Synopsis: in which you’re being flirted with by some guy at the bar, and after showing your disinterest- he asks the question, “but can he fight?”
Featuring: Shinichiro, Izana, Sanzu, Taiju, Ran, Rindo, Koko, and Inupi.
Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request.
(Mikey, Draken, Baji, Kazutora, Mitsuya, Pah, Chifuyu, and Takemichi here)
“I’m not interested. Sorry.”
You give the guy at the bar a tight-lipped smile, hoping to get rid of him. He’s been talking for ten minutes straight and his cologne is starting to make your eyes water from how close he’s hovering.
He just laughs, leaning in closer, "C’mon, don’t be like that. Where is this imaginary boyfriend, anyway?"
"He’s not imaginary. He’s right over there." You subtly nod towards the back of the bar where your boyfriend is sitting with his friends.
The guy glances over, a smirk on his face, "Okay, so you got a boyfriend. But can he fight?"
Just as he finishes the sentence, a hand lands on his shoulder. You didn't even need to look to know who it was. The guy tenses and turns around, his cocky smile faltering as he sees your boyfriend standing there, with his friends not far behind.
Shinichiro Sano
He gives a sheepish smile like the question caught him off guard. “Can I fight? …I can hold my own.”
But then he glances at you, notices you’re uncomfortable, and his easygoing demeanor shifts, his gaze sharpens, and he subtly steps between you and the guy.
Shinichiro won’t brag, but he will make it clear the conversation’s over with a quiet, “Let’s not go there, alright?”
Izana Kurokawa
He doesn’t even blink.
He just tilts his head, looking the guy up and down with a faint smirk, “You’re asking the wrong question. What you should be asking is- can you?”
He’ll let that hang in the air like a loaded threat. If the guy dares to push back, Izana’s eyes go sharp and lethal, all calm façade gone.
Haruchiyo Akashi
Sanzu hears the question and just starts laughing, a low, unsettling laugh that goes on too long.
Then, still smiling like he’s in on a private joke, he steps forward, “Why don’t you find out? Could be fun.”
It’s not just about fighting for Sanzu, it’s about messing with the guy’s head until he regrets speaking to you at all.
Taiju Shiba
Before the guy can even finish the question, Taiju’s shadow is already falling over him, “You wanna say that again?”
He doesn’t have to yell, the sheer weight of his voice and the way he towers over people does all the work.
The guy backs up? Good. Keeps talking? Taiju will gladly make it physical.
Ran Haitani
Ran grins like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all week, “Oh, that’s cute, I don’t fight. I win.”
His tone is lazy, but the way he casually leans closer is calculated, it’s intimidation dressed up in charm.
And if the guy doesn’t take the hint, Ran will happily escalate and prove his point.
Rindou Haitani
He doesn’t even bother answering right away, just stares at the guy, tilting his head slowly, letting the silence stretch until it’s uncomfortable, “…You really wanna find out?”
There’s no bravado, no raised voice, just that cold, matter-of-fact delivery that makes it clear he’s not bluffing.
Hajime Kokonoi
He scoffs and looks away like the question isn’t even worth answering, “Can I fight? …I don’t need to. But if I did, you wouldn’t be standing long enough to tell anyone about it.”
Koko’s more about control and intimidation than brawling, but if forced, he’ll fight dirty and finish it fast.
Seishu Inui
Inupi’s reaction is almost unnervingly calm, he meets the guy’s eyes and simply says, “Yeah. I can.”
No smirk, no raised voice, just a level tone that somehow makes it more intimidating because you know he means it.
And if the guy presses, Inupi won’t waste words, he’ll act.
MDNI - 18+ノWARNINGS :: izana x fem!reader, public sex/exhibitionism, fingering, degradation mixed with praise, brat taming/bratty behavior, possessiveness, overstimulation, dirty talk, and mild pain play (gripping/bruising), slight humiliation (being seen), jealousy, and voyeurism are also present. total wc :: 2.3k +
DAY TWENTY THREE - MOTORCYCLEノm.list ノkinktober m.list
"Ran," you whispered as your legs playfully dangled off the armrest of the single-seat couch. You allowed yourself to surrender to the moment. Your head flung back, resting on the opposite armrest, causing the world to appear upside down.
"Yeah," he replies before he digs into his jumper pocket, removing a chrome silver lighter from it. He lit the flame, which sprang out with a click sound when he opened the lighter, casting a warm glow on his face. He grasped deeply at the cigarette, lighting the ember at its edge so that it scorched his lips, glowing bright in the process. He tilts his head back, breathes out slowly once more, and then releases what must be a long stream of smoke sailing slowly away on the wind.
"I wanna try one," you say, eyeing the cigarette in his hand. He knocks the cigarette, and the embers fall to the floor.
"Uh, yeah, as if, Izana would kill me," he replies.
"What does she want now?" Izana interrupts, and he sounds a bit irritated, making you pout just a little as your arms fold over your chest.
"Nothing, babe," you reply with a cheeky smile, and he rolls his eyes in return. You mentally sigh to yourself, you bet if it were Rindou here, he would've let you try one. But you shouldn't be picking your favourites out loud, Izana wouldn't like that for sure. Oh well.
"Yeah, she's not having one," Izana replies knowingly before sitting down on the couch opposite you, running a hand through his hair. Your jaw drops as you sit up, your head going slightly tingly from the blood rushing back down to your body.
After a gasp, you say, "Why? You didn't even know what I was going to do."
"Because I said so and because you're predictable," he retorts with a mocking smile, and you spin around, sitting straight agasint the couch, one leg folded over the other.
"You're no fun," you hum.
"Well, you're no ray of sunshine either," he sneers, and your jaw drops further. Beside you, Ran is trying hard to stop smiling, running a hand over his mouth, pressing his lips tight together, how he wishes the members of the gang would hurry back to witness you to bickering. Izana and you rarely argue, but with you do, it's more playful bickering, with the members never seeing. They think you are the perfect, pretty couple.
Though it wasn't too long before Izana caught sight of Haitani forcing down his expression. Izana's jaw became tense and tight. You could tell he was frustrated, and you bet that it was because he knew that the others could be back any minute, and Ran was laughing at him. In reality, he wasn't laughing at Izana, but you. You caught Izana's expression, and dread instantly flooded you as you nibbled on your bottom lip. Note to self, keep the playful bickering to private affairs.
"Babe," Izana calls out as you look over to him, away from Ran. You see how his purple eyes have narrowed considerably, eyeing you now with something you didn't even want to know. There was not even a chance to mistake that his gaze was on you, you didn't even want to fuck with him and to look over your shoulder, pretending he was looking at someone else to piss him off.
"Yes," you say, your voice barely above a whisper as Izana moves to stand directly in front of you, almost touching your body while you trace the angles of his face as he glares down at you.
Your eyes drifted down, almost involuntarily, as you looked at him, and even from your vantage, you saw the fading red and purple marks on his skin that you had caused. There, peeping out from between the edges of the hem of his crew neck shirt, were the hickies. You could feel a blush creeping onto your cheeks at your great embarrassment and wanting all rolled into one feeling. Stunning.
"I'm going out for a bit," Izana announces, moving away from you suddenly, and you lean back in the seat at his sudden change in behaviour before you let out a sigh and realise he wanted you to come with him. Needy, you say in a slow tone in your head.
After rolling your eyes, you walk after him, and you tell yourself you're ready for anything he'll throw at you. You know he won't yell at you or anything, but you want to know what he wants. After a few hasty steps, you managed to walk in pace with Izana, walking out of the apartment building. It was easy to sense from him that he was thinking about something entirely than just going out somewhere quickly.
Taking a few steps in front of Izana, you don't hesitate to mount his bike. Not sitting on the saddle, not straddling it, but just sitting down on it, facing the Izana who was walking slowly towards you. A smile rises on your face as he changes his pace to move slower seeing your eagerness to tease you.
Your skirt was half over the seat, your thighs only slightly clinging to the leather with your thin black tights. "You're taking your sweet time," you say, annoyed, leaning back slightly.
"You can be patient," he sneers at your sudden burst of energy before finally standing before your figure. You couldn't help but admire his pale features, the features that belonged entirely to you. He manages to slot himself between your legs, close to your body, and you couldn't help but spread them slightly wider to allow him to inch even closer to you.
Inching down, Izana's face hovers near your neck, his warm breath grazing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. The sensation is intoxicating, causing your body to shiver at his proximity.
"You've been acting like a brat the last couple of days," he breathes agasint your skin, and you tilt your head back slightly, trying to envelop more of his touch. The sound of his voice deep agasint your skin sends a jolt of excitement through you. You love his voice.
His hands move possessively to grip the plush flesh of your hips, his strong hold keeping you to the motorcycle seat. Izana's touch sends a surge of desire through you, the sensation of his touch against yours is something you would never get bored with.
"You think?" you say, swallowing that growing lump in your throat.
"Mhmm," he mumbles, his warm breath tickling your skin as his mouth leaves a trail of hot, lingering kisses. Starting from just below your ear, his lips move with deliberate slowness, tracing a path down towards your collarbones. Each kiss ignites a fire within you, causing a breathy sigh to escape your lips.
As his kisses descend, your body responds instinctively, arching slightly towards him, seeking more of his touch. The contrast between his warm mouth and the coolness of the air sends shivers down your spine. You knew you were in public and anyone could see you, but you couldn't care less. It's dark, no one can see both of you, right? Right? No one would dare look out their window from their apartments, right?
"All needy," he remarks as his hands wander your body, skimming over your thighs, sending a shiver down your spine as you could feel how needy he was being as well, though he would never really show it. He traces a path under your skirt with his fingers, teasingly tugging at the thin material of your tights before tugging at the polyester.
A gasp slips from your mouth as his other hand, his fingers dig into your thigh, which leaves a painful ache that you crave more of, his harsh touches you can't seem to get enough of. You hear a faint snapping noise, and you let out a sigh when you realise what he's done.
"I just bought those, baby," you breathlessly say, your nails digging into the leather seat of the bike.
"I'll just buy you another pair," He replies, slightly panting as he lifts his head from your neck. You give a quick look down and see the marks of red and slight purple scattered across that side of your neck and chest.
Izana's lips, now exploring the other side of your neck, dip lower, and you let out a breathless moan at his increased pace. With each suction, he applies more force, and it leaves behind that painful ache. It was so intoxicating that you couldn't help but release your grip on the seat and instinctively clutch his jacket, pulling yourself closer to him.
As you pull him towards you, a low chuckle escapes his lips as he grips your thighs tighter. You feel his touch shift slightly, and you can feel his fingers graze your most sensitive area. You can feel how the tips of his fingers prod at your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. A whimper falls from your lips helplessly in response, a sound that betrays how much you are actually enjoying this, in public, on his motorcycle.
"You're a slut," Izana degrades agasint your ear, the words to nothing but make the heat in your lower abdomen grow.
"And whose fault is that?" you reply, grinding agasint the tips of his fingers. The combination of his lips on your neck and his fingers teasing your most intimate parts was making your mind go fuzzy with pleasure.
