling out to you as you're halfway up the stairs, you turn and look down at him.
Ironic isn't it?
It felt like that day all over again, the only difference was now you were the one looking down at him instead of the opposite.
He's not the one in command here. No team, no urgency.
"You've changed your positioning."
The wording gets to you. It's tactical, not emotional.
From his POV, he's being respectful. From yours, it confirms the problem.
He's still watching you like a variable.
"I adjusted."
You don't deny it, that's it.
Short, final.
That's when he realizes, you're not denying distance, you're claiming it.
Tamsy pushes, gently, but it goes a step farther than he anticipated.
"You don't need to do that."
He starts,
"I've always had your back."
That second line is what breaks you.
You don't yell or cry.
Just end up being honest about what you held in for too long.
"That's the problem, I thought so too."
Instinctively, he starts to explain again. Not coldly–habitually.
"You weren't in real danger. I was monitoring everything."
You interrupt him, that was your final straw.
"Please don't do that."
That sentence was devastating, because it's not angry.
It's tired.
"I wasn't scared because I got hurt."
You look him straight in the eyes,
"I was scared because I realized I didn't matter enough for you to hesitate."
That's what dismantles him because he can't logic his way out of it. It's not about risk, it's about priority.
For once Tamsy has nothing to say, no strategy, no explanation.
He finally sees it for what it actually was.
He didn't just miscalculate a mission, he misjudged a person he cared about.
A beat passes by before he says something, it's quiet but you heard it nonetheless.
"I should have hesitated."
With that you turned and left, needing to put some physical space between the two of you.
You spent the rest of the night wide awake and restless.
Part of you wants to believe him, the part that's in love with him that is.
But the other part is telling you to leave him be and move on.
Your torn between which side to listen to.
'If this happens again... will he hesitate?'
You thought to yourself before exhaustion finally took over.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
It was like that night your thoughts were spoken into existence, because now you're standing in front of a terrain that echoes the original ruins.
For Tamsy, it was like another chance to not make the same kind of call.
When you guys went in, that was when you noticed it.
Tamsy had changed the formation and this time you were positioned on his level, he assigned someone else to the observational role.
Doesn't dramatically announce it either, he just does it.
That's when you're caught in the chaos that's exactly like the first time.
Rudo's under pressure, you're exposed. The mission could succeed if he lets you handle it.
You feel the old dread settle in as you wait for the order.
Tamsy hesitates, it's brief but it's there. And then–
"Fall back, I'm coming to you."
Not, "hold position."
Not, "you can handle it."
He moves first.
After the fight, he doesn't check Rudo first, he doesn't evaluate performance.
He looks at you, not to assess, but to make sure you're there.
Then he says that one sentence that rewrites everything,
"I won't make that call again."
No conditions or qualifiers.
That's how you know it's real.
･*:..｡o *ﾟ
Later that night you were in your room unwinding from today's events, your room illuminated in a soft, warm glow from the small lamp in the corner of your room.
You had taken a shower after the mission and were just sitting at the edge of your bed replaying today in your head.
You couldn't lie but you appreciated the change. Actions always speak louder than words.
It wasn't long before that peace was disturbed by an unexpected knock on your door.
You were confused cause you weren't expecting anyone, especially at this hour.
Upon opening the door your eyes landed on Tamsy, he was dressed more lax than what you usually see him in, his hair still pulled into that half updo.
He took notice of your appearance, the oversized shirt you wore that covered your pajama shorts, your damp hair that clung to you, the droplets of water racing down your neck and disappearing into your shirt.
He took a deep breath to collect his composure.
You were shocked to see him standing there but regained your composure and quietly moved so he could come in.
Tamsy waited by the door. Not sitting until you you motioned him over to take a seat next to you on your bed.
"I've been thinking about the way you went quiet."
That's it. No mission talk, no explanations.
Not why you did it or how it affected him.
Just acknowledgement.
"I'm used to people trusting my decisions. I wasn't prepared for what it would cost when you did."
He says.
"I didn't realize how much I cared until you stopped looking at me like I was safe."
Tamsy was being devastatingly honest, a side you've never seen before.
That's when he says it,
"I love you."
He waits a beat before continuing,
"And that terrifies me, because it means I have to hesitate."
You stayed quiet for a while, just letting it all sink in.
That's when you had decided where you were going to go with this.
You reached your hand out to place it over his, a comforting gesture that, hopefully, also conveyed your unspoken feelings.
"You did."
You say softly, his breath catches as he looks at your hand on his and then back at your face, his eyes slightly dropping to look at your lips.
You smile, noticing his wandering gaze.
You shift a little closer to him, your thighs slightly touching, your hands now intertwined.
Tilting your head slightly to the side you take a good look at him before closing the distance.
It was a soft peck, almost fleeting. You pull back and give him that look that just makes him want to devour you on the spot.
Tamsy moves forward with more ambition now that you were obvious with your feelings towards him.
He captures your lips in a sweet kiss, his hands move to settle on your waist, pulling you closer to situate you on his lap
You put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, letting out a gasp at the sudden movement.
Tamsy took that as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, relishing in the way you tasted.
His piercing felt cool against your skin, making you relax further into him as he ran his hands up and down your sides, enjoying the sounds that came out of your mouth.
Not wanting it to go too far, you pulled back for some air.
Leaning your forehead against his you enjoyed the sight in front of you. Tamsy slightly panting from the kiss, ears flushed with a slight dazed look in his eyes.
You leaned in for another kiss before pulling him to lie under the covers with you.
You really didn't want to, but part of you wanted to see what kind of excuse he would come up with to justify everything.
You nodded and silently walked towards the closest coffee shop that you knew was bound to be empty, which would make it the perfect spot to sit and discuss whatever Caleb wanted to talk about.
During the short walk you mentally prepared yourself. It's not that you had hopes, lies you definitely had some, but you just wanted to guard your heart from more pain.
You guys found a nice, quiet corner in the back of the shop. Caleb fiddled with his phone for a bit before setting it down and facing you.
Your heartbeat quickened with anxiety, you didn't know what he would say but it would hurt regardless. You were prepared for this to either be the closure you needed or the chance to try again, the outcome depended on the answer Caleb could give you.
Caleb didn't know where to begin, he was a coward who ran because things got too real and in his head that was the best choice he could make.
His hands were restless, he wanted nothing more than to reach over and take your hands in his, but he knew you'd reject him. Especially since he's yet to explain himself.
The order he placed on his phone came before he could speak, the waitress setting it down between the two of them.
He could see it on your face the way you looked surprised he remembered what you liked. You thought he would have forgotten since you rarely went out with him and MC when they would hit up cafes to study at.
You slowly reached out and pulled your favourite drink and pastry closer to you, the anxiety of it all making you hunger and in dire need to keep yourself preoccupied away from all the thoughts that were running a mile a minute in your head.
Caleb had a small smile on his face seeing you silently accept the food and drink. Grabbing his own drink, so his hands had something to hold onto, he finally spoke up.
"I was afraid."
You furrowed your brows in confusion, afraid of what exactly?
"Calling it a mistake was the only way I knew how to make it smaller, because if it wasn't a mistake then it meant I had abandoned something real and I didn't know how to live with that."
You noticed the way he worded it, he wasn't calling that night a mistake, but more or so the action of him leaving you like that. That one word he used in the note that broke your heart beyond what you could comprehend.
You spent so much time fixing and putting the broken pieces back together, but you still had so many cracks and missing pieces you couldn't find.
"I threw myself into my work. I struggled to come to terms with it, with my feelings. I felt like I was stuck between a rock and a hard place."
He continued, each word made the knot in your throat tighten.
"I wanted to avoid accountability for my actions. My head was a mess, my feelings for MC were unresolved and it was a connection that was safe and undefined."
He looked at you dead in the eyes,
"What I felt for her was safe. What I feel for you is terrifying and I was a coward who chose safety over truth."
The knot tightened even more, you could also feel that familiar sting behind your eyes. Everything you struggled to keep at bay in your mind and heart resurfaced like a big wave crashing on the shore during a storm, violent and heavy.
It was that one word, the tense that he used it in. Feel– current, present. You took a sip of your drink to help keep the tears and emotions at bay.
You've yet to say anything to him, just listening and letting it soak in.
"I know nothing can take back what I've put you through, but I don't want to continue being that coward that I was before. It was never about the commitment, it was knowing what I thought I felt was nothing more than a front because I was afraid of what the truth really was."
That was when you spoke up.
"Was I that hard to be honest with? To the point you made me question everything about myself?"
Caleb looked taken aback by you suddenly speaking up. Your voice was quiet, heavily laced with hurt and confusion.
"I couldn't open myself up to anyone aside from MC, every time I felt like I was ready to come to terms with everything I couldn't help but think of the way you abandoned me with nothing but a note."
Caleb could hear the way you were struggling to stop yourself from breaking down into sobs. It tugged at his heart, he indeed did make a mistake, but it wasn't being with you.
No, it was leaving you because of his cowardice, he left you with a hole in your heart that he doesn't think he could fix in this lifetime or the next.
"I don't need you to forget that I said it was a mistake. I need you to know I was wrong, and that I'll spend as long as it takes proving it."
You were hesitant. Every part of your heart screamed at you to take him back and forget anything ever happened, but your mind told you to keep it cool and take your time.
Forgiveness isn't a right, it's a privilege that's earned and you don't know if you're ready to give that to Caleb just yet. It's far too early to make any hasty decisions.
"I don't want to rush you into anything, and I know I'm very late but I at the very least want to be in the boys' lives."
You thought about it often, wanting your boys to have a father too. This wasn't you giving in to Caleb, this was you making sure your babies lacked nothing.
"I need some time to think about this, there's just too much going on in my head that I need to sort out first."
Caleb had that sad, but understanding smile on his face like he expected this answer. It made you feel slightly guilty but you had to think about yourself first before you get into a situation where there's no turning back.
You gathered your things to get ready to leave but Caleb grabbed your wrist, stopping you from leaving.
"At least let me walk you back."
He said, you gave him a look that said you were going to protest but then he added,
"Please?"
He even threw in those darned puppy eyes that he knows you can never say no to.
You shook your head and he followed you out, a few steps behind you.
The walk was silent and awkward, your brain kept itching at you to say something to ease the awkwardness but you genuinely didn't know what you would say.
Caleb walked you all the way to your door.
"MC stayed."
You paused, fingers tightening on the door handle.
"And I'm not afraid of loving you."
You turn and look at him.
"I'm afraid you'll wake up one day and decide I was a mistake again."
hey guys! its been a while since i last posted anything and i promise im in the process of getting things done since i have a lighter semester this time around so that means i have more free time to acc write.
i wanted to update my taglist just so i dont tag anyone who no longer wishes to be on my taglist and be a bother. i am still writing for lads but i will also be now writing for gachiakuta as well so if youre interested in one or the other or both just leave a comment below!
❛ cross examined .ᐟ ❜ part 2 — 18+ SMUT
⤷ lawyer!giyuu tomioka x paralegal!reader
(wc; 20k)
synopsis: file under: exhibit b! giyuu tomioka trying to be a good boss slash boyfriend- slash bossfriend
tags: smut with plot/porn with plot, romance, giyuu is possessive and jealous, giyuu is still a sexual deviant in this,
pt. 1 ⟡
the couch is still warm from where you and giyu have been tangled up for half an hour, limbs a mess, his tie already somewhere on the floor and your blazer tossed across the backrest like you meant to dry clean it, but you both know you won’t. he’s fussier than usual tonight, kissing you like he’s making up for every late night spent in silent file review instead of on your lips. he grabs your thigh, pushes in with his knee, mouth rougher, hands everywhere.
you break the kiss, breathless, laughing a little, and lean back to see his face. “giyu. are you okay?”
he blinks, cheeks flushed, blue eyes glassy and locked on your mouth. “yeah,” he mutters, almost sheepish, then not at all. “it’s just… adrenaline. i took pre-workout before i came over (because i was drowsy)” his voice goes low and honest. “i really, really wanna do it.”
he ruts against you, not subtle, like his body’s on autopilot and he can’t help himself. you snort, push at his shoulder, and squirm out from under him, giggling as you half-roll off the couch.
“down, tomioka!” you tease, and hold your fingers up in a quick cross, laughing. “back! i know the law and i’ll call hr.”
he groans, but it’s playful, sitting up and glaring at your “cross” with the flat look of a man who’s seen every bad argument in a courtroom and is still losing this one on your couch. “that’s not going to work.”
“yeah?” you say, grinning, still backing away, “watch me.”
he lunges and you squeal, dodging behind the armrest, clutching your “cross” and threatening him with mock legalese. “one step closer and i’ll file an injunction against your very illegal behavior, sir.”
giyu’s jaw twitches like he wants to argue, but his mouth is fighting a smile. “you’re… stalling.”
“maybe,” you admit, still holding your ground, “but i like watching you chase.”
he gives you that look — the one that promises you’re not getting away for long — then immediately you bolt down the hallway, nearly tripping over your own socks. your laughter echoing off the walls. you glance back—giyu’s already on his feet, tall and determined, eyes sharp in that silent, predatory way that makes your heart lurch in your chest. he doesn’t say a word, just stalks after you, lips twitching at the corners, all control and amusement.
“don’t you dare!” you shout, half breathless, half giddy, ducking into the kitchen and grabbing a throw pillow as a shield. you catch his reflection in the microwave, moving quieter than any man his size has a right to, and your laugh comes out in a hiccup when you realize he’s nearly on you.
you spin around, still clutching your useless “cross” in one hand and pillow in the other, and he just stands in the doorway, arms crossed now, a picture of calm except for the little spark in his eyes.
“got tired already?” you tease, bracing for his next move.
he shakes his head, slow, gaze never leaving yours, the softest huff of a laugh slipping out. “i’m patient…” he murmurs wistfully, voice low, “i can wait all night.”
“liar,” you shoot back, grinning, but your pulse jumps when he closes the distance in two lazy strides.
he corners you gently, one palm pressed flat on the surface beside your hip, the other catching your wrist and peeling your makeshift cross away. his eyes flick from your mouth to your neck, and he doesn’t say a word—just leans in, letting you feel the warmth of him. your laughter settles into something quieter, more electric, your breath mingling in the space between. his hand tightens on your hip and you realize the game is already over.
“caught you,” he whispers, and you give in, letting him reel you back in like he always does, no legal arguments left to hide behind. he leans in, mouth right at your ear, and you feel his smile more than you see it. “so much energy for a fugitive,” he teases, voice so soft it makes your skin prickle. his palm slides from your wrist to your lower back, holding you steady. you can feel the heat of him everywhere, the thump of his heart as wound up as yours.
his lips find your neck, slow, and you gasp, still catching your breath from running, the aftershocks of laughter mixing with the way his mouth is charting slow, deliberate circles along your throat. he bites down once—playful, a warning—then soothes the spot with a gentle kiss.
“i should write you up for resisting,” he murmurs, each word lazy and amused, lips brushing your pulse. you arch back into him, your free hand scrabbling at the wall, the tension in your body turning to mush under the careful pressure of his grip.
he draws it out, not in any hurry—kissing, then pausing, just letting you squirm against him, his hand flexing at your back to remind you he’s there, all patience and slow burn. you try to twist around and he just laughs quietly, lips grazing your jaw.
“giyu,” you pant, voice half laughter, half plea, “you’re such an ass.”
he smiles against your skin. “maybe,” he agrees, “but you’re the one who ran.”
the next kiss lands just below your ear, and you shiver, breath coming fast. he holds you there until your laughter has faded to shivering, your body arching into his just for a little relief. the way he teases you—slow, careful, making you beg for every inch—makes it clear this game is his favorite kind of victory.
your breath is coming in short, hot bursts as his mouth lingers at the line of your neck. you try to twist in his hold, grinning even as your pulse jumps, and manage, “since when are you a cop, tomioka? you already win at lawyering, now you wanna arrest me too? no one’s gonna like you at this rate.”
he hums against your throat, smiling crooked, voice low and unhurried. “that’s fine. as long as you still like me.”
you huff a laugh, cheeks burning, tilting your chin so his lips drag up your jaw. “who says i like you?” you try, but your voice wobbles too much to sell it.
his grip at your lower back tightens, sliding up to curl around your waist, holding you closer. “your heart’s not very good at hiding it,” he says quietly, nose nudging behind your ear, lips grazing that spot that makes you weak.
you shiver and bite your lip, trying to find your comeback, but he’s everywhere—warm, slow, impossibly close, and so patient it makes you want to cry. “i could object,” you murmur, half teasing, half wanting him to press harder.
he chuckles, deep and soft, finally letting your pinned arm go, but not moving away. “overruled,” he whispers, and the next kiss lands squarely on your mouth, making it clear you were never getting out of his arms anyway.
he finally breaks the kiss, breath hitching, forehead pressed to yours for one last long second before he goes still. you study his face—serious, flushed, and then something odd flickers behind his eyes.
“you good?” you ask, voice pitched low, half expecting another tease.
he holds your gaze for a beat, then shrugs, all his edges softer. “yeah… my back hurts.”
you blink, deadpan, staring up at him like you can’t quite believe the man who just chased you through the house and manhandled you against a wall is complaining about lower lumbar support.
“seriously?”
he shrugs again, a little sheepish, the smallest laugh rumbling in his chest. “i’m not as young as i used to be.”
...
“mr. tomioka, you’re 26.” you roll your eyes but he just catches your hand in his, fingers threading through yours, and walks you—unhurried, warm—back to the living room. he settles himself on the couch, legs spread, and without a word pulls you onto his lap, settling you against him. the tv clicks on, something low and background, neither of you really watching. his arms wrap around your waist, holding you close, chin tucked on your shoulder, his lips kissing your neck sometimes. you feel the steady, solid thump of his heart against your spine and let yourself melt there, both of you quiet, laughter faded, a little high on the afterglow of just being in each other’s arms.
the next morning smells like coffee and expensive perfumes. sounds like honking and steady murmuring. you make it to the firm just in time, hair still a little damp, half your mind on briefs and the other half on the memory of giyu’s laugh the night before. the elevator opens to the familiar rush of voices and keyboard clatter and mitsuri’s bright, unmistakable squeal.
“you are not gonna believe what dropped last night,” she says, grabbing your wrist before you even clear the hallway. “fenty!! new line! lace and satin collection, i swear i almost cried.”
you’re laughing before she finishes, letting her tug you toward the break room where her phone is already out, pictures pulled up. “i’m assuming this wasn’t for professional wear?” you tease, glancing at her with a grin.
she presses a hand to her heart. “professional self-care,” she insists. “besides, obanai doesn’t have to know it’s for him.” she wiggles her eyebrows, and you laugh harder, nudging her with your elbow.
the sound of low voices drifts from the glass conference room down the hall. giyu’s tone—measured, even—mingles with sanemi’s sharp and impatient one. you catch just enough to piece together that they’re arguing over the next case assignment, something about liability clauses and conflicting interests.
“tomioka’s gonna pull rank,” mitsuri murmurs around her coffee straw, eyes darting toward the room. you half-listen to her, gaze snagging on the shadow of giyu’s hand as he gestures toward a folder on the table, calm as ever. sanemi’s pacing, muttering something that probably involves the word “bullshit.”
“anyway,” mitsuri says, bumping your shoulder. “if you don’t buy at least one of these sets, i’m going to riot.”
you groan into your coffee cup, a long-suffering sigh that makes mitsuri’s grin get even wider. “fine,” you say, dragging the word out. “but remember… our paychecks don’t exactly live in the same tax bracket. you’ve got lawyer money, i’ve got paralegal money. i’m still deciding if i can justify a thirty-dollar candle, let alone seventy dollars plus designer lingerie.”
she giggles, hair bouncing as she leans in close, lowering her voice like you’re about to commit a crime together. “then i’ll buy it for you,” she says sweetly, then pauses just long enough for her eyes to sparkle. “or…”
you narrow your eyes. “or what...”
she gives you that mischievous little smile, the one that always means chaos. “or giyu-san can buy it for you.”
you nearly choke on your coffee. “hah—no! absolutely not. i’m not making my boss buy me lingerie.”
“boss-that-you’re-dating. bossfried,” she sing-songs, covering her mouth to hide her laugh. “it’s practically a romantic necessity.”
you smack her arm lightly, face hot, whispering back, “we are not dating. that’s— it’s— we just— it’s complicated.”
she gasps, delighted. “you didn’t deny the lingerie part.”
you glare, but she’s already squealing quietly into her hands, clearly living for your suffering. through the glass wall, you can still see giyu in the conference room, head tipped in concentration, sleeves rolled up just enough to make your stomach flutter.
mitsuri follows your gaze, smug. “uh-huh,” she murmurs, taking a triumphant sip of her drink. “sure, ‘not dating.’ tell that to the way you’re staring.”
“i will kill you,” you whisper, trying not to smile.
mitsuri immediately gasps, clutching her chest like you just delivered a death sentence. “murder? in this economy?” she cries, staggering back a full step, fake tears already welling up as she sniffles dramatically. “all because i dared to believe in love… and lingerie!”
you groan, “oh my god, stop,” but she’s fully committed now—sniffling, dabbing at invisible tears with a napkin, muttering, “i just wanted romance for my favorite coworker… and maybe a matching set of fenty… is that such a crime?”
you’re laughing so hard you can barely stand, and she just doubles down, hiccuping loudly before peeking at you through her fingers with a grin. “you wound me, my lady. fatally. i’ll be telling obanai about your cruelty during lunch.”
“please don’t,” you manage, wiping your own tears from laughing.
she fans herself like she’s about to faint. “too late. i’m already composing the twitlonger.”
you’re still trying to get mitsuri to calm down—she’s halfway through describing what color would most flatter your aura—when your phone buzzes on the counter.
giyu: why are you not in my office yet?
you bite your lip, trying to hide the grin already spreading across your face. you type back, thumbs quick—
you: patience, mr. tomioka. some of us have important break-room meetings about our fun personal lives…
it takes all of three seconds for the reply to come through.
giyu: baby.
your knees actually give out a little. just a tiny buckle, your eyes widen like you were told a juicy secret and mitsuri gasps, “oh my god, what did he text you?”
you wave her off, cheeks burning, heart doing something traitorous in your chest. “nothing. literally nothing.”
she narrows her eyes, singsongs, “you look guilty,” but you’re already shoving your phone in your pocket and grabbing your folder like it’s a shield.
