Marks

i.

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.

★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞

★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?

★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.

It didn’t always feel that way.

When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.

For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.

But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.

You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.

And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.

The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”

Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.

You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.

It was 10:18 PM.

You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.

You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.

Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.

“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.

You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.

But tonight… you couldn’t.

It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.

“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.

Nothing.

You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”

That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”

He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.

“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”

He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.

The room went still.

He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”

Not working?

Not working?

“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”

He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”

“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”

“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”

“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”

“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”

He was probably right.

“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.

“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”

“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.

You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?

Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”

He froze.

“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.

But you didn’t.

“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.

Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?

YOU

|  Guys we’re going out tn.

When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.

You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.

Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.

The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.

You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?

“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.

You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."

You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.

No, a year ago, your life changed.

So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.

Dante.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.

You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.

But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.

Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.

You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.

Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.

Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.

His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”

A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?

A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”

Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.

He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?

He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.

“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”

You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”

And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.

You were done.

That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.

You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.

But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.

You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.

Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.

But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.

Kill me, you thought.

That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.

Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.

You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.

The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.

The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.

Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.

Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.

Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.

Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.

You glanced down.

There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.

The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.

“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.

You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?

All you could do was crack the window open.

“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”

“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.

But he was. 

“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”

“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”

“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”

Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”

What the fuck is going on?

In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”

Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”

“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”

“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”

“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”

“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”

“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”

A pregnant pause.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”

Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?

Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”

You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.

“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”

Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.

No. Stop that.

Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”

He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”

You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”

That hit its mark.

His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.

“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”

“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”

He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…

You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.

Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.

And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.

“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.

“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”

“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”

“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”

Oh my god.

You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”

He laughed. “You remembered.”

You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”

Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”

You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.

“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.

“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.

“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”

Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”

You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”

And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.

You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”

He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.

“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”

You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”

You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.

There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.

You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.

“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”

You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…

You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.

Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.

And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.

You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.

One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation. 

What? You needed it.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.

God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.

You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.

Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.

You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.

It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.

Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.

“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”

You pulled the door open.

Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.

“Hey, princess,” he said.

There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.

You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”

“Did you?” You answered.

“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”

You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”

You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”

“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.

Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”

He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.

Then he stepped in behind you.

Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”

His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.

“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?

You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.

“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”

His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.

“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”

And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

God, I missed this.

You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.

You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.

But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.

You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.

“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.

“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

There it was.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.

But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

And then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.

I could treat you so much better.

Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.

You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.

And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.

Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.

"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"

It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.

“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.

You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.

You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?

You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.

“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

Babe.

The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.

But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.

You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.

The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.

You couldn’t help it.

You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.

His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”

He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.

“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”

“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”

There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.

“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”

He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”

“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”

His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.

You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.

You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real. 

You were leaving him.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”

But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.

Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it. 

But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.

I could treat you better. 

I’ve always been in love with you.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.

So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.

YOU: I need you.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.

a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok

I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @mrshayakawaa

wanna join the taglist? | pretty ; chapter index

Can I have a request for DMC 5 Dante x female reader who's immortal?

Dante falls in love with a fellow demon hunter who's an immortal but the reader is afraid of losing someone or just watching her previous lovers grow old leaving her behind. Reader was afraid she'll lose Dante as well.

(I'm not sure if Dante might be immortal too despite he's half-human, any thoughts?)

Note: I am very uncomfortable with the idea of ageing and immortality, not like those people who have a fear of ageing. No. But to think about it, it leaves me in this weird spot where I am looking at centuries and centuries in a span of one play (one stage of life). It's thought provoking, with a little fear being introduced on how irrelevant everything is in respect to time. Is time even real? Anyway. My introduction to immortal characters was the Forever series and The Man from Earth.

That being said, I will still write it because, sure, why not? My writing is lower than beginner; the best I can do is explore the ideas.

Please anon, if you can in any way let me know if you liked it or not. It will be appreciated.

Once Upon a Time

!!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

Rated: Mature

Words: 4815 words

Warning: Mature theme, Gore, Sex, Death, Aging

Disclaimer:

Feel free to leave comments, but remember to be nice and civil.

LET'S ROCK!!

You were bad at calculating when you were born? When did it all start? Living for more than 2000 years now. You couldn't exactly remember where and when you were born. All you could remember was the mighty figure that raised his sword, Devil Sword Sparda, they called it. In the air, and declared, "The human world is now under my protection. The gates to Hell are sealed, and nothing shall pass through." It echoed throughout the world.

You didn't know it was 2000 years ago, but when you read the knowledge that came to you. You understand the myth or the legend in history was 2000 years ago. So you were sure you were more than 2000 years old.

You never saw the face of the figure they called Sparda, just his shadow casting on your lifeless body as you were ripped open with your guts spilling on the ground. Demons who did this to you were now vanished or sucked back to hell. You were there, lifeless, on the cold, hard ground. Your iris moved with all the energy you could summon. It looked all blurry and hazy. But something caught your eyes. You were in agonising pain, and you hoped you would die soon. You saw a statue of divinity, so with your spilled entrails. The last breath in you asked you, 'Crawl to it.' It was less than a meter; as you drew your last breath, your bloody hand touched it.

Something happened; you can't tell. But you woke up; it was freezing, your body felt cold, and your clothes were ripped where the demon slashed you, but there was no scar. Your guts must be in now. You felt pain, but it was bearable and subsiding with each second. It was snowing.

You stood up on your feet; they were red, and you made your way to the nearest hut. That's all you remember. You tried to find your first family back, but none were alive. You do not even remember them now.

You blinked, lying in your bed, an ugly way to start your day. You got up from the bed, started to make the bed and then hopped into the shower. You were tired, as you came back to put on your barmaid dress. You loved to wear corsets; they were so perfect. You don't understand why people have to demonise them now. They were perfectly fine even for working women or demon huntresses like you throughout human history. But then you thought, no rights for women were fine throughout most of human history as well. You remembered how much fun it was to blow up administrative buildings during the suffragette movement in England. What days – 'men only understand violence, so we give them violence' – or so everyone used to say back then. In the end, you opted for 'modern' underwear.

You put on your coat and watch. You were on a day off today; you didn't want to deal with any demon. Immortality came with its own benefits; you were a damn good demon hunter, and you got all the time in the world to gain knowledge and hone your skills. You started walking towards the park; sometimes it felt all so lonely to think everyone else who walked this earth has and will perish, but you would not. It won't be long before you have to change your name and place. It was usually every ten to fifteen years. Such a little time in your life span.

You were currently new in this city called Capulet City, a hotbed of demon hunters with someone called legendary devil hunters residing here. You were intrigued. You had heard all the myths, legends, and religions, and you knew what bullocks all of them were.

You were crossing a footbridge, and a man with white hair and a red coat walked past you. You didn't notice, but something stuck out. You turned to look at him without a thought; you shouted, "Wait!" The man did – handsome – first thought, and you berated yourself internally. Yes, he is tall, broad, muscular and handsome, and by your time on earth, you were sure he was packing a lot. But no, this was not the time. He looked at you with a smirk and spoke coolly, "Saw something you like, Miss?" You were lost in thought, and Dante raised his eyebrow. You remember this face; around a century and a half back, the same face in the smoke-filled streets of London. A man with the same face, a purple Victorian long coat, a monocle and features more elegantly framed than this. You remember that person. But you do not know why? But after living for so long, you have no will to challenge fate. You frowned. Could there be another person like you walking the earth for who knows how long?

You walked up to him and scanned him up and down. Man was intrigued, he spoke, "Hello?" You looked up at him, the voice wasn't right. But how could you remember it was more than a century ago? But no, his eyes were purple, and these were icy blue.

Man was losing his patience. "Okay, babe, I'm leaving..." And he started to climb down the stairs of the footbridge. You followed him down and expressed your distaste, "No! No! We need to talk…"

Man scoffed, "Talk? I don't even know you, Babe...go away...find another man to pester…" You kept following him. You held his hand in the middle of the road and stopped him. "No...we are talking..."

The man resigned. He was out of money and food for days anyway, "Fine...buy me lunch..." You blinked, "What!?" Man shrugged, "You want my time and attention; you better buy me a lunch. There is a great pizzeria around." Man started to point in the direction of the pizzeria.

You have seen a lot throughout your life, but never anything like this, curious. Maybe that's why he stuck out in your memory after more than a century. You frowned, "What kind of man asks a woman to pay?" Men of this generation never ceased to amaze you. Man shrugged, "I don't know, one who knows his value?" You didn't have anything to do better, so you nodded, "Fine... and I do not want your attention, just answers..." Man held up both his hands. "Fine... but I should tell you I'm irresistible...."

You rolled your eyes, "Lead the way..."

You two sat in a pizzeria near the window seat. He ordered two large Chicken BBQ and Pepperoni pizzas with two pints of beer. You didn't think to dress for a date. But he wasn't so bad now, you think. Answer or not, he was a fine lay.

Man grinned at you, "Now that our food and drinks are settled, my name's Dante..." Dante held out his hand over the table. You laughed a little and shook his hand. "Made sure you got paid upfront before giving out any information? I'm Y/N." Dante chomped down on his pizza; the man had some appetite. You can't deny how everything about this man was so intriguing or arousing. You had your fair share of men over the years. Some stayed in your heart deeper than others, but you always knew they were all fleeting and never made any real attempt to forge a relationship or have kids; they were lovers at best. You had to be very careful for the longest time in history since contraception was such a new and wonderful invention.

You looked at him and calculated him, "So what do you do, Mister Dante?" Dante let out a laugh, "Mister? Seriously... I'm not used to getting so much respect from women...especially feisty ones. But I am a handyman…"

You raised your eyebrow, some food for thought, handyman, too vague, as if trying to hide something. You spoke calculated, "What sort of assignments do you take, handyman? Maybe fix the hole in my wall?" Dante sipped his beer. "Umm...nahhh...more of pest control..."

You smirked, "I'm in somewhat of a pest control business myself..." Dante smirked, "Ohho... yeah...?" You nodded, "Pesky pests are so big and reoccurring these days, right?" Dante hummed in agreement, munching on his pizza... "I got the right guns for that..." You nodded, "I believe you do...."

Before you knew it, you were on the first floor of Devil May Cry... in his room, kissing him passionately as he kisses you back... your legs wrapped around his waist. You were rutting to his bulge; it was so big, you doubted in all these years you took into such a big monstrosity. Your hands cupped his face; you appreciated the older man. Though you never aged beyond twenty-five, there was something about older men that just made you feel so wet, especially one like Dante. You can guess he was around his forties... but back to the business.

Dante laid you down on the bed, his coat off; he pulled up his Henley and off ... You admired the beautifully sculpted body – it was muscular, the skin a bit aged, but silver hair on his chest. You were drooling... your eyes looked down to his white happy trail, a little unkempt, but you appreciated old beauty. His hand started to unlace the front of your dress, the way your tits popped out. Dante smirked, "Why will you put such a beautiful pair through such torture...?" you hummed, nuzzling the pillow as he massaged them, "to look good..."

Dante smirked, "They look much better in my hands..." Dante's hands trailed down to your waist as he peeled your dress off. He likes the view; you were in quite intricate and lacy lingerie. He laughed, "Were you out there looking to get laid? You just saw what you liked in the street and stopped me?" You just shrugged, "Maybe...."

Dante found you amusing; you were confident in an interesting way. You were not trying to control, yet you were controlling everything, and he was happy enough to play your game. He didn't know exactly why you stopped him. But he knew you were human.

Dante leaned back, standing between your legs hanging from the edge of the bed; he started to kiss your neck, pecking and then biting. You moaned and pulled his head back. You clicked your tongue, "Undressing a lady and remaining dressed? What I did to deserve that?"

Dante knew you were as aroused as him; he could smell it. But the way you were patient, it was like you had all the time in the world. He will make you beg for him. You will be impatient. Dante stood up, popping open the button of his black leather pants and pulling down his fly. He wasn't wearing any underwear. You just smirked; you should have expected that. He was big and messy, his hair at the base unkempt. He was hard, you were right. You never had anyone this big.

Your eyes met his icy blue ones, and you could see how badly he wants to bury himself deep in you. You sat up on the edge of the bed. His cock dripping pre-cum. You wrapped your soft fingers around his thick cock; Dante hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. You started to stroke him slowly; he panted. You cooed at him, "Such a big boy...stay still?" You looked up at him through your lashes, his handsome face teetering at the edge of bliss. You wanted to kiss that handsome face. How his brows were knitted, so cute. You kept stroking him softly from base to tip. Your tongue flicked out to lick his slit and pre-cum; you tasted him; he was good.

You smiled up at him, the tip of your tongue flicking at his slit to lap pre-cum; he was moaning, his large fingers threading your hair. You smiled and took him in. His tip hitting the back of your throat, you moaned as his cock vibrated in your mouth.

Dante praised, his fingers gripping the back of your wet, "Shit! Y/N, so warm and wet! Fuck! You're good!" You knew you were good as you hollowed your cheeks and bobbed your hand up and down to take him to the base. Your nose nuzzling in his pubic hair, he had a musky scent, and you were getting addicted to his taste.

Was he the person you saw in Victorian London? Who knows? For now, he was quite addictive, and you needed to get in his good graces to let him open up to you, right?

Sure, sucking his dick is the best way to hasten to it. Back to work in hand, your one hand held onto his muscular thighs to stabilise yourself; hell, they were thick, and you were already drooling with how much pre-cum he was producing. Now more so, it was heaven. Your hand slides from his base to his balls, fondling them, making him throw back his head with a loud moan, "Y/N, fuck! So good." His hip bucked involuntarily, hitting the back of your throat; you pulled back. His hand was trying to pull you back. You squeezed his balls a bit more. "Patience... handyman ...or should I say legendary demon hunter?" Dante smirked; he looked divine, his face was blessed out, he was panting, there was a pink tint on his cheeks and his trademark smile, "Same as you...babe!"

Your hands gathered your tits around his cock, surrounding them, and started to massage them. Your bra created a perfect net for him to stay in. Dante needed no clue; you both were wild enough. He started to thrust his cock in the little cock sleeve you prepared for him with your sweet tits. He grunts, "Fuck! Heaven! You're full of surprises, babe..."

His hands replaced yours to squeeze your tits together around his cock. Your hands wrapped around the back of his neck to pull him into a hungry kiss, teeth clattering, tongue fighting for dominance and lips swollen...he never stopped thrusting in between your tits. His thrust now irregular and chasing his high. You looked up at him with soft eyes. He smiled down at you ...as he came all over your tits, neck and chin.

He pulled back a bit; he was still hard. He smiled down at you; you looked perfect like this, covered in his cum. He gripped your neck and travelled his hand up to cup your cheeks. You smiled at him, "Is that all you got?"

He growled and flipped you on your stomach; you moaned as his middle finger traced and prodded at your wet spot in your panties. One hand unclasped your bra and threw it away. He gripped your hip to pull you up in the air, his hand on the back of your head pushing your face into the mattress. Your hips try to buck to feel his cock, but he wasn't letting you get any. You whimpered a little annoyed, "Dante..."