As your underwear is shifted to the side, you can feel the cool air brush agasint your exposed heat. In response, you wrap your arm around Izana's neck, pulling him close and entangle your hand in his white hair, tugging on the pearly strands. With a gentle tug, you elicit a deep groan from him, the vibrations from his neck thrumming against your collarbone.
Your other arm remains securely pressed against his chest, unwilling to let go. His fingers, now guided by his own hunger, venture further down, tracing a path along your slick slit. The touch is electrifying, causing you to tremble in his hold, your body responding to his every movement. A helpless whimper escapes your lips.
"Already so wet, such a needy slut," he remarks, his voice laced with a smug smirk against your skin. "We could get caught, you know... But I bet your slutty ass doesn't care one bit."
"You'll get caught to asshole," I manage to say breathily after a moan.
As Izana's fingers push past your slick folds, a surge of pleasure courses through you, leaving you breathless and desperate for more. With a deliberate curl of his fingers, he finds your seeping hole, drenched with arousal, and plunges into your drenched cunt.
The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and intensity that leaves you unable to contain your moans. You press your lips against his shoulder, muffling the sounds that escape from deep within you, as you chant his name desperately, wanting him to give you so much more. Each movement, each stroke, sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body.
As you surrender to the intoxicating rhythm of his touch, his fingers curling up tight agasint the special spongey spot right below your cervix, making you cry out into his shoulder. Pleas of needing to cum leave your mout,h but he doesn't care, using your tear stuck face to keep trying to push you over the edge, not even caring if anyone could hear you let alone see you.
Izana's fingers continue their relentless rhythm, pumping in and out of your seeping hole, the familiar coil of pleasure tightens inside your stomach. You wrap your shaky legs around him, trying to be closer as your body quivers.
"Izana, please," you beg needily, "Please, I need it."
In response to your plea, he groans against your neck, his hips rutting agasint your thigh, trying to feel some relief to the pleasure you cause him. He begins to stimulate your clit with the pad of his thumb, adding another layer of pleasure to the already intense sensations. The touch is electrifying, causing you to arch your back in response.
"Beg," Izana groans, "Beg for it."
"Please, Izana," you sob as you grind your hips agasint his fingers, feeling his hard cock in his slacks press agasint your thigh, overwhelming you with pleasure as your stomach tightens, clit throbbing terribly as you wish to cum. "I can't take it anymore. I.. I need you... Please.. I need you to give it to me.. I'll do- whatever you want me to- please, baby."
"There we go," he breaths out humoured after letting out a light laugh, "You're so pathetic like this. God, I love you."
Waves of ecstasy wash over you, leaving your legs trembling and weak from the intensity of the sensations. He slips his fingers from your hole, and you continue to tremble from the aftermath of the orgasm. You managed to release me from Izanas neck and move away from his hold. He dragged his tongue on the fingers that were drenched in your come, causing you to get embarrassed and pull yourself into his neck once more so he couldn't see the embarrassment on your face.
"You're feral," you hum agasint him, feigning disgust. "That's disgusting. Don't do that in front of me again."
"I've done a lot worse than-"
"Shut up," you retort, your embarrassment growing further.
"Whatever," he says, rolling his eyes. "Pull your skirt down so I can clean my bike. You're messy as fuck."
You gaze up to the apartment we were shortly staying at, and I see Ran sitting on the windowsill with crossed legs, taking puffs from his cigarette and looking down at both of you. The smirk was prominent on Ran's face. You know for sure he saw the whole thing. Fuck, you hope Izana doesn't find out about that.
Do not copy, steal, modify, use for ai, translate, etc.
Relogs and like are appreciated.
The 🍓anon is back with a new idea and of courseee I'm coming back to you to write it downnn if you can <3
Okaay sso maybe Izana- WELL NO, YK WHAT, TENJIKU HCS (if it's possible of course, if it's a lot then Izana, Kaku, Rindou Ran Shion??? I just love shion there's few content about him) with a good innocent reader, not necessarily innocent, but like, someone who doesn't get into trouble, would not hit anyone, sensitive, doesn't smoke or anything... you know where I'm getting to, right??? Well, that's my idea thxx!
Omg I love!!! Sorry this took long, but i hope you enjoy! Putting extra love into Shion's♡
*********************
Tenjiku members w/ innocent! Reader
*********************
Izana
○ I honestly think he wouldn't get it at first. Like, he doesn't understand why you're so off put by the way he sometimes hits the lower members or so casually threatens others. He's not around people like you a lot
○ it really sunk in the moment he accidentally made you cry after threatening you. It just slipped out, he didn't mean it. He does it to everyone!
○ after that tho, he did a full 180 on his behavior with you. He started being more careful with you, even treating those under him nicer when around you to keep you from getting uncomfortable. He might not be the best at showing it, but he cares. Last thing he wants is for you to hate him
Kakucho(my beloved)
○ Kakucho was definitely surprised by your innocent demeanor at first. But after a while, he swore to protect it
○ He keeps you away from everything involving the gang, especially those damn Haitani's. He's avoiding every known gang spot with you, steering you away from any dangerous face, and I someone even dares to make you cry...
○ He lets Izana meet you occasionally, but that's about it. Otherwise, he tries his hardest to keep you away from trouble. He knows you aren't weak, but if he has to see you uncomfortable or upset, it genuinely hurts him
Shion
○ I think he'd have fun with it at first. Trying to get you to smoke, pointing out small gang fights just to watch you tear up. It amuses him!
○ But if anyone else tries it, oh they're fucked! Oh that guy who tried to shove a cigarette past your lips? He isn't gonna bother you anymore. Why? Well he can't shove anything in your face with broken fingers♡
○ Despite his fucked up sense of humor, he's also such a sweetheart. He gets you all the cute stuff you like, giving even the smallest keychain to you with a face full of blush. Anything to see that smile
Ran
○ Just like Shion, he loves to mess with you, tho he's more cruel. He'd show off his bruised up hands after a fight and what's left on his baton, boasting about how good he did, all to mess with you
○ He won't ever take it too far tho. He likes to see you cry, but would never make you full on sob. That's just pure evil
○ He's learned his lesson with that when he took you to a large gang fight and you avoided him for days after. He had to apologize for days just to get you to text him. Never again
Rindou
○ Rindou isn't as cruel as his brother. He more so just smirks at your innocent demeanor and continues like normal. He doesn't care how scared or off-put you get when he talks about how he's broken other people's bones or how many fights he's gotten into
○ But he also doesn't deliberately bring you into fights or tries to get you into trouble. If it happens, it happens, and he'll protect you, but don't think he'll shelter you
○ He also definitely calls you a wimp and crybaby teasingly, laughing when you do as simple as pout at the thought of violence. What an asshole
-> You were tired, tired enough to step off a roof without looking back.
But Izana Kurokawa found you standing on his territory, and with one simple command, he claimed your life as his own.
Word Count: 5,241
P.S: Reader is suicidal, so be warned.
---
It doesn’t feel like the end of the world.
It just feels… quiet.
Wind tugs at the hem of your uniform, cold fingers slipping under your collar as you stand on the edge of the school roof. The city stretches beneath you in a blur of gray concrete, cars crawling like ants on the streets far below. People are going to work. Kids are walking home. Somewhere, someone’s laughing.
Up here, there’s only the hum of air and the faint ache in your legs from climbing the stairs.
You’re not crying. You thought you might, but your eyes are dry. Your chest doesn’t hurt. Your hands don’t shake.
You’re just tired.
Tired in a way that sleep doesn’t touch. Tired of waking up, of going through the same motions, of dragging a body that feels too heavy through days that don’t mean anything. There’s no big dramatic reason you can point to. No single moment that broke you. Just… the slow drip of everything, year after year, until the bucket inside you ran out.
You curl your toes inside your shoes, feeling the lip of the ledge under your soles.
If you step forward, it’ll be over. Not painful forever, not endless. Just one moment of fear, maybe, and then nothing.
Nothing sounds kind.
You exhale, air shaking just a little as it leaves you. The wind swallows the sound.
“Oi.”
The voice snaps through the stillness like a slap.
You go still, eyes widening just a fraction. For a second you think you imagined it. Then:
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
You turn your head lazily, like it doesn’t matter, like you’re halfway between decisions and this interruption is just another inconvenience.
He’s leaning against the doorway to the roof like he owns it.
White hair. Tan skin. The red and white Tenjiku uniform hanging open, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s not at a rival gang’s battlefield but in his own living room.
Izana Kurokawa.
He looks completely out of place on a school roof, and somehow also exactly right, like the world is the one that doesn’t belong wherever he is.
You blink at him. “...Standing,” you say, because it’s the most accurate answer.
Izana’s eyes drag from your face to your feet on the edge. His expression doesn’t shift much, but something sharpens.
“Don’t play dumb with me.” He straightens, pushing off the wall, slow uncoiling of a predator that’s realized something’s trespassed on its territory. “Get down.”
You look back at the sky.
“No.”
He scoffs. “What did you say?”
You shift your weight forward just a hair, feeling gravity tug a little harder.
“I said no.”
There’s a beat of silence. You hear his footsteps then, steady, unhurried, each one ringing softly against the concrete.
“I don’t think you understand where you’re standing,” he says, voice light but edged. “This is my territory. Tenjiku’s.” Another step. “You don’t get to die on my roof.”
Tenjiku’s territory.
Right. You’ve heard rumors. Gangs carving up sections of the city like pieces of meat, the names passed around school hallways like ghost stories. You never cared enough to look closer. It always sounded like some other world.
Funny that it’s this world that found you anyway.
You glance at him again. He’s closer now, eyes fixed on you, unreadable and intense.
“It’s just a roof,” you say softly. “Relax. I won’t leave a mess.”
His lips twitch, not in amusement, but annoyance.
“I’m not worried about the mess.”
You frown a little. “Then what-”
“Jump somewhere else,” Izana says, like he’s telling you to throw trash in the right bin. “This place is mine. I decide who bleeds here.”
There it is again. Mine. The word sits between you, heavy and possessive.
You stare at him for a long moment.
“You’re really annoying,” you decide.
His eyes narrow. He takes another step, close enough that the wind now blows his scent toward you, smoke and something metallic, like cold steel.
“Get down,” he repeats. “Last warning.”
You think about it.
You didn’t plan for an audience. Not even one as strange and sharp-edged as Izana Kurokawa. The idea of him watching you fall, watching your body hit the ground-
It feels wrong.
Embarrassing, even.
You don’t want your last moment to be someone else’s spectacle.
With a quiet sigh, you shift your foot back, then another, until your heels are safely on the solid concrete again. You step off the ledge.
The world doesn’t change. The wind still blows. Your heart is still heavy.
Izana exhales, just once, the faintest whisper of relief.
“Good girl,” he says, and the praise sounds nothing like kindness. More like satisfaction. “You listen well.”
You shrug. “I didn’t do it for you.”
He smiles, slow and cold, like he knows something you don’t.
“Doesn’t matter why.” His gaze drags over you, assessing, cataloguing. “What matters is you listened.”
He stops just in front of you, so close you have to tilt your head to keep your eyes on his. His shadow cuts across your shoes.