“meeting,” you say quickly, backing away. “i have to—uh—go defend justice. or something.”
“tell giyu-san i said hi,” mitsuri calls after you, grinning like she knows exactly what’s going on.
you roll your eyes but you can’t stop smiling as you make your way down the hall, heels clicking, pulse picking up. his office door is closed, the glass fogged with sunlight. you knock once, and before he even answers, you hear that familiar quiet voice on the other side—steady, a little smug.
“come in.”
and just like that, your heart betrays you all over again.
you step inside, and he’s there—tie loosened, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows. he looks up from his desk, that small wistful frown already ghosting at the corner of his mouth.
“you’re late,” he says simply, voice low.
you huff, setting your folder down with a thud. “you can’t just call me that, you know.”
“call you what?” his tone is innocent, but the glint in his eyes gives him away.
you point at him, half exasperated, half flustered. “that, tomioka. i’m still not used to it.”
he leans back in his chair, arms crossing, expression infuriatingly calm. “what?… baby?” he says it slower this time, deliberate, letting it roll off his tongue like he’s testing the weight of it.
you make a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, covering your face with one hand. “stop. i swear to god. you can’t just drop that in the middle of a workday. i’m fragile. ovulating.”
he chuckles, low and quiet, that barely-there sound he only ever lets you hear. “you don’t look fragile,” he murmurs. “you look like you’re pretending not to like it.”
his grin softens, the edge of his teasing fading to something quieter. “you’ll get used to it,” he says, voice almost gentle now. “i promise.”
and damn him, you almost believe it.
he pulls a stack of folders across the desk, glancing up at you as you take a seat. “let’s go over these,” he says, but his eyes linger a second too long on your mouth before he starts talking business.
the words are all case files, motions, depositions—stuff you’ve done together a dozen times, but the air is thicker now, every legal term heavy with the memory of his hands on your hips the night before. you jot down notes, pretending not to notice how often his gaze drifts from the paperwork to your face. sometimes he looks at you like he’s already thinking about something else entirely, like he’s working out a problem that isn’t in the case brief at all. in fact, his problem regards a bed and clapping
he keeps it efficient, but he’s… softer, somehow. “we’ll need to follow up with opposing counsel,” he murmurs, fingers tapping a slow, restless beat on the folder, eyes flickering up to catch yours. “if you see anything that feels off, flag it. i trust your judgment.”
the meeting goes on like that—his voice low, you nodding along, both of you pretending you’re not tracking every shift in each other’s expression. it’s work, and it’s not.
by the end of it, your notes are a mess, and he closes the folder with a little smile that’s all private knowledge.
“you good?” he asks, but the question means more than just ‘are you caught up on the cases?’
you look at him, feeling every unsaid thing hanging in the space between you, and nod. “yeah. i’m good.”
you’re hunched over your pad, scribbling notes, trying to look busy enough that your brain doesn’t spiral right back to the way he said baby not even an hour ago. the room is quiet except for the muted sound of his laptop keys, the soft clatter soothing and sharp all at once.
he glances up at you, pausing with his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “how was your morning?” he asks, like it’s an afterthought, but his eyes don’t leave your face.
you chew your pen, buying time, then shrug. “pretty good. mitsuri dragged me into a whole dissertation about the new lingerie line, which i now apparently have to buy, or she’ll die of heartbreak.”
he shakes his head. “she’s relentless.”
“like a pink hurricane,” you mutter, and he almost smiles.
“you could just send me the link,” he says, not looking at you, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch. “i’ll handle it.”
you blink at him, taken aback, and try to play it cool. “absolutely not. i’m not letting my boss buy me lingerie.”
he looks up, eyes catching yours for a second. “then… maybe your boyfriend will,” he says, too quiet, like he’s testing how it sounds.
your pen nearly slips from your fingers, and he just keeps typing, face unreadable except for the ghost of a smile that never quite leaves his lips.
your cheeks flare hot, pen halfway to the margin. you glance up, eyes wide, voice stuttering a little before you catch yourself. “did you really just say that?” it comes out a little too high, a little too flustered.
giyu doesn’t look away from his screen, but you catch the soft curl of his mouth—barely a smile, but unmistakable. “...never seen this side of you before,” he says quietly, tone almost teasing, almost tender.
you try to glare but your voice betrays you, too breathless, too much heat in your chest. “don’t act like you don’t like it,” you mutter, dropping your gaze back to the page, hand shaky.
he watches you for a moment, the hush between you just long enough to make your skin prickle. “i do like it,” he admits, softer than before. “a lot.”
he murmurs, eyes soft in a way that makes your stomach twist. “you usually have it together.”
you glare at him, but it’s weak at best. “yeah, well, you ambushed me with—whatever that was.”
“just being honest,” he says simply, leaning back in his chair, watching you over the rim of his laptop screen. “you don’t like honesty?”
“i like professionalism,” you counter, voice cracking a little despite yourself.
“ah.” he nods like he’s learned something, but that faint smile stays. “i’ll… try to remember that next time.”
you scowl, heart hammering, and go back to your notes—but you can feel his gaze on you. you try to write another note, but you only manage to underline the same sentence twice, pretending not to notice the way his eyes linger on you, softer and softer, like maybe he’s never seen you like this either and maybe he can’t get enough.
you nearly choke on air when he leans back in his chair and asks, all casual, “so…what’s the name of that site again?”
you freeze mid-scribble. “…what site?”
he gives you a flat look. “the one with the lingerie kanroji wants you to buy.”
“nope,” you say immediately, shaking your head like it’ll erase the entire topic. “classified information. need-to-know basis.”
he hums thoughtfully, eyes glinting with mischief. “hm. funny. because i think i need to know.”
“giyu,” you warn, but he’s already reaching for his office phone.
“don’t you dare,” you hiss, lunging across the desk, but he’s too quick. he dials with that maddening calm, eyes locked on yours like he’s enjoying this.
“hello, mitsuri? it’s tomioka.”
you mouth NO at him, frantically waving your hands, but he ignores you entirely.
“could you remind me what site you and—” he pauses, says your name just to watch you squirm “—were talking about this morning?”
on the other end, mitsuri gasps like she’s just been given a divine mission. “oh! fenty! tell her to get the black and blue set! it’ll compliment her figure perfectly! and you’d love it on her! giyu-san! you’ll be all over h—”
you practically implode. “MITSURI!” you shriek, covering your face with both hands.
giyu covers the receiver, smirking faintly. “black and blue, huh?”
you groan. “hang up. hang up right now.”
he thanks mitsuri politely and hangs up, utterly unfazed. “see? that wasn’t so hard.”
you point at him, red-faced. “you’re insufferable.”
he just tilts his head, deadpan but amused. “you should probably order it soon, then. before it sells out.”
“i’m going to strangle you with my lanyard.”
“...romantic,” he murmurs, opening his laptop again like nothing happened. “should i expense it as a work morale investment?”
you groan into your hands while he types, completely nonchalant and absolutely delighted.
he’s scrolling through the fenty site now, blue light reflecting off his too-serious face, squinting at the screen like he’s prepping for a closing argument. you can hear the faint tap of keys as you text mitsuri in all caps—TRAITOR. YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS—and she just sends you heart emojis and a gif of someone blowing a kiss.
giyu clears his throat, still scrolling. “there’s two black and blue sets,” he says, voice even but intent. “which one did she mean?”
you don’t even look up. “doesn’t matter, i’m not—”
“come here.” it’s soft but final, not a question.
you shoot him a look. “giyu, it’s just lingerie. it’s not, like, a contract—”
he turns in his chair, fixes you with that steady gaze, almost too serious for the conversation. “it is a big deal. we’re dating. it matters to me what you want.”
your face heats up again and you can’t think of anything smart to say, so you just shuffle over, muttering, “fine. you’re crazy.”
he waits, patient, as you lean over his shoulder, and when you hesitate, he tips the screen toward you. “pick,” he says quietly, “so i know what to get.”
he’s closer than necessary, your hair brushing his cheek, the whole world suddenly gone soft around the edges. you point, trying not to tremble, and his hand settles warm at your lower back
“good choice,” he murmurs, and you almost forget to breathe.
he digs in his wallet and out comes a black card—glossy, heavy, looking way too fancy for your little discover card. you gape, then laugh, half horrified, half impressed. “oh, hell no. you have one of those?”
he nods, entirely relaxed, and slides it across the desk to you, his other hand suddenly, scandalously, grabbing your ass through your skirt—just bold enough to make your breath catch.
“go ahead and order it for me,” he says, all calm confidence, like this is just another meeting agenda. “use your shipping address, though.”
you give him an incredulous look, cheeks burning. “you’re crazy,” you mutter, but your fingers curl around the card anyway, electricity shooting up your spine where his hand presses possessively at your hip.
he leans in, mouth close to your ear. “i could be worse,” he murmurs, voice rough, thumb brushing slow circles against your skin, “if you’d let me.”
you almost forget what you’re supposed to be doing, but the checkout window is still open, your heart racing as you type in the details—his card, your name, a thousand little reminders that you are so far past ‘just colleagues’ now, you’re not even in the same zip code.
you continue to fumble through the checkout page, fingers shaky as you type in the shipping info, trying to ignore the way he’s suddenly standing behind you—close enough that his breath grazes your ear, close enough that his hand settles on your hip, fingers working deftly at the zipper of your skirt. your screen blurs for a second, the checkout form blinking, expedited shipping available—one day delivery. giyu leans in, voice low, lips brushing your jaw.
“can’t wait to see you in that,” he murmurs, a promise and a threat, his hand warm on your bare skin as the skirt pools down your thighs.
your breath catches; you’re hovering over the shipping option when he covers your hand with his own, large and firm, guiding your mouse. “go on,” he says, voice barely more than a growl, “expedite it.”
he presses your hand down, the click loud in the quiet office. your skirt slips the rest of the way, his palm flat at your lower back now, possessive. he gently sits you down on his chair as your face stays glued on his screen.
‘order placed!’
“good,” he whispers, mouth grazing the shell of your ear, “just what i wanted.”
he takes his time, fingers skimming and squeezing at the soft flesh of your ass, slow and greedy, like he’s collecting every shiver you give him. you’re barely breathing, still clutching the mouse when he spins you gently around, settling you into his big office chair.
he nudges your knees apart with his thigh, gaze dragging down. you stutter, voice suddenly small, “i didn’t lock the door, tomioka…” but he just shrugs, lips already curving. “everyone here’s an adult,” he says, almost amused, “they’ve done worse. trust me.”
before you can argue, he drops to one knee between your legs, palms warm and confident as they settle on your thighs. you feel his breath against your bare skin, his mouth dragging slow, reverent kisses up the inside of your thigh. your legs tremble, heart racing, all your good sense dissolving in the hush of his office.
he hooks your calves over his shoulders and the chair gives a little sigh under the shift, leather creaking. his hands slide beneath your thighs and tug you to the edge until the world narrows to the warmth of his breath and the desk light painting him in soft gold. he leans in and kisses you first where your pulse beats, one that makes your stomach drop, then higher, then finally your mouth, slow, romantic, soft.
your breath hitches. his does too. his nose brushes yours and everything in you goes light and a little helpless. he stays close enough that you can count the tiny tremble at the corner of his lips, close enough that the cool metal of his tie clip ghosts your ribs when he shifts. his thumb lifts, gentle, and drags across your lower lip. your mouth parts without thinking.
the office hum hangs low beneath it all. fluorescents far away. elevator cables faint in the bones of the building. inside his four walls it’s quieter, screen glow skimming your knee, a pencil rolling a lazy inch on the desk every time you breathe too deep. his fingers flex at the back of your thigh, steadying you, asking you to stay open for him. he noses along your cheek and stops with his lips a breath from yours. when he speaks it is a whisper made of heat and restraint. “do i have your permission?”
your throat works around a yes that comes out more like a sigh. he feels it, you see the relief spark in his eyes, the boyish curve of his mouth before he reins it back. he kisses you again, deeper now, letting it linger, letting you taste the mint and the coffee. his hands roam, one spreading at your hip, the other smoothing slow paths along your thigh, guiding your knees wider with quiet patience until your breath turns thin and your fingers clutch at his shoulders just to feel anchored.
you tip your head and he follows you like he was waiting for that tilt. noses touch, lashes brush, and he murmurs your name like it lives better on his tongue than anywhere else. his sweet girl. the chair rocks a fraction. the hem of your skirt flutters against the rhythm of his breathing. when his thumb returns to your mouth you catch it between your lips on instinct, a soft press of teeth that makes his jaw tighten and his eyes go hazy.
“good…” he whispers, more to himself. his other hand slides lower, the heel of his palm fitting to the curve where thigh meets hip, holding you there like he plans to take his time and make you feel every inch of it. your pulse climbs. the air turns thick and sweet. the door is still unlocked and somehow that makes it feel more romantic, like you are both choosing this in a way that lets the whole world know and still not touch what is happening here.
he kisses the corner of your smile and then your jaw and then your mouth again, slower, deeper, coaxing sound out of you with nothing but the sure press of lips and the way his thumb keeps stroking your lip until you forget how to breathe evenly.
his fingers slip down, teasing at the frill of your panties—just the edge, tracing lazy patterns against the delicate lace, making your skin light up everywhere he touches. he’s still kissing you, gentle and reverent, like every breath out of your lungs is a piece of treasure he intends to keep. the way his mouth moves on yours is so soft it aches, lips brushing slow as his thumb presses along your hipbone, anchoring you to the chair, to him.
he tugs gently at the waistband, not enough to move it, just enough to make you shiver and squirm, the sensation sparks where fabric gives and his knuckles brush your skin. his other hand never leaves your thigh, holding you open and close, thumb stroking slow, quiet reassurance while your body arches instinctively toward his touch.
the kisses turn softer still, languid, almost sleepy—his nose nuzzling your cheek, lips dragging along the corner of your mouth, whispering warmth into every little sound you make. “so pretty…” he breathes wistfully, voice a raw hush as he tugs a bit harder, sliding your panties down a fraction, just enough for your breath to hitch and your hips to lift off the chair, seeking more.
he smiles into the kiss, patient, kissing the hollow below your ear, voice so kind it makes your chest ache. “i love how you move for me.” his fingers slip under the fabric, finally, slow and careful, letting his knuckles trace heat where only he gets to touch. every gentle press, every sweep, is both question and answer: do you want this? do you want me?
he keeps you there; soft, open,and desperate under his hands—until your whole body is humming for him, for more, and just as your breath tips into a plea he pulls away, pressing one last gentle kiss to your cheek. he smooths your hair, thumb lingering at your jaw, then leans back and reaches for your skirt.
with a swift, practiced motion, he slides the fabric back up, tugs it into place, smoothing the wrinkles with a kind of casual care that makes you shiver. your panties, crooked and damp, are a secret between you and the heat of his hands. he bends, kissing your knee one last time, then stands, composed but pink-cheeked, the only sign he’s as wrecked as you.
“hand,” he murmurs, motioning you forward, and you’re too dazed not to obey. he places your palm on his mouse, his own hand covering yours just long enough to guide you. you blink, confused, as he clicks away from the checkout tab—back to a spreadsheet, an email draft, something that looks terribly important and not at all like you were just seconds away from coming undone for him.
“what are you—” you start to whisper, voice all breath and nerves, but you don’t get the words out.
a sharp knock on the door makes you freeze, every nerve leaping to attention. giyu’s hand slips away, his face smoothing into its usual impassive calm, but his eyes linger on you—soft, secret, still hungry.
“come in,” he calls, his voice steady as ever, while you scramble to make yourself look like nothing at all just happened.
giyu’s finger is steady on the screen, calmly walking you through the spreadsheet—like nothing in the world has ever flustered him. when the door swings open sanemi strides in, paralegal at his elbow, holding a thick folder of documents.
sanemi’s eyes flick straight to you—lingering, sharp, just long enough to make your cheeks burn—before turning to giyu with a little smirk. “got the files you wanted, tomioka,” he drawls, dropping the folder on the desk with a thunk. “didn’t know you needed a whole support team for a little data entry, though.”
giyu doesn’t look away from the screen, still all business. “i don’t,” he says, voice even, “but i do like things to be done right. you’d understand if you ever tried it.”
sanemi snorts. “yeah, or maybe i just don’t have to keep my paralegals on such a tight leash.” his eyes cut to you, one brow cocked in the most unsubtle way possible.
you feel your face heat up but giyu just moves on, cool and dry. “consider raising your standards, shinazugawa. you might even win a case this year.”
the paralegal chokes on a laugh, trying to cover it with a cough. sanemi grins, clearly delighted by the whole exchange. “careful, tomioka. one day, your icy charm’s gonna melt right through your desk.”
giyu just taps the screen again, voice clipped. “thanks for the files. you can go now.”
sanemi lingers a second longer, gaze bouncing between the two of you, then shrugs. “whatever you say, tomioka.”
you nearly choke, but giyu’s face doesn’t flicker—except maybe, if you look close enough, his mouth quirks in a way that says he’s already plotting his revenge.
you let out a shaky sigh the moment the door clicks shut, relief making your shoulders sag. you make a move to stand, but giyu’s hand presses you gently but firmly back into the chair.
“stay,” he murmurs, low and sure.
you blink up at him, heart pounding all over again, and watch as he crosses the room in a few unhurried strides. he locks the door with a quiet click, then reaches up and flips the little do not disturb sign. the gesture is so calm, so certain, it makes your whole body light up with anticipation.
he turns back to you, gaze molten and heavy with promise, and sinks to his knees between your legs. his hands settle on your thighs, warm and steady, and he looks up at you with that quiet, unshakable focus—like there’s nothing in the world but you and him now.
he doesn’t say a word. just runs his hands up the length of your legs, his breath ghosting over your skin as he leans in. all the nerves from a minute ago are gone.
“now,” he says, voice velvet and hush, “where were we?”
your laugh slips out, soft and nervous, trying to anchor yourself in the room. “i think—um—the folder…?” you murmur, voice barely there, gesturing vaguely at the paperwork like maybe if you both pretend, the tension will break.
giyu just gives you this small, dangerous smile. “later,” he says, his hands gliding up your thighs, thumbs pressing slow, soothing circles as he slides your skirt up, inch by inch. the cool office air brushes your skin and you bite your lip, pulse pounding as he leans in, eyes flicking up to watch your face.
he pauses, fingers finding the edge of your panties. his knuckles graze the sensitive skin of your hips, drawing lazy, endless shapes that make your toes curl in your shoes. you hold your breath as he teases the fabric, just enough to make you squirm, then tugs them down—slow, so deliberate, letting his knuckles drag against your thighs as he peels them away.
the fabric slips down your legs, cool and damp with your want. he cups your calf, slides the panties off your ankle, and—still kneeling—folds them in his palm, gaze never leaving your face. he tucks them smoothly into his pocket, and there’s something so possessive about it that your heart jumps up in your throat.
he kisses your knee, then the soft inside of your thigh, each touch unhurried. his hands are everywhere—steady, warm, anchoring you as you tremble for him.
“we’ll get back to the folder…” he murmurs, pressing a kiss higher, “...but i have something else to review first.”
his lips ghost so close to where you’re aching, and you arch for him, helpless. you feel the chair rock under your shifting weight, hear his breath stutter in his chest, feel the scrape of his hair against your bare skin. his hands don’t rush. he drags this out, making sure you feel every inch, every hush, every sweet, hot ache blooming low in your belly.
as he continues to drag it out, he keeps looking up at you, waiting for that desperate, permission-soaked look in your eyes, as if he wants to be absolutely certain you want this—want him—just as much as he does.
he leans down, breath grazing over your clit before the first kiss—soft, almost shy, the barest press of lips, as if he’s introducing himself to every inch. his tongue flicks out, a barely-there stroke that makes your whole body tighten, and you feel his exhale, a quiet sigh against your heat. he takes his time, tasting you with languid, unhurried movements, like he’s relishing how you fall apart under his tongue.
he draws gentle circles, lips and tongue moving so softly it almost aches, coaxing the most fragile sounds out of you. every time you shudder, his hands grip your thighs a little tighter, but he doesn’t speed up, just keeps kissing your bud—tender, soft, savoring each sigh and stutter of your hips. his nose brushes your skin. when you reach for his hair, he hums into you, a low, content sound that melts your bones.
he glances up, eyes soft and dark, and you see all the affection in him—quiet, steadfast, a tenderness that makes your chest feel too small. his tongue flicks again gently, soothing, then his lips seal over you, drinking in every tremble.
he’s not in any rush. he wants you to feel loved. to feel wanted. to feel every ounce of care he’s pouring into you with every slow, exquisite sweep of his mouth.
when your hips roll up, chasing more, he just tightens his grip, holds you steady, and keeps you there in the gentlest way, never letting you float too far from his touch.
in that quiet hush, you realize—he could have you sobbing and begging, but he’s choosing to love you slow.
your body goes taut, trembling all over, and you don’t even realize the tears slipping down your cheeks until he glances up and catches the glimmer—eyes going wide, concern flooding his features. his hands still, softening immediately as he leans up, fingers tracing on your thighs to steady you.
he sits back on his heels, wiping a stray tear from your cheek, his brow furrowed with worry. “hey—hey, are you okay?” his voice is raw, a little panicked, thumb cradling your jaw, eyes searching your face. “did i go too far? i’m so sorry—i should’ve—”
you shake your head frantically, breath coming in uneven waves, hands reaching for him. you catch his wrist and hold on tight, needing the anchor. “no, giyu—no, it’s not bad. it just—” your voice breaks, and you laugh through the tears, heart thundering, “it just feels really, really good. that’s all. i promise.” he exhales, a shaky, relieved sound, and wraps his arms around you, tucking you into his chest right there in his office, as close as he can get. he peppers kisses across your temple, your hair, everywhere his lips can reach, still whispering apologies and sweet reassurances,
“you scared me,” he murmurs, voice low and honest, “but i’m glad. i’m glad you’re okay. i just want you to feel good. only ever that.”
you nod, still breathless, letting yourself melt against him, your tears drying into his shirt as he holds you through the aftershocks. but after a few minutes he leans back just enough to look at you, hands gentle on your hips. “do you want to keep going?” he asks, voice quiet, thumb brushing the last of your tears away.
you manage a nod, breath shaky, cheeks hot. “yes,” you whisper, almost shy, “please.”
he breaks into that rare, soft grin, the one that almost never makes it out of his private orbit. “who knew,” he teases, a playful warmth in his eyes, “...i’d have miss independent paralegal crying for me in my office.” he presses a kiss to your cheek, his thumb lingering at your jaw, and the tenderness in his voice makes your heart skip.
before you can muster a retort, he slides back down, kneeling between your legs again. his hands pry you open, palms wide and steady as he settles in with the kind of calm devotion that makes you ache. he catches your gaze once more, a smile still curling at his lips, and then lowers his head, tongue flicking softly over your clit—gentle at first, savoring the way your hips jolt, the fresh gasp that spills from your lips.
he takes his time, mouth warm and slow, coercing you open with every stroke, every hum of praise. your tears are gone now—replaced by shuddering breaths and needy whimpers as he draws sweet, desperate pleasure from you, tasting every inch until all you can do is cling to the armrest.
then—he gets greedy. his hands firm at your thighs, holding you open, he slides his tongue lower and fucks into you, deep and insistent, letting you feel every slick stroke as he works you apart.
your hips jerk, instinct taking over, trying to shy away from the intensity. but his grip tightens, big hands wrapping around you, pulling you back to his mouth, making sure you can’t escape the onslaught.