Dante rubbed the back of your neck, his hand trailing down your spine, making every inch of your body burn. He spoke patiently, "Let me show you what I got..." His hand came down on your ass hard; it stung, and you yelped, "Ahaa!" Dante smirked; he got on his knee on the floor to smother his face in your panty-clad pussy, and he took a long sniff. He loved your scent. His sharp nose poking your sweet cunt. You moaned as he hooked a finger in your panties to push it aside and lick you slowly and shortly. It was like a kitten lick, your legs trembling...you cursed, "Fuck...!" You were flustered to your chest as he started to fuck your little hole with his tongue and alternated by licking broad stripes along your folds. You came on his tongue in no time.

Dante sucked on your puffy clit to draw your orgasm more; you were a whimpering and crying mess, "Dante...Dante...fuck...baby...you're so good..."

Dante stood up... Pulling down your panties to spank you more, you yelped again. He smirked; he loved the way you jolted.

He smiled, "Loving it, baby?" You nodded your head, "Yes, baby...use protection..." Dante nodded, "I intended to..."

Dante retrieved a condom from the pocket of his discarded coat. You smirked, looking back at him as he ripped the foil open and rolled it onto his cock. "You were prepared..." Dante smiled as he rubbed his cockhead slow and torturous to your entrance, "Well...when you're irresistible like me...you have to..."

You laughed but moaned as he filled you to the brim with no mercy. You were aware it might be a stretch and burn given how big he was, but fuck, he was splitting you open. Dante knew you could handle it; he gripped your hips, pulling back all the way out, just leaving his tip in and slamming back in with full force. You moaned loudly and drooled; he knew he had found your sweet spot, and he kept thrusting at the same pace, hitting the same right spot. You cried as Dante held both your wrists in one hand to arch your back, hitting deep and hard. He spoke, not even breaking a sweat. You couldn't see him, but you were sure he had that stupid grin on his face, "liking it rough, strong baby?"

You drooled, "Loving it...yes! Yes!" Dante knew you were close and slowed down...to tease you. You cried, and he set his pace back to fast again until you came all around him. Your body went limp; it was one of the best sex you had. You were satisfied, but...you felt him lifting your body up like a rag doll. He pressed your back to his chest, and he kissed your neck hard, making you cry. While one of his arms wrapped around your waist to keep you in place, his other hand was rubbing and circling your clit, two fingers parting your fold to sink you down his length, and you cried in pleasure as he used you like a rag doll, bouncing you on his cock... a pressure on your clit, and you came crashing again. You were so tired and overstimulated. You begged, "Fuck...it enough..."

Dante smirked as he deposited you on his bed and climbed over you. His hand fondling your tits, "Just one more, baby..."

You could barely protest, and he sank himself in again, pressing you into a mating press, your legs close to your tits and nails raking his back. He kept thrusting in, slow when you were close and fast when your orgasm was again building. You poor pussy was sore and abused; you were in heaven, drooling and fucked senseless. You cried, "Let me cum ...Dante." Dante kissed your lips as he buried himself deep rutting; your pussy clenched around him as you both came together.

You were limp in his sheets, your eyes shut. Dante withdrew himself, taking off the condom, tying it, and throwing it in the dustbin.

You were asleep; he didn't blame you. He maybe overdid it. He had sex again after years; he didn't mind if you stayed a bit long. He craved human warmth but thought himself too filthy to deserve it. Especially from someone as wonderful as you. But if you asked for it, he would make sure no one ever came close. He will ruin it for you forever; this is all he does, ruin everything for everybody.

Dante looked at you naked in his bed; you were soft and sweet. You tugged his heartstrings. He sat up to walk up to the bathroom and bring you a towel. He cleaned your chest and your legs and changed to the cleaned sheets. He didn't mind you staying; he was lonely after all.

Dante came downstairs to hop in for a quick shower. After a cold shower, he looked at himself in the mirror. He was ageing? Dante never knew how he would age. How much? Or how long he will live? He knew he was old. But given his quick healing and regeneration abilities, he cannot exactly slump into old age. No, even he was aware of this much biology. It needed his cell to stop dividing. But they divided and regenerated perfectly, given Vergil stabbed him just yesterday.

He remembers the little talk he and Vergil had in hell that Dante won't grow old or beyond a point. If his healing and regeneration abilities are uncompromised, he can't be old. Maybe it was just stress and depression which made Dante look older than Vergil.

Dante sighed. He changed into his Henley and sweatpants to walk out into his office. You were already on the red leather couch, wearing his t-shirt and with the pizza he ordered in your lap. You spoke with your mouth full, "Pizza again?"

He walked to you, leaned down and kissed your lips. "Yeah..." You smiled at him, "Remove your shirt..." Dante raised his eyebrow, "My! My! Demanding and hungry minx?" You smiled as he removed his shirt, and you stood up to check his back, no traces of your nails; you had just dug them in an hour ago in his back.

You sat back. Dante noticed the lack of hickeys and bite marks on your neck as well. You both looked at each other. You broke the silence, "How old are you?" Dante laughed, "Umm…let's see...near my mid-forties..." You frowned, "Be honest; I know you can heal...you don't have to hide it..."

Dante was confused. "Yeah...but I'm telling you the truth..." You spoke scoffing, "C'mon! I remember seeing you in London; it was the year 1875! My memory is clear as day!" Dante shouted; he was baffled, "What!? What are you talking about...1875!"

You nodded, "Yeah, you regenerate and heal just like me! That's why you cannot die! You're immortal, just like me!" Dante blinked. "Yeah...I do...but...I'm not like you! 1875! How old are you?"

You sank into the couch; you blew your cover, if you knew anything. It was how important it was to conceal...you blew your 2000-year-old perfect cover. Because you followed your heart, what an idiot! You looked at him, "I think I need my pills!" Dante looked at you unsure, "Pills…?" You laughed, "Yeah, pills, I have these episodes! You see, I have a medical condition...I will just take clothes and go!" You were making your way to the door, but Dante stopped you, holding your arm. "Okay, you can keep your clothes; just let me go."

By now, you can see all the Devil Arms this man has and his reputation. You were sure you were not a match for him. Of course, you won't go down without a fight. But such a man is someone you would rather not be enemies with.

Dante looked at you concerned, "You can tell me." His eyes were soft and deep, like he saw himself as a freak of nature, in the similar way you did. They were vulnerable. You let out a sigh and started, "It's a long story..."

It was morning, and Dante was beyond confused; there were so many stories, and you two were drinking. You were drunk and laughed, "Soo...the man I saw a century ago in London...." Dante nodded, "That's right, he was my father, Sparda..." You nodded in understanding, "Son of Sparda, I see...that's why sex was so good?" Dante laughed, sipping his whisky. "Hey...those were my skills; don't pull my father into this....ewww!" You laughed, "Ewww? Listen to this! I'm glad I didn't get laid with your father back then; it would have been awkward otherwise..."

Dante covered his ears, "No! No! No!" You laughed sipping your beer, you sighed and thought, "But your mother must be something...2000 years alone, and then she made sense to him..." Dante was serious now and nodded, "Yeah...she was pretty darn amazing..."

You looked at Dante with gleaming eyes, "You're amazing too..." Dante shook his head, "Not more than you, Miss 2K..." You laughed and swatted his arm, "That was so bad!" You both laughed. And now you were yearning to find what Sparda found.

With time, Dante and you paired on missions. You both can take as many hits and casualties. You both came to understand each other in ways. No one can...you can understand that Dante is immortal, just like you, unless he is killed through some extreme means. He isn't dying. If he can heal and regenerate. He isn't getting any older. Or so you wanted to believe.

No matter how deeply or conveniently you loved someone. There was always a pain in your heart, a sorrow that stayed.

If he was just like you, it removed so many issues you had; you were anyway falling for him more and more. He was too. You spoilt him rotten with gifts and paid bills; after all, you had all the money in the world.

You didn't know what to make of it. But Dante felt right; he felt perfect. Everything with him had so much potential. And for Dante, you were the biggest repellent to his biggest fear. You cannot die. No one can ever take you away from him, no matter how cursed he was.

It was a weird situation, a convenient arrangement which didn't need love, only companionship. But there was love, and being loved means being missed so terribly.

You were in bed with Dante, an opulent big bed with four posts and curtains draped; it felt like a room out of Versailles. Dante took his surroundings as you two were cuddling after sex and hummed, "Let them eat cake?" You laughed, "She wasn't the best or blameless, but she never said it..."

Dante was surprised. "So you were there?" You kissed his knuckles. "Yeah, but made it out of there in time... back to London."

Dante thought, "And where were you originally from?" You thought and shrugged, "I don't remember. I kept walking for the longest. I'm pretty sure after my first 'death', I was in Uruk... but where I was exactly born..." You shrugged... Dante nuzzled your shoulder and kissed your neck... "I see..."

Dante looked at the wall in front, a painting he couldn't recognise, but he was sure it was real and vintage. He spoke unsure, "I always thought... how my father walked upon this land for 2000 years...and now I met someone...who also did...what was it like?"

You thought, "You want to die for sure...like everyone else...but you also do not want to...it's weird, and then you just learn to pass by. After all...after so many years, nothing makes sense, and you understand nothing ever will. All those empires, people, and power, gone. Changed by something very similar...yet claiming to be different. It is just all a matter of ... time." You looked up at him with a smile and soft eyes.

Dante was looking around your duplex; he saw all the degrees on the wall… He thought, "Not much considering 2000 years." You laughed as you looked at those degrees as well, "Yeah...for the most part, I was a woman and not allowed in any universities, if that makes sense..." Dante nodded, "When you became a demon hunter?"

You kept looking at degrees, "Always was...just on the sidelines. Always the main business, but never the main business, if that makes sense..." Dante nodded, "It does..."

You walk down to the living room and think, your eyes looking at Dante, who was putting his guns back in his holster to leave. Your heart felt heavy, "Dante..."

He turned and looked at you, "Yeah?" You walked up to him and looked at his eyes. "I love you..." Dante was a little taken aback, not surprised but unsure. "I love you too, Y/N. But what does love even mean to you, though?" Dante always thought this, as he thought of all the lovers you had and what it amounted to. Maybe he was insecure or jealous, but in this life, he was never anything fully. He needed to be something.

You took a long sigh, holding both of his hands in yours. You looked into those icy blue eyes; you knew the answer, "Whatever it meant for your father to fall in love with your mother ...." Dante was quiet, so quiet, you weren't sure if you did the right thing. He just nodded; he had no doubt in his mind that his father loved his mother. He perished loving her.

You waited as Dante opened his mouth to speak but was quiet again. He thought, how did his mother knew if it was the right decision? Was there a right decision? Didn't she die? But he was sure she would do it again knowing she would die. So he took a chance too.

Dante kisses your lips. "Move in with me..." You kissed his back, "I will..." 

♡︎ Izuku Midoriya as your boyfriend ♡︎

Pairing: fem!reader x Izuku Midoriya

Genre: fluff

Warnings: suggestive content, jealous!Izuku, sub!Izuku

•° first of all: he's the number 1 babygirl.

•° every hour of the day, no matter what you're doing, he'll take pictures of you. His gallery is just full of your photos. every week his lock screen changes to a new photo of you. And then he loves looking at your beautiful smiling face at night in his bed before falling asleep, so he can dream of you. When you ask him if it's necessary to take all these photos, he answers that they're useful during the times when you can't be together because of missions.

•° do you really think that the photos are enough for him? Nah, Izuku clearly has a talent for drawing, and he certainly won't waste it by only disdaining sketches of other heroes. No, in his room he has a drawer dedicated only to you, inside which there are a lot of notebooks portraying you.

•° you don't have to talk, for him even just looking at you while you share headphones and listen to your favorite songs, with a breathtaking sunset in front of you. That's enough for him.

•° he lets you do any hairstyle on his messy hair. He loves the warmth of your hands in his hair and most of all he loves your laugh when you pass him the mirror to show him the many pigtails you've made on his head.

•° speaking of laughter. HE LOVES YOURS. He would die to hear it one last time. Let's be real, he's not the funniest person in the world, but he puts his all into putting a smile on your face, accompanied by the melody of your laughter.

•° he obviously has a praise kink, tell him how good he was at something: school, missions, even the silliest one and you'll immediately notice the blush on his cheeks.

"Izuku, baby, you did so good today on patrolling. I'm so proud of you." you praise him while placing your hand on his cheek.

"t-thanks, baby. You d-did good too." He's literally pout in your hands.

•° PDA is scared of Izuku. he loves showing you affection both when it's just the two of you, and outside, no matter where you are. Kisses, hugs, arm around your waist, your head resting on his shoulder. He doesn't care if anyone is watching you.

•° it might not seem like it on the surface, but ohh HE'S A JEALOUS JEALOUS JEALOUS BOY. Despite his puppy-dog appearance, he wastes no time when someone stares at you for a few seconds too long to put an arm around your shoulders and turn you towards him, so that he is your only view. Not to mention when they hit on you.

"so, you free tonight, pretty?" a boy a little older than you leans against the bar counter where you're sitting at.

"sorry, but I'm not interested. I have a boyfriend." You try to dodge him off.

"oh, c'mon." He reaches for your face "I don't see him around". Before he can lay even a finger on you, a hand slaps the boy's hand away, and based on the look on his face it must have hurt.

"you didn't see me, but bet you felt that." He couldn't leave you alone even to go to the bathroom, ugh.

•° his only reasons for living are two: to become a hero worthy of being called such and...you. He worhips you so much, you're a goddess in his eyes who can do no wrong. You're just out of this world for him, not real.

•° SUBMISSIVE!! Oh this boy is the definition of submission. In bed he becomes a real mess for you, the control is yours and you can do whatever you want with him, he won't say a word, don't worry.

•° he's the kind of guy who gives you little gifts almost every time you go on a date, or rather every time you see each other. It could be a bouquet of flowers, an origami heart, etc...

⊹₊⋆˚｡⋆ 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

“when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” -harry burns, when harry met sally (1989)

⤷ teacher!izuku x pro-hero!reader

⤷ loosely based off the proposal scene in “about time” aka one of my fav romcoms ever, kind of spoilers for mha ending but not really??? no warnings just soft izuku fluff :)

normally, after a patrol runs as long and late as this one, you can’t form a single thought other than crawling into bed and sleeping for the next century. 

your tired body aches as you unlock the door, shuffling down the hall and discarding your hero costume in a trail on the floor as you go. 

you’re nearly asleep by the time you get to the bedroom, but the sight that awaits you makes your heart squeeze with joy. 

izuku is there, sprawled out on the bed like he is every night. the comforter is half-fallen off him to expose his beautiful muscular back, he’s clutching onto a pillow (your pillow actually), and his pajama pants are riding up one leg. it’s no different from any other night, but for a reason you can’t quite place you are absolutely overcome with love for him. 

“psst, izu,” you whisper through a smile, padding over to the bed. 

“izuku, wake up,” you whisper, giving him a gentle shake as you perch on the bed next to him. he’s snoring like a banshee, the sound nearly shaking the headboard. you can feel its reverb  in his entire body. he’s utterly unresponsive, the poor thing. teaching is not for the weak. 

you shake him some more, until he finally shows some sign of life. he makes a sleepy noise, eyes still shut as he reaches out for you with limp hands. 