“You’re mine now,” Izana says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. “If you’re tired of living so much you’re willing to throw it away, then I’ll take it.”
You blink. “...What?”
He lifts a hand. For a second, you think he’s going to shove you, test you, see if you’ll flinch. Instead, his fingers wrap around your wrist, cool and firm.
“You heard me.” His thumb presses against your pulse point, like he’s making sure it’s there. “From now on, this life isn’t yours to waste. It belongs to me.”
You should tell him he’s insane. Call him a narcissist, a gang freak, something.
You’re too tired.
“...Okay,” you say instead.
Because what does it matter. Yours, his, nobody’s, your life doesn’t feel like it belongs to you anyway. If giving it to him makes him go away, you can deal with that.
Izana’s eyes flash with something that looks dangerously close to delight.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then don’t forget it.”
He tugs your wrist gently, turning towards the door.
“Come on. If you’re mine, you don’t get to wander around on the edge of roofs alone.”
You let him pull you.
The wind closes over the empty space where you were standing.
---
Being Izana Kurokawa’s “property” is nothing like you expected.
At first, you think it’s going to be loud and violent and messy. That you’ll be shoved into the middle of gang fights or used as bait or thrown aside when you’re inconvenient.
You’re used to being an afterthought. A shadow. An extra.
Instead, Izana drags you into the center of Tenjiku’s world and refuses to let anyone so much as look at you wrong.
Word spreads fast: the quiet girl that follows their leader around like a ghost? Untouchable.
He doesn’t explain you to anyone.
You stand at his shoulder during meetings in abandoned buildings, your back against cold, cracked concrete, listening to his voice slice through the air like a blade. The others speak in sharp bursts, full of pride and anger and loyalty. Their hearts are on fire.
You feel nothing.
Sometimes Kakucho looks at you like he’s not sure why you’re there. Sometimes the Haitani brothers sneer behind your back, until Izana’s gaze slides lazy and lethal in their direction and they snap their mouths shut.
You don’t talk much.
You don’t really know what to say.
Izana never complains about your silence. He fills it with his own voice, stories about his plans, his hatred, his dreams of tearing down the world that hurt him and building a new one in its place. He talks about power like it’s the only thing that matters, like it’s air and water and blood.
You listen because listening is easy. Listening doesn’t require wanting.
One afternoon, you’re walking down a back street beside him, Tenjiku’s coat draped over your shoulders because he’d shoved it there without explanation.
His hands are in his pockets, steps lazy, like he’s strolling through a garden instead of enemy territory.
“You didn’t even hesitate,” he says suddenly.
You look up. “What?”
“On the roof.” His eyes stay on the road ahead, expression unreadable. “You were just going to step off.”
“Oh.” You think about it. There’s no surge of shame or fear when you picture it, just that same quiet. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
You give him the honest answer, because you’re too tired to make up a prettier one.
“I’m tired,” you say. “Everything hurts, but not in a way you can point at. I wake up and nothing feels… real. I go to school, I come home, I sleep. I could disappear and nothing would change.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“So you’d rather die than be bored,” he says lightly.
Your mouth twists. “It’s not boredom.”
You search for the right words, fumbling in the dark.
“It’s like…” You trail off. “You know when you keep carrying something that’s too heavy, and you’re not even sure why anymore? You don’t remember where you were going, you just know you’re tired. And nobody’s going to take it from you. And dropping it feels selfish.” You laugh, a small, humorless sound. “Jumping felt like just… putting it down.”
Izana finally looks at you.
There’s something ugly in his eyes, something that looks like recognition and fury knotted together.
“Who told you your life was a burden?” he asks quietly.
You shrug. “No one. It just feels like one.”
His jaw tightens.
“You’re wrong,” he says. “A life isn’t a burden. A useless life is.”
You nod. That makes sense. You’ve always suspected you’re useless.
“Then mine’s useless,” you say mildly.
He stops walking.
You take another step before you realize he’s no longer beside you. When you turn back, he’s watching you like you’ve said something deeply offensive.
“Not anymore,” he says.
You blink. “What changed?”
His lips curl in a thin, sharp smile.
“I did,” Izana says simply. “You belong to me now. Which means if your life is useless, that reflects on me. And I don’t allow useless things at my side.”
You thought maybe he’d say something soft. Something about you having value or potential.
Instead, he makes it about himself.
Strangely, it feels more believable that way.
“So what,” you ask. “I have to live just to make you look better?”
“Yes.” He turns away again, continuing down the road. “Live for that, if nothing else. Live because I told you to. Because I’m the only one who saw you step off the edge and decided you weren’t allowed to.”
You stare at his back.
Live for me.
The words aren’t tender. They’re a command.
You can obey commands.
“...Okay,” you say to no one, too quiet for him to hear.
Your feet move to catch up to him.
---
Days blur.
You trail behind him through alleyways and into half-abandoned complexes where Tenjiku boys lounge and shout and scrape their knuckles bloody. You patch Izana up sometimes, your hands steady and detached as you dab alcohol over split skin. He hisses, but he doesn’t move away.
“Does it bother you?” he asks once, watching you from under half-lowered lashes. “The blood.”
You look at the crimson on your fingers, bright against your skin.
“No,” you say honestly. “It’s proof something’s still alive.”
He laughs, sudden and sharp.
“You’re darker than you look,” he says.
You don’t feel dark. You feel gray.
The first time someone tries to shove you, one of the boys muttering about dead weight and “why’s she even here,” Izana is faster than you even process the movement.
His hand is around the guy’s throat, slamming him back into the wall.
“She’s here because I told her to be,” Izana says softly, voice low and lethal. “That’s all you need to know.”
The boy chokes, nodding frantically. Izana lets him go with a flick of his wrist, turning away like it’s nothing.
His gaze flicks to you.
“You tell me if anyone touches you again,” he says.
“Why?” you ask. “I don’t care.”
“I do,” he snaps.
You stare at him. The intensity in his eyes doesn’t waver.
“...Okay,” you murmur.
Later, when you’re walking home with him because somehow that’s just what happens now, a car runs a red light at the intersection up ahead.
You step forward automatically, not really noticing, your brain in that hazy fog you live in more often than not.
Tires squeal.
Someone grabs you.
You’re yanked backward, a hand crushing around your arm, hard enough to bruise.
The car shoots past, close enough that you feel the rush of wind against your face. The driver curses out the window and keeps going.
You blink.
Izana’s arm is around you, pulling you flush against his chest. His heart beats a little fast against your cheek.
He’s breathing harder than you are.
“Idiot,” he breathes, voice shaking very faintly. “What are you doing?”
You look at the street. At where you could’ve been.
“Oh.” You tilt your head. “I didn’t see it.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then his grip tightens.
“Stop doing that,” he says.
“Doing what?”
“Walking like you don’t care if you live or die.”
You consider that.
“But I don’t.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning.
“Well, I care,” Izana says. “Your life is mine. Act like it.”
You’ve never heard anyone say they care about you and make it sound like a threat.
Something small and strange stirs in your chest.
You swallow.
“Okay,” you say.
His fingers loosen around your arm, sliding down until his hand settles around your wrist instead, thumb back at your pulse point, like he’s checking you’re still there.
He doesn’t let go the rest of the way home.
---
The sky is bruised purple the day Emma Sano walks down that street.
You’re on a quiet overpass, the concrete stained and cracked, the air tasting of exhaust and impending rain. Tenjiku lurks in the shadows, Kakucho nearby, a few others at a distance, watching.
Izana stands at the railing, the city stretching out beneath him, the wind playing with the ends of his coat.
You stand beside him because that’s where you always are now.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m always quiet.”
“More quiet,” he corrects.
You rest your arms on the rail, looking down without really seeing.
“Just tired,” you say.
He hums. “Still thinking about dying?”
You consider lying. Decide you can’t be bothered.
“Sometimes,” you admit. “It creeps in. When it’s too quiet. When it’s too loud.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while.
“Don’t,” Izana says finally. “You’re not done yet.”
You frown. “You say that like I’m a project.”
“You are,” he says simply. “I pulled you off that roof. I’m not letting you fall off some other edge without my say-so.”
You still don’t know if that’s love or narcissism.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
A motorcycle’s engine rumbles in the distance, drawing your gaze.
You see her then, Emma. Blonde hair, school uniform, walking with someone. Smiling, oblivious.
Izana’s body changes subtly. His shoulders square. His eyes sharpen.
You don’t know her. You don’t know what she means to him, to Mikey, to this whole knot of grudges and blood that you’ve only seen from the outside.
You just know Izana’s heart beats erratic when he stares at her. You can’t tell if it’s hate or something more complicated.
He steps forward, lips curving in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Time narrows.
The motorcycle moves.
You realize. Slowly, then all at once.
She’s in its path.
“Izana,” you say.
He doesn’t look at you. “Stay back.”
The bike barrels forward, too fast. The rider’s body shifts, aim deliberate.
Emma turns her head at the last second, eyes wide as she sees the blur of metal and rubber rushing toward her.
She’s going to die.
Something clicks loud in your head.
Not the empty, resigned acceptance of your own end.
Something else.
You see her body hitting the ground. You see the blood. You see Izana’s face afterward, the illusion of control shattering, the self-made god realizing he’s lost something he couldn’t get back.
You don’t think.
Your body moves.
You run.
Your feet pound the concrete, the world a smear of color and sound.
Emma’s shoulder is under your hands, and you shove her as hard as you can.
“Move!”
She stumbles, trips, falls out of the bike’s path.
You don’t.
The impact isn’t cinematic.
It’s blunt and sudden and terrible.
You feel it in your legs first, a sledgehammer of force that rips your feet away from the ground. You’re weightless for a heartbeat, your brain refusing to process the jagged shock of pain. The sky flips.
Then the world slams into your back, the air punched out of your lungs.
You hear shouting. Tires screeching. Something metallic clattering away.
Your ears ring.
The sky above you is the color of a fading bruise. A small, stubborn star is visible, even though it’s too early for stars.
Funny.
You didn’t think there’d be anything here at the end.
Cold seeps into your limbs. Your fingers don’t want to move.
Oh, you think distantly. This is it.
The feeling is nothing like standing on that roof.
This isn’t quiet resignation. This is your body screaming, cells burning, nerves crackling with a kind of terror your mind can barely keep up with.
I don’t want to die.
The thought detonates in your chest, huge and panicked and raw.
You weren’t prepared for this.
For the air sawing harsh in your throat as your lungs try to remember how to work. For the way your heart claws at your ribs, desperate and wild. For the tears blurring your vision without your permission.
You were supposed to go gently. Calmly. A small step and then nothing.
This is not that.
Footsteps slam against the concrete, fast and frantic.
“Y/N!”
That’s Emma, voice high and terrified.
But the one that makes your heart lurch is the one that follows, low and shaking and furious.
“Move.”
Izana’s silhouette cuts into your field of vision, blocking the star.
His face.
You’ve never seen it like this.
The calm is gone. The smug arrogance, the carefully composed sadism, burned away. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, mouth pressed in a thin, shaking line.
