꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ katsuki always wondered what the hell his father saw in his old hag of a mother. it takes twenty years, a nasty fight with you, a near-death experience, and a trip to the hospital before he finally gets it
── ✶ word count: 5.8k words ; my drabbles always do this bro
── ✶ before you read: female reader ; pro hero bakugou ; established relationship ; arguing ; (temporary) relationship troubles ; injuries + villain attacks + hospitals (bakugou) ; tame angst with a happy ending! ; communication + resolving arguments ; bakugou’s father makes an appearance ; fluff and banter at the end ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ at the end of the day i will never not be a sucker for the trope where u argue just before a major life threatening incident occurs
It’s 9:32 PM when Katsuki begrudgingly leaves his patrol area and finally calls it quits for the night.
Patrol was supposed to end an hour and thirty-two minutes ago, but he’s been dragging his feet ever since. Taking the long route. Responding to calls that technically aren’t under his jurisdiction. Circling blocks he’s already cleared twice. Anything to kill time. It’s only when Kirishima actively tells him to get the fuck out and stop interfering with his villain count for the night that Katsuki finally accepts defeat and ends his workday.
Ending his workday means going home. And if he goes home, you’ll be there. And if you’re there, he’ll be reminded of your nasty argument from the other night. And if he thinks about that argument, he’ll have to face the fact that the two of you are still stubbornly refusing to speak to one another until the other apologizes first. It’s a ridiculous standoff—an unnecessary one, and he knows it. But neither of you seems particularly interested in ending it, and now his own apartment has somehow become the last place he wants to be. Every room feels charged with an uncomfortable tension. The living room is awkward. The kitchen is unbearable. Even lying down beside you at night feels weird, so Katsuki would rather avoid the whole thing if he can help it.
If he gets home late enough, you’ll already be asleep. Then he can shower, crawl into bed, and pretend the situation doesn’t exist for a few more hours. It seemed like a solid plan in his mind, but unfortunately, thanks to fucking Shitty-Hair, he has no choice but to head home and hang up his costume.
And judging by the lights still glowing through the windows of his apartment, his luck has officially run out. You’re still awake. Of course.
He trudges in, and there you are—sitting stiffly on the couch in the living room, staring directly at him with your arms crossed and an infuriated glare on your face as you fix him with narrowed eyes. Great.
“Do you have any fucking clue what time it is?” you hiss without missing a beat.
Katsuki should’ve known you’d start nagging the second he walked through the door. Hell, he should’ve turned around and just left the moment he saw the lights on instead of coming in.
“S’not even ten,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off. “Would you fuckin’ drop it—”
“You were supposed to be home almost two hours ago!” Your voice rings through the apartment, sharp and incredulous, and Katsuki is so tired. So exhausted. Too exhausted to deal with this nonsense right now, of all times.
“Yeah, well. Now I’m home. There you go.”
The dismissal only seems to make you angrier. Katsuki practically watches the steam start pouring from your ears as you shoot to your feet, hands planting firmly on your hips. And he just knows your voice is about to get louder.
“That’s it?” you practically screech. He fucking knew it. “You’re out on patrol for an extra two hours, and I hear nothing from you—not even a text saying, I’ll be home late. I’ve been sitting here like an idiot, wondering what the fuck happened, or if you’re okay, and all you can say is now you’re home? Do you just get off on being an asshole or something, Katsuki?”
His shoulders tense immediately as he fixes you with an equally hard glare. There goes his wish for a peaceful, conflict-avoidant night. Of course, as always, you have to drag the conflict right to him and drop it at his feet, spike his temper, and make it ruin his evening. A simple shower and a good night’s sleep was all he wanted. But things are never quite that easy—not with you.
Katsuki feels a dull throb start behind his eyes as he shoots back, “What, was your phone broken or some shit? What exactly held you at gunpoint and stopped you from sendin’ me a text and asking, huh?”
Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not laughin’, am I? Definitely no jokes here.”
“Oh, fuck you,” you scowl, and he snorts. There’s no humor behind the sound, however.
“Yeah, that’s real mature.”
“Oh no—you don’t get to tell me about what’s mature and what isn’t. Cause if you wanna talk about what’s mature, it’s not disappearing for two hours and acting like I’m insane for being worried!”
“I wasn’t disappearing, I was fuckin’ doing my job.”
“You were supposed to be done with that job hours ago!”
“Well, I wasn’t!”
“You have a smart little answer for everything, don’t you, Katsuki?” you smile sarcastically, “just think you’re so smart and above it all, huh?”
Katsuki doesn’t know if it’s the headache that’s been creeping on him, or the rage, or the pure adrenaline in his system, but he does know that for a short, fleeting second, all he saw was red.
“Holy fuck, do you ever listen to yourself?”
Your expression hardens instantly. “No, I think you should listen to yourself. You might hear an idiot if you do.”
The apartment goes quiet. Dangerously quiet.
“You know what?” he says coldly, “forget this. I’m goin’ the fuck to sleep—I’ve dealt with enough bullshit tonight—”
You throw your hands in the air, exasperated. There is a flash of hurt on your face that makes his chest ache, but the sharp stab of pain doesn’t last for long because as quickly as his heart bleeds, his mind makes him forget. It only lets him focus on the anger and the irritation and the way you’ve ruined his night, just like you ruined the one before.
“Every single time I tell you something bothers me, you act like it’s a personal attack, and then you just dismiss me like I don’t matter—”
“Maybe I wouldn’t dismiss shit if every conversation with you didn’t turn into a fuckin’ laundry list of grievances you got with me!”
“You only take everything I say as a complaint because you refuse to communicate!”
“Because not everything needs to be a damn discussion like we’re in therapy!”
“Right,” you laugh bitterly. “Silly me. God forbid I expect basic consideration from you.”
Something ugly flashes across his face. He knows it. Katsuki knows that when he’s mad, he turns ugly—he’s always been that way. It’s the only way he knows how to be. For the longest time, he thought you were the only person he could hide it from. That you were the only person he could fight the urge to get ugly from because you are just that special.
But Katsuki is who he is, and he’s learned that he’s a special kind of ugly just for you.
“Basic consideration?” he barks. “You’re sayin’ I’m not considerate?”
“No, sometimes you fucking aren’t and—”
“Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich! I break my back every day keeping this city safe—”
“Well, if the city is the only thing you can be considerate for, why the fuck are you even here?”
It’s silent as soon as the words leave your mouth. Katsuki goes completely still. He can feel it the second it happens—the way his expression shuts down. The way the anger drains out of his face and leaves behind something colder. Something worse. Something so ugly, he has to get out of here before you see it and realize he isn’t worth it. Isn’t worth you.
“Yeah,” His voice is flat. “Why am I here, right? You know, you can just tell me to leave next time, it’d be a lot fuckin’ easier for you.”
“Katsuki—”
“No.” He grabs the strap of his duffel bag that carries his guantlets from where he’d dropped it by the door, throwing it over his shoulder as he bends down to lace his boots up again.
“Katsuki, that’s not what I meant.”
“Sure.”
“I was angry—”
“Clearly, you’re always fuckin’ angry at me. I’m always doin’ something the fuck wrong, aren’t I? Nothin’ I do is enough?”
Stop, stop, stop. His mind is screaming, begging him not to do this. To get out. To leave and fight that hideous part of him down until he’s far enough that you never, ever have to see it.
“Katsuki, don’t do this right now—”
“Do what?” His voice rises more than it should. Stop—stop now. But he can’t. The ugliest of him is already taking surface and showing his truest of colors. “What exactly am I supposed to say here, huh?” You flinch. He needs to fucking stop, but he doesn’t. “Because apparently, when I stay late to save people, I’m an asshole. When I’m home, I’m an asshole. I breathe, I’m an asshole. I exist, I’m an asshole.”
“That’s not—”
“So what’s the answer?” His laugh is bitter and so, so cold that he doesn’t recognize this version of himself. Not with you. He wants to stop desperately, but he can’t. Because Katsuki is an ugly, hideous, despicable person deep down. No amount of heroism on the surface can hide that part of him that’s on the inside, not from you. “Since you’ve got everything figured out, you tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”
“Katsuki, let’s just sit down and—”
He shakes his head. For a second, he wants it to hurt. He wants it to hurt for you. Stop, stop, stop— “Y’know what? I’m done.”
His hand closes around the doorknob, and your voice comes out shaky and panicked as you whisper, “Katsuki, please just sit down and—”
“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ this shit anymore.”
Then he yanks the door open and walks right back out, slamming it hard enough behind him to rattle the picture frames on the wall.
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Katsuki is six when he first asks his father what the fuck the old man even sees in the hag that is his mother. He remembers the conversation vividly.
“Dad, why did you marry Mom? She’s grumpy and old, and she yells all the time,” little Katsuki asks, crossing his tiny arms over his chest. “Why d’you even like her?”
Masaru nearly chokes on his tea. “Katsuki,” he coughs. “Your mother isn’t old. You shouldn’t say that—it’s rude.”
“But she is,” he huffs. “She smells like an old lady, too.”
“Well, if she’s old, then I’m even older,” Masaru points out, taking another sip. “So that can’t be a very good reason not to like her.”
“Well, she’s mean.”
“She’s not mean,” his father chuckles, thoroughly amused.
No matter how many times he sees it, Katsuki doesn’t understand it—the way his father gets that dumb, starry-eyed look whenever Mitsuki comes up. She’s always in a bad mood, and if she isn’t, she’s probably due for one within the next thirty minutes. Why his father would choose to marry such a sour lady is completely beyond his six-year-old comprehension.
“She yelled at me this morning,” he sulks.
“You tried to use your explosions inside the house,” Masaru reminds him, leveling him with a pointed look. “We talked about that. Rules are rules for a reason, young man.”
Katsuki pouts harder. His father is supposed to take his side.
“But she still yelled. And it was mean,” he argues back stubbornly. Masaru only smiles into his tea, shaking his head with fond amusement. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Katsuki presses again, “So what do you even like about her?”
The question seems to catch Masaru off guard. He pauses, thinking. “Well,” he says slowly, “she’s funny.”
Katsuki blinks. His father cannot possibly be serious. “Mom?”
“Yes.”
“She’s funny?”
“Very.”
“No, she isn’t,” Katsuki says immediately, deeply offended by the blatant lie.
Masaru laughs, “She is.” Katsuki stares at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Masaru only smiles wider. “She’s honest, too. You always know what she’s thinking.”
“That’s because she says whatever she thinks.”
“Exactly.”
“And she says it loud.”
“That’s true.”
“She says it really loud, Dad.”
Masaru nods solemnly, sighing. “Also very true, son.”
“She should shut up,” Katsuki huffs. His father fixes him with a stern look at that, and he shrinks back just a little.
“We do not say that about our mother, Katsuki.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes but slumps deeper into his chair all the same. “Fine.”
“Your mother is wonderful,” his father says. “She works hard. She cares about people. She loves our family—she loves us. One day, you’ll see that. And when you do, I think you’ll appreciate her a lot more.”
Katsuki picks at the food on his plate, turning the words over in his head.
His mother does love him—he knows that much, even if she is annoying. She remembers all the snacks he likes and somehow always comes home with them without him ever having to ask. Whenever he asks for money, she gives him more than he requested—even if it usually costs him an irritatingly painful pinch to the cheek. She wakes up early to bathe him despite complaining about losing sleep because he prefers morning baths to evening ones.
His mother loves him; he knows that to be true. But it’s only true because she is his mother, and he is her son. Mothers love their sons—it’s the rules. Why his father would willingly choose to love that woman remains completely incomprehensible, however, in his mind.
“Mom is super annoying,” he says bluntly.
Masaru’s smile softens. “I suppose sometimes she can be, yes.”
“See?” Katsuki perks up immediately, his entire face screaming, gotcha!
“But,” Masaru continues, “I’m sure I annoy her, too.”
Katsuki deflates on the spot.
More than that, he simply cannot imagine such a thing being possible. His father is calm and nice and makes good food. Katsuki thinks lots of women would like his father—women who also would not find Masaru annoying. The only person allowed to find Masaru annoying is Katsuki himself, and that’s because his father makes rules that Katsuki has to follow. He thinks he’s earned that right.
His mother, however, has no such excuse.
“She gets annoyed with you?” he asks incredulously.
“Of course. Every day, I’m sure there’s something I do that annoys her at least a little.”
“Then why does she like you?”
Masaru thinks for a moment, carefully choosing his words, trying to explain this odd phenomenon that is love. “Because loving someone isn’t about finding a person who never annoys you,” he says finally. “It’s about finding someone who still sees your value even when you’re annoying. Someone who chooses you anyway. Does that make sense?”
His nose wrinkles immediately. “No.” His father stifles a chuckle when Katsuki adds, “That sounds dumb.”
“Maybe,” Masaru hums, eyeing him with bright, endeared eyes.
“I’m not gonna marry someone annoying when I’m all big. Because I’m smart!”
That earns him a full laugh from his father. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Masaru lean forward and wipe at the corner of his eye. In fact, he laughs so hard he nearly spills his tea. “You say that now,” his father says, setting his mug down, “but that’ll change. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“No, I won’t,” Katsuki grumbles. He doesn’t appreciate that he’s not being taken seriously.
“I think you will, son.”
“I definitely won’t.”
Masaru only smiles. He looks at Katsuki the way adults always do when they think he’s young and silly and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And Katsuki hates that look. He’s smart—excellent, even. Just the other day, he caught his teacher’s mistake during subtraction when nobody else in his class noticed. At this rate, he’s well on his way to being smarter than most adults.
He absolutely knows what he’s talking about.
“Well, we’ll just have to see, Katsuki. If I’m right, you’ll take me out for ramen someday. Deal?”
“Fine,” Katsuki huffs, puffing out his chest confidently. “But you’ll never see that ramen.”
────────────────────────
Twenty years later, Katsuki sometimes wonders if he’s going to have to admit he was wrong and take the old man out for ramen after all.
You are, without question, the most annoying, irritating, vein-popping individual he has ever met. It’s like every decision you make is carefully calculated to inconvenience him specifically.
He has to keep an extra jacket in his car because you never check the weather before leaving the house. He has to double-check your grocery lists before you go shopping because if he doesn’t, you’ll somehow forget the one thing you actually need. He has to make sure you take your vitamins. Every night, he has to remind you to take your makeup off before bed because, apparently, that responsibility has become his problem—and if you wake up the next morning with mascara smeared under your eyes because you didn’t listen to him, then somehow you still find a way to blame him for not wiping it for you.
You are annoying. Every single fucking day, you annoy him. You annoyed him yesterday. You’ve annoyed him today. You’ll annoy him tomorrow. And he’ll tell you exactly that—he’ll call you a dumbass, and tell you to get your life together. Complain about the ridiculous thing you did this time, and accuse you of going out of your way to make his life harder on purpose. But after that, despite it all, he will still love you.
Twenty years later, now that he’s older, Katsuki realizes he understands what his father meant. That loving someone doesn’t happen because they never annoyed him—loving someone happens because they annoyed him, and he still, despite that, sees nothing but the good.
He loves you. You are annoying and drive him up a wall, but Katsuki knows that you are good. The greatest good that there might ever be, and he might have just ruined it. He probably fucked it all up and lost all the good he had. All the good he’s ever wanted. All the good that he’s wanted to keep for the rest of his life and cherish.
The second the apartment door slams shut behind him, Katsuki regrets it. He regrets being the reason behind that look on your face. That brief flash of panic in your eyes right before he left. That way that your voice sounded when you said his name.
He can’t get it out of his head as he walks out of your building. “Fuck,” He runs a hand through his hair and keeps walking.
The only friends he’d willingly see right now are working, his parents are definitely sleeping (and would ask too many questions he doesn’t want to answer, even if they weren’t), and he is nowhere near calm enough to go back upstairs and just go home.
But his patrol route is still active. So instead of going home and into bed like a normal person who has morning patrol, Katsuki leaves his apartment building behind and heads toward work.
By the time he gets suited up again, it’s almost eleven. By the time it’s midnight, he’s still out. By the time it’s 1 AM, he should call it a night.
Instead, however, he keeps moving. One more block turns into one more street. Anything to keep himself from going home or thinking about the argument. About the way you looked at him. About the things he said. About the shit he ruined for sure.
His thoughts are loud enough in his head, turning him deaf to everything else. He misses things he normally wouldn’t—things like suspicious shadows and warning shouts from another hero.
By the time Katsuki realizes what’s happening for what it is, the villain goes down easily enough—too easily. He curses himself for being so naive, so rash. He’s been fighting as a pro for years. He was a war veteran before he was even a legal adult, for crying out loud. Still, despite all that, the second Katsuki realizes something is wrong, it’s already too late.
The construction site groans around him—metal screeches against metal, and his head snaps upward. All he sees is the upper half of the structure collapsing before he loses his balance and collapses with it.
“Shit—”
The explosion leaves his palms a fraction of a second too late, and he doesn’t go propelling forward the way he’s supposed to. The half-built building comes down, and Katsuki goes down with it.
Then everything goes dark.
────────────────────────
It’s 2 AM when you see it on the news. Kirishima sends you a text asking if you’d heard what happened, and by the time you’ve spammed him with messages asking what the hell he was even talking about, he’s gone silent. Something in your gut knows that he’s not answering because he’s too busy rescuing. Too busy being a hero.
Your heart tells you that the person he has to be a hero to tonight just so happens to be Katsuki.
The first report you see hits the news at 2:13 AM. The anchor’s voice is as smooth and polished as ever as she delivers the words that send your whole world crumbling around you.
“We are receiving breaking reports of a major incident involving Pro Hero Dynamight.”
The footage that floods the screen makes you fall to your knees and muffle your sobs behind a shaky palm—collapsed concrete and emergency responders and heroes rushing in and out of the wreckage. The camera zooms toward the ruined construction site, and Katsuki’s body is nowhere to be seen on the screen. You don’t quite know if that’s a good thing or bad.
“Dynamight was reportedly responding to a villain incident when a structural collapse occurred. We are told he is trapped beneath the rubble. Emergency responders are currently on the scene, conducting rescue operations.”
At 2:37 AM, the hospital gives you a call as his emergency contact. You’re sick to your stomach, not sure how you’ll make the drive there when Kirishima finally texts you again.
Kiri <3: I already told his parents. They’re on their way so don’t worry about it
Kiri <3: One of my sidekicks is outside your apartment. They’ll drive you down there
Kiri <3: I still have to handle the aftermath and finish patrol so I won’t be there I’m sorry
Kiri <3: Keep me updated?
You: Don’t apologize Kiri idk what I’d do without u
You: Thank you and pls be safe
You: I’ll lyk things as soon as I find out
Kiri <3: Take it easy okay?
Kiri <3: He’s come back from worse. It’ll be alright
——
Kirishima’s sidekick gets you to the hospital efficiently, but you are still at your wits’ end by the time you can rush out of the passenger seat and bolt through the sliding doors.
Some part of you is grateful you didn’t have to drive here yourself because you know you would’ve sped dangerously over the limit, missed half the red lights, and probably would’ve gotten yourself pulled over. At the same time, you wish you could’ve been the one behind the wheel, just to get here faster.
“I’m here to see Kats—um, Dynamight,” you say in a rush. “Dynamight…I meant Dynamight.”
The woman at the front desk looks at you with a raised eyebrow, already typing away at her screen as she blandly says, “Valid ID, please.”
You curse under your breath, fumbling through your purse for your wallet, and then fumbling through your wallet for your ID like your hands suddenly don’t belong to your body anymore.
When you practically shove it toward her in your haste, she takes it too calmly for your racing heart and inspects it for a moment. Then looks at her screen. Then back to your ID. Then she types for what feels like an agonizing eternity before she finally hands the card back and says, “Fourth floor, room twelve. He’s stable, but he has some serious injuries that they’ll have to monitor and heal slowly due to his stamina—”
You’re already moving before she finishes. You’re bolting toward the elevators, heart slamming so hard it hurts. The ride up to the fourth floor is torturously slow. When you finally get out of the elevator, you’re halfway down the hallway before you even register the security guard stepping in front of you.
“ID.” Again. Of course. You suppose it is a good thing security is tight for the pro hero unit—even if it does add to your piling weight of anxiety. When you clumsily pull it yet again, he checks it for another cruelly long stretch of time, glancing between the card and the device in his hands before finally saying, “Go ahead.”
You’re already moving.
By the time you reach room twelve, your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself still. For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. Would Katsuki even want to see you? Is he fed up with you? Would you just make his already terrible night even worse?
You aren’t sure.
You don’t know why you’re in the predicament you’re in right now. You don’t know how you got here or why things escalated the way that they did. You don’t know what you do wrong to push his buttons the way you seem to, to upset him the way that he gets. You think you’re doing the right thing—that you’re doing what’s right for both of you—but somehow, you always seem to mess it up. Always seem to say the wrong thing. Always seem to ruin whatever good the two of you have managed to build between you.
But you love Katsuki, and if nothing else, you know that he loves you too, and you need to see him. So you force down the bile in your throat and push the door open. The first thing you notice when you see him is the bandages wrapped tightly around him. One arm heavily secured in a cast. Gauze lining his shoulder and collarbone that makes your stomach drop in a sick, immediate lurch. Machines hum quietly beside him, keeping track of his vitals.
You never see Katsuki hurt like this—he’s always been practically invincible when he’s on the field, always taking things down before they have a chance at even touching him. And then your brain, cruelly, supplies the thought: but he is not invincible. Not always.
“Katsuki,” you whisper, eyes already welling with tears.
He’s looking at you the second the door opens—but his tired eyes soften with relief, just a little, when they land on you. “You came,” he says, voice rough.
“Of course I came,” you say, sharper than you mean to. How could he think you wouldn’t? How far have you let things go that he could genuinely believe you wouldn’t show up for him? “What the hell happened?”
He sighs, almost embarrassed. “Just…work ‘n shit.”
You sniffle, and he lifts his good arm toward you. That’s all it takes.
You’re at his side in an instant, squeezing into the small space beside him on the hospital bed and curling yourself against his chest. You’re careful not to disturb any of the machines surrounding him, but you can’t stop thinking about how wrong this feels. How you shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now. How he’s the one lying in a hospital bed, yet somehow he’s still the one rubbing your back and soothing your tears.
“I thought you were gonna die,” you sob. “I—I saw the rubble, and Kiri stopped texting back and...and I thought you got crushed.”
“M’not fuckin’ dying, babe,” he huffs, sounding mildly offended. “A stupid building isn’t killin’ me. That’s a dumbass way to go.”
“You don’t know that,” you shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”
“Listen—”
“And I was sitting there watching the news and thinking the last conversation I ever had with you was that stupid fight,” you continue, looking up at him with trembling lips.
His eyes soften. “I know, but—”
“And I don’t care about the argument anymore,” you say, your voice shaking harder now. “I don’t care about being right or winning or being apologized to first—I should’ve texted you, you’re right. You...you probably felt like I didn’t care, but I do. I care so much, and I love you more than anything.”
You take a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady you. Katsuki is trying to wipe your tears away with one weak arm.
“I love you too—”
“I just want you to talk to me,” you sob. “I know I’m annoying, and I nag and scold and get onto you all the time, and I’m trying not to do that as much—really, I am! But I just...I wish you’d tell me things, too. Y’know? I am the one person you’re supposed to do that with, Katsuki,” you add, your voice cracking all over again. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m the last person you want to do that with.”
His expression tightens. “That’s not—”
“And I want us to work because I’ve never liked someone so much—it stresses me out. Because I love you and I want this to work, and the thought of it not working makes me so anxious I wanna throw up, and...and you act like talking to me is harder than getting crushed under a fucking building—”
“Baby.” He squeezes your cheeks together and silences you as he pulls your face closer, pressing a kiss to your puckered lips. “You talk a lot, y’know that?”
You huff at him immediately, tears spilling down your cheeks even faster. “That is so rude, given the—”
“I’m sorry about the fight,” he interrupts. You pause, and he takes the opportunity to keep going, despite looking painfully uncomfortable the entire time. “And for...walkin’ out ‘n shit. That was fucked up. I don’t talk to you like I should. You’re right. S’weird for me, and I hate it sometimes. I don’t know how to just...say shit like you do. Okay?” He sighs. “But m’gonna try more because you’re right—I need to talk to you. But you gotta get outta your head so much—” He gives your forehead a small jab with his finger. You sniffle and swat his hand away with a watery scowl. It earns the faintest grin from him. “We’re gonna work,” he says. “’Cause we do. That’s all there is to it, okay?”
“But—”
“No buts,” he grumbles. “My ribs hurt. Jus’ let me be right.”
A watery laugh escapes you as you shake your head, cupping his bandaged face between your hands. “You’re really annoying sometimes, Katsuki.”
“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “So are you. Still love you, though.”
“Me too,” you breathe, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Love you so much.”
He pulls you back down against his chest again, rubbing your back as you listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. You trace small patterns into his shirt. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. And things are okay—they are not beyond repairing. You’ll inevitably annoy him tomorrow, and he’ll annoy you the day after that, but you’ll still work. You will still find a way to keep things good the way they always are.
After a few quiet moments, he mumbles, “Hey.” When you look up, he says, “When m’all healed and shit, you gotta force me to go grab ramen with my old man. On me.”
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Katsuki waits almost a month after being discharged from the hospital before he finally makes the call. He’s been trying to stall it for as long as possible, but Katsuki, even at the tender age of six, has always been a man (or boy) of his word. He’s standing alone on the balcony outside his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear, wondering if it’s too late to hang up before the call goes through.
It rings twice. Then his father’s voice is as gentle and cheery as ever. “Katsuki!” Masaru answers immediately. “Hi, son!”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey.”
His father laughs. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I got discharged, didn’t I? S’been a whole month.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sounding just like your usual self,” his father says. Katsuki can hear the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’.”
“Katsuki, you never call for just nothing.”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh—it’s now or never. He can’t keep stalling, and Katsuki is, and always has been, a man of his word. If he promised his father ramen over a stupid bet he made twenty years ago, then he’s going to get his father that ramen. Even if it kills his pride. Demolishes it, even.
“Listen, I was thinkin’...maybe we could grab food sometime.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Masaru hums. “Let me ask your mother when she’s free and—”
“Not the hag. S’just you,” he cuts in, rubbing at his temple.
“Oh?” Masaru sounds amused. “Well, okay. I suppose it’d be nice to spend some time as just father and son. What kind of food?”
Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose. Just say it. Just fuckin’ say it, his mind urges. Just rip the bandage off and say it. Say it. Say the damn word—he grits his teeth and forces out, “Ramen.”
There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stretches on long enough that Katsuki’s eye twitches.
“Ramen, huh?” Masaru finally says, and the way he says it makes a vein all but pop in Katsuki's forehead.
“Old man,” he says warningly, “don’t push it—”
He’s cut off when Masaru starts laughing. “I was wondering when this day would come.”
“Hah? You really kept that shit in your head for twenty years?”
“Of course I did. It was one of my favorite conversations I’ve ever had with you.”
“Why? ‘Cause you love bein’ fuckin’ right all the time?” Katsuki grumbles.
His father’s voice softens as he says fondly, “No. I just wanted you to find someone who made you as happy as your mother makes me. That’s all I wanted, son—for you to understand what being happy is like.”
The conversation is getting oddly sentimental, taking a turn that makes his chest feel strange, and his heart feel far too fragile. He hasn’t felt like this since after the war, and he doesn’t intend to sit with it any longer. So he mutters, “I still think Mom’s annoying. She yelled at me last week, so she never fuckin’ changes.”
Masaru laughs again. “No, she doesn’t.” Then, after a moment, “So, how does Saturday sound for some ramen?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“Will my son be paying?”
Katsuki regrets this call more than anything when he says, “Yes. I’m fuckin’ paying.”
“You know, son,” Masaru murmurs, making Katsuki pause, “I’m glad you get it now. You’ve grown into a fine man.”
Katsuki swallows hard. He turns, eyeing you as you sleep soundly in your shared bed, hugging his pillow to make up for his absence. He can only hope that his father’s words are true—that he is a fine man to you, the way his father always has been to his mother. His eyes never leave your figure as he mutters, “Yeah, well…s’not like I had a bad example or somethin’.”
so anyway i had an argument with my bf the other day but he did not get into an accident and he did not get injured so dont worry. the argument was technically my fault, but im cute and he loves me so its okay <3
synopsis: you haven’t seen flins in almost a week. when he’s unexpectedly taken a week off his duties, you want answers why—the answers come in…a rather interesting form. or: flins is not human, and his non human form happens to come with a rather interesting condition
word count. ❤︎ 10k words—i am speechless. truly no words
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; established relationship ; fae go into ruts bc i said so ; flins has fae like features like pointy ears and wings ; he is in rut and not the right state of mind so ig slight dubcon ; dry humping + flins cumming in his pants ; flins has sensitive wings ; vaginal fingering ; mating press ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; slight breeding kink and talks of having babies ; slight size kink ; implied multiple rounds after ; not proof read pls it’s almost 7 am i wrote this in less than 24 hours cut me some slack i beg
commentary. ❤︎ uh yeah. anyway *jazz hands* flins fae rut. ALSO THANK YOU ARABELLA AKA USER PHAINANON FOR UR DELISHUS BRAIN FOR THE RUT CHARACTERISTICS
Kyryll is off duty for a week—this is what his superiors tell you when you visit the office of the division he is under, anyway.
That is suspiciously odd—he is never off duty. Ever. Kyryll never gets sick, he never gets particularly badly injured, he never takes a personal day, and he never, ever, under any circumstances, takes longer than a day to contact you, regardless of how busy the wild hunt may have him. Something is wrong, and you’re worried, and you will figure it out. He needs you, probably—he has that annoying habit of trying to handle everything all on his own, even if it isn’t always the brightest idea.
So you open the door to his humble little home at the bottom of the lighthouse and let yourself in. Kyryll does not ever mind. Kyryll is soft and open and gentle with you, and he does not mind if you enter his home—
“What are you doing here?” a breathless, almost pained voice all but hisses. Kyryll. His voice is never this distressed—it takes you a moment to get over the shock enough to properly turn and meet his eyes.
He looks…distinctly inhuman. Not just inhuman, but also not himself. Apart from the pointed ears and the glow in his eyes and those bright, iridescent wings (you’ll focus on that later, you decide), Kyryll is also not wearing a shirt with his hair hanging in a loose bun to keep it out of his face. He looks hot and sweaty and flushed—so unlike that typical collected, well-dressed, and polished man that you know who always runs a little cold.
“I was looking for you?” You blink at him as you answer like it’s obvious, “You missed work.”
“Yes. That was an intentional decision,” he says, closing his eyes and gritting his jaw. He turns away from you, as if the sight of you physically makes him sick. You’re a little offended. “You should not have come here.”
“What? I have not seen or heard from you in almost a week! How do you think it makes me feel when I have to hear from your superiors, of all people, that you’ve taken a personal leave from—”
He exhales, the sound thin and weary. “Yes,” he says at last, each word carefully measured, “I took leave—for a reason.”
You blink at him, frowning. “And that reason would be?”
He closes his eyes, his jaw flexing as though he’s counting to ten in his head. “A personal one,” he replies evenly, though there’s a faint tremor in the calm of his voice. “When I am ready to return, I will do so. Until then, I would be grateful if you allowed me some solitude.”
“Solitude?” you echo, incredulous. “Kyryll, that’s not how this works. You don’t just vanish without a word and call it solitude. You didn’t reach out, you missed work for nearly a week—I was worried.”
“I am aware,” he says quietly, gaze lowering. “And for that, I apologize. It was never my intent to worry you.”
“Then what was your intent?” you demand, stepping closer as you cross your arms. “Because you can’t just disappear and expect me to act like that’s normal.”
A muscle in his cheek twitches. He’s clearly fighting something internal, trying desperately not to let it show. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, careful. Pleading, even. “I know what this looks like to you. I know it seems as though I am shutting you out. But please—believe that it is not from malice or indifference. I simply cannot…be as I should, not right now.”
You hesitate, your irritation giving way to confusion. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he groans, “that there are parts of me I would rather you never see. And those parts are…difficult to keep hidden at present.”
You stare at him. You blink once, then twice, then you stare some more. “I have no idea what you’re implying, but your solution is to just lock yourself away and say nothing? That is ridiculous.”
He sighs, the sound faintly exasperated. “It is not ideal. But it is safer—for you, and for me.”
“Are you in danger? What is going on? Is something after you? Is it the wild hunt? Maybe we can—”
“You need to leave,” he cuts you off. “Please.”
That part makes you pause. He adds that last part with a broken, croaky little voice—like he’s begging, and it’s so bordering on pure desperation, you almost feel scared. What could possibly have happened in less than a week’s time to make him plead not to see you? To skip work? To…to look so different and not human?
Because he isn’t like you. Kyryll is not human, you realize. Concern for the man you are courting has caused you to overlook that very obvious fact for a moment, but reality has dragged you back to its awful truth and slapped the cold, hard facts into your shaky little sweaty palms and said: Look, the man you think you love is not who you think he is.
You stare at him, the question caught somewhere between your throat and your lungs. What is he, exactly? His face looks the same—still that sharp-boned, beautiful thing you adore so much—but now, under the dim light of his living room, there’s something wrong. Perhaps not wrong, exactly. Just...unfamiliar. His skin seems to shimmer faintly, and his eyes almost illuminate the dark around him, and his ears—his ears are just a touch too pointed when he turns his head.
“Kyryll,” you breathe, “what’s happening to you?”
He exhales, a sound that almost feels laced with dread. “Nothing is happening to me—I am exactly as I am intended to be. Some traits that humans would consider abnormal are…well, they are not so rare amongst non-humans.”
You furrow your brows. “You mean to tell me you’re the latter?”
What a silly question, your mind hisses, what else would those features imply?
He hesitates, eyes closing as though it hurts to confess. “You have heard before, perhaps, that Snezhnaya was once a realm of the fae,” he says softly. “A race that is no longer of any importance, but one that does exist. I am proof enough of that, simply by standing before you.”
“And when were you going to tell me that?” you ask, your voice trembling just slightly. You wonder what that sinking feeling in your chest is—fear, perhaps? Are you scared of him? Scared of what he is, or what he isn’t? Scared that he is something else entirely, something beyond you?
No, you think faintly. Human or not, Kyryll would never hurt you. He would never let harm come your way—certainly not from himself. The ache that blooms inside you is not fear at all, but something heavier, deeper, more hurtful: the knowledge that Kyryll does not trust you. That he cannot bring himself to believe you would see him for what he truly is and still love him—that your eyes would see the what of him before the who.
“My light, it was never my intention to deceive you,” he says, pleading now. “I simply wished for more time—to cherish you as you are before the truth might…alter things between us.”
“Alter things how, exactly?” you frown. “Alter things because I’d leave? You think I can’t be trusted—is that it?”
“No.” He smiles sadly—a fragile little smile that still does something painful to your heart, easing and tightening it all at once. “No, it was never that I doubted your trust,” he murmurs. “Only whether I deserved it, once my nature was known. For that, I must apologize. I should not have hidden it from you. You are far too precious a person to entangle yourself with someone like me.”
“Oh, be quiet, you fool,” you huff, stepping closer to him. You press your palm to his cheek, and he leans into the touch with a soft, startled breath. “Self-pity will not earn you any leniency. Do not lie to me again. Understand?”
“Fae cannot lie,” he smiles faintly, eyes fluttering shut as your thumb brushes his skin. “Should we attempt it, we sicken. Very gravely, in fact.”
“Ah,” you nod with mock solemnity, “so you’re simply skilled in manipulation. How comforting.”
He laughs, just barely—a sound that fades too quickly as he pulls back, though not far enough to escape your curiosity. Your hand drifts upward, fingers brushing the sharp point of his ear. He flinches.
“Now…is perhaps not the best moment to be touching—”
“You also have wings?” you interrupt in awe, gently maneuvering him to turn around. He stiffens as your finger traces delicately up his spine from the small of his back. “Can you fly?”
“No,” he says shakily, “they would not support my weight. They are not a particularly useful trait of the fae—merely an aesthetic one, if anything.”
“Very aesthetical indeed,” you giggle.
“That is not a real word,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. His breath hitches when your finger drifts to the place where the fragile wing meets his warm skin. His skin is never warm. Kyryll runs rather cold—you complain about it often when you curl against his side. (It never stops you from cuddling him, of course, but the complaints never cease, either.)
“Hm, still clinging to your extensive knowledge of words, are you?” You roll your eyes.
You gently rub along that small network of veins where translucent skin fades into flesh, where the shimmer of his wings dissolves against the pale slope of his back. The base of each wing seems impossibly fragile—paper-thin, like spun glass, yet alive and keenly receptive to your touch. They rise from just below his shoulder blades, delicate membranes threaded with faint iridescence, catching the light in colors that shift like oil on water. You stare in awe at that narrow strip of skin between wing and back. It’s softer, almost silken, and the sensation is strange—cool, like morning dew, yet trembling with a pulse beneath your fingertips, as though burning from beneath.
The wings flutter instinctively the more your touch wanders, a tremor rippling through the transparent folds and making him flinch—a sharp breath pulled through his teeth.
“Does that hurt?” you ask, pausing in concern.
He shakes his head, though his voice is strained when he answers. “No. They are just…sensitive.”
“I see,” you breathe in fascination.
They are sensitive—you can feel it under your fingertips. His skin there runs cold, but the pulse beneath it beats hot and fast, trembling through the thin lattice of veins. The wings twitch involuntarily, like they’re trying to fold in on themselves to escape your touch, or maybe reach for it—you cannot quite tell. When you trace your thumb along the joint where the wing anchors to his spine again, his breath catches once more, rougher this time. The friction of your touch draws a low sound from him, half-strained, half-pleasured. The wings shiver—and then so does he.
“Kyryll?” you ask softly.
He only lets out a sharp inhale in response.
“Are you…” You falter. How do you even phrase it? How do you ask your boyfriend—who has only just shared with you his origins as something not human—the burning question at the back of your mind? There is clearly something in his system, something woven into his bloodline, his very DNA, the framework of who he is, that makes him so…pent up. (That is the only phrase you can think of.) “Is…is there something happening with you? Biologically, at least?”
He goes still at your words. The question hangs between you with thick enough tension in the air that you feel like it physically separates you, and for a moment, he seems unable to breathe. When he finally does, it’s shallow—careful.
“I—” His voice breaks, then steadies, smooth and practiced as though he’s forcing it into place. “That is…a delicate subject.”
You take a small step back. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I just—”
“I know.” His hand reaches and grabs yours, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles before promptly letting go. His eyes flick to yours—bright, sharp, and mesmerizing in the low light. You wonder how you never caught on before that he could not be human. “I did not intend for you to see me in such a state. It is a rather shameful condition—one might say it is…seasonal, or perhaps instinctive. A remnant of older blood. It makes my body…less easily governed.”
He swallows hard, turning his face away. The fine tremor in his wings betrays the effort it takes to keep control.
You reach out before thinking, fingers hovering over his arm. “Hey,” you say quietly, “you don’t have to be ashamed. I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His laugh is soft, almost bitter. “You should be. There are things in me, desires in me, that are not…proper. Not human. When such old instincts rise, I am ruled by them more than I care to admit.”
