RELEASEEEE MEE. REELEEAASSEE MEEEEEE.

HOLY MOLY GUYS

Birds and Fish

★Pairing:

Pro Hero! And soon to be ex Husband!Keigo Takami x Pro Hero!Still legal Wife!Reader

Synopsis: It's Valentines Day and your estranged husband shows up to your apartment to... take you out?

Warning: Extreme angst and fluff, suggestive themes, drinking, heartbreak, mutual pinning, touching and kissing, bad mental health, broken vases, broken dishes, preditor and prey, teasing, not really unfrequented love, heartbreak, hoping, depression, intimacy.

Wc: long, No ageless blogs! MDNI!!!

More info at the end. Use song: Of Monsters And Men - Little Talks

Slight spoiler: I wrote the flashback two different ways to represent how our brains twist painful memories.

This is the 3rd installment of my Valentines day series.

(Check my mha master list for more characters.)

Taglist from both of my master lists because I need to feed the cats: @elarakive, @thealtofvalleyxdoodles, @the-dumpster-fire-of-life, @raendarkfaerie, @bunny-b34r, @icey-wonders, @adherethecomingofage, @karaartioli-blog, @meoweoeoeosme, @faithisxreading, @faithisidking, @oh-kayyy-stan-bts, @shortie-chocolate, @rosaline756. @sweetlike-sugarplum. @aespie, @dancingqueen276, @erensbbg, @lillizxzz, @1chaerry,

@valscodblog, @willnetries

The morning is cold, but Keigo barely feels it as he stands outside your condo, wings tucked tight against his back, fingers flexing at his sides. He’s been here for ten minutes already, gathering his courage, trying to find the right words, the right tone. Something easy, something smooth, something that won’t make you him out of your head.

He raps his knuckles against the door, but it isn’t you who answers.

"Sorry birdie," Rumi drawls, leaning against the frame like she’s been expecting him all day. Her ears flick lazily before she leans aside just enough to let him see inside. 

"Kitty cat doesn’t want to play today."

Keigo opens his mouth to argue, but the twitch of her ears is all the warning he gets before she sidesteps, and a vase comes flying straight for his face.

Glass explodes against the doorframe as he dodges, shards embedding themselves in the wood and skittering across the ground. He exhales slowly, resisting the urge to shake out his wings, and instead, he just tilts his head toward the room beyond.

"That any way to treat an old friend, sweetheart?" 

His voice is light, teasing, but there’s something beneath it—

Something raw, something desperate.

He sees the flick of your tail's shadow before he sees you, a lazy sway from where you’re perched on the arm of your couch, one leg crossed over the other. You’ve got your claws out, the tips of your nails clicking idly against the glass of another— intact —vase on the side table.

Your pupils are blown, slitted eyes reflecting the light in that eerily beautiful way that always makes his breath catch. Smoke curls from your lips, disappearing into the dim lighting.

Rumi huffs, stepping back inside. "I’m not cleaning that up."

"Don’t have to," you reply smoothly, voice like silk dragged over velvet. Your lashes flutter as you finally, finally turn your gaze to him. 

"Keigo will do it, won’t you, baby?"

That shouldn’t do as much to him as it does. He knows you’re being cruel—playing with him the way you always have, even before everything went to hell. But his fingers still twitch at his sides, still aching to reach for you.

"Anything for you, dove." 

His voice is softer now, almost a whisper.

Rumi looks between the two of you and groans. "Alright, I’m out. But if you kill him, I’m not helping you hide the body." She grabs her purse and coat before leaving out the door, white trainers making crunchy noises against the floor. 

Rude , she’d have helped you hide any other body. 

You hum noncommittally as she heads for the elevator. The second it shuts, the air between you thickens.

Keigo takes a step forward, and you don’t move—don’t stiffen, don’t react, just keep watching him with those unblinking, inhumanly sharp eyes. He has to remind himself to breathe.

"Can we talk?"

A beat of silence. Then, you lift your chin slightly, lashes lowering. 

"Inside."

He barely hears the words over the sound of his own heartbeat. But he follows you in without hesitation.

Your condo is nothing like the home you once shared with Keigo. It’s clinical, sleek, too neat. There’s no clutter, no misplaced shoes by the door, no feathers caught between couch cushions. 

No warmth. 

The air inside is still, save for the faint scent of something citrusy and sharp—one of the only things that covers the trace of venom in your breath. The furniture is modern, leather and glass, not a single soft edge in sight. 

Even the throw pillows on the couch are pristine, arranged just so. Keigo’s eyes flick to the sink, the pipes lined with that special metal finish to prevent your venom from eating through them, the custom silverware drying in a dish rack, a reminder of all the precautions you have to take just to exist in the same space as other people.

But there aren’t any other people here. Just you. Just him.

You saunter toward the bar cart in the corner, tail flicking as you reach for a bottle, pouring yourself a drink with slow, deliberate movements. You don’t offer him one.

Keigo watches, silent for once. He’s been in too many rooms like this. He knows the signs. You haven’t made this place a home—you’ve made it a hideout. A place to exist, not to live. And that realization makes something inside him twist so violently he has to clench his fists to keep from reaching for you.

"You gonna speak, or just stand there lookin' pretty?" 

Your voice is a purr, lazy, amused. But he knows you too well. That’s just how you hide the venom.

He swallows, stepping further inside, ignoring the broken glass from your little greeting still scattered near the door. 

"What happened to us?"

You sigh dramatically, swirling the liquid in your glass.

"We got divorced, birdie. Try to keep up."

"That’s not an answer."

"Sure it is."

You finally turn to face him fully, your tail curling loosely around your leg, those slit pupils of yours narrowing as they catch the light. Your gaze flicks to the faint cuts on his hands from the glass, and Keigo thinks—hopes—for a second that you might care. But then you take another slow sip, and whatever softness he thought he saw disappears.

"You think I don’t know what you’re doing?" His voice is quieter now, rougher. Your lips curl slightly.

"Enlighten me."

"You’re trying to make me hate you."

You don’t react. Not at first. But he sees the way your fingers tighten around the glass, the way your ears twitch, betraying you.

"Is it working?" you murmur.

Keigo exhales sharply, shaking his head. 

"No."

You click your tongue, setting your drink down on the bar cart with a little more force than necessary. 

"Shame."

There’s a long pause, tension stretched between you so tight it might snap at any second. Then, finally, you lean back against the cart, crossing your arms over your chest, nails tapping idly against the fabric of your sleeve. 

"Why are you here, Keigo?"

"You know why."

"You should be getting ready for your fancy gala, smiling for the cameras, being Japan’s golden boy."

"Not in the mood."

You hum, tilting your head. "They’ll notice you’re gone."

"Let them."

That catches you off guard. He sees it in the flicker of surprise that crosses your face, quick as a heartbeat before it’s buried under something unreadable. You exhale, reaching up to push your hair back. 

"You make everything so difficult."

Keigo steps closer. 

"And you make everything so damn lonely."

That—finally—makes you falter. Just a little. 

But it’s enough.

"Why, love?" His voice is softer now, breaking at the edges.

"Why’d you really leave?"

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Because he deserves the truth, doesn’t he? After everything, after all the years spent in each other’s arms, in each other’s shadows.

But the truth is ugly. And you’ve never been the type to hand Keigo something he can’t handle. Even now, after everything, after you left.

So instead, you force a smirk, stepping forward to slide your fingers under the knot of his tie, tugging him just close enough to feel the heat of your breath against his lips.

"I left," you whisper, "Because I knew you’d chase me."

Keigo’s breath stutters. His hands twitch.

And then you let go, stepping back, putting a wall between you again.

"Now," you sigh, picking up your drink, "If you’re done being sentimental, you can see yourself out."

But Keigo doesn’t move.

Doesn’t turn, doesn’t back away.

Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small. Something velvet. Something with your name on it.

Your breath catches.

His voice is barely a whisper.

"Not without an answer."

The morning light filters through the sheer curtains as you pull them back, casting a pale glow across the pristine walls of your condo. The city hums softly beyond the glass, an orchestra of distant sirens and traffic, a constant reminder that the world moves on regardless of your choices.

You lift your glass to your lips, savoring the last bitter sip before setting it down with a deliberate click. Behind you, Keigo still stands in the center of the room, that damn velvet box in his hands.

Your fingers twitch, but you don’t reach for it. Not yet.

Instead, you exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders as you stare out over the skyline. Being a Pro Hero should mean something, but for you, it’s always been more of a balancing act.

The media has never truly trusted you—not with the kind of power you wield, not with a quirk as inherently dangerous as yours. You’ve spent your career fighting for a place at the table, only to be met with suspicion. The public adores their heroes, but they only ever tolerate you.

And now, post-separation, they don’t even do that.

The headlines were merciless when the news first broke.

Pro Heroes Hawks and Nightfang’s scandalous divorce. 

'Nightfang’s betrayal.'

Every news outlet framed you as the villain, the gold digger, the attention seeker. They spewed theories, spun tales of infidelity or deceit, but none of them knew the truth. Not a single one of them understood the slow unraveling of something that once felt indestructible.

And Keigo—damn him—never defended himself.

Only you.

He stood in front of cameras and brushed off questions with a shrug, a lazy smile, a tilt of his head. He called you an incredible woman. He said he would always support you. He told the world that love is complicated, but that you weren’t the villain in this story.

But when the cameras were off, when the interviews ended, when he came home to an empty penthouse that still carried the ghost of your laughter, Keigo had to face the truth.

You weren’t coming back.

Legally, the two of you are still married. You filed for divorce, but he never signed the papers. He refuses. You’ve been separated for a year now, and once the two-year mark hits, you’ll be dragging him back to court to finalize it whether he likes it or not. That’s the plan. But Keigo—stubborn, maddening, infuriating Keigo—isn’t going to let you go so easily.

He tried. At first.

But then Endeavor and Touya got involved. And when two of the most emotionally constipated men in Japan actually agreed on something for once, Keigo started listening.

“You’re insane if you think you’ll ever find something like that again,” Touya had scoffed, tossing a cigarette off the balcony of Keigo’s penthouse. “You’ve had the real thing, and you’re just gonna let her walk? That’s weak.”

“You’re not thinking clearly,” Endeavor had muttered, arms crossed. 

“You’re a hero, but you’re still a man. Fight for her.”

So Keigo fought.

He scared off every court-mandated counselor assigned to help mediate the separation. He dodged meetings, refused legal summons, and ensured that nothing about his life changed.

Your clothes were still in the closet. Your favorite mug is still sitting by the coffee machine. Hell, your toothbrush—your damn toothbrush—remains untouched in the holder beside his.

And yet, the scent of you is gone.

Late at night, when sleep refused to come, he would reach for your pillow, hoping for something— anything —that still carried your warmth. But it was just fabric. Cold. Empty. The absence of you felt like a weight in his chest, like hunger gnawing at his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t fade.

It terrified him, that feeling. 

Because it wasn’t just loneliness. 

It was abandonment.

Keigo swallows hard, shaking himself from his thoughts as you finally turn, your gaze landing on the small velvet box in his hands. Your expression remains unreadable, but he catches the flicker of something in your eyes—recognition, hesitation, something softer before it’s buried beneath layers of indifference.

"You kept them." Your voice is quiet, but not surprised.

"Of course I did." His grip tightens slightly. "What did you think? That I’d toss them like some old trinket?"

You say nothing.

He steps closer, the distance between you shrinking.

"Open it."

You don’t move.

Keigo exhales sharply, bringing the box to his own hands, flicking it open with his thumb. Inside, nestled against the plush lining, are the rings—your rings. Your wedding band, sleek and elegant, gleams under the morning light. And beside it, his own.

Unworn, untouched. Still yours.

"Tell me," his voice drops, rough and raw, 

"Do you still want this to be over?"

You look at him—the man you came to love so deeply, so wholly, that it still aches in places you thought had long gone numb. Keigo Takami. Hawks. The man who once had nothing, just a lonely kid with clipped wings, and somehow, against all odds, became your everything.

Your fingers tighten around the wine glass in your hands, not from anger, but from the weight of the memories pressing against your chest.

You remember it all so vividly—your wedding, if you could even call it that. No grand venue, no media coverage, no designer gowns or custom tuxedos. Just you, in a t-shirt and jeans, standing beside him in the city hall courthouse. Your closest friends, your grandfather, and a love so real it felt like the very foundation of the life you were building together. Back before the multimillion-dollar contracts, before either of you were B-list celebrities—hell, even before you were D-list heroes.

People had called you foolish. They’d whispered that it wouldn’t last, that Keigo would leave you someday. 

Find someone younger, someone prettier, someone who wasn’t… you.

But Keigo never strayed. Never looked at another woman the way he looked at you. 

Not once.

You knew the kind of childhood he had survived, the scars buried beneath his charm, the silent desperation in the way he clung to you when nightmares crept in. You were his family. And he was yours.

Maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because when the rest of the world turned its back on you, when the media vilified you, when complete strangers condemned you, Keigo had always been your safe place. 

And now? 

Now you were each other’s greatest source of pain.