“stay,” he murmurs, voice rough and muffled against your skin. he’s relentless, tongue thrusting inside you, lips sealing over your clit as he drives you higher. every time you twitch away, he just hauls you back, holding you firm and helpless, making you ride every wave, every tremble he wrings from your body. your breath comes in sobs and stuttering pleas, nails digging crescent into his shoulder as you teeter right on the edge, and he doesn’t let up—mouth moving with slow, knowing precision, tongue drawing the first delicate letter of your name right over your clit. you gasp, hips jolting, and he keeps going, spelling it again, then another letter, and another, until your legs are shaking and your fingers are tangled in his hair.
when you whimper, thinking he’ll give you a break, he just grins against your skin, hot breath fanning over you, and starts tracing the alphabet—each letter honey slow, flickering pleasure sparking from a to z. your thighs clamp instinctively around his head but he just slides his hands beneath you, spreading you wider, pinning you open for every swirl, every teasing zigzag.
by the time he’s halfway through, you’re a wreck—hands fisted in his hair, back arched off the chair, breath breaking in high, desperate gasps. you can barely form a thought, let alone a word, as he keeps going, relentless, turning each letter into another sharp, dizzying pulse of pleasure.
he finishes the alphabet and you feel him smile, proud and hungry, never once letting up, letting his tongue write out all the things he can’t say in the open hush of his office—spelling your undoing, again and again, until you’re crying his name and begging for more.
your voice shakes as you whisper, “i’m close—” so soft it’s barely a breath, but he catches it, eyes flicking up to meet yours, sharp and warm. he nods, the barest encouragement, and his hands tighten, grounding you as his tongue moves faster, more focused—every stroke focused, every flick designed to push you over.
your thighs tremble, the pressure too much, too sweet, your hips stuttering against his mouth as he pushes you right to the edge. you bite down on your own hand to muffle the whimper threatening to break loose, trying not to draw anyone’s attention, but he only presses in closer, burying his face in your release like he can’t get enough—tongue and lips working you through the wave, savoring every last tremor, drinking in every shudder that wracks your body.
he doesn’t stop until you’re spent, legs quivering around his shoulders, your breath coming in shaky, grateful bursts. only then does he ease up, hands still stroking you, gaze fierce and tender all at once as he slowly kisses his way back up your body, leaving you undone and glowing in the quiet of his office.
his mouth finds yours before you can catch your breath, tasting you, tasting everything he just took from you—his kiss impossibly soft, slow, and then deepens, hungry, desperate, all the patience gone. he cradles your face in both hands, pulling you in until your chests are pressed tight..
your fingers twist into his shirt, tugging him closer, not caring about the mess, not caring about the open window or the unlocked folder. the kiss is so romantic, so devastatingly full, you forget to breathe, the two of you stealing air from each other, letting it linger and deepen until it’s dizzying. each tender kiss like an ‘i love you’ without really saying it.
your heart is pounding, his hands are shaking a little.
finally—you both break away at last—panting, foreheads pressed together, eyes blown wide. the room spins. it feels like the whole world shrank down to the heat between your mouths and the wild thud of your heart.
you blink, stunned, lips tingling, and he just looks at you, something raw and unguarded flickering in his eyes. for a long second neither of you can speak—it’s like the room is suspended in the aftermath, so thick and bright with everything unspoken that you almost laugh.
“what the hell was that?” you breathe, voice shaky, and he smiles, soft and stunned, like he can’t believe it either. neither of you moves, not just yet. you just hold onto him, hearts racing, letting the weight of it settle, electricity humming between you in the afterglow.
you both sit there for a moment, catching your breath, the flush on your skin cooling as reality seeps back in around the edges. giyu is the first to move, gentle and efficient, sliding open a drawer in the cabinet by his desk and pulling out a small pack of wipes—discreet. thank you, for creating him a post-sex cleaning station in his desk.
he kneels again, his touch impossibly tender, cleaning you up first with quiet focus, dabbing at your thighs and the mess between them. his eyes flick up, checking your face, making sure you’re okay, asking wordlessly for permission with every soft stroke. he takes his time, never rushing, soothing your skin, wiping away the evidence of what just happened but none of the warmth. there’s something almost shy in the way he does it, glancing at you between slow, careful strokes.
when he’s done with you, you reach out, brushing your fingers across his jaw. he smiles for you. he tears off another wipe, runs it over his mouth, clearing away the last of you from his lips.
when he tosses the wipes into the trash, he straightens, presses another gentle kiss to your temple, and helps you smooth your skirt back down.
you start glancing around, scanning the chair and the floor for your panties. you catch a flash of fabric in his suit pocket and narrow your eyes at him.
he grins, softly, patting the pocket. “they’re mine now,” he says, utterly unbothered. “you can have them back when you come over later.”
your cheeks burn, half scandalized, half delighted. “you’re such a pervert,” you mutter, and he just shrugs, crossing the room and flopping down on the office couch, phone already in hand.
he scrolls through a few screens, then glances up at you, tone all casual. “what do you want for lunch?”
you make a face. “aren’t we supposed to be going over that folder?” you gesture at the paperwork still abandoned on his desk.
he just waves a hand, eyes back on his phone. “that’s my job to worry about…bring it to me and come here.”
he pats the spot next to him, lips tugging up at the corner and you skirt towards him.
he orders as you plop down. your favorite at your usual spot together.
you're settled next to him on the sofa, knees pulled up, a little dazed, feeling the aftershocks still echoing in your bones. he’s already got his reading glasses on, sorting through the stack of papers, focus returned and brows drawn together in quiet concentration.
you reach for one of the folders out of habit, offering, “do you want me to help?”
he doesn’t look up, but you catch the soft curve at the edge of his mouth. “no. just rest for a minute,” he murmurs, “i’ve got it.” his hand lands on your knee for a second—warm, grounding—before turning back to the pages.
the silence is comfortable, the kind that only comes from being close to someone you trust. the faint clatter of lunch being delivered echoes from outside the door, and the secretary’s soft knock lets you know food’s arrived. you watch as giyu nods in thanks as he grabs it, then returns to his work, papers shuffling quietly as he reviews them.
you watch him for a moment—the strong line of his jaw, the easy way he slips between lawyer and lover—and let yourself breathe. he glances at you once, checking in, his eyes softer than you’re used to seeing at work.
you absentmindedly start scrolling through clothes on your phone—half distraction, half habit—idly thumbing through dresses and shirts you can’t quite decide on. giyu finishes signing something, looks over, and you catch him watching the reflection of your screen in his glasses.
“are you shopping?” he asks, voice mild, tilting his head like he already knows the answer.
you shrug, half sheepish. “just looking. not sure if i should say yes to anything. impulse shopping is dangerous.”
he hums, eyes flicking down to your phone, then back to your face with a faintly teasing edge. “want to go on a shopping date with me? i need a new tie anyway.”
you snort, pretending to think it over, teasing, “i don’t know if i should say yes or no. what if my boss finds out?”
“depends which one you’re worried about—your boss, or your boyfriend?”
you roll your eyes, unable to hide your smile. “which one is better?” you volley back, arching a brow.
giyu pretends to consider it, tapping his chin in mock seriousness. “well, i think your boyfriend lets you steal his credit card and picks you up in his car. but your boss… might be more into spreadsheets than skirts.”
you nudge his knee with your foot, cheeks warm. “hmm…i guess boyfriend wins today, then.”
“good,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his lips to brush your temple. “i like shopping with you. and i really like watching you try things on.”
you lean over, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to his lips—soft and warm, barely more than a brush, but it lingers all the same. you pull back, grinning up at him, and tease, “is it girlfriend air or something? you used to ignore my flirting, or just give me those dry one-word answers. now you’re all expressive and sweet.”
he pretends to be affronted for a second, eyes wide, mouth pulling into a fake frown. “am i… not supposed to act like this?”
you snicker and nudge his shoulder, “no, i’m teasing! i like it. it’s cute on you. you just… you seem happier. with me.”
he stares at you, cheeks tinged with pink, and for a moment the room feels small and entirely yours. he lets his smile slip out, all unguarded and a little shy—something soft that makes your heart squeeze. “is it that obvious?” he asks, almost boyish, eyes crinkling at the corners.
you nod, smiling. “it’s really obvious.”
he ducks his head, smile curling wider, then leans in, voice just for you. “good. i want you to know.”
you tuck your legs up on the couch, phone still in your hand, grinning at him. “so… when should we go out? like, the shopping date.”
he doesn’t even hesitate. “we can go after work today,” he says, matter-of-fact, as if the day’s already been decided, as if he’s been thinking about this longer than you have.
you beam, nodding fast. “okay! sure. let’s do it.”
giyu nods back, impossibly fond, like the two of you just agreed on something monumental. he gathers the last of the folders, spreads them out between you, all business again except for the gentle warmth in his eyes. “alright then,” he says quietly, “let’s review this together so we can get out of here.”
you lean in, shoulder pressed to his, suddenly eager to race through the work—not just for the win, but for the promise of what comes after.
the afternoon drifts of soft conversation and shuffling papers, you and giyu working side by side—shoulders brushing, notes scribbled in the margins, your laughter quiet and his rare smiles reserved just for you. as the clock ticks closer to five, the last page is reviewed, your handwriting neat in the summary box, his signature a swift, practiced scrawl.
when the clock finally flips over, you both let out a breath. giyu stacks the folder, straightens his tie, and calls sanemi’s paralegal over with a call. you hand it off together, exchanging a glance that says it all—done for the day, finally.
he’s already at your side by the elevator, and when you reach the parking garage, he strides ahead just enough to reach his car first. he opens your door, waits for you to slide in, then closes it gently and circles around to the driver’s side. the leather is warm, the interior smelling faintly of cologne and fresh air. he settles in, glancing at you with that familiar, soft look before starting the engine.
the city lights are just starting to blink on as he pulls out into traffic, your shopping date—your evening—stretching out before you, full of possibility.
as he pulls out of the garage, his phone automatically connects to the car’s bluetooth. the speakers fill with the slow, dreamy haze of “apocalypse” by cigarettes after sex, the low voice curling through the quiet space between you. giyu fumbles for a second, cheeks a little pink, one hand reaching to change the song.
“sorry,” he mumbles, glancing over like maybe you’ll think his music taste is stupid.
but you just shake your head, a little smile tugging at your lips as you let the song play. “don’t apologize,” you say, eyes on the city lights flickering past. “it’s a good song. feels kind of perfect, actually.”
he looks relieved, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, letting the song drift between you. you giggle, turning to him as the mellow chords hum through the car. “this is such a you band,” you tease, light and genuine.
he actually laughs—soft and a little surprised—glancing over at you, “thank you,” he says, almost bashful. “it’s… actually my favorite band.”
you blink at him, surprised and a little breathless. you’ve never seen him open up about himself so easily, not about something so personal, so off the usual giyu script. there’s a gentle flush on his cheeks, his eyes shining a little brighter in the streetlight glow.
“really?” you say, voice softening. “i didn’t know that.”
he nods, a tiny smile curving at the corners of his mouth, hands relaxed on the wheel for once. “yeah. i don’t… talk about it much.”
he looks so good like this—just a little awkward, a little proud, letting you in. it makes your heart flutter, makes you want to learn everything about him all at once.
“well, it suits you,” you murmur, unable to look away. “i like seeing you like this.”
he glances at you again, cheeks darker now, and you both smile into the quiet as the city slips by.
he parks, cuts the engine, and is out of the car before you’ve even unbuckled your seatbelt. when you step out onto the bustling pavement, the city air full of chatter and bustle, giyu is already there—reaching for your hand without hesitation.
his palm is warm, steady, fingers slotting perfectly with yours. he holds on, leading you through the traffic, the swirl of after-work crowds and bright window displays, his thumb brushing the back of your hand.
he glances back every now and then to make sure you’re keeping up, the smallest smile lingering on his lips each time he catches your eye. you can’t help but beam, caught between the rush of people and the comfort of being beside him.
the two of you drift from shop to shop, sometimes hand-in-hand, sometimes close enough to feel his shoulder brush yours as you browse. he points out a dress that makes you feel warm, and you make him hold up a tie that’s far too loud for his usual taste. he surprises you by pausing at the shoe section, tapping a pair you pointed out earlier online. “do you…want to try these?” he asks, voice soft, and there’s something almost giddy about the way you say yes.
the evening unfolds that way—gentle, slow, sweet—with him carrying your bags, pausing so you can linger at a jewelry display, ducking into corners to kiss you when no one’s looking. everything about it feels long and domestic, the city spinning around you as he quietly, unmistakably makes you his.
as you walk past the mannequins in the front window of a higher-end boutique, the idea pops into your head and you tug gently at his hand to slow him down. “hey, we should get matching outfits for events,” you say, half joking but also entirely sincere. “like—if you ever need a plus one for work things. dress and tie, or dress shirts, or something. it’d be cute.”
he pauses mid-step, genuinely surprised—eyes wide for a second before the thought really lands. you watch the gears turn in his head, his lips parting like he’s about to deflect, but instead he just… smiles. almost bashful, almost reverent.
“i agree,” he says, his voice soft, and there’s a shy kind of happiness you rarely see from him. “that would be… nice.”
you both look around, scanning store windows, until a brand shop catches your eye—display full of formalwear, mannequins draped in rich fabrics. you pull him inside, excitement bubbling. after a bit of searching, you spot a deep carmine red dress with a subtle shimmer. you hold it up, turning to giyu, who’s looking for a tie and handkerchief to match—his fingers lingering over silk and linen, finally finding one in the exact shade.
you laugh, and he grins at you, holding the tie to his shirt and watching your reaction. “what do you think?” he asks, a rare hint of playfulness warming his voice. “perfect,” you answer, feeling your heart skip as you both admire the matching colors.
you’re about to keep moving—bags rustling, the new dress swinging on your arm—when giyu’s hand gently tugs you back. he glances at a jewelry store window, something unreadable flickering across his face. “wait,” he murmurs, quiet and serious, “i want to look at something.”
you nod, a little breathless at the thought of him wanting to browse, and let him guide you inside. the sound of the shop is a soft contrast to the bright clatter of the mall, glass counters gleaming, cases full of gold and silver and tiny flashes of precious stones.
while giyu lingers over a row of men’s cufflinks and watches, you drift a little—almost unconsciously—toward a case of rings. your eyes skim the displays, drawn by muscle memory to that one style you always catch yourself dreaming about: delicate band, your favorite size and cut, something understated but unmistakably meaningful.
your fingers hover just above the glass, lost in the small glint and promise, heart fluttering a little. you steal a glance at him, wondering if he notices, but he’s quietly talking to the clerk about something, his gaze darting back to you with a softness that feels private, almost secret.
the soft chime above the door fades as you stand at the display, fingers absently tracing the cool edge of the glass. a friendly clerk materializes at your elbow, voice gentle but curious. “has anything caught your eye yet?” they ask, eyes twinkling as they notice where your gaze lingers.
you flush, a little embarrassed at being caught daydreaming, but you nod and point toward your favorite, “that one’s really pretty,” you say quietly, half to yourself.
the clerk lights up, all practiced warmth. “great taste. are you looking for yourself?”
your cheeks get warmer. “oh, just… looking,” you hedge, glancing over your shoulder at giyu, who’s watching from a few paces away, hands in his pockets.
the clerk leans in conspiratorially. “well, it helps to know your size, just in case. do you know yours?”
your mind blanks for a second. you fidget, admitting, “i… think so? i haven’t really worn rings in a while.”
“let’s check,” the clerk says, already reaching for a ring sizer. they hold it out to you, coaxing your hand forward, all gentle efficiency and kind smiles.
the clerk is charming—easy, bright, steering you gently through a conversation you didn’t mean to have. “so, do you prefer gold or silver?” they ask, laying out a couple of slim bands for you to compare. you hesitate, but your answer tumbles out anyway. they nod, eyes alight, drawing out a few options, sliding them in front of you. “classic and timeless,” they say, “those always look best on hands like yours.” you laugh, rolling your eyes, but the warmth in their tone disarms you, and you end up chatting about settings and stone shapes, styles you never realized you had opinions about.
“oval cut or round?” they ask, and you murmur, you answer after a beat, “ —it’s softer. not so… formal.”
while you’re talking, you hear giyu in the background, his voice a low rumble as he finishes up with a different clerk at the counter—buying a set of simple, elegant cufflinks. he has a fond look in his gaze as he listens to you laugh, the easy rhythm of your voice while you talk about things that feel both ordinary and intimate.
by the time the clerk slips a delicate gold band onto your finger—just to try, just to see—you’re laughing easily, comforted by their kind presence.
giyu finishes at the counter and strolls back to your side, tucking the cufflink box into his pocket, eyes gentle as he surveys the display. “so,” he says, voice warm and a little teasing, “what’s caught your eye?”
your heart jumps into your throat. suddenly the delicate gold band feels heavy, too precious. you panic, cheeks blazing, and hurriedly slip the ring off your finger, pressing it back into the clerk’s palm with a sheepish laugh. “oh, just looking,” you say, waving off the question, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “it was just fun to try. i think we should keep moving.”
the clerk beams at you, undeterred, but tucks the ring back into the case with a knowing smile. “of course.”
you catch giyu’s eye—his brows knit just slightly, reading the nerves in your expression, but he doesn’t push. instead, he slips his hand into yours again, squeezing once. “ready?” he murmurs.
you nod a little too quickly, grateful for the cool air outside as you step back onto the busy walkway.
every time you so much as reach for your wallet, he’s already handing over his card, waving away your protests with a patient little smile. he carries your bags without complaint, and by the end of the evening you’re weighed down by a mountain of shopping: dress, shoes, ties, a stack of new shirts for him, a necklace you liked, even some skincare and snacks he insisted on trying together.
the only thing you manage to pay for is the parking fee, and that’s only because you physically beat him to the kiosk and swiped your card with a triumphant flourish. he looks at you, expression caught somewhere between exasperated and fond, sipping at his green iced tea like he hasn’t just treated you to a small city’s worth of retail therapy.
you can’t help it—you groan, cheeks burning, “giyu, you are ridiculous. i can’t believe you wouldn’t even let me pay for a single thing except parking. you know i could’ve helped, right?”
he just shrugs, that soft, infuriatingly calm smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “it’s my treat,” he says, almost shy about it, like he can’t help but spoil you.
you huff, half cursing, half grateful. “next time, i’m getting the coffee at least. and you better not fight me.”
he just takes another sip of his tea, eyes glinting in the low light, and murmurs, “we’ll see.”
your hands are full, your heart is full, and you can’t stop smiling as you follow him through the dusk, tripping over your words and your own happiness.
his hand finds yours automatically, fingers woven tight, as he drives you home. the bags in the backseat rustle with every turn, but neither of you speaks—content, for a while, to let the slow music play and the city slip by in glimmers of neon and streetlight.
finally, giyu clears his throat, voice barely above the soft hum of the stereo. “i have to go on a business trip,” he says quietly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “leaving tomorrow. i won’t be back till monday.”
you turn to him, pushing out your lower lip in an exaggerated pout, making your eyes as big and tragic as you can. “seriously? that’s, like, forever. who’s going to tell me to rest and buy me way too many clothes?”
he glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up at your theatrics. “i’ll text you,” he promises, his thumb drawing at the edge of your skirt. “maybe even call, if you don’t mind.”
you spend the evening lost in your new things—slipping on the carmine dress, testing out a pair of shoes, layering jewelry and spinning in front of your mirror. each outfit feels a little more like a secret meant only for him, so you snap a few photos—some playful, some coy, a couple just for the two of you—and send them off, heart thudding in your chest.
his replies trickle in, quick and sweet at first: beautiful. that color looks perfect on you. don’t tempt me too much. then they get a little more sporadic—he’s busy, traveling, updates coming in fits and starts: boarding now. i’ll text when i land. flight was fine. miss you already.
the next day, your phone buzzes against your cheek, waking you in the early morning light. you blink blearily at the screen, giyu’s name flashing in the dark. it’s late at night on his end, and his voice is a little rough when you answer.