He finally meets your gaze again, and something raw flickers there—fear, want, and the painful effort of restraint. The air between you tightens. Something shifts. Something that pulls you towards him just as fiercely as he wants to push you away. You ache to close that gap he wants so badly to put between you—a naive and optimistic thought process, perhaps. Kyryll knows himself and his state of mind better than you do.
He has lived through it. For hundreds of years, evidently, and you have only known him for so long. He is perhaps, wisely so, protecting you from a part of himself that requires protection against. But you don’t find his warnings—nor his pleas for that matter—to stay away from him until this passes worth listening to. You won’t. You can’t bring yourself to.
He looks unwell—he looks pained and in suffering and alone in this small, little home of his where nothing is there to ease his troubles, no one is there to ease his burdens or his aches. You take one look at that soft, rosy flush on his cheeks, the dampness of his clammy skin, the somehow even darker circles beneath his honeyed eyes, and you cannot fight the instinct in your heart that longs to take care of him however he needs it. The instinct that just as easily governs over your body against your will as Kyryll’s governs over his.
Love, perhaps, is what your heart would call it. Foolishness, on the other hand, is what your mind would say.
“It hardly happens,” he whispers, keeping his face turned insistently away from you, “once every decade or so, there are urges…and they are not very pure in nature. I am ashamed to admit I am unable to keep from harboring improper thoughts about you, my dear. It would be in your best interest to leave before I am incapable of controlling myself any longer.”
“Forgive me for being so candid,” you say with a small grin, amusement threading through your voice, “but we’ve been intimate before, you silly thing. What exactly are you trying to protect me from—sex? Kyryll, we’ve done that plenty of—”
“No.” His voice cuts through yours, low and sharp, carrying a kind of desperation that stills you. “This is hardly comparable.” He turns toward you finally, and even though his expression is composed, his eyes are not. They are hungry and wild, and his pupils almost dilate at the sight of you. His wings twitch behind him, restless. “This is not a desire one can reason with,” he continues quietly. “It is old. It does not recognize affection or care—only need. And I would sooner burn myself hollow than make an object of you.”
For a moment, you weigh his words. You can see how much effort it costs him to hold himself still, to speak in measured tones instead of instinct. So much care and respect are woven into that tense, agonized distance he keeps between you both as he wills himself to stand still. And you decide that you want none of it.
You do not care about his self-imposed moral limits and boundaries. He needs you—and by the Gods, you are going to give him what he needs.
“Kyryll,” you say firmly, the earlier humor gone from your voice. “You could have told me sooner.”
He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. “And ruin the illusion that I am civilized?”
You shake your head, stepping closer despite his warning. “You never needed illusions with me. I am the first person you should be able to turn to when you need something—when you need someone to take care of you.”
“You cannot take care of me in this form,” he clicks his teeth, patience slowly wearing thin. (He is certainly not in his right mind after all, you deduce—your Kyryll is never impatient with you. Not his usual self, at least.)
“I can,” you say stubbornly, “and I will because there is no way I am leaving you like this to suffer—so if you must use me for your own pleasure, then I think that is exactly what I will have you do because I want it of my own will. See? It is fine now, so come here and—”
“You are playing dangerous games,” his voice is deeper, lower, almost a throaty sound that vibrates in a way you’ve never heard from his usual rich, smooth, almost velvety voice. “Humans are not meant to withstand this level of…depravity that becomes my nature—”
“You are infuriatingly stubborn,” you roll your eyes.
You step closer, moving to wrap your arms around his neck. He catches your wrists before you can press yourself closer against him. His grip is gentle, but his hand trembles as he holds yours. His pupils are blown wide, the faint iridescence of his eyes flickering like they are something alive, something of a soul of their own. “Do not tempt me,” he breathes. “You do not understand what you are inviting.”
“I think I do,” you say softly. “You’re suffering, and I won’t stand by and watch it.”
He shakes his head, his voice dropping to a low, strained murmur. “It is not the kind of suffering you can easily mend. The endurance of a fae and that of a human are…not measured in the same way.”
“I’ve never been afraid of a little imbalance,” you counter, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I like a good challenge.” For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The air between you holds still—tense, waiting.
And then he caves.
His hand rises to your jaw, tentative at first, as though he’s still convincing himself he shouldn’t. But the moment his skin meets yours, all restraint shatters. You’re pulled in for a kiss just as fervently as you lean in for one. Neither of you can say for certain who leans in first—who reaches for the other first. You don’t think you’d ever truly know.
His breath his hot against your mouth, and it comes out in nothing but heavy, short puffs of air that he all but gasps for. For all his stamina as a fae that he claims to have, he seems almost out of breath from just a little kissing. Your hands wander along his back, gently rubbing against the delicate portion between skin and wings as he lets out a surprised groan of pleasure at the feeling. You giggle into his mouth as he flinches in shock from the touch.
“You weren’t lying,” you murmur into his lips, “they really are sensitive, aren't they?”
“Amused, are we?” he huffs into your mouth.
“Maybe a little,” you admit cheekily. He only grunts in response—Kyryll in a rut is a Kyryll with very few words that he can articulate, you realize.
You feel the bulge of his cock against your thigh as he flips you around to press you against the wall, caging you with his tall, strong body as his hands desperately cup your jaw and angle your face up, kissing you with more hunger than before. It’s hot, his erection—you can feel that sheer warmth of it through the fabric and layers of clothes, and it’s thick and twitching through his pants in a way you’ve never felt him before, as though he’s already responding to absolutely nothing from how starved he really is for anything.
You move your thigh up, pressing it between his legs to slot perfectly against his crotch. He all but whimpers at the feeling—shuddering against you before his lips break away from yours and his face buries into your neck.
“D-don’t stop,” he pleads, “more. I need…more.”
“I know,” you soothe, gently tugging the hair tie that keeps his long strands in that low bun until it frees his hair and lets it fall down his back. Your fingers stroke through them, delicately raking your nails along his scalp as you murmur, “I know, baby. You need more. Got it.”
He shivers at the pet name, and you smile fondly. You would have preferred to relieve him of such a clear ache with more gratifying methods, but Kyryll does not allow himself to detach from you long enough for you to even reach for the waistband of his pants and use your hand. Your thigh is as good as he allows you to pleasure him with the way he’s pressed so close to your personal space. You feel him grind against it with his own pace, meeting your movements halfway as he chases the friction against his hardened cock.
When your fingers move back to his back, tracing the sensitive little networks of veins along the base of his wings, he groans into your neck, biting into your skin hard enough that it stings just a little.
“Does it feel good when I touch here?” You press gently into the base of his wing for emphasis.
He lets out a soft, breathless, almost whiny sound as he nods shakily. “Y-yes,” he swallows thickly, “very…very good.”
“How cute,” you giggle. “You are so cute.”
“M’close,” he gasps, “so…so, so close.”
“Already?” you blink in shock–you’ve really only hardly begun, “but we—”
You don’t even get to finish your thoughts before the sound of his voice, gravelly and thick with pleasure, cuts you off.
“F-fuck, I…I’m s-sorry,” he slurs his words incoherently, “‘m…c-cumming—”
You feel the familiar rush of warmth as he spills into his pants. (Kyryll has only cum in his pants once before—one night after he had a glass of wine too many, and you’d dragged your aching core against his own throbbing sensation between his legs as you shifted on his lap between kisses. It was cute then—seeing the adorable pinkness on his cheeks as he’d stuttered an apology. You enjoyed the slightly damp feeling of his release against your leg.)
But this time…it’s a little different. He absolutely soils his own clothes as much as yours. You can tell that much just seconds into his orgasm—the sheer amount of his seed that seeps through the fabric of his pants and dampens yours has you shocked. It’s…a lot. More than normal. More than you thought possible. Clearly not a very human amount, considering he is…well, very much not human. But you try your best to keep the steady rhythm of your thigh grinding against his crotch since he has stopped moving himself in favor of stilling—his body is taut and stiff as he shudders through every wave of his high, gasping into your neck and letting out choked moans against your skin.
“S-sorry,” he rasps, “I did not…I had not meant to tarnish your c-clothes with—ngh—”
He cuts his own sentence off with a low grunt as another thick, warm rope of cum spills from the head of his swollen cock. You shake your head in response to his apology—he does not need to apologize, you tell him softly—before gently rubbing his back as he rides out the last final waves of his orgasm. (It’s a long wave of pleasure—you’ve witnessed Kyryll fall apart quite a few times before. You like to consider your intimate life a display of healthy passion. It’s never lasted like this before, though—you don’t think you would forget it if you’d witnessed that sort of…well, spectacle seems not the kindest word for it. But it’s certainly a sight, that much is undoubtedly true. You decide not to comment on it for the sake of his feelings, however—you do not wish to embarrass him any further.)
“It’s okay,” you smile into his temple as you kiss it, “I don’t mind. Clothes can be washed, you know, silly.”
He pants into your neck, catching his breath for a brief moment before he reluctantly peels himself away from you. His face is even more flushed—his skin is practically glowing, and his wings seem even brighter as they droop into his back almost self-consciously. He doesn’t dare meet your eyes, as if his moment of self-indulgence is too shameful a scene for him to make peace with. You can practically hear his thoughts without him saying them—humping against your leg like that is the least dignified thing a man could do to the woman he cares for. Utterly unrefined and uncouth, and lacking in respect.
You sigh, reaching to cup his cheek. “Hey,” you whisper gently, “don’t worry too much. Do you feel better now?”
He looks at you miserably. It’s only then does your gaze wander a little lower…and you realize that he is still hard. Very, very, very hard—in fact, you don’t think it ever stopped despite the way he clearly came undone just a moment ago.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“…As you can see,” he says shakily, “this is not a problem that will resolve itself any time soon. Not even with your best efforts, I’m afraid.”
“So you need a few more rounds,” you shrug. He looks utterly horrified by your phrasing, which only makes you grin a little before you reach out to poke the tip of his nose affectionately. “I think I can handle that, baby—”
“No.” His voice sharpens, though there’s still that tremor of restraint beneath it. “You have already done far more than I deserve, my light. I will tend to the rest on my own. You should go—for your own sake, if not for mine. Though it pains me to watch you leave, it is the wisest course until I have recovered from this…condition of mine.”
“I’m not leaving,” you frown, your tone firm and unyielding.
He exhales, long and weary. “You are impossibly stubborn. Funny that you would have accused me of being just that, not too long ago.”
“I’m not!” you protest. “Look at you—you look like you’re in pain.”
“If you would kindly refrain from voicing such mortifying observations aloud,” he says with a tired sigh, “it would preserve what fragile shred of dignity I still possess, my dearest.”
You roll your eyes fondly.
You and Kyryll are an oddly functioning couple. You only just started calling him by his first name a few weeks ago. Before that, he was simply Flins. Mister Flins, before that, when he was just a ratnik who had saved you from a creature of the wild hunt.
Do be careful when you wander at night, Miss, he had said politely.
And then he had been off on his way. You run into him time and time and time and time again after that. It’s an odd way the world works, you like to think—how you can meet someone so often after one encounter when just days before, you’d never been aware of their existence. How they can bleed into everything you know so suddenly, like they’d been there this entire time, even when you’d known nothing of them for so long. Your usual places, your usual routes and paths, your usual stops. All of them have been the same for long enough that you wonder if perhaps they have merged with your cells and become part of who you are.
The one thing that was never there before was him. And then, as if the Gods had willed it, he was. Always, in every corner, it was Mister Flins.
How funny of a way the world works that things are thrust into your small bubble against your will, invading the tiny space of what you know and becoming one with all the things you hold dear.
Mister Flins at the market buying spices at the same time as you. Mister Flins walking down the same path as you are as he makes his way to his superior’s office. Mister Flins in the area to fix some broken part of his lamp. Mister Flins and a drink he asks to grab with you when you both happen to be free. Flins after that—he asks you kindly to drop the Mister. Flins and a nice dinner that he offers the bill for instantly. Flins at your place of work to escort you home in the evening—it’s dark out, you know, Miss. Flins in your kitchen as you make lunch while he’s in the area. Flins and that coat of his that he likes to drape over your couch when he’s here to stay for a while. Flins when you wake up in the morning, and he’s still there, tangled in the sheets with you. Flins who asks you to call him Kyryll, if you would accept—it’s only fair that two people who are courting use their proper names.
How long of a way you have come—from calling him Mister and hoping if you might ever run into him again, to whispering Kyryll like it’s a prayer and letting yourself into his home as you please. How far of a way you still have to go—he is still too embarrassed to be open with the physical desire that consumes him so wholly despite being intimate with you so many times before.
You wonder if a decade from now, Kyryll will warn you in advance that he will experience this same thing once more. If this time, instead of hiding from you, he might ask you to help him, take care of him. If he’ll trust you and put aside his composure and be fragile in your hands, so that you can carefully curl your hand and cup him in there, keeping him tucked into your hold, protected from the world.
You sigh, shaking your head in fondness before you gently murmur, “If you would just shove aside your pride for a moment and understand that I do not find shame in your nature, then perhaps we might both have an enjoyable time. I don’t dislike being intimate with you, you know—it isn’t as though it’s a chore for me.”
He swallows, mulling over your words before his shoulders ease. A loose, breathless chuckle slips past his lips. “You are remarkably eager to bed me, my love.”
“Don’t be so smug,” you scoff, stepping toward him as your arms curl around his neck.
He hums, burying his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder and inhaling deeply, breathing in the scent of you. You can still feel the throbbing length tucked away in his tight pants—but you let him set his own pace for how he wants to do this. This is about him, you remind yourself, him and his…whatever this fever is called that has consumed him and turned him into a sexual-haze induced version of himself with mythical features you did not think people of this world could possess.
You hesitate, voice gentle. “So…is this basically…like a rut or something?”
Kyryll stills, then exhales slowly against your skin. His laugh is quiet, resigned—the sound of a man who has given up on maintaining dignity. “If you insist on using such a barbaric term, then yes,” he murmurs, voice low and rueful. “It is something akin to that.”
“Ah,” you nod, trying not to grin. “Good to know.”
He lifts his head, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “I can feel you laughing at me.”
“I would never,” you lie, smiling sweetly. Silence lingers for a beat before your curiosity wins out. “But wait—how come I never see your features like this? The ears, the wings…” your gaze drifts downward and back up again, “I’ve seen you naked plenty before, and those wings definitely weren’t there then.”
A soft sigh escapes him as he closes his eyes, the faintest trace of embarrassment lacing his tone. “I can usually hide them,” he admits quietly. “Most of my kind evolved to conceal the traits that set us apart. The wings, the ears—I have learned to keep them hidden away to pass unnoticed among humans.” His wings twitch faintly behind him, betraying his irritation. “But in this state…” his voice roughens slightly, “I cannot maintain that restraint. They emerge on their own.”
You hum thoughtfully. “So your wings come out when you’re horny.”
He groans, shoulders slumping. “You do have an unmatched talent for vulgar phrasing, my light.”
“I like to think it’s one of my more endearing qualities,” you grin, brushing a fingertip along the curve of his ear until he shivers. “Don’t you?”
He gives you a look—half exasperation, half resigned fondness. “Endearing is one word for it,” he murmurs dryly. “There are others I might choose.”
“Charming? Irresistible? The light of your lonely, dark little life?” you suggest, all innocent eyes.
“Insufferable,” he says immediately.
You press a hand to your chest in mock offense. “You wound me. Truly, so mean.”
“You’ll recover.” His lips twitch, betraying amusement. “You always do.”
You grin wider, leaning closer so your noses almost brush. “Only because I am so fond of you. The things I endure in order to love you are what some might consider horrors, you know.”
“I’ve watched you survive far worse than my teasing,” he replies, arching a brow. You hum thoughtfully.
“True,” you whisper as you bite back a grin, “so surely, I can handle you when you are not entirely yourself.”
He exhales, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh—soft, endeared. “Incorrigible,” he murmurs, though the word loses its bite when you rise on your toes and press your lips to his.
The kiss starts tentative, almost cautious. You test the waters, and he trembles faintly against you, as though afraid he might hurt you just by touching. But when you tilt your head and draw him closer by the back of his neck, that restraint begins to crack. His hands find your waist, firm yet so achingly soft the way that Kyryll always is, and he kisses you again—deeper this time. Harder. Like he means it. The kind of kiss that steals the breath right out of your lungs as he inhales it for himself.
You feel his heartbeat where your palms rest against his bare chest, and the faint shiver of his wings brushing against your hands as they travel from his sternum to his back. When you part for air, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, the tips of his pointy, adorable little ears flushed a faint shade of rose.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, his voice hoarse with longing.
“Positive,” you breathe, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. He presses a kiss to the pad of your finger before nodding.
“You’ll try to stop me if it’s too much? Perhaps we should keep something heavy nearby so you may hit me if I do not listen to reason—I will certainly survive the blow and—”
“I am not hitting your head, Kyryll,” you gape, “and I’m not backing out, either. Now fuck me—I want you.”
“Must you say it just like that?” he asks tiredly.
You giggle, nodding as you murmur, “How else will I prove my enthusiasm to feel you?”
That seems to undo him completely. He looks at you for a moment—good and long and hard before he kisses you again. This time, it’s with the kind of fervor that feels almost desperate now, stumbling a little as you both move in a tangle of limbs through the quiet rooms of his home. His hand stays at the small of your back, guiding you blindly toward the bedroom, though his mouth never leaves yours for long.
The journey there is clumsy and impatient—you nearly trip over a low stool in your rush, and he catches you with a low laugh that melts against your lips. His wings flutter, brushing against furniture, fragile things trembling with the same tension that threads through his entire body. He moans into your mouth every few moments, unable to keep his usual composure and bite back the sounds. You like this version of Kyryll—the version that makes his pleasure a loudly known fact rather than a politely kept secret.
By the time your knees hit the edge of his bed, he’s panting harshly, worked back up to impatience for release as his body burns with tension.
“This is your last chance to leave while you easily can, you know,” he says lowly—his voice thick, hoarse, and edged with something that no longer sounds entirely human. Each word rasps as though dragged through gravel, deeper and rougher than before, echoing faintly in his chest before reaching you. The sound sends a shiver down your spine—not from fear, but from the strange, thrilling feeling of want piercing through your spine.
You meet his gaze steadily. “I’m not backing out,” you say, your voice so firm and sure.
He closes his eyes, jaw tightening as though your words physically pull at the fraying thread of his control. “You do not understand what you invite, my light.”
“I don’t want to understand,” you whisper, reaching for him, “I just want you.”
His breath stutters at the touch. For a moment, he seems frozen, torn between his care for you and his instinct of desire. Then—as if his biology finally wins over—whatever fragile barrier he’s built around himself shatters. The sound that escapes him is low, almost feral, but still unmistakably him.
“I told you,” he says gruffly, “I will not be guided by my affections. Yet you insist so firmly to see a version of me that only fucks you with instinct alone—is that what you truly want? A man as depraved and senseless as this? What little regard for your fragile, human body,” he chuckles.
His mouth claims yours before you can reply—hard and bruising and all teeth, filled with a relentless urgency. You gasp, arching into his touch as his large, impatient hands tug you closer by your clothes. (So this is what he meant, you think—Kyryll is utterly lacking in his typical gentleness. No—in fact, his gentleness is completely gone.)
Your clothes are torn off in a swift motion. He does not bother disrobing you, does not bother taking his time to admire you, or tease you, or simply just bask in the moment of being so intimately close to you. Instead, he grabs the fabric with a rough hand, pulls with more force than you’ve ever seen from him, and tears the fabric without remorse. You gasp at the sight of it being completely irreparable.
“Kyryll!” you hiss, “soiling clothes is one thing, but destroying them is an entirely separate—”
“Enough,” he cuts in, voice low and edged. “They were in my way. I will not waste time with trivial barriers.”
You shiver at the sound of such a rough tone in his voice. Long gone is the delicate, well-mannered, and well-spoken man you know—long gone is his patience and sweetness and lingering precision in everything he does.
His hands squeeze at your hips in appreciation as he marvels at the sight of your curves and bare skin. “Mmh, and to think I was going to deny myself such a splendid gift—where such patience had graced me, even I myself cannot tell. No matter—I will make the most of such a wonderful blessing.”
You’re dripping—his words alone, his sheer desire to use you alone, have made the ache between your legs worsen, and the pool of slick collecting there does the same. It coats your inner thighs, and when he roughly spreads your legs apart, humming at the sigh of your bare cunt, you whimper.
“What a sight,” he groans, “I cannot wait until I am buried in the warmth of such a beautiful, perfect cunt.”
He is much less hesitant to use filthier words, too, you realize. And less focused on you and your pleasure as his fingers sink past the velvety walls of your pussy, curling deep into that spongy, sensitive spot that makes you mewl. Nothing about this is gentle. Nothing about it is thoughtful and giving and filled with adoration like Kyryll always is when he beds you. Nothing about it puts your pleasure above all else and does it for the sole purpose of making you feel good and feel his devotion.
No. Instead, Kyryll fucks his fingers into you because he needs you prepped and ready to take his cock. He also wants to feel the warmth of your walls flutter around his fingers because his mind is in a filthy haze. You can tell because the way he groans as his fingers pump into you, scissoring and stretching you open, has nothing to do with the way you gasp and twitch from pleasure, but everything to do with the wet, squelching sound he hears and that shiny, messy essence that he sees coating his fingers.
“So warm,” he moans, “how long before I can sink the entirety of my cock into such a perfectly awaiting pussy, I wonder.”
“K-Kyryll, please—”
“Say that again,” he demands, “say my name like that again. Say it.”
“Kyryll,” you sob brokenly. His fingertips are so cruel, slamming and curling into that sensitive spot so rough and fast, so impatient to get you gushing around him so that you are ready to take his cock with ease. “M’go-gonna…gonna cum—fuck!”
“There it is, my dove,” he smiles, pleased. “I knew you would do well—after all, you always give me just what I want, don’t you? It’s what you know best, isn’t it? Such a good, obedient human.”
Your orgasm doesn’t last long—it’s not like the usual sort of high Kyryll coaxes out of you. It’s not soft and prolonged and doesn’t make you slip into a hazy, blissful state that makes you feel like you’re floating. Instead, it all but makes you black out, a wave of pleasure that absolutely wrecks you and shocks your body right to its core. It’s impatient and fast, and when you come down from the split second of pure white-hot pleasure, he is already there, studying your fluttering walls and humming in approval.
“I think you are sufficiently ready, don’t you think, my dear?” he all but growls.
You watch deliriously as he unzips his pants, quickly shrugging them and his boxers off in a swift movement and freeing his cock—and oh. You have seen his cock. You have taken his cock down your throat and deep in your walls, and you’ve felt the weight of it in your hand. You are not a stranger to the sight of Kyryll’s cock, but you are a stranger to his version of it—the version of it that has thicker veins that are practically glowing along the side of his length. The version of it that has messy, runny, iridescent pre cum leaking from the tip and coating his pink, flushed cockhead. The version of it that looks even bigger and thicker, and longer than you remember it.
You gasp at the sheer sight of it, instinctively pressing your thighs together in…in what? You do not even know. In fear? In excitement? In need of relief at the sheer excitement it sends through your aching core, or in need of a break before you’ve even begun from the sheer size of it that will surely break you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, “oh my god, it…it’s not going to fit,” you shake your head. “K-Kyryll, you’ll…you’ll break me.”
“Will I?” he chuckles, slightly mocking as he leans down and presses a flurry of kisses along your jaw, sucking and biting at your skin before he makes his way to your neck and inhales the scent of you once more. It occurs to you then that perhaps the scent of you has only been driving him more mad this whole time—that with the way he’s taken every opportunity to sniff at your skin, he must be absolutely overwhelmed by the scent of you. “I specifically remember you saying you would not mind doing this with me and that it was not a chore. Why the sudden change of heart?”
“L-look at the…the size of…of it!” you stutter, “that is not what it usually is!”
“We will easily make it fit, my dove,” he hums, “not to worry. There is no doubt that this pretty cunt will open up nice and slowly for me—after all, she is a good, good girl, isn’t she?”
He traces a thumb over your clit as he says that—and when you whine, jolting from the touch, he chuckles in a sick, almost twisted form of amusement. Without warning, he grabs a leg, hooking it over his shoulder as his hand squeezes the meat of your thigh and groans.
“You were made for my taking,” he says, staring at your body as though he’s in a heavy trance. His eyes are wide and dilated, unfocused and almost wild as he rakes them over every section of bare skin he can. “I am going to take great pleasure in feeling the tight warmth of you wrapped around me—what a wonderful fate life has granted me, indeed.”
With that, he leans down to hover over you, and the knee tossed over his shoulder bends and practically meets your chest as he closes the gap and kisses you roughly. The thick, blunt head of his cock meets the entrance of your cunt, pushing past the folds slowly, carefully for a moment that you almost think that this is your Kyryll—the Kyryll that you know and love.
But then, with a rough snap of his hips, he’s pressed a good amount of his length into you, stretching you with a burning girth that makes you cry out in a sharp mewl. “T-too much, baby,” you sob, “w-wait—”
“You can take it, my dear,” he insists, kissing away the tears with chapped, warm lips that feel nothing like the usual soft and cool ones you’re used to. You hardly recognize the man who is taking you, and yet…and yet, you cannot help but fall in love even deeper with him in this state. Every fiber of your existence should scream to run, but instead, they long to be intertwined with him. Threaded into the very fibers of his own existence, living tangled and one with him.
He’s right. You can take him—and you do. He snaps his hips one more time and buries the rest of himself into you, completely down to the hilt and completely filling you up until you feel almost certain that you can feel him in your throat and lungs.
“S-so big,” you gasp, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him as your walls flutter around the intrusion of his thick, swollen cock. He groans, wings fluttering behind him impatiently as he waits for you to give the signal that you’re ready for him to move—he still has enough sense in his system for that much kindness. “S-so full, baby—m’so full.”
“Yes,” he says hoarsely, “what a sweet, precious girl, you are—taking me so well. Such a darling light I have that takes me so well and doesn’t complain. I simply adore you, my dove.”
You mewl at the praise, clawing at his back with your nails as you pull him closer—and impatiently, with a jolt of your hips, you plead, “M-move! Move, please…need to feel you so bad.”
Your hands rub along his back—and without the same careful, gentle precision as before, you rub at the base of his wings, too. Friction at the delicate, sensitive, almost painful nerve-endings at his wings that respond to your touch by twitching harshly. He lets out a gasp, jolting with a low, drawn-out moan that is obscenely loud. Obscene. Kyryll is never much of an obscene sight even in the throes of pleasure, but you suppose such a frenzied, desperate state of mind would make him prioritize his composure last.
“F-fuck—I told you, those are sensitive,” he hisses, “you…you cannot simply just touch and feel them as you please unless you want to—”
You lean up and bite at his earlobe, effectively cutting him off as his breath gets caught in his throat. You hear the hitch before you whisper into the shell of his pointed ear, “Kyryll, just fuck me already. What in the Gods' names are you waiting for?”
That makes something in him snap. Something carnal and hungry and desperate and…so far gone in his desires, it almost feels animalistic. His hips snap, harsh and fast, and nudge his cock deeper and deeper past your folds, pressing effortlessly against that sensitive, delicate spot in the back of your walls. Your Kyryll usually knows where that spot is; he usually aims his thrusts to kiss that spot with the blunt head of his cock purposely.
This Kyryll doesn’t try. He doesn’t even think to find your pleasure points, drilling his aching length and chasing the warm friction of the tight walls that surround him without a thought. It just so happens that naturally so, with the sheer size and girth of him, with the perfect curve of cock, he manages to find that spot anyway.
“Fuck,” he groans, “ngh—you are so…so soft. So exquisite and warm and so fucking tight.”
Your legs wrap around his hips, bracing yourself for every forceful, heavy snap of his hips. It’s fast and rough and impatient. It’s everything your Kyryll is not. It’s hungry and mad and vulgar. There’s a filthy squelching sound that mixes in with both of your pleasured sounds—a wet, filthy one that comes from skin slapping on skin and the way his cock slips in and out of your dripping cunt.
“I’ll fill you up,” he says lowly, “there is a perfect little womb right here,” his large hand presses against your belly, applying light pressure against it as he thrusts into you, making you wail. “And I intend to make good use of it. I will fill this womb up with my seed over and over again—until it takes. However many times I must, I will. Until you are swollen with a child that will have both the bloodline of a fae and a delicate little human.”
“P-please—”
“Is that what you want?” He coos, “to have a child you can bear with half of me and you? Perhaps my eyes? Your smile? Is that what my darling little human wants?”
“Y-yes,” you sob, “yes, yes—please!”
“Then far be it from me to deny such a precious request,” he hums.
You moan into his mouth as he kisses you roughly. A messy dance of tongue and teeth and hot breath that you exchange between heavy panting. One hand tangles in his hair and tugs, and the other alternates between scratching into his back and rubbing over those delicate nerves at the base of his wings. You feel him jolt every time you trace them—feel him let out a tiny whimper into your mouth when your thumb catches over a particularly delicate membrane that makes his whole body shudder.
“Oh,” he groans roughly, “I’m…I’m c-close—so…so tight. It’s never…it’s never felt like this before.”
For a fleeting moment, you wonder what he means by that—he’s fucked you plenty of times before. Plenty of times, he’s felt the slick tightness of your cunt and the warm walls that wrap around him invitingly. Then…then it occurs to you that perhaps…perhaps this is the first time Kyryll has ever fucked somebody at all during a rut. Perhaps he has never had the company of another while he locks himself away in his home.
Perhaps, all these years, he’s had nothing but the frustrating company of his own hand against his cock, a limited and lonely form of relief for that awful, throbbing ache between his legs. You imagine it—the sight of him sprawled on his bed, bare and sweaty and painfully erect. The sight of his fist stroking his cock and squeezing at the base while he bites the palm of his hand and chokes on sounds he tries to suppress. The sight of him spilling into his hand and feeling the tremors of his pleasure all alone with no one to whisper sweet nothings to him as he comes down from the high.
What a lonely, awful way it must have been to ease his aches. What a lonely, awful fate he was so willingly to resign himself to again before you had wormed your way into his home and demanded an explanation from him. A part of you knows he had done it mainly out of fear—fear of hurting you and losing control. Fear of slipping too far in his desires and taking it further than he would ever dream of, and causing you harm.
But another part of you wonders if Kyryll is just too used to being alone. If his mind and body are accustomed to being alone during something like this, that even when his body craves the heat and closeness of someone else, even when his mind has envisioned you in less than proper ways, like he’s said himself, he is too ingrained in the habit of being alone. Being far, far away from others and handling things alone. Being far, far away from you when he thinks himself to be a burden who does not deserve your closeness or your care or your intimacy.
And you don’t like it. You don’t want his mind to think that way on default and put space between you when all you want is to be nestled into his skin and make home in his ribcage. You’re safest there—he would protect you with his bones and shatter them first before anything would harm you. You know that.
And you want to take care of him. See the less than human parts and make them feel welcome in this big, large world where there is room for both of you to exist with your differences.
“Have you ever fucked someone like this, Kyryll?” You whisper, “When your body is flushed and warm like this? Has anyone touched these cute little wings of yours as you fucked your load into them? Held you as you come undone? That’s what you deserve, don’t you think?”
Filthy. That’s how you make him feel. That’s how he makes you feel, too. Even when you are being sweet, you are both downright, purely filthy.
“No,” he rasps, “fuck—no, I haven’t. I’ve never…n-never had someone before you for…for this.”
“So I’m your first proper rut, is that it?” You manage to giggle even through his ruthless, heavy thrusts. Even as he bullies his cock into your folds as deep as it’ll go, you find a way to tease and mock him.
(And he likes it. There is, undeniably, a part of him that excites when you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t feel him twitch inside of your cunt like that.)
“Yes,” he groans loudly, dizzy with pleasure as you squeeze around him, “yes…my first…first proper one.”
His hips stutter for a moment as he says the words—like he’s mulling them over and pondering on the implications of them before suddenly, your other leg is thrown over his shoulder and you cannot help but squeal in shock from the force of his body maneuvering yours. He folds you in half, and your knees are almost pressed to your chest.
He rolls his hips in quick, impatient thrusts—sloppy in rhythm and no longer as deliberate as they once were in pace. He’s close. This Kyryll is so, so different from your Kyryll, but he’s still the same. You recognize the patterns as they come. That slack jaw and those eyes that flutter shut and roll to the back of his head. The deep, heavy breaths and the low, raspy grunts. The familiar way his pace becomes messy and less rhythmic as he tries to grind into you and chase the friction. And finally, the small, little twitch his cock does before he spills into you. It’s warm—so fucking warm and thick, and it fills you up from just a few ropes.
“M’c-cumming,” he says hoarsely, so fragile and broken as pleasure bleeds through his veins and shoots along his nerves. “So…so good, love—you always feel so good.”
Just like the first time he came in his pants right against your legs, he spills more seed than you ever imagined possible. It paints your walls white, and he does a careful job of fucking the load into you as it spills, never stilling for a second. You can feel it leaking from your folds—there’s a mess of his cum and your slick leaking past your folds and coating your inner thighs, dripping along your skin.
He watches, mesmerized.
And when a particularly sharp thrust lands, you follow him as you fall off the edge and go hurtling into your own pleasure. It’s dizzying. He’s never stretched you like this—you’ve never felt veins this thick rub against your walls and drag along with such sickening friction. When you cum, you cum hard—harder than you ever have on his cock. You squeeze around him, milking him of the last of his thick ropes of cum and making sure he gives you everything he can.
“Kyryll,” you gasp—you chant it a few more times as you ride out the final waves of your high, unable to form anything else but the thought of his name. “Oh,” you breathe, “fuck.”
He slumps over you as he finishes, catching his breath in the crook of your neck. His wings tremble faintly before folding closed, and for a long moment, the only sound is his heavy breathing and the faint hum of his heartbeat against your chest.
When he finally speaks, his voice is still rough, still deep and throaty. “I did warn you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “I told you I lose myself in this state. You insisted on testing me.”
You hum, utterly unbothered, fingers lazily combing through his damp hair. “Lose yourself? That was you losing control? I must say, I expected something a little more…dramatic.”
He lifts his head, giving you a look equal parts disbelief and exhaustion. “You have the audacity to critique my performance?”
“I’m just saying,” you tease, grinning, “for all that talk about feral instincts and uncontrollable urges, you were still very polite about it. You even romantically asked to start a family with me.”
A huff of laughter escapes him despite himself. “You mock me even now?”
“Only because it’s easy,” you grin, kissing his cheek. “All that talk, and you’re already out of breath.”
A low, breathless hum escapes him. “No need to worry,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual—and you feel the familiar twitch of his cock. Still hard and still swollen inside you. “We still have a long way to go before my desires are satisfied. I hope you’re prepared.”
You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, eyes widening a fraction. “Oh…how long?”
Kyryll smirks—that infuriating, elegant smirk that makes you weak-kneed. “Well,” he begins, voice dipping, “I did say that fae have a lot of stamina.”
“Well…” you murmur, looking at him with defiant eyes. “I still think I can handle that.”
He groans, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, “We shall see,” he rasps, “because I am not finished with you yet.”
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ it’s been a rough night. your heart is still recovering from being broken, you need an uber home, your phone is dead, and everyone else has already left the class a yearly reunion. well—everyone except bakugou. he gives you not just a ride home, but a solution to your lonely predicament
── ✶ word count: 12.0k words ; give it a chance plssss
── ✶ before you read: female reader ; pro hero bakugou + pro hero reader ; reader was in class a ; reader has a quirk (she's stretchy - think like elastigirl from the incredibles LOL) ; reader gets her heart broken by an unnamed random guy + has insecurities ; bakugou is silently pining (and quite good at hiding it tbh) ; friends (sort of) to lovers ; cunnilingus ; p in v ; creampie ; morning after ; confessions (sort of. its bakugou ok) ; getting together ; the class a girls are gossips ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ hi my name is riv and i am going thru mental breakdown after mental breakdown about my life but it wont stop me from writing about letting bkg hit
Class A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing.
Sure, years pass. Adulthood kicks in. Lives become busier, more hectic, more demanding. Time is a funny thing—nine years ago, you were sitting in a classroom with these people, learning how to be a hero. Nine years later, you’re sitting in a rented-out bar, sharing a drink with them as they trade hero stories like it’s part of the average day.
Then again, you suppose it is the average day for pros. Wake up, go to work, save people, crack cases, go on patrol, and go to sleep. Repeat.
Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.
And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.
Class A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class A routine meet-up.
If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?
That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.
You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.
You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.
“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.
You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.
“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”
“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”
Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else.
If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”
“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”
You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.
“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.
You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.
Huh.
You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.
As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.
First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.
And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”
“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”
He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”
Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.
At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”
You pause.
“What?” you blink.
He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”
You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”
You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.
“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”
“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.
Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”
“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.
You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.
“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.
His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.
The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.
He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.
“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.
”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.
”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.
His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.
”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.
”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”
You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”
You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?
You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”
”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.
”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”
Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.
Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.
The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.
Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.
It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.
The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.
Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.
But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.
That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.
And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.
You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.
The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.
(If anything, you hope it will.)
You clear your throat. “So.”
He doesn’t look at you. “So?”
“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.
He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”
“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”
Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.
Holy fuck.
“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?
“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”
“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”
He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”
“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”
“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”
You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”
“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”
“He said you don’t take breaks.”
“I don’t need breaks.”
You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”
That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”
You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”
“You know what I mean,” he mutters.
Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.
For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.
The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.
He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”
You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”
“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.
“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.
Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”
You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”
“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”
“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”
He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”
You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”
If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.
He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.
So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.
“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”
“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”
You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”
“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”
“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”
You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”
“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”
“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”
“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”
“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”
“So then what’s the big deal?”
You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”
Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”
“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”
“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.
It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“W-what?” you stutter.
“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”
It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.
Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little.
But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.
If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares.
Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you.
—
When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”
You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally.
Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember.
He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is.
“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”
“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”
“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”
“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”
“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”
He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive.
“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.
He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”
“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly.
“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”
“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”
He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”
“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”
“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”
“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”
“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”
You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.
“Hah?” he grunts.
It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple.
“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”
Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”
You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”
“That’s bullshit.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”
You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”
“Then what is?” he shoots back.
You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”
Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.
You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.
“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”
“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”
He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”
“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”
Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)
But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”
And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.
But then he takes you by surprise.
“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”
You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”
Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.
“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”
All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.
“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile.
He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.
“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.
You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.
“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.
“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”
You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You literally were.”
“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.
He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too.
You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.
“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.
What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same.
So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.
“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here.
“You’re still staring,” you whisper.
His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.
“Then stop staring.”
“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”
“I think you were staring.”
“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”
“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”
“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”
You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”
“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”
You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”
“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.
You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”
It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded.
He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was?
You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.
“Bakugou—”
“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.
You blink. “What?”
“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it.
And then he leans in.
He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you.
You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so.
And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.
Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”
“You just kissed—”
You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”
You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.
And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly.
It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.
It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do.
“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”
“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.
He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”
He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.
“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.”
He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance.
“Hey—”
“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”
Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple.
“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored.
Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.
He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts.
You nod quickly as you breathe heavily.
He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”
“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”
That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles.
“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”
“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”
He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.
“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—
“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”
“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”
He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.
It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.
Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”
“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”
“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”
“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.
