Loving the Kankuro pieces, you write him well! Can I request more? Maybe some angst or hurt/comfort?
Sure thing! Sorry it took so long!
Not There, Still Here
It was night now, the village finally beginning to quiet after hours of celebration. Lantern light still flickered through the streets of Sunagakure, laughter and music lingering in the warm air—everyone rejoicing in the return of their Kazekage, Gaara.
Everyone was there.
Everyone but one.
You stood outside the workshop, staring at the closed door. From inside came the faint, uneven clinking of tools—metal against metal, too fast, too erratic to be careful work.
He had been in there since his release from the hospital. Ever since surviving his battle with Sasori. Ever since Gaara had been taken… and brought back.
Anyone who came had been turned away.
You raised your hand and knocked.
No answer.
“Kankurō, let me in.”
The sounds stopped instantly.
Silence.
Then, from behind the door—flat, distant—
“Go away.”
You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. “If you don’t open this door, then I’m knocking it down.”
“Leave me alone.”
Your jaw tightened. “One.”
Nothing.
“Two.”
A pause.
Then—the soft click of the lock.
The door opened just a fraction.
And you were met with a ghost of him.
Kankurō stood there, hollow-eyed and worn thin, his face paint smeared and uneven. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days—like he hadn’t allowed himself to. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then you pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The workshop told the rest of the story.
Pieces of Karasu lay scattered across the table, its inner workings exposed and unfinished. Kuroari slumped in the corner, threads tangled instead of precise. Even Sanshōuo had been taken apart carelessly—something Kankurō would never normally allow.
“You saw me,” he muttered, already turning away. “Now leave.”
“No.”
His shoulders tensed.
“I’m not doing this.”
“You haven’t been doing anything except hiding.”
“I’ve been working.”
“You’ve been destroying yourself.”
That made him snap.
“I said I’m fine.”
“You almost died fighting Sasori, Kankurō!”
“And I should have!” he shot back.
The words cracked through the room.
Silence followed—heavy, suffocating.
“…Don’t say that,” you said quietly.
“Why not?” His voice frayed, breaking under the weight of everything he hadn’t said. “Would’ve made more sense, wouldn’t it? Then I wouldn’t have been dragged back useless while they took him.”
“You weren’t useless.”
“I was unconscious!” His hand slammed against the table. “Out of the fight before it mattered! Some bodyguard I am.”
“You fought an Akatsuki member and lived.”
“I lost.”
“You survived."
“That wasn’t the point!” His voice broke. “The point was protecting him!”
Silence crashed down again.
“I wasn’t there,” he said, quieter now. “When he needed me most.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” His laugh was hollow. “Because he died.”
The word still hurt to hear.
Even now.
“He died,” Kankurō repeated. “And I wasn’t there.”
Your chest tightened, but you stepped closer anyway.
“He came back.”
“Because of someone else.”
“Yes,” you said softly. “Because of Lady Chiyo. Because of Naruto Uzumaki. Because people refused to let him go.”
“And I wasn’t one of them.”
“You were part of it,” you said. “You survived. You made it back. You were there when he came home.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” you admitted. “But it still matters.”
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t argue.
But his shoulders trembled—just barely.
You noticed his hands then.
The bandages were soaked through.
“Kankurō…”
“They’re fine.”
“They’re not.” You stepped forward, taking his wrist despite his weak attempt to pull away. “Sit.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sit.”
Something in your voice—steady, unyielding—cut through.
After a long moment, he exhaled shakily and let you guide him to the workbench. He dropped into the chair like his body had finally given up holding itself together.
You sat in front of him and began unwrapping the ruined bandages.
The damage made your chest ache—raw skin, reopened cuts, hands pushed far past their limits.
“You’re going to destroy them,” you murmured.
“Maybe I deserve to.”
You didn’t answer that.
Instead, you cleaned the wounds carefully, grounding the moment in something steady. He flinched but didn’t pull away.
“I keep seeing it,” he admitted quietly.
You glanced up. “What?”
“Him.” His voice cracked. “Still. Cold. And I wasn’t there.”
You swallowed. “You can’t change that.”
“I should have been able to.”
“You’re human,” you said gently. “Not invincible.”
“Doesn’t feel like that matters.”
You finished wrapping one hand, then the other, slower now.
“I’m tired,” he said, barely audible.
“I know.”
“I don’t think I can sleep.”
“You don’t have to try alone.”
That seemed to reach him—just a little.
“You’re not leaving,” he murmured.
“No.”
A long silence followed.
Then, slowly, he sagged.
You shifted closer, guiding him carefully. He resisted for only a second before giving in completely, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder, his weight heavy, like he’d been holding himself up by sheer will until now.
His breathing was uneven at first.
Shallow.
Shaking.
You adjusted slightly, wrapping one arm around him, anchoring him there. Your other hand lifted slowly, hesitating just for a moment before settling gently into his hair.
Soft.
You began to run your fingers through it—slow, careful strokes, untangling where you could, soothing where you couldn’t.
He stilled.
Then his grip tightened weakly in your sleeve.
“…Stay,” he murmured, half-lost already.
“I’m here,” you whispered.
His breathing gradually evened out, exhaustion finally pulling him under. But even in sleep, tension lingered—his brow faintly furrowed, his grip tightening and loosening like he was still fighting something unseen.
A nightmare.
You felt it before he even stirred.
His breathing hitched, shoulders tensing, fingers clutching tighter.
“No,” he muttered faintly.
You didn’t hesitate.
Your hand stilled in his hair for only a second before you shifted closer, tightening your hold just enough to ground him without waking him.
“It’s okay,” you murmured softly, your voice low and steady against his ear. “He’s here. He’s safe. You’re safe.”
Your fingers resumed their slow movement through his hair, more deliberate now, a steady rhythm meant to anchor him.
“Everything’s okay,” you whispered.
His breathing faltered—then slowly began to settle again.
The tension eased, little by little.
His grip loosened.
And the nightmare passed without ever fully taking hold.
You stayed like that, holding him close, fingers threading gently through his hair, guarding his rest like something fragile.
Outside, the village still hummed with distant celebration.
Inside, the workshop was quiet.
And for the first time since everything happened, Kankurō slept—not peacefully, not completely—but safely.
The silence after Kaminari’s broken cries felt heavier than before, charged with a new kind of energy. You stayed on your knees, watching him melt into the desk chair. His chest rose and fell in deep, shaky gulps. A dopey, blissed-out smile was plastered on his face.
Kirishima’s low whistle still seemed to hang in the air. You finally turned your head to look at the others.
Sero had leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his dark eyes wide and fascinated. Bakugo hadn’t moved from his bed, but his posture was different—less a lazy sprawl, more a coiled readiness. His crimson eyes tracked your every movement.
But it was Kirishima who spoke, his voice a rough, warm rumble that cut through the haze. “Damn,” he repeated, but this time it wasn’t just awe. It was hunger. His gaze wasn’t on Kaminari anymore. It was locked on you, traveling down your body with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. “You’re not exactly… unaffected, are you?”
You followed his look. Your own breathing was quicker than normal. Your heart thumped hard against your ribs. The flush you felt on your neck and chest was obvious, and the ache between your legs was a persistent, undeniable throb. The power of the act, the attention, the sheer taboo of it all had lit a fuse inside you.
You didn’t deny it. You just held his gaze, a challenge in your eyes.
A slow, sharp-toothed grin spread across Kirishima’s face. It wasn’t his usual bright, friendly smile. This was darker, more possessive. “You look like you need something, too.” He shifted on the floor, making space directly in front of him. He patted his thick, muscular thigh. “C’mere.”
Your pulse skipped. You glanced at the others. Sero just nodded, a silent encouragement. Bakugo’s jaw was tight, but he didn’t object. Kaminari let out a soft, contented sigh from his chair, completely lost to the world.
This was happening. It was really happening.
You pushed up from the carpet, your knees tingling. You crossed the small space, the air thick enough to swim through. You stopped in front of Kirishima, looking down at him. Up close, he was massive—all hard planes and corded muscle. His red hair was a wild halo around his head, his eyes gleaming.
“What did you have in mind?” you asked, your voice lower than you intended.
His grin widened. He leaned back, bracing his hands behind him on the floor. He tilted his head, a clear, unspoken invitation. “You shut Denki up real good. My turn.” His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. “Sit on my face. Let me return the favor.”
A jolt of pure, white-hot want shot straight to your core. You’d expected… you didn’t know what you’d expected. But not this. Not his blunt, raw offer.
You didn’t speak. You just reached for the waistband of your own pants, your fingers fumbling only slightly with the button and zipper. The sound seemed incredibly loud. You pushed them down your hips, along with your underwear, letting them pool at your ankles before you stepped out of them. The dorm air was cool on your exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat building inside you.
Kirishima’s eyes darkened, his gaze drinking you in. “Yeah,” he breathed, more to himself than to you.
You moved, straddling his broad chest. You placed one knee on the floor beside his ribcage, then the other. You hovered over him, your hands coming to rest on his solid shoulders for balance. His breath was warm against your inner thigh.
“Do it,” he urged, his hands coming up to grip your hips. His fingers were strong, calloused from training, and they held you with a certainty that made your head spin. “C’mon. Sit down.”
You lowered yourself.
The first touch of his mouth against you was electric. Not his tongue—just his lips, pressing a soft, hot kiss right at your center. You gasped, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
Then his tongue swept through you in one long, flat stroke.
Oh, god.
Your hips jerked. His grip tightened, holding you firmly in place. He didn’t just tease. He feasted. His tongue was thick and relentless, licking into you with a focused enthusiasm that was utterly, completely Kirishima. He ate you out like it was a challenge, like it was a test of endurance he was determined to ace.
A moan tore from your throat, high and unbidden. You heard a shifting from Bakugo’s bed, a sharp intake of breath from Sero, but it all faded into background noise.
Kirishima hummed against you, the vibration making your legs tremble. He zeroed in on your clit, circling it with firm, dizzying pressure before sucking it gently between his lips.
“F-fuck, Eijiro,” you stammered, your head falling forward. Your hair curtained around your face. You were panting, each breath a shaky effort.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice muffled and wet against your skin. “Tastes so good. So good.” Then he dove back in, his tongue pushing deeper, fucking you with it in a rhythm that was already driving you wild. One of his hands left your hip, his thumb finding your clit to rub tight, fast circles while his tongue worked you open.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, a spring winding to its breaking point. You rolled your hips, grinding against his mouth, seeking more. He growled in approval, the sound vibrating through your entire body.
You opened your eyes, looking down. The sight was obscene and beautiful—his red spikes of hair under you, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration, his lips and chin glistening with your wetness. The sheer devotion of it undid you.
“I’m… I’m close,” you warned, your voice a ragged thread.
He didn’t let up. If anything, he got rougher, more desperate. His thumb pressed harder. His tongue fucked into you faster. His free hand came up to squeeze your ass, kneading the flesh, pulling you even tighter against his mouth.
The orgasm hit you like a crack of lightning. It ripped through you, a violent, shuddering wave that stole the air from your lungs. You cried out, a raw, broken sound you didn’t recognize as your own. Your body arched, every muscle locking tight before dissolving into helpless tremors. Kirishima held you through it, drinking every drop, licking you through the aftershocks until you were squirming from oversensitivity.
You collapsed forward, barely catching yourself on your hands over his head. You were shaking, utterly spent, dripping onto his chest.
He gently nudged you off, and you rolled to the side, landing on the carpet beside him, boneless and gasping. You stared at the ceiling, your mind blank and buzzing.
Kirishima wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest heaving. He turned his head to look at you, his expression fierce with satisfaction. “Manly as hell,” he panted, his sharp teeth flashing in a triumphant grin.
From the bed, Bakugo let out a short, derisive snort. But when you managed to turn your head toward him, his eyes were blazing. “Two down,” he said, his voice like gravel. He pushed himself off the bed and stood up. He didn’t look wrecked like Kaminari, or satisfied like Kirishima. He looked hungry. He took a single step toward you, his presence suddenly dominating the room. “You got any energy left, or are you tapped out?”
Kaminari’s mouth, which had been moving in a non-stop stream of complaints for the last twenty minutes, hung open. Kirishima froze with a chip halfway to his lips. Sero’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. Bakugo, lounging on his bed with a scowl, actually lifted his head to look.
You didn’t move from your spot on the floor, leaning against Sero’s legs. You just stared at Kaminari, your face calm, as if you’d just offered to grab him a soda from the mini-fridge.
He blinked. “Seriously?”
“You’ve been moaning about your dry spell since we got here,” you said, your voice flat. “My ears are tired. So, yes. Seriously. Let’s get it over with.”
The tension in the room snapped, replaced by a thick, electric curiosity. No one said a word. They just watched.
Kaminari’s shock melted into a slow, eager grin. “Okay. Yeah. Okay. Deal.”
~
It had started like any other Friday night in the Bakusquad’s dorm. Bakugo’s room, because he had the biggest one and, despite his protests, they always ended up there. Music played low from a speaker, the remains of takeout littered the floor, and the easy camaraderie of a long week at UA was in the air. You were all adults now, third-years, the pressures of hero training a familiar weight.
And then Kaminari started.
“It’s been, like, two months,” he groaned, flopping back onto a pile of Kirishima’s discarded gym clothes. “Two months! I’m a healthy, vibrant young hero! This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
Sero chuckled. “Maybe your vibrancy is the problem, bro.”
“It’s not funny! I have needs. Urgent, pressing needs.”
You’d tuned him out for a while, scrolling on your phone, letting the familiar whine become background noise. But it kept going. And going. Detailed, lamenting, increasingly theatrical. It was less about actual loneliness and more about the performance of it.
That’s when the idea clicked in your head. A simple transaction. Peace and quiet, traded for a service. The thought wasn’t even particularly sexual at first—it was utilitarian. A solution to an auditory problem.
Until now.
Until Kaminari was shoving a stack of manga off his desk chair and sitting down, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. Until the other boys’ silent attention became a physical presence in the room, a blanket of anticipation.
You pushed yourself up. The carpet was rough under your knees as you crawled the short distance to him. You stopped, settling between his spread legs. The worn fabric of his jeans was soft under your palms as you placed them on his thighs.
“You sure?” he whispered, his voice suddenly losing its performative edge, becoming just a bit raw.
“Shut up,” you murmured back, but there was no heat in it. “That’s the deal.”
Your fingers went to his belt buckle. The clink of the metal was loud in the quiet room. You undid the button of his jeans, then the zipper, the sound a slow, rough hiss. You could feel the heat coming off him, could see the obvious bulge straining against his boxers. You hooked your fingers in the waistband of both and pulled them down just enough to free him.