His hands hover over you for a second before they land, one on your cheek, fingers cold and rough, the other pressing against your side where you’re starting to feel a warm, spreading wetness.
Blood. Huh.
“Why,” he says, and his voice is a sound you’ve never heard from him before, hoarse and strangled. “Why would you do that?”
You try to answer. The words get stuck behind the copper tang in your mouth.
“I-” You cough, pain flaring up your ribs. “Didn’t… want…”
Didn’t want what?
Didn’t want Emma to die? Didn’t want to see his face break? Didn’t want to watch him sink deeper into whatever darkness he’s been wading in alone?
The thought that crystallizes is simple and selfish and horrifyingly clear:
I don’t want to die like this.
Not here. Not now. Not when, for the first time, someone might actually miss you.
A stupid, desperate question pushes its way past your lips, smaller than everything you’re feeling.
“Izana,” you whisper. “Would… you… cry?”
His grip tightens on your face.
“Don’t,” he snaps, voice cracking on the word. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
His thumb smears something wet across your cheek. You don’t know if it’s your blood or his tears.
The world tilts. Emma is still sobbing somewhere to the side. Someone is yelling about an ambulance. The motorcycle’s engine has gone quiet.
You stare up at Izana.
He looks furious. He looks scared. He looks nothing like the boy who leaned in a doorway and told you this rooftop was his.
“I told you your life was mine,” he says, each word bitten off like it hurts. “Who said you could throw it away for someone else?”
Your lips tug in what might be a smile, if it didn’t hurt so much.
“Didn’t… wanna… regret…” you manage.
His brows furrow. “What?”
“If… she died.” The words are a struggle, but you force them out. “You’d… regret it. Forever.”
You swallow, throat burning.
“I thought… if I took it instead…” Your voice breaks. “Maybe… you wouldn’t hate yourself.”
There’s a moment where his expression goes blank. Like your words punched through something he’s been holding together with rage alone.
Then it cracks.
“You really…” Izana swallows hard, breath shuddering. “You really think I want you to die for me?”
You blink slowly. “Isn’t that… what you said? On the roof.”
Something like guilt flickers across his face, quick, ugly, real.
The hand on your cheek trembles.
“You idiot,” he whispers, and there’s no venom in it. Only fear. “I dragged you back from the edge because I was curious. Because you were… interesting.” His mouth twists. “Now you’re-”
He cuts himself off, breathing ragged.
“Call an ambulance!” he roars suddenly, turning his head. “Now! If you don’t, I’ll kill you before they get here!”
Someone scrambles. Phones ring. Distant sirens begin to wail, far away.
He looks back down at you.
“Don’t close your eyes,” he orders. “Look at me.”
You try. The world keeps slipping out of focus around the edges.
“Izana,” you whisper. “I’m… scared.”
The admission shocks you as much as it seems to shock him.
You haven’t felt anything this sharply in months. Not like this. Not this primal, ugly, clinging fear of the end.
His face softens, not much, but enough that you see it.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” he says quietly. “You’re not allowed to give up.”
You want to say you haven’t killed yourself yet, so technically you’ve been following that order really well.
The joke dies on your tongue.
Sirens get louder.
Your vision tunnels. Izana’s eyes are the only thing still in focus burning, furious, terrified.
“Stay with me,” he says. “You hear me? If you die now, I’ll-”
His voice breaks.
“I’ll never forgive you,” he finishes, voice small and raw.
You don’t want that.
You don’t want his hate. You don’t want his regret. You don’t want the last thing you see to be his face twisted in that kind of pain.
Not like this. Not anymore.
You drag in a breath that feels like inhaling fire.
“...Okay,” you whisper.
Then everything goes dark.
---
White.
The world is white when you claw your way back to it.
The ceiling is blank and bright above you, fluorescent lights humming. The air smells like antiseptic and something metallic.
For a second, you panic.
Hospitals mean something went wrong. Hospitals mean you survived the part where you were supposed to disappear.
You flex your fingers. They respond, sluggish but obedient. There’s tape pulling at the back of your hand where an IV slides into your skin. Your head aches, a deep, throbbing pain wrapped in bandages.
“Oh,” you croak, voice dry. “I’m… not dead.”
A soft, derisive snort comes from your left.
“Try harder next time,” Izana says.
You lurch your head toward the sound, pain flaring, and there he is.
Sitting in an uncomfortable hospital chair, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded together loosely. His coat is draped over the back of the chair. There’s a smear of dried blood on one sleeve, probably yours. His hair is a little messy, like he’s run his hands through it too many times.
His eyes are on you.
They’re tired.
“Izana,” you whisper.
He leans back slowly, like his muscles are stiff from staying in that position for too long.
“Finally,” he mutters. “Thought you were going to sleep forever just to spite me.”
Your throat aches when you try to laugh.
“How… long?”
“Two days,” he says. “Surgeries. Blood transfusions. Doctors yelling at me to leave the room.” A faint, humorless smile tugs at his mouth. “I didn’t.”
You picture him in this too-bright room, surrounded by machines and strangers, clinging to the only thing that’s ever truly been his: control.
“Emma?” you ask.
“Fine.” His gaze flicks away briefly. “She walked away with a few bruises and a breakdown. She tried to come see you. I told her no.”
You blink. “Why?”
“You’re mine.” The words are automatic. Then, after a beat, softer: “And you were… in no state for visitors.”
He looks at you again.
His eyes are rimmed in red.
“...Did you cry?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
He goes completely still.
You hold your breath.
Izana’s lips curl.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he says. “I was just… irritated.”
You raise an eyebrow. The motion pulls at something in your side. “Irritated?”
“You scared me.” The confession slips out before he can choke it back.
He looks almost offended at his own honesty.
You stare at each other.
“You know,” you say slowly, “on the ground… when I was bleeding. I realized something.”
“If you say ‘that life is precious,’ I’m leaving,” he says flatly.
You roll your eyes. “No.”
You pick at the edge of the blanket with your fingers, grounding yourself in the feeling.
“I realized,” you say, “I don’t actually want to die.”
The words hover between you, bigger than the sterile room, bigger than the machines, bigger than the whole city outside.
It feels like admitting you’ve been lying. Not to anyone else, to yourself.
Izana’s expression doesn’t change much. But his hand moves, almost without him seeming to notice, reaching out to the edge of the bed, fingers curling around the metal frame.
“Is that so,” he says quietly.
You nod, throat tight.
“It’s not that everything doesn’t hurt,” you say. “It does. It still does. I still feel empty most of the time. Still feel like there’s nothing good waiting for me.” You swallow. “But when I thought I was going to die, I was… scared. And not just because it hurt. Because it was sudden. Because I couldn’t choose it. Because I’d never-” you hesitate, searching for the right word, “-done anything yet.”
He studies you.
“And because of me,” he says, like he already knows.
You take a breath.
“Yes,” you whisper.
His fingers tighten on the bed frame.
You fix your gaze on the ceiling.
“I wondered if you’d cry,” you admit. “If I died. If you’d regret ever meeting me. If I’d just be another mistake on your list.”
There’s a long silence.
Izana shifts. The chair creaks. Then his hand is on yours, cool fingers curling around your wrist, sliding down until his palm cups yours, thumb stroking across your knuckles.
You stare at your joined hands, stupidly startled.
“I would’ve regretted it,” he says finally. “Not pulling you off that roof sooner. Not giving you a reason to stay that was…” He grimaces. “Clearer.”
Your chest tightens.
“You told me to live for you,” you say.
“I did.” His mouth twists. “I thought it would be funny. Dramatic. I didn’t think you’d take it so literally.”
“I didn’t think I’d want to,” you murmur.
His thumb presses against the back of your hand, firm and reassuring.
“Do you,” he asks, voice carefully casual, “still want to?”
You look at him.
At the boy who stood between you and the wind and told you your life didn’t belong to you anymore. At the gang leader who keeps his own heart locked behind walls of violence and arrogance and cruel smiles. At the person who sat beside your hospital bed for two days straight because losing you would’ve broken something he doesn’t have words for.
“Yes,” you say.
It’s not a vow. It’s not a cure. It’s just a truth.
“I don’t… know how to live for myself,” you admit. “I don’t know how to want things. Or dream. Or believe any of this will be worth it.” You squeeze his hand weakly. “But I know I don’t want you to regret saving me. I know I don’t want you to look at where I used to stand and see a ghost.”
He inhales slowly.
“You won’t,” Izana says.
He shifts closer, the chair scraping as he drags it toward the bed. He leans in, forearms resting on the edge, your joined hands trapped between.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
His eyes are very dark this close.
“You said you don’t know how to live for yourself,” he says. “Fine. I’ll teach you later. When I figure out how the hell to do it myself.” A small, humorless smile flickers across his face. “Until then…”
He squeezes your hand.
“Live for me,” he says again, but this time the words are softer, stripped of bravado. “Live because I pulled you back once and I’m not doing it again. Live because I’m selfish and I want you here. Live because if you die now, all this-” he gestures vaguely at the machines, the bandages, his own exhausted body, “-will be for nothing, and I hate wasting effort.”
Your eyes sting.
You laugh, wet and shaky.
“You’re really bad at being comforting,” you say.
“I’m not trying to be comforting,” he lies.
You smile anyway.
“Okay,” you say.
The agreement lands in your bones like a weight and a promise.
Okay.
Live for him.
Not because it’s healthy. Not because it’s what a therapist would recommend. Not because it’s the perfect solution to the gnawing emptiness inside you.
Just because it’s something.
Because when the car hit you, the face that flashed through your mind wasn’t your family’s, or your classmates’, or anyone else’s.
It was his.
Izana exhales, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders.
“Good,” he mutters. “You’re finally learning.”
He lifts your joined hands, just enough to press his lips against your knuckles.
The touch is brief and clumsy and not romantic at all.
It feels more like a brand.
You stare at him, heart stumbling over itself.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” he says quietly, eyes lowered. “If you’re going to die, it’ll be because I failed. Not because you decided to give up without telling me.”
You nod slowly. “I’ll… try.”
“Try harder,” he says.
You close your eyes for a moment, letting the steady beep of the heart monitor prove you’re still here.
The emptiness is still there, like a dull ache. But underneath it, for the first time in forever, there’s a small, fragile thread of something else.
Fear. Hope. Attachment. You can’t tell which.
You open your eyes again.
Izana is still there, fingers wrapped around yours like he’ll break them before he lets you slip away.
“Hey,” you murmur.
“What.”
“Thank you,” you say. “For getting mad. For… caring.”
He scoffs, looking away.
“Don’t make it weird,” he says gruffly. “I’m just protecting what’s mine.”
You smile, the expression soft and tired and real.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”
As the machines hum and the world outside the hospital keeps spinning, you lie in that too-bright bed and feel the weight of his hand in yours, the warmth of his skin, the stubborn, possessive presence at your side.
You’re still tired.
Life still feels heavy.
But for the first time, the idea of carrying it a little longer doesn’t seem so impossible.
Warnings: A little toxic, all characters in this work are portrayed as 18 or older.