“come to bed,” he moans, voice taking on that adorable whiny tone you love so much. 

“in a minute,” you murmur, sweeping his green bangs away from his face as his arms wind around your waist. “i gotta ask you something, ‘kay?”

“baby,” he starts, patient as a saint even when his voice is heavy with sleep. “not that i don’t love you and want to spend every second with you, but i’ve gotta be in up in, like, three hours.”

“its important,” you insist, “like, really, really important.”

“can’t it be important in the morning?”

“izuku, will you marry me?”

that wakes him right up. 

he stares up at you with those big, green eyes. “are you serious?”

“one hundred percent. i know it’s late and everything, but i was just thinking about it and of course you don’t have to answer right now but i—“

“yes.”

“izu, i—”

“yes.”

“you don’t have—”

“i want to marry you! there’s nothing i’ve ever wanted more than this, i promise.” he says it in a rush of breath, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “c’mere.”

he’s beaming as he pulls you in, strong arms wrapped tightly around you. he presses kiss after kiss to your cheeks as you laugh softly, squeezing him as tight as you can. 

“are you sure?”

“‘course i am. there’s no one else i’d rather partner with in this life.”

“just this life?” you tease, squeezing his cheeks between your palms. izuku’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at you. 

“in every life, honey.”

One fanfic a day,

keeps the mental illness away

Floral Heartache

Falling in love with Midoriya Izuku had been easy, all things considered. Every time you see him, you think you couldn't love him more. And then you see him again, and you know you can, because you do. And it's such a warm feeling, gooey and sweet like honey, it's almost dumb. You wish you could hate him.

But that's all a little melodramatic, you don't often find yourself thinking like that. Those thoughts are reserved for nights alone, wine drunk and weepy. And for when you're hit with a quirk that makes flowers sprout in your lungs.

Izuku Midoriya/Reader

hanahaki disease, aged up characters, Pro Hero! Deku, implied smut, not actually unrequited love, angst, canon-typical violence, gore in the form of bloody flower puke and broken bones, past Hitoshi Shinsou/Reader, background BakuShin and EraserMic, parental Aizawa, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader has a mutation quirk (wings)

21.1k words | complete

notes: on ao3 this is 3 chapters, here it'll just be one part

♡♡♡

Falling in love with Midoriya Izuku had been easy, all things considered. It had been like falling asleep; slowly, and then all at once. And after the feelings were known, it had been as easy and automatic as breathing and blinking and being. Even if you didn't know what to do with all the new things that came with falling in love with someone who didn't love you back. Falling in love with someone who loved the whole world too much meant there was little space for you. 

(He is someone that many people could fall in love with – probably have fallen in love with. You can see the way other friends of his toe the line of platonic. Ochako, Shoto – all of them, any of them.

And you pointedly ignore the way it makes rage and jealousy spread through your chest and down to your toes like molten lava.

He is not yours to claim, to take, or to love. He is not yours.)

You sat with those feelings for years, debating and thinking too hard about it for too long, before eventually deciding that his friendship was too important. Telling him how you felt would just ruin it, and you weren't willing to risk that. Your feelings for him were something that you would never tell him about. Even if they never went away, even if you ended up old and wrinkly and alone because of it – that would be fine. Because you would still be his friend, and that's all you needed anyway. There's no room between you and him and the world for a silly, little thing like love.

Every time you see him, you think you couldn't love him more. And then you see him again, and you know you can, because you do. And it's such a warm feeling, gooey and sweet like honey, it's almost dumb.

It makes you mad, how easy it is to love him; how hard he thinks it is to be loved, despite being the first to openly love anyone at any time. You wonder if he knows already, that your heart has moved on its own to make space for his beside it. That there's a hole carved in your chest just for him. If only he knew – if only you could tell him that you want to pour your soul into his hands. That you want him to let it seep through his fingers to the dirt, just so you could finally get relief in knowing he doesn't want it. You wish you could tell him so he could be too sweet and too kind when he says no, he doesn't love you back. Even if only to allow you a goddamn moment of clarity, so you could mourn a relationship that was never going to happen anyways.

With some weird, misplaced guilt in your chest, you wish you could fall out of love with him. You wish you could hate him.

But that's all a little melodramatic, you don't often find yourself thinking like that. He's a good friend, a good man, and a great Hero. You couldn't hate him, even if you tried. Those thoughts are reserved for nights alone, wine drunk and weepy and hoping that maybe one day he'll confirm all those tabloids about him and Ochako.

And for when you're hit with a quirk that makes flowers sprout in your lungs.

The villain hadn’t even been the one to hit you. It had been some toddler caught in the middle of the fight. He’d been scared, said so himself through his snot and tears when you leapt down to grab him, wings spread like a shield to protect him from rubble and debris. You remember him crying, asking for his mom, and pressing his hands to your chest. Too young to have control, his panic had his quirk going haywire. And then you were falling, tumbling down towards the concrete and choking on pretty, pink petals.

Everything had ended up fine, all things considered. Hitoshi had swung down and caught you and the boy. And you’d been practically shoved into an ambulance and taken away. And now you’re here, sitting in a private hospital room after being poked and prodded for over an hour. And all anyone can tell you is that you have a garden growing in your chest, and it's all for a man you know you have no chance with. They'll wither, you know, and you'll probably wither with them.

“The quirk in your system is similar to the hanahaki disease. I'm sure the quirk analyst has already explained it to you. Unfortunately, any romantic feelings you may be experiencing won't aid in your situation,” Doctor Kimura is kind when he speaks, eyes maybe too soft. “The flowers have already begun blooming, and you're likely to start coughing and vomiting within the next twenty four hours. Maybe sooner.”

“‘m not in love with anyone. There are no feelings to be unrequited,” you mutter, watching the way the doctor frets with his stethoscope. Your wings twitch behind you, heavy and hurt and begging to curl around you. The lie slips between your teeth easily, coated in pain and an aching tiredness. It's stupid, and you don't know why you do it. The quirk manifesting in your chest is proof enough of your feelings. Maybe it's humiliation. Maybe it's because saying it will make this all a little too real. Maybe you're just a coward.

Doctor Kimura hums, ignorant to your inner turmoil, and his fingers pause around his stethoscope before smoothing down over his crisp, white lab coat. You're reminded of your own clothes and hold back a wince at the sight of your torn and tattered hero suit. It feels out of place in a hospital; too dirty for such a sterile environment.

The heart monitor behind you mocks you, spiking with your pulse the very moment green eyes and green curls appear in your mind.

“The flowers in your lungs say otherwise,” he says, leaning just past you to click off the screen that shows your heart rate, “I won't force you to tell me who it is, that's none of my business. But, your health is and I seriously urge you to… resolve the issue. The quirk itself won't kill you, but the long-lasting effects can.”

“And if I don't confess? What happens then?”

“Unfortunately, due to lack of knowledge on the quirk, we don't know. The boy is still being checked out for any traumas, so we've decided to wait before asking his mother any questions regarding his quirk,” he clears his throat, turning to point at the screen of your scan results, “We did determine that the flowers growing inside your lungs are anemone, also known as windflowers.”

“Does that mean something?” your throat is sore already, and your voice catches as you speak. Doctor Kimura eyes you warily, and offers you a cup of water. After you've downed it, he sits down on the stool behind him.

“Typically, yes, but we can't be sure if it means anything under the influence of a quirk,” he says, “We can start you on some medication, they’ll help with the coughing and vomiting for now. But they won't work forever. Your best bet is to confess these feelings and get an answer back. We recommend you have a solid support system for something like this, is there anyone I can call?”

“No, I'm fine. Thanks,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi makes you take the next week off. And from the way he offers you a weak grin, you know Aizawa is really the one behind the decision. You accept, only because you know if you don’t someone will call Katsuki. Or, worse, Izuku. And having either of those men show up at your doorstep is literal nightmare fuel right now.

The time off is needed, though, may even be appreciated (if he hadn't forced it on you), because twenty-four hours after your hospital visit, nearly on the dot, you puke. Your cat yowls when you jerk up from your bed, gagging so violently your body shakes and your wings tremble. Petals are behind your teeth in seconds, and you, much like a child who's had too many sweets, puke into your hands. You gag again as it spills between your fingers and on to your comforter. This is a new low, even for you. Globs of bloody, mucus covered petals burn their way up your throat, and you can’t do much other than sit up fully and let it happen. Your cat had jumped away in time to be unscathed, and you thank whatever god will listen for not letting you puke on your fucking cat. The thanks is followed up with a big, fat fuck you for making you puke in the first place, though. Which evens you out, you think. Keeps you in a nice gray area.

The petals are soft in your palm, pretty even, despite the blood, and clearly from a fully bloomed flower. Your nose wrinkles. At the mess of petals and broken stems, and the weird, floral scent, heavy with copper low notes. Someone would buy this in a perfume, you’re sure. Some freak – probably a villain.

You gag once, twice. And after five full minutes of deep, painful breaths, you get up to clean. The blanket is ruined – a shame really. It had been expensive, and the very first thing you bought yourself when you got this apartment. A thick, down comforter, soft on your wings and a pretty shade of green.

(The comforter Izuku had helped you pick out, grinning as he said it matched his hair. But that was definitely not the reason you caved and bought it. And you do not cry as you stuff it into a trash bag.)

(You do cry. You cry and try to scrub the blood soaked stain from the fabric, and cry some more when you finally give up.)

The shower you take after is rewarding in a way, washing away tears from your cheeks and blood from your chin. You stay in long enough for the water to run cold, and then another ten minutes after that, until your fingers are weird and pruned. And when you get out, you sit in nothing but your towel, on your blanket-less bed. Your hair is still soaked, dripping cold water down your neck and on your shoulders, but you make no move to dry it. The wall is suddenly the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen, and you cannot pull your eyes from where your paint is peeling. Somewhere behind you, your phone buzzes with a call, and you pointedly do not move to answer it. The buzzing stops. You blink, sigh, sniff. The buzzing starts again. Out of irritation, your wings search the bed for your phone and scoot it across the sheets to your hand. Without looking, you answer.

“What,”

Izuku breathes your name, and you feel your stomach drop and your wings go poofy the way they always do when you hear his voice, “Hitoshi told me you were on leave for the next week. Is everything okay? Is it because of the quirk you were hit with last night? I can–”

“Who told you that?”

“Uh,” Izuku makes a long, slow, squeaking noise. “No one?”

“Who called you, Midoriya?” you grumble, finally tearing your eyes from the wall to glare at your own reflection. You've looked better, and you've certainly looked worse. The skin under your eyes is shadowed and puffy, swollen with exhaustion and your pitiful bout of tears, and your raw, chapped lips look one smile away from bleeding. There's a bruise coloring your cheekbone, and a cut to go with it. And your poor wings, damp from the shower and missing a few too many feathers.

Your few fans would call this look sexy. Rugged, if you will. At this point in your career, looking rundown and beat to hell is your brand in the same way that being an emotionally constipated asshole was Katsuki's brand, and being perpetually exhausted was Hitoshi's. You tilt your head back, trying to understand how people find this attractive. Nothing stands out to you, you just look like the human equivalent of a soggy piece of bread.

But hero fans will be hero fans, and you learned the hard way that they find pretty much anything attractive so long as it's their favorite hero. The fanart is proof enough. And your handful of fans happen to be the weirdest brand of freak there is, unfortunately for you.

(According to Mineta, who apparently has a secret account he uses to look at fanart of not only himself, but the rest of former class 1-A students, your very few fans have an ongoing argument about your relationship with Hitoshi. Some call you sibling-coded, and others are insistent that you both have wild, nasty sex after a good villain take-down.

Why Mineta knows this, you don't know. And you are not about to ask him to go into any more detail about it than he already has.

And neither he, nor the fans, need to know that yeah, a couple years ago, maybe you did fuck Hitoshi every so often. It was nothing big, just a way to let off steam. Because you have that thing for Izuku Midoriya, and Hitoshi has that thing for Katsuki Bakugo. And you are both hopeless, sad fools who hold each other too close for fear of letting the chill of being unloved by those you crave seep through the cracks.)

“It wasn't Hitoshi!” Izuku says quickly. You can picture him waving his hands around frantically as he speaks – Jesus, you need to get it together.

“I know it wasn't. Who was it?”

“I’m listed as your emergency contact,” Izuku says, “They called me when you were admitted last night.”

“My emergency contact has been Aizawa for a year, you liar,” you scoff, narrowing your eyes at your reflection. Izuku knows this, and even cried when you told him. But having the Number One Pro Hero as your emergency contact felt wrong. Selfish. So you had it switched, much to his dismay.

“It doesn't– you–” Izuku whines, and then quietly says, “Aizawa called me.”

“I'm gonna knock that old man's teeth out. The whole point of changing it was so you didn't get called,”

“He's just worried. We all are. The doctor said this could…” his voice tapers off, and you can feel the guilt eating away at you, “You could die?"

“I won't die,"

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Two days pass, and if you could eat, you'd be eating your words. You feel like you're already dead. The coughing and vomiting only get worse, as expected, and you are damn near glued to your toilet. The petals and stems come up all in one piece, full flowers that make macabre and deconstructed bouquets. You suck on ice chips to soothe your throat and drink water when you can, but haven't eaten solid food in so long you think your stomach is digesting itself. And your wings suffer too, weak and droopy and unable to do much other than drag behind you uselessly.

Katsuki, unsurprisingly, is the first to actually visit you during your ban from work. He does not call, or text, or even knock when he arrives. And you immediately regret ever giving him a key to your apartment. He hollers your name from the living room, and you manage a grunt back before turning to puke into your toilet. His palm startles you, warm between your wings, comforting and oddly kind.

“Bad time,” you wheeze between hacks and gags. The flowers floating in your toilet mock you, dancing between blood stained water and tears. You pluck a fully bloomed one from the bowl, holding it gently between your pointer and thumb and twisting it beneath the florescent lights of your bathroom.

“Nasty,” Katsuki grunts. His nose wrinkles, and you mirror the look as you slap your other hand up to flush. He leans back from you, balanced on his toes, “You look like shit. Is that a full fucking flower?”

“‘m fine. Why are you here?”

“Because you're obviously not fuckin’ fine, dumbass. This is you dying,”

“Can everybody knock it off with that shit? Fucking– I'm fine–” a gag, “So just–” a heave, “Go away .”

“This is disgusting,” Katsuku scoffs, completely ignoring you. He pulls the towel hanging over your shower rod and turns to wet it in your sink before lowering himself to a crouch beside you. With gentle hands, he tilts your face up and wipes at your lips and chin, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, “Are you about to cry?”

“Fuck no,” he grunts. The crack in his voice and the way his lip trembles betrays him. He sniffs, “The stench of your puke is stinging my eyes. You look like shit, by the way. What's wrong with your wings?”

“Yeah, you said that already, thanks,” you snort and spread a wing out, “They're fine, just weird right now because I'm sick. And I haven't been able to, like, preen or whatever.”

“Can you still fly?”