At least there were no kids to get lost in this mess. No innocent lives tangled in the wreckage of what the two of you had built and lost. Just two people, bound by love and tragedy, trying to navigate the wreckage without losing themselves in the process.

And yet, even now, late at night, you still hear him.

That warm hum, soft as a whisper, waking you from the edge of sleep. It takes a moment before you recognize it—his voice, murmuring wedding vows in the quiet. The same ones he spoke to you five years ago in that tiny courthouse, when the only thing you had to your names was each other.

"I don’t have much, but everything I am, everything I have, it’s yours. It always will be."

Keigo has offered a vow renewal more times than you can count. And every time, you refuse. He doesn’t understand.

He thinks you deserve more, that he didn’t do right by you back then. That now, with money, status, and power, he can finally give you something extravagant—something worthy of you. But that courthouse wedding? That day, five years ago? It was perfect.

You’ve told him that before.

And Keigo, with that quiet, unreadable stare, had only shaken his head and whispered, “That was the bare minimum.”

He doesn’t get it. 

And moments like this—when he stands in front of you, ring box in hand, eyes pleading even when he doesn’t say a word—it’s so damn hard to be mad at him.

Because Keigo Takami, for all his recklessness, for all his stubbornness, has never once stopped loving you.

The rings clink softly against the table, the weight of them heavier than it should be. Your sigh feels like it’s been building in your chest for years, clawing its way up your throat, but when it finally escapes, it doesn’t bring relief. It just leaves you empty.

You rub your face, fingertips pressing into your temples, before retreating into the corner like you always do when you’re overwhelmed. The space feels too small, too tight, but the pressure grounds you. Keigo shifts in your periphery, body tensing like he’s about to reach for you, and you know that if he gets too close, you’ll break.

Your mouth fills with saliva, hot and acrid, your body rejecting the wine and venom swirling in your stomach. Before Keigo can take another step, you bolt, vaulting over the table, sprinting to the kitchen sink just in time.

Everything comes up in sharp, burning waves—wine, acid, poison—and you grip the edges of the sink, gasping between shuddering breaths. You don’t even realize you’re crying until Keigo is there, gathering your hair into his hands, his fingers gentle against your scalp.

The silk press you got last week—because you didn’t have the energy to deal with your hair, because life has felt so heavy—slides smooth between his fingers. He holds it back carefully, rubbing your back in slow, familiar circles, keeping his touch light like he knows any more might send you over the edge.

He doesn’t say anything when you try to push him away, just turns on the water and helps you rinse your mouth. The sink is steaming, curling around your face like fog, and when you spit again, the heat clings to your skin. Your body feels drained, exhausted down to your bones, but Keigo stays close, watching you carefully.

You can see the concern in the way his eyes flicker over your frame, the way his jaw clenches. You know you look bad. You feel worse. The dark circles under your eyes are deeper than usual, your limbs too thin, your clothes hanging looser than they should.

And then his gaze shifts—past you, past the sink—to the countertop.

To the empty bottles.

You don’t even like wine like that.

Keigo’s expression doesn’t change, but you can feel something inside him shift.

He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to. He just hands you a cup of water, watching like a hawk as you take small sips, as you swallow down the Tylenol he places in your palm. Then, without a word, he starts emptying the bottles. One by one, he pours them down the drain, his movements sharp, controlled. You don’t try to stop him.

You just watch.

When he’s done, he tosses the bottles into the trash with finality, dusting his hands off before turning to you. His shoulders drop, just slightly, before he nods to the kitchen table.

“Sit,” he murmurs.

You hesitate, but your body is too tired to fight him.

The smell hits you first—warm, savory, familiar. A bowl of noodles, steam curling from the surface, two soft-boiled eggs nestled in the broth. Light spice, mild enough for your stomach. Next to it, a glass of green tea.

Your favorite.

Keigo slides into the chair across from you, setting his own bowl down. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push—just eats with you, slow and steady, letting the weight of his presence do all the talking.

The food smells too good to ignore. And you don’t want to be alone right now.

So you eat.

He watches, not too obviously, but you can feel it. The tension in his shoulders eases when you take another bite, and by the time your bowl is empty, your eyelids are heavier, your body slumping against the chair.

You don’t protest when he leads you to the couch, wrapping you in soft blankets from God knows where. He pulls you against his chest, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him.

Your couch is too hard, because you never bothered making this place comfortable. Most nights, you sleep on the hardwood floor because it’s easier than trying to rest in a bed that doesn’t have him in it.

Maybe you got married too young. Your frontal lobes weren’t even fully developed yet.

Or maybe this was always bound to happen.

You already know how this will go.

Keigo will stay until you make him leave. He’ll linger for a few days, maybe a few weeks, before finally stepping back. Then the gifts will start showing up at your door—never at your agency anymore, at least he learned that much.

And then, eventually, he’ll come back.

And when he does, you’ll scream as you push him away. Because his feathers will be scattered across your apartment, lingering on the floor, stuck to your clothes, hidden in the creases of your couch.

And no matter how much you tell yourself to, you won’t have the heart to throw them out.

Because you still love him. 

“Hm.”

Your laugh is barely more than a breath, but it still surprises you. It rumbles against Keigo’s chest, and you feel the way he tenses beneath you, like he’s trying to commit the sound to memory.

When he glances down at you, you tell him it’s because noodles and green tea were all you guys could afford back then, before the fame, before the headlines, before everything got so complicated.

Keigo nods, his lips pressing into a firm line, but there’s something in his eyes—something distant, something almost mournful. “The food act you started is doing really well,” he says after a moment, his voice steady. “Lots of donations are coming in. People are getting at least two hot meals a day.”

You smile, a small, fleeting thing.

Of course, Keigo made sure of it. Whatever you wanted to do, he always fronted the money, always stepped in as the face of it. Not because he wanted credit, but because people were more willing to listen to him than a woman who looked like you.

You don’t even need to say it out loud. He already knows.

A snake. 

That’s what they called you. 

Strange, considering the soft curve of your cat-like ears atop your head, the way your tail flicks when you’re irritated, the sharp, clawed nails you keep polished and neat. Maybe it’s your eyes, slitted and gold lined, too predatory for their liking. 

Maybe it’s your teeth, sharp enough to tear through flesh, or the venom you can spit through the gaps between them, burning hot as it hisses against the air.

Or maybe it’s just because they needed an easy way to hate you.

Whatever. You don’t care anymore.

You’re just so tired.

Waking up has been hard. Brushing your teeth feels like a chore. Standing too fast makes your head spin.

Maybe it’s just too many bad days, piled on top of each other, weighing you down.

Or maybe it’s something else.

It’s weird—the way you’ve started signing Keigo’s last name again without thinking. You mean to use your maiden name when handling business, but the moment the pen touches paper, it’s his that spills out in ink.

Because it doesn’t feel like your name anymore.

Not after the media found out about your marriage.

Not after they twisted it, stripped you of any identity outside of him.

It became his name. And you? 

You weren’t even a partial owner.

You sigh, pressing your forehead against his collarbone, letting yourself drift for just a moment. You and Keigo go way back—back before the tabloids, back before the industry swallowed him whole, back when you had braids and he hadn’t yet fallen into the machine that chewed him up and spit him out as Hawks.

Back when it was just you and him, sitting on the floor of your first apartment, no furniture, barely making rent, sharing instant noodles and laughing like the world wasn’t out to break you.

Keigo sits up a little, his arms still around you but tense now, his golden eyes locked onto your face, searching for something. 

Anything.

“Can I ask you something?”

You don’t respond immediately. Your gaze is fixed on the silver screen, but you’re not really watching anymore. The cartoon you grew up on plays like white noise in the background, a relic of a simpler time—back when the only thing you had to worry about was making ends meet, back when it was just you and him against the world.

Back before the lights got too bright. Before the whispers got too loud. 

Before loving each other started to hurt.

You understand why he doesn’t want to go back to that apartment, why he hates the memories in those old walls. You do, but at the same time, you don’t. Because back then, you had each other. More than you do now, more than when you both became names with too much weight to carry.

Before the cameras, before the meetings and hushed conversations about his image with you. Before your interviews turned sharp-edged, laced with bitterness neither of you knew how to swallow.

Before there were meetings about your marriage. Before your image turned sour.

You know why he works so hard to give you a soft life, but you refuse his money, refuse to go half on anything. You both got married without a prenup, so as far as you’re concerned, he can keep his things, and you’ll keep yours.

But Keigo is a selfish man.

He wants everything.

Not the house, not the cars—those are just things, and he’s never cared much for things.

He wants you .

Not as a trophy wife, not as a possession, but as the one person who’s ever really seen him in a room full of people. The one who showed him what his heart was worth. And even though yours is torn to shreds, even though you’ve spent so long pushing him away, he wants to be there with a sewing kit and new fabric, trying to stitch you back together, piece by piece.

"Would you run away with me?"

Your head turns slowly, eyes meeting his. "Run away to where? America? Some place where they don’t know my face or name?" Your voice is flat, tired. "You’d never be able to leave, Keigo. You have a duty here."

Keigo takes a deep, almost steady breath, eyes flickering with something unreadable before he clarifies.

"Run away with me for today. For Valentine’s Day. "

Your playful smile vanishes. You frown, turning back toward the screen. 

"I hate when you joke like that."

"It’s not a joke."

The way he spits it—low, urgent—makes something in your chest ache.

He isn’t talking about some grand escape. He isn’t asking you to drop everything, to disappear with him to some foreign country, to run from the weight of your names.

He’s asking for today.

One day where there are no cameras, no expectations, no headlines.

Just you and him, like it used to be.

"It’s not a joke," he repeats, softer this time.

"You can't breathe air into my lungs if I don't want it, Keigo."

"Then I'll be a vacuum cleaner and press reverse."

"There you go again—forcing me into what you think is best for me."

"Please, just come home."

"I'd rather be in hell than alone."

You haven't been back since the night you left. You packed a suitcase with the same clothes you arrived with, taking nothing more than your hero costume.

And now you were gone.

It killed Keigo to come home and see the place torn apart, to live in the wreckage of everything you left behind. For a while, he did. That’s why he moved into the penthouse—because the house, as beautiful as it was, hurt too much.

Acres of land, a guarded estate, a quiet escape in the countryside—it was supposed to be a dream. Now, it’s just a memory.

But that night stays with him. The night you begged— fucking begged —him, his wife, who should never have had to beg for anything in her life. And yet, you did. Standing there in your designer black dress, glittering under the dim lights, mascara running like an unchecked faucet, pooling at the base of your throat as if your own tears were branding you, drowning out your voice.

Begging him to stay. To choose you over the public. Because you needed him.

And he didn’t.

—————

Keigo doesn’t notice the way your hands start to shake as the commotion around you grows louder. He doesn’t notice how the weight of the room feels like it’s pressing into your skull, the voices, the shuffling, the endless chatter about the schedule and the press and the fucking charity event drowning you like a tidal wave.

He doesn’t notice the way you break.

Not at first.

You're already on your knees, sitting in the middle of the bedroom floor in your black designer gown, the shimmer of it making the streaks of makeup down your cheeks look even darker. Your chest is rising and falling too quickly, your breathing uneven, like the oxygen in the room is running out. Your nails are digging into the fabric around your arms, and you’re begging him, voice hoarse from holding everything in for years.

"Please."

That’s all you can manage at first. You don’t know what else to say, how else to convince him, how else to make him see you.

"Please don’t go."

Keigo exhales slowly, standing tall in his gilded tux, his hands adjusting the cuffs like he’s getting ready for war, and in a way, he is. The hero industry is a battlefield, and he’s always been a soldier. Always been good at following orders, at knowing when and where to strike, when to play the game.

You’re not part of the game.

You never were.

"You know I can’t just not go," he says, like he’s trying to be reasonable, like this is an explanation instead of an excuse. "This event is important."

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. 

Important.

"What about me ?" you whisper, gripping your dress tighter.

His jaw tightens. "Don’t do that."

"Do what , Keigo?"

He sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck, his wings fluttering once in irritation. The movement sends a loose feather drifting to the floor between you, and you hate how that simple sight makes something in your chest ache .

" This ," he gestures at you vaguely. "Acting like I don’t—"

"Like you don’t what ?" You cut him off, eyes locking onto his. "See me? Hear me? Like you haven’t left me behind over and over again?"

He stiffens at that.

"You always have somewhere else to be, Keigo," you whisper, your hands releasing your dress to clutch at your chest instead, like you can physically hold yourself together.

"Always someone else to be with. Always something more important than me."

"That's not fair," he snaps. "You know that’s not true."

"Do I?" Your voice cracks, and you shake your head, laughing wetly, eyes burning. " Tell me , Keigo—when was the last time you chose me ?" He looks at you, but he doesn’t say anything. Not even one word.

Because he knows.

He fucking knows .

And for not the first time tonight, you feel empty.

Because what’s the point of screaming at a wall? What’s the point of pouring your heart out into hands that are too full to hold it?

Your voice is quieter now. Depleted.

"I’m done."

That makes his entire body tense, golden eyes snapping to yours, lips parting slightly in disbelief.

"What?"

"I don’t wanna fight anymore." You sniff hard, wiping your eyes, smearing the mess on your face further. 