Mikey
7/10
Totally petty, he'll get upset if you pay attention to someone else and depending on the timeline he'll act differently depending on the potential threat. But in all of them he's partially jealous, he could be a lot more, but he's always very busy with his own business; so, for that reason he doesn't give many jealous scenes.
Kazutora
10/10
He's not even funny. He's usually always on the defensive, so you can see bad intentions everywhere. So, it'll be hard to deal with his jealousy and accusations that you'll leave him. It can get tiring, but he makes up for it by being charming for most of the relationship. So, he's not that bad.
Baji
4/10
He'll only get jealous if he witnesses an interaction that clearly has ulterior motives. Only in that scenario will you be able to see him being insecure and jealous. But it's the only time, because he has a lot of trust in the people he chose to be with, so he doesn't distrust them often. Pretty calm, in general.
Sanzu
6/10
Too mindful of his own business. He consciously chooses to trust you, so if you don't give him reasons, he'll give you some freedom. But he's very cunning, and always on the lookout for the slightest stimulus, so if he sees something strange, his toxic side will come out. And that won't be nice at all. Not for you or the other person.
Izana
10/10
If he chose you, it means that you are totally valuable in his eyes. He will realize that others will see the same thing he saw, so he expects you to be with him at all times to avoid getting too controlling (although he gets that way anyway). He'll only put up with it if you're close with Kakucho, but up to a certain limit.
Ran Haitani
2/10
He's very observant, he'll quickly know if he needs to feel threatened. So if he sees that you're crazy about him, he won't be worried and he won't feel jealous at all. In fact, it can be annoying to a certain extent, as nothing seems to make him feel jealous. If I'm honest, you're probably the jealous one in the relationship and not him.
Rindou Haitani
4/10
He might only feel a little jealous of your interactions with his brother. With the rest, no, he just can't feel threatened by them, as he considers himself better. Also, he's very sincere, he doesn't waste time with scenes, if you spend a lot of time with someone, he'll ask you directly and expect total sincerity. If you reassure him, everything will be fine.
Kisaki
7/10
He's jealous, but he doesn't waste time confronting you. He sees someone strange in your life, gets rid of them, and is smart enough to evade your questions. He's silent and unfazed, so you'll never know that he's actually jealous. It's a bit annoying too, as he will always hide his feelings and you'll never know that he goes crazy when he sees you with someone else.
Hanma
4/10
He feels too good about himself. Plus, you'll always be by his side, as he always has something fun to do with his time. He'll always keep you entertained and in love with him with his crazy antics. So, he himself will realize that you have no time or energy for someone else. Both win.
The ones who would never get over her (dangerously attached):
Sanzu
Obsession that doesn’t fade He wouldn’t move on. At all. She would stay in his head constantly He would compare everyone to her. He wouldn’t accept that she’s “gone” (emotionally or physically). If she left, he wouldn’t process it normally, he’d spiral.
His attachment control + obsession + refusal to let go
This is the type that lingers for years.
Izana
Attachment mixed with identity issues. He wouldn’t just miss her, he’d feel like something was taken from him. She becomes tied to his sense of self. Losing her feels like losing meaning. He might try to replace her and fail every time. He could turn that pain into anger or emptiness.
His attachment possession + emotional dependency + inner void
The ones who would be deeply attached (but in different ways):
Mikey
Silent dependence. He might look like he moved on, but he didn’t. He keeps thinking about her in quiet moments. No one else feels the same. He becomes colder after losing her. He won’t chase, but he won’t forget either.
His attachment emotional reliance he doesn’t admit
Kazutora
Painful, lasting attachment. He would never fully let her go. She becomes “the one good thing” in his mind. He might blame himself for losing her. He carries that feeling for years. Even if he loves again, it won’t feel the same.
His attachment guilt + longing + emotional imprint
The ones who would struggle but eventually let go:
Chifuyu
He would be heartbroken. Think about her a lot. Compare others to her at first, but over time, he’d heal.
His attachment real love, but not consuming.
Mitsuya
He would miss her deeply. Reflect on what they had. Accept it with time. He’d carry her as a memory, not a wound.
His attachment ismature, grounded love.
The ones who would be affected, but adapt:
Kokonoi
He’d think about her occasionally. Mostly about what made her different. Eventually rationalize it and move on.
His attachment is curiosity + lingering respect
Inui
He’d miss her presence. Feel the absence in quiet moments but accept it without breaking.
His attachment calm, steady, but not consuming
Rindou Haitani
He’d remember her as “interesting” maybe even regret not going further, but he wouldn’t dwell too deeply.
Izana, who stops asking if you're coming over and just asks what time you'll be there.
Izana, who keeps his guitar close by and tuned even when he hasn't played in a while because you like hearing him.
Izana, who pauses whatever he's doing to feed his betta fish at the same time every day. You tease him for being soft. He denies it without looking away from the tank.
Izana, who shifts a little closer on the couch until your shoulders are touching. If you don't move away, that's answer enough for him.
Izana, who notices your hand is cold and reaches for it without thinking. By the time he realizes what he did, your fingers are already intertwined.
Izana, who acts like your hoodie just mysteriously ended up in his apartment. It definitely wasn't because he likes having something that smells like you.
Izana, who doesn't ask if you're staying the night. He puts your favorite mug beside the kettle for when he makes morning tea.
Izana, who wakes up before you do and spends a few quiet minutes watching you sleep. Not out of suspicion or restlessness, but because every morning there's a tiny part of him that still expects the dream to end.
❆Pairing: Bf!Izana x Gf!Y/N
❆Warnings: smut, rough sex, choking (on izana's part), power struggle, not very experienced y/n, cowgirl, oral (male-receiving), safe sex,
❆Genre: Smut
❆Requests: open
❆Word count: 7631
Minors don't interact
a/n: this fic was highkey ass and im running out of old fics to post and i cant write new ones cause im stuck in a writer's block so pretty please *bats eyelashes uwu* can yall start requesting so that i can start writing again<33 anyways hope yall enjoy this!!!
ao3 version
"Let's get out of this place, 'Cause you're starting to waste within this teenage wasteland."
↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
"You came." The words slipped out before she could stop them, breathless and raw. Her sneakers skidded against the pavement as she crossed the distance between them in three strides, arms locking around his waist like she could fuse them together through sheer force.
Izana stiffened, his cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers. The burned-out streetlamp overhead flickered, casting jagged shadows across the sharp lines of his face. "Uh—yeah. Why wouldn’t I?" His voice hitched somewhere between irritation and something softer, his free hand hovering awkwardly before patting her shoulder twice. Like he was swatting a fly.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, pressing tighter against him. His jacket smelled like smoke and gasoline, with something metallic underneath—probably the switchblade he never went anywhere without. Her fingers dug into the fabric. "Because you always do," she muttered, quieter now. "Like last week when you stood me up at the arcade. And the time before that, when you—"
Izana clicked his tongue and jerked his chin toward the alley’s dark mouth, where a rusted chain-link fence rattled in the wind. "I told you, I was busy. You know how it is." He took a long drag, the cherry flaring bright enough to illuminate the scar cutting through his eyebrow. A pause, then he flicked the cigarette into the snow, where it hissed and died in a wet, gray smear. "But I’m here now, aren’t I?"
Y/N’s fingers twitched toward his face before she caught herself. "Shit, Zana—that’s a nasty scar," she breathed, her voice cracking halfway through. The wound was fresh, still pink and puckered, trailing down his temple like a jagged lightning bolt. She could smell the faint tang of antiseptic under the smoke, bitter and medicinal.
Izana tilted his head away, his sneakers scuffing against the cracked concrete as he started walking. "Eh. It’s nothing." He shrugged, too casual, too practiced, but his jaw clenched when her fingertips grazed his sleeve. The alley swallowed them whole, shadows licking at their ankles like hungry strays.
Y/N ducked in front of him, forcing him to stop. "So how come you’re so busy?" Her voice was sharp, but her fingers curled loose around his wrist, thumb pressing against the raised veins. "Too good for me?" She said it like a joke, but something bitter lined the edges. The wind snatched her breath away, turning it into a ghost between them.
Izana’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, more like he’d bitten into something sour. "Ain’t that the question," he muttered, low enough she had to lean in. His breath smelled like tobacco and winter, warm against her cheek. Then, softer, almost lost in the howl of the wind: "Y/N." Just her name, rough and worn smooth at the edges, like he’d been turning it over in his mouth all night.
She huffed, rolling her eyes. "Izana," she mocked back, pitching her voice lower, rougher, until it was a near-perfect imitation of his.
He just sighed and grabbed her hand, fingers rough and warm against hers, hoping the contact was enough to satisfy her. The pads of his fingers were calloused, jagged edges scraping against her skin—like he’d been clenching his fists too tight for too long. Y/N’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she curled her fingers tighter around his.
The bench was cold beneath them, flecked with peeling paint and the faintest dusting of snow. Izana slumped down, stretching his legs out in front of him, boots scuffing against the pavement. He tilted his head back, staring at the flickering streetlamp like it held some answer he couldn’t find. Y/N sat beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together, the heat between them sharp against the biting wind.
"I…I’m sorry I stood you up." The words came out rough, like he’d dragged them over gravel. He swallowed hard, jaw working before he forced out the rest. "I’ve been busy with the gang…and all." A muscle in his cheek jumped. "Still, I should make more time for you." It sounded like an admission, something pried loose from deep inside—ugly and raw.
Y/N’s breath caught. The hope flared hot and sudden, curling in her chest like smoke. She turned her face toward his, searching the sharp angles of his profile—the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones in the flickering light. His fingers tightened around hers, almost painful.
Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, finally turning to look at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his thumb traced a slow circle over her knuckles—the barest admission. "And I guess I’m serious about you," he muttered, voice rough as gravel. The words hung between them, almost drowned out by the distant wail of a police siren.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Y/N’s pulse stuttered. She leaned in, close enough to count the faint scars along his jawline, close enough to taste the nicotine on his breath. "Serious enough to leave?" she whispered. The question hovered, fragile as the ice crystals forming on the bench beneath them.
Izana frowned. Leave? He looked around—at the graffiti-streaked walls, the busted streetlight flickering like a dying heartbeat, the empty lot where he gave her her first cigarette after she begged him for one. Leave where? His grip on her hand went slack for a second, fingers twitching like he was already reaching for something she couldn’t see. "The fuck you mean?" he rasped, but there was no heat in it—just the jagged edge of something unraveling.
Y/N swallowed hard and leaned closer, until their foreheads nearly touched. The wind howled through the alley, tearing at their clothes, but she barely felt it. "You know what I mean," she said, softer now, pressing her thumb into the pulse point of his wrist—fast, too fast. "Not you alone. I mean—" Her breath hitched, and she squeezed his hand tighter. "Leave with me."
Izana blinked, slow, like he was processing her words through syrup. His exhale curled between them, white and fleeting. "Like marry you?" he asked, voice flat, but his fingers flexed against hers like he was testing the shape of the words in his mouth.
"No, not marry me." Y/N scoffed, but her ears burned. She flicked her thumb against his pulse point again—too quick, too alive. "Just… sounds fucking stupid but—" She swallowed, her throat clicking. "You know, run away with me?" The words tumbled out half-formed, raw as a fresh scrape.