“Negative,”

Katsuki stares at your outstretched wing. Your bathroom is significantly smaller like this as it is, with your wing stuck out completely to touch the wall opposite of you. But you feel more than cramped when he sucks his teeth and stands to his full height, filling the space with his wide shoulders. He takes one long, deep breath before turning on his heel, “I'm calling Deku.”

“I'll kill you,” you gasp, nearly slipping on your bath mat as you scramble to your feet to follow him.

“Yeah?” he prompts. Sarcasm drips from his teeth when he turns to look at you, “I don't think you can do much of anything in this state. Look at you, can't even fucking fly.”

“Fuck you,”

“You're killing yourself,” he presses a finger to your forehead, “Do you fucking get that? You're killing yourself and, what, expecting us to just be fine with it? Him? All because you love him? This is killing you, and it'll kill him when you die.”

“I'm not about to be coerced into a goddamn love confession because of some stupid kid's quirk,”

“He feels bad,” he says.

“Yeah, Deku always feels bad,”

“No, idiot, the kid. Mindfuck said he and his mom stopped by the agency. He wanted to say sorry. Made a mess cryin’ all over the place,”

“Once I get my shit sorted I'll find him to tell him I'm fine,” you gnaw on your cheek, “He doesn't need to feel bad. He was scared. He could've died.”

“ You could die,”

“I know. It's kind of a sick quirk when you think about it,” you nod, eyeing the way Katsuki’s fingers fly across his phone screen. You scoff and point an accusatory finger at him, “Stop texting him.”

“Don't fucking tell me what to do. And don't point at me,” Katsuki pockets his phone anyways, offering you a scowl, “I was messaging Hitoshi.”

“Woah, first name basis. So you've fucked then, yeah? He's good with his hands,“ you grin and raise the rest of your fingers to wiggle at him suggestively, “Did he do the thing where he–”

“Jesus fucking– stop, what is wrong with you?” his annoyed huff sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Your grin softens around the edges and you stretch a wing out to tickle the tip of his nose at the same time that you poke a finger into his stomach.

“That wasn't a no,” your laugh is meant to lighten the mood, but it turns into a nasty, gurgling cough that immediately ruins it instead. You bat away Katsuki's hands when he raises them to hover around you, “I'm glad Hitoshi got his happy ending.”

Katsuki's face crumples and he turns away from you to try to hide it. You catch it though, the way heartbreak spills out from his eyes and over the bridge of his nose. You've felt it enough to know how it looks, and you feel sick knowing he looks like that because of you.

“You could have yours too, dumbass,” he lets out a rough breath that melts into a groan and tilts his head back to stare at your ceiling. “You know that right? You can't be that dense. Even– even if it isn't with Izuku. You can still be happy.”

“I know that. I'm perfectly happy the way everything is now,” you wave the flower dismissively at him and he reaches out to pluck it from your fingers.

“You're dying,” he says again, brows furrowing when he holds the flower up to look at it.

“Yeah, for the hundredth time since I was fourteen,” you shrug, shuffling past him towards your couch. “I'll be fine. I always am.”

Just as your ass lands on the plush cushion of your couch, a knock sounds on your door. You whip your head up to stare at Katsuki, who grimaces and tosses the flower down onto your coffee table, “I didn't think he'd get here so fast.”

“Who the fuck is here?” you hiss. He sucks his teeth when another knock echoes through the space between you. “Katsuki, if Deku is on the other side of that door–”

“It's the old man and mindfuck, relax,”

“ Two? You invited two people to my apartment? Should've fucking called Deku, Jesus , what the fuck?” you groan, slumping down into your couch as your front door opens.

“Consider it an intervention,” Aizawa drawls, pausing in your entryway with Hitoshi so they can each toe off their boots. “Since you're so set on letting yourself die.”

“I'm not–” you cough, turning away from them to hack into your elbow. A tickle in your throat makes you gag, and you slap a hand against Katsuki's hip, “I'm gonna puke– I'm– get me a–”

A trash can is shoved beneath your chin just as petals and stems crowd your tongue. You wheeze between each stretch of flowers crawling their way out, batting away the six hands reaching into your space. Hitoshi scoffs beside you, smacking your hand back. His fingers graze the back of your neck as he gathers your hair, sending a shiver down your spine. You shake your head, leaning forward more and he clicks his tongue, following you.

“Get off'a me,” you slur, slapping more at his hands. 

“Let me hold your fucking hair, you heathen,” he grunts, pulling back the hair on your forehead, “You hair is so greasy, when's the last time you showered?”

You lean back into the cushion and his hands, humming out a rasping breath when he scratches at your scalp, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, you're welcome,”

“Freaks,” Katsuku rumbles, landing heavily beside you. When you hiccup, jostling with the movement, Aizawa shoots him a disapproving look that he withers under.

You snicker into your fingers while you wipe at your mouth, “Don't be jealous, Katsuki,”

“Fuck you,”

“Enough,” Aizawa sighs, balancing in a crouch on his toes in front of you. “Feeling better?”

“No,” you laugh, leaning around him to set the trash can down. “No, I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit,” he nods.

“Thanks, wow. I'm so glad you're all here to tell me how bad I look, I really love this,”

Hitoshi's hands leave your hair and you twist around to press your cheek to the back of the couch and watch him. He steps through your kitchen like it's his own, collecting a cup and turning to fill it with water. He smiles when you catch his eye, pushing his fingers through your hair when he's close enough to touch.

“Drink this and take your meds,” he forces the cup in your palm.

“Get them for me?” you ask sweetly, propping your chin in your hand and fluttering your lashes up at him.

“Where are they?” he laughs, pushing lightly at your forehead.

“In my room, by my phone,”

“I'll grab them,” Aizawa grunts as he stands, “When's the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday,” you guess, “Morning. I think. Couldn't keep it down though.”

“You need to eat,” he says over his shoulder, disappearing down your hallway, “Make yourself useful, Katsuki, and make her something light.”

“I'm always fucking useful,” Katsuki scoffs, but he stands anyway, shouldering past Hitoshi in a way that makes you grin and Hitoshi flush. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I really won't be able to keep anything down,” you mutter, balancing the cup between your knees.

“You still have to try,” he grumbles, gesturing towards what Hitoshi it busy pulling out of your fridge and cupboards, “What the fuck is this shit for?”

“Oh, me,” he says, “I came straight from patrol, haven't eaten yet. You mind, birdie?”

“Please, eat it,” you grunt, hissing when you sit back on your wings wrong, “It’ll go to waste if you don’t.”

A comfortable silence settles over you. Aizawa returns quickly, popping the lid on your pill bottle to shake two into your waiting palm. After you’ve swallowed, he refills your glass and settles beside you. Hitoshi and Katsuki bicker quietly in your kitchen, heatless insults thrown and taken with ease. Your TV is turned on at some point and reruns of Sailor Moon drone on, filling the empty corners of your apartment.

“You like this show?” you ask, nudging your wing into Aizawa's arm. He rolls his eyes, lifting his arm so you can crowd his space, mindful of your wings.

“Eri and Hizashi watch it,” he shrugs, “I don't dislike it. But I've never paid enough attention to confidently say I'm a fan.”

“I think you could be if you gave it a chance,”

“I'll keep that in mind, kiddo,” he turns to press his lips to your brow, “We still have to talk about this.”

“I know,”

“Who is it?”

You go quiet, discomfort seeping into your muscles when Hitoshi and Katsuki join you both in the living room. Katsuki sets a plate of toast and a bowl of applesauce down in front of you as Hitoshi sets his own food down. His bowl of instant ramen looks suspiciously delicious, almost gourmet, and you have an inkling he had nothing to do with that. The boys settle shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the opposite side of your coffee table, long legs kicking out to tangle with your ankles.

It's humiliating, you think, having to bare your soul out to people because of a quirk accident. Even if it is your friends and chosen family, people you've known for years and trust with your life, it's still embarrassing. But you do it anyway, with cotton in your mouth and sweat on your palms.

“Izuku,” you say softly, leaning forward to snag a piece of toast. “It's always been Izuku.”

“Of course,” Aizawa huffs, scratching at his scruff.

“You know,” Hitoshi says between loud slurps, “I'm pretty sure he feels the same. What are you so afraid of?”

“Fuck off, I'm not afraid,” you scoff, tossing the last bite of your toast at him. It smacks his forehead and lands in his bowl with a cartoonish plunk! that makes him frown. “He's the number one hero in Japan. I'm not afraid that he doesn't feel the same because that doesn't matter. It would never work.”

“Why not?”

“This isn't a fucking therapy session,” you sway as you stand, chest tight and wings fluttering as if to catch you. Aizawa catches your elbow when you stumble over his feet. “I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine,”

“I can handle it–”

“No. You can't. If you could, you would've by now,” Aizawa's tone is stern, cold, and you tilt your chin up to scowl at him when he stands. “I won't allow you to kill yourself over some boy .”

“Allow me?” you hiss, “Last I checked, I was a grown ass adult. And he's not ‘some boy’, he's my friend. Your former student, and the number one hero of Japan.”

“Right now, he is just some boy, and you are–”

“Your student. I'm not your daughter and you are not my fucking father, Shouta!”

“I know that,” he says slowly, “Do you?”

Behind you, your wings flutter, twitching with your irritation. Your lungs feel heavy, like they're full of lead, rumbling with every sharp, shaky intake of breath. Your facade of anger must crack, showing the hurt beneath it because Aizawa’s own frustration melts. The mean twist to his mouth straightens and his eyes go soft when he steps forward to catch your face in his hands.

“Listen to me,” he says quietly, “I know I'm not your father. But I also know I'm the closest thing that you have.”

“I'm sorry,” you curl a hand around his wrist, feeling for his pulse. You fold easily for him, too soft and gooey to be mad at him for too long, “You're right, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“You're scared and angry. It's okay to feel that way, even as a hero,” he hums, pulling you into his chest. You go willingly, sighing when he curls a hand around your head to press you closer, “I know you feel like accepting or asking for help makes you weak. It doesn't, I promise it doesn't.”

“I don't want to die,” you whisper it like it's a secret. Like it's unexpected for a young woman, a human, to fear death. Like it makes you weak. “I'm scared, Shouta.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, heaving a deep breath that you feel against your cheek, “I know it's scary. Love always is.”

“Just– give me a few days,” you plead, voice trembling, “Please. Just a few more days. Then I'll call him. I'll tell him.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Unfortunately for you, things don't always go to plan. When the front wall of your apartment blows inward not even two hours after everyone leaves, you truly think God wants you dead. For which reason, you're unsure. There are many options, each full of their own potential as to why any higher being would maybe want your head.

It happens so fast, you don't have time to react, you don't even think you would've been able to react anyways in the state you're in.

You're dozing on your couch, half asleep and too lazy to get up and get into bed. Somewhere behind you the bell on your unnamed cat's collar jingles when he hops up onto your counter. And not even a second later, your shit gets absolutely rocked. The explosion sends you and the couch you're on backwards and you can hear your windows shatter. The collar jingles again.

Confusion clouds your senses, a million thoughts filter through your head. Is this a targeted attack, or was your apartment just a casualty? Are there already other Heroes on the scene, or are you gonna have to try to fight? How many of them are out there? What are their quirks? You can't fight like this, you know you can't. You probably can’t even move the couch that’s flipped on top of you, caging you in and pinning down your right wing. Through the chaos of sirens and settling debris, you hear Izuku shout your name and you can feel your panic wash from your skin at the same time that your lungs go heavy.

“Deku,” you wheeze, slapping a hand out from your hiding spot. Something wet drips from your hairline into your eyes, you don't bother wiping it away, “I'm– my wing is stuck. I–I can't–”

“Hold on,” he says gently, falling to his knees. Pressing his chest to your floor, he lowers himself flat to look at you. “It's more than just the couch on top of you, I've called for Red Riot to come help me dig you out.”

“Get my cat,” you rasp, ignoring how your head pounds, “Find him first.”

“Your–”

“My cat, Izuku, find my fucking cat,”

“I can't leave you here like this,” he frets, eyebrows pulling together. Your head hurts, it's all you can think about beside your cat and Izuku. On repeat in your mind, head hurts, cat, Izuku. Head hurts, cat, Izuku. Head hurts, really really hurts. Where the hell is my cat? My chest is killing me, Izuku won't stop staring. My cat is gonna get out. I think I'm gonna die. I think I'm dying.

You choose to ignore the last part your brain spits at you.

“If you let my cat die or get out, I'll never forgive you,” you hiss, groaning when the weight of whatever is on you shifts, settling heavier over your wing. You can hear the crunch, can feel the pain melt across your shoulders and down to your toes. You grit your teeth, hold back a shout, and squeeze your eyes closed, swallowing the bile in your throat.

“I– okay, okay, I'll find him– you– and…”

You think he says more, you know he does, but your head is throbbing and your chest feels ready to explode. His words begin to mince, garble, like he's underwater. Or maybe you are. You can't tell. Everything is fuzzy, distorted. The last thing you see is someone's bare chest as they lean over you and the shock of red hair on his head, you'd recognize Eijiro anywhere, even half dead. The collar jingles, the warmth of another person curls around you. Someone is speaking, telling you to stay awake, keep your eyes open. But you’re so cold and so tired, and something like sleep takes over.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

It's all so humiliating. Falling in love, feeling that emotion so intensely. Being so mentally weak from being in love. Being so physically weak because of it, even if it is because of a quirk. You feel so young again, fragile and fifteen and scared to speak or even breathe too loud.

Everything is green. It's in his eyes, his hair. You feel it in your chest, in your heart, in your blood. Green is a good color, a good feeling. It's all you see, feel, taste.

It's his hair. It's his eyes. It's his hero suit. It's the blanket you bought because of him, and the green in your own hero suit. It's the grass you laid on back in high school with him. You've spent years subconsciously weaving bits and pieces of him into your life just so you can have something, anything.

You see him in it, you see it in you.

It's love. The green in your life is love, and you are so scared. Of dying because of it, of losing it.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You're fading in and out of consciousness. The sound of the city makes your head spin. Your sense of time is off, and it's unnerving, it’s scary . The first time you muster up the strength to blink open your eyes, you're mid-air, limp and jostling against Izuku's chest as he jumps from rooftop to rooftop. There's something sticky on your forehead, your hands, your spine. Blood, you can assume. And the fresh, warm liquid that drips onto your cheeks are tears, ones that aren't from you.

You only open your eyes two more times after that. Once when a doctor forces you to, so he can shine a light in your eyes. And the second when someone starts to reset the bones in your wing. For this, you do scream. The pain is the worst you've ever felt, and you can only weep and wail and flail until they hold you down and sedate you.

Behind the conglomeration of medical professionals, Izuku watches. He watches you twitch and tremble in pain. He listens to the way you wail, he sees the way your spine contorts and arches off the table in pain. He watches the controlled chaos the doctors maintain as they shout out directions and instructions to each other.

When the monitor they have hooked up to you starts beeping rapidly and then flatlining, Izuku thinks he may be sick. One doctor says you're coding, another says to push some epi and charge the defibrillator paddles. It’s all medical jargon Izuku doesn’t need to understand to know that you’re dying. Someone starts compressions and shouts to get him the hell out, and then a nurse is pressing at his shoulders and leading him out of the room and toward the waiting room. He collapses into a seat and hangs his head in his hands until Katsuki, Hitoshi and Aizawa find him.