He sprang free, already fully hard. You didn’t hesitate. You wrapped your hand around the base, feeling him jump at the contact. He was thick, the skin hot and smooth under your palm. You leaned in, keeping your eyes on his face as you opened your mouth and took just the head inside.
Kaminari’s breath left him in a sharp, shaky sigh. His head fell back against the chair with a soft thud.
The first taste was clean, salty. You swirled your tongue around the sensitive tip, teasing the slit, and he made a choked sound. His hands came up, hovering near your head for a second before he fisted them in his own hair, clearly fighting the urge to grab you.
You took that as a challenge.
You sank down, taking more of him into your mouth. Your lips stretched around his girth, a familiar, satisfying burn. You hollowed your cheeks and pulled back up slowly, then sank down again, deeper this time. Your nose brushed the coarse hair at his base.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word trembling.
You found a rhythm, one hand working what you couldn’t take, the other braced on his muscular thigh. You listened to the sounds he made—the little gasps, the grunts he tried to stifle. You felt the tension coiling in his legs under your hand. The room faded. There was just this: the weight of him on your tongue, the salty-sweet taste, the intoxicating power of reducing him to a writhing, pleading mess.
You glanced up through your lashes. His eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth slack. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. Perfect.
You pulled off with a soft, wet pop. “You’re being too quiet, Denki.”
His eyes flew open, dazed. “W-what?”
“I said you’re being too quiet.” Your voice was husky. You ran your thumb over his slick tip. “I want to hear you.”
A shudder racked his whole body. You didn’t give him time to think. You took him back into your mouth, deeper, faster. Your other hand cupped his balls, rolling the heavy weight gently.
He broke.
A high, desperate whine tore from his throat. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. “Oh god, right there, please—”
You hummed around him, the vibration making him shout. His control was crumbling. His hands left his hair and gripped the sides of the chair, knuckles white. The sounds he was making now were unfiltered, gorgeous—raw, greedy moans that filled the silent dorm room.
You felt him thicken, the muscles in his thighs turning to iron. You knew the signs. You sucked harder, faster, your own core clenching in sympathy with his building pleasure.
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—” he warned, voice strangled.
You didn’t pull away. You locked your eyes with his, and you swallowed him down to the root, taking him completely.
With a broken cry, he came. Hot pulses flooded your mouth, salty and bitter. You swallowed, working him through it until he was twitching and oversensitive, until his cries softened into panting whimpers.
You pulled off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He was slumped in the chair, completely spent, his chest heaving.
Silence. Then, a low whistle.
“Damn,” Kirishima said, his voice full of awe.
You turned your head. All three of them were staring. Bakugo’s scowl was gone, replaced by a look of intense, focused interest. Sero looked like he’d just witnessed a miracle. Kirishima was grinning, his sharp teeth on full display.
Kaminari finally managed to lift his head. He looked at you, his expression soft and utterly wrecked. “You… you’re amazing.”
You just smiled and shrugged. “You’re quiet. Deal’s a deal.”
Of course! This is something I've had have written in my drafts.
CW: fluff with a touch of angst
The Weight of Healing
Part One: First Touch
The training ground was quiet now, save for the distant sounds of other students finishing their exercises. You knelt beside Izuku Midoriya in the fading afternoon light, your hero costume's knees pressing into the dirt as you assessed the damage. His right arm was a mess, bruised purple and swollen from overusing his quirk during combat training. Again.
"I'm really sorry," Izuku said, his voice strained as he cradled his injured arm. His green eyes were apologetic, almost guilty. "I know you've already healed me twice this week, and it's only Wednesday..."
"Don't apologize," you said softly, already reaching for his arm. "That's what I'm here for."
Your fingers wrapped gently around his forearm, and you activated your quirk. The familiar warm glow emanated from your palms, spreading across his damaged tissue. You watched his face as the healing took effect—the way his expression shifted from pain to relief, the tension leaving his shoulders, his grateful smile beginning to form.
What he didn't see was the way you bit down on the inside of your cheek. Hard. The pain of his injury transferred into your own body like ice-cold fire, radiating up your arm in waves. Fractured bones knitting themselves back together, torn muscle fibers reweaving, you felt every sensation as if the injury had been yours all along. Your quirk didn't just heal; it redistributed the damage, taking it into yourself and processing it away. The pain was temporary for you, usually fading within an hour or two, but in the moment, it was excruciating.
You'd gotten very good at hiding it.
"There," you said, releasing his arm and flexing your fingers casually, as if they didn't feel like they'd been slammed in a door. "Good as new."
Izuku rotated his wrist experimentally, eyes widening with wonder—the same wonder he always showed, even though you'd healed him dozens of times since school started. "It's amazing. Your quirk is really amazing, you know that?"
Heat crept up your neck. "It's nothing special. Just doing my part."
"No, really!" He sat up straighter, launching into analysis mode. You'd learned this was just how his brain worked—constantly observing, noting, cataloging. "The speed of your healing is incredible, and there's no scarring at all. Plus, you can heal multiple people in succession without seeming tired. The applications for hero work are endless. You could save so many people, and—" He stopped abruptly, a blush spreading across his freckled cheeks. "Sorry. I'm rambling again, aren't I?"
You smiled despite the lingering ache in your arm. "I don't mind. It's... nice. That you think about these things."
The blush deepened, and he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "We should probably head back before it gets dark. Can I... can I walk you to the dorms?"
Your heart did a small flip. "I'd like that."
As you walked together through the UA campus, your injured arm hanging carefully at your side, you snuck glances at him. Izuku Midoriya had been a constant in your life since the school year began. His tendency to injure himself combined with your healing quirk meant you'd spent more time together than with almost anyone else in Class 1-A.
What had started as simple medical necessity had become something else. Something that made your pulse quicken when he smiled at you. Something that kept you up at night, replaying conversations.
Something dangerous, considering what you were hiding from him.
Part Two: Growing Closer
The next few weeks saw your connection with Izuku deepen in ways that felt both natural and terrifying.
It started small. Study sessions in the common room that stretched late into the evening, where he'd help you with hero law and you'd help him with English. The way he'd lean close to point out something in your textbook, and you'd catch the scent of his shampoo, something clean and faintly minty. How his hand would sometimes brush yours when reaching for the same pen, and you'd both jerk away, blushing and apologizing.
Then there were the lunches. Somehow, without either of you explicitly planning it, you'd fallen into the habit of eating together. Sometimes with the rest of your friends, but increasingly often, just the two of you. He'd share his notes from hero training, eyes bright with enthusiasm, and you'd listen, chin propped on your hand, wondering when exactly you'd started memorizing the pattern of freckles across his face.
"You're staring," he said one day, and you nearly choked on your rice.
"I was just—you had something on your face," you lied, gesturing vaguely.
He wiped at his cheek self-consciously. "Did I get it?"
"Yeah. All gone." There had been nothing there. You were a terrible person.
But the worst—or best, depending on how you looked at it—were the healing sessions.
They'd become more intimate somehow. Maybe it was the way he'd started seeking you out specifically, even when Recovery Girl was available. Maybe it was how he'd begun to really look at you during those moments, green eyes soft with something you were afraid to name.
One evening after a particularly brutal training session with Bakugo, you found Izuku sitting alone in the common room, ice pack pressed to his ribs.
"Let me see," you said, sitting beside him on the couch.
"It's not that bad—"
"Izuku." You'd started using his given name a few weeks ago, and the effect it had on him was still gratifying. He went still, that telltale blush creeping up his neck.
"Okay," he said quietly.
He lifted his shirt, revealing a spectacular bruise blooming across his left side. You sucked in a breath, professional assessment warring with personal concern. "Bakugo really got you good."
"He's gotten stronger. It's actually really impressive how he's refined his—" He stopped when your fingers made contact with his skin.
The healing began, and with it, the pain. This one was bad—bruised ribs, possibly a small fracture. The ache spread through your own torso like wildfire, and you had to focus every ounce of willpower on keeping your expression neutral. You breathed slowly through your nose, counting backwards from one hundred in your head, a technique you'd developed to manage the worst of it.
But you must have let something slip—a small tension around your eyes, a slight catch in your breath—because Izuku's hand suddenly came up to cover yours.
"Are you okay?" he asked, concerned.
Your heart hammered. "Fine. Just concentrating."
His hand stayed on yours, warm and calloused from training. You were acutely aware of every point of contact, your fingers on his ribs, his hand on yours, the way your knees were almost touching on the couch. The pain was still there, throbbing in time with your heartbeat, but it was distant now, secondary to the electricity of his touch.
"You take care of everyone," he said softly. "But who takes care of you?"
You managed a smile, even as your ribs screamed. "I'm fine, Izuku. Really."
The healing completed, and you withdrew your hands, immediately missing the warmth. The pain would fade soon. It always did.
"Thank you," he said, and there was something in his voice, something tender and raw that made you look up. His face was closer than you'd realized, close enough that you could count his freckles if you wanted to. Close enough to—
"It's late," you said abruptly, standing. "We should get some sleep."
Disappointment flickered across his face, but he nodded. "Right. Yeah. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Izuku."
You made it to your room before the shaking started, before you had to press your face into your pillow to muffle the gasps as the pain finally crested and broke. Worth it, you told yourself. He was worth it.
He was always worth it.
Part Three: The Almost
The following Saturday, Aizawa-sensei announced a rare free day—no training, no classes, just rest. A group from Class 1-A decided to walk to a nearby shopping district, and somehow, you and Izuku ended up trailing behind the others, lost in conversation.
"So if you could have any quirk besides your own, what would it be?" Izuku asked, hands in his pockets as you walked.
You thought about it. "Maybe something that didn't require me to be so hands-on. Like Uraraka's quirk, or Todoroki's. Something with range."
"But your quirk suits you," he said. "You're someone who gets close, who isn't afraid to really help people directly. A ranged quirk wouldn't fit your hero style at all."
The observation was so characteristically thoughtful, so very Izuku, that you felt your chest tighten. "What about you? If you didn't have your quirk?"
His expression grew distant. "I spent so long quirkless that I used to imagine having any quirk at all. But now… I can't imagine having anything else. This quirk, it's a gift. It's a responsibility. Even when it hurts, I—" He stopped, looking guilty. "Sorry. I know I hurt myself too much. You've probably healed me more than anyone."
"I don't mind," you said, and meant it. Even with the pain, even with the secret you kept, you didn't mind. Being needed by him, being close to him, it was worth everything.
"Still," he said, stopping to face you. The others had disappeared around a corner ahead, leaving you alone on the quiet street. "I should be more careful. I don't like that you have to keep fixing my mistakes."
"They're not mistakes. You're learning to control an incredibly powerful quirk. Injuries are part of the process."
"But—"
"Izuku." You stepped closer, looking up at him. "I heal you because I want to. Because I—" The words caught in your throat. Because I care about you. Because seeing you hurt makes my chest ache worse than any transferred pain. Because I think I'm falling for you.
"Because?" he prompted, his green eyes searching yours.
"Because you're my friend," you finished, the coward's answer. "And friends help each other."
Something flickered in his expression, but then he smiled, soft and genuine. "You're right. Thank you. For being my friend."
The word felt wrong now, too small for what was growing between you. But you smiled back, even as your heart sank.
You caught up with the others at a small café, where Uraraka immediately pulled you into a conversation about the upcoming hero training exercise. But you were hyperaware of Izuku beside you, the way his arm occasionally brushed yours, how he'd lean in to whisper commentary that made you bite back smiles.
On the walk back, it started to rain, a sudden summer shower that sent everyone running for cover. You and Izuku ended up under a bus stop shelter, watching the others sprint ahead toward the dorms.
"We should wait it out," he said, and you nodded, very aware that you were alone again.
The rain created a curtain of privacy, the sound of it drowning out the rest of the world. Izuku was close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could see the way his curls were starting to frizz from the humidity.
"Can I ask you something?" he said suddenly.
"Of course."
"Do you ever..." He paused, seeming to gather courage. "Do you ever think about the future? About what kind of hero you want to be?"
"Sometimes. I think I'd like to work in disaster relief. Somewhere I could help a lot of people."
He nodded slowly. "That suits you. You're always thinking about others." He turned to look at you directly. "Do you ever think about... who you might want to work with? As a partner, I mean. Hero partner."
Your mouth went dry. "I... haven't thought that far ahead."
"Oh." He looked down. "Right. Of course."
The rain continued to fall, and you stood in silence, the weight of unspoken words heavy between you. You wanted to tell him. Wanted to say that yes, you'd thought about it, that every time you imagined your future, he was there. But the secret of your quirk stood between you like a wall. How could you tell him you cared when you were lying to him every time you healed him?
"We should go," you said when the rain lightened. "Before it starts up again."
You ran together through the drizzle, and if his hand caught yours halfway back, if your fingers intertwined and held on even after you reached the dorms, neither of you mentioned it.
But that night, lying in bed, you could still feel the ghost of his touch, and your ribs ached with a pain that had nothing to do with your quirk.
Part Four: Breaking Point
The villain attack during hero training came without warning.
One moment, you were running through a simulated rescue scenario. The next, real villains had breached UA's training grounds, and everything descended into chaos.
You found yourself back-to-back with Izuku, facing down two villains while trying to protect a group of younger students. He was magnificent—strategic, brave, powerful. But he was also reckless, pushing his quirk beyond his limits, sacrificing his body to keep everyone safe.
By the time pro heroes arrived and subdued the villains, Izuku could barely stand. Both arms were damaged, his legs were shaking, and blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow.
"I'm fine," he tried to say as you rushed to him, but his legs gave out.
You caught him, staggering under his weight. "Don't be stupid. Sit down."
The other students were being tended to by Recovery Girl and other heroes, but you couldn't wait. Izuku's injuries were severe, and your hands were already glowing before you consciously activated your quirk.
"You don't have to—" he started.
"Shut up," you said, and he did, surprised by the sharp edge in your voice.
You placed your hands on his arms, and the pain hit you like a freight train.
This was different from his usual training injuries. This was acute trauma—bones fractured in multiple places, torn ligaments, severe muscle damage. It flooded into you all at once, and you couldn't stop the gasp that escaped your lips, couldn't prevent your body from going rigid with the shock of it.
"Wait—" Izuku said, his eyes widening. "Something's wrong—"
"I'm fine," you gritted out, but your voice was strained, wrong. You couldn't hide it, not with pain this intense. Your vision blurred at the edges, and you felt tears prick your eyes.
"Stop," Izuku said, trying to pull away. "Stop, you're hurting—"
"Almost done," you managed, pouring everything you had into healing him. His arms first, then his legs, then the smaller injuries. Each one transferred to you, layering pain upon pain until you couldn't breathe properly, couldn't think straight.
But you finished. His injuries were healed completely, and he was safe.
That was what mattered.