"I just wanted love and comfort. That’s it."

Keigo moves forward, like he’s about to kneel in front of you, but before he can, there’s a loud knock on the door, followed by frantic voices calling his name.

They need him.

You don’t say anything. You don’t move. He hesitates, but only for a second. Then he sighs, leans down, and presses a quick kiss to your ruined cheek.

"We’ll talk about this when I get home, okay?"

Your breath catches in your throat.

And just like that, he’s gone.

The door closes behind him, and the noise follows, his footsteps fading down the hall as the staff and managers rush after him.

You don’t move.

You just sit there, staring at the empty space he left behind, blinking slowly as another hot tear slips past your lashes, burning as it carves a path down your cheek. It drips from your chin, landing against the fabric of your dress. And in the silence of the house you once called home , you whisper,

"I need you."

But he’s already gone.

You don’t move at first when you hear all the cars drive away. 

Because your mental state was just that bad —so bad that the thought of standing under a thousand flashing lights, surrounded by cameras and whispers, made your stomach turn. Because you knew how it would go. You’d smile, pose, play the part, and by morning, they’d have spun some new evil story about you. As if you craved attention so desperately that you needed everyone’s eyes on you—even at a charity ball.

And Keigo stood there, dressed in gold, the picture of perfection, while the staff bustled around you, stepping over your crumpled form on the floor of your own home. As if you weren’t there. As if you were just a nuisance, inconveniencing a man who had far better things to do.

Honestly, what did he ever see in you?

The rumors never stopped. That he must have been tricked, roped into this marriage. That Hawks, the patron saint of the hero world, hadn’t just cleaned up the streets—he’d done an act of charity by taking in a disaster of a woman like you.

And maybe, tonight, he believed it.

He dismissed the staff. His managers. But it was too late. 

The damage was already done.

He tried to explain earlier. Tried to tell you why he couldn’t just not go. That you needed to pull yourself together. And that’s when something inside you snapped.

"I’ve been pulling myself together for you for seven years, Keigo. Seven."

From the very beginning, people told you that you’d never measure up. That you needed to hold on tight to him before he came to his senses. And now, standing in the middle of this too big, too cold house, you finally hit your breaking point.

You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. The world spun too fast, too violently, and he—he couldn’t even take a moment to comfort you?

Really?

He’d rather stand there and watch you unravel? 

The two of you were screaming now, voices ricocheting off the high ceilings. But you weren’t even angry anymore. Not really.

"I don’t want to fight, Keigo. I just wanted love. I just wanted comfort."

His phone wouldn’t stop ringing. People were banging on the door, reminding him that he needed to go. And you—you just stood there. Silent. Watching.

"We’ll talk about this when I get home," he told you, pressing a kiss to your tear-streaked cheek before walking out the bedroom door.

And you let him go.

The moment the door clicked shut, a single, burning tear slipped down your cheek, curving along your jaw as you whispered, "I need you."

But there was no one left to hear it.

The house was empty. Silent.

No one called. No one checked in—except Rumi and Taishiro, asking where you were, saying Keigo mentioned you weren’t feeling well.

Oh. 

So that’s what he told them?

The ring on your finger feels heavier than it ever has.

The same ring he slipped onto your finger with that cocky, love-drunk grin, promising you forever. The same ring he kissed every morning before slipping out the door, murmuring, see you later, babe . The same ring that sat between your fingers as you traced the grooves absentmindedly, convincing yourself that he was worth waiting for.

Now, all you can think about is how much you regret ever putting it on.

Because what did it mean ?

Nothing.

It was just another thing in your life that Keigo Takami had made you believe was sacred—only for him to turn around and treat it like an afterthought.

Defends you to the death one moment but can’t even put the world on hold for you the next.

Talk about mixed fucking signals.

Even the lights in your bedroom feel too bright, burning into your retinas as if the whole house is mocking you, exposing you, watching you break apart piece by piece. You stumble toward the bathroom, desperate for a moment to breathe, to clear your face, to wipe away the evidence of how thoroughly you’ve lost .

But then you make the mistake of looking into the mirror.

And you don’t even recognize yourself.

The woman staring back at you is a ghost, her makeup smeared down her cheeks like war paint, her lips trembling with unshed rage and despair. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks raw from the heat of her tears.

Smoke curls from her lips with every breath.

You open your mouth, and your venom pools there, thick and acrid, sliding over your tongue like a warning. You could spit it into the sink, watch it swirl down the drain like all the other things you’ve had to swallow in this marriage.

But why should you?

What’s the point of restraint? What’s the point of trying to be good ?

Keigo abandoned you tonight. Just like he always does.

So instead of spitting into the sink, you turn and head straight for the bed.

One spit-take is all it takes to watch the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets dissolve into nothing.

Oh.

That feels good.

Something clicks into place inside you, something sharp and reckless and angry.

Your fingers curl into tight fists as you storm through your walk-in closet, scanning the racks and shelves until your eyes land on something perfect.

An old baseball bat.

The weight of it feels right in your hands, the smooth grip grounding you.

And then you swing.

The bedroom window shatters on impact, the sound ringing through the house, glass raining onto the floor like diamonds. You turn on your heel and move to the next target—the kitchen cabinets, the overpriced mahogany that Keigo’s designer picked out. You slam the bat into them again and again, the wood splintering, the doors hanging off their hinges.

Then it’s the TVs.

Every. Single. One.

Because why the fuck does every room need a television ?

You swing at the first one, watching the screen crack and flicker, glass shards scattering across the hardwood floor. Then the next, and the next, until there’s nothing left but broken plastic and shattered screens.

But that’s still not enough.

The sinks.

You crank the faucets on full blast, watching the water spill over before you spit into them, the pipes sizzling and corroding instantly.

Keigo’s favorite car sits in the driveway, gleaming under the moonlight, freshly purchased, still smelling like new leather and money.

Too bad about the broken windshield.

Your bat swings once, then twice, then three times for good measure, before you shove the damn thing into neutral and push it over the edge of the property’s cliffside driveway.

It tumbles down the rocky slope, scraping against jagged edges, until it lands with a loud splash in the saltwater below.

Huh.

Guess he’ll find it there later.

You step back, shoulders rising and falling with each breath, but you’re not done. Not yet.

The wedding china.

The plates, the dishes, the goddamn gravy boat.

You hurl them at the wall, watching them shatter into pieces, and for the first time, your hands shake —because that hurt. That was a gift from your grandfather. That was yours .

You swallow hard, eyes burning, but you don’t stop.

Your wedding dress is in the attic, stuffed away in a box that smells like dust and memories. It was a short thing, gifted by Nemuri from her first failed attempt down the aisle, something borrowed, something meant to be special.

Keigo’s tux is there too. An old rental, something he nearly threw away.

You whisper a quiet, sorry, to the dress before setting it ablaze.

Better for it to burn than to live in that dingy old box forever.

But Keigo’s tux? That, you take downstairs.

You nail it to the front steps.

For when he gets married again.

And then, finally, you slide the ring off your finger. It’s lighter now.

You don’t look at it as you place it on the nightstand, as you go back upstairs and pull out an old suitcase. You pack only what you came into this house with. The clothes from your old life. And your hero costume.

For good measure, you slice up Keigo’s expensive jackets, the ones he always threw over your shoulders in public when people were watching, but never when you actually needed them. All this money can’t buy you the arms that you wish would hold you more than just at night when you’re falling apart and can’t feel anything. Then you flood the bathtub with them.

And spit.

The fire crackles, eating through the fabric, the flames licking up the ruined cloth, filling the air with the acrid scent of burnt leather and regret.

Do you feel better?

No.

But it helps .

And then you leave.

You step out of the house barefoot, your pretty dress stained with smoke and dust, your expensive heels clicking against the pavement as you walk . And you don’t stop. Not until you reach your grandfather’s old house. The porch steps creak under your weight as you sink down, too exhausted to even push open the door.

Your body is spent. Your soul is empty.

So you just curl up on the steps, resting your head against the worn wood. And for the first time that night—

You close your eyes in peace.

—————

Keigo watches you from across the room, his golden eyes tracing every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. He sees it all. The hurt. The betrayal. The night he can never take back.

And the worst part?

He knows—knows deep down in his bones—that there’s nothing he can do to fix it. 

No matter how hard he tries, no matter how many times he rewinds the memory in his head, searching for the moment where he could have done anything differently.

Because he did come home that night.

Heart pounding. Mind racing.

At first, he thought someone had attacked you, that some villain had stormed the house, tearing it apart, leaving nothing but chaos and destruction in their wake. But then he saw it.

The tux.

Nailed to the front steps like a goddamn headstone.

And then he stepped inside.

The walkway, the living room— empty.

Not in the way that an unfinished house is empty, but in the way that something once full of life had been stripped bare, gutted from the inside out. The only things left were the shards of glass scattered across the floor, catching the moonlight like cruel little stars.

His stomach had twisted at the sight, his fingers tightening around the doorframe as he forced himself to move forward, to climb the broken staircase, to look .

And when he did—When he stepped into your bedroom—His knees nearly buckled beneath him.

Black stains marred the pristine white carpet. It took him a second to understand what they were.

And then it hit him like a freight train.

Your tears.

You had knelt there, crying so hard and so long that the venom from your mouth had dripped onto the floor, burning into the fibers. His gaze had swept the room, taking in the smoldering remains of your shared mattress, the burned sheets, the shattered windows. His jackets—shredded beyond recognition.

And there—on the bedside table—

The ring.

The one thing he never thought he’d see off your finger.

And then he checked the closet. Your clothes—all the ones he had ever bought you—were still there. Neatly folded, untouched. The only things missing were the clothes you brought with you the day he gave you the keys and you moved in together.

The same keys he now kept locked in a safety deposit box. Along with the keys to your first apartment. Because some part of him had always held onto the hope that maybe—just maybe —you’d come home.

But that hope had been a fool’s dream, hadn’t it?

He hates the person he was then. Because even if people needed  him, he took vows to you.

And he broke them.

Maybe there was no adultery, no scandal, nothing that would make the tabloids scream betrayal. But what does that even matter?

He still failed you.

And he doesn’t blame you for wanting out. For wanting away from him.

But fuck —he’d been an idiot.

An idiot to not try harder. To not fight tooth and nail until his last dying breath to make it right. To not chase after you, to not choose you the way he should have from the very beginning.

And now, standing here, watching you—

He wonders if maybe the right thing to do is to finally let you go.

To stop being selfish.

To give you the space you deserve to heal , to move on, to find someone who truly understands you. Someone who isn’t afraid to tell the world no for you, who will always put you first.

Someone who will love you better than he ever did.

And God—

He hopes that whoever it is, they love you more than anyone in the world.

Because you deserve it.

You always did.

"Okay."

Keigo blinks at you, his golden eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. Okay? That’s it?

"Okay?" he echoes, like he needs confirmation, like he hadn’t just spent the past few minutes bracing himself for another argument, another rejection, another reminder of how much he fucked up.

" Yes, okay," you say with a yawn, stretching your arms over your head as your hair flattens slightly against the pillow. "That's what I just said, right?"

He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you, still half-buried in sleep, your voice groggy, your body warm beside his. He doesn’t know what he was expecting— screaming? A shattered vase? —but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

"I don't see the point in wasting a beautiful day," you add, voice softer now, as if admitting something you’re not sure you should. "But I'm tired. I need a nap."

And so you do.

Just like that.

You turn over, curl up under the blanket, and drift off. Keigo watches you for a moment longer before finally settling in beside you. His wings fold close, the weight of everything still lingering heavy on his chest, but for the first time in a long time, he lets it be. He lets you be.

And maybe it’s not forgiveness. Maybe it’s not even healing.

But it’s something.

The sun is well into the afternoon sky by the time he stirs, rousing you gently with a touch to your arm, murmuring your name in that low, familiar voice.

You wake slowly, stretching again before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.

"Five more minutes," you grumble. Keigo chuckles.

"That’s what you said an hour ago."

You throw a weak punch at his arm before shuffling to your bedroom. At first, you tug on a plain tee and jeans, running a brush through your hair before stopping. Your eyes flick to the back of the closet, to something you haven’t worn in a long time.

A soft pink dress. Short and flowing. One you used to wear on dates before you got married.

You hesitate for only a second before pulling it out. It feels almost foreign in your hands, but when you slip it on, it fits just the same. A little piece of the past, like muscle memory. Your hands move on their own—pulling your hair into a high ponytail, swiping on a light cat eye, painting your lips a deep maroon before adding a slick gloss over it.

Your eyes flicker to your feet next. Heels? No, too much. Sandals? Maybe.

Instead, you grab a pair of flat tennis shoes, white, and slip them on over your hot chili pepper socks. A tiny smirk tugs at your lips. You used to wear them all the time, and Keigo always teased you for it.

When you finally step outside, the sunlight kisses your skin, and Keigo—

Keigo is already waiting.

He stands there, casual as ever, golden eyes sweeping over you in quiet admiration before his hand disappears behind his back and reemerges holding a large bouquet of flowers.

You stop short, eyes flicking between him and the bouquet.

"Where did you get those?"

He grins, his classic, cocky smirk making its first real return in what feels like ages. "I have my ways."