“hey,” he says, softer than usual, the sound crackling over the line. “sorry. i just got to the hotel. couldn’t sleep without hearing you.”
you smile, voice thick with sleep and something sweeter. “you made it safe?”
“yeah,” he murmurs, and you can almost hear him settling onto the hotel bed, sheets rustling. “i was thinking about you. about yesterday.” he pauses, lets out a low, tired laugh. “did you try everything on yet?”
“mhm,” you reply, nestling back into your pillows. “i sent you pictures, remember?”
“i remember, but you didn’t send me a photo of the necklace,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “but it made my day. i wish i was there with you.” you giggle, “yes, yes, mr. tomioka, i will send a photo in a bit.” he hums in quiet delight.
“what are you going to do today?” he asks, voice hushed and intimate, like he’s lying right there next to you.
you yawn, curling tighter in your blankets. “probably just clean up a bit. maybe relax, do nothing for once. live dangerously and order takeout.”
he hums, and you can hear the soft rustle as he shifts, getting comfortable. “you can use my card if you doordash,” he says, teasing but absolutely serious. “i don’t want you skipping meals.”
you roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “i’m not using your card for snacks. i can feed myself, you know.”
he just laughs, tired but content. “well, if you change your mind, it’s saved in your app. i have a meeting in the morning, so i need to sleep soon,” he says, the words edged with regret.
“yeah, get some rest,” you say softly, missing him already. “text me when you wake up?”
“of course,” he murmurs, and you can almost see the sleepy smile on his lips. “goodnight.”
“goodnight, giyu,” you whisper, holding your phone tight until the call ends, your room feeling both lonelier and a little more full for having heard his voice.
first task at hand, you wander to the kitchen, hair a mess, making coffee the way giyu likes it just to smell it in the air. you pad around in one of his t-shirts, sipping and watching the sun creep across the floorboards, answering a few texts from mitsuri and sending her a blurry photo of your clothes.
then you put on music, let the softest indie playlist fill up the empty space. you clean the living room, folding stray blankets and stacking up the bags from yesterday, every now and then pausing to admire the dress or the new pair of shoes still in their box.
you throw laundry in, sweep the floor, water the little plant on the windowsill. there’s something peaceful about the quiet rhythm, just you and your thoughts and the faint memory of giyu’s hands still clinging to your skin.
you text him a sleepy selfie—missing you, but surviving—then dive into a book on the couch, legs tucked under you, the world outside forgotten for a while. at some point, you remember the carmine dress and try it on again just for yourself, twirling in the hallway mirror, smiling like an idiot, thinking about his matching tie and matching handkerchief.
afternoon rolls in slow and warm. you order takeout after all, blaming giyu’s credit card for your sudden craving. you eat at the table, phone in hand, scrolling through your favorite memes, already planning which ones to send him when he wakes up.
by the time six hours have slipped by, the place is tidy, the laundry folded, and you’re sprawled on the couch in fresh pajamas, your hair soft and a little damp from a long, indulgent shower. everything is calm—almost lonely, but safe and quiet—the whole day waiting for his voice on the other end of the line again.
your phone rings just as you’re stretching out on the couch, a little sleepy, a little restless from the hours without him. you see his name and answer before the second ring, voice bright, “hey, you’re awake!”
but on the other end, giyu’s breath catches—low and unsteady, nothing like his usual calm. you hear him groan, a soft, desperate sound, and then your name falls from his lips, thick and drawn out, trembling with need.
your heart skips. you freeze, eyes going wide, pulse stumbling as his moan unspools through the speaker. you can hear the rustle of sheets, the faint creak of the hotel bed as he shifts, breath ragged and full of longing.
“i…couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmurs, his voice deep, heavy with sleep and want. another low sound tumbles out, raw and hungry, and your name again—this time like a confession, like a plea.
the ache that’s been building all day sharpens, heat curling low in your belly as you realize exactly what kind of call this is. your body goes hot, anticipation sparking everywhere, the line buzzing with the distance between you—suddenly, impossibly, not nearly enough.
your voice is soft, breathless, almost teasing. “what’s wrong, giyu?”
he exhales hard, the sound trembling in your ear. “i… i just miss you,” he admits, voice raw, barely controlled. “i had a dream about you…. couldn’t get back to sleep.”
your curiosity gets the better of you, your tone playful and coaxing. “oh? what kind of dream?”
he groans again, as if the memory itself is too much. “no, i can’t—”
you laugh, half a dare, half a challenge. “if you don’t tell me, i’ll hang up right now. come on, lawyer. confession time.”
he whimpers, the sound so unguarded it makes your stomach twist. finally, he gives in, words tumbling out in a rush. “i woke up so—fuck—so hard,” he confesses, voice pitched low, “because i dreamed of you… in a wedding dress. you were walking toward me.”
your own breath hitches, heart pounding, the image hitting you as hard as it did him. the ache between you swells, tension strung tight across miles, sweet and excruciating. his next moan is all you, your name, soft and desperate—like he can’t help but worship you, even in his sleep.
you try to regain your composure, tossing a teasing smile into your voice. “so you’re romantic now, huh? wedding dresses and everything? is this my lawyer or some hopeless romantic on the phone with me?”
his breath catches again, need sharpening in the silence. “stop,” he says, voice deeper, more commanding than you’ve ever heard. “get in bed for me. now. take your clothes off.”
you freeze, pulse fluttering, the playful edge slipping away as his tone settles somewhere between plea and order. the heat in your belly spikes. you hear his breath hitch again, waiting, wanting, the hunger in his voice making it impossible to say no.
slowly, you make your way to your bed, phone cradled to your ear. “okay,” you whisper, anticipation sparking through every nerve. “i’m doing it.”
his next exhale is ragged, thick with longing. “tell me when you’re ready,” he murmurs, each word a promise.
.
...
“i’m ready…”
his voice drops, soft and coaxing, the words a little shaky with want. “slow, okay?” he murmurs. “touch your nipples for me. just… slow circles. let me hear you.”
you tease your skin, drawing gentle circles with your fingertips—tension sharp and aching, the memory of his mouth making you shiver. you close your eyes and moan softly, unable to help it, hips shifting restlessly against the sheets.
you hear his breath catch, the low, guttural sound of him losing his mind on the other end. “please,” he whispers, voice going ragged. “so good, sweetheart. you sound so beautiful for me. just like that, yeah?” you whimper his name, nerves sparking as you keep moving, every flick of your finger making you ache. his small, broken praises fill your ear—quiet, holy, all heat.
“wish i was there,” he mumbles, like he’s desperate to be in the room with you, “wish i could touch you. you’re so good for me. my angel.”
his breath is rough in your ear, words thick with longing and praise. “listen to you,” he murmurs, voice all velvet and hunger. “my beautiful, smart paralegal… sound so sweet for me.”
you whimper, arched back, as he guides you, “go slow, touch your clit—just like i do. close your eyes for me. picture me in front of you. you can do that, right?”
you nod, barely remembering to breathe. your breath shudders, eyes squeezing shut, imagining the way he always looks at you—so focused, so gentle, so desperate when it’s just the two of you.
“that’s it,” he whispers, like he’s right beside you, “pretend i’m there. let me hear you, beautiful.”
your hand trembles as you touch yourself, every nerve alive with the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he always worships you like you’re the only thing in the world. your moans spill out softer, wetter, the ache sharper for how much you want him here, now. your breath is ragged, chest rising and falling as you cry out his name—soft and desperate, every sound just for him. he groans, broken and sweet through the speaker, and you hear the thick edge of his need.
“...i love your attitude,” he rasps, the words tumbling out rough and earnest. “the way you talk back, the way you laugh… you make me feel alive. i haven’t felt this happy in years, you know that?”
the confession tangles with the low, ruined pleasure in his voice. you whimper, hand trembling, every nerve stretched thin. “giyu—i, it’s too much, i’m—”
“no, don’t stop,” he urges, gentle but urgent, the longing in his words enough to pin you to the bed. “keep going for me. i want to hear you come for me, sweetheart.”
your eyes squeeze shut, fingers moving faster as he whispers your name over and over, praises slipping out like secrets, like promises, until you’re spiraling, lost in him, every breath and heartbeat synced across the line.
his voice drops even lower, trembling with the force of it, words spilling out unguarded as you ride the edge together. “you mean so much to me,” he confesses, voice thick with emotion and heat. “i—i want to spend my life w—”
but the words get lost as you both tip over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you so hard it steals your breath, your cry ringing out, raw and unrestrained. on the other end, giyu is undone too—his own moans breaking, desperate, his voice dissolving into your name, all need and devotion and want.
the world narrows to static and heartbeats, everything else fading out but the sound of each other falling apart. his confession slips between the noise, nearly swallowed up by your pleasure, the meaning lingering in the silence after—heavy, precious, and quietly, wildly real.
you collapse back against the pillows, laughter bubbling out of you—loose, unsteady, high on the aftershocks. the line is filled with your breathless giggles and the ragged sound of giyu’s breathing, both of you floating somewhere sweet and unguarded.
“oh my god,” you manage, still laughing, every muscle tingling. “that was… wow.”
giyu lets out a shaky breath, his voice softer now, colored by a smile you can almost feel through the phone. “yeah. wow.”
for a while, neither of you says much, just breathing together across the miles, letting the quiet fill up with something golden and heady. you listen to him settle, sheets rustling, his voice going gentler by the second.
you hum, dreamy, “if this is what long distance is like, i don’t think i’ll survive the week.”
he laughs, low and tired and full of you. “i’ll call you every night,” he promises, as if he’d go mad if he didn’t. “and when i get back, i’m not letting you out of my sight.”
your heart tumbles in your chest, happiness spilling over until it’s all you can do to just listen to the hush of his breathing, content and tangled up in him, even with a thousand miles between you.
the hours slip by in a warm, honeyed blur—you and giyu tangled up in sleepy conversation, half whispers and inside jokes, your voices the only thread tying the world together. you talk about nothing and everything, from favorite snacks to wild stories from work, until he finally sighs and says he has to get ready for the day.
before he hangs up, he quietly orders breakfast to your door—texting you a receipt, a little heart, and a note: don’t get up unless you have to. rest for me, please.
of course, you still roll out of bed when the food arrives, hair wild, throwing on one of his old hoodies and shuffling to the door with a bleary grin. you eat curled up on the couch, your favorite show queued up, sunlight spilling across the coffee table. you scroll through your phone, sending him a picture of the breakfast he bought, a dramatic thank-you selfie, and a shot of the delicate lingerie he gifted you before, laid out across the sheets.
the weekend drifts on—easy, quiet, full of small comforts and the slow ache of waiting. you nap, read, dance around your apartment in new clothes, and let yourself just be. when night falls, you’re burrowed deep in blankets, half-asleep, when your phone lights up with his name.
“last day,” he murmurs, his voice soft and tired, but bright with promise. “i’ll be home tomorrow. can’t wait to see you.”
you close your eyes, relief flooding in, your chest full of the thought that soon, the distance will shrink again—him and you, back in each other’s arms, right where you both belong.
you’re tucked away in your cubicle, half lost to the world—typing up his notes with practiced speed, headphones in, your favorite playlist humming low. you’re in that perfect work zone, head down, barely glancing up as people drift by.
it’s not until mitsuri comes barreling over, voice bubbling with delight, that you even notice the sudden pop of color on your desk. “oh my gosh, look at you!” she sings, eyes wide, grinning. “who are these from?”
you blink, tearing your headphones off, and only then do you see the vase—a lush spray of fresh flowers, bright and fragrant and entirely impossible to ignore. a little card is tucked between the blooms, your name scrawled in familiar handwriting.
you go warm all over, realizing who must’ve dropped them off. before you can say a word, mitsuri leans in, winking, “someone really missed you, huh?”
and as you glance up, you catch a glimpse of giyu in the doorway of his office, gaze lingering on you for just a second, quiet pride flickering in his eyes before he ducks away to let you have your moment. your whole chest flutters, the office suddenly too small.
you finish sorting his papers, stacking everything neatly, nerves fizzing with excitement. you cross the hallway with the file in hand, glancing around before slipping into his office and quietly clicking the lock behind you.
giyu’s at his desk, glasses perched on his nose, but as soon as he hears the door, he leans back in his chair and parts his legs—silent invitation, that faint smirk tugging at his mouth. you try to play it cool, setting the file on his desk, but you can’t help it; you rush into his arms, laughing as you go to hug him.
he pulls you in, his arms looping around your waist, face buried against your neck, fingers frayed at your back. you freeze, caught off guard by the tenderness—he’s never held you like this at work, not so openly. your hands drift into his hair, stroking gently, heart squeezing at how tightly he’s holding on.
you chuckle, a little breathless. “i miss you too, mr. tomioka. you know, you’re gonna get us caught.”
he looks up, eyes soft and shining, and just squeezes you closer. “let them try,” he murmurs, voice muffled and teasing, “i don’t care. not right now.”
you pull back a little, still cradled between his knees, fingers running through his hair. “look at you,” you tease, voice low and full of fondness, “getting all soft on me. who knew giyu tomioka had this side?”
he laughs, quiet and quick, barely more than a huff, but he doesn’t let go—just looks up at you, ignoring the teasing with a stubborn little smirk. you finally ease out of his arms, smoothing your skirt and pretending to dust off his shoulders. “thank you for the flowers,” you say, softer, sincere. “they’re beautiful.”
he gives you a look—warm, lingering, the sort that makes you melt a little—then watches as you set the revised notes on his desk. you nudge them closer, grinning, “your notes, all fixed. you’re welcome.”
he flips through the stack with careful hands, glancing over the work, but his eyes keep drifting back to you, never quite able to hide how much he missed you, how happy he is to have you close again.
he glances up from your notes, something nervous and hopeful in his eyes. “do you want to go out with me on friday night?” he asks, voice low and quiet, like he’s offering a secret.
you light up, grinning. “of course i do!”
he softens all over, his lips quirking into a smile that’s mostly relief, already pulling out his phone. “i’ll reserve us a table,” he promises, thumb moving quickly, already searching through restaurants. “we can coordinate outfits, too. whatever color you want. just tell me, i’ll make it work.”
you watch, warmth blooming in your chest as he types in details, almost shy in how serious he is about it—like he’d already planned every detail, just waiting for you to say yes. the air between you glows with something sweet and easy, promise hanging between your joined lives.
the rest of the day settles into a familiar, easy rhythm. you and giyu fall back into step—passing files across his desk, reviewing details side by side, the quiet hum of office life slipping by.
when the day finally winds down and the building empties out, he insists on walking you to your car. you step into the cool evening, shoulders brushing, his hand hovering at the small of your back. the city’s faded to blue and gold, parking lot quiet except for the hush of far-off traffic.
at your car, you pause—turning to him, all softness and gratitude. he doesn’t hesitate, leans in, lips finding yours in a kiss that’s gentle and lingering, the kind that says he’s missed you, the kind that promises more.
you pull away last, both of you smiling into the twilight. “see you tomorrow, mr. tomioka,” you tease, one foot already in your car.
he laughs, voice low and warm. “drive safe. text me when you get home.”
you nod, heart full, and watch him as you pull out, his silhouette fading behind you—already counting the hours until you see him again.
the morning kicks off in chaos—the good kind!
tengen’s booming laugh fills the conference room first, his voice bright and flashy as always. rengoku, matching his energy like a flame catching wind, claps a heavy hand on your shoulder mid-story, the two of them going back and forth in a whirlwind of noise and charisma. you’re caught somewhere in the middle—grinning, tossing in your own quips, half-laughing at how impossible it is to get a word in without getting swept up.
“you call that a strategy?” tengen snorts, smirking at rengoku. “you’re all passion, no subtlety!”
“and you’re all show, no discipline!” rengoku fires back, eyes gleaming, and the two of them start mock-arguing like overgrown brothers.
the door bursts open and mitsuri walks in, pink curls bouncing, eyes lighting up. “what’s all this noise? are we having fun without me?” she gasps dramatically, and that’s it—everything gets louder. the energy spikes like a festival. she slips next to you, immediately gushing over your outfit, and before long you’re giggling and trading compliments and stories like you’ve all had too much caffeine.
in the middle of it, giyu’s been standing by the corkboard, quiet as ever, a pen in his hand as he scans through the case postings. he doesn’t say a word. just hums once, sets the pen down, and quietly collects a few files while the rest of you are doubled over laughing about tengen’s ridiculous “team-building” idea.
you catch a glimpse of him heading for the door—coat draped over one arm, expression unreadable. the room barely notices as he slips out, the laughter still spilling behind him while the door shuts with a soft click.
for a second, you find yourself looking at the empty space he left, before tengen waves a hand in front of your face and says, “hellooo, earth to pretty lady—are you even listening?”
you shake it off with a grin, but somewhere under the noise, you can’t help but wonder what’s running through giyu’s mind.
you laugh, “i’ll be right back,” and make for the door.
“hey, hey, hey—what’s this?” tengen’s voice booms dramatically behind you. “how come tomioka gets the passionate and cute assistant while the rest of us are left here in silence?”
rengoku bursts into laughter. “silence? you’re louder than a festival, uzui!”
mitsuri snorts, half choking on her drink. “oh, he’s jealous!”
“jealous? absolutely!” tengen declares with mock offense, flipping his hair. “i just think it’s unflashy that tomioka keeps stealing all the good ones.”
“you don’t even work with her,” rengoku adds through a grin.
“precisely my point!” tengen fires back, gesturing grandly toward the hallway you just disappeared down. “i’d make excellent use of a paralegal like that—so passionate, so hardworking—”
mitsuri laughs so hard she can barely breathe, clutching her stomach. “you mean so pretty!”
“ah,” tengen sighs dramatically, “caught in 4k.”
they all keep laughing, voices carrying down the corridor, but you’re already gone—your heels soft against the floor as you chase after giyu, heart thudding with something you can’t quite name.
you call his name down the hall, your voice carrying softly between the echo of your steps.
he pauses mid-stride, shoulders stiff for a second before he turns—expression neutral, that usual calm resting behind his eyes.
“are you okay?” you ask, closing the distance.
“yeah,” he says quietly overstimulated. “just… loud.”
there’s a faint tug at the corner of his mouth—half amusement, half exhaustion. you can tell the morning chaos took it out of him. without thinking, you reach for his hand. he hesitates only a beat before his fingers lace through yours, warm and familiar.
you walk like that for a while, hand in hand, neither of you talking. just the hum of the office lights above and the soft click of your shoes on the floor.
halfway down the corridor, you stop. he turns, brows lifting slightly, that small tilt of confusion he gets when you catch him off guard.
“what is it?” he asks.
you don’t answer. instead, you step closer, rise on your toes, and kiss him. it’s slow—nothing showy, nothing rushed. just your lips against his, the quiet weight of affection you hadn’t planned to show here, in this sterile hallway.
when you pull back, his eyes are still closed for a beat too long. then he exhales, soft and stunned, and murmurs, “...you’re going to make it impossible to focus today.”
you grin, fingers still tangled with his. “good. maybe i like being a distraction.”
he huffs a tiny laugh, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “you’re definitely that.”
you follow him back to his office, hand brushing against his as you walk. giyu opens the door and lets you in first, shutting it softly behind you. the noise from the hallway fades—just the hum of his computer and that faint cedar-and-coffee smell that always clings to his space.
he moves around his desk, sliding a few folders toward you. “there’s a new case coming in,” he says, settling into his chair. “civil contract dispute…same drill as usual.”
you nod, pulling your notepad from your bag. “got it. want me to start with the motion or the case summary?”
“both,” he says, deadpan. then his voice softens a fraction. “i already ordered lunch for us.” he’s looking at his screen when he adds, almost too quietly, “i’ll order dinner too.”
you lean back in your chair, smiling. “what was that? did mr. tomioka just say something about dinner?”
he doesn’t look up. “it’s called… planning ahead.”
“oh, totally,” you tease. “sounds a lot like date night planning ahead.”
his eyes flick toward you then—one of those tiny side-glances that’s half warning, half shy amusement. “you talk too much.”
“only because it’s cute when you get flustered,” you counter, grinning.
he exhales through his nose, a quiet almost-laugh, and shakes his head. “just do your research.”
you open the folder with a smirk, pen poised. “sure thing, boss. but i’m ordering dessert later, since apparently we’re doing lunch and dinner.”
“fine,” he murmurs, typing again. “as long as it keeps you from running off with uzui next time.”
you bite back a smile, pretending to focus on the paperwork—but your chest feels warm, the quiet kind that only giyu’s soft voice ever leaves behind.
the week drifts by like i’m not even sure how. i had a brain fart here. but it drifts. same little meetings, same small smiles when your eyes meet across the room. you and giyu slip into routine so easily now that it feels rehearsed—like muscle memory.
nothing new to observe, no surprises—just quiet comfort. the rhythm of your days plays out like a familiar song.
you’ve been on a roll this week too, staying late, catching every typo before he even sees it. by thursday, you’ve already finished two drafts ahead of schedule. giyu looks almost impressed when you drop another folder on his desk without being asked.
“you’ve been working too much,” he says, voice low. “...you don’t even let me remind you anymore.”
“well, you’re rubbing off on me,” you tease lightly, scribbling a few last notes. “i think i’ve become allergic to mistakes.”
he’s about to say something back when a knock cuts through the quiet. sanemi pokes his head in, scowl and all. “tomioka. need you in my office.”
giyu glances up from his monitor, calm as ever. “now?”
“yeah, now.”
he exhales softly, stands, and straightens his tie. “i’ll be back soon,” he murmurs to you before heading out.
as the door shuts behind him, the silence that fills his office feels too still. you spin your pen, staring at the paperwork… then…. you stare at the glowing screen... you know better—he’d never forgive you if he caught you snooping. but curiosity slides its hand up your back like a devilish whisper. giyu tomioka, the man who barely blinks at gossip, who blushes if someone uses the word boyfriend too loud in the same room, has to have some secrets tucked away in his pristine little folders.
you glance at the door. still quiet.