Izana stared at her—dead-eyed, unreadable—before his lips twitched. Then he started laughing, shoulders shaking with it, sharp and sudden like a misfiring engine. He shook his head, the motion rough enough to dislodge snow from his hair. "Oh, the look on your face, y/n…" He exhaled, still grinning, reaching into his jacket for another cigarette. "It’s adorable, really." The lighter clicked, flame carving shadows into the hollows of his cheeks.
Y/N recoiled like she'd been slapped. "See? I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously!" She shoved at his shoulder—hard—but he barely budged, still chuckling as he exhaled smoke through his nose. Her chest burned, raw and hollow, nails biting crescents into her palms. "Fuck you," she spat, voice cracking. "You think this is funny?"
Izana's grin faltered. He watched her through the haze, cigarette dangling between his fingers, the amusement draining from his face as she stood abruptly, snow crunching under her boots. "Look," he murmured, catching her wrist before she could storm off, thumb pressing into the frantic flutter of her pulse. "I don’t know why you’re getting all worked up." His voice was softer now, rough at the edges like worn leather, and his grip wasn’t tight—just enough to keep her there.
"Because I hate this stupid fucking place!" Y/N wrenched her arm free, voice cracking against the brick walls. "Bunch of fucking assholes!" She kicked at a crumpled soda can, sending it skittering across the ice with a metallic clatter. Her breath came in sharp bursts, fogging the air between them. "You don’t get it—every goddamn day, it’s the same shit. The gang, your stupid turf wars, lying to my face about where you’ve been—"
Izana blinked, slow, deliberate, like he was deciphering code. "Wait," he interrupted, voice low and rough. "So this is about me?" His cigarette hovered forgotten between his fingers, ash crumbling onto his boot.
Y/N's breath hitched—sharp, wet—before she spun away, pressing the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. "Fuck," she muttered, voice cracking down the middle. The streetlamp flickered again, casting her shadow long and jagged against the graffiti-smeared wall. "Yeah, Izana, it’s about you." Her shoulders hunched, like she was bracing for impact. "You say you’re serious—you say you’re sorry—" A ragged inhale. "Bullshit."
She took off without waiting for his reply, boots crunching through slush and broken glass. The alley blurred at the edges—fuck, she wasn’t crying—but her ribs ached like she’d swallowed shrapnel. Behind her, Izana swore under his breath, the bench screeching as he shoved to his feet. "Y/N—" His voice was closer now, rough with something she couldn’t name.
A hand closed around her elbow, dragging her back so hard her shoulder blades hit his chest. His breath was hot against her temple, uneven. "Stop." His thumb dug into the soft skin of her inner arm—not painful, just urgent. "Just—fuck—without the screaming," he rasped, voice cracking on the last word. "Tell me what you mean."
She swallowed, throat clicking. The wind bit at her damp cheeks, but she didn't pull away. "There’s more for us," she whispered, the words barely audible over the distant wail of a train whistle. Izana's grip loosened slightly, fingers twitching against her sleeve like he wanted to let go but couldn't. "We can be more." Her voice was steadier now, edged with a quiet ferocity that made his breath hitch. "You’re like the only person I’ve ever talked to—really talked to—and honestly I…" A pause, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "I want something more out of this."
Izana let out a slow breath, nose brushing against the shell of her ear—close enough that she could feel the shudder that ran through him. "More," he repeated, voice dull, like he was tasting the shape of it for the first time. It wasn’t a question. His fingers tightened again, pressing crescent moons into her skin. "You’re fucking insane," he muttered, but his lips grazed her temple—accidental, or maybe not.
Y/N just looked up at him, tears pricking her eyes, cold air turning the moisture to icy pinpricks before they could fall. His hair matched the snow behind him—that same stark, unnatural white, catching the weak light like frosted wire. And his eyes—those fucking eyes—were special in the worst way: pupils blown too wide, swallowing the orchid until there was nothing left but a ring of bruised color. She wrenched free, shoving him back hard enough to make him stagger.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
She didn’t wait to see if he followed. The soles of her boots slapped against wet pavement, slipping once on black ice before she caught herself and kept running. The ache in her chest wasn’t just anger—it was something sicker, something rotting. She’d hoped, hadn’t she? Stupid. Behind her, the scrape of boots on concrete stopped. He didn’t follow.
Her apartment door swung shut with a bang that rattled the cheap frame. The bedsprings groaned under her weight as she collapsed face-first onto the mattress, fingers twisting into the threadbare sheets. The tears came hot and ugly, stinging her cheeks—she wiped furiously at them, smearing snot and salt across her skin. Fuck him. Fuck his stupid laugh, his rough hands, the way he’d looked at her like she was speaking in tongues when she asked him to leave with her. She’d known better than to trust a delinquent’s promises.
The streetlight outside her window flickered, casting jagged shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Y/N rolled onto her back, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes until colors burst behind her lids. Her friends’ voices echoed in her skull—warnings about boys who swore they were different, who swore they’d change, only to vanish when things got messy. She’d rolled her eyes at them, smug in the certainty that Izana wasn’t like that. Stupid.
Morning came too soon, gray and bitter through the blinds. She pulled her uniform jacket tighter, knuckles brushing against the cigarette burn on the sleeve—his, from weeks ago, when he’d tugged her too close and the ember had caught. The burn had left a hole, edges curled inward like a hungry mouth. She shoved her hands into her pockets and walked faster.
The school day blurred—teachers’ voices droned behind her like distant radio static, friends’ laughter splintering against her ears like glass. Someone nudged her shoulder at lunch, teasing about the circles under her eyes. Y/N forced a grin, bit into her sandwich too hard, and pretended like the whole thing didn’t taste like ash. The bell rang. She walked home slow, dragging her boots through the slush just to hear it crunch.
And then she saw it—his bike, chrome gleaming dull under the flat afternoon light, parked haphazardly in front of her apartment building like he’d thrown the kickstand down mid-stride. The sight alone punched the breath from her lungs. But it wasn’t just the bike that froze her—it was Izana himself, slumped against the wall beside her front door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. No gang colors, no leather jacket, just a thin black hoodie and ripped jeans. He looked… smaller somehow, stripped of his usual armor, hair unstyled and falling into his eyes.
She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, heart hammering against her ribs. Izana looked up at the sound of her footsteps, his expression raw, unguarded—nothing like the sharp-edged smirk he wore like a second skin. His lips parted, but nothing came out; instead, he just pushed off the wall, slow, deliberate, like he was afraid any sudden movement might make her bolt. The silence between them was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the distant wail of a train whistle.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Y/N clenched her fists, nails digging half-moons into her palms. "Why are you here?" she hissed, voice trembling with something too jagged to be anger alone. "How many times do I have to tell you that my parents—"
"Yeah yeah. Your parents are strict and all that shit." Izana waved a hand dismissively, his usual smirk absent. He exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping like the words were dragging him down. "Listen, I thought about what you said." His voice was low, rough, stripped of its usual bravado—just raw syllables hanging between them.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, tapping one loose before tossing the pack aside like it was suddenly useless. "I’ve got an extra helmet," he muttered, nodding toward the bike, his fingers flexing around the cigarette like he wasn’t sure what to do with it now that he had it. "My friend owns this shitty little beach house. Told me I could use it if I want." His eyes flicked up to hers, dark and unreadable. "So… yeah."
Y/N’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the straps of her bag until the cheap plastic dug into her palms. The wind howled down the street, carrying the scent of snow and gasoline, and for a second, she wondered if she’d imagined the words. "You’re joking," she said flatly, but her pulse was wild, erratic—like a cornered thing.
Izana tilted his head, cigarette dangling between his lips, unlit. "Do I look like I’m joking?" His voice was rough, sandpaper-soft, but his eyes—those fucking eyes—were wide, almost pleading in a way she’d never seen before. He gestured vaguely toward the bike, the extra helmet balanced precariously on the seat. "It’s got a heater. Probably."
Y/N swallowed hard, throat clicking. The apartment behind him loomed like a prison—her mother’s shrill voice still ringing in her ears from this morning’s fight about whatever the fuck, about responsibility, about how she was throwing her life away. Her fingers trembled. Twenty in three months, and what did she have? A shoebox room, all the shit she should’ve but never got to experience as a teen haunting her and Izana’s stupid, beautiful face waiting like a dare.
She exhaled sharply through her nose. "So what do I do—pack a bag?" Her voice cracked on the last word, half-laugh, half-sob. The absurdity of it hit her like a punch—how many times had she fantasized about this exact moment? The running away, the reckless abandon, the way his hands would feel under her shirt—but now that it was here, her legs wouldn’t move.
Izana shrugged, flicking the cigarette away unlit. "The biggest one you got. Pack multiple—I’ve got room." His fingers twitched toward his pocket again, like he wanted another smoke but knew better. Instead, he jerked his chin toward her apartment. "Fifteen minutes," he said, voice low. "Or I leave without you."
Y/N didn’t hesitate. She shoved past him and threw open the door—her mother’s screech from the kitchen barely registered—and bolted straight for her room. She grabbed the duffel bag stuffed in her closet, dumping textbooks onto the floor with a thud. The zipper screamed as she yanked it open, and then she was shoving clothes inside—jeans, sweaters, underwear still warm from the dryer—in messy handfuls. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it wanted out.
The bathroom was next. She knocked over a bottle of perfume—her mother’s favorite, some floral shit—and watched it spill across the countertop with a sick satisfaction. Razor. Toothbrush. The half-used tube of strawberry lip gloss Izana had once smirked at before kissing it off her mouth. She stuffed it all in, along with the crumpled bills from her emergency jar The duffel bulged, straining at the seams.
Izana was straddling the bike now, engine idling, the extra helmet dangling from his grip. Snowflakes caught in his lashes, melted instantly where they landed on the scar above his eyebrow. He didn’t smile. Just held out the helmet.
She tossed the duffel at him—hard—but he caught it one-handed, fingers curling tight around the canvas like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact weight. The duffel looked stupid slung across his chest, bulging with the jagged shapes of her desperation, but he didn’t even glance down at it. Just jerked his chin toward the seat behind him.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Y/N hesitated—heart hammering, knuckles white around the helmet strap—before swinging her leg over the bike. The vinyl seat was icy through her skirt, the metal frame vibrating under her thighs like something alive. Izana twisted his wrist, throttle roaring to life beneath them, and she barely had time to loop her arms around his waist before they lurched forward.
The city blurred past—streets she’d walked her whole life shrinking into smears of neon and concrete, the wind howling in her ears until it drowned out everything but the pulse of the engine and the heat of Izana’s back against her chest. She pressed closer, nose buried in the worn fabric of his hoodie, inhaling gasoline and snow and the sharp musk of his skin. His muscles tensed under her grip as they leaned into a turn, the bike tilting dangerously close to the asphalt, but she didn’t flinch. Five minutes? Fifty? Time dissolved into the hum of tires on wet pavement, the occasional brush of his thumb over her wrist where it gripped his stomach—small, secret reassuances.