And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.
Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.
Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.
You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.
“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”
“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.
You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.
“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.
“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”
“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”
“Then do it, baby.”
You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.
You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”
When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.
“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”
He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.
“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”
He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”
“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”
“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.
“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.
“Eat you out?”
“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.
He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.
Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”
“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”
“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”
“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff.
To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”
You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”
In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.
It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely.
And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him.
And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”
“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts.
It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him.
It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything.
At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy.
You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks.
You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over.
“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.
“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back.
Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive.
You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him.
“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused.
“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”
You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit.
“Be quiet,” you warn.
“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”
“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”
That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you.
“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”
He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient.
For him—just for him, you’ll be patient.
“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”
“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving.
It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good.
“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”
“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”
Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips.
Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily.
“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”
“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”
“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”
“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”
“Only me, huh?”
“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you.
Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more.
Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to.
You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for.
“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it.
“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”
“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”
“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”
He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.
It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.
It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him.
“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”
“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say.
“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”
And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it.
“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”
“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble.
He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more.
You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.
—
When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.
Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).
One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”
You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him.
“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”
“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”
“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”
“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.
He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”
“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”
“Nope,” you answer easily.
You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question.
“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”
You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” you mumble.
“Great. Go out with me, then.”
You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”
“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”
“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”
“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”
“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”
“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”
Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.”
“That was a demand, not a question.”
“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”
“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”
Class A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki.
—
One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡
Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready
Ochaco: absolutely!
Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap
Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys.
You: holy fuck. guys…
You: i slept with bakugou last night
Mina: WHAT?
Toru: WHAT?
Tsu: WHAT?
Kyoka: WHAT?
Momo: WHAT?
Ochako: WHAT?
Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT
Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW
You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN
Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too
Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P
You: [ one attachment ]
Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK
Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!
Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO
Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him
Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?
Toru: never lol let’s be real
You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him
Mina: oh god it begins
Toru: she’s already making excuses for him
Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??
Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?
yeah i wrote this in one day. this asshole has taken over my life yet again 6 years later i feel like history always repeats itself
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ katsuki is going to propose tonight. he even has a plan—a perfect, well thought out plan. and then he loses the fucking ring the day of said plan. maybe he should just stick to fighting villains, or something
── ✶ word count: 6.2k words ; i present to you my mess
── ✶ before you read: female reader ; established relationship ; pro hero bakugou ; reader is a teacher at U.A. ; reader wears make up and feminine clothes ; showering together + nudity ; grinding ; implied shower sex ; bakugou is going to propose, so themes of marriage ; alternating POVs ; poor bakugou temporarily loses the ring ; fluff ; masterlist.
read: an extra drabble of the proposal here!
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ this was supposed to be a drabble but i mean what else is new am i right
The sun is warm on his face when Katsuki wakes up, peeking through the gaps of the hotel curtains and spilling onto his skin. Somewhere in the distance, he hears you humming to yourself in the bathroom while you go through your skincare routine, the soft clink of bottles mixing with the tune under your breath. His eyes blink open as he kicks the blanket off, lids still heavy with sleep. It takes him a brief moment to remember exactly where he is, but when it clicks, a low, blissful hum rumbles from his throat.
Vacation.
There are no alarms screaming at him at five in the morning. No agency calls. No patrol routes, or idiots needing something from him before he’s even had coffee. Just a quiet hotel room, warm sunlight, and you a few steps away behind the bathroom door.
It’s summer. Katsuki likes it when it’s summer.
There are a few reasons why it’s a fabulous time of year, in his humble opinion. For one, he fights best in the heat, making this his peak season for pro work. For another, your students are on break, which means so are you, which means Katsuki can finally take you on the long-awaited trip he’s been promising. Most importantly, though, summer is your favorite season, and that’s enough reason for him to like it with you.
Then a shriek cuts through the room, pulling him from his thoughts before he can even sit up and properly rub the sleep from his eyes.
“Kats!” you cry, voice pitched high with panic. “There’s a spider on the sink! Wake up!”
“God dammit, woman,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he rises from bed and pads over to where you are. “You teach kids how to be heroes for a living, and something as dumb as a spider gets you all fucked up?”
“Don’t start,” you hiss. “Just get the thing out of here, I don’t—oh my god! Katsuki, it’s moving! Hurry!”
He sighs, gently nudging you out of the way before grabbing a napkin and scooping up the (very) small arachnid. He tosses it into the trash as you let out a sigh of relief.
“There,” he grumbles. “Quit squealing now.”
“Thanks, baby,” you beam, turning to wrap your arms around his neck. You press a kiss to his lips, and he happily returns it. “Morning.”
“Morning,” he mumbles, pulling you against his chest. “Shower yet?”
“No, I’ll probably take one later—”
“Perfect. You can join me,” he says with a satisfied grin.
You give him a flat look. “I just did my skincare for the morning. I’m not washing it all away—”
“Let’s get this off’a you,” he says, promptly deciding to ignore you as he lifts your shirt over your head. You sigh in defeat (though you never really put up a fight anyway), groaning as your shirt goes flying, followed by your bra, and he can’t help the smirk of victory that spreads across his face.
“You’re super annoying,” you tell him seriously.
“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. “And you’re a fuckin’ idiot. Wanna exchange some more facts while we’re at it?”
It’s summer. Katsuki enjoys summer. He likes the warm weather, the extra time you have on your hands, and the way the two of you can spend a few days somewhere nice and far away from everything. You don’t bring along papers to grade. He doesn’t check his emails during the rare paid time off he’s taken. His paychecks finally come in handy for a nice, well-accommodating hotel room. No one interrupts when he wants you to himself.
There’s no reason not to love summer. Katsuki looks forward to it every year. He fights long, bothersome fights with villains and delinquents out there through the cold winters and tells himself that if he works hard now, he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor when the warm weather rolls around. It’s the only thing that gets him through long days at the agency, or the stupid interviews and social bullshit that his publicist forces him through.
All of it endured for this. This singular, peaceful week and a half with you by his side, enjoying his life without any other nonsense for once.
Katsuki likes summer—and he’s going to like it a hell of a lot more when he puts a shiny ring on your finger when you say yes to being his wife in just a little bit.
“Here,” you hand him your body wash, “if you’re going to waste my freshly applied skincare, you better make it worth my while. You do the work.”
“Not a problem—anything for my lazy fuckin’ sunshine. You deserve to be pampered,” he agrees smoothly, chuckling when you throw your loofa at his chest.
“Lazy?”
“S’what I said,” he hums easily. “Glad to know your ears still work.”
“You take that back, you asshole—mmph!”
He cuts you off with a kiss. It’s a good fucking kiss, he thinks. Warm water is cascading down his back, you’re in his arms and pressed against his chest, your arms are looping around his neck, there’s a scenic ocean view from the small one-way window next to both of you, and your nails do that thing that he loves with the hair at the nape of his neck. This is all that he wants.
Katsuki can get used to a life like this—in fact, he already is used to a life like this. Ever since you moved in with him two years, three months, and twelve days ago (not that he’s been counting), he’s spent every morning waking up and moving through his routine with you woven into it.
You in his bathroom, your toothbrush tucked beside his. You at his table while he slides breakfast onto your plate. You in his kitchen, wearing your stupid little apron while you cook as he comes home roughed up after patrol. You on his couch after dinner, legs tucked beneath you as you grade assignments. You in his bed, dragging the blanket he kicked off right back over the two of you while you shiver and complain.
Katsuki is used to this life. He fucking loves it, even. He wants it for the rest of his days. He wants you tangled up in his space, threading yourself through every corner of his existence, and he wants the comfort of knowing the next day will look the same.
So he’s going to marry you. He’s got it all figured out.
Raccoon Eyes helped him pick the ring—it’s exactly what you’d want, according to her. Apparently, she has access to the Pinterest board you’ve had for years. Ponytail Girl took you to get your nails done—something pretty and dainty and perfect for the photos. He was strictly warned not to propose unless your cuticles were in flawless condition. Pink Cheeks dragged you out to pick up a few new outfits, as if you didn’t already have enough clothes. Still, if Katsuki gets to see you in something new, he’s not about to complain. Flat-Face and Shitty-Hair even looked over his speech.
Well. It’s as close to a speech as he’s going to get. Katsuki doesn’t do stupid, sappy bullshit the way people insist he should. It wouldn’t be him. He’s going to tell you what matters off the top of his head—the things he’d never forget. He’s going to tell you that he loves you, and he’s not going to stop. That he’s going to take care of you no matter what. That you’re the only person on this planet who doesn’t drive him up a wall. That you’re worth keeping, worth never letting go of, so you better get used to it and just marry him already.
But since Kirishima insists that Katsuki at least go over the main points first, he sends the idiot a few bulleted outlines just to get him off his back.
More people than Katsuki would prefer already know that this is going to happen. It was supposed to be just Kirishima and Mina, and that was it. Kirishima simply because—well, the annoying bastard is decent enough at advice when it comes to this kind of thing, so Katsuki allows it. Mina simply because he needed someone to approve the ring, and he sure as hell wasn’t going shopping with his hag of a mother.
But the pink-haired fucking gossip ends up running her mouth, and suddenly, everyone comes to him with an opinion of their own.
She’ll be mortified if you let her get engaged with bare nails!
You can’t let her repeat an outfit for the pictures. They have to be special!
Kirishima says you’re gonna wing your proposal??? C’mon, man, you have to plan what you’re going to say, you gotta make this good!
Katsuki has put a lot into these plans. Took you to that resort across the globe you’ve always wanted to visit, planned out your nails and outfit to match so that the pictures come out flawless, practiced the stupid speech that he didn’t need with Kirishima and Sero against his will, and he’s going to make this proposal good. Better than good. The greatest. Because that’s what he does—he does things the best, and it’s going to stay that way because that’s what you deserve.
The fucking best that he’s got.
“Baby,” you pull away from his lips, holding a hand to stop him when he leans back in for more. He grumbles when you do, displeased, and you laugh as you murmur, “As much as I would love to shower with you forever, we have places to be.”
“Yeah, and we got all day to be places,” he insists, hands wandering past your bare hips, grabbing a handful of your ass, and squeezing.
“You said we’d explore,” you whine, “and I wanna do it before all the other people get there and busy everything up!”
“I’ll shove ‘em out the way,” he offers, grinning when you giggle.
“Maybe some other time,” you snort, “maybe when you’re not in Japan’s top ten hero rankings and always land on the news. Then, maybe, I’ll entertain that lovely idea of yours.”
“Never let me have any fun,” he complains playfully, grinning as he leans back in to kiss you again. You kiss him back, and fuck—Katsuki wants to be here forever. He never wants summer to end, and he wants this for the rest of his damn days.
He almost wonders if retiring this young is a plausible option for him when you slip your tongue into his mouth and run it against his.
His cock is half hard already—he can feel the way it presses against you, and you move your thigh, bringing it up to rub against him and make him groan. He rolls his hips for a moment, grinding against your skin as he grows to full hardness. He doesn’t have to touch you to know that you’re dripping between your legs, not because of the shower but because of him. And he takes a little bit of pride in that. In knowing that just him and his lips on yours is enough to turn you into a pliant, needy mess in his arms.
“Katsuki,” you try to warn.
“Jus’ let me have my fun,” he smirks, “you know you want it. We have time.”
—————
The shower takes a bit longer than expected. But not too long—you and Katsuki are still on schedule for the day he’s planned, so he’s not worried.
You’re still in the bathroom getting ready when Katsuki is getting dressed. He grins to himself at the thought of you doing your makeup and dolling yourself up just for him. He’s going to kiss you senseless with that lip gloss of yours smeared all over his mouth once you let him slide the ring he picked onto your finger.
He reaches into the pocket of the last pair of pants he wore to grab the small box that currently holds the most valuable thing he owns. His old hag of a mother nagged him not to keep it on him like that—that he’d lose it, or accidentally expose it, or absentmindedly throw it through the wash. He doesn’t listen, of course. Mainly because he never listens to the hag, but also because he refuses to keep that ring anywhere but within reach of his own two hands. He needs to know it’s there at all times or he’ll lose his damn mind.
So, like he always does, he grabs yesterday’s pants and reaches into the right pocket, ready to move the familiar velvet box into the pocket of the pair he’s wearing now.
Except when he reaches in, the pocket is empty. He stills. His pocket is fucking empty.
No, it isn’t, he thinks, trying to keep a level head—it’s in there. Of course, it is. There’s nowhere else it’ll be, so he just needs to check again. His fingers sweep through the pocket again, slower this time, then harder, pressing into the seams as if the box might be tucked into some hidden corner of fabric. Some secret pocket within his pocket that was always there, and he just never noticed.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Katsuki curses under his breath and checks the left pocket. Then the back pockets. Then he turns every single pocket he’s got inside out. Then he gives the pants a sharp, thorough shake like his life depends on it.
Nothing. Still absolutely fucking nothing.
From the bathroom, you’re still humming softly to yourself, the faucet running for a moment before clicking off. Your makeup bag zips open, then shut. You’re completely, blissfully unaware of his growing dilemma.
His pulse spikes so hard it feels like there’s an explosion behind his ribs.
No. No, no, no. He had it. He confidently knows he had it. Last night, before bed, he checked for it—just like he always checks for it. He remembers the shape of the box against his palm. Remembers putting the pants over the chair. Did he take it out? No. He wouldn’t do that. Would he? Did he? He can’t think straight, his mind a busy swarm of worst-case scenarios and nightmare possibilities.
“Babe?” you call through the bathroom door. “Is my lip gloss in my purse? Can you check? I don’t think it’s in my bag.”
Shit. The last thing he needs right now is you coming out while he searches for this fucking ring that he knows he had in this room as of last night before bed. Where the hell could it have gone within the few hours he slept? It’s a ring. Sure, weird and unnatural things happen—he causes explosions at will with his palms, for crying out loud, but it’s a damn ring. Weird and unnatural enough things do not happen that his ring could have grown legs and run off.
“No!” The answer comes out far too loud. He cringes when he hears his own voice and clears his throat. “No, baby, s’not here. Keep lookin’.”
Silence for a beat. Then, “Um...okay?”
Katsuki drops to the floor and looks under the bed. Nothing but dust and an old pair of slippers from previous guests. He checks beneath the chair, under the dresser, behind the nightstand. He yanks the sheets half off the mattress, searching for the familiar sight of velvet that he knows deep in his heart is not going to be there, lying between wrinkled sheets.
But he checks anyway, and sure enough, nothing. His breathing turns shallow.
“Babe, I found my lip gloss,” you call, “right under my nose, too. It was in the bag that I was looking. I think I’m going crazy.”
“That’s good, baby,” he says, not paying proper attention, “you wear that gloss.”
If only he could find what he’s looking for, too—he really will go crazy if he doesn’t.
Maybe it fell in the suitcase. That has to be it—right? He lunges for the luggage, unzipping it so fast that the zipper almost rips right off from his force. Clothes get flung over his shoulder in frantic handfuls—shirts, pants, socks, boxers, toiletries, charger cords. Still no box. From the bathroom comes the pop of a makeup compact closing. You’re still humming, still taking your sweet time as you get ready, and he really hopes that you’ll take a long fucking time today. He’ll never, ever complain about you taking long ever again if you just take as much time as you need today, of all days, when he needs you to, for once. He needs you to continue having no clue that the single most important object in his life has apparently vanished into thin air.
Katsuki straightens, hands flying to his chest as he tries to force air into his lungs.
Think, moron, he says to himself in his head. He had it yesterday. He fucking knows he had it yesterday. He paid for lunch and felt it in his pocket after. He felt for it in the elevator on your way back to your room. He felt for it before bed. He always checks every chance he gets.
So it has to be here. It has to be.
It has to be, because if he somehow lost the ring meant for you—the same ring he spent months choosing, the same ring he’s supposed to slide onto your finger today—he might actually tear this entire hotel room apart with his bare hands, floor by floor, room by room, until he finds what’s his.
“Katsuki?” you call again, a little concerned this time as you hear him rummage around. “You okay out there?”
He stares at the disaster zone already forming around him, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
“Fine, sweetheart,” he forces out. “Just couldn’t find my watch, s’all.” Then he drops to his knees and starts searching the floor all over again.
“Lost something too, huh? Feels like everything’s going missing today,” you laugh from the bathroom.
No kidding, he almost says. And then, because apparently the universe needs to hate him more than it already does, the bathroom door clicks open.
Katsuki’s head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.
You step out looking beautiful—you are so, so painfully beautiful. You and your pretty new outfit with those pretty little nails and those pretty lips that are glossy exactly the way he’d imagined they’d be when he’d get to kiss them. You look so perfect, so ready to be asked to be his wife—and yet, here he is. No ring, and his plans all but turned upside down.
Your gaze drifts over the room he’s practically destroyed, glancing at the overturned suitcase, the sheets half-hanging off the bed, the clothes strewn across the mattress, the pockets of his pants from last night inside out, the drawers wide open, and Katsuki crouched on the floor near the nightstand with his expression looking like he is one second away from going unconscious.
You blink once. Then twice. Then you walk over to him.
“Oh no,” you say, frowning, “you still didn’t find your watch?”
He rises to his feet so quickly that it almost makes his head spin. “Nah. Got it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup. Nothing to worry about.”
Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Then why were you on the floor?”
“I was stretching.”
“Katsuki.”
“Just warmin’ up and getting my blood flowing—what’s so weird about that?”
“Warming up for what, exactly?”
“For the day,” he says, giving you his best face that says, isn’t it obvious? Like you asked a stupid question, and you’re the one who’s being weird.
You stare at him for a long, silent moment, then glance down at his empty wrist that most definitely doesn’t have the watch he claims to have found. He wants to kick himself—you’re seeing right through his frantic lie.
“Okay…” you say slowly, “so then why aren’t you wearing your watch if you found it, Katsuki?”
His eye twitches, and his jaw grits, and he just really wants to go home if he’s being honest. Summer is over. It’s ruined. There’s no going back from this, so he might as well just give up for now. He’ll try again next year—he’ll be more prepared and listen to his old hag of a mother for once and swallow his pride to admit she was right. All he wants to do is just go home and sleep for a week and forget this whole thing ever happened.
“You sure are askin' a lotta questions this morning,” he says tightly.
You take a few slow steps toward him, studying his face. He knows he looks awful—that you’ll see right through him and his cracking composure. His jaw is tight. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. His breathing is just slightly off. He’s avoiding looking directly at you, which alone is enough to tell you something is deeply wrong. And you know him better than anyone. Usually, he’s grateful for it—but sometimes, at times like this, he couldn’t hate it more.
You see right through him.
“Katsuki.” Your voice softens. “What happened?”
“Nothing fucking happened. Who said anything happened?”
“Something definitely happened.”
“Nothing happened,” he repeats, firmer this time. “I’m fine. Room’s gonna be fine—room service’ll clean it. Everything’s fine. We’re leavin’ in five.”
“Don’t lie to me,” you argue, giving him a rather defiant look. He knows that look—that look that’s as stubborn as he is himself. You’re not going to drop this.
“I’m not lying—”
“You are. Bakugou Katsuki, don’t take me for a fool, you hear? I’m not an idiot, so just tell me what’s going on, or I’m not leaving this hotel room.”
He rubs a hand down his face and turns away from you before you can see the panic written all over him. The despair. The heartbreak, truly—he’s absolutely devastated. If he leaves this vacation without the certainty that you’re going to be his wife, he thinks he might not even live long enough to make it to next summer so that he can try again. He’ll die of heart failure before then.
And it has to be summer. He refuses to go back home and squeeze some proposal into a random weekend just for the hell of it. It has to be perfect. It has to be meticulously planned. It has to be your favorite season, with the best plans and flawless execution. It has to be everything you deserve and more. It has to happen when the two of you can actually celebrate it together—not spend one night happy only to be thrown right back into your whirlwind lives the next morning with patrol this and extra lessons that.
And he was so close—so fucking close to making it happen.
You’re here, you’re dressed, you’re absolutely perfect, and you’re ready to go. But he doesn’t have the ring. How could he be so useless that he couldn’t even keep a single ring safe?
This is the most helpless he’s ever felt—the moment he’s been planning for months is slipping right through his fingers like sand. The reservation he made. The beach spot he picked out. The speech he definitely did not need and definitely did not rehearse in the shower like a fucking loser. Every part of today has been planned down to the second, and now he can’t even follow his perfect plan because he doesn’t have the one thing that matters.
You know him well, and just like he figured you would, you’ve pieced together that something is seriously wrong as you move closer, voice gentler now. “Hey. Kats, look at me.”
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t say anything. Your hand grabs his and tugs him towards you as you hug him from behind, rubbing up and down his abdomen in that soothing way that you always do. He melts against his will.
“Katsuki. Baby.”
He slumps back and sighs.“What?”
“You’re scaring me a little.”
That makes him deflate even more. “Don’t be scared. S’nothing to worry over.”
“Well, I always worry over you, and I especially worry when you leave our hotel room a disaster scene,” you poke his belly.
He still says nothing.
Your voice softens impossibly more. “Baby...just tell me what’s wrong. We can figure it out together—I’ll buy you a new watch if that’s what you’re sad over. It’s a watch! I know you liked it, but hey—material possessions are temporary, okay?”
“S’not the watch,” he mumbles.
“Then what is it? Tell me.”
For a fleeting second, he almost does. He almost tells you and just gets it off his chest, almost blurts the whole thing out, almost says: I lost your ring. I lost the ring I was gonna propose with, and I ruined everything. You’d know what to do. You’d make it better. You’d fix it like you always do. But he doesn’t want you to fix it—he wants to make things good for you, for once. You’re always fixing his fucking mistakes. Always dealing with his disasters and dealing with his nonsense. Katsuki knows he’s not easy to deal with. He knows you’re a saint for putting up with him. So he sighs, ready to swallow down the words, tell you everything is fine, and make sure you have a good time tonight—and for the rest of this trip, too, for that matter.
“S’nothing, okay? C’mon, we have a good time ahead of us—I’m one hell of a planner, baby,” he says as he turns, pulls you into his arms, throws on his best smug grin, and kisses your forehead.
—————
Katsuki is lying to you.
You know that he is. When you come out of the bathroom and see your hotel room an absolute mess, you know something weird is up. Katsuki hates messes—hates when something is out of place for longer than five minutes. He grumbles about your stray hoodies thrown about the apartment and the way you have so many pillows on the bed just to toss them to the floor when you get ready to sleep. He huffs when you don’t clean as you cook and save everything for the end, messing up the kitchen to make one meal. He gives you a flat look when you have empty coffee cups in the cup holders of your car and throws them all away himself with an exasperated shake of his head.
Katsuki hates messes. He’s not messing up your room, then leaving it a mess without cleaning up unless something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.
But he won’t tell you. You know he won’t tell you until he decides that he can, and sometimes, he might even decide that it will never happen. Getting Katsuki to tell you anything before he decides to is like pulling teeth—except you’ve never met such a stubborn fucking tooth that won’t budge.
When he tells you, S’nothing, okay?, and turns around to give you a kiss on your forehead as if that will just make you forget, you’re mildly insulted. But he’s on vacation, too—he’s on the rare time off that he lets himself take once a year for a week and a half at most, and you want it to be good for him. Need it to be good for him. You need him to have a good time and enjoy himself because summer, with you, is the one time he lets himself be selfish and do what he wants. He ignores phone calls and emails, and he even sleeps in after staying up late.
You know he’s lying, but you decide if that will keep him happy, if just for a week and a half, then you’ll let him lie and hide the truth and forget about whatever it is that’s got him so panicked.
“You’re sure it’s nothing?” You kiss his jaw.
He relaxes, shoulders slumping as you drop it. “Yeah, I’m sure. Now let’s go. You look hot, by the way—m’gonna rip that skirt right off’a you when we get back.”
“Don’t even think about it,” you huff, “Ochako spent a long time planning this outfit. She’ll be so sad if it doesn’t make it back.”
Ochako has never been so particular about your outfits before—you’ve never shopped with her at such fancy stores, either. She is never one to spend money on excessively expensive things, but for some unknown reason, she’d insisted that your dream vacation spot requires just as dreamy of a wardrobe, and you let her entertain her whims. A part of you wonders if it’s because she’d never dare take herself on such a nice trip or wear such nice clothes even if her paycheck now more than allows it of her, so you let it happen for the sake of allowing your friend to indulge a little, even if it’s not for herself.
Katsuki huffs out a rather strained chuckle at your comment. “Leave it to Pink Cheeks to ruin my fuckin’ fun,” he grumbles. But he’s distracted. You can tell. “She hangs out with that nerd too much.”
You’re just about to correct him for what feels like the millionth time over the years—their names are Ochaco and Izuku, Katsuki. You’ve known them long enough to get it right by now.
But then your eyes focus on the floor behind him at something. Your blood runs cold when you squint and get a better look—because if you’re not mistaken, and you’re pretty sure you aren’t, you’re looking directly at a tiny velvet box half-hidden beneath the edge of the dresser.
Your eyes flick from the box to the inside-out pockets on the pants that lay about. To the overturned suitcase. To the half-stripped bed. To the sweat at his temples. To the look in his eyes that feels like the world is ending over something he refuses to tell you about. And then back to the small velvet box peeking out from beneath the dresser.
You have a sick feeling you know exactly what’s in the box—and suddenly, it all feels so…so obvious. How did you ever miss it? The way Yaomomo insisted on getting your nails done together. How she insisted on picking for you what to get, on matching your nails to hers—oh please, let’s just match this once together! The way Mina seemed so interested in your rings, trying them on as she rummaged through your jewelry and asked, oh my gosh, I think we’re the same size…what’s your ring size? The way Ochako grabbed your hands and stared at your nails as she’d complimented them with such satisfaction before planning your outfit accordingly—you have to have at least one fancy outfit for the trip, don’t you think?
Everything clicks into place so suddenly, it almost leaves you breathless.
The way he’s so panicked. The way he tore your room upside down. The way, even before all of that, he insisted on this trip being so carefully planned.
Oh—it hits you all at once. Oh.
Your heart gives one hard, dizzying thud against your chest. Then it starts pounding so loudly, your ears feel like they’re ringing.
Katsuki is talking, saying something about how you need to grab a jacket and the air will be chilly when the sun sets at the beach, and he’s not going to share his like he always does this time. “Hey,” he huffs, “are you even listening—”
You step around him quietly, paying him no mind. He stops mid-sentence, brows knitting as he watches you crouch near the dresser. Your fingers reach beneath the edge of the wood and come back holding the little velvet box. And just like that, silence drops over the room—his words cut off mid-sentence.
Katsuki goes completely still.
You straighten slowly, box cradled gently in your palm like something fragile and delicate. Like the wind will blow it away if you’re not careful. Like you can’t bear to lose this one thing you’re holding. His face drains of color as it pales, and his shoulders sag as if someone cut the strings holding him upright.
For the first time since you’ve known Bakugou Katsuki, for the first time in the years and years you’ve loved him and seen him through every lens and angle possible, he looks utterly, completely, spectacularly defeated.
You glance at the room again—at the chaos, the evidence of a frantic search, the proof of how badly he’d been spiraling trying to find this box that he’d been carrying around for you. Then you look back at him. At your Katsuki—your angry, grouchy, gruff Katsuki who loves you so carefully, so delicately, so effortlessly, he teaches you a whole new side of love that you never knew of.
Your chest aches with fondness, and your eyes feel that familiar sting at the back of them that you try to fight back.
You take a step closer, voice quiet as you murmur, “Kats...” Another step. One more. He’s stiff, and his jaw is clenched as he keeps his gaze fixed on the box in your hands. You lift the box slightly between you. “Is this what you were looking for?”
His eyes close as he lets out a shaky breath. A rough exhale leaves him through his nose, and you’ve never quite heard him sound so helpless.
“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely, rubbing his temple. “I…fuck—yeah, sweetheart. That’d be it.”
You fight back a watery smile. “It was under the dresser.”
“I can see that.”
“I think you were too frazzled and missed it.”
“I’m painfully aware.”
“It’s okay—it happens to the best of us, baby. We all lose things.”
His eyes crack open into a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You wanna keep rubbin’ it in or are you done?”
You can’t help it—you laugh softly, stepping into his personal space and bringing a hand against his chest, rubbing slow circles. His heartbeat is still pounding wildly beneath your palm.
“You were planning to propose?”
He looks away immediately. “No. Who the fuck said that—you see a box and think I’m gonna get on my knees for you? Don’t get so confident—”
“Katsuki.”
“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Can’t you just let me have this? Fuck—yes, I was going to propose. Happy? Wanna hear my speech too, just so you’re in the loop?”
“I mean, if you’re offering,” you shrug playfully.
His head slumps forward to your shoulder as he hugs you close. Hugs you tight and close like the proximity is the only thing keeping him together. “Be quiet.”
You turn your head and kiss his temple, letting him stay like that for a few moments before stepping away. Before he can protest as you pull back, you lift his hand and place the small box carefully into it, curling his fingers around it.
“Here,” you murmur. “I found your watch.”
“What the fuck are you saying—”
“Put your watch on and hurry up, we’re already twenty minutes behind schedule, and you said we have lots to do before our dinner reservation.”
You turn on your heel, stepping over the clothes on the floor like they’re not even there. Behind you, there’s a long stretch of silence. Then, “...You cannot be serious.”
You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s still standing where you left him, the velvet box clenched in one hand, staring at you as if you’ve grown two heads.
“What now?” you give him a flat look.
He gives you a look right back. “There’s no point in actin’ like it’s still a surprise, idiot.”
You blink, looking almost convincingly confused. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes narrow as he scoffs. “Don’t start this shit.”
He’s pocketing the ring, though. That dejected look on his face is gone and…and you would almost dare to say he’s fighting back a grin as he walks over to you. You reach for your perfume and spritz your wrists as you hum, “I’m not starting anything. Anyway, do I look okay?”
“Woman, you can’t be real.”
“Katsuki, I’m being very real.” You mimic right back, smiling sweetly at him as you gesture to your outfit. “How do I look?”
He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Beautiful. You fucking know that—you make everyone else look hideous.”
“Maybe we don’t have to put others down when you compliment me,” you scold.
“I’m just telling it like it is,” he snickers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against him as he kisses you. Hard. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Your lips on his, your body against him, and your head cradled in his palms. You bring your hands up to bury into his unruly tufts of hair, and in a few hours, there will be a cool, metal band on one of the fingers that so regularly tangles into his hair.
You can hardly wait.
“You’re wasting time,” you breathe as you pull away, lip gloss smeared against your lips and his, “Now we’re twenty-five minutes behind schedule.”
“Then move it, smartass. We’re burnin’ daylight,” he says, and when he drags you through the doors and takes you outside, when the sun hits his skin and his eyes meet yours, you think about how it’s summer. You like it when it’s summer.
Summer is when Katsuki is going to ask you to be his wife, and summer is when you will say yes. Summer is when you’re going to spend the rest of your life with Bakugou Katsuki.
READ THE PROPOSAL HERE!
tbh there rly isnt much smut at all in this but i tagged it just in case bc i get scared that someone who has smut tags filtered would read thru this and get to the minimal spicy scene and be mad its mistagged sdjhfshjdgf so idk. its just there just in case. idk what im doing sorry !
your soulmate has spent his whole life in constant pain, and you’ve spent your whole life feeling it—fleeting for you, unending for him. after years of hoping, you finally find him…right as he dumps piping-hot tea onto his leg and burns you both at the same time
word count. ❤︎ 11.2k words — i promise its not too bad pls give it a chance
before you read. ❤︎ female reader + female gendered terms like “miss” and “pretty lady” ; canon compliant + soulmates au ; feeling your soulmate's pain trope ; heavy references to wrio's backstory, which alludes to child exploitation and trafficking ; mild implications of sexual trauma (wrio) ; reader sits on his lap + gets carried by him ; reader has an unspecified job at the palais/court ; protected vaginal sex ; slight handjobs ; very vanilla sex ; a series of events of you and wrio navigating how to fall in love and enjoying every second of it ; alternating povs
commentary. ❤︎ happy birthday to my bewtiful boy
Your soulmate is always in pain. It’s all you’ve ever known about him.
“His back is killing him again,” you sigh in concern, rubbing your lower back for a moment.
Clorinde looks at you, raising a brow. The fortress is…well, it’s not the cleanest or brightest of places, but there is at least enough light to still make out the look she gives you. “You mean, your back is killing you, yes? You can feel it, too.”
“For just a moment,” you huff, “it’s gone very quickly. It’s not as though it troubles me for long. He, on the other hand…well, I wonder what that fool could have gotten himself into this time.”
The first time you feel what he does, you’re ten. It feels like there’s a sharp kick to your ribs, and then your back feels like it’s slammed hard against a surface just a moment later. You remember it vividly—how you cried out and hunched over. How your mother had rushed over to you and whispered words you couldn’t even hear, wiping your tears. All you knew then was that he was in pain, too. Agony. For a blinding second, you felt it with him, before it dissipated like it was nothing.
At age ten, you learn what it means to worry for someone you’ve never met. To fear for another’s safety more fiercely than a child should be capable of. To wonder about his well-being. His survival. Whatever your soulmate is going through, it can’t be safe. Can’t be the life of a normal child with a normal upbringing or a normal home. You know it’s worse for him, even if you feel it too. Where your aches vanish in seconds, his must linger—throbbing, bruising, weighing down small limbs that have no business carrying so much hurt.
At ten, you learn that not all children are created equal. Some are born to live their lives as children. And others…well, others it seems, are only there to prove how blessed those children truly are.
That is the reality of Fontaine, the nation of justice.
By the time you’re thirteen, there’s a constant ache in your muscles and your bones that comes and goes. A phantom pain that haunts you in bursts, disappearing as quickly as it comes. You can feel it—the burdens he carries. The constant soreness in his back and the tightness of his shoulder blades. Like he has nowhere proper to rest. No surface that curves along his spine and nurtures his developing body the way it should.
It isn’t until you’re fourteen that it gets bad. You’ve known for a long time now that he has a habit of getting into fights—the soreness on your knuckles only implies that he can throw a punch or two back at least now and then. But this time, it’s…frightening. Something dark. Something heavy. It’s a long fight. You can tell that much. There’s a hard tug on your hair, then a bruising grip around your throat, then a swift kick to your stomach. Finally, you feel that familiar sting in your fists. And then it stops. For two days after that, you feel nothing. It’s almost as though he’s no longer conscious, as though someone has eased the pain and left no trace of it—and then, suddenly, it returns all at once. Like he’s been thrown back into reality after two days of being blissfully removed. This time, when the pain returns, a rawness to the skin around your wrist joins the list of things that hurt.
Since the age of ten, you know that he has always been hurting. Always.
There is always some part of his body that is bruised and battered and tender from cruelty. Even as he gets older, even as the sharp injuries stop along with the fights, the sore muscles never do. The throbbing in your arms and legs, and lower back, never goes away. Like he’s been fighting, even if no one has been there to fight him back. Like he’s been keeping his strength, so no one could knock him off his feet again.
“How far is this warden’s office, exactly?” you huff, “and how do you even find anything down here? All these halls and tunnels look the same! I’m starting to wonder if agreeing to work down here was a mistake.”
“All you have to do is come down here for official Palais matters twice a week,” Clorinde hums, “and you’ll learn the tunnels just fine.”
“Ah, Miss Clorinde! You say that like you didn’t get lost for three weeks straight,” an unfamiliar voice calls ahead as she twists the door handle to enter a room.
Clorinde exhales through her nose, unimpressed. “I wasn’t lost. I was exploring alternate routes.”
“You walked into the same dead-end storeroom six times,” a man—you assume to be Wriothesley—says as he comes into view, leaning against the doorway to his office.
You pause. He’s…handsome. That’s the first thing you can think of. Second, you realize he can’t be much older than you. A lot younger than what you were anticipating for a Duke who runs a prison—a prison that he reformed all on his own, no less, from what you’ve heard. You meet his icy, blue-grey eyes, and it puts a shiver down your spine. There’s something…well, you aren’t quite sure. But there’s something about him.
And you wonder if he senses it, too, because his brows furrow for a second as he takes you in.
“I had to be sure you weren’t storing corpses in there,” she replies dryly. You blink out of your trance and look between them—apparently, this is normal. “Anyway,” Clorinde says, gesturing you forward, “this is the warden’s office, and this is Wriothesley. He’s supposed to brief you without embarrassing himself, but I make no promises.”
Wriothesley scoffs. “I’ll have you know I am an excellent host. I even made tea.”
“For your own interest, I presume,” Clorinde shoots back smoothly.
“Okay, so I made some tea for myself,” he huffs, “but I’m more than happy to share.”
He gestures for you both to come in. Clorinde gently nudges you forward once more. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says—and then she throws him a pointed look. “Try not to scare her off, Wriothesley.”
“You’re the scary one,” he calls after her, but she’s already halfway down the hall.
He shakes his head after her before he clears his throat and lets you in, gesturing for you to sit across from him as he settles into his own chair. “Right,” he says. “Formal introductions are probably overdue. I’m Wriothesley—warden of the Fortress, glorified administrator, part-time peacekeeper, full-time babysitter, whatever you would like to call it.”
Your laugh slips out before you can swallow it, and he grins, pleased. “Rest assured, you won’t have to babysit me,” you hum as you introduce yourself.
“That’s quite the relief, miss—but not to worry, nothing you’ll do down here is too complicated. Monsieur Neuvillette has given me the rundown of your responsibilities, and I’ll walk you through protocols, safety procedures, all the boring stuff—really, it’s easier than it sounds. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you,” you say politely.
“Well, if you don’t want any,” he sighs dramatically, “guess I’ll drink some all alone.” He reaches for his mug mid-sentence, still flipping through a folder with his other hand.
Except his grip on the handle slips. Then the glass tilts. Then—
“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, the scalding liquid burning through his pants and leaving the skin of his thigh raw.
A moment later, you feel a ripple of pain burst through…your thigh? You gasp, letting out a low hiss of, “Shit!” as you grip your upper leg.
His head jerks up, glancing at you with narrowed eyes for a moment at your gasp, seeing you clutching your own leg. He leans over the desk, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you mumble, “just felt like I got burned….”
It hits you then.
It hits you as you notice him watching your expression, still feeling the remnants of the same burn as you on his own thigh. His eyes widen as the realization hits him at the same time as you.
“You felt that?” he gapes.
You blink as your eyes hold his gaze. Could this mean…could he be…? No, you think, perhaps it’s just a freak coincidence and…
“Hang on a second,” Wriothesley murmurs, and then he pinches the skin of his forearm hard. He grimaces at the sting, and not even a moment later, you hiss and clutch your arm as a wave of pain radiates along the perimeter of your own skin.
“What the fuck?” You glare.
He blinks again. Then he whispers, almost shaky, “Well, what do you know…you do exist.”
“Was that really necessary?” you huff.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Just…just testing a theory there.”
“You could have tested your theory without pinching so hard,” you pout, rubbing over your arm as if the pain hadn’t already faded away. The phantom linger of pain is always the worst part—the part where you can’t forget how it felt to be hurt, even if it didn’t last long. The ghost of the injustice of it all. The unfairness that torments you without so much as a bruise as proof. The reality that somewhere, the person you are meant to find is hurt, and there is proof taunting you without making itself known properly.