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it. You take the bouquet from him, inhaling the soft, floral scent before carefully opening the sliding glass door and placing them in a vase with fresh water. But before you turn away, you pluck a single sweet pink rose, tucking it between your fingers.

When you step back toward him, his arms are already open, waiting—

And without hesitation, you wrap yourself around him.

His arms tighten around your waist, lifting you with ease like he used to, like it’s routine , like it’s muscle memory .

And for a moment—just a moment—everything feels familiar again.

Keigo lifts you into the air with ease, the wind rushing past as you hold onto him, your heart steady against his. His wings beat strong and sure, carrying you higher, away from everything—the city, the noise, the expectations.

For once, there is no mission. No duty. No answering to anyone.

Just this. Just you.

The sun is warm against your skin, golden and high, as he finally descends upon a quiet field nestled between rolling hills. A place untouched by the rush of the world. He lands effortlessly, his boots meeting the soft earth with a quiet thud before setting you gently down beside him.

There’s a small rental station tucked under the shade of a willow tree, and Keigo pulls out his wallet before handing over a few crisp bills. In return, he’s given two sleek bicycles, their frames shining in the midday sun.

"Hope you still like bike rides," he muses, smirking as he swings a leg over his.

You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own smirk as you do the same.

And then you’re off—pedaling down winding dirt paths, the wind catching your hair, the scent of fresh earth and wildflowers filling your lungs.

The river beside you glistens, its waters clear and cool, flowing endlessly along the curves of the land. Keigo rides ahead at times, turning back to call out teasing remarks, daring you to keep up, but other times he slows just enough to let you ride beside him, your hands brushing every so often as your laughter fills the air.

At a small wooden stand along the path, an old mountain man greets you with a weathered smile, his hands rough but steady as he hands you fresh fruit and skewers of grilled meat. Keigo pays him generously, thanking him before leading you to a shaded spot where you both eat, savoring the simple flavors.

Then, with a sly grin, Keigo wipes a stray drop of juice from the corner of your lips with his thumb. His touch lingers, eyes golden and soft, and for a moment, he swears you both are younger again—two reckless souls, dressing up for each other just for fun, holding hands simply because you wanted to, not caring if anyone else saw, because you see each other, and that was all that ever mattered.

He never thought he’d get to have this again.

After the meal, he takes your hand and leads you somewhere even more breathtaking—a secluded stretch of Japan’s most beautiful flower fields. Endless waves of color spread before you, vibrant reds, soft lilacs, golden yellows, and blushing pinks painting the earth in an explosion of life.

"A private tour," he murmurs, nudging your side as he watches your expression, drinking in the way your eyes widen with wonder. "Just for you."

And it is just for you.

No cameras. No reporters. No agency calls.

He left his phone at home on purpose—no tracking, no interruptions.

Just this. 

Just you.

As the day winds down, the sky begins to shift, trading its bright blues for something softer, richer—deep oranges and soft pinks flood the heavens, painting the clouds in their warm embrace.

You both lay stretched out on a picnic blanket, the fabric worn but comfortable against the cool grass. The scent of flowers drifts through the air, mingling with the fading heat of the sun. Your head rests in his lap, your body relaxed, skin kissed by the sun, glowing beneath its last golden rays. His fingers move gently, threading delicate stems together, weaving a flower crown with practiced ease.

You hum quietly, running your fingers through the soft grass, feeling the earth beneath your touch, the moment settling deep into your bones.

"Hold still," Keigo murmurs, placing the finished crown atop your head. You glance up at him, catching the way his golden eyes soften, the way his lips twitch into a barely-there smile.

"Perfect," he whispers.

And for the first time in a long time, he truly believes that this moment —just this —is all he’s ever needed.

You move suddenly, shifting up in his lap so quickly that his wings ruffle in surprise.

"Hey, dove, what are you—"

"Shut up, birb brain," you mutter, licking your lips before grabbing his face.

Keigo lets you, just like he always does. It’s something that used to unnerve him when you first met, when you started dating, but he’s long since grown used to it—the way you inspect him like a cat, your sharp eyes scanning every inch of him as if you’re searching for something out of place.

Your fingers thread through his hair, combing through the strands, checking for anything you don’t approve of. He doesn’t move, barely even breathes, just lets you do what you need to.

Your pupils dilate, then shrink, then dilate again as you stare into his golden eyes. He’s watched this before, felt it before, how your scrutiny is never cruel, never careless—it’s careful, meticulous. Like you’re cataloging him, making sure he’s still here, still whole.

Then, without a word, you turn him slightly, brushing your fingers over his back, plucking loose pin feathers and laying them out in your lap like little trophies. Keigo exhales through his nose, resigned, watching as you note each one with silent judgment.

"You need to moisturize," you murmur, rubbing one of the smaller feathers between your fingers. "And let Touya help you if you're gonna be a bitch about it." Keigo gawks at you, wings twitching. 

"I haven’t seen him in forever—"

"Don't lie to me." Your nose wrinkles, and he knows there’s no fooling you. "Tell him a man who's died twice doesn’t need to kick the bucket to a cigarette addiction." He groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

"Yeah, yeah, I’ll pass it along."

You let him go suddenly, like you’re done with your little assessment, and flop back onto the blanket without another word. Keigo blinks down at you, rubbing at his jaw where your fingers had gripped him, before shaking his head with a huff.

"Y’know, sometimes I think you might love my feathers more than you love me," he teases. You smirk, closing your eyes.

"Hate to break it to you, birdie, but they were my first love."

Keigo snorts, leaning over you, his shadow stretching over your sun-kissed skin. "Guess that makes me your side piece then, huh?" You hum, cracking one eye open.

"Mm. Keep up the good behavior, and I might just promote you."

He grins.

"Guess I better work hard then."

You burst into laughter, the sound spilling out of you uncontrollably, catching you both off guard. It startles Keigo for a second before he starts laughing too, that boyish, unrestrained laugh you used to hear all the time—before everything.

And it keeps going, your laughter feeding off each other, bubbling over until your stomach aches and your cheeks are warm.

You can't help but smile when you see him like this. Keigo—he feels ten feet off the ground, weightless in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

Your hands find his, holding onto them from where you’re lying between his legs, your head resting in his lap. The flower crown in your hair fights to stay in place, petals shifting gently as the wind plays with the strands of your hair.

It’s such a perfect moment—the flowers around you, the sky melting into brilliant hues, the way your skin glows, alive and healthy.

The setting sun casts a golden glow over Keigo’s face, catching in his windswept hair and making his eyes burn with a warmth that melts straight into you. The wind hums through the open land, rustling the flowers around you, making them bow gently as if nature itself recognizes the weight of this moment. But none of it matters—not the sky, not the wind, not the fading light.

Right now, it’s just you and him, existing in a perfect kind of stillness.

Your laughter lingers in the air, soft and unrestrained, a sound Keigo would bottle up and keep forever if he could. He watches you, completely enthralled, because he’s seeing something sacred, something only he has the privilege of knowing.

And when you smile at him—genuine and unguarded—his heart stirs, light as air, as if it’s grown wings of its own.

Being with Keigo feels almost like freedom, like the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future can't touch you here. Like for once, you are both untethered, just two souls caught in each other’s orbit, unburdened by the world beyond.

His hand finds yours, his thumb grazing the back of your knuckles in a quiet kind of devotion, and you squeeze back, grounding yourself in him.

The wind carries the scent of wildflowers, the last of the sun’s rays spilling over the horizon, but you don’t care.

You only care about this—him, you, together.

And in this fleeting, fragile moment, it feels like nothing could ever take that away.

Then you wipe a tear from your eye, and Keigo watches the way your little teeth poke out from behind your soft lips, a detail he never stopped loving.

"It’s moments like this," you say, voice quiet, almost hesitant,

"When I believe I can fall in love with you again."

Keigo swallows hard, his throat working against the lump forming there. He tries not to blink, not to close his eyes, terrified you’ll disappear in the fraction of a second he does. Instead, he leans down, his hands tightening around yours.

"Would you?"

The laughter dies.

The warmth in your face fades, your expression sobering as you hold his hands back. Silence stretches between you both, heavy and aching. Keigo feels it settle in his bones, a sharp contrast to the golden, fleeting happiness you’d just shared.

And then you finally answer.

"I could…" you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"But I won’t."

Keigo tries not to react, tries not to let it show. But there’s too much history between you, too much weight in the air. You both know each other too well for him to pretend.

"Keigo, I’m—"

"Don't."

You pause, mouth slightly open, but you let him speak.

"Don't," he repeats, softer this time. "You have every right. I just…"

His eyes flick over your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. Then, slowly, his hands rise, cupping your cheeks, his touch impossibly gentle. His thumbs glide beneath your eyes, collecting the tears that had started to gather, his warmth sinking into your skin.

The breeze whispers through the field, making the flowers sway, bending in reverence to the moment passing between you both.

"You just wish things were different, right?"

He nods, dipping his head closer, his throat betraying him when he swallows hard. 

"I do."

"Me too."

Keigo opens his eyes again, and for a second—just a second—he sees you. The real you. The earnest girl he fell in love with, the girl he thought he’d grow old with, the one he’d everything for.

And you see him. The boy who made his dreams come true, the only man you could ever love like this.

There will be no others. Not for you. Not for him.

"A bird cannot love a fish," you murmur, your voice barely carried by the wind.

Keigo flinches. His wings shudder, and a soft, wounded noise escapes the back of his throat.

"Please, don’t…" he whispers. "Not that saying again."

So you don’t.

You just stare into his golden eyes, and he stares into yours—where he finds himself lost, and where you find yourself found.

The sky above is vast and endless.

And you know you shouldn’t.

You both know you shouldn’t.

There’s too much pain here. Too much time lost.

But Keigo leans in anyway, until your noses touch, your foreheads press together, and you stay like that, frozen in something between longing and regret. 

Your hands move slowly, framing his face, nails skimming his skin just enough to make him shiver. He breathes you in, your scent hitting him like a memory too vivid to be anything but real. His favorite drug. You feel his warmth seep into you, melting the cold hollowness that has lived inside your chest for too long. You both feel it.

How could something so right feel so wrong?

As promised here is more info:

You and Keigo were once the hottest couple of the hero world—until, without warning, you filed for divorce.

The media spun the story every way they could, branding you as an opportunist, a traitor, a villain who played the long game. But Keigo? He never once spoke against you. If anything, all he’s done is defend you—both in the public eye and from it.

Now, months later, he’s supposed to be at a high-profile Valentine’s Day event, flashing that easy smile for the cameras.

Instead, he’s at your doorstep, dodging vases and sharp words from Rumi, who seems more than happy to keep him from getting too close. But Keigo’s never been one to back down. No matter how many times you evade him—setting fire to his car, disappearing behind locked doors—he keeps showing up, keeps reminding you of what once was. Because no matter how much you try to push him away, there’s one thing neither of you can deny:

You still love each other.

Your history is tangled, your wounds are still fresh and raw, but fate has a cruel sense of humor. You may no longer wear his ring, but in the eyes of the public, you’re still bound together. Keigo is still holding out hope that you don’t actually want to let him go.

And maybe you don't really want to...

~~

My master list is a work in progress but there's plenty more fic's and other characters if you request them. Ao3 is sexy too. I haven't posted the story yet because I need to Finish my Katsuki one first at least, but all the support and comments I receive help give me the motivation to finish!

You can also tip me a coffee if you want.

Remember: Comments and likes, really help. Don't be afraid to leave me a sexy little reblog too.

Stay tuned for the rest!! If you wanna be tagged, lemme know.

I promise I bite~

See you soon my loves!! <33

-Angie (✿^‿^)

I do not own My Hero Academia or its characters. However, the original plot, storylines, and any original characters in this work are my own creation. Please do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own. Respect the effort and creativity that went into this story—thank you!

CHAPTER 8: KNOW ITS FOR THE BETTER

pairing: aged up!katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

summary: After six intense years in Japan, YN LN has firmly established herself as a renowned gym owner. She's known by many pros for her charm, strength, and boxing abilities. She has a strong support system and amazing friends... her life in Japan was everything she dreamed it would be.

But everything changes one fateful night when a mysterious package appears on her doorstep. No note, no return address—just a plain box wrapped with a single pearly pink ribbon. As she unravels the contents of the box, she’s drawn into a dark, twisted mystery that seems to reach deep into her own past—a past she thought she had buried when she left her old life behind.

wc: 2.8k

warning: Violence, mentions of blood, knives/stabbing.

---

Since the night of the hero gala, you and James had thrown yourselves headfirst into the Moretti investigation. The memory of that evening—the balcony, Bakugo’s wounded expression, and his retreating figure—played on an endless loop in your mind, but you shoved it down, burying it beneath layers of work and sleepless nights.

You’d left the gala alone, and since then, Bakugo had been a ghost. He didn’t show up at the gym during your usual hours, and you hadn’t dared to reach out. You figured he needed space, and honestly, you didn’t blame him. If he hated you, you deserved it. After all, you had rejected him in the cruelest way, withholding the truth under the guise of protecting him.