Then the ocean hit her like a slap—salt and rotting seaweed, the metallic tang of storm-churned waves crashing against jagged rocks. The beach house crouched at the end of a cracked, weed-choked driveway, its peeling blue siding bleached gray by years of sun and salt spray. The porch sagged drunkenly to one side, littered with crushed beer cans and the charred remains of a bonfire pit. One shutter hung by a single nail, clattering in the wind like a broken bone.
Izana killed the engine, and the sudden silence rang in her ears. The cold sank into her bones—deeper than winter, deeper than the wind howling off the water—as he dismounted with a grunt, tossing the duffel onto the warped steps. "Fuck," he muttered, breath curling white between them. "It's colder than I thought." His fingers trembled slightly as he fumbled with the rusted lockbox where the key was supposed to be, swearing under his breath when it yielded nothing but a spider's nest.
Y/N exhaled sharply, watching her breath plume in the air. The keyhole was crusted with salt, the knob loose in its socket, and Izana's frustration bled into the way he jammed his shoulder against the door—once, twice—before it groaned open with a splintering crack. The darkness inside yawned, smelling of mildew and stale beer. He hesitated on the threshold, fingers tightening around the broken knob like he was reconsidering.
"Tadaa!" he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm as he gestured grandly into the gloom, the wind whipping his hoodie into frantic flutters. "Isn't it fucking great." The words were jagged, but his grin was sharp, half-hidden by the shadows creeping over his face. Behind them, the surf roared, relentless.
The house smelled like old cigarettes and the ghost of spilled bourbon—nothing like the crisp salt air outside. The floorboards groaned underfoot, sticky under her shoes in places where beer had dried into tacky puddles. A single moth-eaten armchair slumped in the corner, its stuffing erupting like grey innards, and the kitchenette was just a hot plate and a mini-fridge crusted with something unidentifiable. The whole place felt like the carcass of a party that had died violently years ago, the walls still vibrating with the echoes of someone else's bad decisions.
Y/N dragged the duffel toward the bedroom—if you could call it that. The mattress was bare, its stained surface cratered from years of neglect, and the single grimy window let in just enough light to highlight the dust motes swirling like plankton in murky water. She bit her lip, peeling off her jacket to use as a makeshift dust rag, scrubbing at the sill until the fabric came away gray. It was stupid, this compulsion to clean—like polishing a sinking ship—but she needed to do something with her hands before they started shaking again.
Izana appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim hallway bulb, holding out a battered suitcase with a jagged gash along one side. "Brought a couple blankets," he muttered, flexing his fingers where the broken handle had bitten into his palm. They were the cheap kind—thin polyester with fraying edges—but he shook them out with exaggerated care, draping one over the bed like it was fucking satin. "Better than nothing," he added gruffly, avoiding her eyes as he tossed the second blanket at her feet.
Y/N caught it mid-air, fingertips grazing the scratchy fabric. The question burned behind her teeth—how many nights would they huddle under these ratty squares, listening to the sea gnaw at the cliffs outside?—but the way Izana's shoulders tensed told her he didn't have an answer. Or didn't want to give one. She pressed her lips together, watching him jam the broken suitcase against the door to keep it shut, his movements sharp with a restless energy that made the cramped room feel even smaller.
The drawers stuck when she yanked them open, their warped wood screeching protest as she dumped armfuls of clothes inside. The vanity mirror was clouded with grime, reflecting her fractured image back in streaks—dark circles under her eyes, hair wild from the ride, lips chapped raw from biting them. She swiped at the glass with her sleeve, smearing the filth into greasy arcs. "A week?" she ventured, voice too loud in the hollow space between them. The strawberry lip gloss clattered onto the chipped surface, rolling toward the edge before she caught it. "Or just until your gang stops looking?"
Izana’s fingers paused on the zipper of his hoodie, knuckles whitening. The wind howled through a crack in the window frame, fluttering the thin curtain like a ghost’s breath. "It’s not about the gang, y/n." His voice was low, rougher than the sea outside. He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the pulse jumping in his throat, the way his eyelashes cast spidery shadows down his cheeks when he blinked. "It’s about you." His breath hitched—barely there, but she caught it. "And us."
She froze, fingers curling into the blanket’s frayed edge. The heater groaned to life somewhere deeper in the house, pipes rattling like old bones, but the cold in the room had nothing to do with the temperature. Izana’s gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then flicked away as he turned toward the door. "I’ll go fix the heating," he muttered, already halfway out. "You get comfortable." The suitcase-blocked door creaked as he shoved past it, leaving her with the sound of his retreating footsteps and the too-loud thud of her own heart.
Y/N exhaled sharply, kneeling beside the battered suitcase—his—and flipping the latches with trembling fingers. The hinges groaned open to reveal a mess of folded shirts and crumpled jeans, half-stuffed around a chipped ashtray and a dog-eared paperback. She lifted a sweatshirt, holding it up to the dim light; the fabric smelled like gasoline and Izana’s cheap cologne, sleeves frayed at the cuffs from where he’d chewed them absentmindedly. A stray bullet casing rolled out from between the folds, clattering onto the floorboards. She stared at it, throat tightening.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Without thinking, she grabbed a fistful of his socks—mismatched, all black, his boxers and white wife beaters—and stuffed them into the bottom drawer beside her own underwear and night clothes. The act felt stupidly intimate, like she was carving out space for him in this rotting house, in her life. His toothbrush clattered into the cracked plastic cup next to hers, handles knocking together like they were conspiring. The bathroom mirror reflected the pair back at her—his bristles splayed from being jammed into his pocket, hers still pristine with its pink cap. Something hot and jagged lodged behind her ribs.
Y/N dumped the suitcase upside down—sending stray guitar picks and crumpled receipts fluttering to the floor—and froze. At the bottom, half-hidden beneath a torn concert ticket, sat a lime green iPod nano, its scratched surface sticky with old soda residue.
The bullets came first—three of them, rolling across the warped floorboards with a dull clatter before she caught one between her fingers.
Then came the iPod, its lime-green surface flashing as it tumbled from the suitcase, landing with a plastic thud near her knee. The condoms followed—a half-crushed strip of Trojans still in their foil wrappers, the expiration date barely visible under the dust. Y/N stared at them, pulse hammering against her ribs, before snatching them up so fast the air hissed between her fingers.
The memory hit like a backdraft—his room smelling of sweat and damp laundry, Izana's teeth catching her earlobe as his fingers fumbled with the wrapper, both of them too frantic to be graceful. That first disastrous attempt flashed hot behind her eyelids: his frustrated groan vibrating against her inner thigh, the unforgiving stretch that had left them panting and sore-fingered, his muttered "fuck" against her collarbone when she'd winced. They'd laughed afterward, shaky with adrenaline and failure, mouths sticky with each other's spit.
Now, her fingers trembled around the condoms, the foil crinkling ominously in her grip. The iPod's cracked screen blinked up at her like an accusation—she'd spent weeks after that night scrubbing her thighs raw in the shower, jumping at shadows whenever she crossed paths with any of Izana's gang members, terrified they'd smell his fingerprints on her skin. Even now, her pulse stuttered at the phantom sensation of his hands gripping her hips too tight, pulling her onto his lap with that stupid smirk like he knew exactly how wrecked she'd been.
She exhaled sharply through her nose and chucked the strip of Trojans onto the left nightstand—his side—where they landed with a soft tap against the warped wood next to his half-empty bottle of Axe body spray. The iPod clattered onto the right one, her side, beside the tube of stolen strawberry lip gloss. There. Boundaries drawn. Lines in the sand. No more desperate fumbling in alleyways or hurried trysts in unlocked storage rooms—if they were doing this, they were doing it right.
The heater finally wheezed to life somewhere in the walls, sending a shudder through the ancient pipes. A gust of warm air swirled the dust motes into frantic spirals above the bed. Y/N stared at the condoms, teeth digging into her bottom lip until copper bloomed on her tongue. She could already picture the way his fingers would curl around the wrapper—slow, deliberate, those calluses catching on the foil—and the thought alone sent a hot pulse between her thighs. Stupid. She grabbed a stray sock and flung it at the nightstand like it offended her. It missed, of course.
Footsteps creaked in the hallway—too heavy to be anything but his. Izana lingered in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, grease smeared across his knuckles from fiddling with the heater. His gaze flicked from the scattered contents of his suitcase to her flushed cheeks, then to the Trojans gleaming mockingly on his nightstand. A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. "What’re you doing?" he drawled, voice soft with amusement.
Y/N startled, nearly knocking over the cracked plastic cup holding their toothbrushes. "Shit! U-uh just putting away our stuff," she stammered, shoving a crumpled t-shirt back into the drawer with unnecessary force. His socks were still tangled in her fingers—one black, one navy, the elastic worn loose from being tugged off in haste too many times.
Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders rolling under his damp hoodie. "Heaters fixed," he muttered, wiping greasy hands on his jeans before realizing they were just smearing the stains deeper. "We should, uh, be set for the night." His voice sounded odd—too tight, like he'd swallowed something bitter. The words hung between them, stiff and awkward as the unfamiliar space.
Y/N snatched her sleep tee off the bed, fabric slipping through her fingers twice before she got a proper grip. "I'm gonna go… um, change," she blurted, already sidestepping toward the bathroom. The door groaned shut behind her, latch clicking with finality. The mirror reflected her rapid pulse in the hollow of her throat, the way her fingers trembled as they yanked her sweater over her head. Cold air hit her exposed stomach, raising goosebumps despite the heater's distant rumble.
Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, peeling his damp hoodie off in one rough motion. The fabric caught on his elbow—still tender from last week's fight—and he swore, tossing it toward the corner where it landed with a wet slap. His fingers hesitated at the hem of his shirt before dragging it up, revealing the jagged scar above his ribs where Y/N's name would be tattooed if he believed in permanence. The joggers hung low on his hips as he knelt to rummage for socks, fingers brushing the condoms instead. The foil crinkled under his touch, warm from her grip.
He just blinked and knocked on the door—three sharp raps that rattled the flimsy wood—before realizing how stupid it was to knock on his own damn bathroom door. His knuckles hovered mid-air, pulse too fast for the soft "Yeah?" muffled through the plywood. The sink squeaked off, water dripping into the rust-stained basin. He could picture her there, bare legs against the cracked linoleum, sleepshirt clinging to the damp hollow between her shoulder blades where she'd scrubbed too hard.
"Get out," he rasped, pressing his forehead against the doorframe as the scent of spearmint toothpaste leaked under the gap. "I need to brush my teeth." The lie tasted stale—his toothbrush was still jammed in his backpack by the bed, forgotten in their frantic unpacking. But he needed an excuse, any excuse, to see her emerge flushed from the steam, to catch the way her sleepshirt rode up when she stretched to grab the towel.
The door creaked open before he could retreat. Y/N stood there with damp tendrils of hair clinging to her neck, lips shiny from the lip gloss she’d reapplied out of habit. His gaze snagged on the smear of pink at the corner of her mouth. "Your turn," she murmured, stepping past him with deliberate slowness, her bare arm brushing his chest—warm, damp, smelling of generic hotel soap and something faintly sweet.