“just a peek,” you mutter, tapping the trackpad.
the screen wakes fully, browser window open. and there it is—his search history. no work tabs, no court filings, no legal databases. just… him.
best hiking trails near the city
quiet dinner spots with views
audi r8 coupe carvana
cigarettes after sex tickets
shogi tables near me
and then—
how to act in a relationship
relationship advice for shy boyfriends
reddit tips for being emotionally available
reddit tips to make your girlfriend feel loved
you freeze.
the sight hits you square in the chest—funny and painfully tender at once. giyu, the stoic partner everyone calls “the iceberg of hashira llc,” googling how to be good at love.
you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh, but it cracks anyway—small and giddy, spilling out of you before you can help it.
“oh my god,” you whisper, shaking your head, cheeks warm. “you adorable idiot.”
you scroll a little more, eyes softening at a saved tab: 10 thoughtful things to say to your partner after a hard day.
by the time you close the laptop, you’re smiling so hard it hurts. your heart feels like it’s tripping over itself. you lean back in his chair, sighing.
“you really don’t make it easy to keep a straight face, tomioka,” you murmur to the empty room, already missing him a little.
the door clicks open. you jolt upright in his chair so fast you nearly send a pen flying across the desk. giyu steps in, calm as ever, the faintest edge of fatigue on his face.
his eyes drift immediately to the laptop—closed neatly now, no longer glowing on his desk. he frowns just slightly, then looks at you.
“why’s my laptop closed?”
your brain scrambles for an excuse. “uh—i—i thought it was, um, gonna sleep too long and overheat?”
he tilts his head. “overheat?”
you blink up at him, all fake innocence and nervous laughter. “yeah, you know, laptops do that sometimes when they’re left open for too long.”
he just stares. that flat, unreadable giyu stare that somehow manages to see through you.
then quietly, “did you get on it?”
you freeze.
he crosses his arms, voice patient but firm. “did you?”
your lips twitch, eyes darting away, and you nod once—tiny, guilty, like a child caught red-handed.
he sighs, long and tired, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “…and what exactly were you looking for?”
“nothing bad!” you blurt, way too fast. “i just—i got curious! i thought maybe you were watching some boring lawyer documentaries or something, but then—”
his brows lift just enough to make you swallow the rest of that sentence.
“but then what?”
you cover your face with both hands, muffled, “you’re gonna kill me.”
“i doubt it.”
you peek through your fingers, cheeks hot. “you were… googling relationship advice.”
his expression doesn’t change. for a beat, you think you’re doomed. then—his cheeks go pink.
he blinks slowly. “…so?” embarrassed.
“so?!” you hiss. “you googled how to be a better boyfriend!”
“i didn’t know there was a crime in self-improvement,” he murmurs shy and dry, though his voice is lower now, quieter.
the silence that settles between you is heavy but strangely soft. giyu’s still leaning against the desk, head slightly bowed, thumb tracing the edge of a folder like he needs something to do with his hands. his ears are pink all the way down to the curve of his neck, and you swear you’ve never seen him this human before.
you shift in your seat, heart hammering against your ribs. the embarrassment hits late—warm and crawling up your face—because suddenly it’s too real. you actually caught him doing that, and it feels like you read a diary you were never meant to see.
“…so,” you start carefully, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “relationship advice, huh?”
he groans softly, dragging a hand down his face. “...don’t.”
you bite back a grin. “no, i’m not teasing. i just—” you shrug, eyes flicking to the floor. “i didn’t expect that from you.”
“good,” he mutters. “i wasn’t exactly planning for you to find out.”
you can’t help it; a small laugh escapes. “you’re lucky i think it’s cute.”
he looks up at that, eyes meeting yours, and there’s this flicker of relief beneath his embarrassment. “…cute?”
you nod, cheeks hot. “yeah. it’s—i don’t know. kind of sweet that you care that much.”
his mouth opens like he wants to say something, then closes again. a rare, quiet vulnerability settles over him—something shy, boyish, so…genuine.
you reach across the desk, fingers brushing his wrist. “hey. for the record? you’re already a pretty good boyfriend.”
he exhales through his nose, something small and disbelieving curling into a smile. “that so?”
you nod again, grinning now. “yeah. and if you ever need advice, just ask me next time instead of google.”
“…depends,” he murmurs. “you charge by the hour?”
“depends,” you echo back, smirking. “you paying in compliments or kisses?”
his laugh—quiet, genuine—fills the space between you. and for a moment, the embarrassment fades, replaced by something that feels like the start of something deeper.
friday rolls in on a soft gentle light through the office windows. the whole floor hums with that friday kind of energy—papers shuffled lazily, laughter echoing down the hall, the smell of coffee and sugar thick in the air.
you’re halfway through replying to an email when mitsuri pokes her head into your cubicle, whisper-shouting, “donuts! break room! tengen brought them!”
you glance up, blinking. “tengen?”
“yes! and he’s already bragging about how flashy his donut choices are,” she says, grinning.
“you better hurry before sanemi eats all the good ones again!”
you laugh and grab your mug, heading to the break room where chaos has, unsurprisingly, already bloomed. tengen’s in the center of it—loud, charming, hair tied back in a silk band, sleeves rolled up. he’s narrating his donut selection process like it’s a gourmet presentation.
“these ones are matcha cream,” he declares proudly, “because even my donuts are cultured. and these—these are chocolate lava, for the dramatic souls among us.”
“you mean yourself?” sanemi says around a mouthful
you shake your head, grabbing one of the simpler glazed ones before they vanish. giyu slips into the room a moment later—quiet, clean-cut, the contrast to tengen’s booming energy.
he catches your eye briefly across the counter, gives the smallest smile only you seem to catch, and for a second, the noise fades.
“big plans tonight, lovebirds?” mitsuri singsongs from behind you.
you almost choke on your donut. “w–we’re just getting dinner!”
“ohhh, dinner,” tengen teases, winking, “is that what the kids call it now?”
“uzui,” giyu says dryly, pouring himself coffee, “don’t you have a meeting?”
“don’t you have romance to prepare for?”
everyone laughs, and giyu deadpans
you linger a bit after the donut chaos, leaning against mitsuri’s desk while she tells you about obanai’s latest attempt to bake cookies (“they were charcoal, again,” she whispers dramatically). sanemi cuts in with something snarky, rengoku laughs too loud from the corner.
after a few minutes, though, your eyes drift toward the direction of giyu’s office. through the glass you can see him sitting at his desk, posture straight, head bowed over a small stack of paperwork. he’s so focused it’s almost strange—his pen moving fast, lips pressed tight in concentration.
you excuse yourself and wander back toward him, knocking lightly before slipping in.
“hey,” you start, setting your mug down beside his. “what’s got you so serious? the week’s basically over.”
“just paperwork,” he says without looking up.
“…yeah, i can see that,” you tease, leaning over the edge of his desk to peek. “what kind of paperwork?”
“none of your business.”
your brows lift. “none of my—wow, okay, rude.”
his pen doesn’t stop. “confidential.”
“uh-huh.” you lean further, trying to read the heading, and he smoothly flips the page face-down before you can catch a word.
“giyu!”
he finally looks up, one brow arched, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “you’re nosy.”
“you’re suspicious.”
“it’s work-related.”
“so am i,” you counter, crossing your arms. “maybe i should be in the loop.”
he tilts his head slightly, watching you with that calm, unreadable expression that somehow always manages to make you flustered. “you’ll find out eventually.”
“eventually,” you echo, narrowing your eyes. “you sound like you’re planning something.”
he hums, noncommittal, and goes right back to writing.
you sigh dramatically, leaning against his desk. “you’re the most secretive man alive.”
“yet,” he murmurs, pen still moving, “you still try to figure me out.”
that earns him a small grin. “someone has to.”
he glances up at you again, eyes softer now, something fond hidden beneath the quiet. “maybe,” he says quietly, “you already have.”
your heart gives a traitorous little lurch. you blink, flustered, mutter something about coffee, and leave before your grin gets too obvious.
you come back later like a nosy child.
you try circling the desk once, twice, craning your neck to get a better look, and he just keeps tilting the papers away—wordlessly, infuriatingly calm.
“come on,” you groan, leaning over, “what’s so classified, huh? you writing love letters to the judge?”
“sit down,” he says, deadpan.
“you sit down,” you shoot back, taking another step around him, trying to outmaneuver his wrist.
he shifts the folder again, unbothered. “you’re going to trip.”
“i am not—” magic words!
your heel catches the rug.
you stumble forward, a little squeak escaping before strong hands catch you by the waist. the papers slide to the side as he steadies you—but before you can even catch your breath, he sighs, low and quiet, and guides you down across his lap like you weigh nothing.
the motion shocks you into stillness, face heating up instantly. “w–what are you doing?”
“keeping you from breaking your neck,” he says dryly, one hand firm on your hip.
you’re sprawled across him now, palms braced on his thigh, hair falling forward, heart pounding like it’s trying to make an escape.
“you could’ve just—caught me normally,” you mumble, voice muffled.
“this worked,” he replies, too calm, though you swear you can hear the smile in his tone.
you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his, and sure enough—there it is. that tiny, teasing curve of his mouth.
“you’re enjoying this,” you accuse.
“maybe,” he murmurs.
your pulse stutters. you should get up, you really should—but his hand is still resting lightly on your hip, and his voice has gone lower now, softer.
“you’re persistent, you know that?”
“and you’re secretive,” you shoot back, still breathless.
“we’re a good match, then.”
you can’t even argue. just glare at him half-heartedly, cheeks burning, trying not to notice how close you are, how easily you fit there like you’ve been here a hundred times before.
you wriggle on his lap, stretching your neck and peering up under his arm, determined to get at least a glimpse of the paper. he shifts the folder again, just out of reach—his elbow blocking your view.
“oh my god, mr. tomioka!” you groan, half laughing, half exasperated. “i’m literally your paralegal. all forms go through me! what could you possibly be hiding?”
you try to twist away, aiming for a dramatic, stubborn escape. “let me go, you cryptid—”
he doesn’t budge. instead, his hand tightens at your waist, and then—suddenly—he brings his palm down on your ass with a light,
your mouth drops open in shock. the sound rings through his quiet office—soft, but just loud enough to make your whole body freeze.
you blink, heat rushing up your neck. “did you just—”
he glances down at you, impossibly calm. “you weren’t listening.”
your jaw drops further. “that’s not—! you can’t just—!”
he tilts his head, “are you done now?”
you stare up at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between outrage and outright laughter. “i cannot believe you just spanked me for trying to do my job!”
“you were being difficult,” he murmurs, not moving, his hand resting at your hip like a silent warning.
he’s flipping through the forms now, pointedly ignoring how you’re still draped across his lap—your chest pressed against his thigh, your body molded against him in a way that’s becoming increasingly hard to play off as accidental. his left hand settles at your waist, fingers flexing occasionally, and you swear you can feel the heat of him—hard and straining beneath you, impossible not to notice.
you smirk, feeling bold, shifting just a little, enough to brush against him. “wow, mr. tomioka,” you murmur, low and teasing, “is this what happens when you’re working late? or is it just your paralegal distracting you?”
he tenses, breath hitching so quietly you almost miss it. his right hand keeps signing his name, the pen gliding smooth, but his eyes flick to you—darker now, patience thinning.
“stop distracting me,” he says, voice flat but barely holding together.
you press your luck, wiggling your hips with a wicked grin. “maybe if you weren’t so easy to distract—”
he drops the pen and tightens his grip at your hip, eyes narrowing with warning. “if you have a problem with what’s under you,” he says, tone dangerously even, “then do something about it.”
your words die in your throat, cheeks burning. “w–what?”
he doesn’t blink. “...you heard me.”
your mind scrambles, heat curling low in your stomach, every nerve alive with the tension in the air. you try to swallow, looking up at him, heart fluttering madly.
“mr. tomioka,” you stammer, trying for bravado but only managing breathless, “you can’t just—just say—”
he finally leans forward, so close you can feel the rumble of his next words. “then don’t start what you can’t finish.”
he finally lifts his hand from your hip, palm warm where it lingers for a second. “go ahead,” he says, voice low, thinking you’ll slide off and go back to your own chair.
but you don’t move away—not the way he expects. instead, you twist, sliding down off his lap and right onto the floor between his legs, kneeling there in your skirt, looking up at him. his breath stutters, every trace of composure faltering as you settle yourself between his knees, your hands finding the arms of his chair for balance.
his mouth parts, startled. “that’s… not what i meant.”
you smile, sweet but wicked, letting your hands drift up his thighs, heat rising in the small space between you. “you said go ahead. i’m just following directions, mr. tomioka.”
he’s silent, pulse fluttering at his jaw, one hand tightening white-knuckled on the edge of the desk while the other hovers uncertainly at his thigh. you can see it in his eyes—that familiar flicker of hunger, surprise, and utter helplessness that only you seem to draw out of him.
“you’re impossible,” he mutters, the words nearly a groan.
you grin up at him, fingers toying at his belt. “guess we’re even.” your fingers make quick work of his belt, the metal buckle clinking soft in the quiet. his breath hitches, just once, as you unbutton and unzip his trousers, easing them down enough to free him. he’s already rock hard in your hand, the heat of him undeniable, and you marvel a little at how easily you make him lose control.
he shifts, eyes darting to the door, and then—always the practical one—he lifts his laptop, angling the monitor just so. it’s a makeshift shield, just high enough to block anyone’s view if the door happened to open, but you can see the way his knuckles go white against the plastic, the faintest tremor in his wrist as he forces himself to keep calm.
you look up at him, your hand stroking slowly, savoring every twitch, every soft, involuntary grunt that escapes his lips. he’s staring down at you, jaw clenched tight, every muscle in his body strung with tension—his usual calm shattered by how easily you take charge, how much you seem to enjoy undoing him.
you give his cock a squeeze, smirking up at him. “relax, giyu,” you whisper, voice velvet and heat. “i’ve got you.”
he shudders, breathless, one hand hovering at the back of your head, his eyes burning with need and a hint of awe.
“don’t stop,” he murmurs, and there’s nothing but pure want in his tone.
you let your lips hover over the head of his cock, breath ghosting over sensitive skin, then press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip. your tongue swirls, gathering spit, and you let a bead of it drip down, spreading slick and warm over him. he groans—quiet, rough, just for you—and you feel him throb in your hand, heat pulsing beneath your palm.
your mouth slips lower, enveloping him, lips sealing tight around his tip as you hum low in your throat—sending a shiver of vibration right through him. he jolts, hips bucking ever so slightly, and you hear the way his breath stutters, his whole body tensing.
“shit—” he hisses, voice strained, and you smile around him, tongue working slow circles along the underside, tracing that sensitive vein you know he likes. every flick of your tongue draws a fresh wave of heat from him, his thighs shifting beneath your touch.
your hand works in rhythm, twisting at the base, while your mouth sinks deeper, cheeks hollowing as you draw him in, savoring the weight, the salty-sweet taste of him. you glance up and catch the way he’s staring down at you—eyes wide, mouth parted, so utterly gone in the sensation that it makes you ache with pride.
he bites his lip, trying to muffle another moan, but it escapes anyway—soft and desperate, making your whole body thrum with satisfaction.
you pull up just enough to whisper against his skin, voice sticky with heat, “you can let go for me. nobody else but me, giyu.”
he groans again, hand tangling in your hair, hips rocking forward as you take him even deeper, letting your tongue tease and torment, every movement sending sparks of pleasure through both of you. you set a steady pace, lips slick and warm, mouth stretching around him as you slide down, then up, then down again—each bob of your head making him twitch, making his grip in your hair tighten, just a little. you hum, soft and reverent, letting that vibration run right through him. his thighs tense under your palms, the heat rolling off him almost feverish.
giyu tries to keep it together, tries to keep up his stoic act, but you can hear the little cracks in his armor—the uneven catch in his breath, the desperate way he bites down on every groan. his hand moves blindly, fumbling for the pen, and you watch from under your lashes as he tries, valiantly, to sign the page in front of him.
he manages to scrawl out half his name before your tongue drags along the sensitive ridge beneath the head, and he shudders, choking on a moan. his pen falters, a dark streak across the page.
“god…” he breathes, so quietly it’s almost lost to the room. he glances down, meeting your eyes, and you see the way his focus splinters—his hand stills, his jaw clenches, the need in him raw and unguarded.
“you’re not making this easy,” he manages, voice rough with want, eyes burning.
you pull back, mouth sticky, smirking up at him. “wasn’t trying to.”
then you swallow him again, deeper, working him slow and merciless, watching his composure unravel with every stroke. the sound of your mouth, the wet, rhythmic pull, mixes with his quiet groans and the soft scratch of the pen—every part of him torn between duty and desire, both undone and helplessly yours.
your pace stays steady, relentless, your tongue swirling around him, cheeks hollowing as you sink down and pull back—over and over, slick and warm, letting every soft, desperate sound he makes drive you further. his breath grows harsher, stifled moans spilling from his lips, each one more ragged than the last. his hand tightens in your hair, urging you, anchoring himself as his hips start to buck, barely restrained.
he’s losing his rhythm now, his other hand forgotten, sweat beading along his brow as the heat coils tight in his core. you feel him twitch, the way he holds back, the way he bites his lip so hard it nearly draws blood. his eyes meet yours, wild and glassy, and that’s all it takes—one more flick of your tongue, a hum low in your throat, and he finally breaks.
he groans, voice caught between a curse and your name, as he spills hot into your mouth. you swallow around him, not breaking pace, your lips sealed, tongue coaxing him through the peak, milking every drop. his thighs tremble under your hands, a shudder rippling through his whole body as he slumps back against the chair, eyes squeezed shut in overwhelmed bliss.
you linger there, lips gentle, letting him ride out the aftershocks, before you finally pull back, wiping your mouth, looking up at him with a satisfied, wicked smile.
he opens his eyes, dazed and breathless, sweat glistening at his temple, and the only thing he can manage is your name,
you swallow, savoring the way he shudders at the sensation, and sit back on your heels, catching your breath. giyu finally scrawls the last signature, turning the document over with a casual flick—keeping whatever secret he’s hiding tucked away from your prying eyes.
you’re just about to stand, still smoothing your skirt when the door creaks open. you freeze, heart hammering. before you can even fully react, giyu’s hand is on your shoulder, steady and casual, guiding you right back down, out of sight beneath his desk. he barely misses a beat, smoothing the stray hair at his brow and adjusting his posture as if nothing at all is out of place.
mitsuri’s cheerful voice fills the room: “giyu! coffee run. what’s your order? kyojuro’s treating the office today.”
giyu looks up, almost annoyingly composed. “same as usual,” he says, voice steady. “black for me, oat milk and one sugar for…” he glances down, grabbing his phone and looking through his notes on you. he repeats your favorite drink out loud, “get that for her.”
mitsuri peers in. “where is she? i wanted to ask if she wanted the new hazelnut one—”
he’s so smooth it makes you want to laugh. “she just stepped out to take a call. i’ll tell her you came by.”
mitsuri beams. “okay! i’ll grab your orders.” she hesitates, then winks. “don’t work her too hard, giyu!”
he deadpans, “i’ll try not to,” with such dry humor that you nearly bite your tongue not to giggle.
mitsuri vanishes, door swinging shut again. giyu waits a few heartbeats before glancing down at you, lips quirking in the ghost of a smile.
“you owe me,” he whispers, low enough for only you to hear.
you just grin up at him, breathless and giddy, adrenaline still buzzing beneath your skin. “add it to my tab, mr. tomioka.”
as soon as the door clicks shut, you exhale, laughing breathlessly against his knee. you scramble up, smoothing your skirt, barely upright before giyu’s hand curls behind your neck, tugging you forward.
he meets your lips in a hungry, unguarded kiss, mouth soft but urgent, his tongue slipping out to taste you—salt, heat, a trace of himself lingering on your lips. he groans quietly into your mouth, deepening the kiss, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw. you melt into him, dizzy from the aftershocks and the thrill, your heart racing as he licks into your mouth, hungry to taste everything you’ve given him.
he pulls away after a moment, breathing harder than before, forehead pressed to yours. his eyes are half-lidded and so unbearably warm that you’re left reeling, grinning stupidly.
“you’re beautiful… thank you for being my girlfriend.” he murmurs, voice thick, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth—smearing away any last trace.
“you are…so…unpredictable.” you whisper, dazed, fingers curled in his shirt.
you’re still leaning against his desk, catching your breath and grinning like an idiot, when the phone on his desk trills. giyu’s sigh is so deep you can almost hear his soul leaving his body. he grabs the receiver and presses it to his ear.
before he can get a word out, mitsuri’s voice explodes through the line: “giyuuuuu! help! obanai made me cry, and now i can’t finish this memo, and my computer keeps freezing, and—”
she’s half wailing, half laughing, full mitsuri. giyu’s expression is pained but resigned, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to summon patience from another plane.
“i’ll be right there,” he says, monotone, and hangs up before she can start again. he glances at you, a tragic martyr. “how did any of these people get their degree?”
you snort, struggling not to laugh outright. “you’re the backbone of this place. it’s adorable.”
he just sighs again, fixing his tie, gathering the folder you so desperately wanted to see. “behave,” he warns, pointing at you before heading for the door.
as soon as he disappears down the hall, you pounce. your hands are on the folder, flipping it over with the thrill of a spy catching her mark red-handed.
there it is, printed neatly at the top in his careful hand:
hashira llc partner giyuu tomioka — letter of intent of inter-office relationship
your heart skips. you read it again, slower, just to make sure it’s real. he’d been filling out the form, making your relationship official in the company records—while you were sprawled across his lap, teasing him half to death.
the realization spreads through you, giddy and wild, nerves lighting up in sparks. you press a hand to your mouth, laugh helplessly, and feel the rush of love and affection so sharp it almost hurts.