Now, every waking moment was devoted to unearthing the evidence you needed to take Moretti down. You told yourself it was for justice, for closure, but deep down, you knew it was also for Bakugo. You needed to make things right. To come clean, to apologize for the lies, and maybe, just maybe, to give him a reason to forgive you.

One long, grueling night, James managed to secure access to confidential Japanese case files—likely crossing a few legal boundaries in the process, but you didn’t care. Laws and rules seemed inconsequential when the only thing that mattered was unraveling the threads of Moretti’s web.

The files contained a chilling revelation. The man with the tattoo on his wrist—the one burned into your memory—was linked to a series of brutal murders in Musutafu. Innocent women, each life stolen with a message carved into the crime scenes that only you could understand. The weight of it crushed you, the realization that these killings weren’t random. They were warnings. Moretti was taunting you, forcing you to see his reach, his cruelty, and his power.

The guilt was suffocating. Every face in those files felt like another strike against your resolve, but you couldn’t let it break you. You wouldn’t. The pain was a reminder that you were on the right path, that you had a chance to end this. And now, finally, you had something to go on.

The new information gave you a flicker of hope —a trail of locations and timestamps where Moretti’s men had been sighted. It was the first solid lead you’d had in weeks, and it was enough to rekindle the fire inside you.

Your hero costume still fits like a second skin, the all-black material hugging your body with an almost suffocating precision. The suit’s sleek fabric molds to your frame, firm and supportive—like it’s designed just for you, like it was made to measure. You had always admired the way the costume looked, and now, years later, your vision seemed to reflect everything you had become: strong, sleek, and dangerous. The mask that covered your face didn’t leave much for anyone to see, except your eyes—piercing, determined eyes that told anyone in your path exactly who they were dealing with.

It’s been six long years since you last wore it. Six years of training, of staying hidden, of learning to control a power so dangerous you feared it more than anything. But tonight, slipping into the familiar black fabric and feeling it stretch over your body, you couldn’t help but feel that rush of energy surge through your veins. It never got old. The suit felt like home, like a part of you, and the weight of the mask reminded you of everything you had fought to become—and everything you had left behind.

As you pull on the gloves, the cool metal of your utility belt clicks against the fabric. You can’t help but admire the intricate stitching that runs along your waist, the design perfect down to the finest detail. The fabric is laced with minerals, rare and strong, designed to help control your quirk. The quirk that you never fully trusted.

Your quirk, gravity manipulation, gives you the power to shift and bend forces of weight, to manipulate objects, people, and even entire structures. It’s the kind of power that could move mountains or level them, depending on your emotions. When you’re calm, you have control—but when you’re upset, when anger and fear take hold, your quirk becomes a ticking time bomb, ready to explode. That’s what happened the night you blacked out and woke up with a bleeding head, unable to recall anything.

Training has made you cautious, teaching you to keep your emotions in check. Years of discipline and self-control have allowed you to control it, but you always feared that if you lost that control, everything would come crashing down. But tonight, you hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Tonight, you needed to keep your head.

After weeks of silence, you’d received a tip—a whisper on an old, secured landline that one of Moretti’s men would be at a bar tonight. The man was important, connected, and you needed to know where Moretti was. So you and James decided to follow the lead. He had urged you to involve the pros again, but you quickly shut that down. 

The car in the alleyway feels like a cage, your hands gripping the leather seats as you watch the shadows stretch across the pavement. The waiting game never gets easier. It gnaws at you, especially tonight, knowing that the man you’re hunting could be anywhere. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, the thought of confronting a ghost from your past, churning your stomach.

“How long have we been sitting here?” James asks from the passenger seat, his voice low but edged with a hint of impatience. His eyes flicker toward the bar’s entrance.

“Two hours,” you answer, your voice steady but the tension in your muscles betraying you. You’re not letting your nerves show, but inside, you feel like a coil ready to snap. “He won’t leave yet. We haven’t missed him.”

James glances at you, clearly unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? I can go with you.”

“No,” you say sharply, the word final. “I’ve got this.”

You stare at the bar’s entrance, your eyes narrowing. Isaac. The name rolls off your tongue like poison. Isaac, blonde-haired, with the face of a man who has seen too much. He was Moretti’s right hand for years, and you knew him all too well. His cold, calculating eyes never missed a thing, and his loyalty to Moretti was only rivaled by his ruthlessness.

Your instincts tingle. He’s here. You can feel it. A subtle weight in the air, the tension building in your bones. It’s like a sixth sense, honed from years of practice. You don’t know how you know, but you trust it.

Then, like clockwork, he steps out from the bar, his sharp profile cutting through the neon lights. He stands on the sidewalk for a moment, glancing around before shouting for a taxi.

Your heart pounds. This is it.

Without a word, you unlock the car door and slide out, ignoring James’s muttered warning. “YN, stop! Stay in the car!” His voice is laced with concern, but you don’t hear him. You’re already striding toward Isaac, your body moving with purpose.

Isaac doesn’t notice you at first, too busy fidgeting with his phone, but as soon as he slides into the cab, you’re there. You don’t hesitate. You pull open the door, stepping into the cab with a practiced fluidity that only someone like you can manage.

“Hey, this is my cab!” Isaac barks, but you don’t flinch.

You glance at the driver, your expression cold and unwavering. “We’re sharing,” you say smoothly, tossing a few bills into the front seat. “Take me up the block. Doesn’t matter where.”

The driver, clearly unbothered by the tense atmosphere, nods and shifts the car into drive. Isaac remains blissfully unaware, but that doesn’t last for long. You slide a knife from your belt, its cold steel glinting under the low lights.

“Say one word, and I’ll put this knife through your crotch,” you murmur, your voice laced with venom as you hold a knife to him. 

Isaac freezes, his gaze finally snapping to you. His eyes widen and the realization slowly dawns on him. Recognition flickers in his pupils, and you see the hate burn brighter.

“I always knew you were a crazy bitch.” Isaac hisses, his voice trembling with anger and fear.

“Yeah?” you reply, “well I’m about to get crazier.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but you’re faster. With a swift movement, you grab his chin and force him to look at you. You see the fire in his eyes, the stubborn defiance, but it won’t save him.

“Tell me where Moretti is,” you demand, your tone chilling. “Or I swear, I’ll cut you open right here.”

Isaac snarls. “Fuck you.”

“Okay” Taking the knife you pull it away and plunge it into his thigh, being careful to cover his mouth. 

“Tell me, Isaac,” you growl, “Or is that man-crush of yours so strong you’re willing to lose your dick over it?”

Isaac’s jaw clenches, his eyes flickering with defiance. “You want to know where Moretti is? Find him yourself. I don’t work for him anymore.”

“Bullshit.” You twist the blade deeper into his leg.

“Now fucking tell me, or I’ll send Moretti a gift next,” you hiss, your voice dripping with venom.

Isaac’s muffled whimpers are all you hear as you give him one last warning.

“Fine!” he gasps, “He’s staying at the Musutafu motel, on the outskirts of the city.”

“If you’re lying to me,” you warn, “I will kill you.”

He’s sweating now, breathing hard, his face pale as a ghost.

The cab pulls to a stop, and you yank the knife out of his leg, leaving a pool of blood behind. The driver, still unaware of the tension in the backseat, waits for your next command.

You exit without another word, tossing a few more bills toward the driver before slamming the door behind you. As the car pulls away, you spot a black SUV pulling up beside you. You don’t need to look twice to know who’s behind the wheel.

“Well?” Tucker asks, his voice steady but with an edge of impatience.

“He’s at the Musutafu motel,” you reply, your voice curt and emotionless. You slide into the car, the bloody knife still clutched in your hand.

Tucker notices the weapon, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Don’t ask,” you mutter, slumping back into the seat. “Just drive.”

---

The crime rates had doubled in the past two weeks, ever since word of a serial killer leaked to the public. The Hero Committee had tried their best to keep the case under wraps, but someone in the department had let the information slip.

With the city spiraling into panic, the pro-heroes were stretched thin. So focused on this case, they’d nearly lost sight of everything else unraveling around them.

“Shoto, any updates on James Tucker?” Deku asked, standing at the head of the conference table. His fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose, the telltale sign of an impending headache.

“Not yet,” Todoroki replied, flipping through a folder of old files. “The only intel I’ve managed to pull are outdated case records and images. If Tucker’s gone into hiding, it’s clear he doesn’t want to be found.”

“Why the hell would he be in hiding?” Bakugo snapped, slamming his hands against the table as he rose from his seat. Weeks of fruitless effort were taking their toll, and the tension in the room was palpable.

Bakugo had been more frustrated than usual lately, and everyone unlucky enough to cross his path could feel the searing heat of his anger. His temper, usually sharp and explosive, seemed to have an added edge now, as though something was festering beneath the surface. The smallest inconveniences sent him into a spiral of irritation—training dummies obliterated into smoldering debris, doors slammed with enough force to rattle the entire building, and curt, venom-laced words that made even his closest friends keep their distance.

At the agency, he barked orders more than usual, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. Kirishima, ever the peacemaker, tried to crack a joke to lighten the mood, but Bakugo’s glare silenced him before the words could fully leave his mouth. Mina would whisper to Sero, “What crawled up his ass and died?” only to quickly clam up when Bakugo’s piercing crimson eyes flicked their way.

It wasn’t just work either—his frustrations followed him home. The gym became a battleground, weights clanging loudly as he threw himself into his workouts with a reckless intensity. The punching bag in the corner stood no chance, shredded after one particularly heated session. Yet no matter how much he pushed his body to its limits, the tension inside him never seemed to dissipate.

The truth was, Bakugo wasn’t just angry. He was hurt. And the wound festered deeper than he was willing to admit.

He hadn’t seen you since that night at the gala. Since you’d looked at him with those beautiful, unreadable eyes and told him—what, exactly? That he didn’t matter? That you didn’t feel the same way? It didn’t make sense. The way you looked at him didn’t match the words you said. The way your voice trembled, the way you avoided his gaze—it was like you were running from something. But what?

The questions plagued him, chasing him into his restless nights. He hated not having answers, hated how powerless he felt, hated how much space you were taking up in his head. Damn you. Damn your stupid, gorgeous face and your laugh and the way you felt so perfect next to him that night.

But more than anything, he hated the gnawing feeling in his chest. The one that whispered he might have lost you for good.

“Actually, Kacchan,” Deku interjected, sliding a photograph across the table toward him. “I might have something.”

Bakugo picked up the image, his crimson eyes narrowing as he examined it. The picture showed a young girl, no older than eight, with wide, curious eyes and a small, cautious smile.

“That’s Anthony Moretti’s daughter,” Deku explained. “We found her in an adoption database. She’s here in Japan.”

Bakugo’s eyes lingered on the photograph, his brow furrowing. There was something about the girl that tugged at his memory.

“I’ve seen her before,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

“What? Where?” Deku asked, leaning forward.

“At the gym,” Bakugo replied, placing the photo back on the table. “Y/N is her boxing coach.”

The revelation sent a ripple of unease through the room.

“Who put her up for adoption?” Todoroki asked, breaking the silence.

“It’s anonymous. Adoption records don’t disclose that information,” Deku replied.

“How old was she when she was adopted?”

“She couldn’t have been older than two,” Deku said, flipping through his notes.

“Six years ago,” Bakugo muttered, piecing things together. “Right after Moretti was arrested.” He looked up, his gaze sharp. “What about her mom?”

“There’s no record of a mother,” Deku answered, his tone heavy.

“Dammit,” Bakugo growled, his frustration mounting. “We need to find Tucker. He’s the key to this.”

Todoroki chimed in, hesitant. “Maybe... maybe Y/N knows something about the girl. She might be able to help.”

“No,” Bakugo barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not dragging her into this, and I sure as hell ain’t questioning a kid.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the situation pressing down on them. Time was running out, and with every passing moment, the lines between their responsibilities and their morals blurred further.

“I’ll find Tucker myself if I have to. Got a photo, Icy Hot?” Bakugo demanded, his tone sharp with determination.

Todoroki flipped through his folder without hesitation, pulling out a slightly worn photograph of James Tucker and handing it to him.

Bakugo’s grip tightened around the photo as he stared at it, his blood running cold. His entire stance stiffened, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

He knew this man.

The realization hit him like a freight train, his mind reeling. He’d seen Tucker before—seen him with you.

Everything started falling into place, the fragmented pieces of the puzzle forming a picture that Bakugo could no longer ignore. The explosion. Moretti’s daughter. Tucker. You.

The timeline fit too perfectly to be a coincidence.

Bakugo’s jaw clenched, his crimson eyes narrowing as his thoughts raced. You were connected to Moretti—there was no doubt about that now. But how?

---

TAGLIST: @emmaafinchh @faetoraa @iissza @theasgardianmexican

Asking for permission

"Can I hold your hand?"

"Is it okay to kiss you?"

"Can I hug you?"

"Can I call you later?"

"Is it okay if I sleep here tonight?"

"Can I touch your hair?"

"I would love to spoil you, can I do this for you?"

"Can I tell people about us?"

"Would you allow me to walk you home?"

"Is it okay to randomly text you?"

"Can I take a picture of you?"

"Can I use a picture of you as my background?"