But now…now he isn’t just somewhere. No—he’s right here.
It dawns on you just what theory he’s tested and proven. Your head snaps up, getting a good, long look at his face before you stand and walk over, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer like you’re inspecting him more properly now.
He stares at you in bewilderment. “Um…wha—”
“Oh my god,” you gasp at the mark under his eye, “this scar—I remember this! That one felt awful—oh my god! Wait! I remember this, too,” you point to the one peeking through his collar at his neck. Without thinking, you quickly unbutton his vest and the shirt underneath, making him squawk in protest. But you pay him no mind—your hand delicately, gently, slowly tracing over the years and years and years of evidence of pain.
Pain you felt. Pain you shared. Pain you carried with him, even if only for a moment.
Your hand trembles as you take in the awful, cruel marks scattered across his skin—the raised, discolored grafts melding into the healthier patches. You ignore the way his eyes bore into your face, watching you carefully as every emotion twists across your expression.
“How could anyone…I don’t…I don’t understand,” you whisper, tracing a particularly thick scar across his left pec. You wonder if it narrowly missed his heart. Your eyes well up with tears against your will, much to your disdain.
His own eyes widen with alarm. “It’s not a big deal,” he says quickly. “They’re nothing, really! I’m strong, see?” Wriothesley flexes his arm, showing the bulging muscle of his bicep before he tries—poorly—to lighten the mood with, “Nothing’s beatin’ me down, miss.”
“Are you joking? These hurt,” you hiss. “Don’t pretend they didn’t! I felt them all too, in case you’ve forgotten!”
His face drops at that—guilt sprawling across every feature. (It’s a beautiful, handsome face. He’s gorgeous, and you wonder if he’s ever been made to feel that way. Even if only for a moment.)
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I never…if it were up to me, you would’ve never felt—”
“Never mind me,” you sniffle. “What in the Archons’ names have you been dealing with all your life?”
Your hands gently pull off his vest and the shirt underneath fully, giving you a proper look at the full map of suffering carved into him. It should be a bit unprofessional, really, to undress your new colleague the moment you meet—but, well, the circumstances are a bit unique here. And he just sort of lets you without protesting, this time.
Your breath hitches as soon as you see his bare upper body. His torso is a constellation of old wounds—some thin and faded with age, others thicker, more jagged, warped in ways that make your stomach twist. Every scar is proof that this nation does not serve justice the way its divine nature intends. No one, especially not a child of his age when these injuries had marked him, should have endured such cruelty under the Hydro Archon’s watch.
You lift trembling fingers to his arm, tracing a long, uneven scar that snakes along the front. “This one,” you whisper, voice cracking, “I remember waking up in the middle of the night because of this. I thought—Archons, I thought someone had sliced me open.”
Wriothesley winces—not from your touch, but from the look on your face. His hands hover like he wants to steady you, but he doesn’t have the courage to fully reach.
“Ah, that,” he mumbles. “It…it wasn’t that deep. Just…caught a knife the wrong way, that’s all.”
You give him a watery, withering look. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”
“That was years ago,” he insists. “It’s over now! I’m…we’re okay.”
“I was always okay,” you bury your face in your hands. “All this time, I was okay, and you weren’t. If we’d…found each other sooner…or if—if maybe we’d tried to communicate somehow…perhaps if we’d even tried to—”
His hands gently wrap around your wrists, tugging them away from your face before pulling your hunched figure forward so you’re no longer bending awkwardly over him. Instead…you’re on his lap.
His lap.
Sure, he’s your soulmate, and of course, you’ve always felt a great deal of care for this stranger you’ve been bound to for years, but never really known, but you only met him not too long ago. And now you’re sitting on his lap.
You gasp, flustered as you stammer, “W-what are y-you—”
“Hey,” he hums softly, tilting your face to look at him. His hand cradles your jaw—gentle, delicate, impossibly careful from someone who’s known nothing but hardship at the hands of others. Your eyes lock with his as he murmurs, “I’m okay, sweetheart. See? I’m sitting here in the flesh right in front of you…if that’s proof.”
“Guess…guess it is,” you swallow thickly.
“Y’know? It’s strange,” he admits, voice low.
“What is?”
“Finally having you here. And not just some weird temporary feeling every now and then.”
You hum, studying his face. He really is young for a Duke. Handsome, sure, but too young to carry the burdens that he does. Then again, you think that might have been true all his life. “Strange as in good?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes. Very good.”
Your fingers have begun tracing along a scar on his shoulder slowly, without even realizing it. He glances down at your hand, then back to you, lips curling into a loose, amused grin. You quickly stop the movement, clearing your throat as you mumble, “This is not professional work behavior, you know.”
“You took my shirt off,” he points out.
“And you pulled me onto your lap!”
He tactfully ignores that part and hums, “You know…I think you should come by outside of official business. That way we’re not interrupted by duties and all.”
Your heart thumps hard enough that you’re sure he feels it. “Is this your way of asking me on a date? Because then it’s a little lackluster.”
He shrugs, giving you a boyishly charming smile. “Are you gonna turn me down? After I waited this long to find you?”
“Guess not,” you sigh dramatically, “perhaps I can spare some time here and there. In these…dark, dingy halls.”
“Your kindness moves me, miss soulmate,” he beams.
You stare for a moment. (You should be embarrassed that you do, but he stares right back, and he doesn’t seem to be complaining about the circumstances. You can’t help but get lost in him—it’s almost a force that’s beyond your control. Perhaps beyond his, too.)
Finally, you blink and force yourself out of whatever trance he has you in. “I should get up…” you say, mildly embarrassed. You try to move—but he has one arm around your waist, keeping you in place as he gives you an unhappy frown.
“What’s the rush? Not like either of us has to be anywhere.”
“This is unprofessional! And entirely not the sort of position anyone should see the warden of this place in if they walk—”
“Well, that’s the fun part,” he gives you a confident, wolfish little grin, “no one walks into a warden’s office without knocking.”
“I’m gonna write that in my report,” you warn, “that you use unlawful tactics for intimidation and control.”
“The fortress is an autonomous region,” he shoots back.
“It’s still a partnership!”
“Yes,” he grins, eyeing you softly, “I suppose it is.”
────────────────────────
Wriothesley knows he’s not very lucky in most departments. The soulmate one, however? He likes to think he got pretty damn lucky.
You’re pretty and funny, and you have a good head on your shoulders. That much is evident, and most people would be thrilled just by that. But you have other endearing things about you—things he tallies up over the weeks as he gets to know you and keeps locked away in his memories.
You can’t drink liquids if they’re piping hot, but somehow, food is not a problem. You like flowers even if you’re allergic to half of them. You’re passionate about how much you dislike Fontaine’s silly, unnecessary laws. You work at the Palais because it makes you feel useful. You insist you can’t decide what your favorite color is, but you unknowingly always seem to favor a certain one. You always insist you don’t want anything when he offers to pay, but you’re very bad at hiding your excitement when he buys you a pastry anyway.
He could keep a list. He doesn’t need to write them down because his mind could not forget these little things even if he wanted, but he could keep a list. A list of everything he learns day by day, week by week, month by month.
“I thought you hated bananas,” he raises an amused brow. You sit across from him in the bakery, happily slicing through the banana bread he bought on his mora.
“I do,” you argue, “but banana bread doesn’t count. It makes the banana work—and there are chocolate chips, see?”
He doesn’t say anything—just stares and takes in the sight of you. All of you. You.
“Want another slice?”
“Oh no, thank you,” you shake your head, “I’m good, really.”
(In the end, he gets you another. You pretend like he’s gone out of his way for nothing, but you eat it with no complaints, a happy gleam in your eye. He wonders if he’ll be blessed by the Gods enough to buy you sweets until all of his hair turns grey.)
────────────────────────
It takes a few months before Wriothesley talks about his past. You work at the Palais and sift through legal documents often enough that coming across his trial’s records is not difficult business. But you wait for him to tell you on his own terms.
The first time he brings it up is also the first time you fuck him. It’s been a long time coming—you want him so badly, it almost hurts. You think about him all the time, and you’ve seen him in enough instances without a shirt that your imagination has begun to run a little wild. You want Wriothesley, and if you can just find out if he wants you too, you can have him, you’re sure.
So you set out to find out.
“You wanna make out?” you ask from the couch in his office as he does paperwork.
He pauses, doing a double-take. “Sorry?”
“You and me,” you gesture between the two of you with a finger, “do you wanna make out? Like kiss and stuff with our tongues and—”
“I know what making out is, thank you!” he interjects, neck flushing a little, faint trace of red, “We’ve done it before, I’m not clueless. I’m just astounded by your forthcomingness, is all.”
You pout. “Well, I’m bored. And you look very handsome right now. So? Making out—yes or no?”
He drops his pen as he stares at you. It rolls off the desk. He makes no move to retrieve it. “Sweetheart,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler, “you can’t just look at a guy while he’s trying to finish disciplinary reports and ask if he wants to swap spit.”
“Why not? If you don’t want to, you can just say so.”
“I—” He blinks. Once. Twice. His ears are also red now. “I didn’t say I didn't want to.”
You grin excitedly, walking over to him with a little bounce in your step as you lean your hip against his desk, arms crossed in victory. “So you do want to.”
“I didn’t say that either.” He rubs a hand down his face. “We’re in my office.”
“So?” You shrug. “We’ve made out here before—you didn’t care then. Why start now?”
He glares, but it’s the useless kind—more fluster than defiance. “W-well, that was…after everyone was in their bunks for curfew!”
“Mhm.” You take a slow step closer. “So what about that time we made out behind some pipes in the middle of the day? Curfew only matters selectively, huh?” His breath stutters. Very slightly. But you notice. You push a finger under his chin, tilting his head up so he has to look at you. His pupils are blown—just a little, but it’s enough to knock a spark of heat straight into your spine. “You can tell me no,” you murmur. “Just say the word.”
“M’not ever going to say no to kissing you,” he mumbles, pulling you onto his lap, “you know that good and well, you little troublemaker.”
“Troublemaker?” you gasp, “I’ve no criminal history, your grace!”
“For now,” he snorts, “may have to take you into court myself for the damages you do down here.”
Before you can protest, he leans in and closes the gap, kissing you soft and sweet with a little edge of desperation. You gasp, and his lips move against yours again—harder this time, as if the first kiss has cracked open some dam to his self-control, and everything he’s been holding back is now spilling over at once. His hands slide to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. He pulls you flush against him, swallowing the small sound you make as he kisses you deeper, fuller, like he’s been starved for this—starved for you.
You fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groans into your mouth, low and rough. The sound shoots straight through you and goes straight to your core. He tilts your head back, cradling it as his mouth slots against yours impatiently. When his tongue grazes yours, you answer him with a low moan, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging at his hair.
He makes a sharp, pleased noise at that. You feel his smile against your lips—brief and crooked, making something between your legs ache. “Like that, huh?”
“Be quiet,” you huff. He only laughs before deepening the kiss again, his mouth claiming yours with an amused smile.
Suddenly, an arm wraps tightly around your waist and hoists you closer—you can’t focus on it too much with the way he’s nipping at your bottom lip. It’s not until your back hits the wall that you even realize that he’s been moving you, walking to the short distance to the wall behind his desk with his arm curled around you, holding your weight like it’s nothing. One of his hands fiddles with something behind you—a click later, and you realize it’s a doorknob.
The door opens, and he quickly strides in with you in his grip. You pull away, panting, glancing around as you take in this new room. A bedroom, you realize—his bedroom. His gauntlets are there, in a corner, tools sprawled around them from the last time he spent tinkering away at them. You take in the simplicity of it, how there isn’t anything in here apart from his essentials. The bare necessities.
“Is this your room?” you whisper.
“Didn’t think I slept in the bunks with the inmates, did you?” he murmurs, gently setting you down on his bed as he hovers over you. “What’s the point of being a duke if I don’t get at least a few perks?”
“You should decorate the place more,” you murmur, “I’ll help.”
“Yeah?” he pecks your lips, “awfully nice of you, sweetheart.”
You tug him down by the collar, chasing his mouth when he breaks away to speak. He huffs a laugh, breath warm against your lips, and then he’s kissing you again—messy, hungry, more unrestrained now, like he’s finally given himself permission to want this as badly as you do.
His teeth catch your lower lip.
Your answering gasp is all the invitation he needs to bring his hand to your thigh, rubbing up and down the side of it as he groans into your mouth roughly when you tug at his hair some more. “Was this your plan all along?” he rasps, “get me in your bed?”
“This is your bed,” you point out, “and you brought me here.”
“You have a smart little mouth,” he grunts, angling your jaw up as he fixes you with a playfully stern look, “that’s insubordination, miss.”
“I think I need to be disciplined, your grace,” you say, giving him a cheeky little wink.
He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, looking at you in awe and wonder before he shakes his head and brings your arms up, pinning them over your head as he presses kisses along your jaw. “You,” he murmurs between kisses, “are a handful.”
The moment he pulls back enough actually to look at you, though, something shifts. His breath hitches, barely perceptible, but there. His eyes glaze over with something as they take in the sight of you under him—you can’t quite make out what it is, but you know it makes you feel important. Special. Some sort of feeling that no one has quite made you feel before. Then his hands, firm a moment ago, loosen just slightly around your wrists, as if the reality of holding you like this suddenly hits him all at once.
You watch him swallow. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, before he willfully forces him to look up and direct his gaze to your forehead so he’s not looking into your eyes or downwards along your body.
“What?” you whisper, a small smile curling at your lips.
“Nothing.” He clears his throat, though it comes out rougher than he means it to. “Just… you’re—” he cuts himself off abruptly, the unfinished thought hanging between you. He releases your wrists, carefully, like you’re something fragile that he’s only just realized he’s strong enough to break. His palms settle instead at your waist, hesitant in a way they weren’t before.
You tilt your head, watching him with growing curiosity. “You okay?”
“Course I am,” he huffs. “Just noticed you’re…very pretty. That’s all.”
“Only now?” you pout—but your lips are already curled into a cocky little grin.
“Stop that,” he grumbles.
“Stop what?”
“You know what,” he huffs.
You giggle, tugging him down by his stupidly loose tie and bringing his forehead against yours. His eyes are always icy blue, but they’re the brightest pools of warmth you’ve ever swam in, all the same. “You’re getting shy on me, you know.”
“Am not,” he argues.
“Are too,” you grin.
“Nope,” he all but pouts. His breath hitches as you untie his tie and fling it somewhere, slowly working at the buttons of his vest while he lets out a shaky breath over you. “You’re…sure about this?”
“I’m always sure about you,” you smile softly. He closes his eyes, breath stuttering for a moment as you pull off his shirt and vest, admiring the hard planes of muscle and the broadness of his physique. “You’re pretty, too, by the way.”
“You’re killing me,” he rasps.
Undressing is an awkward ordeal. But endearing. Wriothesley struggles to kick off his boots, and unclasping your bra takes him a moment before he can tug it off—but finally, in between kisses and soft, amused giggles and breathy, embarrassed chuckles, you’re both bare and tangled in his sheets.
He’s hard—his cock is thick and curved, and the tip leaks with the evidence of his arousal in the form of pre cum. You bring a hand between your bodies, gently smearing it with your thumb like a lubricant while he shivers and lets out a soft groan.
“Fuck,” he hisses out, breathing harder as you wrap your hand around his girth. He stares down at where your touch meets him—and he’s more than a little dizzy by the way your hand can barely wrap around the full width of his thickness.
“It’s…so big,” you murmur, staring in awe and disbelief.
“You can’t just say that,” he groans.
“Sorry,” you giggle, biting your lip as you give him an innocent smile.
“You’re not sorry even a little,” he huffs. Then his eyes flutter closed and his lips part in a low, shaky moan as you slowly move your hand and drag your palm along his length, stroking languidly while he buries his head into your neck.
“I am,” you insist, kissing the side of his head sweetly, “here, I’ll even make it up to you.”
“Ngh—fuck,” he curses as your pace quickens, the friction of your hand gliding over the sensitive skin of his erection making his breaths come out unevenly. He’s pretty when he feels good—and Wriothesley is pretty and easy on the eye any time, of course, but when he’s bare and vulnerable and trusts you to witness him at his rawest, he is particularly beautiful.
Your eyes can’t help but keep themselves glued on him—and he can’t help but notice and get more flustered.
“Stop staring,” he grunts.
“What am I meant to look at then?” you huff, “the wall?”
“Close your eyes.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you shake your head with a snort.
There’s a building ache between your bare legs, a wetness leaking and spreading down your inner thighs as you watch pleasure sprawl over his features and hear the sweet, delicate sounds of approval he makes when you touch him particularly right.
Finally, his hand gently grasps onto your wrist as he stops you, panting and gritting his jaw as he murmurs, “O-okay—think…think we should get to…you know.”
“What?” you tease.
“The main part,” he glares weakly—and then, he spreads your legs and takes a closer look at your wet, needy cunt. “You want this just as badly—I can literally see it. Don’t be so smug, sweetheart.”
“Of course I want you,” you hum, “why wouldn’t I?” He shivers at that. Gives you a dazed look before he leans in and kisses you—almost like it’s more to distract himself than it is to distract you.
(Wriothesley is endearing when he’s flustered. This is the conclusion that sex with him draws you to. When he fumbles through his side drawer to pull out a condom, and when he struggles to open the package, you are hopelessly endeared. And when he gives you a half-hearted glare as you giggle, you realize how endearing he also is when he is grumpy.)
“Ready?” he whispers, eyeing you good and hard once he finally lines up with your entrance. You nod, and he mumbles, “I need words, please, sweetness.”
“Ready,” you sigh fondly, “I want you. M’not backing out.” He takes a moment to look at you properly. Like he has to be sure you’re here and want this. With him. Wriothesley has brought you pain before—against his will, he’s made you ache and throb with soreness and harsh stings. He makes you ache again—this time, though, it’s a little different. It’s not because you carry his pain with him. It’s because that look he gives you makes your chest tighten and your heart ache all on its own accord. “I want you, Wrio,” you breathe, cupping his cheeks, “swear I do.”
Only then does he close his eyes, smiling softly as he nods and murmurs, “Lucky me. Got you all to myself—the universe said so. You’re all mine.”
“All yours,” you breathe.
He presses the thick tip of his cock along your entrance, rubbing along your folds and collecting your wetness as you shiver. You gasp, and he chuckles softly at the fragile sound, pecking your lips as he murmurs, “Barely even done anything yet, sweetheart.”
“Then do something,” you click your teeth, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer, pressing his pelvis closer.
He swallows, whispering, “You’ll tell me if I hurt you, yeah?”
“You’ll feel it anyway,” you murmur, “quit your worry-warting and move.”
“So demanding, miss soulmate,” he chuckles.
And then—finally—he pushes past your folds, pressing into you slowly, carefully, delicately. Wriothesley has a reputation. It’s a bit out of his control—people tend to see a prison warden as rough and strict, and people often mistake him for a brute with just a glance. You know better. You know him to be soft and sensitive and so caring, it’s almost unfair that he spends his time under waves of the ocean instead of up in the real world, where he can share his warmth. You know him as the kind man who feeds squirrels in Fontaine and pets stray cats in the alleyways. You know him as the gentle guy who holds doors open for children and lets them cut in line at the ice cream shop. You know him as the delicate boy who never wants to hurt you with his strength when he already feels waves of guilt for having brought you so much hurt all these years without meaning to.
When he sinks into your tight, welcoming cunt, and stretches you open, you wonder how you went this long without him. How you survived without knowing him. How you lived this long without being tangled in his arms and being connected to him deep and close.
He feels so right—so good. He curves into you so perfectly, stretches you apart, opens you up with his thickness, and presses the blunt head of his against a delicate, sensitive spot in your walls that makes your head spin.
“W-wrio…” your breath hitches, “f-fuck—so deep,” you whine.
“And you’re…so tight,” he groans, “shit, sweetheart—never felt so good before.”
You never dwelled on the reality of soulmates. Your mother and father were lucky enough to meet each other—you know that soulmates are real before Wriothesley’s pain is ever yours because you watch them love. You watch them nurture you, the byproduct of that love, with so much care and diligence. You don’t need the proof of your own soulmate to know that they are real and they exist.
For the longest time, you know nothing about Wriothesley apart from the fact that he exists. You’ve only ever known that he was yours. That one day, if you were lucky, you’d find him. It never occurred to you that once you did find him, you’d realize how incomplete you’ve always been. How everything was there, but there was no one to share it with. Now that he’s here, pressed into you deep into you, you wonder how you’ll ever disconnect. How you’ll ever part from feeling so whole and complete.
His hips move—he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into you, hard and rough but still careful enough that it doesn’t hurt you. It blinds you with a pleasure that burns through your spine and finds every nerve. It makes a soft, pleasant ache start to form at the pit of your stomach, building up stronger and stronger with every roll of his hips and every drag of his cock along your walls.
The friction makes you sob, curling your nails into his shoulders as you whimper, “S’good, Wrio—so…so good, please don’t stop.”
“Now why would I do that?” he grunts, moaning when your walls flutter around him and squeeze tight. “Why would I stop feeling my precious girl?”
Your head spins more at that—precious girl. Wriothesley is smooth about calling you things like that. He calls you something affectionate so casually that sometimes you almost mistake your own name for a sweet, loving pet name. Sweetheart. Sweetness. Precious girl. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly sentimental, he calls you honey. When he’s in a playful mood, he likes to say miss soulmate. (You ask him why he says it once, and he tells you, it’s because I like reminding you you’re my soulmate. And I like saying it out loud, too. Makes it more real.)
You like it when he calls you things that remind you that you’re his. You like being his. It’s your favorite thing to be—the thing that takes burdens off your shoulder and lets you simply exist without having something to prove. Something to offer. You like being so easy for someone to care about you, it feels like it happens for no other reason than just because it’s natural to do so.
“Faster,” you plead.
“Anything you want, precious,” he breathes. “You—hah—you are so beautiful. You know that?”
A hand moves up your thigh and travels to that delicate spot between your legs—and then you throw your head back and mewl as he finds your clit and rubs circles with that rough, calloused pad of his thumb. You’re sensitive—every brush against the bundle of nerves sends a jolt of pleasure that has you hurdling towards your end.
“Close,” you rasp, “Wrio…m’so c-close.”
“Yeah, sweetheart? Is that right?” he asks, his own voice shaky enough that you gather it must be the case for him, too. His pace has become sloppy enough that he must be near the edge himself, as well.
“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip and letting out a soft, drawn-out moan as he sinks deeper into you and presses right against your sweet spot.
“Me…me too—come with me, okay? Want…want you to finish with me,” he pleads. His thumb is merciless against your clit—it rubs smooth, unpausing circles and builds you up to your release with one, then two, and then a third thrust of his hips.
Your vision all but goes white as you fall apart. Your back arches, and he curls an arm around you and brings you flush against him, kissing you rough and hard and needy. You swallow each other’s sounds as your walls flutter around him and his cock twitches inside of you, letting warm rope after rope of thick seed spill into the plastic that separates you.
“Fuck,” you both hiss.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, “you…you’re so perfect. Know that? Huh?” He kisses along your jaw. They’re wet, messy kisses, pressed into your skin with a drunken, hazy sense of control as you milk his cock for every last drop of his release.
“C’mere,” you beg, “closer.”
“M’right here,” he murmurs, “fuck, m’not going anywhere. Ever.”
And then he collapses beside you once he’s fucked you both through the last few waves of your orgasms. He pulls you against him, wrapping two strong, muscled arms around you and tangling your body with his.
“That was nice,” you whisper.
“That was your plan all along,” he accuses, “you never wanted to just make out.”
You giggle, beaming up at him. “Guilty. Will I serve a sentence, your grace?”
“Life in prison,” he gives you a faux stern look, “directly under my supervision.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad,” you hum, “serving down here with you. I think I’d live.”
For a while, it’s quiet. You bask in the afterglow of him and you and the skin that melts you both together. And then, his voice carries through the space that hardly exists between you both.
“I served down here,” he mumbles. “Bet you already knew that—you probably have better access to legal documents than me.”
“I’ve seen a paper or two,” you admit.
“You’re rather calm regarding my history,” he says carefully.
“I guess I just…always had a feeling things played out the way they did. I remember it,” you whisper, tracing the skin of his chest, feeling the scars from memory. “The night you killed your parents. I felt it, y’know?”
His breath stills. You’re sure he’s not surprised—it was nothing short of vicious, the fight he’d put up. You’re sure he remembers better than you how it felt in every nerve ending. You don’t think anyone could ever forget.
The truth is that you’d known about his court case long before you pieced together he was your soulmate. It’s a case most people in your line of work know about. A popular case that opened up a popular investigation into chains of corrupted institutions for children. Places led and controlled by people who have intentions to do anything but keep the less fortunate children of Fontaine safe. Most people in your field consider him a hero of sorts—a boy who sacrificed his freedom to make a change the justice system wouldn’t.
You think Wriothesley is troubled. He was as a child, and in some ways, he is now. You wish he could have been like other boys and girls, that he could be like other men and women. You wish life was kinder to him so that his circumstances never had to feel like the extremes were the only way out.
You wish Wriothesley could have had a good life. You wish Fontaine and those who uphold its justice hadn’t failed him every chance he had to get one.
He doesn’t look at you for a while. His gaze stays focused on the ceiling as he swallows. “The night I killed my foster parents maybe wasn’t my proudest moment.”
“Maybe not,” you agree, moving your hand to grab his, lacing your fingers together. “But I think you’ve had a proud moment or two since then.”
He stays silent. For a long time, Wriothesley is silent. You don’t think he’ll say anything else, so you close your eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep against his chest when his voice rumbles in your ear. Low. Hesitant.
“I don’t regret it,” is all he says.
You crack an eye open, tilting your head up. “Killing them?”
“Setting the kids free,” he corrects. “No one else would have done it. That was the only way I could think of. I felt like they deserved it.”
“How about now?”
“Well. Still think they deserve it,” he mumbles. “But…I would do it differently now.”
“That’s because you can,” you point out, “you have the connections and the resources to do things the ‘right’ way.”
“Think so?” he cracks a grin—small, but there.
“I do believe you hold some authority, you grace,” you chuckle. He doesn’t say anything else—just laughs softly and kisses your forehead. You fall asleep lulled by his fingers along your back and the smell of his faint cologne.
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Wriothesley has a habit of throwing himself into the ring when things get hard. It was the only outlet he had down here in the fortress for the most part when he served—the only way for him to break a sweat and get his energy poured into something. And maybe get in a few good hits to anyone who’d been giving him a hard time. But, well…some habits just stick. They’re hard to grow out of.
Nowadays, being in the ring is more or less a matter of keeping in shape. At least, that’s what he tells himself, anyway—he knows it’s no coincidence that when his mind is particularly heavy, he spends more time hitting a punching bag with taped fists. He’s always had a high pain tolerance. The sore muscles in his arms and the sting of his knuckles ground him half the time more than they do hurt him.
He wonders if he’s grown accustomed to pain because it’s been the only constant in his life, or if it’s because he simply deserves it.
“Wrio,” he hears a soft voice call, pausing him from throwing his next punch. He drops his form, straightening his back as he looks over his shoulder. It’s you, of course. It had to be even before he’d registered your voice—only one person is allowed at the pankration ring at this hour (him) and only one person gets away with breaking his rules (you).
“What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart?” he tilts his head a few times to crack his neck, “you’re supposed to be in bed.”
“So are you.”
“Got a little restless, is all,” he says vaguely.
“You’re tired,” you raise an unimpressed brow, “and that poor bag has had enough—it never did anything to you.”
“I’m not tired yet,” he denies. (He is. Even for his standards, his arms and shoulders are rather tense and sore. He’s pushed himself further than usual. He bets you would know because you can feel it.)
“You can’t lie to me when I can feel the same things as you,” you huff, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “You’re too young to have stiff shoulders, y’know.”
His eyes soften with guilt before he lets out a heavy sigh and lets his shoulders drop. You walk over, standing behind him as your arms wrap around his midsection and your nose buries into the bare skin of his back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he lies.
“Wriothesley,” you say flatly.
“Just a busy week,” he says half-heartedly. “Seriously, I’m fine. So…just drop it.”
“Okay,” you sigh, too tired from your sleep being interrupted to put up a proper fight. You kiss his back, and he melts a little at the gesture, limbs loosening up even more. “You’ll talk to me if you need to?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, “I’ll come find you if I need it.”
Wriothesley is aware that you know he won’t. Not of his own free will. He doesn’t talk about his feelings or share his burdens because then he’s no longer in control of his image. The less strong of an image he has, the more innocent and frail he seems. The more innocent and frail he seems, the more likely it is that he’ll be taken advantage of.
It’s not that Wriothesley doesn’t trust you, or that he thinks you’ll take advantage of him. You won’t. He trusts that much. You’re the only good thing that’s his. But muscle memory is muscle memory.
Some habits just stick. And they’re hard to grow out of.
You gently shuffle to stand in front of him, wrapping your arms to rest around his neck now. His hands find your hips. “Let’s go to bed,” you whisper, pulling him down so his forehead rests against yours. “If you’re really that energetic, I’ll tire you out some other way.”
“Yeah?” he cracks a grin.
“Mmh,” you hum.
“Then lead the way, sweetness,” he chuckles.
(In the end, he’s out like a light as soon as his head finds that comfortable place against your chest. He’s sure you’ll tease him for it as soon as he feels himself start to drift off, but he thinks it’s worth it when he feels your fingers card through his hair.)
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Sometimes, you forget Wriothesley can feel your pain just as much as you feel his. Your whole life has been spent so focused on how often he endures suffering compared to you, that you forget to focus on your own.
He doesn’t forget to focus on you, though. He never does. He’s one deep scowl and a hand on his hips away from making that known.
“With a headache like that, I’m surprised you’re still conscious, let alone finishing paperwork,” he clicks his teeth.
You glance up and give him a tired look when you register his words.
“I just need to finish these up and get them out of the way so they don’t haunt me—”
“No, you need sleep. And maybe a proper meal,” he interrupts.
“But—”
“No buts. Let’s go.” Before you can protest any further, he has you lifted and settled in his arms as he drags you to your bed from your desk.
You learn quickly on that Wriothesley doesn’t like spending nights apart. He’s grown too used to your presence. On nights you can’t come down to the Fortress, his simple solution is just to come spend the night up at the surface. You can’t pretend like you aren’t relieved by his presence yourself—one night without him makes for a terrible night of sleep. And maybe a worse headache the next day.
He shuffles through your apartment with a sense of familiarity that makes your heart full, even if your head is pounding. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck as he walks with you carefully tucked against him.
“You give me headaches,” he mumbles, “literally.”
“S’only fair,” you yawn, “you’ve put me through worse.” Your words have no bite to them. Nothing more than a good-natured quip. You’d go through worse in a heartbeat for him.
He smiles fondly, sighing as he kisses the side of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers, “guess that’s true.”
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Sex is a complicated topic for Wriothesley.
It’s a topic he’s been thinking about more lately. The more that sex happens between the two of you, the more he’s starting to realize that it’s a complicated topic for him.
Although if he’s being honest, what he engages with you can hardly be considered just sex. It’s intimacy. Wriothesley has never partaken in intimacy before you. Sex, though? Plenty of times. Sometimes, it was more for survival than his own desires, and sometimes it was simply because he was a growing, curious boy with needs and wants. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him what he needed for survival much quicker when he was still a prisoner. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him through his pent-up emotions better than sitting and processing them.
Whatever the case may be, Wriothesley has always had just sex because it was just that. Sex that has a purpose—some purposes less sanitized than others, but a purpose all the same.
But being intimate is something different from having just sex. When Wriothesley is having just sex, he can put on an air of cockiness. He can play into what people want, slip into whatever role they carved out for him—innocently sweet and naive, or dangerously charming and experienced, sometimes even a little rough and a little wicked. He can wear confidence like a mask, sharpen his smile into something rakish, tilt his chin just right, and say the things he knows people want to hear.
He can disconnect. He can keep his heart out of it. He can survive it.
Intimacy, though? Intimacy is different. It demands that he stay honest, not perform. That he be soft. That he be seen.
With you, there’s no room for the cocky smirk or the confident swagger. And he tries—he really, really tries—but the moment your hands are on him with care instead of expectation, the moment you kiss him like he’s precious instead of convenient, the moment your eyes are fond instead of just lustful, his whole front crumbles.
The mask doesn’t fit. The persona slips. The smooth, practiced words get stuck in his throat.
He’s clumsy with intimacy in a way he never was with just sex. His touches hesitate. His breath stutters when your fingers thread through his hair. He keeps searching your face like he’s waiting for the moment you change your mind, like he’s terrified you’ll see too much of him and walk away. Vulnerability of this kind turns him quiet, nervous, almost boyish in a way he hates himself for, and yet can’t seem to stop.
With you, he’s not performing. With you, he can’t.
You’re not just hoping he touches you for your own pleasure—and you don’t want to touch him back just to indulge your own wicked fantasies. You care about how he feels, how it is for him more than it is for you. You care about his experience with affection and gentleness.
The more that you and Wriothesley are intimate, the more he opens himself up to gentleness. And Wriothesley has never known what to do with gentleness.
He doesn’t know how to accept it. Not ever since the day he realized it came with a heavy price that he could never afford. (And how could he afford you? You are so patient and happy to have him, so willing despite knowing his past and the horrors of his crimes, despite enduring the agony he put you through physically. Your affection, of all things, should come with the highest of prices.)
“Did it bother you growing up?” he whispers, tracing your hip bone with his thumb as you lie against his bare chest. You like cuddling after intimacy. He likes it, too. You curl against him in his dark bedroom, bare and sleepy and satisfied, and for a moment, he feels normal. Like you’re not with him under the literal ocean. Like he’s not an ex-convict who now sees over other convicts. Like he’s not the guy who made you feel sharp kicks and deep bruises all your life.
“What?” you hum.
“You know what,” he huffs. You give him an earnestly confused shake of your head, and he sighs. He decides that perhaps you are being honest and not purposely dense just to make him properly communicate his feelings. “The pain,” he mutters. “It didn’t bother you that I was always bringing you pain?”
“It did,” you say bluntly. He tenses under you. You gently press a kiss to his chest as if to soothe him, like you’ve already read his mind. “Not for the reasons you might think, though.”
“Oh?” he arches a brow, “then do enlighten me, miss soulmate. How exactly did it bother you that I’m not gathering here?”
You roll your eyes. It’s affectionate.
Wriothesley misses that. He misses affection in the simple forms he once knew—Mother’s fond eye-roll, the way she’d sigh and grab a handkerchief to clean the chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth after Father brought home treats. The way she’d bend down and wipe the smudges away as she’d gently scold, You’ve got to be more careful, ▇▇! Heavens know what other people would think if they saw you so filthy. Whatever would you do without me? The way she’d sigh and pull him into a hug, kissing his cheeks when he’d pouted at being lectured.
Mother was always so soft—he still wonders, sometimes, how anyone could possibly fake so much gentleness. Some of it had to have been real, right? Just a fraction? A small morsel? It had to be, hadn’t it? Even if he wasn’t worth loving long enough to keep, he must have at least been worth loving for that temporary time she showed him that affection.
If only he were worth more than a pretty sum of mora. If only he could have made Mother fond enough of him that keeping him was worth more than selling him off like some animal on the market, a piece of meat to butcher and cut open and devour with filthy, disgusting hands.
Affection has always cost him something. Some price that is not worth paying. His innocence, his freedom, his life. You are the only person who affords him affection without any price. And how funny, he thinks—that the one person capable of it is the one person meant for him, decided by fate. He wonders then, that if there was no such thing as fate and divinity, if he’d be worthy of any affection at all. If you are the one person the world has granted him because it is their begrudging duty to assign him another half. If you alone are a miracle that he was lucky enough to be allowed by Celestia, as they smiled down on him out of a single, twisted instance of mercy.
He can’t dwell on it too long before you’re cupping his cheek and pulling him out of his thoughts, pressing a kiss to his lips. His breath hitches for a moment—he forgets sometimes that can do this whenever he wants. He can kiss you. Claim your affection. Feel the proof of it for himself. He presses into you harder, desperately trying to swallow down as much of it for free as he can in case one day, this too has a price that is out of his means.
“It never bothered me to carry your pain,” you whisper against his mouth, “though I won’t lie—it did hurt,” you chuckle. You peck his lips before he can say anything in response. “It bothered me that it was your reality. I couldn’t understand why it was like that—how different we were.”
“You shouldn’t have had to try to understand it,” he mumbles, “if you weren’t stuck to me, you’d have—”
“Mwah,” you cut him off, pressing a loud kiss to his mouth. “Don’t say that, silly. I’m not stuck with you.”
He blinks before he huffs out a soft snort, shaking his head in disbelief. “Silencing me with a kiss isn’t going to—”
“Mwah!” You kiss him again, theatrically louder this time as you giggle.
“If you keep kissing me when I say self-deprecating things, it’ll only condition me to say them more,” he warns.
“Then I’ll kiss you after you say anything,” you hum. “Then you’ll only bother saying the nice things since you might as well.”
“I don’t know if that’s how it works—”
“Mwah!” You kiss again.
He laughs, pulling you impossibly closer before he tilts your face up, cupping your cheek with a large hand that practically swallows your face entirely as he kisses you. Hard. You hum against his lips, eyes fluttering shut as you kiss him back. As if kissing him is enjoyable. As if someone like him was worthy of your time and affection and touch. As if someone of his status is worth tangling your life with, despite being who he is and where he is from.
“Wrio,” you murmur, trying to pull away from his needy lips.
“Mmh,” he mumbles, bridging the gap every time you try to create it. You giggle, gently stroking through his hair before delicately tugging at the strands to pry him away. He caves, sighing before he pulls away, grumpy as he stares at you, dazed. “What?” he frowns.
“I would have taken your pain for myself if I could,” you whisper, “if it meant you didn’t have to live like that. Feeling it was never the issue. You should know that.”
“You’re insane,” he breathes, “now c’mere.”
He moves to kiss you again—but instead, you cup both of his cheeks and force him to look you in the eyes. “You didn’t deserve to feel it all either.”
“I know that,” he mutters, frowning. (He is grouchy when he’s vulnerable. He’s known that from a young age. Feeling weak fills him with a sense of anger and disgust that makes him lash out. Maybe he’s angry with himself for being so weak. Or perhaps at the world for making him that way. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that it makes him want to become bigger. Stronger. More untouchable. Whether it’s through bloodied gauntlets in his childhood living room or some bulked-up muscle in the pankration ring, he is always trying to seem stronger.)
“And you deserve someone to carry everything with you,” you continue. “You know that too, right?”
“Course I do,” he grunts, not meeting your eyes, “what’s the point of saying all this?”
“The point,” you say firmly, “is that you start believing you can have nice things.”
“I have nice things,” he says petulantly. “Got a decently good income and…and my title is literally Duke, and I got you—I have a pretty lady that’s all for me, don’t I? You wound me, sweetheart. Are you trying to say I don’t have anything nice because I live under the sea or something—”
“Wrio,” you say softly. “Please.”
He deflates.