"There," you said, releasing him. You tried to stand, to walk away before he could see the full extent of what you were feeling, but your legs wouldn't cooperate. You stumbled, and suddenly his arms were around you—his perfectly healed arms.
"What's happening?" he demanded, and there was panic in his voice now. "Why are you—your arms—"
You looked down and saw what he was seeing. Your arms were mottled with bruises, swollen and discolored in the exact pattern his had been. Even as you watched, they were starting to fade, your body processing the damage, but the evidence was clear.
"It's nothing," you tried to say. "Just a side effect—"
"A side effect?" His voice cracked. "You're hurt. You're hurt because of me."
"It's temporary. It'll fade in an hour or two—"
"An hour or two?" He pulled back to look at you, and the expression on his face made your heart break. Horror. Guilt. Dawning realization. "Every time. Every time I've been hurt, every time you've healed me—you've been taking the pain, haven't you?"
You couldn't lie to him. Not with the evidence written across your skin. "Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was rough, almost angry, but you could hear the hurt underneath. "Why would you hide something like that?"
"Because you needed healing—"
"Not if it meant hurting you!" He was definitely angry now, his hands still supporting you but trembling. "Do you have any idea—I would never have let you—how could you not tell me?"
Your own temper flared, cutting through the pain. "Because this is what I do, Izuku! This is my quirk, my choice. You don't get to decide whether I use it or not."
"When it's my injuries you're taking, yes I do!"
"No, you don't!" You pushed away from him, standing on shaking legs. "You don't get to tell me I can't help you. You don't get to make that choice for me."
"And you don't get to hurt yourself for me without telling me!" He stood too, facing you. "Do you know what it's like? To find out that every time you smiled and said you were fine, you were actually in pain? Because of me?"
"It wasn't because of you. It was for you. There's a difference."
"Is there?" His eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Because right now, it feels like you've been lying to me for months. It feels like every time I thanked you, every time I was grateful for your healing, I was actually asking you to hurt yourself, and I didn't even know it."
The words hit harder than any physical pain. "Izuku—"
"How many times?" he asked quietly. "How many times have you done this?"
You looked away. "I don't know. I didn't keep count."
"Dozens," he said. "It's been dozens of times. And every single time, you were suffering, and I was too stupid to notice."
"You're not stupid. I hid it well."
"Why?" The question was almost a plea. "Why would you do that to yourself?"
Because I love you, you thought. Because seeing you hurt is worse than any pain I could feel. Because I would take every injury, every ache, every wound if it meant keeping you safe.
But you couldn't say that. Not now, not like this.
"Because you're going to be a great hero," you said instead. "And great heroes need support. That's all."
He stared at you for a long moment, and you saw something crumble in his expression. "Is that really all I am to you? A hero you're supporting?"
Your breath caught. "What?"
"Never mind." He turned away, running a hand through his hair. "I need to think. I can't—I need to process this."
"Izuku, wait—"
But he was already walking away, and you were too hurt, too exhausted to follow. You sank back down to the ground, wrapping your arms around yourself as the pain continued to fade, leaving behind something worse.
The look on his face. The hurt in his voice. The distance he'd put between you.
You'd been so focused on hiding the physical pain that you'd never considered this could hurt more.
Part Five: The Truth
You avoided each other for three days.
It wasn't hard, Izuku stopped getting injured. He was suddenly, miraculously careful during training, holding back in ways that made his sparring partners confused and his teachers concerned. You heard Bakugo yelling at him to "stop fighting like a coward," but Izuku just took it, not rising to the bait.
He was protecting himself. Because he thought that's what you wanted.
The irony was devastating.
You tried to focus on other things. Healed other students when they needed it, threw yourself into studying, trained until your muscles screamed. But everything felt hollow without Izuku's presence beside you. No more study sessions. No more lunches together. No more soft smiles across the classroom.
On the third night, you couldn't take it anymore.
You found him on the dorm roof, a place you'd discovered together weeks ago during a late-night conversation about hero names and dreams. He was sitting with his back against the wall, looking up at the stars, and your heart ached at the sight of him.
"Can we talk?" you asked quietly.
He startled, then nodded, not quite meeting your eyes. "Yeah. Okay."
You sat beside him, leaving space between you that felt like a chasm. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
"I'm sorry," you both said simultaneously, then stopped.
"You first," Izuku said.
You took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my quirk. You were right—I should have been honest from the beginning. It wasn't fair to you, to let you think your injuries didn't have consequences."
He was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry too. For getting angry. For walking away. I just—" His voice cracked slightly. "The thought of you in pain because of me, it made me feel sick. It still does."
"It's not because of you—"
"Please let me finish." He finally looked at you, and the emotion in his eyes made your breath catch. "I've spent my whole life watching heroes sacrifice themselves. All Might, my mom, everyone at UA. I understand sacrifice. I understand giving everything for others. But this is different."
"How?"
"Because it's you." The words were simple, but the weight behind them was enormous. "Because somewhere along the way, you stopped being just my friend, just my healer. You became someone I—" He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. "Someone important. Someone I care about more than I probably should."
Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it. "Izuku—"
"I'm not good at this," he continued, words tumbling out now. "I'm not good at feelings or saying the right thing. But I need you to understand. When I found out you were hurting yourself to heal me, it wasn't just guilt I felt. It was fear. Fear that I'd been taking advantage of you, that I'd been selfish, that I'd been so focused on my own goals that I'd hurt someone I—" He took a shaky breath. "Someone I have feelings for."
The world seemed to stop spinning.
"You have feelings for me?" you whispered.
His laugh was nervous, self-deprecating. "Is it that surprising? You're kind, and strong, and you see the best in people. You've been there for me more than anyone except All Might. You make me want to be better, not just as a hero, but as a person. And when you smile at me, I—" He rubbed the back of his neck, blushing even in the darkness. "I forget how to think straight."
Tears were streaming down your face now, but for once, they had nothing to do with pain. "I have feelings for you too. I've had them for weeks, maybe months. That's why I didn't tell you about my quirk. I was afraid if you knew, you'd stop letting me heal you. You'd push me away to protect me. And I couldn't bear that, because being close to you, helping you, it's—" Your voice broke. "It's worth any amount of pain."
"It shouldn't be," he said fiercely, reaching out to take your hand. "You shouldn't have to hurt for me."
"But I choose to. Don't you see? That's what caring about someone means. You take on their pain because you want to, because making them better is worth it."
"Then let me do the same for you." He squeezed your hand. "Let me share your burden. Tell me when it hurts. Let me help you through it. Don't hide from me anymore."
"But your training—"
"I'll be more careful. I'll work on my control. And when I do get injured, when you do heal me, I'll be there for you afterward. I'll help you through the pain instead of walking away oblivious." His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "We'll figure it out together. As a team."
"As a team," you repeated, the words feeling like a promise.
"And maybe," he said, voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable, "as something more than that. If you want."
You shifted closer, closing the distance between you. "I want that. I've wanted that for so long."
His free hand came up to cup your cheek, and you leaned into the touch. "Can I kiss you?" he asked, and the fact that he asked, that he was always so considerate, so careful with you, made you fall even harder.
"Yes," you breathed.
The kiss was gentle, tentative, perfect. His lips were soft against yours, and he kissed you like you were precious, like you were something to be treasured. When you finally pulled apart, you were both smiling, foreheads pressed together.
"I'm still not happy about your quirk's drawback," he murmured.
"And I'm still not happy about your tendency to break your bones."
"Then we'll both work on it. Together."
"Together," you agreed.
You stayed on the roof for hours, talking about everything—your fears, your dreams, your feelings. He told you about the pressure he felt to become a great hero, the weight of his own expectations and his desperate need to save everyone, even at the cost of himself. You told him about the isolation of your quirk, the loneliness of hiding pain. And slowly, the distance that had grown between you dissolved, replaced by something stronger, something honest.
When you finally headed back to the dorms, his hand was firmly clasped in yours, and for the first time in days, you felt whole.
Epilogue: New Understanding
The next time Izuku got injured during training, a relatively minor sprain from a mistimed landing, he came to you immediately.
"Are you sure?" he asked as you prepared to heal him. "We could just ice it—"
"I'm sure." You took his hand. "But this time, you stay with me after. Deal?"
"Deal."
You healed the sprain, and yes, the pain transferred. Your ankle throbbed in sympathy, a sharp ache that made you wince. But this time, you didn't hide it. You let him see the discomfort, let him help you to a chair, let him sit beside you with an ice pack and a worried expression.
"How bad is it?" he asked.
"Not terrible. Maybe a four out of ten. It'll fade in about twenty minutes."
He nodded, then gently pulled your leg into his lap, carefully positioning the ice pack. "Tell me if I'm making it worse."
"You're not." You smiled at him. "This is nice, actually."
"What is?"
"Not hiding. Being honest with you."
His expression softened. "Yeah. It is nice."
As the pain slowly faded, you talked about mundane things—homework, training schedules, what was for dinner. Normal things, comfortable things. And when the pain was finally gone, when you flexed your ankle and found it perfectly fine, Izuku leaned over and kissed your forehead.
"Thank you," he said. "For healing me. And for letting me be here for you."
"Thank you for staying."
It wasn't perfect. You still worried about him during training, still felt your heart stop every time he pushed himself too hard. He still felt guilty when you healed him, still tried to be more careful than was probably practical for someone with his quirk.
But you were learning. Learning to communicate, to share burdens, to let each other in. Learning that love wasn't about protecting someone from all pain, but about being there through it.
And as you walked to class together the next morning, hands intertwined, you realized that this—this honesty, this partnership, this love—was worth every moment of pain you'd ever felt.
Because healing wasn't just about fixing injuries. It was about trust, vulnerability, and the courage to let someone see you at your weakest.
And with Izuku by your side, you were finally, truly healing.
AN: Yes, this was based off that scene in The Legend of Vox Machina, I just couldn't get it out of my head.
The knock was firm, predictable, and exactly on time.
Right on schedule, you thought, a flicker of cold satisfaction cutting through the heat simmering under your skin. You didn’t move from your spot in the center of your small living room. You just waited, your breath steady, your heart a hard, determined drum against your ribs.
Another knock. “Y/N? Are you home? Our study session was scheduled for seven p.m.”
Tenya’s voice, so formal even through the door. So him. It was the voice that always politely excused itself right as your kisses grew deeper, his hands starting to wander before they snapped back to his sides like guilty soldiers. The voice that gave no reason, just a stiff bow and a hurried exit, leaving you frustrated and alone.
Not tonight.
The third knock came, more insistent. “Y/N, I’m beginning to worry. Please respond.”
That was your cue. You crossed the room, your bare feet silent on the floor. You didn’t hesitate. You turned the knob and pulled the door open.
And there he was. Tenya Iida, in his crisp civilian clothes, glasses perfectly positioned, already opening his mouth to launch into a concerned lecture. His eyes, sharp and intelligent behind the lenses, met yours.
Then they dropped.
They snapped down, then jerked back up to your face, wide with shock. His mouth remained open, but all sound died. His entire body went rigid, his shoulders locking, his spine straightening to an almost painful degree. You saw the flush start at the base of his neck, a deep, brilliant red that raced upwards over his jaw, his cheeks, his ears.
You said nothing. You just stood there, completely naked, the cool air from the hallway brushing your skin, letting him look. Letting him see what he’d been running from.
“Y-Y/N!” he finally choked out, his voice strangled. His eyes were darting everywhere—your face, the ceiling, the doorframe—anywhere but the direct, undeniable reality of you. “Your—your state of undress! This is—highly inappropriate! What is the meaning of this?”
You leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, the movement casual, though your pulse was roaring in your ears. “You tell me, Tenya. You’re the one who keeps running.”
“I do not run,” he sputtered, his hands chopping the air in a mechanical, frantic gesture. “I exercise tactical retreats when situations become… ill-advised!”
“Kissing me is ill-advised?” you asked, your voice quiet. “Touching me is a tactical error?”
“It is not that simple!” The words burst from him, louder than he intended. He flinched, lowering his volume. “There are… protocols. Control. A hero must maintain absolute control, over his actions, his… his impulses.”
“And what about my impulses?” you asked, not moving. “What about what I want?”
He finally, finally let his gaze fall again, a slow, torturous slide down your body. You saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. You saw the struggle in his clenched jaw, the tremor in his normally steady hands. The rigid discipline warring with a raw, hungry want he’d never allowed himself to acknowledge.
“I… I cannot,” he whispered, but it sounded like a plea, not a refusal.
“You can,” you said, simply. You reached out, not touching him, just letting your hand hover near his chest. “Or you can leave again. But if you leave this time, Tenya, don’t come back.”
The words hung between you. The finality of them broke something inside him. The stiff posture crumbled. His shoulders slumped, and he let out a shuddering breath, all the fight leaving him in a rush.
“I’m… afraid,” he admitted, the confession sounding torn from him. “I am afraid that if I start… I will not be able to stop. That the control will shatter completely.”
A slow smile touched your lips. Finally. The truth. “Good,” you whispered. “Let it shatter.”
You took his hand. His skin was hot, his fingers trembling slightly as you placed his palm flat against your bare stomach. He gasped, a sharp intake of breath. His fingers twitched, then slowly, hesitantly, spread over your skin.
“Come inside,” you said, pulling him gently over the threshold. He followed, mute, his eyes locked on where his hand met your body. You kicked the door shut.
The sound of the latch clicking home seemed to release him. His other hand came up to mirror the first, both now splayed on your waist, his thumbs brushing the sensitive curves of your hips. His touch was hesitant at first, then more certain, learning the shape of you.
“You are… so warm,” he murmured, as if discovering a new fact.
You reached up and slowly removed his glasses, folding them and placing them on the nearby table. Without them, his eyes were darker, deeper, the intensity in them completely unfiltered. He looked lost, and hungry, and beautiful.
“Tenya,” you said, guiding his head down. “Stop thinking.”
When your lips met, it was nothing like the careful, measured kisses you’d shared before. This was a dam breaking. His mouth opened to yours with a desperate groan, his arms wrapping around you, crushing you against the solid wall of his chest. The feel of his clothes against your bare skin was a thrilling friction.
His hands were everywhere—sweeping up your back, tunneling into your hair, cupping the back of your head to hold you closer. You broke the kiss, gasping, and trailed your lips down his jaw to his neck. You nipped at the sensitive skin there, and he made a broken sound, his hips jerking forward instinctively. You could feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your stomach through his trousers.
“Bedroom,” you managed to say between kisses. “Now.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. In a blur of motion that made your head spin, he lifted you, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. He carried you the short distance to your bedroom, his speed making the world streak. He laid you down on the covers with a surprising gentleness, then stood at the foot of the bed, just looking at you, his chest heaving.
“I want to see you,” you said, propping yourself on your elbows. “All of you.”