She just sighed and plopped down on the bed, the ancient springs groaning under her weight as she flopped backward, limbs splayed like she’d been dropped from a great height. The hem of her sleepshirt rode up, revealing the sharp jut of her hipbone and the faded stretch marks along her inner thigh—proof of a body that had grown too fast in all the wrong places. The ceiling above her was water-stained in the shape of a screaming face, peeling plaster threatening to collapse if someone breathed too hard.
Izana emerged from the bathroom with his toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth, foam dripping down his chin as he surveyed the wreckage of their temporary lives—her duffel gaping open like a gutted fish, his socks strewn across the floor like roadkill. "Jesus fucking Christ, Izana," she yelled from the bed, voice cracking on his name as she flung an arm over her eyes. "We have to find an apartment or something!" The last word dissolved into a groan as a chunk of plaster chose that moment to land on her stomach with a soft thud.
He spat into the sink—missing spectacularly—and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, watching her pick plaster crumbs off her shirt with an expression caught between exhaustion and something hotter. "You wanna test the bedsprings before we commit to property damage?”
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
She kicked out blindly, bare heel connecting with his thigh. “Fuck are you talking about?” The mattress groaned when he caught her ankle, calloused thumb pressing into the delicate tendon as he dragged her toward the edge. His knees hit the floorboards with a thud that shook the nightstand, sending the condoms skittering closer to the edge.
Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, breath warm where it ghosted over her inner thigh. “You put ‘em right where I’d see ‘em.” His teeth grazed the stretch marks she hated, blunt and punishing. “Like you wanted me to.” The accusation vibrated against her skin, his grip tightening when she tried to twist away.
Y/N’s breath hitched—too loud in the hollow quiet between them. She’d shoved them on the nightstand like a challenge, like she wasn’t still half-convinced this would end with another round of frustrated fumbling and bitten-off curses. “No, no. I didn’t—” Her protest dissolved into a gasp when his thumb hooked under the waistband of her panties, dragging them down just enough to expose the flutter of her pulse. “I don’t know where you’d usually put them so I—”
Izana’s laugh was dark, vibrating against her skin as he pressed a kiss to the crease of her thigh. “Bullshit.” His tongue darted out, tracing his hand along her sides, and something hot and shameful coiled low in her gut. The foil crinkled when he snatched the condom packet, tearing one off with his teeth like he’d done it a thousand times. Maybe he had. The wrapper gleamed in the dim light as he rolled it between his fingers, watching her chest rise and fall too fast. “You wanted me to see.”
Y/N swallowed hard, fingers twisting in the scratchy blanket as he hovered over her, knees bracketing her hips. His gaze burned—not playful, not teasing, just raw and hungry in a way that made her pulse stutter. The condom landed on her stomach with a soft tap, cold against her overheated skin. “Do you wanna do this or—” His voice cracked, rough as the waves outside, “—or are we gonna keep pretending?”
She exhaled sharply—half a sob, half something worse—and turned her face toward the water-stained wall. Nodded once. Hard. The mattress groaned as Izana shifted, his exhale ruffling her hair when he leaned down to press his forehead against her shoulder. His fingers trembled against her hipbone as he tugged her panties down.
"Wait." Y/N shoved up onto her elbows, heartbeat slamming against her ribs. The condom slipped from her stomach onto the sheets. "I wanna be on top." She darted out from under him before he could protest, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. Her fingers shook as she snatched the foil packet, ripping it open with her teeth. The latex smelled bitter, unfamiliar in her hands as she rolled it down his length—too slow, too clumsy—but Izana didn't laugh even though he wanted to. His hips jerked when her thumb brushed the tip, a punched-out breath escaping through clenched teeth.
"Are you sure—" He caught her wrist, fingers tight enough to bruise. His pulse jumped under her fingertips. "Since you're not as exper—"
"Yes." She pressed the word into his collarbone, teeth scraping skin. The condom stretched tight when she rolled it down—too tight—but she didn't stop until it hugged his base, her knuckles brushing wiry hair. Her knees dug into the mattress as she straddled him properly, heat pooling where their bodies barely touched. "I'm sure."
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
The shirt came off in one sharp motion—cotton catching on her elbows before she shoved it away, not daring to meet his gaze. Goosebumps prickled across her bare stomach, pebbling her nipples in the damp air. His breath hitched when she rocked forward.
She sank down with a gasp—too fast, too much—her inner thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips. The stretch burned, sharper than she remembered, her muscles clenching reflexively around him. Izana’s fingers dug into the soft flesh above her knees, blunt nails leaving crescent indents as she bottomed out. A ragged sound tore from his throat when she twitched—her involuntary flinch from the unfamiliar fullness—but he didn’t move.
His gaze tracked her every hitch of breath, every flutter of her lashes, like she was some chemical reaction he couldn’t predict. The wood paneling bit into his shoulder blades where he’d been shoved against the headboard, but the discomfort barely registered—not with her heat strangling him, slick and tight in a way that made his pulse stammer. She shifted experimentally, her thighs quivering as she lifted herself halfway up before sinking again, slower this time.
"Ah—Izana…" His name fractured against her lips, her fingers scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slick chest. He barely recognized his own groan, rough and punched-out, when she rolled her hips in a tentative circle. The friction sparked hot up his spine, his hands jerking from her knees to her waist, fingertips pressing into the soft give of her skin until he was sure she’d bruise.
She whimpered—high and desperate—leaning forward to brace her palms against the headboard, strands of hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. The shift in angle made her gasp, her back arching sharply as her thighs trembled. He could feel her pulse thudding where she clenched around him, her breath coming in short, wet bursts against his collarbone.
Izana’s grip slid up to her ribs, thumbs pressing into the soft underside of her breasts. “Go fucking faster,” he growled, voice wrecked—nothing like the mocking drawl he used on the streets. His hips jerked up to meet her next slow grind, forcing a choked cry from her throat. The mattress springs screamed in protest as she obeyed, her movements turning jagged and uneven, her nails scraping grooves into the peeling head board.
She was babbling—half-formed pleas and broken syllables—as sweat slicked the space between their bodies. “I wa—I wanna d-ah-do it!” The confession tore loose between gasps, her hips stuttering as she chased the friction. The words weren’t coherent, weren’t even fully formed, but he understood—the raw need in her voice, the way her thighs shook with the effort of keeping rhythm.
Izana barked a laugh—sharp, ragged—as his fingers dug deeper into her waist. “Do what?!” he mocked, voice hoarse with strain. His thumbs dragged rough circles against her ribs, pushing her to the brink of oversensitivity. “Use your fucking words, sweetie.” But the taunt lacked its usual bite—his breath coming in uneven bursts against her throat, hips jerking up to meet her erratic movements.
She tried to hold his hips down by pressing on his stomach—palm flat against the scar tissue above his navel—but his abdominal muscles flexed violently under her touch, twisting away from her attempt at control. Instead of pinning him, her fingers slipped across sweat-slick skin, nails catching on the ridge of his hipbone as she lost balance.
Izana's hands shot up to catch her wrists—too fast, too rough—slamming them against the headboard with a crack that shook loose more plaster. The sudden impact made her gasp, her legs tightening around him reflexively, pulling him deeper with a wet sound that had his teeth baring in a silent snarl. But she didn't let go—just dug her nails into his rough jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows beneath his cheekbones until his head stayed exactly where she wanted it.
The drag of him inside her was slower now—achingly deliberate—as she rolled her hips in tight circles, reveling in the way his breath hitched when she clenched around him. His pupils swallowed the last flecks of violet in his irises, his lips parting around a silent curse as his grip on her wrists loosened. "Fuck, just—" His voice fractured, hips twitching helplessly beneath her as she leaned forward to bite his earlobe—hard—her tongue swiping over the sting before she pulled away.
The scent of their sweat mingled with the salt-rusted air, the distant crash of waves punctuating each ragged exhale. She dragged her nails down his chest, watching the red welts rise in their wake, his muscles jumping under her touch like a live wire. His hands found her hips again—not guiding, just holding—as she lifted herself almost entirely off him before dropping back down with a wet slap that echoed off the rotting walls. The sound alone nearly undid him, his thighs trembling beneath her.
"I-I'm close," Izana choked out, voice shattered beyond recognition—finally the one moaning, writhing, unraveling beneath her instead of the other way around. His eyelids fluttered, lashes casting shadows on his flushed cheeks as he fought to keep them open—to watch her fall apart even as he teetered on the edge. His fingers flexed against her skin, blunt nails biting crescents into the soft flesh of her waist. "Fuck—fuck, don't stop—"
She felt hers approaching too, the coil in her belly tightening unbearably, and let out a sharp cry—louder than intended, louder than she'd ever dared—as she dragged her hands up his throat. Her thumbs pressed into the hollow of his Adam's apple, her fingers wrapping around the column of his neck, squeezing just enough to feel his pulse hammering against her grip. His breath hitched, lips parting around a silent gasp, but he didn't push her away—just tilted his head back further, baring his throat in shameless surrender.
The tension snapped—her muscles clamping around him like a vise, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through her as his hips jerked once, twice—then stilled. His groan was ragged against her palm, his fingers digging bruises into her hips as he followed her over the edge, his release shuddering through him in hot pulses beneath the condom's thin barrier. Y/N slumped forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder as she gasped for air, her limbs trembling with exhaustion and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Izana's hands slid up to her wrists, fingers wrapping around hers where they still loosely encircled his throat. His breath was hot against her knuckles as he pressed a rough, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Fuck… you…" he panted, voice wrecked and hoarse, his lips brushing against her pulse point. "You choked me." The accusation lacked any real bite, his fingers tightening around hers in silent approval even as he said it.
She just giggled—quietly at first, then louder when his brows furrowed in exhausted confusion—and slid down his torso until her face hovered just above his softening cock. The latex clung stubbornly to his skin when she pinched the base and rolled it down slowly, watching thick ropes of cum ooze out onto his stomach with fascinated curiosity. Her tongue darted out before she could second-guess herself—just a quick swipe across the tip—salty and bitter and unexpectedly addictive. His hips jerked violently beneath her, his thighs tensing as a ragged groan ripped from his throat.
Izana’s hands flew to her shoulders—half to push her away, half to drag her closer—as she licked another stripe up the underside where the condom had stretched tightest. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging hard enough to make her gasp when she took him into her mouth—just the tip at first, lips stretched tight around the head—before sinking down further until her nose bumped his pelvis. His breath hitched—a sharp, punched-out sound—when her tongue probed experimentally at his slit, tasting the remnants of his release mixed with the lingering latex tang.
The mattress creaked as he twisted violently beneath her, his hips stuttering upward before he forcibly stilled them. “St-stop—” His voice cracked on the word, fingers tightening in her hair until her scalp burned, “—you’re gonna fucking kill me.” But she didn’t stop—just hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder, humming when his thighs trembled against her ribs. His groan cracked into a whine as she pulled off with a wet pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before collapsing onto his chest, their sweat-slick skin sticking together instantly.♡