“What the hell happened?” Hitoshi asks, full of fear and pain. And Izuku breaks. He cannot stop the waterfall of tears pouring from his eyes when he stands to greet them. He can't catch his breath. Katsuki catches him at the elbows when he sways in place.

“Deku, what is going on?”

“She– there was an attack. And she was caught under some debris. I don't–” he presses a hand over his chest, twisting the fabric there and curls in on himself while he weeps, “She coded and they kicked me out of the room. I don't know– I don't know if she's even alive. I don't– I love her so much and–”

Katsuki lets him press green curls into his chest. Thick, scarred fingers nearly tear his shirt with how tightly Izuku is holding onto him. The fear in his chest is all encompassing, the edges of his vision darken. And all he can do is cry into Katsuki’s chest.

Eventually, after some hours have passed and Izuku has cried himself into a migraine, a doctor steps into the waiting area. Hitoshi’s hand tightens over Katsuki's. Izuku keeps his head down with his hands pressed over his mouth. Aizawa stands to greet her.

“How is she?” he asks.

“Is she alive?” Katsuki breathes, voice cracking.

“It was very touch and go, but she's okay. She didn't need any surgery, but we did have to put her under to finish resetting the broken bones in her left wing, so she's intubated right now to help her breathe. The majority of her injuries were minor, most of which we fixed up with healing quirks. We have her on some medication for the hanahaki disease in her lungs. Once that's under control, we're expecting a near full recovery,” the doctor smiles softly, jerking her head back, “She's in the ICU now. Would you like to see her?”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

The next time you actually wake up is in a hospital bed. The sky is still dark, but you have a feeling it's been at least a day since the attack, maybe more. Your chest feels like it's been packed with cotton and all you can think about is your cat. Through the slim window on the door, you can see two men. Standing guard you think, they always do that no matter who the hurt hero is. You've been there before, played bodyguard for other heroes. Snuck them greasy food and sugary drinks when they complained about hospital food. Held their hands when they openly wept over lost lives and limbs, when they've been so hurt they're forced into retirement.

Based on what you can see of their uniforms, you can guess it's Katsuki and Hitoshi. You wonder how long you've been out, but can't find your voice to call for either of them.

“You're awake,” Izuku’s voice is groggy, shockingly loud in the eerie silence of your room despite not being more than a whisper. You jump, startled, and turn your head to look at him over the oxygen mask strapped to your face. You reach for the mask, weak fingers scrambling to remove it and he jumps up from his seat to curl his own over yours and pry them away, “Hey, hey, don't take that off. You're okay.”

“How long–”

“It's been two days,” he says slowly, “Your injuries from the attack were mostly minor. They used a healing quirk on most of them. But–”

“My lungs,” you rasp, “I'm here for my lungs.”

His fingers twitch around yours and you only then realize he never let go of your hand. You let yourself indulge, tightening your grip until you're sure it hurts. He looks terrible, like he hasn't slept or showered in days. The shadows under his eyes rival yours and his curls are weighed down and flattened in some parts with grease and dirt. He must've stayed after the attack.

“My cat?” you change the subject. He lets you.

“I got him,” he tries for a smile and fails, “He's fine, not even a scratch. Present Mic came and picked him up, Eri has him right now.”

“She can have him forever,” you croak.

“Don't. Please don't say that,”

“Izuku–”

“Get some sleep,” he says, “We can talk more tomorrow.”

You do sleep. He's gone when you wake up again a few hours later, after the sun has begun to rise. Hopefully to shower and get some sleep of his own.

He doesn't come back.

The talk never comes.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“You need to tell him,” Katsuki’s face is turned away from you, dark and shadowed. You think he may actually be crying this time, you can hear it when he says your name, the heartbreak and the fear. His voice breaks when he says, “You aren't gonna survive this.”

It's the fourth time he's said this since you woke up. And he hasn't actually looked at you once. You get it, you probably wouldn't be able to look either.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi doesn't leave. He's either at your side, attempting to sleep on the tiny couch across from your hospital bed, or standing guard outside your door. He looks bad, maybe just as bad as you're sure you do.

“Go home,” you wheeze, “Get some sleep, REM sleep, not those fake ass naps you take. Shower, eat. Take care of yourself.”

“No,” he's slouched in the chair beside your bed, feet propped up beside yours. The magazine over his face has Izuku on the cover.

You remember him talking about that shoot, how excited he was to be wrapped in all his friends' merch. He looks like a mess of color. He must've picked which pieces he wanted. Baby pink Uravity themed sweatpants with a white stripe along the side, mismatched red and blue Shouto themed shoes, an orange and army green Dynamight t-shirt. And maybe the ugliest shade of yellow you've ever seen on his Chargebolt sweatshirt, not that you'd ever say that to Denki. You’re shocked they let him wear that for the cover of such a popular magazine. But you can admit, he pulls it off in some weird, almost kitsch-y way.

(You remember fondly the way he had whined about your lack of merch. He'd gone on and on, begging you to make anything for him. A shirt, a hat, anything. He had merch from all his classmates, he said, he needed to finish the collection with something of yours.)

“Hitoshi,” you reach over to pull the magazine down and toss it to the tiled floor.

“I'm not leaving,” he grunts, rough but not irritated or upset. Just tired, scared. “I'm fine right here.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

No one else knows you're here except a select few. Aizawa told you it's a well kept secret, that you're listed under an alias. It makes you wonder if that villain attack really was personal. Someone who wants you dead must've heard you were almost there and too weak to fight. You want to ask him about it, ask for the case file. You want all the information.

You ask him about your lungs instead.

“The doctor has you on some medication for your lungs that's keeping the infection and flowers at bay,” he drawls. His fingers are curled around your ankle, feeling for the pulse point there.

“That's why I haven't puked,”

“Yes,” he nods, “As for your wing, you'll need to do some physical therapy. But they don't want you up and moving yet, not until your lungs have healed. Waiting too long can impact how well your wing heals, so–”

“I'm not telling him,” you huff, “You can't make me. Make sure Eri takes care of–”

“Absolutely not,” his fingers stop petting and squeeze instead, “Don't talk like you're dying. It's freaking the boys out. It's freaking me out. Stop.”

“Sorry,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Eri visits you. She's sweet, still soft spoken even as a teenager. You appreciate that about her, and wonder how she did it. How she kept all the soft and rounded edges after everything she's been through. You wish you could’ve done the same. Then again, you never really had soft edges to begin with.

Present Mic comes with her, grinning when they tell you they smuggled your cat in.

“Why haven't you named him yet?” Eri whispers, eyes wide and sparkling while she watches him knead at your thigh. You hum, rubbing a knuckle under his chin.

“Dunno,” you say back, just as quietly, “It's been a year but I still feel like I don't know him well enough to name him. Do you wanna?”

“Name him?”

“Yeah, go for it,”

Eri thinks for all of one second before she grins and says, “What about Hiro?”

“Sure,” you shrug, “Hiro. Cute. A bit on the nose though.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

On the sixth day of being stuck in your hospital bed, Izuku visits again. He's quiet, eyes glassy and red rimmed like he had cried the whole way here. After he left the first day you woke, he hadn't come back. Not while you were awake at least. Katsuki mentioned briefly that he's been back a few times, calling him a freak for watching you sleep like he hadn't been doing the exact same thing. You fiddle with the nasal oxygen tube you'd been downgraded to, readjusting how it sits behind your ears.

“Hitoshi told me,” is how he greets you. Panic rises like bile in your chest, you can't do much but stare. He speaks again, fills the silence, “It wasn't his place to do that, and I'm sorry. But he's scared, Kacchan too. Why didn't you tell me?”

You open your mouth and his phone rings. His shoulders go stiff, his fingers twitch. That is why. One of the reasons why, at least. You're selfish and if you let it happen, you'll want him all the time. Every time his phone rings, every time he goes on a week-long mission, you won’t be able to handle it. You barely handle it as it is.

“You should answer that,” you grunt in lieu of a real answer. It’s maybe a little passive aggressive too, but whatever.

“It's fine,” he whispers once the ringing stops.

“They need you, Deku,”

“There are plenty of other heroes,”

“None of them are you,”

“I love you,” he whispers, so quiet you're surprised you catch it. It makes your lungs tight, your chest twist. Then, just barely louder, “I love you, let me love you. Let me help you.”

“I don't want to love you,” you sigh. The cheap, hospital grade blanket in your palm is close to tearing with how tightly you've got it in your grip, “I wish I didn't. I don't want you to love me.”

“Just,” he groans, laying the heels of his palms to his eyes and pressing in hard, “We don't have to– to get married, we don’t even have to date. It doesn't have to be a big thing. Just let me– it's my job. It's my job to save people. And I want to save you, maybe more than anyone else. Let me save you, even if you don't let me love you. Tell me what to do. I just– I don't– I can't just watch you die. Please. Please.”

“Nothing changes,” you insist, “We won't work.”

“Okay,” he looks like he wants to say more, like he wants to argue. He looks angry. But he just nods, gnaws at his bottom lip, and says again, “Okay.”

“I have to confess,” you turn your head away from him, press your cheek to the shitty pillow under your head, “And you have to confess back. Or reject me. The doctor says it'll clear up either way, that's how the quirk works. Please reject me.”

“No,”

You turn to stare at him, watch the way his curls move and bounce when he shakes his head, “What?”

“No, I'm not going to reject you. I'm not lying to make you feel better,” his hand is warm around your ankle, “I'll pretend it never happened after. But I'm not going to say I don't love you. I can't pretend I'm not in love with you. Of course I love you, how could I not? How could I spend years with you, learning you, watching you, and not love you? No. I won't reject you.”

“Okay,” you say, inhaling slowly.

“Okay,” he nods, “Ready?”

“I love you, Izuku,” you whisper, “I have loved you for years.”

“I love you,” he says back, stepping around your hospital bed to fall to his knees by your side. His lip trembles and you look away with the rush of air you get to your lungs. He presses his forehead to the blanket beside you and cries, and when he can't see you, you cry too. You curl your fingers into his hair and cry and mourn the relationship that will never happen.

The flowers come all at once. The doctor said this would happen, he called it the final purge. (And had not been impressed when you laughed and called it dramatic.) All the flowers have been uprooted and need to get out. You barely turn away from him in time, and you again find yourself thanking whatever god will listen for not letting you almost claim another victim with your weird lung-vomit. It comes and comes, tearing your throat up as it goes. And Izuku is there, pulling your hair away from your face and rubbing a warm hand between your wings.

He is so kind. He is everything you want and you find yourself almost immediately regretting everything you said. You love him so much, you want to let him love you. And you want to love him. You want that nasty, gooey type of love. The fluffy kind. The good morning and goodnight texts every single day. The I love you mores, the dancing in the kitchen and breakfast in bed type love. The kind where you're so comfortable, you don't close the door to pee. You want to kiss him first thing in the morning, morning breath and all. You want his face to be the first thing you see when you wake up, and the last thing you see before you go to sleep.

You want Izuku more than you've ever wanted anything else in the world.

And you think you need him to want you too. You need him to love you. You always have and you were stupid for ever thinking otherwise.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku takes your boundaries too seriously. He leaves after you puke yourself into a near comatose state, and he doesn't come back during the two weeks you spend recuperating. Not to check on you, not to see you through your physical therapy. And he isn't there when you're told you can fly again, when you're discharged and told you're healthy again. You think your chest hurts more now than it did when it had a bed of flowers growing in it.

You don't reach out to him either. Katsuki lets it slip that he's angry, angrier with you than he's ever been because all he wants is to love you.

(“So tell her that,” Katsuki scoffs, sliding a bowl of katsudon across his counter. This is the fifth time in an hour he's had to listen to Izuku bitch and whine about how he feels. He's seriously considering manslaughter.

“I did,” Izuku spits, uncharacteristically short tempered and irritated, “I did tell her. And she said no. She told me she wished she didn't love me, and she didn't want me to love her. She is so goddamn stubborn.”

Katsuki is more annoyed than surprised, “I think she’s just scared.”

“She's stubborn–”

“Okay, I fucking get it! She's stubborn, and so are you! Pull your balls out of your back pocket and man the hell up, or shut the hell up!” Katsuki barks, slamming a sparking palm against the marble. Izuku's glare does not scare him. He takes a deep breath, remembers what his therapist taught him, and counts to three. He’s calmer when he says, “What does that say about you? She was so scared to tell you she loved you that she died. Fucking talk to her about it and quit whining. She's the one in the hospital, not you. Try thinking about it all from her perspective.”

“Kacchan–”

“Don't Kacchan me, you asshole,” Katsuki says, “You think you're the only one affected by all this? She's my friend too, and Hitoshi's, and we aren't sitting here all angry at her. This is your mess now, it's your responsibility to fucking fix it.”)

“Called you stubborn,” Katsuki snorts, feeling oddly fond, “Just call him, talk about it.”

“Thanks, jackass. I hadn't thought of that,” you scoff, leaning past him to slap the ground floor button on the elevator, “Of course I've called him. He isn't answering.”

“Just keep calling. He'll break eventually,”

“Dunno if I want him to. What the hell do I even say if he answers? That I'm an actual fucking idiot? That I changed my mind? I wouldn’t trust me, so I don’t see how he would,” you groan and lean back against the elevator wall, watching the floor numbers change. “This is why I wasn't gonna say anything. Now it's all different and I may have lost my best friend.”

“Oh, he's your best friend? Go stay on his couch while your place is being rebuilt then,”

“Okay, are we in middle school? Didn't mean to hurt your feelings, bestie,”

“Call me that again and I'll rip your tongue from your throat,”

“You are so bipolar, good fucking lord. You wanna be my best friend, you have to live with the nicknames,” you laugh, “And, no offense but, Hitoshi is my actual best friend if we're gonna get technical. You didn't even speak to me until third year.”

“You weren't in the hero course until third year, that isn't fair!”

“I was still friends with your whole class! And I fought with you in the war. And Hitoshi has been inside of me,” you grin when Katsuki's cheeks go pink and he scowls at you, “Gave me some of the best orgasms in my life, so he gets extra brownie points.”

“I hope the cable of this elevator snaps and we both die instantly,”

“Asshole,”

“Bite me,”

The elevator dings and you straighten from your slouched position as the doors slide open. Aizawa and Hitoshi are both waiting for you, offering twin smiles when you walk towards them.

“Look at you,” Hitoshi grins, cupping your face in his hands, “You look good. Healthy. You good to go?”

“Mm, yeah. Just gotta sign some stuff at the front desk and I'll be all set,”

“Okay, pigeon,” he presses a wet smooch to your forehead before releasing you and ushering you towards the desk.

The paperwork takes all of five minutes and then you're practically running outside. The fresh air outside the hospital feels borderline orgasmic as it enters your lungs. After not flying for far too many weeks, you’re nearly vibrating with excitement. The first flutter of your wings sends a jolt of exhilaration down your spine, but before you can take off Aizawa wraps his scarf around your ankle.

“What the hell, dude?”

“Be rational,” he grunts, “Flying here will attract too much attention. And do not call me ‘dude’, that's disrespectful.”