His hands went to his buttons with a focused efficiency that was purely Tenya. But there was a new urgency to it. He shed his shirt, revealing the defined, powerful muscle of his chest and shoulders. His trousers and briefs followed, kicked aside.
And then he was there, kneeling on the bed, gloriously naked. His body was a masterpiece of disciplined strength, and his erection stood thick and ready against his stomach. He looked at you with a kind of awestruck hunger.
“Tell me what to do,” he said, his voice rough. “I do not wish to make an error.”
“Just feel,” you answered, lying back and opening your arms to him. “Come here.”
He moved over you, bracing his weight on his arms. The first touch of his bare skin against yours, from chest to thighs, was electric. A full-body shudder ran through him. He lowered his head, capturing your mouth again in a deep, searching kiss as he settled between your legs.
The feel of him there, the hot, hard evidence of his desire nudging against your core, made you arch up with a sharp cry. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.
“I need…” he started, then stopped, his eyes asking the question.
“Yes,” you breathed, your hands sliding down his back to his hips. “Now, Tenya. Please.”
He nodded, a sharp, decisive motion. He reached between you, his fingers finding you wet and ready. He guided himself to your entrance, the broad head of him pressing against you. He looked into your eyes, seeking final permission.
You nodded, biting your lip.
He pushed forward.
It was a slow, inexorable glide, a filling, stretching sensation that stole your breath. He was big, and the initial penetration was intense, a delicious burn that melted into a deep, full ache. He sank into you until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against yours. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, and he dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his whole body trembling.
“Y/N,” he gasped against your skin. “This is… I had no… the sensation is…”
“Move,” you begged, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Just move.”
He did. His first thrust was experimental, a careful rock of his hips. Then another. Then the rhythm found itself. It wasn’t the frantic, chaotic pace you might have expected from his lost control. It was powerful, purposeful, deep strokes that drove the air from your lungs with every inward push. Each withdrawal was an agony of emptiness, each return a shocking, perfect relief.
His discipline had transformed, not vanished. It was now focused entirely on the single goal of joining with you, of reaching a place he’d locked away. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he drove into you, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, mixing with your gasps and his strained, heavy breaths.
The coil of pleasure tightened low in your belly, winding tighter with every deep, measured thrust. You could feel the tension coiling in him too, the rigid control over his own body beginning to fray at the edges. His thrusts became less polished, more urgent, his rhythm faltering into something desperate and raw.
“I’m close,” you warned, your voice a high, thin thread. “Tenya, I’m so close.”
That was all it took. His control snapped.
With a raw shout that was nothing like his usual voice, his hips pistoned against yours, a frantic, driving pace that pushed you over the edge instantly. The world dissolved into a white-hot burst of sensation, your body clamping around him as you cried out, the waves of your climax pulling him under with you. He buried his face in your neck, his release hitting him with a series of sharp, helpless jerks, his hot pulse deep inside you.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing. He collapsed beside you, his body spent, one arm still draped heavily over your waist. You turned your head to look at him. His eyes were closed, his face softer, more relaxed than you’d ever seen it. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his skin.
He opened his eyes, meeting your gaze. A slow, dazed, utterly unguarded smile touched his lips.
“So,” you said, your voice hoarse. “Was that… ill-advised?”
He actually laughed, a soft, breathy sound. He pulled you closer, his nose nuzzling into your hair. “It was the most logically sound decision I have ever made,” he murmured. “But… we will need to recalibrate our study schedule. Extensively.”
You smiled against his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles. “We could start now. I have a few… practical questions.”
He shifted, rolling you onto your back again, his body already stirring with fresh interest against your thigh. His eyes were dark, focused, and full of a newfound certainty. “Then,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, promising rumble as he leaned in, his lips a hair's breadth from yours,
You lay tangled with him in the aftermath, your head on his chest, listening to the frantic beat of his heart gradually slow. His fingers traced idle patterns on your bare shoulder, a touch so thoughtful, so gentle, it felt like a secret side of him you’d unlocked.
His voice, when it came, was a low rumble against your ear. “The data from that encounter was… significantly outside my previous parameters.”
You smiled into his skin. “Is that your way of saying it was good?”
“It was optimal,” he corrected, and you could hear the smile in his words. “But further experimentation is required to verify the results.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him. His glasses were still off, his sharp eyes soft and sated. But you could see it—the gears beginning to turn again, the analysis creeping back in. The control, seeking to re-establish its domain.
Not yet, you thought.
You let your hand drift down, over the hard plane of his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under your touch. His breath caught—a sharp, quiet sound. Your fingers closed around him, finding him already half-hard again, thickening rapidly in your palm.
“Y/N,” he said, a note of warning in his voice that lacked any real conviction.
“You said you needed more data,” you murmured, your thumb sliding over the sensitive head. He jerked beneath you, a full-body twitch. “So let’s collect some.”
You shifted, moving with a sudden, decisive energy that surprised even you. You planted your hands on his shoulders and pushed. He was so much stronger, but he yielded without resistance, letting you roll him onto his back. He stared up at you, his eyes wide, his chest rising and falling a little faster.
“What is your intended protocol?” he asked, but his hands came up to settle on your thighs, his touch hot and possessive.
“My protocol,” you said, swinging one leg over his hips to straddle him, “is to see what happens when you aren’t in charge of the pace.”
You settled over him, not taking him inside yet, just letting him feel the heat and wetness of you against his length. He groaned, his head tipping back into the pillow, his hands tightening on your flesh. You leaned forward, your hair forming a curtain around both your faces, and kissed him. It was a deep, consuming kiss, all tongue and teeth and shared breath, and you felt him surge against you, fully hard now.
You broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “You just feel, remember?”
Without waiting for an answer, you rose up on your knees. You reached between your bodies, guiding him. You positioned him, the blunt pressure at your entrance making you gasp. Then you sank down.
It was a slow, devastating descent. Your body welcomed him, stretching exquisitely around his girth, but you controlled every inch. You watched his face—the way his eyes screwed shut, the way his jaw went slack, the way a tremor ran through his lower lip. You took him all, until you were seated fully, him buried deep inside you.
“God,” he choked out, his hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in.
You didn’t move. You let yourself adjust to the sheer, filling stretch of him, the feeling of being so completely impaled. The pleasure was a thick, heavy pulse deep in your core. Then you began.
You started slow, a deliberate, rolling lift of your hips that dragged him almost all the way out before sliding back down. A long, smooth stroke. His grip on you was iron.
“Faster,” he pleaded, his voice ragged.
You ignored him. You kept the same maddening, steady rhythm. Up, a tantalizing retreat. Down, a deep, complete conquest. You could feel every ridge of him, every throb. Your own breaths were coming in short pants.
“Y/N, please.”
“No,” you whispered, leaning forward to speak the word against his mouth. “My turn.”
You sat up straight, putting your hands on his chest for leverage. And then you changed.
The slow, grinding pace shattered. You rose and fell on him with a new, driving speed. Your thighs burned with the effort, but the sensation was everything—the frantic slap of skin, the deep, internal friction that sparked white behind your eyelids. You set a punishing rhythm, taking him hard and fast, letting the pleasure build into a sharp, screaming point.
His discipline broke completely. His careful composure shattered into raw, vocal need. His hips arched off the bed to meet your downward thrusts, driving himself even deeper. Grunts and curses you’d never heard from him fell from his lips.
“Don’t stop,” he gasped, his hands sliding from your hips to grip your ass, urging you on. “Just like that. Just like that.”
The world narrowed to the point where your bodies joined. The slick, hot sounds of your movement filled the room. You could feel your climax coiling, a tight, urgent spring in your belly. You rode him harder, your movements growing sloppy, driven by pure sensation.
“I’m gonna…” you started, but the words were lost.
“Me too,” he growled, his thrusts becoming erratic, powerful surges from below. “Look at me. Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His eyes were wild, unfocused, free. Seeing him like that—the always-controlled Tenya Iida, coming utterly undone beneath you—pushed you over the edge.
Your orgasm hit you like a physical blow. A sharp, bright clench deep inside that radiated outwards in relentless waves. You cried out, your body clamping around him, milking him desperately. The feeling triggered his own release. With a shout that was pure, unfiltered surrender, he emptied into you, his hips pumping up into yours as he spilled himself deep inside, his whole body rigid then going utterly limp.
You collapsed forward onto his chest, a sweaty, trembling mess. His arms came around you, holding you close as you both shuddered through the aftershocks. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, a frantic, alive rhythm.
Minutes passed. The only sound was your slowing breaths.
His hand came up, his fingers tangling gently in your hair. “That… was not part of any scheduled activity,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
You laughed, the sound muffled against his skin. “We should add it to the calendar. Daily reps.”
He shifted beneath you, his softening length slipping from your body with a sensitive twinge. He rolled you gently to the side, facing you. His expression was serious, but the usual sternness was replaced by a kind of awed exhaustion. “The loss of control was… total.”
“And?” you prompted, tracing the line of his collarbone.
He considered it. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “And it was… efficient.” He pulled you closer, his lips brushing your forehead. “But next time, I believe a more balanced approach to tempo regulation is warranted. For scientific comparison.”
You nipped at his chin. “You can try to regulate tempo all you want.” You pressed your hips forward, feeling him stir again, interest flickering back to life against your thigh. You smiled, dark and promising.
The mansion was quieter than usual after the mission.
Students still chattered in the halls, lessons continued, the rec room buzzed with its usual chaos—but for Ophelia, the silence clung heavier than the noise. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the boy’s face—terrified, sparks flying uncontrollably from his hands, begging for help.
She had been there. She had stopped him from burning himself out. But the memory lingered.
The team debriefed in the war room. Cyclops was methodical, replaying each moment of the mission through projected holograms. He highlighted strengths, pointed out weaknesses. Jean’s voice was calm, Logan’s gruff interjections cutting through the air.
When it came to her, Scott paused.
“Ophelia—your shadow field disrupted the drones and shielded the target effectively. That was critical to the extraction.”
She shifted uncomfortably under the weight of so many eyes. “…I froze more than once.”
“You recovered,” Jean said firmly.
“And recovery matters more than perfection,” Cyclops added. “You’ll get better with experience.”
Logan grunted from the corner. “Kid didn’t run. That’s what counts.”
The praise should have reassured her, but it only twisted the knot tighter in her chest.
After the debrief, Rogue caught her in the hall.
“You did good, sugar,” Rogue said, looping an arm around her shoulders. “Better than I did my first field run. Nearly knocked Jean out when I panicked an’ grabbed her.”
Ophelia blinked. “…Really?”
“Really. Ain’t nobody perfect on their first. You’ll get there.” Rogue’s smile was warm, disarming. “C’mon. Let’s get you some pie before Bobby eats it all.”
It was small things like this—Rogue’s easy affection, Jean’s patience, Logan’s gruff nods—that made the mansion feel less like a place she was visiting, and more like a place she might belong.
She found Gambit later in the courtyard, perched on the stone wall with a cigarette dangling unlit between his fingers. He looked up when she approached, red-on-black eyes glinting in the fading light.
“Came t’thank me for savin’ your pretty face back dere?” he teased.
She rolled her eyes. “I saved you. If I hadn’t pulled the shadows—”
“Ah, but if I hadn’t thrown de card—” He grinned when she groaned, cutting him off. “Fine, fine. Call it even.”
Silence stretched, filled only by the rustle of leaves. Then his voice softened. “You did good, chère. Don’t let de doubt eat dat up.”
Her throat tightened. “…You really think so?”
He flicked the cigarette away, grin fading into something steadier. “I know so.”
The rescued boy—Ethan—was settled into the mansion within days. Jean spent hours with him, teaching him to calm his sparks. Rogue and Jubilee coaxed him into the rec room, Bobby making him laugh with dumb impressions.
Ophelia found herself watching from a distance, shadows curling unconsciously at her feet. She saw herself in him—in the fear, in the way his power lashed out like a wounded animal.
One night, she found him sitting alone in the garden, sparks crackling faintly across his palms.
“It doesn’t stop,” he whispered.
She crouched beside him, letting shadows swirl gently in her hands. “It doesn’t. Not really. But you learn to live with it. To dance with it.”
His eyes widened. “That’s what Gambit said.”
She huffed a laugh. “Of course he did.”
Ethan smiled faintly, and for the first time, Ophelia felt the echo of something she hadn’t dared hope for: she wasn’t just surviving. She was helping.
Days slipped into weeks. Training sessions blurred together. Her control sharpened, bit by bit. Logan still barked, Scott still criticized, but their tones carried more respect now.
And through it all, Gambit hovered—sometimes near, sometimes just in the corner of her eye. He never pushed, never forced. But every so often, his words hit too close, his gaze lingered too long, and the walls she’d built cracked just a little more.
One evening, after another grueling drill, she collapsed onto the grass outside the mansion, sweat slick on her neck. The stars spread wide overhead, shadows cool around her.
Boots crunched beside her. A familiar voice drawled, “Mind if I join?”
She didn’t answer, but he dropped down beside her anyway, coat rustling. For once, he didn’t tease. He just leaned back on his hands, eyes tilted skyward.
After a long silence, he said, “Y’know, I spent a long time thinkin’ I didn’t belong nowhere. Not here, not in New Orleans, not anywhere. But turns out… sometimes de place finds you, not de other way ‘round.”
Ophelia swallowed hard, staring at the stars. “…What if it leaves? What if I lose it?”
His voice was quiet, almost raw. “Den you fight t’keep it. Same way you fight everythin’ else.”
She turned, finding his gaze already on her. For once, there was no grin. Just truth.
Her chest ached, shadows curling tighter around her hands. “…I’m scared.”
“Good.” His smile was soft, not mocking. “Means you got somethin’ worth holdin’ onto.”
That night, as she lay in bed, Ophelia realized something had shifted. The mansion wasn’t just shelter anymore. It wasn’t just safety.
It was home.
And Remy LeBeau, with his impossible grin and steady gaze, was becoming part of it.
Scott’s knock rattled Ophelia’s door before the sun had crested the horizon. “Briefing. Ten minutes. Suit up.”
Her heart leapt into her throat. She dressed in silence, the black and gray of her uniform fitting tighter than she liked. This wasn’t a simulation. This wasn’t a controlled environment with holographic drones. This was the field.
By the time she reached the war room, most of the team was already there. Cyclops stood at the head of the table, visor gleaming. Jean sat beside him, calm and steady, her presence a tether. Logan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, claws sheathed but visible. Rogue, Bobby, and Gambit filled out the circle.
Scott gestured to the projection flickering above the table. “We’ve got a mutant sighting in upstate New York. Young male, sixteen. Powers manifested suddenly. He panicked, lost control, and the locals called it in as a riot. No fatalities yet, but there’s property damage. We’re going to extract him before the situation escalates.”