Wriothesley has always kept a respectful distance away from people. His colleagues and this prison are all his home. His family. But he keeps a respectful distance. It’s the smartest option. Because distance is what keeps him most safe. What keeps people close enough that he’s never truly alone, but not close enough that they are people he can lose and suffer the loss of. But distance is difficult to maintain in an intimate relationship, though—distance is impossible to keep for longer than a small period of time.
Wriothesley is realizing that, slowly but surely—that no distance means having all the hard conversations. The ones that make him feel so raw and vulnerable, it’s like he’s peeling his skin straight off and exposing his bones and tissue.
He takes a moment, focuses real hard on tracing the skin of your arm rather than meeting your eyes before he mumbles, “Yeah. Fine.”
“I don’t want you to feel guilty,” you say softly.
“S’not a feeling I can just turn off,” he shrugs.
“Yes,” you agree, “it’s not. But we can talk about it when your mind goes there.”
“I don’t like talking.”
“But you like me,” you smile, “and I like you, too. And if we want to like each other and make it work, we have to do that thing you don’t like where we talk about our feelings. Communicate. Do that couple-y sort of stuff. Yeah?”
You’re right about one thing—Wriothesley likes you. He likes everything about you. He likes hearing you talk and listening to your voice. He likes learning about you and the things you like. He likes looking at you and the way you smile or laugh. He likes everything. He even likes the way you add too much sugar to the tea he brews up for you (even if you don’t properly enjoy its flavor that way). He likes having you. Likes being able to say you’re his—not because he doesn’t want to share you with the world, but because he wants to have something he can keep. Something that isn’t here one second and gone the next. Something that was meant for him, so he can have it and never have to exchange it for something else because the universe only lets him have one good thing at a time.
But Wriothesley also knows that things are just a set way for a guy like him. Not all people are created equal. Some people are blessed and lucky and can have a good life. Others are simply there to serve as a reminder that those people should count their blessings unless they want to end up like the others.
He’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And sometimes…well, sometimes he wonders if it’s better that you stay in your blessed little bubble of a world instead of getting caught up in the whirlwind that is him. And his life. And his terrible, awful luck.
He’d love it if he could save you the trouble of mingling with someone like him and realizing you were made for something better. And maybe, a little selfishly, he’d love it if he could save himself some heartache in the process and lose you before it would wreck him completely. He feels like he deserves that much—feels like he’s helped enough people and atoned enough for some of his darker sins that he should be able to just hold onto the stability he’s built himself. Sure, he’s not exactly fulfilled or happy, but he’s not exactly miserable or suffering.
He’ll take that minimal win happily.
You…you are everything he’s dreamed of. Maybe more. Maybe even more than more. You could very easily leave him miserable and suffering—not because you’re bad and you want to hurt him, but because he’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And things just work out a certain way for people like him versus people like you.
You kiss his thoughts away again. Kiss his lips all soft and sweet and filled with a certain amount of adoration he doesn’t know he’s earned. (But he’ll take it. He’s not above something soft and sweet and just for him.)
“Your head is not a very nice place,” you murmur, tapping his forehead. “I can tell. It’s being mean to you.”
He laughs at that, raising an amused brow. “Yeah? Think so?”
“Yeah,” you hum. “In my head,” you move your finger to now trace his chest, running your fingers through the hair that litters his skin, “you’re just a good boy who did some bad things. And you’re trying to be good now, see? You reformed a whole prison! Very good. I think that we can work with that.”
“Good boy,” he repeats in disbelief, “you’re talking to me like I’m a dog?”
You pet his head teasingly. “Such a good boy.”
His face lights up as he suddenly gets an idea—you watch it in real time, the scheming look in his eyes. In an instant, he’s grabbing your wrist as he pulls it against his lips and murmurs, “Careful,” before gently nibbling at your inner wrist, “I might bite.”
“No!” you shriek, letting out a series of giggles, “no, don’t bite, please! I have treats! Spare me!”
He shakes his head, fighting back a lopsided grin. “Unbelievable,” he huffs, “you’re unbelievable.”
“I’m not,” you brush back his hair. “If you just believe me, you’ll feel a lot better.”
“Yeah? What should I believe then, miss soulmate?”
“That we’re good together,” you murmur, “and that we’ll be fine. And that we deserve each other—as in you deserve this, too. Just trust me on that.”
He lets out a soft, heavy breath. Not all people are created the same in Fontaine. In fact, they aren’t in any nation. But all soulmates love each other the same—and this time, the way you look at him is not the same picture-perfect, falsified look from Mother. Or the same deceivingly kind, careful words from Father.
These are real. He can work with that.
“Okay,” he pretends to cave, shoving his face into your neck. You let him hide away in there. Let him keep that fragile look in his eyes hidden from view. “M’trusting you on that. Deceiving the Duke is punishable by ten years in prison, miss.”
“Yes, sir,” you smile, stroking his hair. “I am no rule breaker, you see. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”
“Wanna talk about what’s on your mind?” you offer softly.
He hesitates. And then he decides that maybe he can afford nice things—the Fortress has granted him a pretty amount of mora these days, anyway. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “maybe not this second, though. But we’ll talk about it.”
He can practically see your smile even if he can’t look. “Okay,” you murmur, “fine by me. We have plenty of time, baby.”
Your arms wrap tighter around him. Perhaps this is Fontaine. Perhaps this is the nation of justice. Perhaps he has found his justice in your arms, feeling your warm skin against his as you erase every memory of pain from his body where you and he touch.
This is not a very linear format in terms of plot and story telling it. It jumps along many months and weeks and doesn’t have a specific timeline. It is just the journey of wrio falling in love despite his flaws. Hope you enjoyed that
your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave
word count. ❤︎ 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss
before you read. ❤︎ female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in one scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering
commentary. ❤︎ IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly
You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos.
On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.
You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not.
Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.
Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves.
It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones.
Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength.
So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you.
Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady.
You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.
Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:
If not for Janusopolis, then for me.
Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.
But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.
You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders.
But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.
It stings. You don’t flinch.
Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.
How ironic, you almost want to say.
Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him.
He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king.
The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”
Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.
—————
Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic.
“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation.
“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”
“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly.
You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)
“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”
“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”
Oh.
Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room.
There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around.
“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”
“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”
You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break.
But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid.
“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.
Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor.
There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot.
“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.)
“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him.
But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly.
“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”
“But—”
“Unless that is your wish, of course,” he adds.
You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”
“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side.
“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”
He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time.
Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening.
“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”
He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”
You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”
“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”
You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.
“The left,” you murmur.
“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”
With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.)
“Goodnight,” he mumbles.
“Goodnight,” you huff in return.
“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”
“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”
He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”
────────────────────────
One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos.
At least, it is for you.
You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head.
The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly.
Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband.
“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him.”
“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”
“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”
“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”
“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”
“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.
“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”
Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince.
“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown.
You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”
“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”
You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”
“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?”
“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out.
This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”
“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.
“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”
“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”
“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”
That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do.
And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days.
Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”
“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”
“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”
“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”
His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.
Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms.
“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”
His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.
“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)
“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly.
“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”
“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”
“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”
Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything.
And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy.
“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”
“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves.
It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”
And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.
You will have nothing of the sort.
You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”
He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you.
Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused.
“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”
You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them.
“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.
“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated.
“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”
And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears.
“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”
—————
Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence.
Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly.
“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”
“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”
Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come.
“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”
“Perhaps I have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort.
Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)
“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”
“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”
You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire.
She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.
(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”
You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.
After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.
“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”
“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)
In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.
Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.
Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.
“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go.
It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open.
“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic.
“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side
He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”
“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”
“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”
You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing.
Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles.
The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.
It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”
“How long will this dinner last?” you pout.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”
With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves.
You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment.
So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained.
That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream.
“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.
“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”
“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”
“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”
“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”
“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—
He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”
“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”
“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you.
Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him.
“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”
He cuts you off again.
“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”
His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—
“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”
“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”
The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos.
And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.
A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp.
“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”
“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”
You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.
“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”
“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”
“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him.
“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders.
You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.
With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.
“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”
“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”
He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”
“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”
“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely.
You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur.
“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”
By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose.
Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage.
“Ready to return home?” He asks.
You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.
Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth.
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After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends.
That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:
Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.
You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?
I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner.
Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest?
Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way.
It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise.
“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you.
You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”
“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”
It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)
“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)
“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.
At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”
“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”
“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”
His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming.
The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.
“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”
“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.
“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”
“And what would that be?”
“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.)
And you cave.
Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason.
“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff.
You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.
—————
It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.
You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)
Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.
“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”
“Thank you,” you smile.
With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.
Silence. Perfect.
Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.
But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.
You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.
“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist.
He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face.
“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”
“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”
“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament.
“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”
“Mydei,” he corrects.
“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”
“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”
“But you are using it,” you all but whine.
“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse.
That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point.
He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate.
Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy.
“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping.
“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.
You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)
“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”
“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”
“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”
“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”
“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”
“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”
“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass.
And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”
You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”
“I would not lie to you, dear wife.”
You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”
He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”
He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you.
You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close.
“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”
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In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries.
But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive.
“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”
“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”
He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”
“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”
“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”
“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”
It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.
Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”
And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him.
You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.
“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.
Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”
He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”
“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”
“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”
“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”
This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm.
You blink in surprise.
“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly.
“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”
“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties.
“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”
“They have,” he nods, agreeing.
Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it.
It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically.
“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”
“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”
“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.
“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”
“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?
“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”
“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.
“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”
Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!”
—————
Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)
You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood.
“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”
“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”
“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth.
“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”
“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)
“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”
“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”
“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”
“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”
“It is getting late—”
“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”
He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles.
“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”
“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)
“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth.
He melts for a second, on instinct alone.
And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”
“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”
“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”
You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on.
“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”
“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”
“But—”
He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”
“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”
He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”
—————
In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)
You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”
“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”
“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it.
“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.”
(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)
────────────────────────
It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you.
He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back.
You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.
It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry.
He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry.
Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first.
He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent.
At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.
“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle.
He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”
“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”
“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.
“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.”
“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”
“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”
“I am not—”
You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips.
“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts.
“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)
Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”
“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”
For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”
“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze.
You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you.
And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper.
“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei?
Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”
“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”
His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin.
“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”
He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest.
“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”
“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”
You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock.
“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”
“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”
“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”
“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.”
His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers.
He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages.
“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”
“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”
“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”
“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”
His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls.
“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”
“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”
“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.
You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock.
“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”
“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”
You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression.
“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”
“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”
He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.
He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you.
“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”
“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”
And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything.
“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”
With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take.
“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”
“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”
“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”
His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him.
“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”
“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”
When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you.
And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”
He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”
“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile.
Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.
────────────────────────
The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day.
You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is.
After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.
“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments.
“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed.
Then, he walks.
As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets.
“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”
“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”
“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”
“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”
That only seems to irk you more.
“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile.
“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”
“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief.
Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you.
“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”
“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight.
Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”
“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”
“You torture me,” he says, voice strained.
You blink in confusion. And then—
Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.
Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)
“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.
He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”
You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”
“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”
“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”
“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.
“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”
“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”
Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft.
“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”
“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”
“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”
“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”
“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt.
“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows.
Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow.
“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”
“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”
He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim.
And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill.
“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”
“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”
“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”
“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)
His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—
“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”
Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly.
“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.
“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”
He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”
You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”
———————
Mydei does, in fact, return to you.
Except, it is not in the condition that he left.
He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat.
“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers.
You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound.
“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”
“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”
“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle.
“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”
“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”
You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all.
———————
It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed.
“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.
“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”
“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”
“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise.
And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”
One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him.
“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?”
He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”
“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”
“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”
“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”
You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against.
But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.
And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage.
“Do you not have any faith in m—”
“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”
“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”
“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks.
“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”
“Do not scare me like this again,” you command.
“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face.
“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”
“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”
“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”
He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”
“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.
“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say.
“The sun,” you murmur.
He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”
Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt.
“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”
“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer.
You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”
He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”
WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.
It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.
It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.
First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.
Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.
Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.
Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.
Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.
Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.
For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.
Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily
synopsis: you are the daughter of the man alhaitham brought down, bound to him by the soul mark that feels more like a curse than fate. somehow, one letter at a time, he finds his way into your heart—until you can no longer pretend you don’t ache for the man who ruined your life and saved you all at the same time
word count. ❤︎ 14.4k words—give it a chance. PLEASE I BEG give it a chance and i will venmo u a penny
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; soulmates au ; somewhat enemies to lovers (it’s a bit one sided) ; reader is azar’s daughter ; reader is a rtawahist scholar and wields an electro vision ; reader is going through it guys. cut her some major slack okay ; YEARNER alhaitham ; soulmarks as the soulmates trope ; sumeru plot is heavily referenced and i hope it’s all accurate it’s been 3 years ; male masturbation ; vaginal fingering ; protected sex (use condoms!) ; praise kink ; getting together ; implied moving in together in the end ; this is not proof read. i am tired and hungry
commentary. ❤︎ read the extended author’s note here
The Akademiya admissions form includes the following overview for Rtawahist:
Rtawahist is one of the Six Darshans of the Akademiya that students may select to study, specializing in illuminationism and the pursuit of truth through the study of the stars. Its scope includes, first, astronomy—the mathematical observation and mapping of celestial bodies—and second, astrology—the interpretation of their patterns as signs of destiny. Students who pursue this Darshan will train in celestial observation, star-mapping, and the interpretation of cosmic patterns, combining scientific precision with philosophical inquiry.
When you fill out your application years ago, you check the box for Rtawahist without even reading the overview. You have no need to do that. You do not bother with listing a second choice, either. You also have no need to do that. Your father will see the application through—that much you already know. Privileged, perhaps, but not unearned. You have every intention of earning your keep.
When the acceptance papers arrive, Rtawahist is stamped as your chosen Darshan. You are not surprised. You are not ungrateful, either. The stars, you think, may have been your first love—you do not take your devotion to them any more lightly now than you did when you studied them.
You have never anticipated that the same stars you devote yourself to could be so cruel, forcing you to watch the man who replaced your father as Grand Sage also be the one who orchestrated his downfall.
You cannot bear the injustice of it.
Your father—who now sits in a cell while the city mocks his name—has been replaced by the very man who put him there. The same man they call a hero. The same man who stripped him of his title, his dignity, and every scrap of respect earned through decades of work and brilliance.
You catch this despicable man just as he leaves his—no, your father’s—office.
“Excuse me,” you hiss, “are you the one they call Alhaitham?”
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you. His expression is unreadable, almost bored—like you’re an interruption that he endures. The veins in your head threaten to burst from the sheer insult of it.
“I’m on my break now,” he says flatly, “if you wish to submit an appeal to any funding proposals, please submit an application according to the prescribed format—”
“That’s not why I’m here,” you interrupt, hissing once more.
His eyes glance over your figure up and down briefly—your blood boils even more for it—and then there is an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze. Curiosity, maybe, or perhaps recognition. Good, you think, he should recognize you—and he should regret it soon enough.
“Then I can’t imagine what business you have with me.”
Your eyes narrow. “It’s about my father.”
“Ah.” His arms cross loosely over his chest, as if the puzzle has solved itself. “Then you’ve come for closure. If that’s what you want, I’m not sure I am the one to turn to.”
You grit your teeth. “Do not talk as though he’s dead. I don’t need closure for a man who still lives.”
“I never implied he wasn’t alive. He’s imprisoned,” Alhaitham replies evenly. “By his own actions. I didn’t decide his actions for him—I only carried out what had to be done when his ambitions threatened the nation.”
“What do you know of his actions?” you snap. “You think yourself to know every detail simply because you were the scribe? Handling a few mere documents doesn’t give you the knowledge and upper hand you think it does—you’re still nothing but a scribe with a salary that is hardly applaudable. What, you think you understand him because you saw a single moment from the outside?”
“I understand him because I saw everything I had to,” he replies blandly. “I don’t have to be more than a scribe with a generous income to know I watched him imprison a god. I also didn’t need a report to see him falsify divinity and use that for his own gains.”
“That’s not true,” your voice shakes, “you have no idea what you’re saying. You’re believing the convenient cover-up story that—”
“It’s the truth,” he interrupts. “You just don’t want it to be.”
Your hands ball into fists as your breath trembles. His composure infuriates you—it makes your grief feel small, your faith in your father feel foolish. It makes you feel inferior to a man who has held a title of authority for less than two days. Your father was a foolish piece in the Fatui’s schemes—this you are certain. There is no other truth you will believe. You cannot stand for the injustice of their plans falling on his shoulders and stripping him of his freedom. Stripping you of his presence.
“He devoted his life to this Akademiya. To Sumeru. To the Archon, weak as he may have felt she was. And you—you sit in his chair and call yourself righteous for tearing him down and stealing his position.”
Alhaitham exhales quietly through his nose, a trace of weariness threading through his voice. “I stole nothing. I sit in that chair simply because someone has to—and the Archon herself has asked it of me. This is a temporary position. I have no interest in leading the Akademiya long-term. If you wish to read the reports detailing your father’s crimes, I suggest finding the General Mahamatra. I’ll have it arranged so you’re granted permission to see the documents, if it’ll ease your mind.” He shifts slightly, a finality to the motion. “Now, if you would please allow me to continue with my rather limited break—”
You don’t bother hearing the rest. His earlier words already have landed like cold water against your face. How dare he? How dare he speak to you as though you’re a fool—a child, a little girl who is naive enough to believe whatever reports were written by the same insidious people who used your father as a scapegoat for their own gains?
You watch as he turns from you and begins to walk away. To dismiss you once more. To ignore your existence and the weight you are left to carry because of his selfishness.
“Don’t you dare,” you whisper. The words shake from nothing else but fury. And before logic can tell you otherwise, before it can stop you, your hand shoots out. “Don’t you dare turn from me before I am finished, you scoundrel!”
You catch his wrist. And then you regret it. (Perhaps ignorance, as they say, is the ultimate form of bliss. Perhaps if you had never touched him, had allowed yourself to be ignorant of this discovery, you’d have been able to live some semblance of a happy life.)
It happens in a sudden—there is a searing heat surging beneath your palm, sharp and alive, as though something ancient and dormant has been waiting just beneath your skin for this exact moment. A soft, glowing light emits where your fingers meet his skin, and what looks like a thin, golden thread burns into both your wrists before settling into a mark.
You both freeze.
Alhaitham’s eyes flicker down to the mark forming on his wrist, then to yours. The same shape—a sharp V, and from its bottom, points three thin lines branching outward. You recognize the shape almost instantly—a constellation. Aquila. (How cruel fate is, mocking you with a soulmark that mirrors your favorite constellation and ties you to a man you loathe.)
You stumble back a step, your breath catching in your throat. The glow lingers on your skin for a moment longer, pulsing faintly before it fades—leaving behind the familiar, unmistakable shape burned into your wrist.
No. No, no, no—it can’t be. It can’t. You refuse to believe it. You won’t.
Your stomach twists, your skin burns, your eyes sting, and the air collapses in your lungs. You drag your hand away from him quickly—as if scalded by his touch—staring at the mark like it’s something foreign, something monstrous, something hideous.
Alhaitham’s expression doesn’t change—still composed, still maddeningly calm. You hate him for it. For being so unfeeling about something that has all but changed the direction that your world spins and the axis that it is tilted on. He opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already shaking your head.
“No.” The word cracks on your dry tongue. “No, this isn’t possible…it can’t be—”
“It would appear,” he says quietly, “that it can.”
The way he says it makes bile rise in your throat. He sounds like he might be identifying a constellation, not dismantling your entire world. Like he’s merely stating an objective fact that he has read in a textbook rather than admitting to changing your whole life. Again.
You clutch your wrist to your chest, covering any evidence of the mark as if hiding it might undo it entirely. “You…this—” You can’t even form the accusation properly. The words tumble along your tongue, frantic and hurried as you try to string together something coherent. “Undo this! Undo what you did!” you shriek, the words panicked.
Alhaitham freezes, just a fraction, his hand brushing his own wrist where the mark glows faintly. His eyes flicker between your face and the mark, calm on the surface but calculating beneath.
“That would be impossible. I didn’t do this,” he blinks, “nor could I. This…is not in my control. Or yours. And please, lower your voice—people will get the wrong idea if you scream in the halls—”
You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. “This can’t be real! It can’t—”
“It is,” he says firmly. Louder this time. You blink through your tears and look at him—really look at him, and only now do you notice his pallor. Only now do you notice he subtle tension in his jaw, the faint dig of his nails into his own skin. “This is very real, and it isn’t exactly something either of us can simply ignore. Therefore, it would be wise of you to accept—”
“No!” you shake your head, your voice giving away your horror as it worsens by the second, “No! You can’t be serious. You can’t expect me to accept that the stars would decide this fate for me. They…they would never trap me with…with you! A man so awful, so wicked, so utterly merciless. How could they curse me like this? How could they choose someone as vile as you to be my fate? How could I deserve something as cruel as this?”
“I—”
You turn before you can hear any more words from him. You turn and you run—you run past the halls of the Akademiya, past the streets of Sumeru City, past every vendor and market you know, and you run into the quiet, empty home your father raised you in. The one that is devoid of him now—and maybe always will be. You run from him, from that man and from the mark he taunts you with, from every fragment of happiness he tore away from you and has crushed in his fist.
────────────────────────
They say not even the Archons can come in the way of a soulmate’s bond. It is written and sealed by Celestia themselves—or so the whispers tend to go. You often wonder if that’s just the Akademiya’s way of giving reason to what they don’t understand: linking this inexplicable bond to a power such as Celestia that they find equally impossible to grasp, yet impossible to deny.
If you were not so devastated, you might think it’s funny that you and Alhaitham happen to be a pair. Your visions certainly make for a good dynamic—Dendro and Electro. A formidable combination, as everyone likes to say. The two heighten each other, a sharper and more concentrated source of energy when together than apart. The Akademiya’s been taking advantage of that for years, pairing Dendro and Electro users in Matra units whenever possible.
There was even research once—old Akademiya studies claiming that soulmates who were both vision wielders always shared elements with strong synergy. Hydro and Pyro, perhaps. Cryo and Pyro, maybe. Dendro and Electro—everyone’s favorite in the Dendro Archon’s nation. The reactionary benefits were a popular topic across Sumeru, and being the nation of Dendro, plenty of Dendro scholars happily threw themselves into studying the synergy with Electro.
It spread far enough that even Liyue got involved. A researcher there proposed something new: that some soulmate pairs didn’t have opposing elements at all, but the same one. Their powers, they said, heightened differently—something that is less of a reaction, something that is more of a saturation. A phenomenon they called Elemental Resonance. That theory didn’t last long. The skeptics tore it apart, insisting two vision wielders didn’t need to be soulmates to fight well together. The sages pulled their funding soon after, and the whole thing was left to fade into obscurity.
You have never particularly believed any of it. You doubt the Archons and the gift of their power to you has much to do with your supposed bond to Alhaitham, either. Still, a small part of you almost wonders if those who are divine have a strange sense of humor—what chances that Celestia has decided Alhaitham is your fate, and the Archons have decided that your vision is his match.
Perhaps if your soulmate were anyone else, you might have believed in the divine. You might have even trusted their judgment. You almost wonder if they have made a mistake until you stare at the lines that mark your wrist—and then you know that, however much you want to deny that the divine have power, you cannot.
Aquila. Your mark is the shape of Aquila’s constellation. It is proof enough that Alhaitham is your soulmate just as much as your vision is Electro. There is no denying this truth. You would recognize the constellation in your sleep—a scholar of your caliber from Rtawahist’s darshan would never mistake such a commonly known collection of stars. You have studied the stars for so long. Day after week after month after year, you’ve stared into the sky and wondered if each constellation will guide you to the truth. Your father has always said it would.
You remember it vividly—the first time he’d taught you about the stars and their meanings. Azar was always a doting father. You can still feel the warmth of his arms as he’d sat you on his lap as a child, pointing to the sky and guiding your eager eyes.
That one is Aquila, he’d whispered. But in the Rtawahist, we call it Vultur Volans. It reflects an older astronomical lexicon predating the modernized Aquila, you see.
Well. That one is my favorite, you’d whispered back excitedly. And he’d chuckled—you still shiver when you remember the way it felt. Warm. Safe. Good.
Your father was always good.
And yet, he is sitting in a jail cell with zero contact from the outside world. Even contact from his own daughter requires utmost effort on your part. Official regulatory protocols dictate that you must submit a formal request to the Grand Sage to visit any current prisoners before their trials. Your only options are to follow them—but you don’t expect it to be a yes.
As Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham alone has the authority to approve or deny any visitation for Azar. No one apart from you will visit Azar—you are the only one who loves him. You know that. You think you may be the only one who even likes him. The thought makes you a little sick.
When you submit your request, you are certain that he will deny you the right to see your father. You think, deep down, you may have just made the submission more to spite him than to visit Azar. But then the reply comes—short, stamped, and neatly folded in an envelope—and his handwriting legibly scrawls: APPROVED.
You can’t decide if you’re relieved by the opportunity or enraged that you were granted his mercy.
But you waste little time. When you arrive, the matra who escort you say nothing. They don’t have to. Sharp eyes and distrustfully downturned lips are something you are growing used to, something you are accepting as yet another piece of your truth. People are not exactly unkind—regardless of where you and Alhaitham stand, he is a hero to the nation, and knowledge of your connection is not uncommon by now. People know better than to mistreat the previous Grand Sage’s daughter for his sins. They know to repay the current Grand Sage’s generosity by extending to you their mercy.
You hate it. All Alhaitham ever seems to offer you is some twisted sense of mercy. Like he is above you. Like his is the one to pass judgment on you while you are helpless to hope it is benevolence. He feels less like your soulmate and more like your superior.
You finally arrive—the door groans open. Metal drags across stone.
And there he is.
Your father is in a jail cell. He is a prisoner. A criminal. A sinner above all. Divinity will not spare him just because he is your father. They see him as nothing more than a blasphemer. Still, you can never see him as anything but your father. Not as the Grand Sage, not as the figure the city whispers about in disbelief and fury, and certainly not as the man whose name has already been stitched into Sumeru’s history as a traitor. Here, in the dim light, he is simply your father.
Azar sits on the narrow bench, hands resting loosely in front of him, posture still and tall. He hasn’t wasted away, you’re relieved to see—of course, it has only been a week, but you cannot help but worry that food and water are not something they spare kindly to a traitor of the Gods. Still, despite being well sustained, something in him looks smaller. His pride, maybe. His dignity. He has always held it tightly, even when you were a child.
You enter, and then his gaze lifts. The hardness drops away at once. His eyes soften—warm and steady and so in love with all of the little fibers of your existence standing in his line of sight. It’s the way his eyes always look when they fall on you. Suddenly, you are a child again. Suddenly, you ache to hold his cuffed hands and look up at the sky once more and hear him speak about the constellations.
But the sky is hidden by stone in his awful prison, and you fear he may never see it ever again. The thought makes your throat constrict, and suddenly every word on your tongue becomes heavy. Like lead. You wonder if you swallow them down, if lead poisoning will consume your bloodstream and kill you. You wonder if you speak them, the bluntness of their force will kill you on impact, too.
Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. That’s how it feels—so you stay silent.
“Do you eat properly?” He speaks first. “You have always made a habit of skipping meals when you are upset. Who will make sure you drink water now that I am no longer there to notice you are not drinking enough?”
Of course, he breaks the silence first. And of course, it’s to express concern for you, not give you answers. The tears slip down your cheeks like a river washes over stone—unstopping and unthinking. Like a command from the sky, the current does not stop. It does not halt for the world, nor does it slow down for it to catch up. Your tears do not wait for you. They do not slow down in time for you to even decide if they will make an appearance.
Azar is a stain on the cloth that is this nation’s history. You know that.
But Azar is your father. You are his little girl. The blood in his veins is the same retched blood that pumps your heart. You live to a beat of life that was once cradled in his palms. When your legs were not strong enough, his arms carried you through this world, and even when you could stand on your own two feet, those same arms carried away the obstacles from your path and discarded them. No matter the weight, your father bore whatever burden the sky commanded.
How can you abandon a man like that? How can you look away from the face that is a reflection of yours? How can you condemn the eyes that learned the stars for you, so you would never know the struggle of learning every constellation alone?
Your fingers ache to scrub at the stain, to scour it from the fabric, to wash the ugly color out of existence. But your mind knows the truth: no soap, no water, no hand is strong enough to ever clean blood once it’s set.
“You’re asking me if I eat?” You hiss, the words catching on your breath. “They’re saying things, out there. They’re saying you imprisoned our Archon! That you forced the people into dreams and…harvested their energy. That you…that you almost ruined this nation and doomed us all!”
Azar does not move. When you were young, your father was always patient with you. He’d sat through every tantrum, still and calm until the energy it took to misbehave slowly seeped out of you. Only when you grew tired—and only then—would he pick you up and sit you on his lap. His voice would never rise. His hands were never harsh. His eyes were never cold.
Such energy that young body of yours always has. I almost envy it. Will you listen now, my dear?
Yes, father.
He does not move. He sits through every bitter word you throw at him, still and calm now, just as he was all those years ago.
“They’re wrong,” you continue, desperate now, your voice cracking in between pleading syllables. “They have to be wrong. You would never—you couldn’t do that.”
“I could,” he says simply, his voice quiet but firm. “And I did.”
The words feel like a slap to your face.
Your father would never hit you, but it feels like he has struck you with his own hand. Your heart stills, your stomach churns, and for one dizzying moment, you almost laugh. It’s nothing more than a twisted and cruel joke. Your father’s sense of humor has always been a little odd—but he is your father. The man who carried you on his shoulders to see Sumeru’s festival lights, who bought you your first paper book and the colorful sticky notes to annotate within it, who brought home pounds of zaytun peaches because you had briely commented you liked them once, who pointed out constellations and told you their stories so you’d forget the nightmares that frightened the sleep away from your eyes some nights.
“You’re lying to me,” you whisper. Your fingers clutch at your robes, desperate for something to hold onto—you cannot hold his hand. Not when they are cuffed. “You’re just…you’re tired, or you’re confused—yes, that must be it. I see now—they’ve poisoned you against yourself. They are accusing you of someone else’s plot through lies, Father, and you are believing them from your own guilt because you could not have stopped it on your own. You had no choice but to follow along—for your own survival. They may not see that, but I do. Listen to me. You can’t simply give in to what they say.”
Azar chuckles softly, the faintest smile curving his lips. Not cruel, not mocking—only tender. “I see your imagination still runs vividly, my dear. But I fear I am precisely what they say I am,” he tells you, in the same patient tone he once used to explain to your young mind how the stars move across the sky. “The father who loves you more than his own breath and the man who did what was necessary to see his ambitions through. They are two sides of the same coin. They never have been separate.”
Your vision blurs, and you shake your head furiously, but the tears don’t stop. “Stop saying that! Why do you lie? Please. Just…stop. Listen to me,” you beg, “you must tell them—the second of the Fatui harbingers is a terrible man. I have seen his records in the Akademiya, father. He once went by the name of Zandik. If he threatened you into doing his bidding, you have to just be honest—there is no shame in being powerless to a harbinger of Snezhnaya—”
His hand, bound by cuffs, cups your cheek. The rattle of metal sounds so horribly wrong—so sickeningly, nauseatingly wrong. “You are my child—my own flesh and blood. I will never stop loving you,” he says gently. “But I will not lie to you. Not even to soothe you.”
The words may have well ripped away the stars you always believed were hung in the sky by Azar himself. You don’t know what’s worse: the fact that his love has never sounded truer, or that his guilt has never been more absent. You don’t understand it. Cannot process it. It isn’t something he can explain to you patiently this time—how he can allow his love and his sins to coexist with ease when it feels like it tears your flesh straight off of your bones.
“You have consumed forbidden knowledge, haven’t you?” You cry, bordering on hysterics, “It’s caused you to go mad! We can get help. We can move to the desert and live peacefully if you wish—I’ll take care of you. The sky above the desert is the same sky above the Akademiya, I won’t miss this place—I promise! Let’s go, and perhaps your mind will be cleared of all of this nonsense, and we can just forget that any of this has ever even—”
“You are a bright girl,” he interrupts you, “a student I raised, in fact. You know how to find the truth, don’t you?”
You do. You’ve studied the art of truth since before you could even comprehend that there are worlds beyond the sky.
Your father is a criminal. And if, someday, you have children of your own, they will learn of his crimes from the history books. It isn’t a reality you can reverse by spinning the planet backward. There is no undoing this—only moving forward. There is only the future, and what the sky has decided will exist within it.
You will live without your father. And he will rot in a cell. The stars have already decreed it, leaving you no chance to protest. Perhaps even a week ago, you would not have dared to argue with them. It’s funny how one moment can change everything.
“The only truth I know,” you say, blinking through tears as you stand, “is that everything I have ever loved is forever ruined.”
You turn and walk out of the cell, your steps echoing down the corridor. You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, fighting back the sobs clawing their way up your throat. Your vision blurs so completely that you don’t even see the figure ahead until you collide with it. Skin meets skin—and it’s warm, grounding. Suddenly, the ache inside you disappears. For one fleeting second, breathing feels easy again.
Then you look up and see him. And you wish you could stop breathing altogether.
“You’re crying,” he murmurs. Alhaitham is ever the sharp mind—sharper than most in all of Sumeru’s Akademiya—and yet, he is somehow capable of saying something so painfully useless.
“Shocked, are we?” you smile thinly, pulling away from his hands, which have caught your waist to steady you. “Perhaps if you had a little love in your heart, you’d understand why.”
“I understand perfectly well why you cry for him,” he says plainly. “It’s just that he doesn’t deserve tears from someone he’s betrayed.”
“Why did you do it?” Your lips quiver. You search his eyes for answers as though they will tell you before himself—you wonder why you do when he is so cold. Blunt. He would tell you his answer even if you did not want to hear it for yourself. “Why did you take him from me?”
“Do you think you’d be spared from the version of Sumeru he was trying to build?” He raises a brow. Alhaitham is so, so cold, you think—so harsh and cruel with the way he holds a mirror up to your face and forces you to see the truth. How can you bear to look into a mirror ever again? How can you bear to see your eyes and remember they are the same eyes of your father?“Do you really think you’d find happiness in the world he wanted to create? You’d rather he take your life with him?”
“Don’t speak to me about what I would and wouldn’t want as if you know me,” you hiss.
“I know enough,” he says, gaze steady as it bores into you. “You’re my counterpart. I know that whoever I’m bound to by fate could never be someone so different from me. If you weren’t blinded by the fact that he’s your father, would our views really be so far apart?”
“I am not blinded by anything!” you poke a finger into his chest, “if I was, the only thing I would be blinded by is the horror of Celestia mocking me with you and…and that face of yours that haunts me everywhere!”
“And what? You think you haunt me any less?” he fires back—you realize now that you have only ever seen an Alhaitham that is patient. An Alhaitham who has lost his patience minces his words even less. “You think it’s easy to see your face every time I close my eyes? Your face that so closely resembles his? The man that nearly cost me everything I’ve worked for—my position, my achievements, my peace? You really think I believe someone like you—someone who is as capable and intelligent—can be this naive? You’re not suffering because of me. You’re suffering because you ignored the truth long before I ever spoke it out loud.”
You freeze. Your fingers tremble as you grab his shirt and yank him closer until your faces are level, your jaw set. “What do you mean?” you ask, low and dangerous. “What exactly are you accusing me of, you absolute lunatic? Has that knowledge capsule you touched rewired your brain completely?”
“Why do you think the Matra haven’t questioned you?” he fires back, voice firm but level. “As his daughter, you’d be a prime suspect for conspiracy. You studied under the same Darshan. You really think the General Mahamatra overlooks that kind of detail? Who do you think cleared you? Who made sure your name never appeared in the reports when documents detailing Azar’s plans were found in your own home? You expect me to believe that, for months, you never once suspected something was wrong? That you didn’t see it, or worse—you did, and you dismissed it? You think so little of your own father’s intelligence—that he wouldn’t tell me himself that you were innocent? You really think that he was never aware of your doubts that you shoved down blindly from loyalty, and that he wouldn’t beg me to spare you? He did. And I believed him enough to keep you out of all of his crimes. I have done everything I can to help you keep a shred of your dignity and your life as you know it, so that his mistakes don’t cost you. You think I would purposely ruin things for you? You think so little of me?”
“So what?” you whisper, voice shaking as you glare at him. “What…what is it you want? For me to thank you? To thank you for letting me exist at your mercy and witness how generous you are? Is that it? Is that what you want from telling me this?”
“No.” His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. “I want you to finally see things for what they are, and stop letting your emotions cloud your judgment—”
“So now I’m too emotional?” You laugh, a sharp, broken little sound. “Forgive me, Grand Sage—perhaps being orphaned so young has left you with little knowledge of what it means to be loved, but I have the privilege of understanding exactly what that means. You’d never understand the agony of watching someone you love be subjected to this fate.”
He stills. His shoulders go rigid, the tension in his jaw almost visible.
Too far—your mind screams in sync with your heart. Too far. For a fleeting moment, you almost think you can feel the pain in his chest as if it were your own.
“You have no idea,” he says lowly, his voice laced with a venom you’ve never heard from someone so composed, “what you’re saying. My parents’ status hardly means I know nothing about love—you’d do well to remember that.”
“Or what? You’ll throw me in jail along with my father, is that it? Use that high authority of yours over my head?”
“Funny of you to lecture me about love,” he snaps, “when all you seem to think with is that blinding hatred of yours. I’ve waited so long to find you—did you know that? Since the day I was orphaned and stripped of that love you seem to think I know nothing of, I always dreamt of finding you—just what luck it would be that the one meant to love me would make it seem like such a rotten task.”
He grabs your wrists, prying your hands off his shirt and stepping back. Even now, the motion is painfully gentle—too careful for how sharp his words sound. Then he turns abruptly, boots bluntly pressing against the stone floor as he walks away one step at a time.
You stand frozen for a moment before rushing after him, the echo of your steps chasing his. “I’m not done speaking to you,” you call, practically jogging to keep up with his long strides.
“I am,” he says flatly, not slowing. “I have a meeting to prepare for.”
“I’m sure you can afford a few moments—”
“I can’t.”
“Well, too bad,” you snap, breathless. “You’ll have to find some way, because—”
He stops suddenly and turns. Before you can react, his hand wraps around your wrist again—not harsh, but firm enough that you stumble closer. “You are maddening.”
“Well,” you say stubbornly, “I suppose it’s no wonder we’re bound to each other because you’re the exact same way.”
“Fine then,” he rolls his eyes. He turns, dragging you along with him, “Then you can say what you need to say somewhere private,” he mutters, low enough that only you can hear. His eyes flick briefly toward the guards stationed down the hall.
He doesn’t wait for you to reply. You follow him (without a choice, considering the way his hand pulls you along) through the corridors in silence, your pulse still hammering from the searing heat of his touch. When he pushes open the heavy door to his office and steps aside for you to enter first, you realize that despite it all, Alhaitham is a gentleman. Painstakingly so.
He looks at you expectantly, still so stiff in his posture as he crosses his arms and leans his back against the door. Probably so no one tries to come in, you think to yourself.
“Whatever it is you have to say, best make it quick,” he grunts. “I’m a busy man these days—against my will, if I might add.”
You roll your eyes, scowling. “I’m sorry about that comment,” you mutter. “It was cruel.”