“oh, mr. tomioka...” you whisper, a smile blooming across your face, “i guess you’re not that secretive after all.”
next part soon... lol
special thank you for @aeveden for the paperwork idea ❤️
synopsis ; you finally get your big break but sylus doesn't show up for opening night.
word count ; 12k words
author's note ; this idea has been in my drafts for so long...anyways this is my food for y'all since i won't be here this weekend! enjoy! also a big ty to @cheezeandkrackers for helping me with this <33
content warning ; angst w/ comfort! mentions of depression, death. lmk if i missed anything!
The weight on your back is indescribable. It physically forces your shoulders down, your back hunched as you keep your forehead pressed against the painted wood of the vanity. The bright lights of the dressing room pierced your eyes. A dull ache formed in the front of your head and you aren’t sure how well you are going to perform tonight. A quiet groan falls from your lips, a subtle marker of your exhaustion and depletion over the past month of performing.
Not to mention that your mind has been rather preoccupied with the empty void that haunts you in the audience. Your thoughts always move back to him, wondering if he’s okay and has been keeping with his schedule. It pains you to still care for him when you damn well that he has most likely not even thought about you at all.
You miss him but he hasn’t even bothered to show up to any of your shows. He’s probably busy with work, anyways. He’s always busy with work. Maybe it was a good thing you left his home — a place you used to consider your own home — while his job kept him…occupied. At least the resentment that built up in your heart had the chance to dissipate, even if it was a minuscule amount.
It didn’t help either that Sylus hasn’t even bothered to call or text. Not even a whisper of his voice in your ear before you step out onto the stage. He was your biggest supporter, or so you thought. But in the days that followed your argument — the same one that left you a crying mess in your old apartment, knees hugged to your chest, wondering why your boyfriend couldn’t attend a single show — you felt indifference take control of your body, causing you to go numb.
Your back straightens as soon as there is a knock on the door. Tremors overtake your hands. The familiar shake of anxiety and pre-show jitters. You have performed the show with flawless execution for its month long run. Eight shows a week with one day off — Monday, to be exact — and you are finally starting to feel the ache in your bones and head from the constant exposure of the stage lights and same demanding screeches of powerful dialogue that shakes the audience to their core.
Your character’s anguish masks your own. What was that saying again? That life imitates art? You tried to ignore that feeling, that the words on the page didn’t reflect the same torment that you feel towards your relationship with Sylus. That the married couple in the play are not indicative of your relationship with Sylus and that the two of you can somehow find a way out of the fog.
The door creaks open. Your gaze flits to the stage manger’s reflection, their black clothing and headset catching your attention. They don’t even have to say a word. You simply nod and watch as the door closes behind them, leaving you behind in the deafening silence. Your ears ring. The dull ache behind your eyes grows in size but you ignore the feeling, pushing through as you bring yourself back up to your feet.
A slow exhale leaves your mouth. You close your eyes, trying to settle your nerves.
Breathe in. Hold. Open your eyes. Exhale.
Dark bags hang under your eyes. The sunken in look from your lack of sleep and constant worry over a man who simply hasn’t bothered to support you. Sylus has claimed that Onychinus and his work has kept him away from seeing you on stage. Well, that’s what he told you when you first came home after opening night. After that, it’s been complete silence on his end. It’s not like you made an effort to reach out either, but you truly do not believe that it should be you to be the one to mend the bullet hole that ripped your heart in half.
You know that you are bound to face him sometime soon. At least it won’t have an effect on your ability to act like a tired and worn out wife who wishes to have a better life for herself. It’s not like he’ll be sitting in the seat you have reserved for him every showing. The empty seat pushes you towards desperation, towards a place of agony that only a woman in pain could feel.
You breathe in one last time. Your lungs burn as you hold in the breath. You exhale. Slow and timid. Your nails dig into the palms of your hand, rough enough to draw blood. A quick turn on your heel, feet carrying you towards the door. You push through with tears brimming your eyes and a new found determination lit up in your heart to make this the best performance of the play’s run — even if it is the last show.
Excitement bubbles throughout your body. A smile has been etched into your face ever since you woke up that morning. Despite the bed being empty beside you, you are determined to make today a great day because, you guessed it: it’s your opening night!
The play that you have dedicated so many endless nights and weekends to is finally here. The play has been a blessing to you. While Sylus worked and dealt with business deals for Onychinus, you were ready to take that shot in the dark and audition for the show. Turns out, they loved the devastation that you brought to the character. The raw authenticity of heartbreak and resignation showed through the tremor in your voice, the way your hands shook on stage as if you were truly the one contemplating divorcing your husband.
You would never do that, though. You love Sylus with your entire being. There is no way in hell that you are letting him go.
Your phone vibrates on the side table. You reach for it without looking, fingers curling around the device as you bring it to your face. Sylus’s name graces the screen. There is a flutter in your heart at the sight. You quickly openly up the messages and toss your hair out of your eyes, the smile on your face faltering once you read his words.
Work has me busy today. I’ll see you later tonight.
That’s okay. You know that he’ll be at the Orpheum Theater when the doors open. If anything, your boyfriend will be the first one through the doors with an extravagant bouquet of flowers in his arms, subtly bragging to all of those with ears that his lovely partner is in the play — and as the lead no less!
I hope work goes well! I can’t wait to see you tonight! I saved you the best seat in the house! I love you!
Your fingers dance across the screen at lightning speeds, a small chuckle bubbling on the inside of your chest. The phone is tossed to the side and you spread yourself across the king sized bed, arms and legs spread out as far as you can reach. An excited squeal leaves your body. You kick and punch the air as your laughter fills the room. A surge of anticipation — the kind that leaves the tips of your fingers tingling from excitement and joy and happiness.
Sylus is finally going to be able to see you perform. He is finally going to watch you in something that isn’t humiliating, like that smoothie commercial you booked where you were dressed up like a pomegranate, and you can feel the anticipation blossom inside of your body.
The thought itself excites you! For Sylus to see you on stage. It has you smiling throughout dress rehearsal, all throughout an interview the theater scheduled with you and your co-star, and you even found yourself smiling right as the theater doors opened.
The familiar buzz of excitement fills the theater. The audience slowly pours into the theater. A low hum is heard in the air. Quiet and indistinct conversations heard as the nicely dressed people make their way towards their assigned seats, the red material of the chairs calling their names, beckoning for them to move forward and closer to the stage.
The ensemble cast giggles and talk amongst themselves as you and your co-lead take your place on stage behind the deep red curtain. The two of you sit on a couch, one that looks like it has seen better days. Your knee bounces up and down. The remnants of your anxiety showcased in the erratic movement trapped in your legs.
“Nervous?” The man beside you asks.
You stiffly nod, forcing a smile across your face while you play with the hem of your costume’s skirt. The rest of the ensemble cast remain tucked away in the wings, watching as the curtain trembles, ready to be lifted for the first show of the play’s runs — and your career. Just to the side, you notice as the house lights breathe. One moment it’s bright, the next it’s dark, signaling the beginning of the show.
You close your eyes one last time, slowly inhaling as much air as you possibly can. The slight tension in your muscles slowly vanishes. The quiet creak of the curtain being raised forces you to open your eyes, back straightening as you and your scene partner ready yourselves for the beginning of the play.
The director wants you to stare straight ahead, to peer into the spotlight that illuminates your bodies. You force your gaze away, though, and allow yourself to look in the direction of Sylus’ reserved seat.
The director was so excited when you came to her with the news of your boyfriend requesting the best seat in the house. You had talked him out of sitting in a box seat for your first performance, claiming that box seats are for the rich who do not truly care for art. If Sylus wants to be a true connoisseur, then he needs to sit in the center of the theater, to sit among other people and to allow himself to be fully immersed in the story’s plot.
You frequently spoke of Sylus to the rest of the crew of ensemble. Let’s be real: you told anyone who was willing to listen about your relationship with Sylus. Every single person who works on the play built an image of him inside of their minds, ready to meet the man who has their leading lady so deep in love that she can barely focus whenever he sends a message. Sylus had become someone that the cast and crew were looking forward to meet and invite into the life of the theater — even the owner of the theater wished to meet him to try and secure new funds for their next play.
The curtains raise and the sly smile is wiped off of your face. The character’s persona is draped across your body, your mind making that switch into taking on the character’s life. Your eyes remain fixed on the seat. The one place in the theater where the sound and view is the best.
Your body goes cold. The air in your lungs is yanked free from your body. It is as if you have just been body slammed into a cement wall. A quiet ring forms in your ears. The terrifying sound of disappointment and whiplash deafens you even as your co-star speaks out his opening lines.
The chair is empty.
Tears brim your eyes and your force your gaze away from the sight, blinking away the tears as you take your cue to stand and address the crowd. You’re stuck, though. The words remain trapped on your tongue, the bitter taste of being letdown and frustration spreading across your mouth. An iron ball forms in your throat. You’re unable to force it away, to swallow the weight that forms in your neck.
“I’ve been married to Dean for five years.” Your voice shakes as if you are the character herself, bearing your soul to the audience to see under the lights of the stage. “And in those five years, he has let me down five times.”
The rest of the show goes as smooth as the last few dress rehearsals. You push through the stabbing pain in your heart, ignoring the way your body feels like it is being ripped open from the inside out. The ache in your throat grows but you force it away whenever you have to speak, forcing the words out of your mouth. It is only when you exit off into the wings of the stage that you allow yourself to crumble, your face breaking as you try to hide your tears. The makeup artists desperately try to save your makeup, helping talk you through the warfare that has formed inside of your heart.
It was only a matter of minutes before you were pushed back onto the stage again, forcing a smile onto your face as you pretend to be happy in a loveless marriage. You ignored the empty space in the audience. The seat you had reserved for him. With every turn and flick of the head, you are always so tempted to stare at the space. You force your mind to stay on task, to proclaim the lines that have been bestowed upon you but all you want to do is go home — not to his — and cry into your pillow until your body gives out.
Where the hell is he? What excuse can Sylus give to you that can make up for the fact that he isn’t here in the audience. What could he possibly say that can dispel the tremor in your heart, the burning ache that has tightened around your throat. Is he truly preoccupied with work?
Or has he found a comfort in the hunter he met when Onychinus’ path crossed the Hunter Associations?
The play continues and you numb the feeling of sadness that formed in your heart. While your voice remains bright and vibrant, showcasing the character’s emotionality and the devastation that she feels, you remain calm and collected under the mask. You trick the audience into think that you, the actress, take your job so seriously. That you are a professional who isn’t on the verge of having a breakdown onto the stage.
You sit on stage right. Your eyes try not to stare at the empty seat but the temptation of pain and angst is just unbearable. Slowly but surely, your eyes move inch by inch — moving mere millimeters — towards the space. An older couple sits on the left side of the chair while on the right is a burly man who looks as if he is about to pop out of his tailored suit. You suck in a breath while your scene partner recites his lines with ease, walking across the stage while you remain isolated on the couch.
“All I wanted was for the party to go well,” you say in response, picking at the fabric of your skirt.
“Nobody cares about the damn party,” he exhales loudly. You glance at the actor, replacing his face with Sylus’. You watch as he moves around the fake kitchen, slamming the cabinets shut and tossing the silverware across the countertop. He turns around and you swear you see the red shade of your partner’s eyes in him. A sharp inhale has you clutching your chest, turning away from the man. “Nobody cares about you, quite frankly. Always trying too hard but it will never be enough.”
“Dean, please,” you choke back the tears.
“When will it be enough for you?” The actor’s eyes meet your glossy ones. His fingers curl around the edge of the fake countertop, knuckles white.
Your bottom lip trembles. You slowly push yourself up to your feet, a sudden lightness overtaking your body as the lights begin to dim on the other sections of the stage. You face the audience. A single tear runs down your cheek, the ticking time bomb of your own cache of despair ready to explode.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
The words make your ears ring. Although they fell from your lips, it feels so surreal to even speak them aloud. To even say the damned phrase when your heart is in shambles. The feeling of falling out love is overwhelming. While you still hold onto the hope that your worst fears won’t come true, they still scratch at the back of your mind. Slowly countering the defenses that you have established to protect yourself.
That’s when the tears begin to fall. You allow yourself to breakdown and sob for all to see. You try to fight when away, furiously wiping your eyes and capturing the tears on your fingers. The once perfect and thick makeup begins to streak. The black mascara runs down your face, your fingers now black.
It was supposed to be an emotionless speech. One about your character finding peace and solace in her husband’s disinterest. That she has finally broken free from the spell that the man had placed on her. His final words being the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The accumulation of your stress and frustration have into fruition, taking the form of salty tears that land at your feet.
You can feel the character’s pain. When you first read the script, you were curious as to how horrible a man could be to the woman he claims to love. You wondered why he would step out on his wife, to find comfort in a younger and prettier woman. Why he would berate the woman who has remained so loyal and faithful then turn around and convince her that it was her fault for not keeping him interested.
You’ve seen her before. Just in passing, a fleeting moment in Sylus’ garage where their loud laughter suddenly faded as soon as you entered the room, tired from that day of rehearsals. Sylus introduced you. His ruby eyes remained on her, though, his lips curling up into a ghost of a smile. It made your body go cold. You remembered her smile, how it was so infectious it made you want to grin despite her closeness with your partner.
She’s younger too. Of course, she is. Just a couple years but still…her youthful spirit has yet to be crushed like yours. She wore pretty clothes and her perfume was intoxicating; spiced vanilla with an underlying scent of everything that you are not.
Is that the case with Sylus? Is he not interested in you anymore? Has that hunter from the Association finally turn his head away from you?
You collapse to the ground, legs unstable and feeling like jelly. Sobs take over your body. The familiar sharpness returns to your heart. It turns rotten.
You listen to the audience’s cries from the stage as you remained hunched over, your tears soaking into the floor beneath you. The crowd remains quiet as you cry and choked out the words. You covered your face and muttered quiet apologies to yourself, continuing with the speech. You sniffle and wipe the snot away from your nose while you speak on the devastating nature about loving a man who simply doesn’t care.
Silence falls over the auditorium. No one dares to move while you slowly recover, your arms and hands shielding your face from the blinding lights. The silence causes you to shiver. Slowly, you look up from your hands, staring into the darkness of the auditorium. In the front row, you can see the glossy sheen to the audience’s eyes.
The stage lights go black. You feel your tears stop. The lights no longer warm your skin. The audience’s applause fade and you are left alone as the stage crew and ensemble gather around you. They lift you to your feet and praise your performance. Even the director is astonished with your work, commenting that the tears added a hefty gravity to the scene that they never could have imagined.
You smile at them but quickly excuse yourself to your dressing room. The door closes with a quiet click of the turning lock. The lights remain off, the light from the outside world spread across the floor. Your back remains pressed against the door. Deep and heavy breaths cause your head to go dizzy. You push away from the door and rip the costume off of your body, tossing the fabric to the side as you gather your belongings and post-show clothes. Quickly putting them on, you sneak out of the dressing room and slip free from the back stage door, just barely missing the crowd that rushes to see you.
His face is not among those in the crowd. Another knife to the heart. Another notch in the grievances that you are about to file against your partner.
You tear your gaze away, tears streaking down your cheeks as the shrieks and cheers from the audience pierce your ears. You don’t look back, though, and instead push forward as fast as you can, finding your nearby car.
The drive to the N109 Zone is silent. You focus on the road, barely paying attention to the turning street lights and stop signs. You recklessly brake at the last second and swerve in and out of the lanes, just barely missing cars that you are about to collide with.
Danger and fury runs through your veins. Instead of the familiar heat of frustration, your anger is ice cold. Indifferent. Intolerant of how Sylus has fallen away from your grip these last few months.
Maybe you should have seen this coming. All of the signs are there, right?
While you were off parading as a different person, your boyfriend became acquainted with his new connection at the Hunter’s Association. She was the one who took your place by his side when rehearsals ran late. She was the one who took your spot on the back of his motorcycle. She was the one who took his attention away from you.
You shove away your emotions, forcing your feet to carry you inside of Sylus’ skyscraper. The elevator quietly dings with every passing floor, the nausea inside of your stomach becoming overwhelming. The doors slide open and you step out, looking around.
The lights are turned off. The click of your shoes is faintly heard as you move deeper into the main living space. The sound of a woman’s laughter causes you to stumble. You hold onto the wall for support, placing your bag onto the floor.
A chill overtakes your body. Goosebumps form on your skin. The hair on your arms and back of your neck stand up. You sulk closer towards the sound, listening to Sylus as he chuckles at a joke she said.
You peer at the two of them from the corner, remaining as hidden as you can. They sit beside each other on the living room couch, a feast of takeout food laid out before them. The smell causes you to drool. The lights are off, the only light source coming from lit candles — which are yours, by the way — that are scattered throughout the room. They sit close to one another, their arms brushing against each other as they laugh and share food, leaning in to whisper something into their ear as if they aren’t the only ones inside of the Onychinus skyscraper. Sylus faces you while she faces away. You stare at her back, the long and black hair that cascades down her back. She wears stealth clothes, ones that you recognize from the Hunter’s Association’s ads that play all over Linkon City. You go still, unable to move as you sneakily watch.
“Are you sure that it’s okay that I’m here?” she asks. Her voice is as sweet as honey.
“Of course,” his voice is as husky as you remembered it to be, “there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
A tender smile is spread across Sylus’ face. You want to slap it off and scream in his face. You want to yell and scream, to hit him and make him feel the same exact emotional torment that he has put you through.
You slowly draw in a breath. The heat from the anger you once felt is gone. Ice takes over your body, freezing your heart. You can’t even feel the beats. The air is drawn out from your lungs. They burn, the only hint you have to let you know that you are still alive.
Is this how your character felt? Is this what complete and utter betrayal look like? Is this how it feels to watch as the love of your life slips free from your fingers, dropping into the palm of a woman who probably doesn’t even know who the true Sylus is. Would it be ignorant of you to think that nobody will know him like you did? Would it be ignorant to think that this new reality you find yourself in is one that you do not wish to be a part of anymore?
This is how your relationship dies. With the smell of spiced vanilla and two bodies close together under the dim candlelight.
Tears run down your cheeks. You don’t have the energy to stop them from falling. Turning on your heel, you walk away, heading in the direction of your shared bedroom with Sylus. Your footsteps are no longer quiet or sneaky. You walk with the confidence of a determined woman. The determination to leave this place — and the man you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with — behind.
You shove the door open with more force than you intended. The wood slams into the wall, the sound echoing across the floor. You swear you can hear Sylus and her’s laughter die as soon as you step foot into the bedroom. You don’t really care, though, and head towards the closet. Your fingers curl around the handle of a suitcase. You toss it onto the bed, the case splitting open, empty and ready to be used.
Whatever you come across, you toss it into the suitcase. You don’t even bother to fold the clothes, allowing them to knot together as the pile grows higher and higher. White noise fills your head. There’s ringing in your ear. You don’t even hear Sylus when he walks into the bedroom, too tunnel visioned to notice him. You turn around, a pair of slippers in your hands. You collide with Sylus’ hard chest, the man resting his hands on his hips as you barely look up at him.
“I asked you what you’re doing.” There’s annoyance in his voice. Irritation, even.
You don’t even look up at him, stepping around his frame as you toss the slippers into the suitcase. There’s movement in the doorway. The figure is gone before you can catch it. Eh. Whatever. You’re leaving anyways. It simply is not your problem anymore.
“I’m talking to you,” Sylus says. He groans and watches as you brush past him again. He snatches your wrist in his hand, his fingers hot against your skin. You try not to wince or flinch. The single look he gets of your face makes him pause. The streaked and ruined makeup. The way your fingers are covered in the remnants of red lip stick and black mascara from your efforts to wipe your face clean. It makes his heart ache at the sight, the man wanting to reach for you and bring you into his embrace just like he has always done when you needed him to be there. Oh, the irony. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving,” you breathe the words out, “I don’t belong here anymore.”
“Leaving?” He’s baffled, a light scoff leaving his mouth. He waits for you to show him a sign — any sign — that this is some kind of overreaction. That you are waiting for him to stop you before you can step foot out of the base’s doors.
You keep moving, though. Your movements are robotic at best. There is no emotion on your face as you continue to shove your belongings into the suitcase. He watches, as still as the period after a brutal and deadly battle. You continue to move, packing away the life that you had built together, purposefully leaving behind the items and clothes that he happily bought for you.
“What’s going on?” Sylus asks, bewildered. “Did I miss something?”
“No,” you shake your head, venom prominent in your voice. “You wanted to be here, remember? There’s no other place you would rather be.”
The way you throw his words — words that were never meant for you, by the way — right back into his face make Sylus pause. His red eyes scan your face, trying to silently peel back the layers of your mind to see what it is that he has done wrong. His lips pucker, eyes narrowing. So you know that his Hunter friend is here. Did you misinterpret the situation? Did you think that there were traces of romance and affection in his actions?
“Talk to me,” Sylus says, his eyes fixating on you. “Tell me what happened.”
“You didn’t show up,” you say.
You casually shrug as if this is common information, as if Sylus abandoning you is now a common occurrence. Wasn’t it you who decided to act? To give yourself away for months for an audience of people who don’t even know who you are? He follows you as you walk to the bathroom. The cabinets are opened up and you pluck your hair care products and skincare regimen into your hands, walking back out just to dump them into your bag.
“What didn’t I show up for?” He asks, truly confused as to why you are suddenly holding this grudge against him.
“My play, Sylus,” the words are as bitter as your voice, “you missed my play. Not like you would care anyways since you’d rather be here with her instead of supporting your fucking girlfriend—”
“So you’re jealous,” Sylus comments, “that’s what this is about?”
“Jealous?” you turn around and stare at him as if you were just struck by a bolt of lightning. Your body feels as if it was. A tingling sensation spreads across your skin and you are sure that if you were to touch him, he would explode from the electricity of your fury. “You think I’m leaving over jealousy?”
“Isn’t that what this is about?” he shakes his head, already ready to dismiss this whole argument.
“You missed opening night, Sylus.”
“No,” the white haired man shakes his head, taking a step closer to you, “I didn’t. That’s next week.”
“It was tonight.”
His body goes cold. He opens his mouth to say something, red eyes piercing into yours. You swear you can see the vibrancy and color fade when he finally realizes. You wait a couple more seconds for him to speak but he says nothing. You scoff.