Ophelia’s pulse pounded. An actual rescue.
“Teams of two,” Scott continued. “Jean with Logan for crowd control. Rogue and Bobby handle perimeter. Gambit—” his visor shifted toward her “—you’re with Ophelia. You’ll be the first in. Stealth entry. Find the boy, get him out.”
She froze. First in?
Gambit leaned back in his chair, smirking like it was a game. “Looks like we’re up, chère.”
The Blackbird cut through the dawn sky like a blade. Engines thrummed beneath their feet as the team strapped in. Ophelia sat stiffly, fingers knotted in her lap.
“You’ll do fine,” Jean’s voice brushed softly in her mind. Warm, encouraging.
Ophelia flinched. Jean caught her eye and smiled apologetically, retreating from her thoughts. “Sorry. Habit.”
Across the aisle, Gambit lounged with his boots propped against the seat in front of him, shuffling his deck of cards one-handed. His eyes glinted when he caught Ophelia watching.
“Nervous?”
She scowled. “No.”
“Liar.” His grin widened, but his tone softened. “It’s good. Means you’ll be careful.”
Before she could retort, Scott’s voice cut through. “Touchdown in five. Gear check. Focus.”
The town was small—brick buildings, narrow streets, the smell of smoke already in the air. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Windows were shattered, streetlamps bent. A grocery sign flickered half-burned above the road.
The boy was somewhere inside.
“Rogue, Bobby—perimeter,” Scott ordered as the Blackbird cloaked above the rooftops. “Jean, Logan, keep the crowd back. Gambit, Ophelia—you’re point.”
Remy tipped an invisible hat. “Oui, mon capitaine.”
They slipped into the streets together, shadows stretching long in the early light. Ophelia pulled the darkness closer, letting it curl around them, hiding their forms from watchful eyes.
“You makin’ this too easy, chère,” Gambit murmured appreciatively as they moved.
“Focus,” she hissed.
“Always.”
They found the boy in the wreckage of a hardware store. Shelves lay toppled, glass crunched beneath their boots. At the center stood a kid—thin, wild-eyed, sparks crackling uncontrollably from his hands. Every time he flinched, another shelf went flying.
Ophelia’s breath caught. He looked terrified.
“Easy, petit,” Gambit called, stepping forward with hands raised. “Ain’t nobody here gonna hurt you.”
The boy spun, eyes glowing. A burst of energy flared toward them. Ophelia reacted without thinking—shadows surged, swallowing the light, dampening it before it struck. The force rattled her bones, but held.
“See dat?” Gambit said smoothly, slipping closer. “We’re like you. Nothin’ t’be scared of.”
The boy’s chest heaved. “I—I can’t stop it—”
“Yes you can,” Ophelia said before she could think. Her voice was steadier than she felt. “You’re not alone. We can help.”
His gaze flicked between them. Another spark built in his hands—then faltered. His knees buckled.
Ophelia darted forward, catching his arm before he collapsed. Shadows wrapped instinctively around them, shielding him from his own power.
Gambit touched her shoulder lightly. “Got him?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good. Let’s get out before de cavalry arrives.”
They slipped back through the alleys, the boy between them. Distant voices shouted, sirens wailed closer, but the shadows held. At one point, a squad of armed officers turned down their street—Ophelia’s heart stopped—but Gambit’s hand brushed hers, steadying.
“Breathe,” he whispered.
She exhaled, shadows thickening until the officers passed, none the wiser.
When they finally reached the Blackbird, Scott was waiting. Jean guided the boy gently inside, her telepathy soothing his panic. Logan grunted approval. Rogue winked at Ophelia.
And Gambit? He just grinned, eyes gleaming. “Told you we make a good team.”
The flight back was quiet. The boy slept, curled in a blanket at the back of the jet. Jean kept a hand on his shoulder, steadying his dreams.
Ophelia sat rigid in her seat, exhaustion pulling at her bones. She’d done it. She’d actually done it.
Gambit leaned over from across the aisle, voice pitched low. “See? Shadows dance real nice in the real world too.”
She shot him a look, but the heat in her chest betrayed her. “…You were right.”
His grin softened. “Don’t worry. I won’t let dat go t’my head. Much.”
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched upward despite herself.
Later, when the Blackbird settled back into the hangar and the others dispersed, Ophelia lingered by the ramp. Her legs still trembled with adrenaline.
“You did good, chère.”
She turned. Remy stood a few steps away, coat thrown over his shoulder, eyes uncharacteristically serious.
“You kept your head. Saved de kid. Kept me from gettin’ fried too.” His smile curved, softer this time. “Ain’t every day someone can say dey saved Gambit.”
Ophelia’s cheeks warmed. She looked away, shadows curling instinctively at her feet. “…It wasn’t just me.”
“Non,” he agreed. “It was us.”
The words lingered long after he walked away.
That night, Ophelia lay awake, the mansion quiet around her. For the first time since she’d arrived, the shadows didn’t feel like a burden.
“Cut the strings, puppet boy, or I swear I'll break every one of your fingers.”
The command was a low, venomous hiss in the dim light of the shabby inn room, my wrist caught in the unyielding grip of one of his wooden contraptions. Its articulated fingers, though made of sanded pine, held me with a puppeteer’s precision.
Kankuro just chuckled, a low, raspy sound that did things to my insides I was desperately trying to ignore. He didn’t move from his lazy slouch against the far wall, the shadows clinging to the stark white and purple patterns of his face paint. “You’re the one who barged into my room in the middle of the night,” he drawled. “Seems to me you’re the one who owes an explanation. And a little gratitude. My puppets just stopped you from giving me a new scar.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure, undiluted frustration. And something else. Something hotter. “I heard a noise,” I lied, my voice tight. “Thought an assassin had finally caught up to you.”
It had started hours ago. A joint mission, a simple escort job that had gone spectacularly, stupidly wrong. A flash flood, a lost scroll, and a forced overnight stay in the last available room in this damp, moss-covered inn at the edge of Fire Country. One room. One bed. And him. Kankuro of the Sand, with his infuriating smirk, his sharp eyes that missed nothing, and that maddening aura of controlled, lazy power that set my teeth on edge… and other parts of me alight.
We’d drawn a line of spare kunai down the center of the bed. A childish, pointless border in a space so small I could smell the faint scent of sawdust and ozone that always clung to him. I’d spent the last few hours lying rigid on my side, listening to his steady breathing, every cell in my body hyper-aware of his presence. The tension wasn’t just animosity; it was a live wire, crackling and spitting between us, a challenge neither of us knew how to voice.
Then I’d heard it. A creak. Not from the hall. From his side of the room. I’d spun, kunai in hand, ready to confront the threat I’d been certain was real. It was just Karasu, his crow puppet, unfolding itself from its storage scroll with a soft, wooden sigh. But my reflexive lunge had triggered its defensive protocols. And now I was here. Caught.
“An assassin?” Kankuro pushed off the wall, moving with a predator’s grace that belied his casual posture. He took two slow steps forward, until he was standing over me, the heat from his body radiating against my skin. “Or were you just looking for an excuse to get closer?”
His free hand, the one not encased in black fingerless gloves, came up. He didn’t touch me. He simply gestured, and the puppet’s arm obeyed, its grip shifting, forcing my captured wrist higher up the wall, stretching my body taut. A gasp escaped my lips. This wasn’t restraint. This was presentation.
“Let. Me. Go.” The words had no force behind them. They were a breathy plea.
“See, that’s the thing,” he murmured, his eyes dark and intent, tracing the line of my throat, the rapid flutter of my pulse. “You’re not fighting. Not really. Your chakra is calm. Your stance is open.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whiskey-rough whisper that vibrated straight through my core. “You like this. You like the idea of me pulling your strings.”
Oh, gods. He saw right through me. He saw the furious blush heating my cheeks, the way my breath hitched not from fear but from a sudden, dizzying rush of desire. The mission, the arguing, the forced proximity—it had all been a prelude to this raw, unfiltered tension.
The fight drained out of me, replaced by a throbbing, aching need. “Kankuro…”
He read the surrender in my voice. A flicker of something hotter than triumph flashed in his gaze. With another subtle twitch of his fingers, the puppet released me, retracting its limb with a soft whir of mechanisms. My arm fell, but I didn’t move. I was pinned by his look alone.
His gloved hand came up, and this time, he did touch me. He brushed the backs of his knuckles against my cheek, the rough material a shocking contrast to the gentle caress. “Tell me to stop,” he breathed, his lips inches from mine.
It was the last shred of consent, the final check. And I failed it miserably.
Instead of answering, I surged forward, crashing my mouth against his.
It wasn’t a sweet kiss. It was a clash of teeth and desperation, a release of all the pent-up frustration of the day. He met me with equal fire, a guttural groan rumbling in his chest as his arms wrapped around me, one hand tangling in my hair to angle my head, the other splaying across the small of my back to press me flush against him. I could feel the solid strength of him, the lean muscle under the fabric of his suit, and the unmistakable, hard ridge of his arousal pressing into my stomach.
He walked me backward until my knees hit the edge of the low bed and we tumbled onto the thin mattress, a messy, gasping heap of limbs. The line of kunai scattered to the floor, forgotten. His weight settled on top of me, perfect and crushing and exactly what I needed. He broke the kiss, his painted face a mask of fierce hunger as he looked down at me.
“All that fire,” he rasped, his hands already working at the ties of my mission gear. “All that arguing. Was this what it was for? To feel this?”
“Shut up,” I moaned, my own hands scrambling at the buckles of his armor. “Just… stop talking and prove it.”
He laughed, a dark, thrilling sound, and complied. His efficiency was breathtaking. In moments, my top was unlaced, his armor and hood discarded on the floor. His mouth found my breast, his tongue laving over my nipple before drawing it deep into the heat of his mouth. I cried out, my back arching off the bed, my fingers clutching at his spiky hair. The scrape of his teeth, the pull of his suction— every sensation was magnified, electric.
He worshipped my body with a puppeteer’s focus, learning its tensions and rhythms, finding the places that made me gasp and writhe. His mouth was everywhere—my breasts, the sensitive skin of my stomach, the inside of my thighs. He used his hands and his mouth in concert, a masterful performance designed for a single purpose: my unraveling.
When his fingers finally slipped inside me, I nearly screamed. They were clever, those fingers, calloused from his craft, knowing just how to curl and stroke. “You’re so wet,” he growled against my thigh, the vibration singing through my veins. “All this for me? All that attitude, and you’re dripping for it.”
I could only nod, my hips bucking against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He added a second finger, stretching me, the slight burn a prelude to paradise. His thumb found my clit, circling it with a relentless, perfect pressure that had me seeing stars. The coil inside me wound tighter and tighter, my breath coming in ragged sobs.
“Kankuro… I’m… I’m gonna…”
“Look at me,” he commanded, removing his fingers abruptly.
The loss was a physical pain. I whined, forcing my eyes open. He was poised above me, sheathing himself in a condom with swift, practiced motions. His expression was utterly rapt, completely focused on me. On us.
He didn’t ask. He just guided himself to my entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against my slick heat. The anticipation was agony. He paused, his own control visibly fraying, a bead of sweat tracing a path through the paint on his temple.
“Well?” he breathed, his voice strained with the effort of holding still. “What’s your next move?”
The command is a guttural thing, torn from a place of pure, primal need. His eyes, dark and wide with surprise, flash with something hotter—amusement, challenge, approval. His hands, which had been working at my buckles, fall to the mattress, palms up in a gesture of mock surrender. The message is clear. My move.
I shove against his chest, and he goes, the solid weight of him yielding to my push as he lands on his back. The thin mattress groans beneath us. I don’t hesitate. I swing a leg over his hips, settling my weight onto him, pinning him beneath me. The rough fabric of his pants is a harsh friction against my bare thighs, but it’s nothing compared to the hard, thick length of him straining against the confines of his clothes, pressed directly against my core. A ragged moan escapes me at the contact.
Better. So much better. This is control. This dizzying, terrifying power of having him under me, his sharp eyes locked on mine, his breath coming in sharp gusts.
“All that talk,” I pant, my own breathing uneven as I rock my hips, grinding down against him in a slow, deliberate circle. The pressure is exquisite, a direct line of fire to my already throbbing clit. “All that control. And now you’re just going to lie there?”
A smirk plays on his lips, though his jaw is tight with restraint. “Seems like you’re the one pulling the strings now.” His voice is a low rasp, graveled with a desire he’s no longer bothering to hide. His hips give a minute, involuntary thrust upward, seeking more friction, more of me.
Not yet.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on his chest, my hair forming a curtain around our faces. “You don’t get to move. Not until I say so.” My words are a whisper against his mouth. I can smell the faint, clean scent of his paint, the sweat beading on his skin.
His hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into the cheap bedding. The puppeteer, fighting every instinct to take over, to direct the scene. The struggle is written in the tense line of his shoulders, the way he forces himself to remain still. It’s the most arousing thing I’ve ever seen.
I sit back up, my gaze never leaving his as my fingers fumble with the fastenings of his pants. My hands are trembling, making me clumsy, and the frustration of it fuels my need. He doesn’t help, doesn’t move a muscle, just watches me with that intense, hungry focus, letting me struggle.
Finally, I get them open. I shove the fabric down his hips, just enough. He kicks them the rest of the way off, and then he’s there. Fully exposed. My breath hitches. He’s thick, veined, and perfectly hard, the tip glistening. For me. All that lethal energy, that coiled strength, distilled into this single, aching point of desire.
I position myself above him, one hand guiding him, the broad head of his cock pressing against my soaked entrance. The sensation is maddening. A promise of fullness, of being stretched and claimed. I watch his face, see his eyes squeeze shut, his lips part on a silent curse. His self-control is a tangible thing, fraying at the edges.
Slowly, so agonizingly slowly, I lower myself onto him.
An inch. A burning, perfect stretch that makes my head fall back. A choked cry is ripped from my throat. Gods. Another inch. Deeper. I’m so wet, but he’s so big, filling me in a way that borders on unbearable. My inner muscles flutter wildly around him, trying to adjust, trying to accept.
His hands fly up to grip my hips, his fingers biting into my skin. “Fuck,” he grunts, the word strained, torn from somewhere deep within him. He’s holding himself so still it looks painful, his whole body rigid with the effort of not slamming up into me, of not taking over.
“I said… don’t move,” I gasp out, my voice trembling as much as my thighs are. I sink down the final, breathtaking inch, until I’m fully seated on him, him buried to the hilt inside me. The feeling is utterly overwhelming. A full, deep, stretching perfection that steals the air from my lungs. I can feel every pulse of him, every desperate beat of his heart echoed in the cock buried deep within me.
For a long moment, I don’t move. I just let us both feel it. The complete, shocking intimacy. The way my body sheathes him so perfectly. The ragged sound of our breathing mixing in the humid air between us.