“You’re apologizing?” His brows lift in genuine bewilderment.
You scowl deeper. “Say what you will about Azar, but he raised me with proper manners. I’m hardly above apologizing when I should.”
He studies you for a moment, then nods slowly. “Well…I appreciate it.”
“What exactly is it that’s suspected of me?” you ask bluntly, meeting his eyes. “I want to know.”
Alhaitham sighs, shoulders relaxing. “It’s not that your innocence was ever in question—Cyno and I both agreed that if you were involved, you’d have been more of an obstacle during our plan. But ignoring you in any investigation entirely would’ve been foolish. Your father agreed to cooperate during questioning if you were cleared, so I looked into you myself.”
“And what did you find?” you press.
“Like I said,” he waves a hand, “you’re innocence was never a matter of debate. Whether or not you suspected your father before the rest of us and stayed silent…that’s another matter. One I’d rather not get into the ethics of.”
“I knew he was collaborating with the Fatui,” you whisper. “I saw…letters.”
He raises a brow.
You exhale shakily. “That’s all I knew. And I suppose not digging deeper was my mistake. Maybe I could have talked sense into him. I thought it was about money—or maybe knowledge. The man he dealt with was the second of the Harbingers from Snezhnaya. A man once called Zandik, and a former scholar here at the Akademiya. I read the reports—not that I was supposed to, but I did. I assumed Father’s hunger for discovery had just led him into questionable company. I never thought it would…” your voice falters.
“You would never have changed his mind,” Alhaitham says quietly.
You glance up at him, too tired to be offended. “Ah, is that what you think?” you ask bitterly.
“It’s what I know,” he replies. “If love for his daughter had been enough, he wouldn’t have risked everything in the first place.”
“So the problem was that he didn’t love me enough,” you say, laughing without humor.
“The problem,” he corrects evenly, “is that he loved his ambition most. Enough to let it consume him. No amount of love for you could have undone that. If it’s any solace, I think he would’ve regretted it—eventually. For your sake, more than his.”
“Wow,” you sniffle, voice flat. “I’m comforted.”
“Then I’m relieved,” he hums. “I’m not great at comforting. Means I’m doing something right.”
“Listen, Alhaitham,” you say tiredly, meeting his eyes for the first time without malice. His gaze softens the moment he sees your expression. But even then, you don’t soften the blow of what comes next. “The divine may have bound us together, but it’s clear to me that we’ll never make this work. Not when something so much bigger than us stands in the way.”
His eyes flicker—confusion, betrayal, anger, sadness. And something else you can’t quite name.
“How can you be so sure—”
“I’m not,” you cut in softly. “I just know that I’m tired. I need to make sense of what’s left of my life, and to do that, I have to stop living inside this…mess. You’re a constant reminder of everything I’m trying to move past. I think it’s better if we keep our distance.”
“I disagree,” he says quietly. You close your eyes. “But if that’s what you want, I’m not really in a position to argue.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
With that, you leave his office. The skin of your mark burns as soon as you put distance between you, but you force your feet in front of each other with every step.
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Grandmother had told Alhaitham once, when he was young, that his parents were lucky with their fate. He’d thought her to be crazy at the time. What was so lucky about dying so young? Of leaving their only son behind before even watching him grow?
The answer became clear when he was a little older. Dying alongside your soulmate, he’d realized, is mercy. He had seen the way Grandmother would clutch her wrist; he had seen the way she would rub at the skin when she thought he wasn’t looking. His mother and father were fortunate—sure, they never witnessed their son grow, and yes, they never accomplished all the things they had dreamt as scholars. But they had each other for the entirety of their life spans since the day their paths crossed.
Grandmother was right. There is no fate that is more fortunate than that.
Alhaitham wonders if he is the most unfortunate individual to exist—how can it be that the same mother and father who were so lucky in their time had produced a son with such terrible luck himself? How can it be that with a soulmate so alive and healthy and near as his, he is still fated to the reality that he will never have you by his side?
Even a mind as brilliant as his cannot come up with any explanation for it. And it seems the more he would like to forget you—forget everything, the more you pop into his mind. Even in his dreams, you show up, haunting him and haunting every part of his mind and soul and body.
You’re soft. Alhaitham is overwhelmed by how soft you are.
Your lips are delicate, your skin is pillowy under his touch, and something about the way you touch him back is just as gentle, too. Your walls are soft as well—despite being as tight as they are, they’re warm and velvety, and they squeeze around his swollen cock so well.
“H-haitham,” you breathe, “please, Haitham—I need more. Please, baby.”
He shivers twice. Once because you call him Haitham, and a second time because you call him baby. He feels a third shiver creep over his spine when he realizes how much he likes your voice when it calls him sweet things like that.
Like a bee, you trickle honey onto his tongue—it’s warm and saccharine and addicting. He tastes it and wants to get closer. Nearer. He wants to feel you so deeply in his system, he would happily mistake the stinger and its venom for your love and your affection.
“Call me that again,” he pleads.
“What?” you smile, cupping his cheek tenderly, “baby? You are, you know—my baby.”
“You’re…you’re so soft,” he pants, groaning as his hips rut into you with a punishing pace—he can’t stop. More. More. More. That’s all he can think. He wants more. More of you and more of your existence bleeding into his. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
“So full, Haitham,” you sob, whining as the thick, blunt head of his cock presses against the sensitive part in the back of your walls. You squeeze around him, and he lets out a helpless moan.
It’s good—it’s so painfully good, and he’s so close, and the pressure in his lower belly feels so close to snapping. There’s an ache that’s building between his legs, right where he connects with you in between yours. A vulnerable place that only you can get close to, where he lets you make him ache.
He’s close. So are you. One more roll of his hips and—
—Alhaitham wakes with a start, his breath caught somewhere between a hitch and a curse. The sheets cling damp to his skin—heat is still crawling through his chest, his pulse hammering like he’s run miles through desert ruins to escape them as their walls close in on him. He almost wishes they had. He almost wishes he were in them right now, and that they’d collapsed on him and taken him down for good under the rubble.
Your voice still rings in his ears—soft, broken, begging. Since when has Alhaitham cared for the sound of your voice begging? He can still feel your hands on him, warm and desperate, the vision so vivid that he can still feel the phantom weight of your touch on his skin. And worse, he realizes, is that he had enjoyed it. Every second of his dream, he’d had his lips on you—on your own lips, on the slant of your jaw, against your throat. Every second of his dream, his hands were digging into your hips as if you were the only thing keeping him alive.
He drags a hand over his face, forcing the images back into the dark where they belong. But the ache low in his body betrays him, straining against the slightly damp fabric of his boxers.
Fuck.
It’s that mark. It has to be. He doesn’t lust over you this way, and the overwhelming truth is that he doesn’t even know you like that. There is no way Alhaitham can be this turned on by a stupid, fleeting image of you under him in his head—he hasn’t even seen you in days. But he supposes that only hurts his case—the longer the days go by without seeing you, the more restless the mark on his wrist has been. The divine must have it out for him. They force you into his senses, into his veins, into his dreams, into his fucking mind, deep in the smallest crevices until even his own body turns into a traitor.
There’s a twitch in his boxers. He covers his eyes with his hand and scrunches them shut with a frustrated groan—this is not a problem that will go away. Alhaitham knows this. He knows that if he gets up and forces himself into a cold shower and somehow manages to evade this problem now, it will only haunt him in his mind again. Even worse, he might just get a vivid image flash in his head in the middle of his work day and make his pants uncomfortably tight—tighter than they already are, that is.
So, with utmost reluctance, he caves.
Slowly, a hand wanders down his chest. It caresses the warm, sweaty skin. He tries to imagine the touch as yours—it’s a sickening thought that if he were a bit more coherent at the moment, he’d be horrified by. Your fingers would be less calloused, of course, but he doesn’t take too much time to linger on that thought.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re a headache,” he curses to himself. He’s right. You are. You make his worst migraine possible.
His finger circles a nipple gently, and he lets out a low hum of approval at the feeling. He wonders if you’d appreciate his physique—the planes of hard-earned muscle, the sharp contours carved from years of disciplined training, the toned definition written into every line of his body.
You’re pretty, Haitham, he can imagine you saying. He wants to hear you say it. He feels a little nauseous.
“Don’t tease,” he grits, “we don’t have time for that.”
You don’t care for your job enough to stress over being late—you’re busy against your will, remember? Don’t pretend you care now, he pictures you giggling in response. And you would be right. He doesn’t particularly care for his position. But he has a responsibility for the Akademiya.
His hand reaches for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down swiftly and kicking them off under his sheets somewhere. He’ll worry about them later—for now, he worries about the thick, strained cock that falls heavy against his lower abdomen.
“You’re insane,” he mumbles, wrapping his hand around his cock and squeezing lightly as he feels a sharp, fleeting pressure of ecstasy run along his length. “You drive me insane.”
Then don’t go insane, he thinks you’d say. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, you know—you’re the one who keeps letting this happen, Haitham.
“You do this to me,” he whispers, arguing back, “it’s your fault.”
That’s rather mean, Haitham. You blame me for everything.
“I don’t,” he breathes—and then his hand strokes his girth. “If anything, you blame me.”
He gasps, eyes fluttering shut as his head falls further back against his pillow. The sheets cover his shame, yet he still feels unbearably bare and open and vulnerable. Touching himself isn’t something new—Alhaitham is like every other human, no matter how much he clings to logic and reason to guide his choices. Granting himself a moment of pleasure is nothing foreign, even if it is rare, given how busy he is.
But touching himself to the thought of you feels like he’s sinning, even when all he really is doing is giving into the fate divinity has designated for him. Perhaps they had always designed him to be in hell.
“Fuck, baby,” he moans, repeating your sweet, affectionate name for him back to you—like you can hear him if he speaks to the air and trusts it to carry the words over to you. “L-like that.”
You like it when I touch you this way, don’t you, Haitham? You’d ask.
“Yes, fuck,” he hisses. Filthy. You make him so filthy with the words he spills on his tongue. “It…it feels good.”
I know, you’d coo, I like it when my Haitham feels good. Because of me.
“Yours,” he agrees, letting out a raspy groan as he tightens his grip and strokes himself faster, feeling the familiar build up in his lower belly as the ache between his legs intensifies, “your Haitham,” he breathes.
My Haitham, he can hear you soothe, all mine. You were made for me, weren’t you? Made to be my love. I love you, Alhaitham.
He cums as soon as he hears you whisper those delicate words in the fragile existence of his subconscious. That place that exists but doesn’t all at once. That place that he can escape to, but never really go as he wishes. He gasps, letting out a quiet whimper as thick ropes of cum spill into his hand and coat his abdomen with heavy twitches of his cock—he tries to imitate how he thinks you’d touch him through his high.
Maybe you’d slow down, teasing him as he bucks into your hand with a frustrated huff. Or maybe you’d quicken your pace, stroking him faster so he’d have no choice but to be at your mercy. (It doesn’t matter, really—he’ll never find out, he’s sure. So he might as well run through every possibility himself and settle on what he likes best as the closest he’ll get to having you.)
Finally, when he slumps against his mattress as he finishes, limbs feeling heavy and tired, he stares up at his ceiling and lets out a shaky sigh as he feels his own erection soften in his grip.
“Same dream again,” he scoffs to himself, rubbing his clean hand over his face tiredly, “you’re depraved, you fool. And you only have yourself to blame—Sumeru dreams again because of your own flawless plan.”
He lies there, wallowing in his own misery and self-pity for a moment before a thought strikes him:
Alhaitham is a linguist. He studies the art of language—its history, its structure, the delicate logic that binds meaning to form. And if anyone knows how to put words together in the language he’s most fluent in, it’s him. He sits up immediately to get to work—and then he is reminded of the shameless mess he’s made and groans. (After this is cleaned, he thinks, after this display of lewdness is cleaned, will be the start of his careful plan.)
So it begins—one letter at a time, he gives you distance. Because physically, as much distance as you ask for within the walls of Sumeru City, Alhaitham will grant it. But linguistically, there is no distance you can create that he will not find a way to close.
—————
Week One:
To you,
I don’t expect a reply. In truth, I don’t even know what I hope to accomplish by writing this. Perhaps it’s a habit I can’t unlearn—the impulse to record, to make sense of what cannot be reasoned aloud by writing them on parchment. Or perhaps it’s because words have always been my preferred method of thinking, and you have become something I cannot stop thinking about.
You told me that space would be most beneficial. I’ve been trying to respect that. I keep my distance. I let you pass without a word, and I make sure my presence doesn’t reach you unless absolutely necessary. Yet language does not abide by the same rules as distance. Even now, as far as I am from you, I find myself turning my thoughts of you into sentences, as if the act of forming them could bring me clarity. It hasn’t.
I used to believe that words were easy tools meant to define—simple to wield as long as one abided by their rules, like grammar. Then you happened, and suddenly, every word I knew became insufficient. It no longer feels easy to use words. I don’t know what to call this feeling. Perhaps there isn’t a word for it yet.
What I do know is that I’ll write. One letter at a time. Not to persuade you of anything, but to preserve these thoughts before they’re lost to distance. Perhaps, along the way, I’ll find the right word for this state of mind you’ve put me in.
— Alhaitham
—————
Week Two:
To you,
Another uneventful day, though I suppose “uneventful” is a luxury in the current state of the Akademiya. Meetings have multiplied ever since I transitioned into leadership. Half of them could be replaced by a single well-written report, but apparently, no one else sees it that way.
The Dendro Archon insists I attend, so I do. I listen, I make my notes, and I watch as words—our supposed instruments of precision—are thrown about carelessly, stripped of meaning by overuse. It makes me wonder how many things in life lose their truth simply because they’re spoken too often. Perhaps feelings are the same. Perhaps it’s better that I don’t speak mine aloud.
Today, someone used the word corrupt during a discussion about administrative reforms. They said it as though it were an objective diagnosis, a simple matter of right and wrong. No context. No nuance. They did not give me a proper explanation for why they came to use that word when I pressed. It bothered me more than I expected. Words like that should be used with care, or they’ll become too easily bent by whoever speaks them.
It made me think about how language fails us when we use it without precision—and how I fail at it, too, when I try to speak about you. I’m still searching for the right word for what you make me feel. Something that isn’t dulled or watered down by overuse. There must be one. It just hasn’t presented itself yet.
So give me time. I’ll find it. Studying words is what I do best, after all.
— Yours, Alhaitham
—————
Week Three:
To you,
I find my days are increasingly occupied by bothersome interactions, though I suppose that is hardly surprising given my current position. Meetings, receptions, consultations—each demands a performance of attentiveness I must forcefully will myself to demonstrate. I am expected to navigate pleasantries, offer guidance, and answer questions I hardly consider worth any depth. It’s exhausting.
Social interactions in a professional capacity, in theory, should not require this much effort. Yet the expectations that are considered proper, such as tone, phrase, and posture, are disproportionately taxing. I suspect that those who set up these standards for the workplace hardly used their intellect when creating the framework for how we conduct ourselves.
Luckily, when I find myself drained, I can seek clarity by writing to you. Perhaps it is because no pretense is required. No careful phrasing to appease or persuade.
And yes, I am still searching for a word for how you make me feel. Even amidst these endless meetings, my thoughts drift inevitably to you. In one of the manuscripts I reviewed today, I stumbled across an archaic word: eunoia. It means beautiful thinking; a well-minded state. For a moment, I thought perhaps this is the word for what you make me feel—a state where every thought in my head is serene and filled with clarity. It then occurred to me that this would hardly be a fitting word—for all the clarity you might bring me, you are also the only person who manages to turn my mind into a hazy, unclear place. I hardly recognize myself when I think of you for too long.
So I continue my search, hoping that someday I will find the word capable of holding the entirety of this state you put me in.
— Yours, whether you will have me or not, Alhaitham
—————
Week Four:
To you,
I spent the last few days in the rainforest—an inspection trip to ensure the withering is no longer a threat. The humidity there was constant, draining enough to make even thinking a tiresome task. And yet, I found myself thinking more than usual.
In the thick of Apam Woods, I saw several kalpalata lotuses. I’ve heard they’re your favorite. The cliffs that they grow along make for a good contrast, blue and green against a pale grey. They’re said to be the origin of all plant life in Sumeru—the beginning from which everything else grew. I suppose that’s poetic, though I’ve never been one for mythic explanations. Still, I couldn’t help but think that if such explanations were real, every branch and every leaf in Sumeru traces back to the roots of a kalpalata lotus.
Every thought I have seems to trace back to you in much the same way.
I’ve had no luck with a word this week. I thought perhaps the change of scenery might help, but nothing suitable presented itself. Maybe the right term won’t come from research or inspiration at all. Maybe it will reveal itself gradually. Until then, I’ll keep searching.
— Yours, if you would honor me with the pleasure, Alhaitham
—————
Week Five:
To you,
I’ve spent the past week cataloging old star charts because I know the stars are what you love most—Aquila’s constellation among them. You’re already aware that the Rtawahist tend to call that constellation Vultur Volans, and you’ve certainly seen it in the night sky. I used to admire its symmetry as a child, as my grandmother had taught me to search for it when I could not sleep on restless nights. Now I can’t look at it in the sky without thinking of the shared version of it burned into our skin.
I’ve never been one to seek meaning from the divine. I believe in consequence, not providence. Yet even I can’t help but wonder what sort of irony governs a world where the person I was fated for is the daughter of the man whose corruption I exposed. There are moments when I think fate must be a cruel scholar, concluding at the expense of those bound within its margins. If it is you with whom I am bound to the margins, then I would not choose to escape them despite the flaws of this design. If you were to ask me whether I regret it, I would say I don’t. Justice doesn’t become less rightful simply because it brings pain. But I wish, more than anything, that it hadn’t been you who had to bear its cost.
I’ve finally found the word—or rather, two. You are familiar with them, I am sure. I know amongst the scholars of Rtawahist, you are one of the most brilliant—a star right here on the ground that I can witness without reaching the sky. The words are aphelion and perihelion: the points in an orbit when one is farthest from, and closest to, the sun. That’s what you’ve become to me: both distance and nearness. Cold and warmth. The center forcefield and the reason I keep moving. Whether you grant me the closest or farthest point of your light, I will always orbit around you. It is in my nature to do so, and it will never stop at any point in time.
If the divine truly intended for our paths to cross, perhaps it was not to bind us together, but to teach me that even a life governed by logic is still vulnerable to gravity. If it is you who will pull me down, then I will choose to fall, no matter the force that will shatter me as I meet the ground.
— Yours, happily so in every world, Alhaitham
────────────────────────
The letters come every week.
Every Monday morning, without fail, a new envelope waits at your door—your name written in Alhaitham’s impeccable handwriting. The calligraphy is always deliberate and elegant, not a single word crossed out, not a single stroke shaky. He is good with words—you’ll give him that much. Week by week, letter by letter, word by word, he carves his way into your heart. You knew he would. You always knew that not falling for Alhaitham was an impossible task. Not because fate demanded it, but because he had been right that day.
Without your father to blind you, you are not so different from him after all.
You read every letter. You drink in every word. You smile when he complains, and you roll your eyes when he’s predictable. You tear up when he thinks of you, and your lips tremble when he reminds you that as long as he can use words as his tools, you will never truly be free of him. You will never truly be alone.
By Sunday afternoon, the day before the sixth letter is due, you decide to pay him a visit.
You knock on his door. When he opens it, he blinks at you in disbelief, eyes flicking from your face to the world behind you as if to make sure this isn’t a hallucination. You blink back. For a moment, the world tilts on its axis the way it always does around him—gravity somehow always shifts and changes, tugging you closer to the ground when he’s near. Like you’re falling.
“You’re…here?” he breathes.
“Hello to you, too,” you snort quietly. “Proper etiquette is to invite guests in. Especially when they happen to be your soulmate.”
“Ah, well,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “In my defense, my soulmate happens to despise me. That complicates things, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t despise you,” you whisper. “We can talk about that. When you let me in—which you still haven’t done.”
He flushes, coughing as he hurriedly steps aside. “Right. Come in.”
You smile at that. He’s endearing—infuriatingly so. When he isn’t sending your father to prison or dismantling everything you once knew, he is so painfully endearing. And, of course, no one else would see it. You’re sure only you could ever find someone like Alhaitham endearing. Most people at the Akademiya certainly don’t.
When you’re both seated in his living room, opposite ends of the same couch, you whisper, “Thank you. For the letters, I mean. They…made me feel less lonely.”
“Of course,” he says quietly. “Though, I’ll admit, I had some selfish reasons for sending them. But I’m glad they helped. I know the last few weeks haven’t been easy for you.”
“Well,” you manage a tight smile, “Father writes to me too. I’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s responsible for his own actions—it only took a month, huh?”
“It’s not wrong to have faith in people you love,” he says after a pause. “Maybe not to the point where it blinds you, but…it’s not my place to tell you how to come to terms with betrayal.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “You always sound so detached when you say things like that.”
“Detached,” he repeats. “Maybe. Maybe I am—maybe I’m not as rational as I like to think I am.”
“No,” you whisper, “no, if anyone is irrational, it’s me. The facts were always there—I just chose not to see them. You saved Sumeru—and me, by extension, and I gave you a hard time for it.”
“I didn’t save Sumeru because I’m a generous person,” he says quietly. “I did it because there is an order to everything that should be maintained…and I don’t value imbalance to that order. It’s…it’s not about playing a hero.”
“Yes,” you crack a smile, “I forget that being generous is not a fit for that cold image of yours.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles. You giggle—he lets loose a small, barely-there grin. “I suppose Sumeru’s best interest is not something I stay ignorant of,” he finally admits. “But I’m sure that isn’t why you’re here, either.”
“It’s not,” you agree. “You’ve been writing to me. All this time.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He blinks, startled by the question, as if he can’t understand why you would ask. “Because you asked me to stay away. And I told myself I would respect that. But contact does not have to mean the absence of distance—I wanted to contact you.”
You laugh bitterly, shaking your head as you glance down at your lap. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. If I were worthy of that effort, you wouldn’t have had to fight distance in the first place.”
“I wanted to,” he says simply. “You were the one who needed distance. I didn’t fault you for that. You are worth fighting distance—to me, you are.”
Tears sting your eyes at his words. Alhaitham is good with words. You don’t think it’s because he studies them, though—you think it’s because deep down, he’s a gentle soul that was made to be patient with you. To learn you and what you need when you are unsure of it yourself. To be easy when you are difficult. You know why Alhaitham is your other half—it isn’t just because the divine have said so. It’s because the stars will always guide you to him. It’s because no matter where you are, there is always a way back to him.
He is always waiting for you. Always watching for you. Always searching for you.
You press your lips together. “I didn’t want you far because I hated you,” you murmur. “It was because being near you made it harder to accept that things…were changing. I thought being away from you would make losing my father easier.”
He studies you quietly, his voice soft, “Did it?”
“No.”
A breath escapes him—half sigh, half laugh. “So you continued, why? To punish me for the hell of it, huh? You really are something else.”
You know it’s a joke—still, for old time’s sake, you glare weakly. “Be quiet.”
He smiles fondly. “I knew it would be worth it if I’d waited. That one day, you’d come to me on your own terms. Even if it took months. Even if it took years. I would happily wait.”
“Why aren’t you mad at me?”
“Because you’re here now,” he says—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I knew it wouldn’t help to stay apart, but I knew I could never say no to what you wanted. And…I knew we’d never manage to do it for long. You’d have found your way back to me just as I would you. It’s just how things go—the nature of this world. You and I finding each other is in our nature.”
“I wanted to come find you after the first letter.”
“Why didn’t you?” he raises a brow—he almost looks a little hurt.
“Because I was scared,” you laugh—there’s no humor in it. Only a choked sob. Only a tear that runs down your cheek as his eyes quickly change to soften for you. “If I came, what if you decided I was just…too much? And then you hated Celestia for deciding to bind me to you? And then you hated me? And then no one would love me ever again—”
“You really are something else,” he snorts, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you against his firm chest. It’s warm. Alhaitham is warm. You never want to be cold ever again. For the first time since you arrived, his composure completely slips. His fingers curl into your shirt as his voice cracks and he pleads, “Don’t go again. I’ll never hate you if you never leave.”
“I’ll never leave if you never hate me,” you sniffle.
“I should have known you’d be stubborn,” he playfully pokes your ribs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Using my own promise against me.”
“I believe it’s because we’re cut from the same cloth or something like that—that’s what they say about soulmates, don’t they?”
“Who knows,” he snorts, “I don’t waste my time reading hopeful fantasies.”
“Yes,” you let out a watery laugh. He wraps his arms around you tighter at the sound. “You took your time reading up to expand your vocabulary, instead. Like a hopeful romantic.”
“You took your sweet time coming to me,” he murmurs, chuckling. “What else could I do with my time?”
You hum. “I suppose I did. And you waited.”
“I would have kept waiting.”
You swallow hard. Then, your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek and making his breath hitch. “You don’t have to wait anymore.”
“Is that so?” he glances at you, amused. Hopeful. Affectionate. There’s love in there, too, in those eyes of his—you see it just as much as you feel it. You don’t know everything there is to know about him yet. You don’t know his pain and his joy and the things he keeps hidden away to keep himself safe. You don’t know what he likes to eat and what he doesn’t. What his favorite genre is to read (though you can guess), and what he hated learning most when he was a student.
But you know you’ll love him. The stars told you so. And you’ll listen—you always do when they show you the truth.
“Are you happy it’s me?” you murmur, gripping his shirt and pulling him closer. His lips hover over yours, and your breath fans across his mouth. He inhales sharply. “Be honest—would you swap soulmates if you could?”
“Never,” he grins, “I could never hand over such a headache to anyone else. It would be unethical.”
“Huh?” you gasp, “where went all your sweet, fancy words? This is not the Alhaitham I came looking for—my letters promised me a very different version.”
“Can you really call yourself my soulmate if you don’t like all versions of me equally?” he hums. And then he leans in, breaking the distance and kissing you. And you wonder, genuinely wonder, how you could have gone so long without ever feeling his lips on yours. Without ever feeling him against you and completing you this way. “I would never exchange you for anything,” he breathes against your lips, “never. Gravity will always pull me to your maddening charm, you see.”
“You must love being insulted then,” you giggle, pecking his lips, “because that is all I’ve done for, hm…let’s see, ninety percent of our interactions.”
“Do you take it all back?” he pouts playfully, shifting you onto his lap, your legs straddling his waist as his hands roam along your hips. He kisses your jaw, and you close your eyes, humming as you pretend to think about it. “I’m sure you do. You’ve probably realized I’m a catch.”
“The lazy, antisocial scholar who has a reputation for being difficult to get along with,” you think out loud, “let me see—hm, no, I don’t see what catch you’re referring to.”
“How shallow,” he accuses, “basing your assessment on rumors.”
“Actually,” you murmur, cupping his cheeks and cradling his face as you admire it (he’s handsome. You’ve never given it proper thought, but Alhaitham is the most handsome man you have met. Another infuriating advantage he has.) “I have the object of these rumors right here—no one will know if they’re true or not better than me.”
“Yes,” he breathes, “no one will know me better than you. If you’ll have me.”
“I would always have you,” you press a soft kiss to his nose, “you know that, don’t you?”
“I do now.”
And then he kisses you again. Harder. Needier. He kisses you like he’s been deprived of all that he’s been searching for in this life. Like he’s been denied his rights to his peace. Like he’s lost every path that leads him home. You kiss him back. Like he is the answer to every prayer you’ve ever whispered. Like he is the last thing you have left to anchor you. Like he is the only thing that’s truly yours in this world.
It’s a blur from there—wandering hands, hiked up shirts, searing touches. His shirt comes off, and then so does yours. His belt is unbuckled, and your waistband is tugged down. Your fingers trace over the hard planes of his abs, and his fingers trace the plush skin of your inner thighs.
“I want you,” he pants, whispering the words between slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Is…is that okay? It doesn’t have to be—we don’t have to—”
“More than okay,” you breathe. In fact, you add soft, pleading, “want you too.”
He groans, reaching to shove your panties aside to press his fingers into your wet cunt. He takes in the view—dark green fabric dampened by your essence and painted even darker. He grins.
“Did you wear this to see me? Knew it was my favorite color?”
You swat at his shoulder, glaring as he chuckles. “No, you lunatic! I wore these for myself because they happened to be the f-first….oh…”
You trail off, gasping as his fingertips brush against a sensitive spot along your walls, curling into you perfectly despite never feeling your body before this. You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders as he studies your face.
“Seems like I found it,” he hums in satisfaction, “that’s where you want me, is it?”
You glare at him in horror. “How lewd! Your mouth looks a lot better when you silence it, you know!”
“Why not help me with that, then,” he hums, “if you’d like to see it that way so badly.”
You do. You silence him with a kiss as much as he drinks in your soft moans while his fingers work their way into you. In and out. In and out. They stretch you open as they curl and scissor their way into you and glide against your warm, wet walls. You like the friction. His fingers are thicker and longer than yours—they reach parts you never thought about reaching. He fits you and completes you in a way that feels intentional. Like there is a reason why he is bound to you as part of what makes you whole.
“H-Haitham,” you pant—he pauses. His fingers still and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and you almost feel like you should apologize based on his reaction until his fingers slam against you with a faster pace, brushing harder against that spongy spot. With more force. More cause.
“Say that again—fuck, say that again, please,” he hisses.
“Haitham,” you whine, “so…so close.”
“Yeah? Are you?” he groans, “then cum. Cum for me, my beautiful girl.”
You do. You feel the way your walls constrict and tighten around his fingers—almost making them impossible to move, but he thrusts them into you anyway, working you through your orgasm. Your head falls to his shoulder, teeth biting the smooth skin as you mewl at the pleasure that ripples through your body—a leaf disrupting the calm still of of water and sending waves along the surface.
You slump against his chest as he slips his fingers out, panting for a few moments before you shimmy out of your soiled underwear and shift—the wet heat of your cunt grinds against his leaking tip.
“Fuck,” he curses, gritting his jaw.
It takes only a moment of thought before he wraps his arms around you and stands, carrying you to his bedroom and carefully laying you against his bed. You stare up at him, skin flushed with sweat and marks from his lips, and he feels his cock twitch at the sight alone.
“Haitham,” you breathe, wrapping your arms and pulling him down so that your lips barely touch, “fuck me—please.”
He closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath before he rummages through the bottom drawer of his nightstand. You watch with dilated pupils as he slides a condom over the thick girth of his cock, groaning at the friction before wrapping his hand around the base of his length. He guides himself to your entrance, panting roughly as he asks in a low, raspy voice, “Ready?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, “please.”
He pushes the first few inches of his tips past your folds—lets you pull him into a searing kiss as you gasp into his mouth and whine. He’s thick. Thicker than anything you’ve ever taken. You feel the burn of the stretch, and he’s not even fully in you yet.
“S-so big,” you whimper.
“You can tell me to stop,” he says softly, “promise. I’ll still be happy, okay? I’m happy with anything as long as it’s you. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”
You nod. But your eyes are stubborn when they open, and he lets out an amused, defeated sigh. “I want it, you know.”
“I know you do,” he kisses your pout, “my stubborn girl.”
You angle your hips upwards before he can say anything else, taking the rest of him in with a quick movement as he sinks into your cunt. His breath hitches as you gasp, and then he bites his bottom lip and closes his eyes, letting out a shaky groan. You watch as he pants, breath labored, while he holds himself back and gives you time to adjust.
“You’re so pretty, Haitham,” you whisper, “your face is pretty. Know that?”
“Shouldn’t I be saying that about you?” he lets out a strained chuckle, “that’s what you should be hearing. Not the other way around.”
“Well, you took too long,” you say, flashing him a cheeky grin, “so I did it for you.”
Something flashes in his eyes at that—dark and hungry and insatiable as he lets out an amused chuckle. He grabs your ankle, making you yelp as he tosses it over his shoulder and angles himself to press deeper into you.
“My apologies,” he murmurs, nipping and kissing along your jaw as his hips pull him out almost fully and roll into you with a deep, heavy thrust. You let out a soft cry, eyes fluttering shut as he murmurs, “There we go—that’s a pretty view, isn’t it? I knew I’d be speechless, but this is just unfair, sweet girl…you’re breathtaking, aren’t you?”
“S-stop,” you gasp, turning your face away from him shyly. He laughs—it’s a husky, raspy little thing.
“Shy? What’s there to be shy about, beautiful? S’just me…a-and you, yeah?”
His hips roll with punctuated thrusts, angling the thick curve of his cock into you—hitting that same spot his fingers found so effortlessly. Whoever crafted Alhaitham took their time—they made him perfectly curved and muscled in all the right places. Of course, part of that is his own discipline. You know—very well, you know that abs and biceps like that don’t form overnight because genetics say so. But he was made by careful, slow hands that took their time on him. And those same careful hands took their time on you to make sure every curve and angle of you would fit against him. Would mold around him. Would curl into him so well, you would never know where you start and where he ends.
“You drive me mad, do you know that?” he whispers against your ears, “do you know how wicked a woman you have to be—to enter my life so fast and turn it upside down so quickly? Do you know how powerless you have to make me—to come and go as you please, like you did, and possess me that way?”
“I—”
“I’m not done,” he grunts, slamming his hips down and silencing you with a particularly sharp thrust, “you made me sick. Made me some…some shell of myself. Some version I hardly recognized. You turned me insane—more than any forbidden knowledge could have. Corrupted every part of my brain. You have to take responsibility for that.”
“F-fuck,” is all you say, whining as his thumb finds its way to your clit, rubbing harsh circles while the thick head of his cock bullies its way past your folds, sliding the ridges of his length along your folds. You shake from the friction—thighs quivering as you accommodate his punishing pace.
“You have to take responsibility for…for changing everything as I know it. You think you’re the only one who’s scared of change?”
“I’m not…I’m not scared anymore,” you breathe, “not if it’s you—you…you’re good change.”
“Yeah?” he asks—voice shaky.
“Yeah,” you nod.
He kisses you. You kiss back. Your second orgasm crashes over you harder than the first—only this time, it doesn’t break the serene calm of the water’s surface as it's still. This time, the waves are ones you saw coming—ones that bury you under them and pull you deep into the bottom of their depths.
“Haitham,” you whine—and your back arches off of his bed and meets him halfway as he grinds his hips into you with a sloppy, desperate pace.
“Yeah,” he pants, voice cracking, “y-yeah, I know. I know…I…I f-feel it too.”
You feel his cock twitch, and then there’s a flood of warmth against the thin plastic that separates you from him. He stills for a moment before he lets out a deep, throaty groan, burying his face into your neck and riding out the shockwaves of his own orgasm with sharp thrusts that don’t have proper rhythm. Not anymore. Not when he’s so far gone in his own pleasure as it burns through every nerve of his body.
He slumps next to you on the bed—not before he wraps a strong arm around you and pulls you flush against his sweaty chest. Alhaitham is warm. Even when you’re warm, too, you still want to feel his warmth. You don’t mind the burning heat. Not when it’s him.
“Did you mean it?” he whispers.
“Mean what?”
“That I’m good change?”
You look up. Light breaks over your face as you smile at him and trace your finger over his chest. “Yeah. You are.”
“You are too,” he says softly, lips curling into a delicate smile. “You’re everything good for me.”
“Does this mean the letters will stop?” you pout, “no letter tomorrow now that I’m here?”
He chuckles. Looks at you with a look you can’t remember the last time you’ve seen before—maybe it was when your father could still look at your mother. Maybe you’d last seen such a look on his face, all those years ago.
“Do you want them to stop?”
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head as you nuzzle closer, “I don’t.”
“Then they won’t stop,” he says, kissing your head. “Promise.”
────────────────────────
Just like he promised, Alhaitham never stops writing you letters. Even when your house is no longer registered under your name and you have no address anymore, he still writes you his letters.
“You sold your house,” he says quietly. “I saw the papers in the files.”
You pause your fingers from their adventures along his chest. It’s funny to think that some time ago—just a few months prior, even—you’d have stiffened at the words. You would tense at the fact that he knows anything about you and pull away from him. You would tell yourself that you have to pull yourself out of this bubble that surrounds you and throw yourself back into the real world.
But you know now that Alhaitham is the real world. He is under the same sky as you and watches the same stars. You point to a constellation and he looks. He learns it. He remembers it, too. He is part of your world.
“I did,” you murmur back. “I just…can’t keep going back there anymore. It’s not the same.”
“Where will you go? You haven’t bought another house yet,” he raises a brow. You roll your eyes—he thinks you didn’t think this through. You roll them out of slight amusement, though. Not bitter anymore like it once was.
“I’ll find one. I don’t have to move out for another two weeks.”
“That’s highly unprepared. Not a good calculated risk,” he clicks his teeth. This time, you give him a flat look.
If you are aphelion, Alhaitham is perihelion—opposite ends of the same path, always at different ends, yet always tied together by the same sun in the same sky. You are bound to him by the same, never-ending orbit. And he has sworn this to you, thoughtfully written in the letters you keep carefully hidden away in your drawer. For you.
“I’ll be fine,” you huff. “Mora isn’t exactly an issue. Say what you will about my father, but he left me a generous sum.”
He hums, staring ahead in thought. And then, “You know…you can always live here.”
You pause. “Here?” you ask cautiously, “you mean with you?”
He swallows for a moment and looks down. “Yes,” he says quietly. “With…with me. If you want, that is.”
“Your only other room is taken,” you snort, “by your roommate. And I’m not going to evict poor Kaveh—unlike me, he can’t afford a move.”
“This room is just fine,” he says boldly. Still, you can almost hear the way he’s a little hesitant. Scared, maybe. Still clinging to his pride as he delivers it with a shrug. “The windows are big. The mattress isn’t uncomfortable, either—you’d know. The bathroom has two sinks, too.”
“How convenient,” you nod slowly.
“Very.”
“Okay,” you whisper. You pause. He stills, but he doesn’t stiffen. You breathe in and then out slowly for a moment before you say it again, louder this time. “Okay.”
Alhaitham’s eyes brighten at that—but then again, they are always bright. His irises are the sky, and every little streak of color that paints them is vibrant enough that you might mistake them for the stars. You might even wish on them, beg them to tell you secrets and show you the way, and lead you down a path that always takes you to him.
And he’ll always be there. The sun might come out and the stars may disappear from your line of sight, but the stars will always be there. And they’ll always come back. There’s never been a night when they haven’t—not once, not in any chart the Akademiya has ever kept.
He smiles at your answer. It’s barely-there and it goes as quick as it comes, like a shooting star that passes by. But it came, and you have seen it in its fleeting glory.
LOVE IS A DISEASE - CHAPTER 1 ✶ FT. BAKUGOU KATSUKI
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ between managing dynamight’s image and cleaning up his pr messes, you think you’re decent at keeping things under control. unless it comes to your feelings—you definitely can’t keep those under control
or: you are bakugou katsuki’s perpetually nagging publicist, and he’s your most troublesome client. for some odd reason, that’s exactly why you both work
꒰ chapter word count ꒱ ✶ 16.6k words
꒰ before you read ꒱ ✶ female + publicist + quirkless reader ; pro hero bakugou ; bakugou and kirishima run an agency together ; workplace romance ; building tension ; references to social media and pop culture ; alcohol + drinking ; drunk sex ; hook ups ; bakugou carries reader ; dry humping ; p in v ; creampie
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ chapter one is here early!! please give it a chance, and if u read and happen to enjoy, please consider leaving comments/tags of your thoughts!