“I got a standing ovation, by the way,” you comment as you step towards the bag. You zip it up, using as much effort as you can to close the stuffed bag. “The director called me a visionary. Said my performance of a wife scorned felt real.”
“Babe…”
“Who knew that my boyfriend ditching me for some woman he met a few months ago would be the perfect motivation to have a breakdown on stage? Not me,” you laugh. Actually laugh. It’s both bitter and angry, the sound ready to snap like your emotions. The bag is zipped shut and you push it onto the ground, lifting the handle.
“I didn’t ditch you,” Sylus tries to reason. It only makes you laugh.
“Didn’t you?” you are quick to counter, an expert on keeping him accountable. “I thought you were dead at some point. Your empty seat made me think that one of your business deals went wrong. So I rushed home as fast as I could to come see you but you,” you let out a bitter laugh. One that is filled with anger and resentment. “You just had to be with her. So yes, Sylus. You fucking ditched me.”
You turn and stare at him, your gaze sharp enough to kill. Sylus easily meets your gaze, allowing the blade of your fury to rest along his neck. His expression softens, the weight of his guilt finally resting upon his shoulders. He only wishes that you would gift him the weight of your anger so that he may hold it for you, even if it means giving you just one minute of peace where the sins of his actions don’t poison your blood.
“I…” you begin but fall quiet. Your fists ball at your sides, nails digging into your palm. The pain grounds you, the stinting feeling of torn flesh rooting you into the earth. “I needed you tonight, Sylus, and you weren’t there. Ever since I was cast, you drifted away. You found comfort in another—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” His red eyes burn into yours, his own anger and passion coming into play. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I have not found comfort in another woman.”
“Do you really believe that?” you whisper. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you paid more attention to her than me?”
“Yes! Because it’s the truth!” Sylus raises his voice, his emotions getting the best of him.
The man has fought so hard to remain in control. Control of his life, the world around him, his emotions. Sylus has always managed his own expectations — and disappointments — by controlling those around him. He used people and tossed them to the side when he no longer needed them. He would never do such a thing to you. He can’t even fathom how you can believe that when he has done everything in his power to keep you happy.
It’s his fault, though. Sylus’ wishful thinking of you being happy, of living your life on the stage, was not in vain. He wanted to try and clean up Onychinus’ problems before your show’s time came. Sure, he got distracted by an interesting woman, but he never would have dreamed of tossing you to the side in favor of her. At least, that’s what he thinks. The poor man doesn’t even realize that the woman he has replaced you with has already gotten a hold of his heart. The one thing he swore that nobody else — other than you — would touch.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.
“I’m not the one who made up an elaborate plot in her head about something that isn’t true!” Sylus says, waving his hands around.
“Isn’t it?” you ask, trying to keep your voice and body as steady as possible. “You were here. With her. I was there where you weren’t. You claim that you feel nothing for her but when I came home…you looked at her like you once looked at me.”
Your words are like a knife in his heart. It causes him to exhale, the air being knocked free from his chest. His eyes gloss over, your accusations growing more and more true as you build your case against him.
“When I first got the role, you were excited for me. You even said that you couldn’t wait to see me on stage,” you laugh again but this time it’s softer. Sadder. The acceptance of your crucified relationship finally settling in your stomach. “I believed you when you said that I was going to be great. That I was going to fulfill my dreams and that you were happy to watch. I want to believe you now but all I can see is a man I used to love. All I see is an honest man who has turned into a liar right in front of my eyes.”
Silence hangs between you. Your breathing is slow, controlled. Sylus’ is erratic. He takes a step forward but you draw back, placing more distance between the two of you. You look him up and down once, taking in his appearance.
He wears a nice button down dress shirt. It’s white, a color that he rarely ever wears but you noticed that he puts on a whole lot more when she’s around. His pants are the fancy tailored ones and his shoes are shined so well that you swear you can see your reflection in. Your gaze flickers to his hands. He isn’t wearing the ring you got him, the one you bought to match the one he slid on your finger. A promise that the two of you will be together forever…it has vanished from his fingers. It makes you want to cry all over again. How could he have not seen the signs?
“Why didn’t you show up?” you ask.
“What?” Sylus breathes out.
“Why didn’t you show up?” you ask him again, doubling down.
“I didn’t think that it was today,” he begins but he quickly shuts up when you shake your head.
“No,” your eyes darken. “What was the reason for not being here tonight like you said?”
“Did I say that?”
“Sylus!” you yell his name, the word echoing across the top floor of his skyscraper. “Stop! Why weren’t you there?!”
“She needed me.” The answer leaves him before he can stop it. He whispers the short sentence. Oh, how he regrets even saying it in the first place. “She needed someone.”
“I needed someone too,” your voice cracks under the pressure. The tears begin to fall from your eyes, rolling down your cheeks in hot and salty streams. “I needed my boyfriend to share this night with me. To celebrate my accomplishment.”
“It’s not like that,” Sylus dares to step forward, swallowing the lump in his throat, “she needed help with a job—”
“Does nobody else work at that damn fucking Association?! Why does she need my boyfriend to help her?!” you yell, silencing him. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath to try and steady your nerves. “I’m done, Sylus. I’m leaving, okay? Don’t even bother trying to talk to me again.”
You grab the handle of your suitcase, tearing your gaze off of him. The more you look at him, the angrier you get, and that is the last thing you need. You take a step towards the door. His voice stops you.
“Don’t go,” Sylus says, resting his hand on your shoulder, “please don’t leave me.”
“You already left me, Sylus,” you say with a resigned sigh. “And take your damn hand off of me. You don’t get to touch me anymore.”
“Let’s talk it through,” he says, “please?”
Sylus reaches out for you again. He grabs your wrist, drawing you back towards him. What he didn’t anticipate, though, is the way you swing your hand towards him, your palm connecting with his cheek. A stinging sensation spreads across his face. A red imprint begins to form on his face, the lines of your fingers etched into his skin. You don’t even feel guilty about it.
“You haven’t even said sorry,” your voice cracks, the palm of your hand stinging. Tears flow from your eyes. The drops fall to the ground after they roll off your cheeks. You don’t bother to catch them or to wipe them away. You let them fall. “No apology for missing my opening night. No apology for choosing her over me…it’s cruel, Sylus. You’re cruel. We’re done. Don’t come near me.”
The couch is uncomfortable. It has been since last week when your co-star broke it during rehearsal. He thought that jumping on it would be a good idea — as if it ever is — and now here you are, sitting on a spring that pokes directly into the place where the sun doesn’t shine.
You crack your neck and knuckles, exhaling all of the air that’s in your lungs. You don’t even pay attention to your fellow actor. There’s too much on the line, especially since it’s the last show of the play’s run in Linkon. After this…you have no idea what you’re going to do. What you do know, though, is that you’re finally going to find the happiness that you deserve.
Especially since the stage is now forever stained from your one-sided breakup with Sylus.
The creak of the curtains forces you to look up. The blinding lights are familiar now. The stinging sensation makes itself at home behind your eyes while you blink, waiting for your cue. You slowly stand. Your eyes adjust to the bright lights, the people in the crowd now coming into view. Sylus’ empty seat — one that you asked to remain reserved for him, for what reason, you’ll never know — is just to the side. You stare at it whenever you need the emotional push, to throw yourself into your sorrows for the crowd to watch. Your soul laid bare on the stage while your tears burn down your cheeks, hands outstretched towards the crowd as if they can save you from drowning in your depression.
The seat isn’t empty though. You blink a couple of times, wondering if it was just the trick of the light or if someone actually dared to sit in the spot.
It’s Sylus.
His red eyes meet yours through the darkness and just for a moment — a second so brief you barely catch it — it feels as if it is just the two of you inside of the theater. It feels as if there is no crowd, no audience watching as you freeze on stage. It is just you and him. Nobody else.
You swallow the iron lump that has formed in your throat. The pressure is immeasurable, the mass dragging along your esophagus. It makes you want to throw up, to cry and throw yourself on the ground. To let the wooden stage swallow you whole so you can disappear from life without even having to say a word or lift a finger.
“I’ve been married to Dean for five years.” Your voice is stronger this time. More resolute. There is no shake in it just the emotionless motivations of a she-devil, of a woman scorned…of an emotionally battered woman who is too tired to show how she is truly feeling. “And in those five years, he has let me down five times. This is the story of how Dean and I fell in and out of love.”
You force your gaze away from Sylus, turning around as the play continues as if this isn’t happening. You settle yourself as you cross the stage, linking your arm with your co-star’s, forcing a smile onto your face.
Admittedly, you are distracted. Sylus’ white hair and red eyes always catch your attention. Hell, it’s how you noticed him in the first place when you showed up to some random auction. You were bored out of your mind and was just ditched — ironic, right? — by your date who left you to pay the bill at the restaurant. You wandered around the N109 Zone, finding your way into a fancy art exhibit where a silent auction was taking place. The auction was dimly lit but Sylus still managed to stand out like the devil in the night, his appearance subconsciously luring you closer and closer until you stood beside him in front of a painting that depicted a war torn field. Dragon bones were laid out in the middle of the painting and hanging in the sky is a bright star, one that burns as brightly as he once said you did.
You shake your head, forcing the memory out of your head as soon as it even formed. The world of the story moves all around you while you remain stagnant on the stage unable to move as the character of Dean makes a move on another woman right in front of you. The actors on stage stop mid-movement. A spotlight is turned on, the light directed at you. You stare directly at it, gaze slipping to your ex-partner.
“This was the first time Dean betrayed me. It was five years ago. He took me to some party on his campus. Told me that he needed to talk to his friends and that I should wait for him out front. Little did I know, he had his tongue shoved down another woman’s throat. His friend felt bad for me. He texted me a picture of it. It didn’t make the pain hurt any less. That was the alcohol’s job.”
The crowd laughs. Sylus doesn’t. His gaze remains on you and you alone. He follows your shadowy figure as you cross the stage, walking off as this so called Dean and his first affair have their time to shine. A look of detestment flashes across his face at the sight. Dean and his temporary lover, if you could even call it that, fall onto the couch, their movements exaggerated.
Is this what you thought he was doing with her? Could you really think of him as a man who would ever betray you like that?
Dean and the woman kiss. Sylus shudders. He closes his eyes, just for a brief moment, before he hears your voice again. His eyes open immediately after, watching as you stand in the middle of the stage while the set is changed behind you.
“I broke up with him. I was the fool, though, for thinking that he could change. I took him back not even a month later. The bed was cold without him…I missed his warmth and the way he held me in his arms.” Your eyes move back to Sylus. He sucks in a breath, hanging onto every word. “I missed the security he gave me. The sweet kisses as he vowed to me that he would never be swayed again. I was just a kid in love, could you blame me?”
His heart lurches inside of his chest. As the play continues to unfold in front of his eyes, the more and more Sylus sees himself in Dean, the villain of the story. He can’t even begin to imagine why your character would put herself through all of that pain and suffering, of watching the man you dedicated your life to slip free from your grasp. To sit and stare as he plays mind games right in front of you, claiming that what she said is ludacris and that he would never do such a thing.
And to think that he said the same to you.
Sylus sinks into his seat. Roses sit at his feet, a bouquet made special just for you. He labored over it for hours, wondering if you would even accept the roses — or any flower for that matter! Would you accept him? Let him apologize and say sorry for the things he didn’t even say. His heart feels like it is about to fly out of his chest, ready to crumble under the pressure of you and your judgment. Whatever you decide to give him, whatever you decide to yell or scream at him…he knows that he deserves it. He deserves it all.
The play goes on. Sylus is completely enamored by your acting, the way you are able to show a bright smile to the new “friends” Dean introduces to you all while looking like you are ready to fall apart at a moment’s notice. He is infatuated with the way you lay your soul onto the stage for all to see. The way you treat him and everyone else with a casualness an old friend would have. It makes him feel welcome despite feeling an immense amount of dread overtake his body the more and more he sees how the men in your character’s life continue to let her down over and over again.
Sylus can’t believe that he allowed himself to treat you this way. He can’t believe how easy it was to lie about work, to offer his time to some measley Hunter that could barely remember what his favorite wine is or if he prefers a rifle to a pistol. He can’t believe that he allowed himself to create distance between the two of you, that he didn’t pick up on the silent cues you gave him when you tried to bring him back into bed for five more minutes of cuddles, the way you tried your best to stay up for him after a long day of rehearsal knowing that those ten minutes of conversation were enough to keep you invested in your relationship.
Sylus is mad at himslf for being the maker of his own destruction. That he is the only person responsible for pushing you away.
“Love is like a drop into the misty depths where either a bed of clouds or rocks wait for you at the bottom,” you begin, capturing his attention all over again. “It is a leap of faith. A shot in the dark that the person you have let into your life is the one who is supposed to make you happy.”
You take your time in walking across the stage. The play has reached it’s ending. Dean’s relationship with your character has evolved into a loveless marriage. Three years together. Three years of time wasted. You can’t help but relate to it, the feeling of your own time being robbed from you. It angers you more than it should.
“I wish there was a warning sign,” you look down at your feet, the tears already forming in your eyes, “because when I hit the bottom, it felt worse than what I imagined death to feel like.”
You raise your head. Your eyes meet Sylus’ in the crowd. His lips are parted ever so slightly, the man sitting on the edge of his seat. You just wished he looked like this a month ago and not now. It counts as something, you suppose.
“I used to think that Dean loved me. I used to think that there was a piece inside of me who always saw the good in him…that he wasn’t a man who used people at his disposal just because he felt like it. You know, I have stayed up so many nights wondering why he would do this to me. So many nights lost when I could have been asleep and on the nights I did sleep, the dreams were filled of a life without him. I berated myself for dreaming of such things…that only a horrible person could ever dream of a life away from the one who made them the happiest. Does that make me horrible?”
Sylus wants to answer. He wants to be the one to reach out and bring you into his arms, to keep you in his life for as long as he can. He wants to be the one to dry your tears, to be the man you deserve to have in your life. He can’t help but wonder if you, too, had dreams about leaving him while you laid in bed beside him…in his arms.
“Honey!” your co-star cries out. You remain stagnant in the middle of the stage, unable to look away from Sylus. “Clean this up! If I have to do damage control over your outburst at the party, then I refuse to be the one to clean.”
“I just wanted the party to go well.” Tears begin to roll down your cheeks, the lines forever burned on your tongue.
“Nobody cares about the damn party,” the actor slams the cabient.
The wood rattles. You close your eyes, the audience feeling the same fear as your character. The actor quickly rushes to your side, grabbing your jaw with his hand. He yanks it towards him, his face dangerously close to yours. Sylus quietly gasps with other audience members.
“Nobody cares about you, quite frankly. Always trying too hard but it will never be enough.”
“Dean, please!” you recite the lines with desperation in your voice.
“When will it be enough for you?”
“I don’t love you anymore!”
The words echo throughout the theater. The actor who plays Dean slowly exits the stage. The lights begin to dim, a single spotlight focused on you. The characters from the show line up behind you, their bodies barely visible as cries begin to overtake your body. Your hands clutch the area over your heart, the sounds of your sobs and cries filling the theater. The people in the audience begin to cry with you, gently patting away the tears with a pocketed handkerchief.
“I just wanted to be loved!” you cry out, your voice both pained and desperate. “I just wanted to be someone worthy of love! To be someone worthy of being treated like a first choice, not the second. I let him consume me. I let his desire and lust control my life and scrutinized myself for being the reason he didn’t love me anymore. I don’t even know who I am anymore!”
Your cries grow louder and louder. Sylus tears up himself, unable to bring himself to look away as you crumble to your knees.
“Why me?! Why did you have to choose me?” You yell, looking up to the audience. Sylus sits in the wake of your gaze, trapped. “Why did you have to be the one who ripped my heart to shreds? I don’t understand! Please! Why am I not worthy of your love? Why am I the one who has to suffer for your mistakes? It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”
Your voice cracks, the scream of your anguish chilling Sylus to his core. He sits back into his seat, all of the air drained from his body, breathless as you slowly rise to your feet, the tears never ending. Your eyes find his again, the tremor in your body easing.
“I hate myself because of you.” The sentence slices through Sylus’ chest. “I hate myself for loving you…for making up excuses time and time again on why you are so cruel to me. I hate myself for allowing you to hurt me. I hate myself for not leaving earlier. I wish…I wish that I could bring myself to hate you, but I can’t. I don’t think I ever will.” You pause. You take a shuddered breath and close your eyes, allowing the warmth of the spotlight to envelop you like a hug. “Maybe we are right for each other. We are the only people I know who are miserable…who love to live in misery and wallow in our sorrows. Is it bad to say that I want more? That I need more?”
You laugh. It’s bitter. A reflection of how you feel on the inside. Unfortunate, but true.
“Maybe I’m not one of those people. Maybe I’m not built to live a happy life. Is it ironic that I now realize that I don’t want to be the third person in our marriage? That I want to be treated better than you have ever treated me. Is it bad to admit that I wish the old you would come back to me? The same one that held me when my dog died. The same one that was there for me when I graduated from college…” you go quiet, staring into the distance. “My aunt used to tell me that hindsight is a privlege to have. She used to tell me that in the real world, not many people are able to get a second chance like I have. She held my hands the night your affair was exposed.”
You hold your hands out in front of you, staring at the palms. Makeup and tears stain your skin. A reminder of the true storm that destroys your mind. A frown overtakes your face.
“She held me close,” your voice lowers but the microphone picks it up, loudening your whispers, “and told me that the next time I have the chance to run, I should take it. That I will regret not rushing towards happiness that I deserve and that the road will only get tougher and tougher the longer I put it off…Hey Dean? Do you remember that joke you always said? The one that used to make me laugh till I was breathless? You said it recently and…I found myself unwilling to play along anymore. I don’t love you anymore, Dean…I don’t know if I will ever again.”
Sylus has never known what it felt like to be nervous. Ever since he was born, he has never felt what people describe to be “erratic butterflies” that flutter in your stomach. He has heard many accounts from people — especially those who was succumbed to bullets from his guns — about fear and anxiety. The emotions are so foreign to him. Even when the two of you began to date, Sylus knew that you were the one for him. That it was going to be you and him against the world. He never felt those fluttering butterflies in his stomach until now.
He waits outside of the backstage door. People from the audience stand outside alongside fans. He keeps his distance, wanting you to have your moment before he eventually destroys it. The man glances down at the roses. Nausea begins to overtake his senses. He tries to steel his nerves, to make the sensation go away and leave him alone. It doesn’t, though. He deserves it.
The metal doors swing open and people cheer and yell out your name. You exit with a bright smile on your face, waving to them as flashes of lights pop off. He sighs, shaking his head as he turns on his heel, ready to walk away. Sylus isn’t even sure if he is ready to face you yet. How could he? You poked a hole into his lies, exposing him. He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing to you…the way his words and indifference slowly killed you while you were making something for yourself.
“Sylus.”
A shock of life flashes in his stomach. The butterflies are dead, the man turning around to look down at you. You stand in front of him with crossed arms and a scowl, annoyance written all over your face. You raise an eyebrow, glancing down at the flowers.
“These are for you,” Sylus extends the flowers in your direction, hoping to whatever god is out there that you’ll take them. You don’t. You just stare at the red petals, the white baby’s breath scattered into the mix. “You…you were phenomenal tonight. Truly…you made me cry. I didn’t think it was possible for me to.”
“Why are you here?” you ask, cutting straight to the point. It takes Sylus aback. The butterflies come back.
“I wanted to…” his voice trails off. He clears his throat, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness that remains in his body. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” you counter.
“Yes,” Sylus’ lips press into a thin line, amused. “There are things I have to say to you.”
“What if I don’t want to hear it?”
“Then I’ll leave,” he says. He means it, too. “I will leave you alone for the rest of your life if you want me to. I know that I have been an asshole and you have every right to be angry with me…at least let me drive you home. It’s snowing. You shouldn’t be walking out on your own.”
“Fine.”
Sylus’ eyes widen ever so slightly, his surprise on full display for you to see. Your roll your eyes at the sight, taking the flowers from him. Your gaze drops down to his ring finger. The black ring you got him sits there, the spot no longer vacant like it was before. And yet…you feel nothing.
You follow Sylus as he walks you towards his car. He stands close to you, shielding you from the harsh wind as snow flakes fall onto your flowers. You barely have a grip on them. The flowers are ready to fly away with the wind at any given moment, to be lost in the city of Linkon. Sylus wouldn’t blame you for letting them go. He knows that the flowers are a shot in the dark, a poor attempt to see that smile on your face because, well, you always smiled whenever he brought you flowers after a long day of work. Seeing your grin was like a shot of espresso that revitalized him after business deals gone wrong.
Oh, how he misses that smile.
He opens up the passenger side door. You let out an exasperated huff. He assumes that you rolled your eyes at him, too. You smack the flowers into his chest, slowly lowering yourself into the seat. Once your foot is inside, Sylus places the roses — which you immediately toss into the basckseat — and closes the door behind you, jogging to the other side of the car and gets inside. The car comes to life and heat from the vents help melt some of the icy tension in your body.
“Feel okay?” Sylus asks. You hum in response.
The man drives the car away from the theater, putting as much distance between the two of you and the damned place as possible. The drive is quiet, a song about heartbreak plays over the radio. You don’t pay attention. Instead, you stare outside of the car window, watching as Sylus drives through the empty streets. Snowflakes hit the foggy window. You tap your finger against them, letting the heat from your body melt the icy designs.
Sylus watches you from the corner of his eye. The butterflies have returned to his stomach. He ignores the feeling and clears his throat, the car coming to a slow stop at the red light.
“Can I take you somewhere?” Sylus asks. It’s another shot in the dark. One that he hopes you’ll take.
“Fine,” you mutter under your breath, keeping your gaze fixed out of the window.