"Is it okay if we cuddled while watching the movie?"

"Would you let me take care of this for you?"

"Are you okay with me calling you my girl/boyfriend?"

holy moly guacamole

Can you write a katsuki x female reader where she walks into katsuki masturbating on her picture. Because he has a crush on her.

The Act

You had no idea what you were about to walk into.

You had knocked twice—once, twice—just like always before entering Bakugo’s dorm room, but this time, he hadn’t shouted his usual “What?!” or “The hell do you want?” back at you. Weird. Katsuki was never the type to ignore knocks. If anything, he was usually quick to bark at whoever disturbed him.

So, naturally, you assumed he wasn’t inside.

And naturally, you made a mistake.

You pushed the door open, stepping inside, only to freeze in place at the sight before you.

Katsuki was sprawled out on his bed, legs spread, sweatpants pushed down just enough to reveal his hand wrapped around his cock. His face was flushed, lips slightly parted as deep, heavy breaths left his mouth. But what made your stomach twist and your heart pound violently against your ribcage—was the picture he was holding in his free hand.

Your picture.

A Polaroid from a few days ago when Mina had forced you into a cute pose during a game night. You remembered rolling your eyes at her, laughing, completely unaware that Bakugo had kept that picture. And now…

Your breath hitched.

The second Katsuki noticed the shift in air, his red eyes snapped open. The moment his gaze locked onto yours, everything stopped.

Time slowed.

His brain short-circuited.

“…Oh, fuck.”

His entire body went stiff. His grip on himself loosened as panic overtook his expression. His face, already red from exertion, somehow darkened into a deep crimson.

You were still standing there, mouth parted, eyes flickering between his face and the picture—his damn hand still barely gripping his length.

“Shit—get the fuck out!” he roared, scrambling to cover himself, the picture slipping from his grasp onto the bed.

You should move. You should leave. You should do something.

But you couldn’t.

Because this meant—

“You…” Your voice came out shakier than you wanted. “You…like me?”

Katsuki looked like he wanted to kill himself right there. His hand shot out to snatch the picture, shoving it under his pillow as if that would erase what just happened. “Fuckin’—goddamn it—” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just get out.”

You didn’t. Instead, you took a hesitant step forward. “Katsuki…”

“Don’t.” His voice was hoarse. “Don’t say my name like that right now.”

Your stomach flipped.

You knew Bakugo. You knew him well enough to understand that this wasn’t just some horny moment he got caught in. This wasn’t about lust—at least, not just that. He wouldn’t be this mortified if it wasn’t deeper than that.

“You idiot,” you whispered, heart hammering. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He exhaled sharply, fingers digging into his sheets, still refusing to look at you. “Because it’s fuckin’ embarrassing, alright? I didn’t want you to know—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “Didn’t wanna scare you off.”

Your lips parted slightly.

Katsuki Bakugo, the guy who never hesitated to say what was on his mind, the guy who had zero filter and always spoke his truth—was scared to confess to you?

That realization sent warmth flooding through your chest.

And then, because you were feeling bold—or maybe because you wanted to see just how far you could push him—you took another step closer.

“Would it really scare me off,” you murmured, tilting your head, “if I liked you too?”

His eyes snapped open.

Shock flickered through his face before something darker took over.

“…You’re shitting me.” His voice was low, dangerous.

You shook your head. “I’m not.”

A tense silence stretched between you two. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to find any hint of a lie. But all he found was the truth.

His fingers twitched.

“…Then get over here.”

And just like that, the air turned thick.

Would you obey? Or would you tease him just a little more?

Your heart pounded.

Katsuki’s grip on your wrist was firm—almost bruising—as he yanked you forward, pulling you onto his lap before you could even think to resist. His breath was ragged, hot against your skin, and his hands wasted no time, gripping your hips tight enough to leave marks.

“You don’t get to say shit like that and not fuckin’ mean it,” he growled, voice thick with frustration and something darker—something desperate. “So if you’re playin’ with me, you better get the fuck out now.”

But you weren’t.

You weren’t playing.

You wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch. “I’m not,” you whispered, looking him straight in the eye. “I meant it.”

Something in him snapped.

With a rough exhale, his hands slid up, gripping the back of your neck as he crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was messy, all tongue and teeth, pure hunger consuming him as if he’d been holding himself back for too damn long.

You gasped against his mouth, and that sound—fuck, that sound—made him lose what little restraint he had left.

His hands found the hem of your skirt, hiking it up impatiently, fingers digging into your bare thighs before pushing between them, spreading you open.

“Katsuki—”

“Shut up,” he groaned, voice strained as his fingers found the damp fabric of your panties. “Fuckin’—look at you,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours as his fingers traced the wet spot. “You like this, huh? Catchin’ me like that? Knowin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about you every damn night?”

Your face burned, but you couldn’t deny it. You nodded, lips parted as you struggled to breathe.

His jaw clenched, pupils blown wide as he pushed your panties aside with two fingers. The sudden rush of cool air against your slick folds made you shiver.

“Shit,” he hissed, running his fingers along your slit, feeling just how wet you were for him. His head fell back against the headboard, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before snapping open, locking onto you with a look that made your stomach flip. “You’re so fuckin’ wet.”

Your thighs clenched around his hand instinctively, but his free hand gripped your hip hard, keeping you spread for him.

“Nuh-uh,” he muttered darkly, voice rough. “Lemme feel you.”

And then, without warning, he pushed two fingers inside you.

A broken moan left your lips, back arching as his thick fingers stretched you open. He groaned at the feeling, at how warm and tight you were around him, at the way your body reacted so perfectly to his touch.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, curling his fingers just right, watching your face contort in pleasure. “You’re squeezin’ me so damn good.”

You were panting, gripping his shoulders for support as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, each thrust rough and desperate, as if he needed to memorize the way you felt around him.

And when he pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing harsh circles, your whole body jerked in his grasp.

“Gonna make you cum on my fingers,” he muttered, lips brushing against your jaw, trailing down to your neck where he nipped at your skin. “Then I’m gonna fuck you so good you won’t ever think about another damn guy again.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach, and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, like he was ready to ruin you completely—sent you tumbling over the edge.

Your orgasm hit hard, your walls pulsing around his fingers as a choked moan ripped from your throat. Katsuki cursed under his breath, watching you fall apart for him, feeling your arousal coat his hand.

“Good girl,” he murmured, slowing his movements as he helped you ride out your high. “That’s it. Fuckin’ perfect.”

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Because the second you caught your breath, he was already undoing his sweats, freeing his cock from his boxers, and positioning you over him.

“You ready for me?” he asked, voice thick with need, rubbing his tip against your still-sensitive entrance.

And with a shaky breath, you nodded.

“Yes.”

His grip on your hips tightened.

And then he slammed you down onto his cock.

Your head fell back with a sharp gasp as Katsuki stretched you open, bottoming out in one deep, unforgiving thrust. The sheer size of him sent a shudder through your body, your nails clawing at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself.

“Fuck,” he growled, his head dropping against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged. His fingers dug into your hips, keeping you still as he throbbed inside you, struggling to keep himself from fucking up into you like a madman. “You’re so—shit, you’re tight.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling on either side of his as your walls fluttered around him, trying to adjust to the stretch.

Katsuki sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body tensed. “Don’t do that.”

“D-Do what?” you managed to stammer.

His hands slid down to your ass, gripping the flesh roughly. “Squeezin’ me like that,” he gritted out, voice thick with restraint. “Or I’ll fuckin’ lose it.”

You bit your lip, loving the way his body was trembling beneath you, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His self-control was hanging by a thread, and you could snap it so easily.

So you rolled your hips.

Katsuki let out a guttural moan, head snapping up, eyes burning with something wild. His grip on you tightened—then, without warning, he lifted you up only to slam you back down onto his cock.

A cry tore from your lips, but he didn’t give you a second to adjust.

“Fuckin’ minx,” he growled, setting a brutal pace, using his grip on your hips to bounce you on his cock. The lewd, wet sounds of your bodies colliding filled the air, mixing with his ragged curses and your breathless moans.

He was relentless. Desperate. Like he had been starving for this, for you.

“Fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, watching the way you took him so perfectly, watching the way your body moved against him. His cock throbbed inside you, hitting that spot that made you cry out every time. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

Your legs were trembling, your body burning from the intensity of it all. He was everywhere—his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your neck, his cock buried deep inside you.

“Katsuki—”

“I got you, baby,” he murmured, his voice softer for just a second before he slammed you down even harder, knocking the breath from your lungs. “I got you.”

The coil in your stomach was winding impossibly tight, your body overwhelmed by the pleasure. Your nails raked down his back, your moans turning high and needy.

Katsuki groaned at the feeling. “Shit—gonna cum, aren’t you?”

You nodded frantically, barely able to speak, barely able to think past the feeling of him wrecking you completely.

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a messy kiss, swallowing your cries as he fucked you through the intensity of your orgasm.

“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice rough against your lips. “Wanna feel you fuckin’ fall apart on me.”

That was all it took.

Your vision blurred as pleasure crashed over you, your walls clenching around him as you came hard, your whole body shaking from the force of it.

Katsuki cursed loudly, his thrusts turning erratic.

“Fuck—fuck—” He gripped you tighter, holding you down as he buried himself deep, his cock twitching before spilling inside you with a rough groan. His body shuddered, fingers gripping your flesh almost painfully as he emptied himself inside you, breath hot against your neck.

For a moment, the only sound was your heavy breathing, the warmth of his body pressing against yours as you both tried to recover.

Then, Katsuki let out a low chuckle, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You’re fuckin’ mine now, got it?”

our love through the lives

reincarnated bakugou katsuki x reader

the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was steady but weak, a fragile hourglass marking the dwindling moments of his life. the evening light spilled through the blinds in soft, golden slants, illuminating the deep lines etched into his weathered face. his once wild blonde hair had thinned and turned silver with time, but his grip- though weak- was still warm in your hand.

a news broadcast played on the small television mounted in the corner, the words barely registering.

“retired pro hero dynamight has not been seen in public for weeks, sparking concern among-”

you barely heard the rest. it didn’t matter. the world could wait.

katsuki let out a slow exhale, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin hospital blanket. his crimson eyes, once blazing with untamed energy, now carried the weight of decades, softened by time but still sharp as they met yours. a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips- fainter than before, but still undeniably his.

“you’re starin’ at me like i’m already dead,” he muttered, his voice rough with age but tinged with dry amusement.

you huffed a quiet laugh, squeezing his hand, the cool metal of his wedding band felt beneath your fingers. “maybe i’m just admiring you, old man.”

his thumb brushed faintly over your knuckles. he sighed, eyes growing heavier. “never thought i’d get this far, y’know? always figured i’d go out with a bang.”

“you did,” you murmured, shifting closer. “you just took your time with it.”

his smirk widened, but only slightly. his hand tightened around yours, as if grounding himself in your presence. “guess i did…” his voice grew softer, barely above a whisper. “and i got to spend it with you. that’s all that ever mattered.”

his hand, once strong enough to tear through concrete, now rested in yours with a fragile kind of warmth. the years had stolen his strength but not his fire- not the stubborn, unyielding spirit that had burned so brightly through every battle, every hardship, every damn thing life threw at him.

he had survived it all. and now, here he was, at the very end of the road with you.

katsuki let out a slow breath, his eyes half-lidded but still gazing at you, as if afraid to blink. “you’re still here,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

your fingers tightened around his, anchoring him to the moment. “of course, always will be.”

“dumbass… ‘course you are.” his eyes drifted to the window, where the sun hung low, painting the sky in soft oranges and golds. “y’know… i always hated sunsets. meant the day was over. meant time was runnin’ out.”

your throat tightened. “katsuki-”

“but,” he cut in, his thumb once again brushing lazily over your skin, “you liked ‘em. so i started watching ‘em too.” his voice grew quieter, raspier. “guess they ain’t so bad.”

you blinked back the sting of tears. you wouldn’t cry. not yet. not when he was still here, still holding on.

“you always had to be difficult,” you murmured, forcing a small smile.

he let out a soft, breathy chuckle. “yeah… but you loved me anyway.”

the words settled between you, warm and final.

the heart monitor beeped- steady, but slower. his fingers twitched in your grasp, his breaths growing shallow. his gaze softened, his body sinking further into the bed, into the pull of sleep that he wouldn’t wake from.

“katsuki,” you whispered, leaning in close, pressing your forehead to his. “i love you.”

his lips parted slightly, his next breath barely there. “love you too.” his voice was nothing but air, slipping through your fingers like the last rays of sunlight.

and then-

the monitor gave one last, drawn-out beep before falling silent.

the world outside kept moving. the news kept playing. the sun kept setting. but in this moment, in this room, time stood still.

you stayed there, holding his hand. as the sky faded to night.

because love like this- like yours- didn’t end.

not really.

it would find it’s way back again. it always did.