[ SERIES MASTERLIST ] NEXT PART
The video starts as follows: Get outta my face, you damn idiot! I’m not here for your entertainment—get lost.
You stare at Bakugou with an unimpressed expression as his voice booms from your phone. The video you play of his most recent hero stunt has been surfacing everywhere—literally everywhere. He only glares at you in return, stubborn as ever with arms crossed tight over his chest. When the voice of the reporter behind the camera stammers out an apology, he scoffs and looks away as if this whole ordeal is beneath him.
“Do you mind explaining why you’re calling reporters idiots?” you ask, leveling him with a pointed look. “Right into their cameras, no less?”
“Because they’re fucking idiots, why else?” He snaps, like that should be the end of the discussion. You think for him, it would be, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re just as stubborn as he is.
“Oh, my god. This could have been a perfect opport—” you cut yourself off mid-sentence, pinching the bridge of your nose as a groan slips out in frustration. “See? This is exactly what I mean when I say you need to be more media-smart! This was the perfect opportunity to say, ‘Sir, please step away from the fire for your own safety—it’s dangerous. I’ll handle this. Everyone is safe now that I’m here.’And then you’d be praised for your save instead of scrutinized.”
“Why the fuck would I have to tell a grown-ass man to get away from a fire?” Bakugou shoots back immediately. “He’s grown as fuck. That idiot was in my way—and if he got himself hurt, then I’d have to waste my damn time saving his ass instead of focusing on the actual people in trouble.”
It’s exactly what you expected—for him to argue. Honestly, at this point, it would be more surprising if he didn’t argue. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that much.
With an exasperated groan, you hiss, “Bakugou, do you even bother checking what people say about you? Look at this,” you turn your phone to him, reading the top comment on the video. “‘Why is he always so aggressive?’” You quote flatly. “Next—‘I know he chooses to save people, but why does he act like he hates being there? Oh, this one’s popular too—‘He’s scary as hell, I’d be more afraid of him than the fire.’”
His jaw ticks. You keep going anyway, uninterested in his clearly worsening mood.
“‘We should start calling him the symbol of anger issues,’” you read, then snort. “That comment’s got, like, eighty thousand hearts, by the way.”
“The fuck do they know?” he mutters, irritation bleeding into his voice as he practically sulks. “They weren’t even there.”
“Exactly,” you shoot back, “they weren’t there. This—” you wave your phone for emphasis, “—is what they see. This is all they have to go off of.”
He only huffs, glaring at your phone’s screen like it’s the culprit behind his mess, not his own self or his god-awful attitude.
“Oh, and wait, my personal favorites aren’t even the comments,” you say dryly. “It’s the headlines.” You tap open another tab and clear your throat theatrically. “‘Dynamight’s Explosive Temper: Hero or Liability?’” You read, glancing up at him.
His eye twitches, but you don’t stop.
“‘Rising Hero Dynamight Under Fire for Hostile Behavior.’”
“That’s—” he starts, visibly bristling. But you cut him off with another headline.
“And this one—oh, this one’s great,” you continue, voice theatrically sarcastic. “‘Is Strength Enough? Concerns Grow Over Dynamight’s Public Conduct.’”
“Alright, I get it,” he snaps, irritation flaring as he runs a hand through his hair. “A bunch of idiots with too much time on their hands are writing bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit if it’s shaping how people see you,” you counter immediately. “This is your reputation, for crying out loud! This is what brands see, what reporters see, what civilians see when they think about who they trust to save them.”
“I did save them,” he shoots back, glaring. “No one fuckin’ died—no one even got hurt. That’s what matters.”
“It matters, yes,” you agree, tiredly rubbing your temple. “But it’s not the only thing that matters.”
He clicks his tongue, looking away again, shoulders tense. “I was fuckin’ nice to the fire victims,” he grumbles out, “S’not enough for these people?”
“No. It’s not. And being stubborn is only making it harder for yourself,” you say, quieter now but no less firm. “You know it’s not enough. Reporters are annoying and get in the way a lot, I know—but they also get your name out there. You should be using that to your advantage.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there, scowling, jaw tight—like he’s chewing on your words even if he hates the taste of them. Like they’re acrid and bitter on his tongue. But, even if they are, he should take your words more seriously, you think. You’re hired to give him advice that does him favors, after all.
You never saw yourself getting this far into your career in your mid-twenties.
Here you are, sitting comfortably in your lush, meticulously kept office at Riot Grenade Agency (your own office!) You have your own printer, your own coffee machine, and a window that spans nearly the entire wall, offering a view of the city that still feels a little unreal if you stare at it for too long. The floors are tiled in something undoubtedly expensive, cleaned professionally every week, and you still catch yourself hesitating at the threshold some mornings, like you might track something in and dull the shine. The pay is as good as you’d imagined it would be for an agency that has the names Bakugou Katsuki and Kirishima Eijirou plastered on it, and the paid time off and vacation hours are even more generous than most companies.
Life is good.
Or, at least, it would be—if one half of your clients weren’t so complicated to work with.
You’re not really sure how you managed to land the role of publicist for two of Japan’s most impressively rising heroes—or, perhaps, that’s not entirely true.
Eraserhead—Bakugou’s former teacher and, apparently, a long-suffering advocate for his public image—had all but forced the development, insisting that Bakugou needed a publicist, and fast. The result was a job opening at Riot Grenade Agency that almost seemed too good to be true. No crazy levels of experience required, no thorough list of qualifications to meet. You see the job listing and apply on a whim. You figure you won’t even hear back, if anything.
But, evidently, working under the PR team of someone as synonymous with flawless press as Uwabami has earned you a shiny badge of showing promise, and you get a call back for an interview almost instantly. Sharing an alma mater with the very heroes you’re applying to work for certainly doesn’t hurt your chances, either. UA, outside of its hero course, has the best business track in the country, too.
Still, if you’re being honest, you think the real deciding factor comes down to something far less merit-based and far more circumstantial. You never expect your first senior-level role to be at an agency this large or this visible (one of the heroes running it is number four on the charts, for crying out loud). You always assume you’ll have to climb a little longer up the ladder, prove yourself a little more, before landing something like this.
But, luckily for you, most people don’t make it very far in the interview process once they meet one of your two bosses—specifically, Bakugou. In fact, most drop out of the process altogether and start looking elsewhere, even if putting Riot Grenade Agency on their résumé would be a shining addition. You’re one of the very few who actually stay long enough to receive an offer at all. At least, that’s what Kirishima tells you.
We’re honestly so lucky someone so capable accepted our job offer, he’d said while touring you around the agency, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Most people kinda ghost us once they meet Bakugou—or they ask for a salary that’s way out of our budget to make up for his…behavior. B-but he’s not so bad once you get to know him! Honest! He’s been my best friend for a long time, so please trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about.
As sweet and likable as Kirishima is, you almost wish you could tell him he’s a liar.
Because Bakugou is definitely just as bad a client to work with once you get to know him. A client that is not going to deter you, of course—but a bad client all the same. It’s month five of working here, and you don’t need to know him any better than you do right now to know that your job will never get any easier than it is. And that’s to say that it is seldom easy.
But, if there is one thing you’ve learned while working here, it’s that pushing back and fighting Bakugou only makes him take you more seriously. It’s…an odd dynamic, you think—bickering and arguing with your boss of all people all the time. He always pushes your buttons just right—but you push them right back. It’s the only way you find you can get him to cooperate. And you will get him to cooperate—you are most qualified to do your job well.
“Alright,” he groans, still pissy and irritated (like always) as he looks at you with a resigned look, “what, you want me to apologize on Twitter or some shit?”
“Nope,” you shake your head, “we’re doing something else.”
He eyes you warily, like he already knows he’s not going to like it. “The hell do you mean we?”
“Well, you,” you correct, not missing a beat. “Actually, you and Kirishima. You’re going to do an Instagram live for your fans.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. A third time. Then, “…What.”
“Instagram live,” you repeat, like you’re explaining something painfully obvious to a young child. “At the gym, today. You’ll work out, talk a little to the camera—just keep it casual. I think we need to let people see you as a regular person outside of this disaster that Dynamight—” you lift your phone slightly and gesture at the paused video “—has caused. And if all else fails, your fangirls will see your muscles and at least thirst over you, so either way, we win.”
“Fuck no,” he says immediately. “I don’t want to be thirsted over.”
You don’t even blink. “Well, that’s too bad. It’s already scheduled.”
His eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Like hell it is.”
“It is,” you retort calmly. “Kirishima’s already on board. He cleared his schedule for this, so you won’t be backing out.”
“Of course he did,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuckin’ Shitty-Hair would agree to anything.”
“Yes,” you nod in relief at the simple thought of Kirishima, “and thank god for that, because you are blessed to have him as your business partner. He’s going to do absolute wonders for your PR if you stop fighting me for five minutes and let me do my job.”
“I’m not doing some stupid shit on live so a bunch of extras can spam comments,” he snaps.
“You are,” you counter, just as agitated. He pauses at your own attitude. (Only Bakugou Katsuki would be a boss that you could speak to this way and get away with it—he needs it, if anything. It’s the only way things get through that thick skull of his.) “Because right now, those ‘extras’ are the ones deciding whether you’re a likable person or not. And at the moment…” You glance down at the paused screen of his angry face, “...It’s not looking great for you.”
He clicks his tongue, jaw tightening. “I don’t give a shit what they think.”
“You might not,” you say. “But your sponsors for your agency do. Your ranking does. And since it’s, like, quite literally my job to make sure you don’t tank all three of those things because you can’t stop calling people idiots on camera, you’re going live. And you’re going to give people a reason to find something likable in you on live. Unless you have a better idea, which then, I’d love to hear it—and no, a half-assed Twitter apology won’t cut it. An apology from you is hardly an apology at all, anyway.”
He glares at you as he opens his mouth to argue, but…for once, he can’t seem to come up with anything. You give him a semi-smug look for just a brief second.
“Just thirty minutes,” you reassure. “You don’t even have to be nice. Just…don’t be actively hostile, okay? Kirishima will handle the rest.”
“Fuck…fine,” he groans, then cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale. “This is so stupid.”
“Well,” you shrug. “You did this to yourself.”
He supplies you with a hard scowl, shoulders tense. “If this turns into some cringey shit, I’m gonna end it,” he rubs a hand over his face.
“No, you won’t,” you say firmly.
His head snaps back toward you as his hand drops. “Like hell I won’t—”
“You won’t,” you repeat, already turning back to your desk like the conversation is over, resuming reading through emails, “because I’ll be watching, and if you so much as hover your finger over the end button before the thirty minutes are up, I will personally make sure your next few brand deals and interviews are a living nightmare.”
“You’re the most annoying woman I’ve ever met,” he mutters. “A fuckin’ hellcat.”
“I know I am. And you’re going on live in two hours,” you respond instantly, not even looking at him as you start typing on your keyboard.
—
@ Dynamight is live.
When you get the notification that Bakugou is live, two hours later—exactly on time, to your surprise—you’re watching it from your office. Your phone is propped up against your computer in front of you, the live pulled up on your screen while you try to watch and do some work at the same time. The comments flood in fast enough that they blur if you look too long.
You’d expected to be greeted by a grumpy, agitated Bakugou on the screen, causing more chaos. Instead, the screen opens on Kirishima’s face, too close to the camera, with a bright, charming grin as his sharp canines flash you.
“Okay, okay, it’s on!” he beams, pushing the phone back so it stays in place steadily. The gym comes into view behind him, the weights, mats, all of their equipment—and then the phone falls forward with a thud, and the screen goes black. “Oops,” comes Kirishima’s soft mumble.
You giggle. If only Bakugou were naturally this easy to be fond of, it would make your life so much easier.
LMAOOOOO
omfg his little oops??? so adorable
HE IS SOOOO CUTIE
Oh my god I love him
MY MANNNNNN CANNOT BE THIS ADORABLE
You read the comments as fast as you can while Kirishima adjusts the phone back in place again. As soon as he’s back in frame, you look off to the side—and there is Bakugou. Arms crossed in a black tank top, shaking his head at Kirishima. He looks like he’d rather die than participate in this voluntarily, but you don’t care as long as he dies after he does it.
Your eyes flick to the viewer count. Climbing fast. Good, you think, fantastic.
“What’s up, guys!” Kirishima waves at the camera like it’s a FaceTime call with friends. “I know we’ve never done something like this before, but I think this could be a fun new thing to do from time to time. Katsuki and I are just training today—nothing crazy. Thought we’d hop on for a bit.”
The comments immediately explode.
IS THIS REAL?? THEY’RE REALLY LIVE???
did he just call him katsuki? that is SO cute
KIRISHIMA HIIIIIII I WANNA BE UR GF
WHY IS DYNAMIGHT JUST STANDING THERE LIKE THAT
IS THIS GONNA BE A REGULAR THING???? PLEASE LORD SAY YES
You snort as you read the comments and lean back slightly, watching carefully as Kirishima turns the phone a little toward Bakugou. “Say hi, man!”
Bakugou just huffs. “They can fucking see me, can’t they?”
You close your eyes for a second. Here we go, you think tiredly. Bakugou is going to ruin this before it even begins. You’re going to have to think of a plan B. You’re running out of plans. But Kirishima just laughs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world when faced with Bakugou’s temperament. “That’s his way of saying hi.”
You open your eyes, relieved as you read the incoming comments.
LMAO NOT HIM TRANSLATING FOR DYNAMIGHT
red riot is so done with him i bet lollll
Dear god someone get me in that room with them now
I can take both of them. And not in a fight
“Alright,” Kirishima says, clapping his hands once. “Let’s work out! You always start a workout with warm-ups! Nothing intense, just get your body ready.” He sets the phone down at an angle that catches both of them. “Start simple,” he continues, doing a few forward lunges, “like this. It’s just waking your joints up.”
Bakugou clicks his tongue immediately, rolling his eyes as he brings his knees to his chest while he does his own stretches. “You’re making it sound like a damn kindergarten class. Gonna talk them through nap time too?”
OHHHH HE CAN TALK ME THROUGH IT ALRIGHT
by the time we’re done, a nap is what we’re gonna need >:)
OH MY GOD THOSE CALVES
Kirishima laughs good-naturedly. “Well, some people skip this step and then complain they’re sore. So just in case.”
“Tch.” But Bakugou steps forward anyway, to your surprise, before he says, “You idiots skipping warm-ups are just asking for injuries.”
Kirishima smiles at the camera with a wink. “That’s his version of asking you not to get injured over a simple mistake. He’s worried about you all.”
Bakugou glares at him. “Am not! And don’t narrate me.”
“How else will they understand you?” Kirishima snorts.
they’re actually so funny together
HE’S WORRIED ABOUT ME GETTING INJURED <3
Yoooo why isn’t he yelling?? i was expecting yelling
Kirishima shifts them into something simple. “Okay, next—some push-ups. C’mon, show them how to do some push-ups, man.”
Bakugou stares at him for a short moment, sighing like he’s annoyed at the concept of doing push-ups—an exercise he does every single day, no less, you think with a scoff—before dropping down next to Kirishima to join him.
AHHH WE GET TO WATCH THEM DO PUSH UPSSSS
Those BICEPS
i bet those arms would look good holding our baby. let’s have a baby <3
“Don’t flare your elbows like an idiot,” Bakugou says flatly. “Keep them tight or your shoulders are gonna hate you later.”
Kirishima laughs mid-rep. “See? He cares.”
“I don’t care,” Bakugou snaps immediately.
“Aw, but you just gave them advice! So sweet!”
“I gave instructions, you moron.”
“Because you care!”
“Tch—would you shut up, you shitty-haired idiot?”
“C’mon, man, my hair is cool! Right, guys?”
It’s cute, you think—the bickering. You yourself don’t see this side of Bakugou, let alone his fans (that you’re still shocked even exist). In fact, you don’t see any side of him other than that grouchy one that hates to see you coming into his office with more news on what brand deals and photoshoots and interviews he needs to do for the week. The least irritated you’ve ever seen him is when he’s serious about something at the agency, and even then, he’s exactly that—serious and all business.
You’ve…never actually seen Bakugou be casual, never seen him do something simple like work out in a tank top as he bickers with his best friend. Nor have you seen him crack a small smile as he snorts at something stupid Kirishima says. Nor have you seen him grunt as he switches from doing push-ups to hip thrusts in a gym while he sweats a little—
Stop, you hiss to yourself in your mind. This is your boss. You’re no better than those shameless fangirls. But—you will admit, you’re more than a little thrilled as he decides to do them for the sake of PR. The comments are, as you expected, just as ecstatic to watch him.
CRUSH ME WITH THOSE THIGHS BABEEEE
oh my god look at the veins on his arms
FUCKKKKK SOMEONE TELL ME HOW MUCH WEIGHT HE’S DOING I NEED TO KNOW IF THAT’S HEAVIER THAN ME
Those weights should be ME bro
Before you know it, the thirty minutes are up, and Bakugou is grabbing the phone as his sweaty face comes into frame up close. You pretend not to notice the way his hair clings to his flushed face or the way he’s breathing a little labored as he says gruffly, “Kay. That’s it for now—we gotta finish up and get to patrol so—hey! Why the fuck are you weirdos talking about my veins?” he snaps.
From the side, Kirishima calls, “Girls like that, bro!”
“I don’t give a—” he luckily catches himself mid-sentence, cuts himself off, and sighs, giving the screen a tired look. “You people need to stop being weird. Goodbye.”
Live Video Ended.
Bakugou is no longer on the screen, but you still stare at it for a second longer, sitting there as you remember the way his arms flexed and his hips moved while he thrusted those barbells. The image is still fresh in your mind. Then, as if waking up from a trance, you blink and shake your head, inhaling sharply.
“Okay,” you murmur to yourself. “This was good. That went well—better than expected.”
Suddenly, your phone lights up with a message.
TODAY 5:34 PM
Bakugou: did you watch the whole thing
You: Sure did. Had to make sure you didn’t slack off
You: You did good though! I think you deserve to enjoy your weekend for this great work
Bakugou: wtv. i just did what u said
Bakugou: i’m not doing that again btw. they keep saying weird shit in the comments
You: Well…
You: They loved it so you’re gonna be doing more of this for your image I fear
You: I’m sure you’ll get used to it :)
Bakugou: u really are so annoying holy fuck
Bakugou: hellcat
You’re smiling at your phone.
It takes you a second to realize it, but when you do, you notice in mortification that you’re fucking smiling at your phone like an idiot. Your boss is a few floors down, working out in the fancy little gym he’s made for himself in his fancy little building that he’s built off of his fancy little paychecks, and you’re smiling as you text him as if…as if what?
As if nothing, you tell yourself. You can smile at your phone when your boss is being pleasant. Pleasant people smile at each other when they talk—although you doubt Bakugou ever does any smiling ever when he texts you, but that’s more of a Bakugou-specific thing. He never smiles.
This is nothing. It will always be nothing. Bakugou is rough and harsh and uninterested in everyone around him, and he’s leagues beyond you in a world you could never hope to be a part of. You’re quirkless, for crying out loud. He’d never take you seriously past the media advice you give him for the sake of a paycheck and the sake of his public image, and that’s about it. A few hip thrusts and one nice, pleasant thirty minutes of watching him be himself outside of the hero world is not going to change the fact that he is your hellish client who signs your checks.
And then you pause—why are you thinking so heavily on this? Why are you even thinking about him like that? It’s not like one thirty-minute session of watching him be a little more carefree and a little less cranky could make you suddenly see him as anything other than that crabby blonde who can make things explode for a living—right?
Right, you decide. You are immune to petty crushes because of shallow things like thighs and muscles, and you are especially immune to crushes on your boss. Especially when your boss is fucking Bakugou Katsuki, who yells at things whether they breathe or they don’t.
You are immune, you tell yourself. Very, very immune.
────────────────────────
Despite your…conflicting feelings (that you’ve definitely shoved aside) about the workout live, it turns out to be one of your finer ideas.
Bakugou continues to show up trending in the media quite often after that—and, to your prideful pleasure, it’s instead for positive things. Well…if you consider thirsty edits of him on the internet a positive thing, that is. Which, when compared to the other option of him chewing a reporter out, you do. In fact, you like to think that you are, in your humble opinion, maybe even deserving of a hefty raise and perhaps, if you’re lucky, a thank you.
But you’re realistic. You take the positive attention he’s getting as a win, and don’t concern yourself with hoping for the thank you that you know is not coming. He’s definitely aware that your idea was fabulous, though, and that satisfaction is enough to keep you at peace (and rather smug, too).
You spend the better half of your weekend surfing the web after typing his name into the search bar of Twitter and TikTok, and then another portion of it going down an unexpected rabbit hole of Bakugou x Reader fanfiction that his stans on Reddit swear left and right are the AO3 must-reads. (You’re not entirely sure how you stumbled across this rabbit hole, but you are not above admitting you’ve discovered that some people evidently produce the most gut-wrenching and life-altering literature for free, and it almost feels unfair to read it without compensating them. Never mind that it’s literature about your boss and his cock and how he uses it—that’s unimportant.)
By Monday morning, he’s in your office bright and early, begrudgingly starting his day by going over the events you have planned for the week so he can work his schedule around them—or rather, his assistant can. If there’s one person who must have a harder job than you in this agency, it must be his personal assistant.
“Your following went up a great amount after that live, by the way,” you tell him once you’re done going over everything.
“Like I care,” he grunts, “just means more spam in my comments.”
“You know, I have to say. It’s a miracle your fangirls like you so much,” you respond with a snort. “You’d think that with your attitude, people would find you unfuckable. But there’s actually a very impressive selection of x-reader fanfics for you.”
“Hah?” He looks at you, bewildered as he pauses from walking out of your door. “What the fuck is that?”
“Fan-written fiction?” You explain to him with a straight face, lifting a brow. “But the kind where it’s immersive for the reader, you know? So all the women—and men, too, honestly—who want to fuck you can read creative literature that vividly sets the scene for them.”
He looks horrified—scratch that, he looks absolutely disgusted. Your composure cracks at his face, your lips wobbling as they strain not to tug into a smile, and Bakugou…well, Bakugou is not flattered that people like to fantasize about his stroke game. Not even a little.
“The fuck sort of…you call that shit literature? Huh? Who the fuck is spending their free time writing that sort of bullshit? And it’s about me?”
“Yup,” you nod. Then, like the headache that you strive to be, you pull out your phone and scroll a bit. “Here—this one in particular is very popular. I was skimming through it.”
He does a double-take. “Wait—you read that…that fuckery?”
“I skimmed it—pay attention, I just went over that. And, it’s because I got curious when I came across a Reddit thread after I searched your name. Searching your name online is part of my job,” you snicker. “They were recommending which ones were worth reading in there. This was my personal favorite scene.”
“I don’t need to hear your fuckass favorite—”
You interrupt him as you give him a sickeningly smug look before clearing your throat and starting to read aloud: “Bakugou was generously endowed, and you could feel it. Pressed against your thigh, you could feel the sheer size of him. ‘Oh, Katsuki,’ you gasped, ‘you’re so big, baby.’ He responded with a low chuckle as he said, ‘Yeah, you feel that, princess? Feel how hard my—’”
“Will you shut the fuck up?” he hisses, stomping over and snatching your wrist as he tugs it away so you can no longer read from your phone. His ears are crimson, his face painted with a shade of pure shame you didn’t think was possible on Bakugou Katsuki of all people. But it’s there, and you take great pleasure in it—especially when his voice comes out strained as he says, “Is this even legal? Writing fuckin’—fuck, I don’t know—erotic-ass shit like that about a real person?”
“I assure you, it is,” you nod. “We didn’t even get to the really juicy part. There’s a scene where you and y/n—”
“Who is y/n?” he squints, pure confusion written all over his face.
“It’s like the placeholder name,” you say, waving your hand with a shrug as if that should explain everything. “It stands for ’your name.’ So whoever’s reading can just mentally insert themselves. It’s supposed to make it more immersive.”
Bakugou stares at you like you’ve just personally offended him—maybe even his entire lineage, if anything, with the way he seems so beyond appalled.
“…That makes zero sense,” he scoffs. “They can’t just put in their fucking names? They type out dumb ass placeholders?”
“No, you’re missing the point,” you snort, not bothering to hide how much you’re enjoying yourself at his expense. “They’re writing it for others, not just themselves. You’re like…the fantasy. And everyone who reads it is the main character in their minds.”
“I’m not anybody’s fuckin’ fantasy,” he snaps immediately.
“Oh, you absolutely are,” you grin. “There are thousands of people online who would disagree with you. Passionately.”
“Yeah? Well, they’re all fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, crossing his arms. Then, after a beat, he straightens up as he narrows two accusatory eyes at you. “And you. Why the hell were you reading that in the first place?”
“I told you, I was curious,” you shrug innocently. “I couldn’t really envision anybody wanting to romance you—Kiri, I understand. But you…made no sense, so I wanted to see what people were writing. Or rather, I wanted to see the appeal, if you will.”
You say that simply to be annoying—and it clearly works more than you’d bargained for, because he absolutely bristles at your words, glaring at you like you’re two seconds away from being fired where you sit. You like your job, you do—but this…well, this would almost be worth losing said job. This momentary rush of pure euphoria as you watch his jaw clench and his eyes blaze with thinly veiled agitation, is all you care about right now.
“That’s not romance, you dumbass,” he shoots back. “That’s—” he gestures vaguely, clearly at a loss for words, “—that’s some purely deranged shit.”
You hum, pretending to consider that. “I don’t know…some of it was pretty well-written. The plotlines can get pretty complex and—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
“I’m just saying,” you continue anyway, your grin turning devious, “my only critique would be that your characterization is a bit off in a lot of them. They make you way more of a smooth talker than you actually are.”
His eye actually twitches. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you shoot him a cheeky, antagonizing look as you shrug innocently, “You would not be this much of a charmer in reality. I don’t even think you could say ’princess’ without sounding like you’re constipated.”
There’s a split second where he just stares at you, and you can see his thoughts written clearly on his face—first processing, then shocked, then offended, and then something else you can’t quite pin down. But you can’t take the time to dwell on it because it’s gone as fast as it came, and he’s giving you a challenging look that screams, you’re on.
“Keep talkin’ like that, Hellcat,” he mutters, grabbing your wrist and tugging you forward as he bends closer and looks you right in the eye, “and I’ll show you exactly how ’out of character’ I can be.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—he is so…attractive when he grins like that. You are going to die on the spot, you think.
To your absolute credit, you manage to blink up at him, your grin unfaltering. “Oh? Like a reenactment?”
He levels you with a small, determined smirk as he says, “If that’s what you wanna call it, princess.”
And oh, does he say that word so smoothly—like a low, sing-song purr that gut punches you for a fleeting moment. But you gather yourself impressively fast, just before he can really be sure his words had any effect on you as you hum, “Well, you’d better get to reading so you know the script.”
With that, he pulls away and strides out of your office, leaving you standing there as still as a statue while you will your heart rate to come down to a humanly normal speed. You try to ignore that weird, tingling feeling at your wrist where his fingertips dug in just a few moments ago, and that absolutely baffling lump in your throat as you swallow thickly.
You’re immune to him, you tell yourself—you are.
—
Twitter: Katsuki Bakugou just made a post
Katsuki Bakugou @ DynamightOfficial · 20m
who the hell is y/n and why are people writing weird ass stories about me. stop that shit immediately
🗨2.5K comments ⇄40K retweets ♡174K likes
top replies:
kacchan addict @ bakugouswife4ever · 10m
HELP??? WHO SNITCHED FESS UP 😭😭😭
🗨128 comments ⇄540 retweets ♡8.2K likes
Katsuki’s Lover @ explosionkink · 8m
“who the hell is y/n” IM CRYINGGGGGGG
🗨64 comments ⇄1.2K retweets ♡15.6K likes
Dynamight Daily @ greatexplosionmudergodupdates · 7m
Waiting for the day he learns about the yaoi too 💀
🗨32 comments ⇄890 retweets ♡12.1K likes
WRITING COMMS OPEN @ katsukisbabie · 6m
not you discovering x reader fanfiction im so frieddddd
🗨12 comments ⇄210 retweets ♡6.7K likes
STEPONMEDEKU @ izookoo · 5m
WAIT CAN SOMEONE SHOW HIM AO3 LMAOOOO
🗨9 comments ⇄480 retweets ♡9.8K likes
ANGRY BLONDE LUVR @ angryblondeconnoisseur · 4m
nah cuz he really said “stop that shit” like we were gonna listen to him 😭
🗨14 comments ⇄650 retweets ♡11.2K likes
Katsuki’s little lamb @ explosiondaddymight · 4m
katsuki can i be your irl y/n please daddy 😍😍😍
🗨6 comments ⇄390 retweets ♡7.5K likes
–
Messages: 1 new unread message
TODAY 7:52 PM
Bakugou: wtf is a yaoi
You: Google is free you know
Bakugou: ya as if i trust this shit to be in my search history
You: Ever heard of incognito mode ??
You: Also don’t forget you and Kiri have a photoshoot tomorrow morning
You: Please don’t be late. I’m serious
Bakugou: 👍
────────────────────────
Today is not the day for Bakugou’s nonsense, especially not so early into the day—so as soon as you find him, you’ll kill him.
Today is your birthday—which, Kirishima so kindly remembered, greeting you with a cup of your go-to coffee order and a bouquet of flowers as soon as he sees you. He’s so sweet, you almost cry on the spot—you’ve never had such a thoughtful boss before. It lifts your spirits about working on your birthday as soon as you walk into the building, where he and Bakugou will be modeling for their ad. Some expensive athletic wear brand you don’t really care for, but a good opportunity to get their names out there more, all the same. An angel like Kirishima, giving you a tight hug and an affectionate head pat as he wishes you happy birthday, is almost enough to keep you in a good mood that distracts you from the fact that Bakugou is apparently still not out and ready for his photos. Almost.
Unfortunately for you, you’re going to have to spend your birthday pissed and exhausted over Bakugou Katsuki. Which is like most other days, of course, but you wanted a break today of all days.
He’s been changing for twenty minutes now—and you think that’s just absurd because he has to take off more clothes than he actually has to put on. The photo shoot scheduled for today is of athletic wear, and he’ll be shirtless for these basketball shorts he’s doing his ad for. It’s pretty fucking simple to put on. But no—he’s taking forever and a year, and the cameraman is getting antsy, and he has his afternoon patrol right after this, and you have a list of emails to answer that’s longer than Bakugou’s history of internet scandals.
They task you to grab him. Kirishima gets too busy with his own shoot to go check, and Bakugou’s assistant stayed back to handle other matters in the office, so it’s just you. Fucking hell.
To fucking hell with this shoot and to fucking hell with your job and above all, to fucking hell with Bakugou. You’ll quit after this stupid photo session. You’ll stay just long enough for your next paycheck, and then you’ll dip—you’ll get a nice, cushy remote job as a social media manager or something and tweet promotional content for a living from your bedroom. Sure, the pay might be cut a bit, but you’re content with being just comfortable; it’s not as though you’re dead set on living like a wealthy, privileged person. Just enough to have a decent apartment on the safe side of town is good enough. Just that much is fine.
That’s right. This is all fine—you’ll make it through this shoot as soon as you find Bakugou (because where the fuck is he?) and then you’ll get yourself an easier job and life will be good.
As soon as you find Bakugou.
“Bakugou—” you go to jiggle the doorknob of his changing room—not with the intention to open it, but just to give it a quick shake and get his attention so he knows you’re on the other side. That’s all it was meant to be. Just a small twist, enough for the handle to rattle against the lock and announce your presence without you actually going in.
How were you supposed to know the door was unlocked? (Because, really, who the fuck goes to change and leaves the door unlocked?)
As soon as you twist the doorknob, expecting it to catch and stop after that tiny movement, it gives way completely instead—and the force of your unsuspecting twist sends it all the way down, the latch slipping free. The door swings open before you can stop it, and your own momentum propels you forward.
You stumble into the room where Bakugou is…half fucking naked.
Any part of him that’s…particularly explicit is covered, thank god—but he’s in nothing but skin-tight, black boxers. He’s shirtless, sockless, fucking everything-less apart from those boxers, bent forward as he’s pulling the basketball shorts he’s modeling over his ankles. He pauses, just as shocked as you, as you burst in.
He looks at you. You look at him. And then you’re looking at each other—and admittedly, your eyes are not really doing you any favors as they scan over his figure. Your eyes are working completely against you. Your eyes are autonomously going against your wishes and throwing you under the bus, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them.
At least, that’s what it feels like, because no amount of self-control seems to be enough to stop fucking staring at his abs.
“O-oh my…” You trail off before turning your head forcefully to the side and looking away as you stutter, “I-I’m sorry I didn’t…you were…I was…a-and…who on Earth doesn’t lock the door when they’re changing?”
“Who the fuck just barges into someone’s changing room is the better question,” he counters gruffly, pulling the shorts easily over his hips as he straightens up. You still refuse to look at him even as you know he’s decent—well, as decent as he can get. His bare chest alone practically feels like you’re seeing him nude, if you’re being honest.
And that should be enough—more than enough—to stop your spiraling mind. It should be.
Because this is your boss, and you should absolutely not have the hots for your boss simply because he’s semi-exposed. Your insufferable, foul-mouthed, temperamental boss who yells at reporters and snaps at fans and makes children cry and argues with you like it’s his full-time job to do all that instead of being a hero. This is not a situation where your brain should be short-circuiting over the fact that he looks—
Oh god. You feel nauseous as you realize he looks good.
You swallow hard, still staring resolutely at the wall like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. It’s not even like you haven’t thought he was an attractive man before. You have. Obviously. You’re a functioning adult with eyes, and you can understand when someone is objectively good-looking. And because the universe is fond of jokes, they made Bakugou unfairly attractive—objectively so—while coupling him with that shoddy attitude of his. You’ve certainly acknowledged in your head that he’s rather easy on the eyes; it’s not like this is the first time.
But this is…very different. Because now that you’ve seen him so…exposed, your brain refuses to unsee it. The broad cut of his shoulders. The way his muscles flexed when he straightened, shifting under his skin so tightly. The sharp lines of his torso, all lean strength and definition, like he was carved to be God’s favorite. Even just the brief glimpse of him bent forward, and the way everything moved…
You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, as if that’ll help keep your mind from getting creative. (It doesn’t.) Now your imagination is filling in the gaps you didn’t let yourself look at. And that’s worse.
You clear your throat, trying to forcibly drag your thoughts back into something normal, something professional, something that doesn’t involve you mentally cataloguing the exact shape of your boss’s abs like you’re committing it to memory for later.
This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.
He’s just…he’s just a guy. A rather annoying, loud, obnoxious, and infuriating guy who, unfortunately, happens to look—
You bite the inside of your cheek.
Don’t finish that thought.
Good—he looks very good.
No! Stop thinking! Think about other things! Other things! Anything!
He looks so fucking hot.
Quit it!
Damn, does he even have to work out? His abs must be genetic.
Your mind is battling back and forth with itself, and distantly, you realize if you don’t say anything soon, you’ll only make things worse for yourself, so you force yourself to turn to him and talk.
“That was an accident,” you say genuinely, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah?” He gives you a crooked grin, almost like he’s smug about the fact that you’re in this predicament. “You accidentally check people out often, Hellcat?”
Bakugou is not a dense person—that is the most irritating thing about him. You can’t fool him with anything, so you know that he’s caught on to the fact that you’ve stared at his body, and you know that he’s fully aware it’s had at least a small amount of influence on your current state of mind.
Still, you’re stubborn. And you don’t like the idea of him hearing firsthand from you that yes, you took a moment to eye him, and yes, it was quite a satisfying eyeful, so you scoff and give him your best glare. It’s far more weak that you’d prefer.
“I was n-not checking you out,” comes your rather clumsy retort, “I was literally just…shocked and unprepared, and I froze while I was processing what…I was looking at…and…”
“Processing my physique after barging into my changing room,” he snorts. “Surprised we’d see someone without clothes in a changin’ room? You’re even more of an idiot than I thought.”
“I wasn’t trying to barge in,” you snap, and you know you sound too flustered to be taken too seriously. But what can you do? “They sent me to get you. Which, by the way, what’s taking you so fucking long?”
That seems to break him from his momentary fit of amusement as he realizes you’re here to collect him, practically against his will, to do the very thing he has adamantly been against doing since you brought it up. You don’t understand why Bakugou has to insist on making every little thing a difficult matter—standing in front of a camera is the easiest way for him to be likable. He doesn’t even have to talk. And yet, there is always some sort of pushback, no matter what you suggest.
“I have real shit that requires my attention,” he grumbles, “you know—a real fuckin’ job? A job that I don’t know…demands I be a hero instead of standing under hot lights to pose like a half-baked idiot.”
You shoot him a withering glare at his sarcasm. “So you just, what? Sat here for twenty minutes keeping everyone waiting? Wasting their time so you could stand around and think about your real job?”
“No, you damn moron,” he snaps, “I had a phone call! It was fucking important.”
“Oh,” you blink, pausing. “About hero stuff?”
He doesn’t really give you anything apart from an incoherent grunt, but you’ve learned to read him well enough that you understand this is him confirming your hunch. And avoiding it, too. Which only makes you press.
“What happened?” you tilt your head.
Bakugou supplies you with an irritated scowl as he huffs, “As if it’s any of your business.”
“Well, it’s not like I don’t know almost everything about your hero stuff,” you argue, “I’m quite literally your publicist, so I have to make sure I know things so they get out there in a good light and—”
“This isn’t to do with my hero shit,” he groans. “Just keep your nose out of—”
“Did something happen to another hero?” you ask in concern. “Are they asking you for advice or something—oh my god, no. They, like…cannot go to you for advice,” you shake your head. “Is it a friend? What happened, a scandal? I’ll literally help them for free, just please don’t offer them a solution on what to do—you’re the last person anyone should ask for advice on—”
“Would you shut up?” he cuts you off, rubbing his forehead as though you give him a headache. (You think you probably do. And you’re fine with that.) He gives you a mildly betrayed look as he huffs, “And just because I have an attitude here and there doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know how to clean up messes—I just hate it when it’s me doing the cleaning shit.”
“Here and there? That’s quite an understatement,” you scoff. “So someone is in a mess? I’m serious, I’ll offer them a free solution this once. They must be in a real pickle if they’re coming to you, of all people.”
“No!” he groans, pinching his nose in agitation, “holy fuck, you are so persistent—no one is in a mess! Okay? I’m getting fucking Deku a fucking support suit with his old quirk so he can be a hero and shit. And people are pitching in to pay for it, so I have to keep track of who’s giving what, and it’s a whole fuckin’ thing.”
You pause.
You remember Deku—or rather, Midoriya is how you remember him. How could you not? It’s hard to think sometimes that Bakugou and his old classmates were in your year—that you roamed the same hallways at the same time as these war veterans before any of you could even so much as legally drink. It’s hard to think that a boy, so young and so promising, would so easily give up his powers for the sake of saving others. But then again, is it really? Is it really that hard to believe something like that? It’s not, is it?