Sylus nods once and turns left, heading away from the city and towards the river. You barely pay attention, opting to stare out at the snowy landscape. The lights of the city slowly disappear, the car taking you up the side of the city where there’s a lookout of the city. Minutes pass and the car finds itself in a parking spot, the tall man slipping free from the car. He moves to your side and opens up the door, offering you his hand. You ignore it and shove your hands into your jacket pockets, stepping away from him and towards a bench that overlooks Linkon City.
You sit down and Sylus takes his spot beside you. The silence from the car is replaced with the quiet sound of the wind, snowflakes flying past your face. You hug your arms close to your body, slightly shivering. Sylus is quick to wrap a scarf around your neck, the warmth from his hands lingering in the fabric. You contain an eye roll, quietly thanking him before the silence takes over once again.
“Sylus,” you exhale his name, steam from your breath evaportating in front of your eyes, “now is the time to talk.”
“I miss you.” He stares straight ahead, just barely seeing the look of shock — or is it disgust — on your face. “I also want to say…I’m sorry.”
“Is that all?” you ask.
“No,” he shakes his head, finally turning to look at you. “I want you to know that I heard you loud and clear. I heard you a month ago when you left and…I heard you during the play. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I…I don’t know what else to say or how to make things better between us but I miss you. I missed you the moment I let you step through that door. I never should have.”
The silence is less ugly now. At least you can breathe again, the cold air keeping you wide awake and alert. It even helped alleviate the strain behind your eyes. Dark gray clouds hang low in the sky. If you were to ask Sylus, he would bring one down to earth for you.
“I told her to never contact me again. I gave her information to someone else in Onychinus that she can turn to when she needs help,” he continues, answering the questions that pop into your mind. “I want you. Not her. I should have made that very clear and prioritized you.”
“No shit,” you mutter, looking down at your bare hands.
“Do you hate me?” he asks. You hesitate to respond.
A piece of skin pokes up beside your nail. You glare at it, a scowl overtaking your face. With the tips of your nails, you slowly peel it back. Your finger stings but the ice cold air numbs the pain almost instantly. Sylus sighs and places a hand on top of yours, stopping you from doing it any further. You turn to look up at him, to yell at him to let go and to not touch you, but as soon as your eyes meet his red ones: you’re a goner.
“You hurt me,” you whisper, voice cracking.
“I know,” he nods. He swallows the lump that formed in his throat. “And I know that there is nothing I can do or say to erase that pain. You have every right to be mad at me. Hell, I’m angry at myself for not seeing it any sooner.”
“Okay.” You nod, unsure of what else to say.
“I want you back in my life,” he quietly pleads. Sylus’ voice feels small. You have never seen him like this before. It’s…confusing. “I…I haven’t been sleeping well. Not since you left. Is it selfish of me to ask you to come back?”
“Yes,” you immediately respond.
Sylus bites back a frown, tearing his gaze away from you and towards the snowy Linkon skyline. Your eyes move to the line of his nose. The way the corner of his lips tug downward into a frown no matter how hard he tries to keep it away. You finally notice the bags under his eyes, the way his posture is slouched instead of its perfect state. You divert your gaze, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.
“I haven’t been sleeping well either,” you reply. Sylus’ head snaps to look back at you.
“Really?” he asks. You nod.
“It’s more of a…how can I sleep knowing that the man I was in love with chose everyone else over me kind of thing,” you say. You ignore the way Sylus’ expression breaks, the way his guily presents itself across his face. “I miss you, Sylus, but…”
“I know,” he finishes your sentence for you. He reaches out and gently moves your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. You tilt your face to look at him. He lowers his voice, “I promise to be better. Just…give me another chance. Please.”
“I don’t know,” you shake your head, holding back the tears. “Can I trust you?”
“Yes,” he gushes.
“How will I know that you’re mine and not…theirs?” The question barely comes out as a whisper and yet it is all Sylus can hear. “I don’t know if I can go through that heartbreak again.”
“You won’t have to,” he takes your hands in his and pull them to his chest. Right where his heart sits, to be exact.
Your eyes meet his and you can see the gloss over them, the way he is holding back every urge to cry and show his vulnerability. You know that this is hard for him. To show his emotions in a way that is not anger or through death. You finally take off the final mask that Sylus wears. His soul is on a silver platter for you to take. For you to keep and protect until the end of time.
“I love you. There is nothing else that I know to be more true than the fact that I am in love with you and thet I have been so fucking blind to just how happy you make me,” Sylus says. You hang onto every word, subconsciously leaning towards him. “I regret every single choice I have made in the last months. If I could go back and do it all over it again: I would. It’s what you said in the play…hindsight is a privlege. It is a privlege that we have. That we can take for ourselves.”
“Sylus…”
“You can trust me,” he continues, “you know you can. It’ll be just the two of us. I promise.”
The wind whips around your bodies. One of Sylus’ hands leave yours, finding its way to your cheek. You lean into the warmth, closing your eyes as the memories flood back to you.
Everything went sour in a matter of months. Before that, the two of you were rock solid. You were happy. The two of you share memories that nobody else will have access to. You remember all of the countless nights you stayed up waiting for him, sleep ready to take you over just as he walked through the bedroom door. You remember all of the times he brought you flowers and kissed your cheek, claiming that you are the most beautiful woman in the world. You remember all of the times Sylus held you when you cried. He has been there for you through thick and thin…is that something you’re willing to give up?
“I’ll come back,” you open your eyes. A smile begins to form on his face. It fades when you begin to speak again, “but we need to take things slow, okay? One day at a time.”
“One day at a time,” Sylus repeats. His eyes drop down to your lips, his eye glowing at the sight. Your hands flatten against his chest, feeling his unsteady heartbeat before they slip up and around his neck. The man pulls you closer, his touch light and gentle. “May I kiss you? Please?”
He asks as if he’s been starving for years. You nod, fingers slipping into his white hair, his lips connecting with yours in a slow and tender kiss. You sigh into his lips, hungry for more. The man gives it to you but he gently takes your left hand away from his neck, bringing it down to your laps.
“Sy,” you whine, earning a smile from him.
A cold sensation slips up your ring finger. You gasp, surprised by its presence. You look down and see a dark silver band wrapped around your finger with a black rock sitting in the middle. It looks similar to the ring you bought Sylus. The same one that he’s wearing right now.
“What…”
“This is my vow to you,” Sylus gently places his finger under your chin, tilting it back up so that you look at him. “My vow that my heart belongs to you and you alone. I know things will take time between us but…I need you to know that this,” he taps the top of the ring, sending chills down your spine, “is what my future looks like with you.”
“Do you mean it?” you ask, mouth suddenly dry. He nods.
“I meant every single word. I’m yours. Completely and utterly yours.”
as always ; likes, comments, & reblogs are greatly appreciated! be sure to support your favorite writers! <3
i promised.... i shall deliver!!
fratboy!tengen x reader x fratboy!rengoku!
fratboy!giyuu doesn’t party — but he shows up for you
you never see him at big house parties. you’ve asked around, and the others say he hates the noise. but the moment you say you’re going, he appears. dark hoodie, hands in pockets, standing somewhere near the wall where he can keep an eye on you without drawing attention. he always leaves early — but not before asking, in that quiet, low voice, “are you coming with me or staying?”
fratboy!giyuu texts you like he means it
he’s not a fan of small talk. his messages are few, and short. but when he sends them, they hit hard:
“did you eat?”
“you looked tired today.”
“i had a dream about you.”
“can i see you tonight?”
and when you don’t reply quick enough, he doesn’t double text. but you know he’s staring at his phone waiting anyway.
fratboy!giyuu is so quiet in bed you think you’re doing something wrong — until you hear him breathe
soft little gasps when he pushes in, teeth gritted when you clench around him, a broken “fuck” when you moan his name. he doesn’t say much — but the way his hands tremble on your hips? the way his forehead presses to yours like he can’t believe this is real? it’s all there.
fratboy!giyuu jerks off to the thought of your voice
not even your body — just the way you said his name that one night. that soft breathy “giyu…” when you asked him to stay. he has his eyes closed and his hand around his cock, stroking slow, imagining how you’d sound if he made you cry from pleasure. he doesn’t tell you this. but you feel it the next time he kisses you. + sometimes he'll put you through voicemail just to save your voice notes.
fratboy!giyuu obsessive about you in a quiet, terrifying way
you left your lip balm in his car once. he keeps it in his pocket now. he has your class schedule memorized. he walks the long way across campus just to pass by the cafe he knows you study at. when you ask how he always finds you, he just shrugs. “lucky, i guess.”
fratboy!giyuu likes when you ride him — slow, deep — while he's taking a drag
your thighs shaking, your chest rising and falling against his, your hand in his hair. he holds your waist in place and lets you take your time. “just like that,” he whispers, voice cracking. “you feel good… so good, fuck.” he barely blinks. he watches you lose your mind as he sparks a blunt as he thinks about if he wants to put you in a mating press or what next. and look at you, so fucked deep out of your mind you can't realize he's scheming.
fratboy!sanemi pretends he doesn’t care, but he’s always watching
he acts like he doesn’t notice when you flirt with other guys — eyes rolling, scoffing, biting into a red cup like he’s unbothered. but later that night, he’s got you pinned to his door, mouth pressed against your ear like a threat. “you wanna act like that in front of me? you think i won’t remind you who you really belong to?”
fratboy!sanemi's room is a disaster except for the drawer with your stuff
sheets crumpled, laundry on the chair, textbooks buried under protein bars — but there’s one drawer, halfway tucked in, with your chapstick, hair tie, and the t-shirt you left behind. he won’t admit it’s yours. but he opens it sometimes and just stares. did he totally use your chapstick one time? yeah. he's taking that to the grave. not even telling you when you eventually get married. satan couldn't pull that out of him.
fratboy!sanemi’s always fighting, but he never lets anyone talk shit about you
he gets into it with people often — short temper, foul mouth — but if someone so much as jokes about you in the wrong tone, he’s standing up before they finish their sentence. doesn’t matter who it is. doesn’t matter what it costs him. he doesn’t let people talk about you like that. not even once. and who the fuck would stop a 5'10 200+ pound monster athlete? right...
fratboy!sanemi fucks with a chip on his shoulder
like he’s got something to prove. grip bruising your hips, voice rough in your ear, pace unforgiving. “c’mon. take it. you wanted this, didn’t you?” but his hands still tremble a little when he brushes the hair off your face. he’s still the first one to notice if your eyes go glassy and asks “too much?” even when he’s deep in it. and even when he's treating you like an animal, he'll clean your leg after, and cuddle the shit out of you after.
fratboy!sanemi sends one-word texts that say everything
“home?” when he wants to know where you are.
“open.” when he’s already outside your door.
“mine.” when he sees someone else post a picture with you.
he doesn’t use emojis. doesn’t use proper punctuation. just short, sharp messages that make your heart lurch. the bar is in hell
fratboy!sanemi’s obsessed with fucking you from behind
something about the angle, the way your body jerks with every thrust, the way he can wrap your hair around his fist and lean in to growl “such a fuckin’ good girl” against the back of your neck. sometimes he pulls you back on him, makes you do the work, watches you in the mirror while you try not to fall apart. but he fucks you like he loves you (and he fuckin' does)
hi there, sweet bean. you ready for the holidays? cuz i am! i have some fun prompts for you to pick out, and a list of men i can write for you! have fun and be ready to spread some holiday chee(k)rs!!
pls only send 2 choices, and as always, make sure you let me know which characters you want me to write this for. if you send me more than 2, well... what da hell.
send requests in dms/ask/comments
last story is published on dec. 25!!!
*as always, i will write as much as i possibly can. if i do not end up getting to your request. i humbly apologize.
characters i will write for:
my hero academia —
dabi, all might, bakugo, todoroki
1. you try to teach them how to make your family’s favorite holiday recipe
2. “wait, don’t open your present yet—i want to see your face when you do.”
they bring you breakfast in bed on christmas morning
3. you lose a bet and have to wear the ugliest christmas sweater known to man, but they show up in a matching one just so you won’t be embarrassed alone.
4. they write you a letter and tuck it in your stocking, telling you all the little reasons they love you, signed with a heart.
5. decorating the tree
6. you get home to your husband decorating the yard (lmk if u want kids in this?)
7. christmas eve by the fireplace, sharing secrets and kisses in the warm glow
8. you challenge each other to see who can build the best snow fort
9. “merry christmas. i hope i get to spend every one with you.”
10. you’re both snowed in, nowhere to go
11. making a gingerbread house together
12. “you’re cold. come here. no, closer.”
13. they build you a snowman in the front yard, but it looks so ridiculous you can’t stop laughing
14. they have a mistletoe and are finding all the ways to hold it up above you.
— SMUT/SUGGESTIVE 🎅 🎄 🎁 ✨
15. making out in the hallway during a holiday party, their hand up your shirt, “if you don’t stop looking at me like that, i’ll take you right here against the door.”
16. “how do you want me, under the mistletoe or under you?”
17. getting freaky by the christmas tree
18. “keep your phone on. i want you to read every filthy message i send while you’re at that family dinner.”
19. late night hot cocoa, whipped cream….suckin…?
20. you catch their gaze across a crowded ice rink, and later they pull you into a shadowy corner, pinning you against the boards
21. “keep your eyes on the tree lights, not on me. i want to see your face in the glow when you fall apart.”
22. “don’t look now, but i’m not wearing anything under this dress—meet me on the balcony in five minutes.”
23. you slip into the photo booth at the mall “for fun,” but their hand slides up your thigh as the camera flashes.
24. “be quiet,” they warn, slipping their fingers under your clothes during a midnight stroll through a holiday-lit park
25. you’re icing cookies together, but they lick icing off your fingers, grinning, “sweet, but i bet you taste even better.”
26. sex in the snow
— ANGST 🎄🎁✨❄️
27. wrapping gifts for everyone else, you find the one you bought for them buried in the closet.
28. “i hope you’re happy. i hope you find what you’re looking for.”
29. running into them at a christmas party, both of you pretending it doesn’t hurt
30. your phone lights up with their name, just once, on christmas eve. you almost answer, but you let it ring.
31. the table is set for two, but you eat alone.
32. “the holidays aren’t the same without you.”
33. you open your gift to find it’s something you mentioned once, months ago. they still remembered, even if things ended.
34. “i know i said i’d be home, but—i’m sorry.”
35. “you should go. you don’t belong in my holiday memories anymore.”
36. the first christmas after a breakup. you find their old ornament at the bottom of the box.
37. “don’t hang my stocking this year. it’s better that way.”
38. “do you still think about us? or am i the only one stuck in last december?”
39. they promised they’d be home for the holidays. the only thing that comes is a letter explaining why they can’t.
40. “i kept your gift. i just… couldn’t give it to anyone else.”
41. you stare at old photos, heart sick with missing them, wondering if they miss you as much as you miss them.
the air is cold enough to sting, but you’re still smiling—somehow always smiling. giyu doesn’t understand how you manage it, not after the week you’ve had. the snow crunches underfoot, soft and rhythmic, and your laughter drifts over it like it belongs there.
“you’re so quiet,” you tease, stepping ahead of him on the narrow path. “if you don’t talk, i’ll start thinking you’re secretly enjoying my company.”
he glances up from the ground, startled by your grin. “i am,” he says simply.
you blink, caught off guard, then laugh again—brighter this time, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “oh? i didn’t think you’d actually admit that giyu!” he looks away, but you catch the corner of his mouth twitching. a tiny thing, barely there, but real. it’s enough to make your chest ache a little.
you stop when the path opens to a small hill, the one you’ve passed every patrol through this region. the cedar stands at its peak, tall and worn, its bark silvered with age. the wind pushes through its branches with a low hum, almost like a voice.
“that tree’s still here,” you say, tilting your head. “strong old thing, isn’t it?”
giyu nods, watching you more than the tree. “it’s been here longer than the corps has. longer than either of us will be.” you hum softly, walking closer, running your gloved hand over the rough bark. “then let’s make a deal. when all this is over, we meet here again. no swords, no uniforms, no talk of death. just you, me, and this stubborn tree.”
he blinks at you. “a promise?”
“yeah.” you look over your shoulder, smiling. “a promise.”
for a moment, silence. snow catches in his hair, melts along his collar. he hesitates—then the smallest, gentlest smile pulls at his lips.
“alright,” he says. “i promise.”
you grin wider, hand pressed against the cedar as if sealing the words into its bark. the wind rises again, carrying the scent of winter and pine, and he swears he’ll never forget the sound of your laughter in that moment—bright, alive, echoing between the branches.
the hit lands before you even see it coming. a burst of white pain—so sharp, so fast it almost feels clean—cuts through your stomach. you gasp, but no sound comes out. just the wet choke of air that won’t stay inside you.
the world reels backward. the snow, the trees, the clash of steel—all of it tilts, spinning out of focus. your knees give out before your mind catches up. you fall into the cold, and the cold feels endless.
somewhere, distantly, you hear giyu shout your name. his voice cracks through the roar of the battle, but it sounds far away, like you’re underwater.
then everything starts to blur.
your brain, stubborn thing that it is, starts pulling up pieces of him.
the first time he smiled at you—awkward and small, like his face didn’t quite know how to hold it.
his hand brushing yours when you shared an onigiri, pretending it was an accident.
his hair, damp and clinging to his jaw, the night it rained and you found shelter under that tiny awning, laughing about how you’d both smell like wet dogs.
the cedar tree, tall and still and waiting.
his voice, low and soft in the dark. we’ll meet there. i promise.
you blink, and the castle above you comes into focus again. it’s dark again. heavier.
you can’t hear the battle anymore—just the dull thud of footsteps pounding toward you. giyu’s shape breaks through the haze, running. his mouth is open, shouting something you can’t make out.
you try to lift your hand, to tell him you’re okay, but your arm feels like it ceases to exist. your fingers twitch uselessly. the warmth on your stomach keeps spreading. you feel cold.
he drops beside you. the impact of his knees in the ground cracks it. his face—usually so composed—is unrecognizable. wild. eyes blown wide. his hands press against the wound, trying to stop what’s already slipping away.
his lips move. you can’t hear. you can only see.
you want to tell him not to look so scared. you want to remind him of the promise. of spring. of the tree. but your mouth won’t open, and your throat won’t move.
you reach for him anyway. your hand catches his sleeve, barely. he grabs it, holding on tight, too tight.
the lights behind him flicker and bloom pathetically. and as the light starts to fade, the last thing you see is the look in his eyes—terror and love tangled together.
you think, faintly, i hope he still goes back to the tree.
—i love you. please don't go—
you blink.
the world had gone quiet in a way that didn’t feel like peace.
years passed. seasons folded over each other. the corps disbanded. villages rebuilt. children who once hid from monsters now played in the streets.
and every year, when the snow returned, giyu walked back to that hill.
the cedar was still there. taller now, older, but still standing, still refusing to let go. the first time he returned, his hands were raw from training and grief. he knelt at its base, fingers trembling around a blade not meant for fighting— not anymore. slowly, he carved your name into the bark—each letter deliberate, each stroke shaking a little more than the last. when he finished, he pressed his forehead against it, eyes shut.
then, beneath it, he carved his own.
two names. one promise.
he stayed there the entire night. he didn’t sleep. didn’t eat. he just sat with the cold seeping into his bones, the kind of cold that feels deserved.
the years that followed blurred. he kept coming back. sometimes with flowers. sometimes your favorite meal he’d cook himself, setting it carefully by the roots as if you might still share it with him. other times, he’d just sit in silence, the wind moving through his hair, the tree’s branches shifting like they were whispering your name back to him.
some days, he talked. quietly at first, voice barely more than a breath. he’d tell you about the weather, about the food he tried to make that didn’t taste right without you laughing beside him, about the villagers who waved when he passed. he’d say your name aloud just to remember how it felt in his mouth.
and every time, without fail, his voice would break. he would start to cry—sometimes halfway through a story, sometimes at the very end when there were no words left. he’d press his forehead to the bark and whisper, you told me to be more open, remember? to show what i feel. and then softer, i’m trying.
age twenty five came quietly. a late winter morning. snow soft and slow, like the first time you’d shown him that tree. he felt it in his chest before he knew what it meant.
he walked there again, slower this time. every step heavy, but sure. when he reached the cedar, he smiled—the same faint, small smile you once teased him for.
he sat down beneath it, leaning back against the bark. his hand brushed over the carvings, your name and his, the grooves smoothed by time.
“i kept my promise,” he murmured, voice low.
the snow kept falling.
and when the villagers found him later that evening, his expression was peaceful. the snow had gathered in his hair. his sword was gone. his hands rested loosely in his lap.
and behind him, carved deep into the cedar, two names waited side by side—still clear despite the passing years.
when the wind blew through the branches, it sounded almost like laughter. faint. familiar. two souls, running through a field together.
and at the foot of the promised tree, two souls found forever in the waiting.
…bonus cuz i am not completely evil! ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )b
spring again. the world warm and bright and full of small beginnings. petals scatter like snow through the air, catching in your hair as you run through the hill that always seems to call to you, even though you’ve never been here before.
the cedar tree stands at its peak, tall and old, the bark ridged with stories you can’t read but somehow feel. you touch it with one small hand and whisper, “you feel familiar,” though you don’t know why.
the wind answers softly, carrying laughter from somewhere behind you. you turn.
a boy is running toward you, black hair wild from the wind, lapis blue eyes dark as the ocean. he slows when he reaches you, smiling shyly, a little out of breath.
“sorry,” he says. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”
you shake your head. “you didn’t.”
he looks at the tree. “you like it too?”
you nod. “it feels… nice here. like it’s waiting for something!”
he stares at you a little too long before he leans forward, tapping your shoulder lightly. “tag.”
you blink. “what?”
his grin widens. “you’re it.”
and then he’s gone, darting around the tree, laughter echoing through the air. you chase after him, feet pounding through the grass, both of you laughing so hard it hurts. sunlight flashes between the branches as you run in circles around the cedar, the same place where love once waited and grief once stayed.
your laughter rises with the wind, weaving through the leaves. the promised tree creaks softly, as if smiling, as if whispering—