—

the sun hung high in the sky, casting golden light over the endless grassy plain. the wind rolled through the tall grass in gentle waves, carrying the scent of earth and wildflowers. you had been walking for hours, wandering. the weight of countless lifetimes pressed against your chest, when you spotted him.

a lone figure moved across the horizon, his silhouette cutting sharply across the distance.

even from a distance, you knew.

bakugou katsuki.

your breath caught. he was different in this life- wilder, untamed. his blonde hair was slightly longer, messily tousled by the wind. a crimson cloak was slung over his shoulders, multiple necklaces consisting of fangs hung from his neck. his furs and leathers were worn from battle, dusted with the remnants of his travels. a sword hung at his hip, his posture relaxed yet ready, like a predator always on edge.

he hadn’t seen you yet.

you should’ve kept walking. should’ve turned away before he noticed. but after waiting for so long, of remembering what he has forgotten- how could you?

and then his gaze snapped to you.

you barely had time to think before he was striding toward you, footsteps firm and unwavering. his crimson eyes burned with suspicion, scanning you like a threat.

“the hell are you doin’ out here?” his voice was rough, sandpaper and steel- just as you remembered.

you swallowed, steadying yourself. “i’m just a traveler.”

his scowl deepened. “tch. yeah? then you’re a dumbass traveler.” his gaze flicked over you, sharp and assessing. “ain’t safe out here. bandits, beasts- you’re either lost or stupid.”

you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

a dry, bitter laugh almost slipped from your lips. if only he knew how many lives you had spent trying to find him again.

but he didn’t. not yet.

you met his gaze, steady. “i can handle myself.”

he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “that so?” a smirk ghosted over his lips, dangerous and intrigued. “doubt you can keep up.”

and just like that, you were whisked away into your next adventure with your beloved. the journey that followed was nothing short of relentless.

at first, bakugou had no intention of letting you travel with him. he was a warrior, a king, and he didn’t have time to babysit some wandering traveler who didn’t know better than to walk alone through dangerous lands. but you were persistent, keeping up with him despite the grueling pace he set. he tried to shake you off, throwing warnings over his shoulder about the beasts that lurked in the forests and the mercenaries who would gut you for a single gold piece. you didn’t waver.

and so, begrudgingly, he let you stay.

your journey took you across endless grasslands and through thick, mist-covered woods. you met many people, most of which resembled your friends from previous lifetimes. a short, green-haired boy who was devoted to his knightly training. a sweet mage who used her powers to heal and make things float, a prince who could control ice and fire.

you camped beneath starlit skies, listening to the distant howls of wolves while the fire crackled between you. bakugou was guarded at first- gruff and distant, keeping conversations short, always watching you like you were hiding something.

but with time, the walls between you began to crack.

there was the time when you fought side by side against a pack of beasts, creatures with blackened fangs and glowing eyes. he had been wary of your skill, but when he saw you hold your own, his usual scowl shifted- just slightly- into something like approval.

then there was the moment you caught him staring into the fire one night, lost in thought. he never spoke of his past, but there was something in that expression that was painfully familiar- the weight of expectations, the burden of leadership. even without his memories of your past lives, he was still the same katsuki.

and slowly, something changed.

he started waiting for you before setting off in the mornings. tossing you extra rations without a word. grumbling about how you were too soft-hearted when you insisted on helping a lost child in a ruined village, only to turn around and build the kid a fire himself.

and when you collapsed after days of travel without rest, he had cursed under his breath, scooping you up into his arms without hesitation.

“dumbass,” he muttered, adjusting his arm around you as he carried you, his grip firm and warm against your skin. “you don’t know when to quit, huh?” but his voice was softer now, no longer the harsh growl it used to be.

you found yourself looking at him differently. his gruff demeanor, the way he carried himself like a lone wolf had always intrigued you, but now it felt different- like the walls between you were slowly crumbling with every shared glance, every quiet night spent together.

one afternoon, as you traveled through the thick and dark forest at the edge of a kingdom, you were ambushed by a group of bandits. they came from the trees, their swords drawn, but bakugou was ready.

with a roar, he lunged into action, taking down the first two with brutal efficiency that you had come to expect from him. but then, one of the bandits turned toward you, his blade aimed at your chest. you barely had time to react, your own sword drawn, but before you could strike, bakugou was there- his fist slamming into the bandit’s face with a force that sent him flying into a tree.

“you okay?” his voice was low, the familiar scowl back on his face, but there was something else in his eyes- something deeper, protective.

“i’m fine, thank you,” you said, though your pulse still raced. “but you’re reckless.”

that night, as you sat beside the fire, you couldn’t help but notice how close he had gotten. not just physically, but emotionally. the long silences that had once stretched were now filled with casual teasing, shared laughter, and the occasional quiet conversation that stretched into the night.

he started to ask you more about your past, though never prying too deep. when you mentioned your travels, he listened intently, his usual bravado replaced by something softer, more curious.

one evening, you found yourselves at the edge of a cliff, watching the sunset paint the sky in streaks of orange and purple. bakugou stood next to you, arms crossed, but this time, he didn’t seem so distant.

“you ever stop to think about what you’re doing here?” he asked, his voice quiet.

you glanced to him, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. “what do you mean?”

“i mean… why are you still here? with me, i mean. not everyone’s cut out for this kind of life. it’s not easy.” he shifted slightly, his gaze faraway.

you smiled softly, the memories of your past life flickering at the edges of your thoughts. “i think i’m exactly where i need to be.”

his eyes flickered to you, narrowing slightly as though trying to decipher your meaning. but then, without a word, he reached over, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

you froze, feeling the connection between you stir once more, and you didn’t pull away. neither of you said anything, but in that quiet moment, it felt like the world had shifted.

and with every passing day, the distance between you- the one he had built, the one you had tried so hard to bridge- was slowly disappearing.

he had started to remember, in the smallest ways.

you were sitting by the fire, cleaning your sword after another skirmish with a band of raiders. bakugou was sharpening his blade beside you, his usual scowl etched across his face, but there was something different in his eyes- something far away.

“oi,” he muttered, breaking the silence. “you ever feel like… like this isn’t the first time we’ve done this?”

you paused mid-motion, your fingers tightening around the hilt of your sword. you glanced up at him, trying to hide the flutter of your heart.

“what do you mean?” you asked, though you already knew.

He shifted. “i dunno. it’s just… every time we fight together, or when we get quiet like this, it feels… familiar. like i’ve known ya longer than the past year.”

you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. “maybe you just got used to traveling with me.”

but deep down, you knew the truth.

it wasn’t just the time he had spent with you. it was something deeper- something he was starting to sense, like the lingering pull of a forgotten memory.

a few days passed, and the feeling seemed to grow stronger. every so often, you’d catch him staring at you, like he was seeing something more than just the person beside him. one evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, bakugou spoke, his voice unusually quiet. his eyes were narrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line as if he were grappling with something just beyond his reach. “i’ve seen you before… but where?”

that night, as you both lay beneath the stars, the fire crackling softly, bakugou’s sleep was fitful. he tossed and turned, his brow furrowed in frustration.

when he woke the next morning, he didn’t immediately look at you. he sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“i had a dream,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “a dream about… us. it felt real. like we’ve been through so many things together before.”

your heart raced. you remained still, waiting for him to continue.

“it wasn’t just some damn dream. it was real. i don’t remember everything, but i know… i know i’ve been with you before, haven’t i?”

you could feel the weight of his words, the hesitation, the confusion in his voice. and yet, despite the uncertainty, there was something else- something that made you know that he was starting to remember.

for the first time since meeting him in this life, you reached out, placing a hand gently on his arm. his muscles tensed at your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“yes,” you said softly, your voice trembling with emotion. “we’ve been together before. more times than either of us can count.”

bakugou turned to face you then, his eyes wide and the usual fire dimming in them for a moment. “why can’t i remember? why does it feel like i’m losing my mind?”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, reaching out to cup his face in your hands. “maybe it’s not time for you to remember completely yet. but it will be, eventually. i promise.”

for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. he simply stared at you, as if searching for something in your eyes- something that would make sense of the chaos inside of him.

and then, without a word, he leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was tentative at first, unsure. but as you kissed him back, something shifted. the connection between you, long buried beneath layers of forgotten lives, began to resurface, like a flood of memories fighting to break free.

when he pulled back, his breath was uneven, and his hands trembled slightly as they hovered at your sides.

“i remember you,” he whispered, his voice raw. “i remember you… even if i can’t remember everything.”

you smiled, feeling the weight of years of love and loss that led to this moment. “it’s okay. you don’t have to remember everything right now. we have all the time we need.”

years passed, and the world around you both seemed to change, even though the battles and struggles never truly stopped. the two of you, side by side, had seen countless faces come and go, witnessed victories and losses alike.

the bond between you and bakugou had only deepened, but time, as it always did, wore on. you both had grown, in ways both subtle and grand, shaped by everything you’d endured together. bakugou was still the warrior he had always been, strong and fierce, but the fire that once burned so brightly within him was now tempered by the passing of the years.

one evening, as the sky painted itself in shades of pink and purple, you stood together at the edge of the very same cliff from years ago, overlooking a valley. the winds had settled, and there was nothing but the hum of the earth, as if everything had come full circle. bakugou stood beside you, his posture strong, but the weight of the years was beginning to show.

“do you ever think… that maybe we’re finally done with all of this?” he asked, his voice quiet but carrying the years of uncertainty and battles fought. his gaze was distant, looking at the horizon, but his words were for you alone.

you took a deep breath, feeling the wind sweep across your face, tasting the salt of the distant sea. “maybe. but i think we’ll always find something else. something worth fighting for.”

he chuckled softly, though it was laced with an edge of something unreadable. “always you, huh?” he muttered under his breath.

you smiled softly, turning to face him. “always you, too.”

and so, you and the barbarian king looked out across the vast horizon, and you knew that although this life might be winding down, the end of this era was just another beginning waiting to unfold.

—

the blaring sun in the sky casted it’s golden glow over the vast expanse of the ocean as your ship sliced through the waves. your crew worked in rhythm, their shouts and laughter carried by the salty breeze as they adjusted sails and checked the rigging. you stood at the helm, your fingers gripping the wheel with practiced ease, eyes scanning the horizon.

you’d been sailing for days now, the winds favorable and the sea calm. it wasn’t until the sun dipped lower that you saw it. a ripple in the water, far off in the distance but growing closer. at first, you thought it was perhaps some large fish breaching the surface. but then, you saw him.

a flash of pale golden hair broke through the waves, followed by the sleek and powerful form of a merman. he was a striking contrast to the dark water, with glistening crimson scales that shimmered like polished gemstones. his tail flicked in the sea, the sharp movement sending waves against the ship’s hull.

but it wasn’t the sheer power of the creature that caught your attention. it was the way he moved, the way he looked at you. his eyes locked onto yours, and your heart swelled knowing that you had finally come across your love yet again in this life. your katsuki.

the merman’s lips curled into a smirk as he swam closer, the water parting as if he owned the sea himself. his muscular form stopped just short of the ship, hovering in the water as he regarded you with a mix of curiosity and challenge.

“so you’re the captain of the crimson tempest, huh?” his voice was deep and rough, carrying the weight of the ocean itself. he eyed you with a critical gaze. “i’ve been hearing rumors about ya. thought i’d come see for myself.”

you felt the familiar rush of recognition, but you knew better than to show too much. he didn’t remember yet- as usual. the bond between you that transcended time, that only you knew, was still buried deep within him. but here, in this new life, you had to tread carefully.

you leaned against the ship’s wheel, matching his gaze with calm confidence, despite the racing pulse in your chest. “what’s it to you, merman?” you asked, keeping your voice steady despite the longing that you felt deep inside. “i don’t know what rumors you’ve heard, but they’re just that- rumors.”

he didn’t falter, though something flickered in his intense red eyes. it was there, something beneath the surface that he couldn’t quite grasp, but you could feel it. you could always feel it when he was near.

“you don’t look like the kind of captain i’d expect,” he said, his smirk widening into something dangerous. “but i guess you don’t need to look the part to be effective, right?”

you chuckled darkly, a small smirk of your own pulling at your lips. “i’m plenty effective, merman. you’d do well to remember that.”

you saw a flicker of recognition, a glimmer of something you both had shared before. but it vanished quickly, swallowed by the vastness of the sea between you.

“maybe i will,” he muttered, though the words seemed to hold a different meaning. his lips parted, as if to say more, but instead, he just gave you a short nod.

then, without another word, bakugou dove beneath the water, his powerful form disappearing into the depths, leaving only the gentle ripples of the sea in his wake.

a few days later, you steered the crimson tempest into a small, sheltered cove. the crew had already begun preparations to unload. the ship finally came to a halt against the dock, and after doing your part of the unloading you made your way off the ship and onto the sandy beach of the cove.

and then you heard the sound of water splashing, too rhythmic to be a simple wave. your instincts kicked in and you turned just in time to see a flash of pale blonde hair rising from the water’s surface.

his presence was commanding as usual, and for the briefest of moments, you forgot about all of your responsibilities as captain. all that mattered was him- the katsuki you had fallen in love with over and over again.

he pulled himself onto a nearby rock, water dripping off his body. his gaze never left you, intense and unreadable. the usual cocky smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and you could feel the pull of his presence like an invisible thread between you both.