His eyes are open again, blazing up at me with a possessive fire that should scare me. It only makes me hotter. A drop of sweat traces a path through the white paint on his temple. His gloved thumbs stroke slow, circles on my hip bones, a puppeteer’s calming gesture, but there’s nothing calm about the tension humming through him.
I begin to move.
A slow, rocking rise of my hips, then a sinking fall. The drag of him inside me is a sensory explosion. Every nerve ending is alive, screaming. Up. The cool air against my sensitized flesh. Down. The searing heat of him filling me completely. I set a rhythm, a torturously slow ride, using him for my pleasure, drawing out every sensation.
His composure cracks. A low, continuous groan rumbles in his chest. His hands on my hips tighten, not to steer me, but to feel me, to anchor himself. “You feel… incredible,” he grates out, his voice raw. “So fucking tight. So hot.”
I moan, throwing my head back, losing myself in the rhythm. My hands roam over my own body, over my breasts, pinching my own nipples, adding to the dizzying cascade of sensation. I am the master of this. Of him. Of my pleasure.
But he is Kankuro. And a master puppeteer never truly relinquishes control.
His hands slide from my hips, around to my ass, gripping me firmly. And on my next downstroke, he meets me. A sharp, powerful thrust upward that punches a scream from my lungs.
The illusion of my control shatters.
My rhythm breaks. My eyes fly open to see his smirk, fierce and triumphant. “You had your turn,” he rasps, his voice thick with lust. “My move.”
His weight is a crushing, welcome anchor as he flips us, the world tilting in a dizzying spin of rough blankets and shadow. One moment I’m straddling him, riding the last echo of my own rhythm; the next, I’m on my back, the air knocked from my lungs, with the solid, muscled length of him pressing me into the thin mattress.
A dark, triumphant laugh rumbles in his chest. “My move,” he repeats, the words a hot promise against my ear.
His hips snap forward, a sharp, punishing thrust that steals my breath and replaces it with a ragged cry. He sets a new, brutal pace, each powerful drive of his hips hitting a spot so deep and sensitive it whites out my vision. My fingers scramble for purchase on his back, my nails scraping against the fabric of his shirt. I am utterly at his mercy, and the sensation is as terrifying as it is intoxicating.
He captures my wrists in one of his large, gloved hands, pinning them above my head. The rough material of his glove is a stark contrast to the vulnerability of my bare skin. I test his grip, a feeble, instinctual struggle, and he only tightens it, his fingers like iron bands.
“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive rasp. His free hand traces a path down my arm, my side, my trembling thigh. “You had your fun. Now it’s my turn to play.”
His touch is excruciatingly light, a ghost of sensation that makes me shiver. He’s drawing this out, learning my reactions, mapping the strings of my pleasure.
“Kankuro…” His name is a plea, but for what, I’m not sure. For more? For mercy? I don’t even know.
He silences me with another deep, rolling thrust that makes me arch off the bed. His mouth finds my breast again, his tongue and teeth working my nipple with a devastating precision that has me moaning, a continuous, broken sound. He’s everywhere—the heat of his body, the smell of his skin and paint, the relentless, perfect friction inside me. I am drowning in him.
Then he stills. Completely.
The sudden lack of movement is a shock. My eyes flutter open. He’s poised above me, his face a mask of intense concentration, his own arousal a visible, straining tension in his neck, in the set of his jaw. A faint, almost imperceptible gleam of chakra threads, shimmering like spider silk in the dim light, extends from the fingertips of his free hand.
Oh, gods.
“What are you—?”
The question dies in my throat as the threads dart out with impossible speed. They don’t hurt. They are cool, fine strands of pure energy that whisper against my skin with an electric tingle. One loops itself with impossible delicacy around my pinned wrists, reinforcing his grip, tying them firmly to the wooden slat of the headboard. Another winds its way around my ankle, drawing my leg up and out, bending my knee toward my chest, opening me to him even more obscenely.
I gasp, a true jolt of shock rocketing through me. I pull against the bindings. They give just enough to let me feel the futility of it, the unbreakable strength hidden within their slender forms. They are a perfect, humiliating paradox—ethereally light yet utterly immobilizing.
A second thread, cool and seeking, brushes against my other ankle, coaxing it up to mirror the first. I am spread open, tied down, completely and utterly helpless. Exposed. My heart hammers, a frantic bird against the cage of my ribs. This is his art. This is his control. This is what he does.
His eyes, dark and gleaming with predatory satisfaction, drink in the sight of me. He shifts back onto his knees, his hands now free. He runs them down my tied legs, from my knees to my spread thighs, his touch possessive, worshipful.
“There,” he purrs, his voice thick with lust and pride. “Now I can see all of you.” His thumb finds my clit, and he presses down with a firm, circular motion that makes me jerk against my restraints. “Now I can really play.”
He begins to move inside me again, but it’s different now. With my legs held open, he can go deeper, his thrusts becoming longer, slower, more deliberate. Each one is a devastating claim. The strings hum with a faint energy, a constant, tingling reminder of my helplessness that somehow amplifies every sensation.
He leans over me, bracing himself on one hand, his face inches from mine. His other hand continues its wicked work on my clit, his rhythm matching the slow, deep roll of his hips. The pleasure is a coiling, unbearable pressure, building far too quickly, enhanced by the sheer psychological shock of my submission.
“This is it,” he breathes, his words ghosting over my lips. “This is what you wanted. To not have to think. To not have to fight. To just… feel.” He punctuates the last word with a curl of his fingers that strokes that perfect, deep spot inside me.
A broken sob escapes me. I am completely at the mercy of his expertise, his whims. He could draw this out for hours. He could bring me to the edge and leave me there, screaming. The power he holds is absolute, and a dark, shameful part of me revels in it.
His thrusts become harder, faster, losing their measured pace. His own control is fraying, the puppeteer getting lost in the puppet. The bed frame creaks a frantic rhythm. His painted brow is furrowed in concentration, in ecstasy. His eyes are locked on where our bodies are joined, on the way I take him, on the strings that bind me to his will.
“You’re going to come for me,” he groans, and it’s not a question. It’s a command woven into the very air. “You’re going to come on my cock, just like this. Tied up and completely mine.”
His words are the final thread. The coil inside me snaps.
My orgasm crashes over me with a violence that steals my voice. My body bows against the strings, every muscle seizing as waves of pure, electrifying pleasure radiate out from my core, shaking me apart. A silent scream is torn from my throat, my eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming force of it.
Through the hazy, blinding euphoria, I feel his rhythm stutter, then break. A guttural, raw sound is ripped from his throat as he drives into me one last, final time, his own release triggering a second, smaller aftershock that ripples through my oversensitized body.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing and the faint hum of chakra. He collapses forward, catching his weight on his forearms on either side of my head, his forehead resting against mine. The strings dissolve into a shower of faint sparks, their energy spent.
I am boneless, utterly spent. My freed arms fall limply to the sheets. He shifts his weight, still buried deep inside me, and his gloved hand comes up to brush the sweat-damped hair from my forehead. His touch is surprisingly gentle.
A slow, smug, utterly satisfied smirk spreads across his face, cutting through the stark paint. “Told you I’d prove it.”
The aftermath is a heavy, warm blanket. His weight is a comforting pressure, the rasp of our breathing the only sound in the hushed room. I can feel the slow, steady thrum of his heart against my chest, a counterpoint to my own frantic, settling pulse. The scent of us—sweat, sex, and the faint, clean ozone of his chakra—hangs thick in the air.
His gloved hand is still in my hair, stroking with a possessiveness that makes something deep within me purr with satisfaction. I am pliant, boneless, a puppet whose strings have been lovingly coiled and put away.
For now.
He shifts, his softened length slipping from inside me with a slick, intimate sound that sends a fresh, tiny shiver through my oversensitive body. He doesn’t go far, just rolls to his side, propping his head up on one hand. The other, still clad in black, traces idle, burning patterns on my stomach.
I open my eyes to meet his. The paint around them is smudged, softened by sweat and friction, making his gaze seem even more intense, more… real. The predatory edge is gone, replaced by a smoldering, sated curiosity.
“Still think you can break my fingers?” he asks, his voice a low, husky rumble. There’s no malice in it. Only a deep, resonant amusement.
A weak laugh bubbles out of me. “I’d probably just strain my wrist trying.”
The smirk that graces his lips is different from before. Softer. More genuine. Prideful. He leans down and kisses me, and it’s nothing like the desperate clash from before. It’s slow, deep, and tasting. A savoring. My hands come up, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the texture of his paint, the stubble beneath it.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark pools of intent. “Turns out you’re more fun when you’re not fighting me.”
“Turns out you’re more fun when you’re not being an infuriating bastard,” I counter, my voice still breathy.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. His wandering hand slides lower, through my damp curls, his thumb brushing against my clit. The touch is shockingly light, a mere whisper, but my entire body jolts. A ragged gasp escapes me. I’m too sensitive. It’s too much. Yet my hips arch into his touch of their own volition, begging for more.
“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on my face, watching every micro-expression that flickers across it. “Even after all that. Your body… it’s an incredible instrument.” His thumb applies a fraction more pressure, a slow, circular massage that has me biting my lip to keep from crying out. It’s not building toward anything, not yet. It’s just sensation, pure and undiluted and almost painfully good.
He’s studying me. Learning. He’s memorizing the symphony of my reactions for next time.
The thought alone is enough to make me wet all over again.
His fingers dip lower, sliding through my slickness, and he brings them to his lips. His tongue flicks out, tasting me, his eyes holding mine the entire time. The act is so blatantly carnal, so possessive, I feel a fresh wave of heat flood my cheeks.
“Mine,” he says simply, the word a statement of fact.
This time, I don’t argue.
His mouth crashes down on mine again, fiercer this time, the lazy afterglow giving way to a new, rising hunger. He moves over me, his body covering mine, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. He’s already hard again, his cock pressing insistently against my thigh.
He breaks the kiss, his breath hot against my ear. “I want to feel you,” he rasps. “All of you. No barriers this time.”
The words send a thrill of pure, unadulterated desire straight to my core. I nod, unable to form words.
He reaches for the small pile of his discarded gear, his movements economical and sure. He tears open a new packet and sheathes himself. The look he gives me is pure, undiluted lust. “This isn’t over.”
He doesn’t ask. He guides himself to my entrance, and this time, there’s no slow, teasing build-up. He pushes inside me in one long, smooth, devastating stroke. My cry is muffled against his shoulder. I’m still so sensitive, so stretched from before, that the feeling is almost overwhelming. A perfect, stretching fullness that borders on pain before melting into pure, mind-numbing pleasure.
He sets a relentless, deep rhythm from the start. This isn’t about control or power plays anymore. This is raw, desperate need. His thrusts are long and deep, each one hitting that perfect, tender spot inside me with unerring accuracy. I cling to him, my fingers digging into the muscles of his back, my legs locked around him, holding him as deep as he can possibly go.
His face is buried in the crook of my neck, his hot breaths puffing against my skin. He’s murmuring things, filthy, delicious things I can barely hear over the sound of our bodies meeting, the creak of the bed, my own ragged sobs of pleasure.
“So perfect… taking me so deep… gonna feel this for days…”
His gloved hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit again. The dual assault is too much. The coil, which never fully unwound, tightens again with terrifying speed. My climax doesn’t build; it detonates. It rips through me with a violence that blots out everything else. My vision tunnels, my back arches off the bed, and a scream, loud and uninhibited, is torn from my throat.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure ecstasy as my inner muscles clamp down around him, milking his own release from him. His thrusts become jerky, frantic, as he pours himself into me, his own shout joining my fading cries.
He collapses on top of me, his full weight a welcome anchor as we both shudder through the aftershocks. For long minutes, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing and the frantic beating of our hearts.
Slowly, he pushes himself up. He looks… wrecked. His paint is a mess, his hair is damp with sweat, and his eyes are glazed with a sated wonder. He gently pulls out and disposes of the condom before settling back beside me, pulling me into his side. My head finds its place on his chest, and I listen to the strong, steady beat of his heart begin to slow.
His fingers trail up and down my arm. The silence is comfortable, charged with a new understanding.
He finally speaks, his voice rough but clear. “That scroll we’re after tomorrow… it’s guarded. Could get messy.” He pauses, his hand stilling on my arm. “Might need a good partner watching my back.”
I tilt my head up to look at him. The offer is there, hidden beneath the casual words. A question. An invitation that goes far beyond this damp inn room.
A slow smile spreads across my face. Infuriating bastard. My infuriating bastard.
“Well,” I say, tracing the smudged pattern of purple on his chest. “I suppose that depends.”
He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of his old smirk returning. “On what?”
The only sound in the cavernous foyer was the soft shuffling of the deck of cards in Gambit’s hands. You watched, mesmerized as always, by the fluid motion of his fingers, the effortless cascade of pasteboard that seemed like an extension of his very soul. The mansion was unusually, profoundly quiet—just you, him, and the lingering energy of a mission successfully, if messily, completed.
“You were spectacular out there, chère,” he said, his voice a low, smoky rumble that seemed to vibrate right through the floorboards and into the soles of your feet. He didn’t look up from his cards, a smirk playing on his lips. “The way you handled those Sentinels… mon Dieu. A brutal kind of poetry.”
You leaned against the grand staircase’s newel post, your body still humming with adrenaline. “Someone had to clean up your flashy mess, Remy. All those glowing cards tend to leave a mark.”
He finally glanced up, and his eyes, crimson and dark with an intensity that always made your breath catch, locked onto yours. “Mais, of course. A man must make an impression.” He took a slow, deliberate step toward you. Then another. The space between you, once comfortable, now crackled with a different kind of energy. “But it is the quiet cleanup… the precise strike… that is the true art.”
He was close now, so close you could smell the unique scent of him—ozone, leather, and something uniquely Cajun, like spicy tobacco and river water. The deck vanished into a pocket with a flick of his wrist. His gaze was no longer on your eyes, but tracing the line of your body, lingering on the curve of your hip, the tense set of your shoulders.
“You are still so tense, ma belle,” he murmured, his voice dropping to an almost-whisper. “All that fight, and nowhere for it to go.”
His hands came up, not to grab you, but to hover just inches from your shoulders, a question in the air. A silent request for permission. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat answering a call only it could hear. You gave a single, sharp nod.
His touch was electric. Not with his power, but with the sheer heat and confidence of him. His strong, clever fingers found the knotted muscles of your shoulders and began to knead, a firm, practiced pressure that made you gasp. Your head lolled forward, a low moan escaping your lips before you could stop it.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his breath warm against your ear. “Let it go. Let me take care of you.”