“Whatever,” you huff and shove your hands into your sweatshirt pocket, “Fine. Dude.”

“Have you talked to Deku?” his voice lowers as he steps closer and releases his grip on you. You shrug, tilting your face up to soak in the sun.

“No,”

“You should,” he says, “He's going on a mission soon.”

“How long will he be gone?”

“A week, at least. Longer if things go awry. And things tend to go awry with him,”

“He doesn't want to talk to me,”

“He doesn't have to talk, he just has to listen. Make him listen,” he murmurs, “You've always been good at that.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You stop by the rubble of your apartment before going to Katsuki's. Clean up hasn't even begun yet and you grimace as you toe over glimmering glass, chunks of drywall, and broken bits of brick. Your couch is where it landed after Eijiro pulled it off of you, torn and bloody, and you take a moment to mourn it. There are a few feathers scattered on the floor a few feet away from it, likely where you had been pinned down. The wall that had been blown in is still an open space, just one with caution tape pulled across haphazardly. Just looking at it makes your lungs tighten and your wing throb.

“What a fucking dump,” Katsuki grunts, kicking at the debris by his feet.

“I want the case file on the guy that did this,” you mutter, leaning forward on your tiptoes to peek out the hole. “He fucked up the whole block.”

“I'll have Deku send it over to my agency,”

“Thanks,” you nod and take a step off the ledge. Katsuki makes a panicked noise, rushing over and scowling when you turn and grin, “Chill, I'm good. See? Wings work just fine, just wanna look at the damage.”

“Be fucking careful,” he grumbles. “Why are we here anyways?”

“Clothes. It's hard to find shirts and stuff for people with wings. And expensive,” you hum, fluttering past him towards the hallway, “My bedroom should be pretty much untouched. Gotta grab a few things and we can go.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Katsuki doesn't actually make you sleep on his couch. His guest room is made up for you, complete with not one, but two, baskets on the dresser, a fresh bed set on the bed and a brand new pair of house slippers by the closet door. The first basket is small, filled to the brim with differing toiletries. You snicker and finger through it, giving him a mental kudos for picking out decent shampoo and conditioner. The second basket is bigger and has various snacks in it. Your favorites, you notice.

“You got me welcome baskets?”

“I didn't get you shit. The food is from my mom and the other shit is from my assistant. And they're ‘I'm glad you didn't die’ baskets,” he scoffs, glaring at something over your shoulder. The gleam in his eye betrays him, you can't stop yourself from teasing just a little.

“Right, and who told your assistant to do that?” you laugh and yelp when he pinches your waist. “Okay! Okay, sorry. Tell your mom and assistant I said thank you.”

“Whatever. I'm going to make lunch,”

“For me too?”

“Obviously,”

“This is why you're my best friend,” you flutter your lashes up at him and pout your lips in a way you hope will make him laugh. You know you've succeeded when he presses his whole hand to your face to push you away.

“Shut up. Go shower,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi sets up a meeting with the little boy for you the day after you get out of the hospital. He’d argued at first, told you to rest and heal more. But you push and insist. It’s important. The kid needs to know you aren’t upset, he deserves to know. So you push and push until Hitoshi inevitably gives in and calls the mother. He tells you to be at Katsuki’s agency by noon. Katsuki forces you to get there by eleven.

“They’re here,” Katsuki grunts, hand warm on your back. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. He's, what, five?”

“Four,” Aizawa drawls.

“And three quarters,” Hitoshi tacks on, grinning when Aizawa rolls his eyes and you snort. “He's in the conference room with his mom.”

The door is all glass and you take a minute to watch him. He's small for his age, you think. Maybe. You actually don't know, can't actually tell. All kids are small to you. The only kid you have any real experience with is Eri, and she was always so small because of her situation, so mature too. Always so gentle and wise, too wise. You don't know anything about kids, but this kid is small .

He's sitting politely in a chair that’s four sizes too big for him next to his mom, who looks young. She’s saying something to him, pushing the wispy hairs from his eyes and then smiling and pointing a finger towards you. You take that as your cue to go in. They both stand as you enter, bending deeply at the waist.

“Oh, don't,” you gasp, fluttering over to them and hovering uncertain hands out in front of you, “Please, really, no need to bow.”

“Thank you for making time for us,” his mother says quietly as she straightens, “Asahi feels terrible. He appreciates the chance to apologize.”

“I don’t need an apology, really. I just wanted to come show you both that I’m okay. What's your name?” you wonder, holding your hand out towards her. She blinks down at it a few times before seemingly deflating in relief and touching her palm to yours.

“Ito,” she shares, “Ito Hana. But, please, call me Hana.”

“Right,” you nod, offering her a gentle smile, “It's fantastic to meet you Hana. And you too Asahi. You've got a powerful quirk, kid.”

Asahi's lower lip trembles and he tumbles forward to press his face into your tummy before his mother can stop him, blubbering unnecessary apologies into your shirt, “I'm so sorry Ms. Aviator! I didn't mean to–to quirk you! I didn't mean to–’

“Hey, hey, no tears,” you whisper, detaching yourself enough to fall to your knees in front of him. You make a big show of taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, so he can hear it, “I'm all good. You hear that? My lungs are fine, kiddo.”

“You aren't mad?” he snivels and scrubs at his cheeks, smearing tears and snot across his face. His own breathing is unsteady, and you urge him to take a deep breath too. Together, you count as you breathe. His trembling slows, his breathing evens out, and you speak again.

“No,” you coo and pull your sleeve up over your thumb to help wipe the snot from his face, holding back a grimace when it just makes it worse, “No, I'm not mad. Accidents happen. And it's silly to get mad over accidents, isn't it?”

“My doctor says my quirk can make people bleed flowers from here,” he mumbles, jabbing two of his little fingers over the center of your chest, “Did it make you bleed like that?”

“Um,” you flit your eyes up over his shoulder, gauging his mother. She nods once, so you look back at him, “Yeah. I did for a little bit.”

“It's scary,” he whimpers. Behind him, his mother presses the knuckles of her hand to her lips and closes her eyes. You exhale a shaky breath when his tears well up again, beading over his lash line and he says, “Everyone says my quirk is scary.”

“It can be. Any quirk can be scary. But nothing scares me,” you smile when he gives you a look like he doesn't believe you. “Your quirk is only scary because you don't have control yet. But that’s okay. My friend Red Riot’s quirk was scary before he could control it. And Tsukuyomi, and even Deku. But when they learned to control it, it wasn’t scary anymore.”

“Mama says I'll get control when I get bigger,” he agrees. Then there's a moment where he looks unsure, bashful even, before he says, “You aren't even afraid of the dark?”

“Nope,” you confirm, “ Especially not the dark. I do my best hero work in the dark.”

Asahi settles after that. You aren’t sure if it’s you that soothes him, or if he does it himself. But he calms down, starts acting more like a kid should. He asks questions about your quirk and what it’s like to be a hero. You give him all the details. You tell him what all the different feathers in your wings do, and how your quirk gives you excellent hearing and incredible night vision. He asks if you know Chargebolt too, and Shouto and Uravity, beaming when you say you do. He tells you his favorite is Cellophane and you give him a high five, because that is a good choice.

You end up pulling Katsuki and Hitoshi in too when you catch the way he won’t stop staring at them. Katsuki slips on his kid-friendly Dynamight persona and lets him ogle his gauntlets and ask as many questions as his heart desires. Hitoshi lets him try on his mask. He's even kind enough to allow requests for different voices once he slips it over his own mouth again. Asahi dissolves into a fit of giggles when All Might’s voice booms through the speakers.

You learn a lot about Asahi and his mother as the next hour passes. Love related quirks run in the family, apparently. Hana’s is called Soul Ties, her mother's was Cupid's Arrow. She elaborates on her own when you raise an eyebrow at her.

“I can see people's soulmates,” she shrugs, leaning forward to brush a thumb over Asahi’s cheek.

“Soulmates? More than one?”

“Platonic and romantic,” she adds, smiling softly down at her hands like that’s where she can see it. The string of fate, you've heard of similar quirks. Hana’s smile fades to something a little more melancholic, but she puts on a happier facade quickly before Asahi notices it, “Most people have more than one of each. But it differs per person.”

“Oh,” you say, staring down at your own hand. You wonder if you have any. Any platonic, any romantic. You wonder if Izuku is your soulmate. How many strings of fate tie your hands to someone else’s? How many soulmate’s could you possibly have? Can you have a soulmate who's soulmate isn't you?

“Those men,” she says quietly, gesturing behind her to where Katsuki and Hitoshi are sitting, “I can see you're close with them. You have a strong connection with both of them. Sometimes the universe determines our soulmates. Sometimes we determine them. But when the universe decides, the connection is almost unbreakable. All of your connections are strong ones. You're lucky.”

You give Hana your number before they leave, slipping the paper effortlessly into her hand when you say goodbye, “Call me if either of you ever need anything. And when he gets older, if you want, I can get him a spot at UA. Whichever course he may want. They can help him with quirk control and confidence.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, taking your hand into both of her own, “Thank you so much. For saving him and for this. He really looks up to you.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Katsuki must've planned this. The jackass. The absolute cretin. You can practically see it, see him rubbing his grubby little hands together like the roach he is. Grinning and scheming up the best way to get you and Izuku in a room together. Probably with Hitoshi. They're both nasty little creatures and you have decided you love them now more than you ever have. Because you miss him.

You miss Izuku.

You're in the middle of drowning your self-imposed sorrows in more Sailor Moon reruns and half a pint of freezer-burned ice cream you found buried in Katsuki's freezer when he lets himself in. You're hovering around in a lazy circle to stretch your wings, cataloging and memorizing every picture Katsuki has on his walls. He notices you first and stays silent to watch you, watch the way you move, the way your wings flutter to keep you up. When he finally speaks, you and your wings jump, nearly knocking some expensive looking frames off the wall.

“I brought the case file you asked for,”

“Jesus– how did you even get in here?” you yelp, slapping a hand out to steady a wobbling frame.

“I've had a key since Kacchan bought this place,” he snorts, tossing the file down onto the pristine black granite countertop. “I didn't realize you were staying here, sorry, I would’ve knocked. He didn't tell me, just said to drop the file off.”

“Oh, yeah, well,” you shovel another spoonful of ice cream into your mouth without saying anything else. Izuku hums anyways, like you said something worth any sort of response, and leans his hip against the counter. You force yourself to look away, “Thanks for the file. Was it a targeted attack?”

“No, no. We thought it was too, turns out it wasn't even a real attack. A civilian with a seizure disorder had an episode and the lack of control over his quirk is what caused the accident. You and your apartment just happened to be above him. Uh, but, this is all in the file–” Izuku coughs into his fist and stares at the wall behind you.

“Yeah, thanks, I'll drop it back at your agency when I'm done reading it,”

“Take your time,”

An awkward silence falls between you. You keep eating your ice cream. Izuku looks at everything but you. The city keeps moving underneath you, your quirk helps you hear things like the coffee being brewed across the street and the dog barking three floors down if you really listen for it. You tune it in, let it wash over you. Eventually, after your ice cream is gone and Izuku’s eyes have stayed on you for the last few minutes, you speak again, “I changed my mind.”

“What?”

“I want things to change. I changed my mind,” you speak quietly, delicately, like everything will shatter if you say it too loud, if you say it out loud, “I can’t be normal after this. I love you so much that I was willing to die about it. And it’s been that way for years. Something has to change, because obviously my feelings won’t.”

Izuku stays silent. When you turn to decipher how he feels, what he’s thinking, you find him with his hands over his face. The skin of his cheeks is splotchy beneath his fingers, flustered and warm. He takes big breaths and you watch the way his chest expands with them, the way his fingers shake and his shoulders tremble.

You should say something. Or maybe you shouldn’t. You don’t know. You’re out of your element here. Romantic stuff has never come easy to you, hadn’t ever come at all. All of your romantic feelings were kept buried so deep in your chest, you hadn’t even tried to date before. No one was worth the time or effort because they weren't him.

“Say something,” you babble, ignoring the residual tightening in your lungs, “I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? You’ve had, like, girlfriends or whatever. But I’ve never dated, so this is incredibly out of my comfort zone and I feel like I’m just rambling and I’m sorry. I’m, uh, done talking. Now.”

When Izuku starts to laugh, you genuinely wish you had died. Humiliation is hot in the back of your throat, seeping between your tongue and teeth. He lets his hands fall from his face and when you see the tears in his lashes, your own lip starts to tremble and you drop your feet to the floor, “Don’t laugh at me. I just emotionally stripped myself naked to you and you’re laughing? You are such a dick. Katsuki’s nicer than you, fuck.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh,” he hiccups between quiet giggles, stepping close enough that he can cup your face in his hands, “I’m sorry. I'm sorry, baby. Don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, you’re crying too,” you sniffle, letting your fingers curl around his wrist. He leans forward to kiss away your tears, cooing when you crumble forward in his arms and cry some more, “Katsuki said you were angry.”

“I was angry, but it was misplaced,” he says once you’ve settled to loud, wet sniffles and hiccuping whimpers. “I'm sorry for laughing, I’m just relieved. And excited. And I thought it was funny that you think I’ve had a girlfriend, let alone multiple. You think too highly of me.”

“I just thought– with Uraraka– and you've got your pick of the litter with your fans,” you huff, “You could have anyone you wanted, you know.”

“I want you. It’s always been you,” he whispers into your hair, swaying you both in an attempt to soothe you, “There’s never been anyone else.”

“Don’t say shit like that, you’ll give me a complex,” you groan, grinning into his shoulder when his chest rumbles with a laugh. “I’m sorry that everything got so fucked up.”

“If it hadn’t, would we be here?”

“No, probably not,”

“Then I’m not sorry. Not if this is where we ended up. And you shouldn’t be either,” he murmurs, “I am sorry that you got hurt. And I'm sorry that it was because of me. But I'm not sorry for this.”

A half hour later, after your tears have dried and your breathing evens out, Izuku makes you eat a real meal. He doesn't cook it (read: can't cook it), but he orders from your favorite place and has it delivered. You eat on opposite sides of the couch (despite both of you knowing damn well that Katsuki would absolutely kill you if he found out), but you touch him when you can. Brushing a curl from his eyes, tangling your ankles with his. Once you've eaten, when you're sated and nearly asleep with a warm, full belly, he breaks the very fragile case of glass around you.

“I took a mission,” he mumbles around a cheek full of rice.

“I know, Shouta told me,”

“I can back out,” he clears his throat, glancing at you through the curtain of curls falling into his eyes, “They don't actually need me. I took it to get away. Or, no, not to get away! To, uh, to give you space. But, I can pull out.”

“Stop, don't put your job on the back burner for me,” you grumble, leaning forward to steal a piece of chicken from his bowl.

“If I go, I leave tomorrow morning,” he continues, “And we should talk. I can drop out of the mission if you want me to.”

“Seriously, don't. Don't do shit like that,” you scoot towards him on the couch, press your hand firm over his chest, “I am a selfish person. I don't like sharing. And I won't want to share you. But I’ll have to if we're gonna make it work. And if you call out of work for me, you're just feeding into that delusion.”