“you seem to be everywhere i go, captain,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “figured i’d find you here too.”

you couldn’t help but smile at his words, but beneath the teasing tone, there was something more- an underlying tension, an unspoken understanding that had been brewing ever since your first meeting. it was as if he was beginning to recognize something too, even if he didn’t have the words for it yet. even if he didn’t remember.

“you’ve been following me,” you replied, your voice calm but with a hint of amusement. “what is it you want, merman?”

“what i want?” he let out a low chuckle, his voice like the rolling waves. “i’m not sure yet. maybe i just like seeing if i can catch your attention.”

“well,” you said, your tone steady but not without a trace of amusement, “it looks like you’ve caught it.” you will always have it.

you took a step closer, the air between you crackling with an undeniable tension, as if the universe itself were drawing you together again. the warmth of the sun on your skin and the distant sound of your crew working on the ship felt like a distant hum compared to the pulse of energy between you and the merman. it was magnetic, powerful, and for a brief moment, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

he studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way he held your gaze that made your heart race. “you’re different,” he said finally, his voice almost quiet. “can’t put my finger on it.”

you almost laughed at the irony, knowing all too well what that something was. you weren’t just another face to him. you were the one he had always come back to, again and again, in every lifetime.

“i think we’ll figure it out,” you replied softly, the undertone of promise hanging in the air.

and then, as if he had just come to a silent conclusion, his smirk returned, but this time it wasn’t teasing. it was real. a promise.

“alright then, captain” he said, his voice low and steady. “i think i’ll stick around. for a while.”

and so, the tide carried on, as it always had, bringing you together once more, just as it always would.

—

the city stretched out before you like a jagged labyrinth of glowing neon signs and towering skyscrapers, the horizon obscured by the haze of pollution and constant movement. neo-musutafu, a city that never slept, pulsed with the rhythm of the future, its streets crawling with the lost, the desperate, and the dangerous. high above, the hum of drones filled the air, ensuring that no one forgot who controlled the night.

you stood at the edge of the rooftop, your gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the flashing lights. the winds howled, carrying the smells of the city- oil, rain, and something darker. below, the streets were alive with a mixture of humans and aliens, some here to live, some here to fight. your job? to ensure the latter didn’t survive.

you were a hunter, part of a covert division tasked with eradicating alien threats before they had a chance to invade. but unlike the other hunters, you didn’t follow the company line blindly. your methods were efficient, precise, and without mercy- traits that had earned you respect, but also enemies. the company you worked for was one of many, and all had their own way of dealing with the extraterrestrial threats. your company? a well-oiled machine, protecting humanity at all costs.

it wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary.

as you adjusted the grip on your weapons, the sharp hiss of your comm device broke the silence. “hunter 19, we have a target. a class-4 alien near the central district. immediate extraction is required.”

you didn’t need to be told twice. in this line of work, hesitation was a luxury no one could afford. strapping your weapons securely, you made your way down the building to the streets below. your mind was already working through the logistics where the alien would strike, how to contain the threat, and the quickest route to the rendezvous point.

this life had worn down both your heart and mind. though the memories of your past lives with your beloved lingered, the countless alien lives you had taken- the blood spilled in the name of duty- had slowly suffocated your spirit, leaving a shadow over your thoughts that you couldn’t shake. for once, you did not go out of your way to find bakugou. he was a dear, but faraway memory. a memory that was too good for someone like you.

you arrived at the outskirts of the central district, the city’s neon lights flickering in the distance like the heartbeat of a restless giant. the alien was close now. the familiar thump of your combat boots on the cold asphalt was a stark contrast to the chaos that simmered just beyond the horizon. you didn’t have to be told twice. every instinct you had honed in your years as a hunter kicked into gear.

the silence stretched, heavy and thick. then, without warning, the alien struck, it’s massive form tearing through the shadows. a blur of movement, its skin slick and black as it lunged toward you. your reflexes took over, but as you dodged, something about the alien’s speed and strength unsettled you. this wasn’t a typical battle.

the alien wasn’t going to make this easy.

the alien roared as it stumbled back, its claws slicing through the air just inches from your skin. you had barely managed to evade its strike, your weapon raised, ready to retaliate when the sudden sound of footsteps broke through the silence.

a shadow darted into your peripheral vision. a figure, hooded and cloaked in dark attire, lunged toward the alien with lightning speed, and in a series of fluid movements, the creature was brought to the ground.

you froze for a moment, startled by the intruder’s sudden appearance. before you could react, the hooded figure twisted, driving a sharp blade straight through the alien’s chest. it let out one last guttural screech before its body went limp.

the hooded figure stood still, chest rising and falling with steady breaths, the alien’s blood dripping from his blade. the streetlights above flickered briefly as if even the city itself had taken a collective breath.

you snapped out of your shock, clenching your fists. your voice rang out, sharp and scathing as you strode toward him. “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

the hooded man didn’t flinch at your approach, but his back remained to you, his posture tense. you could tell he wasn’t afraid, and that pissed you off even more. your tone was cold, but there was an edge of frustration you couldn’t hide.

“you think you can just waltz in and kill like that?” your voice grew louder, shaking with the weight of your own guilt. “you’ve got a life on your hands now, a soul you’ve taken. is that really what you want?”

the anger bubbled up inside you, a mix of protectiveness and the instinct to save others from the same burden you carried. your gaze narrowed at the man’s back. “you don’t know what it’s like to have blood stain your hands, do you? to have to live with it, knowing you’ve taken a life… i don’t want that for you. i don’t want you to feel the same damn thing i do.”

the hooded man stood motionless for a long moment, before he slowly lowered the blade and turned toward you, his posture stiff. you couldn’t see his face- just the dark outline beneath the hood- but there was something in his presence, something familiar. it made your stomach twist, a feeling you couldn’t place.

and then, he slowly removed his hood.

the world seemed to stop for a beat, the neon lights casting a glow as your eyes locked onto his face.

those same eyes.

“…(y/n).”

your name. he had said it.

he had never remembered you first before; it was always you who had to find him. but now, the man you had loved through countless lives, the one you had adored over and over again, stood before you.

and you were a monster. he had found you, but at what cost?

you did not reach out to hold him, you did not run into his embrace. instead, you averted your gaze, shielding your eyes from him.

“i’m sorry,” you said, fists clenching by your sides. “i’m not the one you once loved.”

bakugou’s expression twisted, his jaw tightening as if the words stung more than they should have. his eyes, fierce and unwavering, bore into yours as he took a step closer.

“don’t say that,” he growled, his voice low, almost dangerous. “i remember you. from the moment i was born in this life, i remembered all of our past lives. every damn moment of them. i’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

he paused, his chest rising with each breath as if trying to steady the storm building inside him. his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a force that made you flinch, pulling you toward him.

“i don’t give a shit about what you’ve done. none of that matters. it will always be you. it’s always been you, no matter how many lives we’ve lived.” his eyes softened, but the intensity remained. “you’re mine, and no way in hell am i letting you go.”

tears streamed down your face as you struggled in his grip, desperate to break free. “you don’t understand,” your voice cracked, raw with pain. “i have a trail of blood behind me, lives i’ve destroyed… everywhere i go, i carry their ghosts. i’ve hurt so many, katsuki! i’m not the same person!”

katsuki’s grip softened, but only for a moment before he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you tightly. you felt the heat of his body, the steadiness of his heartbeat, and for a second, it grounded you in a way nothing else could. his voice was low but firm, holding an edge of desperation.

“don’t tell me you’re not the same person,” he murmured into your hair. “i’ll fall in love with you every damn time, no matter what you’ve done or how many lives you’ve taken. you’re still the one i’m meant to be with. always have been.”

he pulled back slightly, enough to look you in the eyes. “you can carry your burdens all you want, but you don’t have to carry them alone. i’m right here, and i’m not going anywhere.”

your breath hitched as his words sank in, the weight of them crashing down on you like a wave. the tears continued to fall, but this time, they weren’t just from pain- they were from a relief so deep, it left you breathless. you slowly lifted your gaze to his, meeting the intensity of his eyes, and for the first time in this life, the past ones, everything seemed to fall into place.

the countless lives, the struggles, the distance between you- it had all led you here, to this moment. and no matter what had happened before, no matter the paths you had walked, there was one undeniable truth that echoed through the core of your being: you were meant to be together.

you trembled as you cupped his face with shaking hands, your voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything you’d felt across all lifetimes.

“katsuki,” you breathed, your heart pounding. “i… i love you. i always have, and i always will.”

his thumb traced the tear stains on your cheeks before lifting your chin, his gaze softening, but the passion in his eyes was unmistakable.

“i know,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “i love you too, always. every lifetime, i find you. and i’ll keep finding you.”

in that moment, everything that had ever separated you- every pain, every fight, every lifetime- faded away. the world around you disappeared as you stood together, hearts in sync.

the universe had tried to pull you apart, had tried to erase the love you shared, but it had failed. you were soulmates- bound together in ways beyond time and death. no matter what came next, nothing would keep you apart.

you both leaned in, closing the distance between you, your lips finding his in a kiss that sealed your fate. the kiss was not just a promise for this life, but for every life that had come before and every one that would follow.

and as the kiss deepened, as his arms tightened around you, you both knew- the story wasn’t over. it had never truly ended. it had only just begun.

—

this whole thing is based off the song would you fall in love with me again by jorge rivera-herrans, especially the last part of it. (no seriously. listened exactly 26 times while writing)

i’d love to write more about these universes! inbox is open.

Guys my favorite show is on

The Things He Doesn't Know — K. Bakugo

This is a series, so other parts are here!

☞ Link: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.

Bakugo x Jealous female reader

Synopsis: When you realize you're in love with your childhood best friend, but force you're feeling's down for the sake of your friendship.

Author's note: This is a short one, but I think it's so cutie, more Bakugo interaction, BTW.

Summer break has faded away, replaced by the crisp air of fall. Leaves have begun to turn, the days growing shorter. The drama with Kimiko has died down, or at least, people stopped talking about it, but her relentless flirting with Bakugo hasn’t.

Lately, though, he seems more annoyed than anything. Maybe she’s finally starting to get on his nerves.

You’re curled up in your dorm, textbooks open but barely registering as you absentmindedly tap your pencil against the page.

A sudden knock breaks your focus. Furrowing your brows, you get up and open the door to find Bakugo standing there, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.

"Bakugo?" You blink, surprised. "Hey…"

"Hey. Come on, let’s go."

You stare at him. "Go where?"

He exhales sharply, like this is harder than it should be. "Just... hang out. You and me."

Your heart stutters at you and me, but you school your expression before he can notice. He’s not the type to just ask people to hang out. Not unless he has a reason.

Still, you nod. "Alright."

The two of you leave campus together, the cool autumn breeze rustling through the trees. The scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires lingers in the air. After walking in silence for a bit, you finally ask...

"So… where are we going?"

"I saw this café ad a while back. Figured you’d like it." He mutters it like it’s not a big deal, but the fact that he even thought about it means something.

A small smile tugs at your lips. "Oh. Alright then. Lead the way."

He grunts in acknowledgment and keeps walking.

The café is small but inviting, its exterior adorned with warm string lights and an old wooden sign. He holds the door open for you without a word. The scent of fresh pastries and coffee wraps around you like a blanket as you step inside.

You both order hot cocoa, Bakugo grumbling about how "coffee’s just burnt bean water" when the cashier hands it to him, and head back outside, walking toward a nearby park.

The world around you is quiet, save for the crunch of leaves beneath your feet. The pond reflects the golden hues of autumn, rippling slightly in the breeze.

Despite being the one to invite you out, Bakugo hasn’t said much. Not that you’ve been any better.

You tighten your grip around your cup, the warmth grounding you. "What’s going on with us, Katsuki?" The words slip out before you can stop them. They taste like salt on your tongue.

Bakugo glances at you from the corner of his eye. "The hell are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean." You exhale.

"We don’t talk like we used to. We barely spend time together. It’s like, we’re drifting apart."

Bakugo scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. He doesn’t say anything right away, just stares out at the water.

The silence is unbearable.

"You’re my best friend, Katsuki," you say quietly. "But lately, it doesn’t feel like it."

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond.

Then...

"For one, you keep calling me ‘Bakugo,’" he mutters.

"What?"

He exhales, shaking his head. "You’re not a damn stranger. Call me by my first name."

The request, no, demand, hits you harder than you expect.

"Second," he continues, voice lower now, "yeah… we’ve drifted. I’ll admit it."

His jaw tightens, and for once, he looks almost uncomfortable. "But I don’t wanna stop being friends. Alright?"

You feel a weight lift off your chest. "I don’t want that either, Katsuki."

"Good." He takes another sip of his cocoa, eyes fixed on the pond. "Promise me something?"

"What?"

He suddenly reaches over, grabbing your pinkie with his own and locking them together. His hand is warm, rough from years of training.

"Promise we’ll spend more time together."

A small laugh escapes you. "A pinkie promise?"

"Tch." He scowls but doesn’t let go. "Just shut up and do it." You squeeze his pinkie with yours.

"Promise."

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Callum Turner in The Boys in the Boat (2023)

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This is so disheartening. Lmk who’s moving to Canada because we can rent a house all together!!!!

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