These people—Bakugou, Midoriya, and their peers. They gave up their youth and their innocence so readily, didn’t they? It could have even been their lives and dreams, potentially. They went into it all knowing it was all on the line willingly, of course. You’re not sure why you still ponder on it, why you’re still shocked sometimes. It’s just who they are—why they are so good at their jobs and why things have changed to be the way they are now.
“That’s…” you trail off, voice soft as you look at him carefully, “that’s actually so sweet.”
He gives you a sharp, yet uncomfortable glare. “Why are you acting all shocked like I can’t do nice shit—and don’t look at me like that. I’m just trying to beat that damn nerd so we can settle once and for all that I’m a better hero than him—losing his damn stupid power isn’t stopping me from winning.”
You smile a little at his outburst, shaking your head. Deep down, Bakugou is thoughtful—of course, he is. He’s got to be a pretty fucking thoughtful guy to go rushing into burning buildings and collapsing rubble to save people, that’s a given—but he can be thoughtful in other ways, too. Ways like this that speak so loudly that he cares. That people matter, and they matter to him.
You wonder what it must be like to matter to him. And then you stop. No—you absolutely cannot think about things like that. They’re not for you to wonder.
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave, shoving that weird feeling in your chest down again, “why don’t you prove you’re not a loser some other time? A time where you’re preferably not on the clock and keeping people waiting, maybe?”
He sighs, rolling his eyes before walking past you and leaving his changing room. You follow behind him because you have no other option but to lead him to his awaiting photoshoot. Then, just before he reaches where the photography team is exasperatedly relieved to see him, he turns over his shoulder and says gruffly, “You can take the rest of the day off—you’ll still be paid and stuff. S’just a buncha pictures. Ei and I will be fine. And, uh…happy birthday.”
He walks off, and you stand there in shock at his words…and is that your heart…that’s beating like that?
No, you think resolutely, it’s not. Because you’re immune to him—you’re sure of it.
—
The photoshoot does well. Bakugou and Kirishima are on the cover of a rather popular sports magazine that makes fans go crazy on the internet. There are endless posts on Twitter and Instagram of the same screenshot over and over again, everyone lusting over pro heroes Dynamight and Red Riot.
Kirishima is as charming as ever, flustered in that cute, humble way that would of course be second nature to him as he says, “Wow, Uwabami was right! You really do know how to network your way into some crazy good opportunities! I’ve never had people go so crazy over any brand deal I’ve done! Or been on the cover of something that’s a big deal, either.”
It’s hard to imagine that, even despite having such big names for themselves so early before their careers even launched, Kirishima and Bakugou are still new enough that they are novices in the pro world. Still climbing their way to the same level as others, and still working through things like having big enough names of large-scale companies to advertise them.
“Don’t be fooled. She’s just tryna make us appealing to crazy fangirls who write weird shit about us erotically,” Bakugou snaps, glaring at his screen as he looks at himself.
Kirishima looks at you, rightfully confused. You give him a tired, exasperated look that begs him to just drop it, so he graciously does.
“Well, Bakugou,” you roll your eyes, “your social media engagement has gone up drastically, and you’ve gained a very good number of followers,” you finish, tapping your screen as you scroll through the analytics. “Engagement and brand inquiries are up—this is what I call a success.”
“Hah?” Bakugou scoffs, “A success ’cause a bunch of idiots won’t stop staring?”
“Yes,” you say flatly. “The staring they do is bringing your agency a nice hefty check.”
“That’s stupid.”
“It’s profitable,” you correct. “Most of Kirishima’s fan base are males who find appeal in the fact that his brand is manliness, so I figured we could use that brand to our advantage to appeal to more women, too—everyone loves a good, chivalrous, and handsome guy who will save them. And as for you…well, I guess if nothing else, a good body makes up for the lack of a stellar personality.”
Bakugou absolutely simmers in rage as you say that, about to open his mouth when his agency partner cuts in. Kirishima laughs, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances between the two of you. “I mean…look at the positives, man. People are talking about us everywhere.”
“They’re not talking about anything important like our fucking work,” Bakugou grumbles. “It’s all ‘oh my god look at his abs’—”
“—Which, for the record, are doing wonders for your brand,” you cut in smoothly.
He shoots you a look. “Don’t talk about my abs like they’re a damn marketing strategy.”
“They are a marketing strategy,” you deadpan. “A very effective one, apparently.”
“Oi!” comes his sharp reply, “You—”
“C’mon, Katsuki,” Kirishima grins, “the more good press we have, the more people might want to apply to be your sidekicks! You could really use a few, man. If you’re not going to stop yelling and scaring them off in the interviews, then this might be the only way.”
“I don’t think he understands the concept of good press being a benefit,” you cut in, “maybe we can draw him a diagram to explain it.”
Kirishima stifles a chuckle as Bakugou sends you a warning glare.
“I’m not stupid,” the blonde snaps.
“That’s debatable,” you mutter under your breath.
“Hah? I fuckin’ heard that.”
“Good.”
Kirishima lets out a laugh, stepping in before it escalates further. “Okay, okay—look at this way, we’re not losing anything, so we’re winning, right? That’s what matters. At this rate, we might jump a few places on the hero charts by the time second-semester rankings are out. As long as we stay in the lead ranks for a good while after our debuts and don’t fall too much, we can establish our agency better and get called for serious cases more often. That’s the end goal.” He turns and flashes you an easy grin before adding, “Which, if we reached it, would be thanks to you—you did great with this. You’re the best publicist we’ve ever had!”
“Hellcat is the only publicist we’ve ever had, hair-for-brains,” Bakugou grunts bluntly.
Kirishima asks dumbly, “Hellcat?”
You ignore Bakugou and wave Kirishima off lightly, though there’s a small flicker of satisfaction you don’t quite hide. “Just doing my job.”
“Yeah, but still,” Kirishima insists. “You made things improve for him.” He jerks a thumb toward Bakugou. “That’s not easy.”
Bakugou scowls. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
Kirishima snorts, giving Bakugou a look. “You know what it means.”
“Tch,” is all the angrier half of the two says.
You shake your head, glancing back down at your phone as more notifications roll in. “Well, regardless, we’re in a decent place right now with Bakugou’s image. I’ve already got a few follow-up ideas lined up—nothing that requires too much effort from you, don’t worry,” you add quickly, glancing at Bakugou before he can protest. With a little luck on your side (and his cooperation, maybe), you think he can stay in the top twenty for the hero chart’s second-semester rankings.
“So I’ll be doing more annoying shit,” he mutters.
“Yes. For job security,” you correct.
“Job security for you, maybe. I don’t need this shit to be good at my job and keep it.”
“Actually, it is for you,” you shoot back, “considering my job only becomes more necessary the more people collectively decide you’re unbearable.”
He scoffs. “I don’t care what they decide. As long as I always win and come out on top, I’m doing my job and savin’ everyone—that’s what they should fuckin’ focus on.”
“Whatever.” You only sigh, giving up on reasoning with someone like Bakugou. As long as he does what you tell him to in the public eye, you can handle his private meltdowns. It’s bearable enough so long as your damage control actually works. Before you can walk off to your office, Kirishima suddenly straightens, like he’s just remembered something.
“Oh—hey,” he says, looking at you. “We’re grabbing drinks tonight with some of our old classmates! You should come along.”
You blink, caught a little off guard. “Oh, um…me?”
“Yeah,” he nods, so easy and warm and charming. You sometimes wonder how it is you haven’t fallen for someone like Kirishima yet. “It’s nothing big, just some of us hanging out to take a breather. You’ve been working with us nonstop—you deserve a break too, y’know? Drinks are on us! Plus, I think Mina really wants to meet you—I tell her about you a lot!”
You hesitate, glancing instinctively toward Bakugou like you might need his permission. You don’t know why. For some reason, it feels like it’s only not intruding if he doesn’t seem to think so. He’s already looking at you as soon as your eyes wander over to him.
“Don’t look at me,” he mutters immediately. “Do whatever the hell you want.”
Kirishima laughs. “Don’t worry about him! Katsuki doesn’t mind. You should come,” he insists with a grin. “It’ll be fun.”
You huff a quiet breath, shaking your head just slightly—but there’s a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “…Okay,” you nod. “But if this turns into me managing your behavior off the clock—”
“It won’t!” Kirishima promises quickly.
Bakugou snorts. “No promises, Hellcat,” he says, almost like a challenge. And for the first time today, he looks just the slightest bit enthused, as if making your life hard is the one thing he has to look forward to.
You sigh. “Fantastic.”
And yet, despite it all, you’re already a little excited. But not because of him, or because you’ll get to see him off the clock. You’re immune to being excited about silly things like that. Very much so.
────────────────────────
Drinks with Bakugou and Kirishima and some of Class A from the Hero Course is…well, it’s something.
These people were in your year. They attended the same school as you and roamed the same halls that you did. You’ve seen them in passing between classes, or during lunch, or at school events. Yet somehow, it still doesn’t feel quite right sitting at a table with them. You’re sitting with Hero Course alumni, after all—and not just any Hero Course alumni, either. Alumni who fought in a war and survived it. And you, despite attending the same institution, despite being the same age, are merely a quirkless woman who graduated from Class I of the Department of Management.
A simple business student who twiddled her thumbs while these people trained to become the next generation of heroes.
It’s pathetic, in a way—they laugh and exchange absurd, outlandish stories about their jobs and the rescues they carry out, brushing them off with so much ease, it makes your head spin. And you listen, swallowing down your shock behind sips of alcohol and trying to hide your awe.
It’s normal to them, you tell yourself. It’s normal in the world they live in, one entirely different from yours.
Even being a publicist for heroes and witnessing aspects of what they deal with firsthand is not enough to prepare you for the sheer casualness with which they discuss their experiences. You listen as they reduce things that sound life-altering to you into mere small talk.
To you, the things you hear from Bakugou and Kirishima are extraordinary—they are unique aspects of your job that feel surreal no matter how many times you hear them. To them, it’s just simply their everyday reality. Another day. Another incident. Another thing to move on from once it’s over. They don’t sit and dwell on the magnitude of these events the way that you do. They don’t linger on the weight of them. They simply live through it all and continue forward as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
And here you are, sitting across from these people, sharing a drink as though you have a place among them at this table.
“Oh my god, by the way,” Pinky—or rather, Mina, as she’s reminded you many times to call her instead—turns to you as she exclaims, “I totally saw that magazine ad you had the boys do. You’re, like, a total networking babe, aren’t you? Ugh, it’s seriously so hard getting big brands to do deals with newer heroes like us. Even if we debut high, we’re just not popular enough yet to pull the numbers and sales they want.”
“Oh, well,” you smile bashfully, “it’s not really much credit I can take, honestly. I worked with Uwabami, and she’s really big in the media sphere, so…I just had a few contacts willing to work with me again because they knew me through her. B-but I really didn’t do much. I think they mostly did it to stay in her good graces more than anything else—”
“Oh, hush,” Mina waves her hand dismissively. “That’s exactly what I mean—you’ve got all the good connections. You should come work for me instead of those two lame little no-goods.”
“Hah?” Bakugou glares. “No-goods? Shut your trap, Raccoon-Eyes, ’cause the only no-good little—”
“C’mon now,” Kirishima laughs, placing a hand on the blonde’s stiff shoulder. “Mina can’t afford our darling publicist anyway. Miss Number Thirty surely can’t match the pay grade of Number Four and Number Sixteen,” he says with a charming sort of smugness. You wonder how he does it—how he manages to sound so proud while still being such a good sport about it. There’s no real bite behind the taunt, and Mina clearly takes it for exactly what it is: friendly banter.
She only giggles, looking just as smug as she counters, “Well, let’s see how high those rankings stay with Blasty over here being a huge grump everywhere he goes. He’s gonna explode his career before he explodes any more villains.”
“I’ll kill you, you pink-faced freak,” Bakugou snaps.
“Well, anyway,” she turns to you earnestly, “if you ever expand into managing multiple clients, you should totally take me in. I might not pay exactly the same as these two losers, but I’m way less damage control and a way better time. Give it some thought, m’kay?”
“Sure,” you nod shyly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“You can’t have Hellcat,” Bakugou hisses. “You think I’m gonna let you get your slimy fingers on my agency’s employees? I’m not losin’ to you, Pink-Face.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Mina huffs dramatically, looking at you with playful concern. “He must already work you right to the bone, but he calls you insults, too? A sweet little babe like you deserves way better than our angry little Blasty-Boy calling you a hellcat,” she sings with a grin thrown in Bakugou’s direction.
Bakugou practically simmers with irritation—and for the first time that night, you let out a genuinely carefree laugh.
“Well,” you chuckle, “he definitely doesn’t give me any free hours of downtime at the office, that’s for sure.”
He flashes you a bright, toothy grin. Kirishima is so charming. You can’t help but think the same thing over and over and over every time you talk to him. And you talk to him a lot. Every day, for that matter. Sometimes, you wonder if you try to convince yourself that he’s perfect and sweet and exactly the sort of man you should want so that…
…Your eyes drift naturally toward Bakugou.
They always seem to do that. Whenever you think about Kirishima, your mind somehow circles right back to Bakugou instead. You can’t pinpoint why. Why it almost feels subconscious, instinctive—as though thinking about Kirishima is some traitorous act that must immediately be corrected by redirecting your attention back to Bakugou.
And he’s already looking at you. Almost as if he’d been waiting for you to turn toward him. Almost as if he’d been staring the entire time and never looked anywhere else. His dark red eyes narrow slightly, expectant as he waits for your answer to Kirishima’s question.
“Yes,” you breathe, looking directly at Bakugou. Look away, your mind screams. Your body remains perfectly still as you murmur, “I love the agency. It’s not always easy, but…it’s worth the effort.”
Bakugou downs the rest of his drink in one smooth motion, the second the words leave your mouth. And by the time you finally manage to tear your gaze away from him, forcing yourself to focus on anything—anyone—else, you’re met with an even more dangerous look.
Mina is staring at you with something predatory. Devious. Almost too knowing, as if she knows something not even you do.
“Fine, fine,” she exhales theatrically, throwing her hands up. “Have it your way. Your little…partnership is safe from me—but only for now.” Her grin sharpens as she points between Kirishima and Bakugou. “But make sure you treat her right…or you never know. Someone else might come along and show her a good time.”
—
By the time drinks are over, most of the Class A heroes you spent the night with are at least somewhat tipsy.
Kirishima, ever the good-natured guy, is still sober enough to herd Mina and Kaminari into the back of the Uber he called, taking on the (quite difficult-looking, if you’re honest) task of escorting them both home. Sero is particularly wasted, but his assistant is already waiting outside in a car to pick him up.
Which leaves only you and Bakugou.
It’s awkward standing there alone with one of the two men you work under, the cool night’s breeze brushing against your face as you fumble through your purse for your phone. And then—
“Oi,” he huffs, the slightest slur clinging to his words. “You gettin’ an Uber?”
“Y-yeah,” you mumble, looking up at him in mild surprise the moment he speaks.
“We can share one,” he grunts, already pulling his phone out and typing something into it.
“B-but—”
“Jus’ be fuckin’ quiet,” he mutters.
Bakugou’s apartment building isn’t far from yours. You only know that because, in the past, you’ve had to have original copies of contracts mailed directly to his address over weekends so he could physically sign them and send them to sponsors. And admittedly…you’re nosy. You searched up the building afterward out of curiosity. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of place a hero who debuted at number four almost immediately, and became successful enough to open his own agency with his best friend so early into his career, even lives in.
If that makes you a creep, then so be it.
Your curiosity had won out, and well…you come to find that he lives in a very nice building. Exactly the sort of building you’d expect someone like him to live in. It’s on the way to yours, too. And although your own apartment building is far from unimpressive, it certainly doesn’t compare to his, so somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re quietly grateful that his stop will come first.
The Uber arrives shortly, and despite Bakugou always being a seemingly violent and abrasive man, he is, as you have always undeniably known, a good person. His parents have instilled in him the ethics of chivalry because he holds the door open for you, and helps you in with surprisingly gentle hands on your wrist and the small of your back as you struggle to climb into the back of the car. He is still himself, of course, so he doesn’t do it without scoffing a little at your drunken hobbling about, but it hardly holds any real bite.
The car ride is painfully quiet at first.
Not peaceful—never peaceful because the universe would never grant you peace when you are with Bakugou, so the entirety of the beginning of the car ride is charged. Charged with some weird, invisible force that never existed before, but it’s undeniably there. It makes the air feel suffocating for you, almost like you’ll choke on the tension. You try to distract yourself with the city lights that smear across the windows in long streaks of gold and white, but Bakugou sits beside you in the back of this cramped, ridiculously tiny two-back-seater car, and he almost takes up more space than he physically should.
Even slouched slightly back, even half-drunk, he is a presence that is impossible to ignore.
You keep your hands folded in your lap. He keeps one elbow resting near the window, phone in his other hand, as his screen dimly lights his face while he scrolls. The driver hums softly to the radio up in the front. Neither of you says anything, and the car ride is painfully, agonizingly silent.
It could be normal. It could feel like just a regular ride home after a long night out with a coworker. These things happen—these things are normal, everyday occurrences for people. You shouldn’t be an exception.
But you are.
It feels not even the slightest bit normal every time the car takes a turn, and your shoulder brushes his. It feels not even the slightest bit normal when he shifts around and tries to get comfortable with his long legs in the cramped back seat, and his knee grazes yours. It feels not even the slightest bit normal when heat is radiating off of him, and you can smell the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with a distinctly sweet smell that’s uniquely his.
You dare to sneak a glance at him eventually—and he’s already looking at you. Your eyes widen in shock when you see him, equal parts because he’s undoubtedly caught you sneaking a look over at him, and equal parts because he’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s looking at you.
“You’re breathin’ too loud,” he mutters finally. A rather weak excuse.
“I am not breathing loud,” you whisper back automatically, giving him a small glare.
He’s quiet for a moment—something he never is when you’re bickering with him. Then, almost softly, almost fondly, “Yeah, you are.”
Your breath catches a little at that. You’ve never heard his voice like that and…fuck. It’s doing something odd and beyond your control in your head. The chemistry of your brain feels like it’s being altered, and suddenly all you can think about is him, him, him. His voice. His arm brushing yours. His knee bumping into you. His smell. His warmth radiating off his body.
Him, him, him—Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.
The car hits a red light abruptly—one that the driver seems to be wholly unprepared for, and stops at rather sharply as he hits his brakes a little too late. Your face moves to smash into the seat in front of you, and your reflexes are too dulled by the lingering buzz of alcohol in your system to keep yourself from rushing forward. Bakugou exhales sharply through his nose, and his hands are already reaching forward to you so he can gently cradle your face and keep it from slamming forward. Even drunk, his reflexes seem as sharp as ever, and your brain chemistry seems to alter more.
Him, him, him—Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.
“Oi,” he slurs, “watch it. You’ll break y’re nose, Hellcat.”
Your face turns to look at him, still in his hold. You see him. Him and his dark, hazy eyes. Him and his pink, flushed cheeks. Him and his slightly damp, sweaty hair. And your brain chemistry is altering as you take in the sight of him. All this time, he’s been haunting you with that brash, hardness that is somehow, to you, more charming than the sweet, caring gentleness of someone like Kirishima. All this time, when you see him be this way and that, you’ve shoved down that festering sense of attraction because you were immune.
But your brain has rewired, and your body is no longer the same. You’re not immune anymore. You’re fully out of your mind and body, yet fully in control when you lean forward—and he willingly meets you halfway as soon as he realizes your movement, his senses as lightning fast as ever.
Your lips touch his, and then he kisses you. He’s kissing you, and you’re kissing him back. For a second, you don’t even move—then your hand is on his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling it toward you with a force that isn’t familiar to your body. You never exert this sort of force for anything, but he somehow rewires your body.
The city outside keeps moving as if nothing has changed at all, but your body has been altered by the very fabric of its being, only registering one thing—him, him, him. Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.
When you finally break apart, it’s only barely, and only because the car has slowed slightly, turning and shifting routes. Your eyes dart to the rear view mirror for a millisecond, meeting the gaze of the driver who is staring at you as you kiss the man beside you, and you fluster as soon as you do, moving to inch apart from Bakugou. But he growls quietly under his breath, hand moving to cup the back of your head and pull you back in, and your senses return to that weird, unfamiliar state that only registers him.
He kisses you, and you kiss him back. And it’s just him, him, him.
You only part a second time because you need to for air. He clicks his tongue, but he complies, watching you as you catch your breath. “Fuck,” he mutters.
Your heart drops for a moment as you wonder if he regrets it—but it doesn’t sound like regret, and you relax just as quickly. As soon as you do, the car slows again. You realize all too fast that this is his stop.
And just like that, it’s over. Him and his lips and his hands and his body against yours. It’s over as Bakugou opens his door before you can even properly process it, getting out of the car to leave and go home and leave you…and then he turns. To you. Looks back at you as he stares expectantly.
There’s a beat where everything stills. The driver doesn’t move, not saying anything. Bakugou doesn’t move, not leaving. The car doesn’t move, not creating distance between you and this man. And then—
“You comin’ or what?” he asks, impatient.
And your answer—lightning fast in a way you never knew was possible for your reflexes, especially so in this hazed form—never fully makes it into the form words. Instead, you’re easily stepping out of the car after him, like it’s that simple. He shuts the car door, barely glances back at the Uber as the car pulls away, and then starts walking without checking if you follow.
And you follow him, of course, you do. You follow him into his fancy building and into the fancy elevator, and the elevator doors barely even have time to close before it starts again almost immediately. Bakugou’s hand is on you first, roughly pulling you in like he hated that there was never any distance in the first place.
You go back to kissing him just as fast as he returns to kissing you.
Your back hits the elevator wall with a soft thud, and you barely register the cool presence of it through your shirt, or the way his warm mouth doesn’t leave yours. It’s messy. Kissing him is messy in a way that makes your head spin—breathless, slightly impatient, all hot breath and the occasional clack of teeth on teeth as you kiss each other with clumsy, drunken fervor. It’s as if neither of you can quite slow down enough to care about anything else, not when your minds are influenced by nothing but alcohol and want.
The elevator moves. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think that you should stop.
You don’t, though. You don’t want to, not even a little.
When the elevator slows, he doesn’t pull away. When the doors open, neither do you. You should separate, but you don’t. Not fast enough, anyway, because the doors are shutting and Bakugou is cursing under his breath as his hand fumbles quickly and just barely manages to hit the button to open them again. He looks exasperated as he hastily walks towards his floor, grabbing your wrist and tugging you along. As soon as you step onto the floor, he has you pressed against the wall—you have just the quickest second to see that his door is the only door on this level.
Go figure, you think. (What are the chances, you have to wonder, that you would be about to drunkenly fuck your boss in his literal penthouse? You might just consider buying yourself lottery tickets after tonight’s odd stroke of luck.)
But it’s a good thing, in any case—if anyone were to see you like this, there would be no pretending this wasn’t a shameful sight to be caught in. You’re kissing him roughly like you’re two desperate teenagers and not grown adults as you inch toward his door, still stumbling as every few steps turn into another collision, another continuation of stealing breath and swallowing spit and breaking whatever sense of professionalism used to exist between you.
Bakugou doesn’t let go of you once. His hands are roaming over your hips and your waist and gliding up your spine before settling for cupping your face, pressing you into the door at his entrance. You’re laughing against his mouth at one point after you bump into the doorknob and it digs into your back, earning an amused hum from him when you hiss in pain and smack his chest.
Finally, he fishes his pockets for his keys and opens the door with clumsy, impatient movements. He gets the door unlocked without fully parting from your mouth, and even when it opens, neither of you properly stops. You stumble inside together, the door clicking shut behind you, and you are still kissing him when your back meets the wall of his apartment.
You’re finally able to find your voice when his lips pull away from yours to attach to your neck as you whisper, “B-bakugou—”
“Tch,” he scoffs as soon as you say his surname. “Jus’ fuckin’ say Katsuki. S’weird when you use my last name.”
“But—”
“Do it,” he huffs.
Then his mouth is latching to your neck, sucking against a particularly sensitive spot that, of course, he finds easily, and you have no choice but to whimper, “Katsuki,” as your legs wobble.
He likes the sound of that. You can tell as soon as he stills at the sound of his given name on your tongue that it drives him insane, and when he bites down on your neck a little harder in response to it, you think you’ll use his liking to your advantage.
Kissing people and hooking up on occasion aren’t new experiences for you. What is a new experience for you, however, is doing them with your boss, who also happens to be a well-known public figure—an important, well-known public figure, in fact. Part of your mind is chanting over and over that this is not a good idea. That smart, wise people who value their self-preservation and their livelihood don’t do things like this. That if you had an ounce of sanity, you would realize that you’re setting your future, your stability, and possibly your heart, all up for failure.
But the alcohol in your bloodstream is not listening to your brain. It’s picking and choosing the things it wants to listen to—it hears the racing thoughts of, he’s attractive, and chooses to focus on that, rather than the more reasonable thoughts of, he’s also your employer.
When Bakugou moves his lips to slot against yours again, and his hands creep down to your ass to pull you closer, your mind doesn’t think to put a stop to this before it’s too late. Instead, it thinks to send signals to every muscle in your body so that you jump and hook your legs around his waist.
He catches your weight easily. You’d expect nothing less from Japan’s current number four hero. When he quickly strides over to his bedroom, tossing you onto his bed, all you can think about for a moment is the way people would kill to be where you are right now. That the people leaving those thirsty, desperate comments under his posts that you manage would do anything to swap places with you, but they can’t. They can’t because you are here, in his arms, under his body, and lying on his bed.
Sober you would be crippled by the anxiety of trying to decipher whether or not you deserve to be where you are instead of someone else. Drunk you is deeply thrilled to be here, so your hands trail over to his hair, and in a fit of bravery, they tug on his messy, blonde strands. They are softer than they look—you’ve always wondered how they felt. You’re happy to satiate your curiosity. The feeling of you pulling at his hair earns a low, satisfied groan from him as soon as you do.
“Fuck, do that again, Hellcat,” he mutters against your lips, words still a little slurred.
You mumble back, “M’starting to think you’re a masochist. S’this why you always make problems for yourself in public?”
“Maybe I jus’ like makin’ problems for you,” he grins.
And then you tug at his hair again, and his eyes flutter shut as he lets out a quiet grunt, burying his head in the crook of your neck. His lips continue pressing small kisses to your skin—anywhere they can find purchase along your neck and the juncture where it meets your shoulder. You can feel the outline of his cock through his pants—hard, and heavy, and hot. Even through the fabric, you can feel the heat of him as he presses against your core.
Your mind is still a blurry haze, so you don’t know who starts moving first. Somewhere between your wandering fingers in his hair and the slow trail of his lips across your skin, your clothed cunt grinds against the erection in his pants, and suddenly you’re both moving in tandem against each other. The outline of his length drags against your clit, and the friction of him gliding that heat along your core over and over and over again makes your thoughts even less coherent.
All you can think is good, good, good—he feels so fucking good against you, rubbing his cock against you even while you’re both fully clothed.
“Fuck, that’s nice,” he breathes, the words broken apart by labored pants as he rolls his hips against you.
You whine. “M-more, Katsuki,” as you buck your own hips upward, trying to match his pace and feel him against you harder.
It’s a sloppy, desperate mess—him grinding against you while you do your best to move with him, chasing better friction, more pressure, more of everything. He’s big—you can tell even without seeing him. Just from the drag of his cock alone, you can tell the bulge in his pants is impressive. Just like everything else about him. Of course, you think. Of course, everything about him, right down to what’s in his pants, is impressive. You wonder if there’s anything about him that isn’t. But you can’t bring yourself to be too annoyed by it—not when your clit aches for him to press harder against you, to slide faster along your pussy as it drenches your panties and, likely, your dress pants along with them.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet,” he chuckles. “Can tell without even takin’ anything off. Want me that bad?”
“And you’re so fucking hard,” you shoot back, trying to fight the heat rising in your face as you huff, “I can feel that, too. You’re the one who wants me.”
“Yeah,” he hums, leaning in to press hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. He doesn’t even try to deny it, just says, “I do.” Then, his lips brush your skin once more. “Feel that?” He rolls his hips harder against you as he says it, and the heavy, thick heat of him presses into you. You clench around nothing, aching for something to fill the emptiness inside you. “Feel what you do to me?”
“Katsuki, please,” you breathe, panting as your bodies move with increasing desperation, both of you chasing the building pressure between your legs and the tightening coil in your stomachs. “N-need you. Please.”
“Damn it,” he hisses, closing his eyes at the sheer desperation in your voice.
And it’s because you’re so desperate that you fall apart before he does. The pleasure has been building and building and building, and all it takes is one final roll of his hips—one last drag of his cock over your clit—to send you over the edge.
No—to send you plummeting.
Your walls spasm around nothing, fluttering uselessly with nothing to clench around, no matter how badly they need it. The pressure snaps, and pleasure floods through every nerve in your body. You go still beneath it, overcome by the force of it as a broken whine of his name falls from your lips, entirely incoherent.
“That’s it,” he breathes shakily, slowing the rock of his hips so that it still works you through your pleasure, but slows down the orgasm that is creeping up on him, too. “That’s it—you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cum. Say my name like that again, Hellcat.”
You breathe his name just like that. Katsuki, Katsuki—fuck, Katsuki.
Every ragged cry of it makes his pupils dilate, his gaze fixed on you with pure hunger as he drinks in the sight of your parted lips and glassy eyes while you come undone because of him. When you finally come down from your high, he stills his hips, breathing hard through a clenched jaw as he fights the urge to keep moving. His cock twitches in his pants, and you know—you can tell he was close.
“Why didn’t you—”
“I need to be in you. To fuck you,” he cuts you off, one hand hooking into the waistband of your pants as he looks at you almost pleadingly.
His eyes are wide—a darker shade of crimson than you’ve ever seen them, and yet, somehow filled with awe all at once. As though the sight of your blissed-out face has turned his world upside down in the span of a few fleeting moments.
You nod immediately, whispering, “Yes—please, fuck me.”
That’s all he needs to hear.
He’s stripping you bare before you can think twice—your pants and underwear first, then your shirt tugged over your arms. When only your bra remains, his hands shake ever so slightly as he cups your breasts through the fabric.
“So perfect,” he breathes.
Are you? Is that a line he says easily when he’s bedding someone? Something that slips off his tongue without a second thought? You might have dwelled on it longer if you were sober, but your mind is hopelessly scattered. Instead, it fixates on the fact that Bakugou has just called your tits perfect, and now he’s unclasping your bra to free them.
The second your breasts spill free, your bra is tossed somewhere onto the floor, forgotten.
One breast is instantly in his mouth. His lips latch onto it greedily, tongue circling your pebbled nipple while his teeth graze it just enough to make something tighten low in your stomach. His other hand—large and warm and rough, yet impossibly gentle all the same—cups your other breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple between them until a whimper slips from your throat.
“Oh,” you breathe, a sharp moan spilling from your lips.
He hums in satisfaction at the sound.
“That...do that again,” you plead.
A low chuckle rumbles out of him as he switches sides, leaving nothing neglected. From where he’s buried against your chest, he watches you with hungry, satisfied eyes, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face.
“So fuckin’ pretty,” he grunts as he finally pulls away—but not before pressing a lingering kiss between your breasts. “You’re beautiful, y’know that?”
“And you’re still wearing too many clothes,” you deflect, cheeks burning as you reach for the hem of his shirt and tug.
His grin turns instantly smug. “Yeah? Then do somethin’ about it. Aren’t you always bossin’ me around anyway?” He raises a brow. “What? Too shy now?”
You shoot him the kind of glare you keep reserved exclusively for him before yanking the shirt over his head.
Despite running a large agency that only seems to grow in reputation and prestige with every passing month, Bakugou often shows up to the office in nothing more than a t-shirt and black pants if he’s not wearing his usual hero suit. In his casual attire, if his face weren’t instantly recognizable, you’re fairly certain most people wouldn’t even realize he’s one of the owners on any given day.
He lets you peel the shirt away, revealing the broad expanse of his torso. And those abs.
The sight drags you right back to that day of the magazine shoot—to the embarrassment and thrill that had twisted together in your chest when you’d first seen him so bare. Miles and miles of skin stretched taut over thick, sculpted muscle. That’s what he is: smooth, pale skin wrapped tightly around hard-earned muscle.
Only this time, you can touch him, and you wonder if this is the universe’s belated birthday present to you. As though being denied the chance to touch him on your birthday is somehow being made up for now.
You decide to savor it.
Even through your haze, your fingertips trail slowly and deliberately over his abdomen, watching the muscles flex beneath your touch as his breath catches. A shiver runs through him. For a moment, those dark, lust-heavy eyes follow the path of your fingers across his skin.
Then he decides he wants more than this. More than your hands. More than a few fleeting touches. He wants all of you, and when his tip lines up with your entrance, you know he intends to take it.
Your eyes flutter shut as he slowly inches past your folds, the blunt head of his cock stretching your soaking entrance open to accommodate the sheer girth of him. It’s a tight fit—you feel the faint burn of him splitting you open, but you take him easily enough, your walls slick and welcoming around him. He’s gracious enough to give you a moment to breathe once he’s fully bottomed out, panting above you with his jaw clenched tight as he waits for some sign that you’re ready.
“S’fuckin’ tight,” he rasps. “S’like this pussy was made just for me—fit right in, huh?” You flutter around him at the words, and he lets out a low, gravelly chuckle.
“Stop,” you protest weakly.
He grins, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead as he murmurs in a husky voice, “Guess you’re not all that great at bossin’ me around, huh? Where’d all that feistiness go, huh, Hellcat?”
“Just move already, Baku—”
“Katsuki,” he corrects immediately.
You grab his cheeks and pull him into a long, messy kiss. He returns it instantly, melting into your mouth with a groan that vibrates against your lips. When you finally pull away, he huffs his displeasure, but you cut him off before he can complain.
“Katsuki,” you murmur, breathless. “Please move. I want you to fuck me already.”
And he’s gone.
The second the words leave your mouth, he’s cursing under his breath and grabbing your hands, pinning them above your head as he laces his fingers through yours. His hips draw back from where your bodies meet, his cock nearly pulling free of your heat before he snaps forward again, slamming his hips down and sinking deep into your walls.
The tip presses against a spot inside you that makes your vision go white. A sharp gasp tears from your throat, your back arching beneath him as pleasure crackles through your body. Above you, Katsuki groans—a rough, broken sound—and you can tell the sensation affects him just as much as it does you.
He sets a good pace, roughly rolling his hips and thrusting into you with precision—you’re painfully reminded how athletic he is just by watching the twitch and flex of his muscles as he exerts himself to bully his hard, aching length into your cunt without so much as stuttering his tempo. And you’re so full—so filled to the brim with him and his thick cock and the way the heat of him drags along every inch of your folds. He carves into you, molding your pussy into the shape of him, and you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to make anyone else fit like this.
(You realize that the thought of anyone else in his position now makes you sour—a scary realization, too, so you shove the thought out of your head entirely.)
“God, you take me so well, Hellcat,” he groans, “m’gonna make this pretty cunt cum for me all over again—you can do that, right?”
“Yes,” you slur, “yes, fuck—wanna do it again.”
“That’s a good girl,” he hums, kissing your jaw. “See? You can be so sweet when you’re not tellin’ me what to do. Want you like this all the time.”
“You get off on being yelled at,” you say in between whines as the head of his cock brushes against your sensitive spot over and over, drilling into you and fitting right into the spot you need him to fit. “You like it when I tell you what to do, liar.”
He grins—lets out a dazed, amused little smirk that looks better than any smile you’ve ever seen from him. Something about the flush on his cheeks and the sweat clinging to his forehead when he’s sunken into your cunt makes him all the more ethereal to look at.
“Maybe I do,” he mumbles, “s’not like you’re ever gonna stop bein’ the fucking hellcat that you are. Might as well get used to your shit.”
Like this, when he is fucking into you, desperately chasing the friction of your tight walls clamping around him, you feel like it is possible to belong where he is. Like this, when he kisses you hard and presses his tongue against yours, you feel like it is possible to give him what he deserves, even despite your shortcomings. Like this, when you are under him, and he is looking at you like you are unearthly beautiful, you dare to let yourself believe that you, in this body, as you are, is enough.
You are enough despite the blood in your veins and the codes in your DNA telling you that you have nothing to bring to the table. No flashy quirk, and no useful power that will make you an equal. You are enough just by the eyes that meet his and make the tips of his ears hot, and you are enough just by the fingers that glide along his back and bring goosebumps to his skin. You are enough because you are what he wants, and he does not weigh your worth by the power that does not exist in your bones.
“Shit,” he curses, moaning low and breathy, pulling you out of your scattered thoughts, “shit, m’so fuckin’ close.”
“Me too—m’gonna cum. Cum with me, Katsuki, please.”
One thrust, then two, and then his thumb moves to roll over your clit in harsh circles, and you’re falling apart again. Your first orgasm, you toppled over the edge, falling and falling in a slow descent until you hit the ground. This one, you are crushed by the weight of force instead, feeling your body sink heavily into the mattress as your bones turn to lead. The feeling of euphoria fills every vein and makes your body still, unable to move as you do nothing but lie there and take it.
And when you feel him twitch in your cunt as it flutters around him, you whisper, “N-no, inside—please, inside,” as you feel him about to pull out and leave you empty.
“You sure?” he croaks. “Safe?”
“Yes,” you nod, barely able to move your head. It’s still heavy and incoherent. “Yes, yes—please.”
One more thrust—a sloppy and unrhythmic thrust, at that—and Bakugou is spilling into you. His seed is thick and hot and fills you up in short ropes that paint you white as he twitches inside of you.
He breathes out your name. Not Hellcat. Not some insult he doesn’t mean when he’s annoyed like idiot, or moron. No, he sighs out your name as his body is lost to pleasure, and fuck—it is the most delicate you’ve ever heard your own name sound. He says it like it is a fragile, precious word, saying it like he ought to worship it.
When he comes down from the height of his pleasure, he slumps over your body, sweaty and heavy and yet, so comforting. Skin meets skin, and your heartbeat is pounding in rhythm to his own erratically pumping heart.
“Fuck,” he whispers, kissing your collarbone, “you…you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me dead.”
“I think it’s the other way around,” you wrinkle your nose. “You’re heavy. M’gonna get crushed to death.”
“Shut up,” he snorts.
He rolls off of you, though, and your mind can focus on little else besides the fact that he is warm. So, so warm, and he smells so, so sweet when sweat clings to his skin. You can’t help but drift closer to him the second he settles onto the empty side of the bed, curling against his chest and chasing that familiar warmth, that faint scent of burnt sugar, as you bury your face against his skin.
An arm wraps around you immediately, caging you in the heat that radiates off him. Somewhere between slow, heavy blinks and the fleeting moments before sleep finally claims you, you register sheets being pulled up around you. Soft lips press against your forehead.
“Don’ hog the blanket,” you mumble tiredly.
“Go the fuck to sleep,” he yawns.
You think you roll your eyes. You’re not entirely sure. The only thing you know is that you are sinking into sleep and into him, and you could not claw your way out even if you wanted to.
Chapter 2 will be uploaded on Friday next week!! If you’d like me to tag you please comment and let me know!! Just make sure you indicate you are over 18 somewhere on your account though