Izuku’s eyes are so soft on your face, flitting between your eyes and your cheeks, your lips and your nose, taking in every detail. Cataloging every freckle, wrinkle, and scar. He lays his hand flat over yours, lets his fingers fall between the gaps, “I want you to be selfish with me, because I'm gonna be selfish with you. I've waited years for this, and I'm gonna take everything I can get. I'm gonna be greedy, let yourself be greedy too.”

Izuku's freckles get darker in the summertime, and his scars. His skin goes golden under the sun, and new freckles appear to mark constellations across his nose, down his neck and over his shoulders. He doesn't burn the way some people do, you think, he ripens like fruit.

“Go on the mission,” you sigh and crawl into his lap. He hums, leaning back to give you more space to get comfortable. You curl into him, press your nose into the crook of his neck, “We can talk when you get back.”

“Okay,” he breathes out, unsure, as scarred palms curl around your waist. You can feel how his fingers shake before they tighten over you. He squeezes then releases you twice in quick succession, just to feel you, just to touch. It relaxes you, turns your insides to liquid, warm and gooey. When your limbs go heavy and your eyelids start to droop, Izuku uses gentle hands to lift you as he stands. Your noise of confused complaint is hushed and you go quiet, letting him carry you to bed.

You're asleep before you hit the sheets and Izuku has to take a minute. Just a moment. To watch you breathe, watch the way your chest rises and falls. He remembers the fear that boiled in his chest when you stopped breathing that night. He doesn't even think you know, but he does. He knows, he remembers. It had only been for a moment, the doctors had worked quickly to get you back. But you had been gone, really, actually gone. Your heart stopped beating, your lungs stopped breathing and you were dead. Dead . You had died because of so many things, because of him.

So he takes a goddamn minute . He watches your chest rise and fall, syncs his own breaths with yours. He listens to how clear your lungs sound, presses his fingers to the pulse point in your wrist to feel your heartbeat. He reminds himself that you're alive, you’re fine. It takes an hour of watching you sleep before he feels okay to leave.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“This roof top is inaccessible to the public,” Katsuki drones, “How the hell did you get up here without a key?”

“I jumped out of the window,” you shrug, muttering around the straw between your teeth. The sun is just beginning to rise, melting the horizon into pools of blue and pink, orange and purple. The clouds soak it up like watercolor and spit it back out onto mirrored skyscrapers and tree tops. A breeze blows between you and Katsuki looks angelic, all windswept and sun-kissed.

“You doing okay?”

“Are you?” you reflect back, tilting your chin up to see him better, “I'm sorry. I haven't said that yet. I was inconsiderate and self destructive and didn't really think about how it would affect anyone else. And I almost died because of it. So, I'm sorry.”

“It's– you're fine. I'm fine,” he shrugs and stuffs his hands into his sweatpants pockets to stave off the chill creeping up his spine. “We’re fine.”

“I know,” you say, “But I'm still sorry. And I love you. And– and thank you. For taking care of me.”

“Okay,” he grumbles, “Stop, seriously. We're fine.”

“Stop being so emotionally constipated,” you snort, shooting a hand out to slap at his calf, “Say it back.”

“I love you too, or whatever, fuck,” he literally shudders the moment the words leave his mouth and you cannot contain the laugh in your chest. He nudges at your thigh with his toes when he hears it, but he's grinning down at you so you know he's not too upset. “So, how'd it go with nerdface? Did you get your happy ending too or what?”

“I don't know yet,” you sigh. He sits beside you when you pat the space there and ducks to catch your eyes when you look away from him, “I don't know. We didn't really talk a lot–”

“Keep that to yourself. Disgusting,’

“Not like that you fucking freak,” you scoff, “No, I mean, I told him how I felt, that I changed my mind. And, you know, we both cried a little bit. But I told him to go on the mission and we could talk after he got back. I don't know. I don't know what he wants or how it'll all play out.”

“Izuku has been obsessed with you for years,” Katsuki shivers with the next gust of wind, shoving his hands between his thighs to create some warmth, “I don't know what the outcome of all this shit will be, but it'll be good. It has to be after all the shit you went through for it.”

“I hope so,”

Katsuki ushers you back inside after he shivers again, insisting that if he's cold you must be too. He isn't wrong, but you argue anyway, just to poke the bear. He pokes back until you're both back in his apartment. He steers you towards a stool at his counter and once you’re settled he starts on breakfast.

“Give me that, what the hell is wrong with you,” he grumbles, plucking the half empty slushie cup out of your grip, “Blue raspberry isn't a flavor you're meant to drink before noon. Where did you even get this?”

“The twenty-four hour convenience store on the corner,”

“It should be fucking illegal to buy shit like this so early in the morning,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Your ban from work continues despite being officially deemed healthy enough to go back by your army of doctors. Aizawa is insistent on you taking more time, getting more rest, and you know arguing won't get you anywhere. So you stay home.

The days all mesh together, they're all the same. Today marks day five of doing the same shit over and over again, and day three of Izuku being gone on his mission, and you're moments away from slamming your head into the drywall of Katsuki's apartment. Not your own, no. The drywall of your apartment is already busted and construction still hasn't begun yet. That makes you wanna dive headfirst through the wall even more.

“You have nothing fun to do,” you complain for the millionth time as you follow Katsuki down his halls, toes dragging because you're too lazy to fly properly.

He's not doing anything particularly interesting, just his daily chores and clean up, but anything is better than sitting in the living room and watching the window like it's TV. He won't even let you help, and normally you wouldn't want to help. Who the hell wants to clean? Not you, and especially not if it's someone else's house. But you would. You would scrub dishes until your fingers bled if you could.

“Read a book,”

“I did,”

“Read another one,”

“I've read every book on the shelf,”

“It's only been five days, there's no way–”

“Well, all the fun ones,” you wave a hand dismissively as you float past him, “I didn't read any of the boring literature or history books. Just the All Might comics and some manga.”

“You took my All Might comics out of their protective sleeves?” he gasps, staring at you like you've betrayed him.

“Who's the nerd now?” you snort, offering him a pointed look. “We're getting off track here. I'm bored.”

“What the hell do you want me to do about that?” Katsuki barks, spinning on his heel to stomp back towards the living room. Presumably to inspect his comics.

“Fucking fix it,” you toss back, trailing closely behind him, “Come get coffee with me.”

“Fuck no, today's my one day off this week because I'm covering your patrolling shift with mindfuck tomorrow. Find someone else,”

“You are so cruel,”

“Suck it, loser,”

“Cruel,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku's mission goes well. Better than anyone thought it would. In fact, he and his team come home days before they're supposed to. And when he calls you requesting to meet up somewhere, you're more than eager when you ask him when and where.

The place you decide on is a sweet spot and one of your favorite bakery cafes. It's a small place, kitsch-y and warm with sweet American style pastries and strong coffee. You've been coming here for years, dating all the way back to before you had even enrolled at UA. You came here with your mom before she left, and your grandparents after that, and then your friends. You grin when you catch a glimpse of a familiar face through the window to the kitchen, icing a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls.

The owner is a sweet middle aged woman who likes to talk about her years spent in America to anyone who'll give her the time of day. You've heard the story of how she met and fell in love with her wife over a dozen times now, but it never gets old. You're a sucker for romance like that.

The whole business is family run, Kiyoko and her wife Sophie run the kitchen and their endless supply of nieces and nephews take turns serving guests and whipping up photograph-ready coffees and teas. Some work more often than others, only because they live in America during the school year and can only come out for summers to visit and help out.

Izuku is already there, draped over one of the chairs at the furthest table from the door and sporting the worst disguise you've ever seen in your life. A dark blue Ingenium themed baseball cap is haphazardly shoved over his mop of green curls, and a pair of Pro Hero Chargebolt themed sunglasses (that are the same ugly shade of yellow as the sweatshirt from the magazine cover) are slipping down his nose as he blows the steam from his mug.

“Nice disguise. Never would've guessed it was you,” you greet, coughing into your fist to cover up the laugh on your tongue when he turns towards you and visibly brightens at your sarcastic compliment.

“Thanks! Oh, here,” he scooches his chair over to make more space for you and your wings beside him, “Sit. Can I grab you a drink?”

“I'll get it,” you insist, pressing your hand to his chest when he tries to stand, “I just wanted to say hi first.”

“Okay,” he agrees and settles back into his seat. Before you can get too far, he curls his own hand over your own and smiles at you. His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles and he tilts his chin up to see you better when he says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” you laugh, leaning closer.

“Missed you,” he breathes, tightening his grip on you. His head tilts again, offering himself to you, waiting but not pushing, and you–

You're very aware that you haven't kissed yet. Not a real kiss at least. You've been friends for over a decade, cheek kisses have happened in that time. But you give cheek kisses to sweet old ladies and Eri too, so those don't count in your head.

You are so painfully aware of the lack of kissing that it makes your fingers go numb and your heart stutter in your chest. It's so dumb, you aren't some love struck teenager anymore. The idea of a kiss shouldn't have you feeling this way. You're an adult. An adult who has kissed people before. An adult who has done many things far more lewd than kissing with other adults. It feels wrong to do it now. Before talking, before figuring yourselves out. What if this conversation ends in an argument? What if it ends with the decision to ignore everything that's happened? If you kiss him now and then lose him, you don't think you'll survive.

And so, you chicken out. Izuku takes it in stride, like you knew he would. He smiles softly and jerks his head toward the register as a reminder to go order and it's clear he's giving you an out here. He offers it up so kindly, so sweetly, that you don't even feel guilty for turning away from him to go order. The kid working the register today is secretly your favorite of all of them. Ren is a sweet kid, freshly eighteen and freshly out as nonbinary. You remember the day they told you, how nervous they looked asking you to use the pronouns they preferred. How happy they were when you congratulated them on speaking up for themselves.

They look equally as shocked to see you as they are relieved when you stop in front of them at the register.

“You're here!” they gasp, leaning forward over the counter to look you up and down, “You aren't missing any limbs either! Auntie! Aviator's back!”

“I told you she was fine! What're those tabloids saying about her now?” Kiyoko hollers back, popping her head into the window, “Oh, she's here here! Hi, honey!”

“Hi, Kiyoko! Is the missus here too?”

“Not today I'm afraid. Sophie's visiting family in the United States right now. Oh she'll be so sad she missed you. Where in heaven have you been?” she frets, using her quirk to step through the wall towards you. “You had us all so worried! There were news headlines saying you'd gone missing from the hero scene!”

“I was– I'm fine,” you appease, offering what you hope is a calming smile. “I was just temporarily out of commission. But I'm better now and hoping to get back to work soon if they'll let me.”

“Well good,” Kiyoko sniffs, “Now, answer me this.”

“Anything,”

Kiyoko glances around conspiratorially and you meet her halfway when she leans into you to whisper, “Is that young man sitting at table six Pro Hero Deku?”

“Uh,” you risk a glance over at Izuku, who's watching you with wide, quizzical eyes, before looking back at Kiyoko, “Yes. It sure is. But he's been here before, I don't–”

“That's what I thought,” she interrupts, nodding triumphantly. And then her face contorts into the biggest shit-eating grin you've ever seen on her and she asks, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Auntie!” Ren squawks, looking as horrified as you feel, “You cannot just ask personal questions like that, oh my God!”

“What! I'm just curious! Especially because he's staring at you like you hang the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the sky,” she laughs, tossing you a wink, “If he isn't, he should be.”

“He isn't staring–”

“Oh, hush, yes he absolutely is,” she snorts, leaning back against the wall behind her. You fear your face is as warm looking as it feels. “I've seen all those tabloids about him and that Uravity gal, but I've never seen him look at anyone but you like that. He's always looked at you like that.”

“I don't know what we are,” you give in, practically deflating on the spot, “That's what I'm here to find out.”

“And I'm sure you're here for a coffee,” Ren says, successfully segueing the conversation. Kiyoko clicks her tongue at you both, but dutifully turns away towards the pastry case to let you order in peace. You wait to the side while Ren makes up your coffee just how you like it. When they set it on the counter for you, Kiyoko slides a pastry box towards you too.

“What's this?” you laugh, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Some raspberry turnovers. On the house,” she says, effectively ignoring you when you attempt to argue by phasing through the wall and into the kitchen again. You share a look with Ren and slap enough money on the counter to cover it anyways before turning to make your way back to Izuku.

“What was that about?” he wonders when you settle beside him.

“Kiyoko was meddling,” you push the box towards him and sip at your drink, “She gave us some raspberry turnovers though.”

“That's sweet of her!” he coos, carefully peeling the tape off the top to open it. Despite there being two, he still takes one and pulls it apart, offering out the larger of the two halves to you. You accept it with a smile.

After you finish your piece and suck the bits of raspberry filling and sanding sugar from your fingers, you ask, “So, what's up?”

Izuku hums around his cheekful of pastry, lifting his hat with his clean hand to scratch his head and ruffle his hair. He seems to hesitate with what he wants to say, nervously tapping his fingers along his cup, before he mutters, “Why– you said you didn't want this. That you didn't want to love me. And you didn't want to tell me either, you were going to– you did die. You died instead of just… telling me. And I can't wrap my head around it.”

“That was so cruel of me to say,” you say, “I should not have ever said that, I'm so sorry, Izuku.”

“I don't want an apology,” he rushes out, waving his hands out in front of him, “I don't want you to feel bad about it, I just want to know why. Was it– did I do something? Did you not trust me? Were you scared of me?”

“No. No, it wasn't that,” you're nervous, palms wet with sweat and heart fluttering in your chest, “At first, back in high school, I didn't think you had any interest. So for a long time, I didn't wanna ruin what we had. You're one of my best friends. And I know that even if I had told you, it wouldn't have made you drop me. And it probably wouldn't have been on purpose, but you're so hyper aware of how you treat people, I know it would've been different. You’d treat me differently, we wouldn't be like we had been. And I wasn't willing to risk that.”

“Okay,” he nods, shifting in his seat, “So, what about after high school, before you were sick?”

You watch a drop of condensation slip down the window in front of you. Follow the trail, guessing where it'll land, if it'll make it to the bottom before it disappears.

“I still wasn't sure how you felt. And by then, there were so many headlines about you and Ochako. And I know those are almost never true, but you guys have always been close. And I know she liked you too in school,” you sigh and lean forward in your seat to give your wings a little more space. The left one still aches sometimes, despite being all healed from the break it suffered. It's weaker now, just barely, but enough that you notice it. You stretch it wide, shake it out, and then fold it back nicely against your back.

Izuku follows the movements with sharp eyes. You take a breath and keep talking, “At some point, it sort of became a silly dream that I had. I made peace with it. I'd never fall out of love with you, but I'd never have you either. And that was fine as long as you were still here, you know? As long as we were still friends, it was fine. I ignored it. Stuffed all those feelings into a box and locked them up. I didn't ever even try to date anyone else, because I would've been a horrible partner. And that was fine too. I liked being alone. And if you ever did end up with Ochako, I would've been happy and supportive. Because I love you, and I love her, and I wanted you both to be happy.”