His hands slid down your arms, leaving trails of fire in their wake, before his grip shifted. In one fluid, shockingly easy motion, he dipped down, hooked his arms behind your knees, and lifted you clean off your feet, cradling you against his chest. You let out a yelp of surprise, your arms instinctively winding around his neck.
“Remy! What are you—?”
“Shhh,” he soothed, already carrying you up the grand staircase as if you weighed nothing. “A thief sees what others value. And what they need.” His eyes burned into yours, all pretense of playfulness gone, replaced by a raw, hungry devotion that stole the air from your lungs. “And chère, I have been watching you for a very, very long time.”
He shouldered open the door to your room and laid you down on the bed with a reverence usually reserved for sacred relics. He didn’t climb on top of you immediately. Instead, he knelt beside the bed, his gaze searing as it traveled the length of your body. He started with your boots, his fingers making quick, deft work of the laces. He pulled them off, one after the other, and then his hands were on your calves, massaging the soreness from the muscle through the fabric of your suit.
“All this power,” he mused, his voice thick with desire, “all this strength… trapped in here.” His hands slid higher, to your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the tight sinew. A shudder wracked your body. “It needs release. It needs… worship.”
That was the word that undid you. Worship. It wasn’t about taking; it was about giving. Devotion. You understood now. This was his gambit. His whole play was for this moment, to prove his worth not in a fight, but here, in the quiet of your room.
He leaned forward, his body hovering over yours, finally closing the last inch of distance. His mouth found yours in a kiss that was nothing like his usual flirtatious smirks suggested. It was deep, all-consuming, a claiming that felt less like possession and more like a vow. You could taste the promise on his tongue, the heat of his intent.
His hands were everywhere, everywhere, as if he couldn’t decide which part of you to adore first. They slid under your top, the calluses on his palms a delicious abrasion against the soft skin of your stomach. He broke the kiss only to yank the garment over your head, his eyes darkening to near black as he took in the sight of you, bare from the waist up.
“Tu es si belle,” he breathed, the words a prayer.
And then his mouth was on you. Not on your lips, but on the frantic pulse at the base of your throat. He laved at it, sucked, until you were writhing beneath him, your fingers tangling in his impossibly soft hair. He moved lower, his lips and tongue tracing a searing path over your collarbone, the swell of your breast, until he took a peaked nipple into his mouth.
You cried out, arching off the bed as he sucked, hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub until you saw stars behind your eyelids. One of his hands was squeezing your other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple between his fingers in a perfect, maddening counter-rhythm to his mouth. The other hand was busy between your legs, palming you through your pants, the pressure just there, exactly where you needed it, his touch so knowing it felt clairvoyant.
“Remy… please…”
“I know, chérie,” he growled against your damp skin, finally releasing your breast to look up at you. His expression was one of pure, unadulterated lust, a promise of ruin. “I know exactly what you need.”
He made quick work of your remaining clothes, his movements efficient and desperate all at once. When you were finally bare before him, he stilled, just for a moment, drinking you in. The look on his face was one of awe, as if he’d just unlocked the universe’s greatest treasure.
He didn’t enter you. Not yet. Instead, he pushed your legs apart, his hands gripping the back of your thighs—holding you open for him—and lowered his head between them.
The first stroke of his tongue was a revelation. It was slow, deliberate, a long, flat lick that left a streak of fire in its wake. You bucked against his mouth, a broken sob escaping you. He chuckled, the vibration against your most sensitive flesh making you clench around nothing.
“Patience, ma déesse,” he murmured, his breath hot against your wetness. “Let me taste my heaven.”
And then he began to feast. There was no other word for it. His tongue was an instrument of pure pleasure, licking, sucking, circling your clit with a precision that stole your thoughts, your name, your very sanity. He devoted himself to your pleasure with a single-minded intensity, one hand splayed on your stomach to hold you down, the other reaching up to tease a nipple. The dual assault was merciless, perfect. You were a live wire, every nerve ending screaming under his expert ministrations. The coil of pleasure in your core tightened, spiraling tighter and tighter, fed by every flick of his wicked tongue, every soft groan he made against you, as if he was the one receiving pleasure from this act.
You were close, so close to the edge, your breaths coming in ragged pants. And just as you were about to shatter, he pulled away. You whimpered at the loss, the cold air a shock against your damp skin.
He rose above you, his own clothes vanished somewhere in the frenzy. His body was all lean muscle and tantalizing heat. He lined himself up at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you, a tantalizing, maddening promise. His eyes, glowing faintly with barely restrained power, held yours.
“Look at me, chère,” he commanded, his voice rough with need. “I want to see you when you fall.”
A broken, desperate sound tore from your throat at the loss of his mouth, your body screaming for the contact it had been so brutally denied. The cool air of the room was a shocking contrast to the inferno he’d stoked between your legs. Your hips arched off the bed, seeking him, needing that devastating pleasure only he could give.
His eyes, twin pools of molten crimson, held you captive. They were dark with a hunger so profound it felt like looking into a star about to go supernova. A fine tremor ran through the hard length of him poised at your entrance, a testament to the Herculean restraint he was exerting.
“I said look at me, chère,” he repeated, his voice a graveled, possessive command that brooked no argument. It vibrated through you, settling deep in your bones.
Your gaze was helplessly locked on his. You could feel the slick, heated tip of him pressing against you, a tantalizing promise of the fullness to come. He was right there. You was stretched taut, a bowstring waiting for the release. Your fingers dug into the sheets beneath you, your entire world narrowed to that single, aching point of contact.
Then his hands slid under your thighs. His grip was firm, possessive, perfect. He hooked his arms under your knees, his fingers splaying across the backs of your thighs, and he pulled. He drew you to the very edge of the bed, spreading your legs wide, opening you to him completely, leaving you utterly exposed and vulnerable.
The move was so sudden, so dominant, it stole the air from your lungs. You were his to position, his to pleasure, his to worship. And in that breathtaking vulnerability, You felt a surge of absolute trust.
“Remy,” You whispered, his name a prayer, a plea, a confession.
He leaned over you, his body a delicious weight, his face inches from yours. The scent of his skin, ozone and spice, filled your senses. “Je te veux. Je te désire.” The Cajun French was a low, guttural rasp against your lips. “I have never wanted anything more.”
And with that, he pushed forward.
It wasn’t a swift, claiming thrust. It was a slow, agonizingly deliberate invasion. The broad head of his cock pressed against your entrance, stretching you, and then he began to sink in. An inch. A fraction. The sensation was overwhelming—a burning, exquisite fullness that had you gasping, your head falling back against the mattress. Your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the sheer physicality of it.
“Non,” he commanded softly, his breath hot on your cheek. “Eyes on me, ma déesse. Watch me take you. Watch me love you.”
You forced your eyes open, vision swimming slightly. His gaze was unwavering, searing into your soul. He was trembling with the effort of his control, a single bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. He pushed in another inch, and a low, ragged groan was torn from his chest. The sound was pure, unadulterated pleasure, and it went straight to your core, making you clench around the invading thickness of him.
“Mon Dieu… you feel… incroyable,” he gritted out, his hips pausing, buried halfway. “So tight. So hot for me.”
He held there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting you both adjust to the shocking, perfect fit.
You could feel the rapid, frantic beat of his heart where his chest pressed against yours. This wasn’t just sex. This was a communion. Every ragged breath you shared, every tremor that wracked his frame, spoke of a depth of feeling that went far beyond the physical.
Then he moved again, a slow, rolling withdrawal that was its own sweet torture, before sinking back in, deeper this time. Deeper. Until his hips met yours and he was buried to the hilt. A punched-out moan escaped you. You were full. So completely, utterly full of him. There was no space for thought, only sensation. The stretch, the heat, the dizzying rightness of it.
He stilled once more, his forehead dropping to yours, your panting breaths mingling. “C’est ça,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “C’est home.”
His words shattered the last of your restraint. Your hands flew to his back, nails scraping over the taut muscles there. You bucked your hips against his, a silent, desperate demand for more.
A wicked, breathless chuckle escaped him. “So impatient, ma belle. After making me wait so long.”
But he gave you what you wanted. He began to move.
His thrusts started slow, a torturous, perfect rhythm that dragged every nerve ending in your body to screaming life. Each slow, deep stroke rubbed a spot inside you that had stars bursting behind your eyelids. The sound of your bodies meeting, skin against skin, was obscenely loud in the quiet room, a wet, rhythmic slap that was the only music you needed.
His eyes never left yours. In them, you saw it all: the devotion, the years of stolen glances and suppressed want, the raw, terrifying need to please, to give. He was a giver, and he was giving you every shred of his control, his passion, his very soul with every rock of his hips.
“You see?” he rasped, his pace gradually quickening, the slow burn beginning to ignite into a wildfire. “You see what you do to me? How you undo me?”
You could only nod, voice lost to the sensations coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, a sound of pure, undiluted ecstasy.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Like that. Hold me. Don’t let me go.”
His thrusts became harder, faster, more urgent. The bedframe began a soft, steady rhythm against the wall. He shifted your legs, pushing them back further, up towards your chest, holding your thighs apart, and the change in angle was electric. He hit a spot so deep, so perfect, that you cried out, my back arching off the bed.
“There?” he demanded, his voice raw. “Is that the spot, chérie? Tell me.”
“Yes! God, yes, Remy, right there!”
A triumphant, predatory grin spread across his face, all sharp canines and wicked promise. He pinned your legs in that position, one hand gripping your thigh, the other braced by your head, and he pounded into you. It was relentless, perfect ruin. Each deep, driving thrust hammered into that exquisite spot, sending shockwaves of pure, undiluted pleasure radiating through your entire body. Your vision blurred at the edges, the world dissolving into a haze of sensation and the sight of his face, etched with a feral, worshipful intensity above you.
“That’s it, chère,” he growled, his voice ragged, every word a thrust. “Let go. Give it to me. Give me everything.”
And you did. The coil of tension that had been building since the mission, since his first touch, since forever, finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you with the force of a tidal wave, a silent, screaming convulsion that seized every muscle in your body. You clenched around him, a vise of pleasure, your back arching off the bed as a white-hot current of ecstasy electrocuted your senses.
Remy’s control shattered. A raw, guttural groan was torn from his throat as your inner muscles milked him, and his rhythm faltered. He drove into you once, twice more, a frantic, jerking motion, and then he was coming, his entire body locking up above you. You felt the hot, pulsing release of him deep inside, a final, claiming warmth that seemed to echo the aftershocks of your own climax.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged, panting breaths. He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his forearms, his forehead resting against yours. His body trembled with the aftershocks, a fine, continuous shiver that vibrated through you. The scent of you both, of sex and sweat and him, was thick in the air.
He didn’t pull away. He stayed buried inside you, his eyes closed, his breath slowly evening out against your lips. His grip on your thigh softened, his hand sliding down to cradle the back of your knee almost reverently.
“Mon coeur,” he whispered, the words slurred with exhaustion and awe. “Ma vie.”
Your hands, which had been gripping his back, now slid up to cradle his face. You traced the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your fingertips. His eyes fluttered open. The crimson was softer now, the supernova subsided into a smoldering, devoted ember. He turned his head just enough to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your palm.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of you. The loss was profound, a sudden emptiness that made you gasp softly. He didn’t go far. He shifted your weight, rolling you two onto your sides without ever breaking contact, his arms wrapping around you to pull you tight against the solid, warm plane of his chest. Your leg hooked over his hip, and his hand settled on the curve of your ass, holding you close. You were a tangled, sweaty, sated mess of limbs.
He nuzzled into your hair, his lips brushing your temple. “Ça va?”
“Mmm,” You managed, the sound muffled against his skin. You were boneless, every nerve still singing a quiet, blissful hymn. “More than ça va.”
He chuckled, the sound a warm rumble you felt deep in your own chest. “Bon.”
You both lay there in the quiet, the only sound your breathing and the distant creak of the ancient mansion settling. His fingers began to trace idle, lazy patterns on the small of your back. Not a prelude to more, just a connection. A need to keep touching, to reaffirm that this was real.
“All those years of talk, chère… all that flirtation…” he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy drawl. “I thought my imagination had built it up. Made it something it could never be.”
You tilted your head back to look at him. “And?”
A slow, devastatingly sincere smile spread across his face, erasing the last traces of the predatory grin from before. “It did not do you justice. Not even close.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that was achingly tender. “You have ruined me for all others, you know that? There is only this. Only you.”
His words settled over you, warmer than any blanket. This was the heart of him, the truth beneath the thief’s charm and the swagger. A depth of devotion that was as shocking as it was undeniable.
His hand slid from your back, down over the curve of your hip, his touch proprietary and worshipping all at once. His fingers dipped between your legs, not with intent, but with a soft, curious exploration, tracing the sensitive, well-loved flesh.
“So responsive,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder. He pressed the pad of his thumb against your clit, a gentle, circular pressure that made you jolt and press into his hand. “Still so sensitive for me.”
A soft, involuntary sound escaped you. The embers he’d banked so carefully flared back to life with shocking speed. Your hips gave a tiny, reflexive roll against his hand.
His eyes darkened, the smolder igniting once more. He watched your face, fascinated by every tiny twitch, every hitched breath his touch elicited. “You want more, ma déesse?”
It wasn’t a real question. You both knew the answer. The air, which had been languid and heavy with spent pleasure, suddenly crackled again with a new, greedy energy. The emptiness he’d left behind was now a new kind of ache.
He shifted, his body moving over yours once more, but this time it was slower, more deliberate. His mouth found yours in a deep, lingering kiss as his fingers continued their gentle, maddening circles. He was already hard again against your thigh, his desire a palpable heat.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, his voice a husky promise against your damp skin. “This time… we go slower. I am not done worshipping.” His thumb pressed down a little harder, and a shiver wracked your frame. “I want to hear every sound. Learn what makes you sing for me.”
He moved lower, his intention clear, his devotion an unbreakable loop of give and take. And as his head dipped between your thighs once more, his hands hooking under your knees to hold you open, to hold you there, you could only gasp his name, ready to be ruined all over again.
Morning sunlight stretched across the compound, pale gold slipping between the blinds. The storm had long passed, leaving the air washed clean, the scent of rain still clinging faintly to the garden outside.
You stirred slowly, caught between sleep and waking, warmth pressing steady at your back. For a moment, your heart stumbled—then memory rushed in. His hands, his voice, his plea: Don’t run.
Kakashi’s arm was draped around you, loose but protective, his breath steady against the nape of your neck. The rise and fall of his chest anchored you in a way nothing else had. For the first time in longer than you could remember, you felt no urge to reach for paint or sleeves or excuses.
Your wrist lay bare against the morning light. The mark glowed faintly in the sun, no longer a chain but a quiet echo of truth.
“You’re awake,” his voice rumbled, soft with sleep.
You turned slightly, meeting the lazy curve of his visible eye. His mask was gone, his face uncovered in the half-light, and the intimacy of it hit harder than any storm.
“I should make breakfast,” you murmured, though you made no move to rise.
His hand flexed against your waist, holding you a little closer. “Stay. Just a little longer.”
The simplicity of the request broke something tender in your chest. You nodded, leaning into him, letting the silence hold you both.
Later, you did cook, because habits were hard to break. But it was different now—no paint on your wrist, no guarded words. Kakashi sat at the counter, hair still damp from the bath, watching you with that unshakable focus that used to unnerve you. Now, it warmed you.
“You’re staring again,” you teased, sliding a plate across to him.
His lips curved faintly. “You said I could.”
You rolled your eyes, though your smile betrayed you.
The day took you both into the village. For the first time, you walked at his side without adjusting your sleeves, without glancing nervously at every passerby. The mark showed, plain and unhidden, and the whispers followed—murmurs in the crowd, glances that lingered too long.
Your chest tightened, the old instinct to hide flaring hot. But Kakashi’s hand brushed yours, grounding. His voice, low and steady, reached you over the noise.
“Let them look.”
So you did. And the fear ebbed, little by little, until you found yourself walking taller, your wrist uncovered, his presence at your side a quiet shield.
From the corner of your eye, you caught Sakura in the market crowd. Her gaze softened when it met yours—not approval, not judgment, but something gentler. She didn’t approach. She didn’t need to.
That evening, the compound felt different. Not a cage of secrets anymore, but a home. Kakashi leaned against the kitchen doorframe as you finished cleaning, his usual book forgotten in his hand.
“You know,” he said, “I think you’ve spoiled me. I’ll never be able to go back to field rations.”
You huffed a laugh, tossing the rag at him. “That’s not my problem.”
He caught it easily, eye crinkling with amusement. Then he crossed the room, closing the distance in a few long strides, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.
“Not fate,” he murmured. “Just us.”
Your heart softened, your walls gone. You smiled, whispering back, “Just us.”
The village was alive with summer noise—vendors calling out from their stalls, the scent of grilled skewers thick in the air, children darting past with festival trinkets still in their hands. But you barely registered any of it. Your pulse was too quick, your thoughts too loud.
You shouldn’t have agreed to run errands alone.
The weight of Sakura’s stare at breakfast hadn’t left you, and the memory of Kakashi’s calm “let them” still pressed hard against your chest. Every time someone glanced your way, you imagined they knew. Imagined the sleeve would slip, the paint would smudge, the secret would spill.
You were halfway through the market when the voice caught you.
“[Name].”
You froze.
Sakura stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She wore her medic’s uniform, pink hair pulled tight from her face, and for a moment you wished desperately that she’d just walk past. But she didn’t. She stepped into your path, eyes narrowing.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him.”
You forced a shrug, gripping your basket tighter. “I work in his house, Sakura. Of course I spend time with him.”
“Not like that.” Her tone sharpened. “Don’t pretend I didn’t see how you looked this morning. The both of you.”
Your throat went dry. Around you, villagers moved on, oblivious, but the space between you felt suddenly exposed, as if the whole market had gone silent.
“You’re imagining things,” you said quickly, brushing past her. But she caught your arm.
“I’m not.” Her voice was low now, serious. “You’re hiding something. And if it’s what I think it is…” She hesitated, searching your face. “You know how important those marks are. You can’t just ignore it. Not for him. Not for anyone.”
Anger flared hot, fed by fear. You yanked your arm free. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
The words burst from you before you could stop them. “I don’t want to be chained to a mark! I don’t want my life decided before I even choose it. I don’t want whispers, or people saying it was fate, that I never had a choice. I’d rather be alone than—than become someone’s destiny just because the world said so.”
The confession hung between you, raw and jagged. Sakura’s eyes softened, just a fraction, but before she could speak, another voice cut through.
“You’d rather run?”
Your blood turned to ice.
Kakashi stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, mask tugged up, his presence as calm as ever. But his eye… his eye was sharp, unreadable, fixed entirely on you.
You hadn’t heard him approach. You didn’t know how long he’d been listening.
“Kakashi—” you began, but the words strangled in your throat.
He didn’t answer. He just held your gaze for a long, unbearable moment, then turned away.
And in that silence, the walls you’d built around yourself trembled.
The silence followed you all the way back to the compound. Sakura hadn’t chased after you; she didn’t need to. Her words had already burrowed deep, and Kakashi’s silence dug them deeper.
When you entered the residence, he was already there, standing by the window of his office. He hadn’t even removed his cloak. He didn’t look at you when the door clicked shut.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Finally, you blurted, “How much did you hear?”
His eye shifted, catching yours. “Enough.”
Your throat tightened. You gripped the back of a chair like it could anchor you. “Then you know—”
“That you’d rather run than be bound?” His tone was calm, even, but something beneath it was razor-sharp. “Yes. I heard.”
The air between you crackled. You wanted to argue, to deny it, but your chest ached with the weight of truth. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it again.
Kakashi turned then, crossing the room in slow, deliberate steps until he stood just in front of you. His gaze pinned you where you stood.
“Do you think I don’t know about the mark?”
Your breath caught.
“I saw it,” he continued, voice low but steady. “At the festival. When you asked Sukea for paint, when you hid it right in front of me. I’ve known since then.”
Your chest seized. “You—why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.” His words were a quiet thunder. “Because I didn’t want you to think that’s why I stayed close. Why I…” He trailed off, eye searching yours, raw now. “I wanted you to know it was me. Not the mark. Not destiny. Me.”
Your fingers trembled against the chair. He was too close, his words too heavy, your heart too loud. “You should have told me,” you whispered.
“I wanted you to choose,” he said simply.
Something in you broke. The anger, the fear, the fragile walls you had built around yourself—all of it crumbled under the weight of his honesty. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes.
“You don’t understand,” you choked. “All my life, people have talked about marks like they’re chains. As if we don’t get to choose who we love, who we want. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be someone’s fate. I wanted—”
Your voice cracked.
His hand lifted, hesitant but steady, brushing your cheek with the gentlest touch. “Then don’t be,” he murmured. “Don’t be my fate. Be my choice. Be the person I keep walking toward because I can’t do anything else. That’s all I want.”
The tears spilled then, quiet and unbidden. Your hand rose, grasping his wrist where it cupped your face, and for the first time you let yourself lean into the warmth.
“Kakashi…”
The distance collapsed. His mask tugged down, his lips finding yours—this time not cautious, not restrained, but hungry, desperate. You gasped against him, and his arm slid around your waist, pulling you flush to him. The kiss deepened, his mouth moving over yours with a heat that stole every thought from your head.
Your hands fisted in his cloak, tugging him closer still. The chair knocked back, forgotten, as his other hand found the small of your back, pressing you into the solid line of him. The taste of him, the weight of him, the sheer intensity of the moment—it consumed you.
When you finally broke for breath, foreheads pressed together, your chest heaving, he whispered the words that undid you entirely.
“Don’t run. Please.”
And this time, you didn’t think. You didn’t hide. You pulled him back to you, kissing him with everything you had, everything you had denied, until there was nothing left between you but heat and need.
The night that followed wasn’t about marks or fate or chains. It was about choice—about the way his hands trembled against your skin, the way your body answered his without hesitation, the way the world narrowed to just the two of you, finally unbroken.
The scent of roasted rice drifted through the kitchen, mingling with the earthy freshness left by the night’s rain. You moved quietly around the counters, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, the morning routine a comfort after so much upheaval.
But this morning wasn’t like any other.
Every movement, every sound, seemed magnified by what had happened the night before—the kiss, the closeness, the way Kakashi’s voice had cracked when he told you not to call it a mistake. You’d barely slept, your thoughts a restless tide, and yet you found yourself humming faintly under your breath as you poured water into the pot.
A soft shuffle made you look up.
Kakashi leaned against the doorway, still in his robe, mask pulled into place but hair even more disheveled than usual. He carried himself with his usual lazy ease, but you noticed it immediately—the softness in his gaze, the way he didn’t just look at you but lingered.
“You’re up early,” you said, breaking the quiet.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, padding into the kitchen. He reached for the kettle before you could stop him. “Let me.”
You arched a brow. “You? Make tea?”
His eye curved faintly. “How hard could it be?”
Harder than he thought, apparently. He filled the kettle fine, even set it on the flame. But when he reached for the leaves, he grabbed the wrong jar. You smacked his hand lightly with the spoon you held.
“That’s kelp flakes,” you chided.
He hummed, unbothered. “Might be an acquired taste.”
“Or poison.” You slipped the correct jar into his hand, shaking your head. “Sit down before you hurt yourself. Or me.”
But he didn’t sit. He stayed close, brushing your shoulder as he reached for cups. The brush of his sleeve lingered like a secret, and your heart betrayed you with its sudden flutter.
When the tea was finally ready—drinkable, if unevenly steeped—you carried the tray to the table. Kakashi followed, slipping into the seat across from you. The air was warm with steam, your knees brushing under the low table, the silence between you too fragile to break with anything but the clink of porcelain.
You were just beginning to relax into it when the knock came.
“Lord Hokage? You’re here, right?” Sakura’s voice, bright and steady, filtered through the hall.
Your heart dropped into your stomach. Kakashi didn’t flinch. He simply set his cup down, eye curving faintly, and called back, “Come in.”
The door slid open and Sakura stepped inside, pink hair tied back, a stack of papers in hand. Her eyes swept the room in a single, practiced glance—and landed squarely on you.
You froze, halfway to lifting your own cup.
“Oh,” she said, pausing. Her gaze flicked between you and Kakashi, sharp as a blade. “I didn’t realize you had company this early.”
Kakashi’s voice was easy, smooth. “My chef makes sure I don’t starve.”
Something in her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She stepped further in, placing the papers neatly on the desk. “Efficient, as always. Though…” Her gaze slid back to you, lingering a fraction too long on your flushed face. “…you look a little tired. Long night?”
Your chest tightened. Heat crawled up your neck. Before you could stumble through an answer, Kakashi stood, effortlessly inserting himself between you and her gaze.
“Paperwork doesn’t stop just because the rain does,” he said smoothly, collecting the stack from her hands. “Is there anything urgent?”
Sakura hesitated, then shook her head. “No, Lord Hokage. Just routine.” Still, her eyes lingered, searching, before she finally dipped her head. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.”
When the door slid shut behind her, you realized you hadn’t taken a breath.
Kakashi glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. Then he sat again, lifting his cup like nothing had happened. “Tea’s not so bad, is it?”
You stared at him, torn between relief and fury. He sipped calmly, eye betraying the faintest hint of amusement, and you realized—he’d known exactly how close that had been.
And somehow, he wasn’t afraid.
The rest of breakfast passed in uneasy silence. Every time you lifted your cup, you felt the ghost of Sakura’s stare still clinging to your skin. Kakashi, maddeningly, seemed unbothered. He ate with quiet efficiency, eye flicking over you in ways that made your pulse stumble, but he said nothing of the near-disaster.
By late morning, the air in the compound had grown heavy again, too tight for your restless thoughts. You busied yourself in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes that didn’t need scrubbing, until Kakashi appeared in the doorway.
“Walk with me,” he said simply.
You blinked. “What?”
“There’s an errand I can’t avoid.” He tugged his cloak over one shoulder, as if the decision had already been made. “It’ll be quick.”
You hesitated, towel clenched in your hand. Going into the village with him, now, after what had happened? It felt reckless. But when his eye softened, the faintest curve at the corner, you found yourself nodding before your doubts could form into words.
The village bustled with the easy rhythm of late morning. Merchants called out from their stalls, children darted through the streets, shinobi moved with practiced efficiency between shops and gates. And everywhere you went, people bowed or murmured greetings as Kakashi passed.
You kept slightly behind him at first, letting the distance shield you. But the crowd pressed close, and soon his hand drifted back, brushing your elbow, guiding you through the flow.
It was nothing, just a touch, but the warmth of it burned through fabric.
“Stay close,” he murmured.
You swallowed hard, glancing around. A few villagers looked your way, curiosity flickering in their eyes. They knew you, of course—the Hokage’s private chef wasn’t an invisible role. But now, walking at his side, your sleeve brushing his, it felt like every glance lingered too long.
By the time the errand was done—a scroll delivered, a brief word exchanged with a jonin at the market—you could hardly breathe from the tension strung tight in your chest.
On the walk back, you finally broke.
“Kakashi,” you hissed under your breath, falling a step behind. “People will notice.”
He glanced back lazily, as though you’d commented on the weather. “Notice what?”
“You know what.” You stopped in your tracks, frustration bubbling up. “The way you—” Your voice faltered, heat rising to your cheeks. “The way you’re acting. Close. Like—like this.” You gestured helplessly between you. “They’ll talk.”
For a long moment, he studied you in silence. The market noise filled the gap, a swirl of voices and footsteps around you. Then, calmly, he said, “Let them.”
The words landed like a stone in still water, rippling outward until you could hardly think.
“Let them?” you repeated, stunned.
His eye held yours, steady and unflinching. “I’m not interested in hiding.”
You stood frozen, the street moving around you, your chest tight with the weight of what he’d said. He didn’t wait for your answer—just turned and walked on, leaving you to stumble after, your thoughts a mess of panic and something dangerously close to relief.
Back at the compound, the silence stretched. You set your basket down too hard, hands shaking faintly, and spun to face him.
“You can’t just—just say things like that,” you snapped, voice cracking with nerves. “You don’t understand. It isn’t that simple.”
He leaned casually against the doorframe, eye soft but unreadable. “It’s exactly that simple.”
“No, it’s not!” Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be defined by a mark, or by what people expect of me, or—or by some story they think I should fit into. And now you—” You broke off, chest heaving. “You want me to throw all of that away just because you’re ready to?”
The quiet that followed was suffocating. You pressed a trembling hand to your wrist through your sleeve, as if you could shield it from his gaze.
Kakashi straightened slowly, crossing the room in measured steps until he stood close enough that you could see the faint silver in his hair catch the light. He didn’t touch you—not yet. His voice was low, steady, the voice he used when giving orders that brooked no argument.
“I don’t care about the mark,” he said. “I care about you.”
Your breath hitched.
Then his hand lifted, feather-light, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers lingered just long enough to send heat flooding down your spine.
You froze, every defense trembling. And when he leaned in, his mask tugged low, you didn’t stop him.
The kiss was softer this time, but no less consuming. Your hand found his sleeve without thinking, clutching at the fabric as his lips moved against yours with a patience that unraveled you.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his breath warm.
“Let them notice,” he whispered. “Let them talk. None of it matters.”
Your heart thundered in your chest, every word carving deep into the walls you’d built.
And for the first time, you wondered if you wanted to let those walls fall.