Izuku says your name in a soft whisper, ducking his head to catch your eye. You scrub your hands over your face and groan before turning to look at him. He looks exactly how you thought he would. Melancholic, heartbroken, thoughtful. He's soft when he says, “You don't have to tell me anymore.”

“I want to. You deserve to know,”

He nods, and you keep spilling your deepest thoughts for him. Word vomit is spewing from your chest, you can see the shadows of petals and stems on the tabletop. You tell him everything. You explain everything.

You tell him about how you wished he would reject you so you could have a moment of clarity. The way your feelings for him were so big you felt suffocated by them sometimes, and that's why you wished things were different. How selfish you feel about it all, how in denial you were about it for a long time. How you grieved him and the idea of there ever being an ‘us’ with him for years. How you mourned a relationship you thought would never happen.

You have a hard time articulating it all to him, but he seems to get it. He's always understood you, even before you'd been close. Even before you were in the hero course, back when you were just a gifted kid with a completely different dream. When you worked with your hands and went to sleep oil stained and excited to do it all again the next day.

(Being a hero had never been your plan. Sure, you had a useful quirk for it, you knew that young. And even during your days at UA, you knew you could transfer if you really wanted after being accepted. You'd been compared to Hawks more than once, you knew what you could do. But hero support had been your dream.

It's funny now, to think back on it, really. How against being a hero you were. You had no interest being on the front lines. Combat was never fun for you, you didn't get the rush kids in the hero course did when fighting. 

The war changed everything.

Aizawa and Hawks came to you to ask you to fight. They needed another Hawks for something, someone in the sky. And what the hell could you do, say no? Of course you couldn't. So you fought, you fought damn hard, and you won most of your battles.

The year following the war, you still refused to transfer. Despite Aizawa offering you a spot and taking you under his wing to train. You said no, you were firm in your decision.

Honestly, you don't know why you changed your mind. One day you woke up and remember thinking that if you could do even a fraction of the good that All Might did, that Deku did, you wanted to. You wanted to save people too.

You're still a shadow in the hero support world. You work with Mei on the downlow, fix friends' hero suits and support items under an alias and then go out and fight beside them.

You learned and adapted, figured out how to get the best of both worlds.)

By the time you've talked yourself out of breath, Izuku is openly crying beside you. Again, you find yourself uncomfortable. Laying your emotions out has never been a strong suit of yours, and you can feel phantom flowers in your chest. You briefly wonder if that feeling will ever truly go away.

“Sorry,” you say after a moment of silence, “I unloaded a lot. Didn't mean to do that.”

“No,” he sniffles, wiping at his cheeks and shaking his head, “I asked. Don't apologize.”

“I don't blame you if you don't want to pursue this,” you tack on, releasing a heavy breath. Your drink is long gone, but you tilt the cup back for the last few drops anyways, just for something to do with your hands. You miss the way Izuku whips his head up to look at you, mouth hung open and a panicked look on his face.

“Are you kidding?” he gapes. You don't look at him, focusing instead on the napkin in your hands. You tear it slowly, ripping tiny pieces off to pile up beside it. He sets his hand over yours, “I love you.”

“That doesn't mean we have to date,” you rasp, “We don't have to do anything. We could just– forget. We could pretend.”

“Do you remember in the hospital, when we confessed to heal your lungs?” he's so gentle with you, twisting your chair so your body is facing him. Your wings twitch behind you and he leans around to fix a few crooked feathers while you answer.

“I'll never forget it,” you huff, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Remember when you told me to reject you?” he goes on as he leans back again, settling across from you.

“Yep,” you nod.

“What did I say?”

“You said ‘no’,” 

“I did,” he concedes, “I also said I could never pretend I don't love you. This won't go away. I have spent years falling in love with you. I did it over and over, because it's you . I will always want this as long as you do. Do you want it?”

“I want it so bad,” you whisper, dropping your head back between your shoulders, “God, I have never wanted something more in my life.”

“Then you have it,” he laughs, like it's simple. And really, in a way, you guess it is. It always has been, you think. He sounds like he's still smiling when he says, “I'm all yours. Until you decide you don't want me anymore, but probably still then.”

When you finally look back at him, he looks beautiful. He's looking back, smiling so softly, so sweetly, it makes your teeth ache. It makes your chest ache the way his eyes squint when he smiles, the way his teeth peek out from behind full lips. How his freckles dance across the crinkled bridge of his nose when his smile widens. You want to spend the rest of your life committing each one to memory. You want to count them all and trace the constellations they make across his skin. There's a string of fate tying you to him, and it's unbreakable.

“I could never not want you,” is all you can think to say. And now, now you do want to kiss him. You want it so bad you can feel it in your teeth, in your fucking toes. But you don't.

The streets are busier, the bakery is picking up. There's too many people around and you know it'll be a whole shit show if someone snaps a picture of you together anyways. But it'll be far worse if it's a picture of you kissing. He's still in his terrible disguise, but you don't have the privilege of covering up. You're always exposed, the most recognizable thing about you is your wings and it's not like you can cover those up.

It'll look a lot worse for him than you if you kiss him and get caught by some pervy fucker with a camera. You're fairly underground, almost completely unknown, and people don't quite care about you the way they care about Pro Hero Deku. People that know enough about you to like you would be over the moon for a picture like that. People that like him would riot .

So you don't kiss him. You get another drink, and you share the second turnover with him. He tells you about his mission and you listen with just a smidge of jealousy. He notices and laughs, asking, “You miss it?”

“Oh, so bad,” you groan, “Dude, I'm going insane.”

“It's funny to think you almost didn't do this,” he hums, “Imagine how different things would be if you were in a lab instead.”

“I work under an alias with Mei sometimes,”

“I didn't know that! That's amazing!” Izuku gushes, leaning closer with hearts in his eyes, “How come I didn't know that?”

“It's a secret,” you laugh, “Hence the alias. Only a few people know, but I don't advertise it.”

“There's always something new to learn about you,” Izuku says quietly, suddenly awestruck and looking at you like you're a work of art. Your skin prickles with heat under the attention when he keeps going and says, “You're amazing.”

“Says you,” you scoff, deflecting. He hums, taking it in stride and props his head up with a hand on his cheek. You mirror him, grinning when he huffs a quiet laugh. Behind you, the bell above the door jingles and Izuku is slow to slip his sunglasses back over his nose and shuffle back to a more appropriate distance.

It's a group of young girls who ooh and aah at the pastries. One of them glances your way and has a look of recognition flash across her face. Izuku notices too, turning his face a little more out of her field of view and peering at you over the rim of his glasses. You both know he's too late, they've seen him.

“You've been caught,” you sing, laughing when his cheeks heat, “Gonna say hi?”

“Mm, I'd hope they can see I'm busy. But I will if I have to,”

“Wow, look at you. Not so nice after all,”

“Hey, I'm plenty nice,” he rolls his shoulders back, sits a little less like the Number One Hero and a little more like he's just some dude drinking coffee. You like being privy to this side of him, the side he doesn't show the public. The side of him that says fuck and gets irritated with fans. The one that doesn't help old ladies cross the street (they’ve done just fine before, they'll make it without him), and doesn't pick up trash in the streets. The grown ass adult side that's more like Katsuki than you think he cares to admit.

“Yeah, well, your fan club is coming over here. Smile, Deku,” you snicker, burying your grin into your collar. He follows your eyes when you flicker them toward the giggling gaggle of teenage girls inching their way closer. And when you stand he looks betrayed, “I'm gonna go talk to Kiyoko. Good luck, soldier.”

“Don't leave,” he begs, catching your hand before you can get too far, “Please, they're like wolves.”

“Fine,” you huff, folding easily for his big, puppy dog eyes.

The girls are fine. They don't squeal or cry, like some fans you've seen. They request an autograph and when he agrees, they run to ask Ren for a pen. The moment they turn their backs, Izuku takes you by the waist and rushes you out the door. You're both laughing, giggling into each other like you're teenagers breaking curfew. You run four blocks before he's pulling you into an alleyway to catch your breath.

“They were nice, why did we run?” you laugh, slapping his shoulder, “That was mean!”

“No one will ever believe them,” he shrugs, leaning back against a brick wall. “And I know Kiyoko will back me up.”

“Izuku!” you chastise, “What's gotten into you?”

“I'm not Deku right now,” he groans, “I don't wanna be Deku right now.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means, I'm just Izuku,” he hums, stepping closer. You raise an eyebrow, but meet him halfway when he tugs you closer by the hem of your shirt. “I'm just me and you're just you. No heroes here.”

“Uh huh,” you curl your fingers around his bicep, shivering when the hand at the small of your back presses you until your belly touches his, “And?”

“And,” he murmurs, ducking his head down inches from your own, “I'm gonna kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” you breathe, fitting yourself against him easily when he surges forward to press his lips to yours. Chest to chest, you consume him, you let him consume you. When he sighs, you're more than eager to swallow it down, offer him one of your own. You take everything he's willing to give, and he takes too. His hands are warm on your back, tickling their way up to settle against your shoulder blades so he can wrap himself around you. 

Kissing him is everything you dreamed it would be and more.

“Come home with me tonight?” he practically begs when he pulls away, lips shiny and kiss swollen.

“Okay,” you agree easily, chasing after him to press more kisses to the corner of his mouth, “Yeah.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku's house is warm, lived in. His furniture is nice, but not overly expensive. His dishes are mismatched, his walls are covered in decor. It's not all that different from his dorm back in high school, just a little more mature looking. He still has an overwhelming amount of All Might merch, but it's more spread out, blending well with friends’ merch and other things.

You've been here before, but never like this. You don't know how to hold yourself, what's appropriate and what's not.

“You're being weird,” Izuku teases, shedding his disguise. “Don't be weird. We're the same as before.”

“No,” you disagree immediately, though not unkindly, “We aren't. This is not the same at all. But, that's not a bad thing. Just–”

“Different,” he says, “You're right.”

“Takes some getting used to is all,”

He's got four large bookshelves that are overflowing with his own notebooks, old and new, comics, and manga, and that's where you plant yourself. You read through titles, take in all the knick-knacks decorating the empty spots. He's got an old photo of a bunch of UA alumni grinning at the camera. There's a cute, goofy looking Dynamight bobblehead beside the picture, staring you down from the top shelf and you reach up to flick the head, grinning when it bounces.

“I wish I had something of yours to add to my collection,” he comments, stepping up to join you with a hand on your hip.

“I'm not big enough for merch,” you remind him, “And I'm an underground stealth hero. I don't even think I'm allowed to have merch.”

“Aizawa has merch,”

“Not real merch. It's all fanmade, bootleg type shit,” you say with a snort, leaning into his warmth. “Do you not have work today?”

“No, I've got the next few days off because of the mission,” he says, then hesitates, gnawing at the inside of his cheek before adding, “Do you wanna stay the night?”

“Yeah,” you smile, leaning up to press a sweet kiss to the freckles splattered over his cheek.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You hadn't been expecting things to go the way they had when you spent the night, though you can't say you didn't like it.

Flashes of hot, sweat-slicked skin against your own flicker through your head. You remember how far down his freckles had reached, you think of those green eyes, staring up at you from between your legs. Scarred thick fingers squeezing so tightly at your thighs they left bruises. His mouth sealed over yours, swallowing down every noise you made. His own hiccuping sounds when you–

You're distracted. You can't be distracted. Today, you're officially back on duty. You're not back on the patrol roster quite yet, but you have a lot of paperwork to catch up on, so you hunker down in Katsuki’s office to do it.

On paper, you're a solo agent. You don't belong to any one agency, like Aizawa and Hitoshi, but you frequently find yourself working with or in Katsuki's agency.

Hitoshi joins you under the guise of being your partner and taking responsibility for half of the paperwork. You know it's really just because he and Katsuki are officially dating now and he wants to see him.

Simp , you think, as if you aren't exactly the same.

“Remind me again why you couldn't have just finished this shit?” you ask, wincing when the hand shaped bruise on your thigh throbs as you shift and tuck your foot beneath yourself.

Hitoshi notices your discomfort. He's seen it before, having marked you similarly. He watches for the telltale signs. The way you hiss, press your fingertips to the bruise in the same way whomever left them there must've, then flush a pretty shade of pink when you're inevitably reminded of how it got there.

“You got laid. You have a sex injury,” he accuses teasingly, leaning forward to press his own finger to the bruise. When you gasp, he does not hold in his laugh.

“It's not an injury , Jesus,” you bark out a shocked laugh too and slap his hand away when he keeps poking, “Just a bruise.”

“Damn,” he whistles, frowning down at his mug when he realizes it's void of any form of caffeine, “Didn't think he had it in him.”

“What, fucking me?”

“No, fucking you hard enough to bruise. Figured he'd be, like, vanilla. Missionary with super intense eye contact, you know, the works,”

“You are so fucked in the head,” you say.

“Like you aren't?” he throws back.

“I'm getting more coffee,”

“That's crazy, me too,” he grins, “You can give me details while we walk.”

“I hate you,”

“Mm, I don't think you do,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

They tell you that your apartment won't be fixed one month into your stay with Katsuki. Your landlord's son had been kind enough to call you the moment he found out.

“They found more structural damage after the accident that isn't worth fixing,” he explains over the phone, “Dad didn't wanna charge the tenants for an apartment they weren't currently living in. But without that income, he couldn't afford it anymore without risking foreclosure. And after finding out about the extent of the damages, he just decided to sell. He closed on a deal with a real estate company this morning and they're wanting to begin demolition immediately. Tenants have a week to get their things out.”

“That's not enough notice for more than half of the building,” you huff, “Where's your father gonna go?”

“My sister has an extra room,” he says, sounding extraordinarily tired, “I know a week isn't enough. I pushed for a month, but they wanna get started as soon as they can. And I have no say anymore. I'm sorry, Aviator.”

“Don't worry about it,” you sigh, “Thanks for calling. And tell your dad I said thank you too.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You hate moving. Even if you didn't particularly love where you were living, you still get this sad, melancholic feeling deep in your gut when you have to leave. It's definitely some childhood trauma shit, but you don't have time to deepdive into that.

And packing is a whole different annoyance. Especially packing an apartment that still looks like a warzone. You have backup on the way, Izuku and Katsuki are coming after they're joint patrol and Aizawa and Hitoshi texted saying they're a few minutes out. You're thankful for them, because you are overwhelmed.

Most of your stuff in the living room isn't even worth an attempt to save it. Your couch is destroyed, torn and missing pieces. Your TV is completely busted, folded in half and crushed under a chunk of your wall. Throw blankets are tattered, knick-knacks and tchotchkes broken or lost in the chaos, framed photos shattered and bloody.

You start in your bedroom instead.

By the time Aizawa and Hitoshi show up, you're nearly done packing all of your clothes. Hitoshi is gentle with you, he knows how you feel about moving. He offers you a coffee that you take with a grateful groan.

“How's it going?” Aizawa drawls, leaning back against your doorframe.

“The living room isn't even worth packing,” you huff, “Part of me wants to dig through the mess to see if I can salvage anything. But it seems useless at this point. They took so long that anything near the busted wall got wet from the rain we got a few days ago.”

“I'll dig through it for you,” he offers.

“You don't have to,” you mutter, defeated and tired.

“I know I don't have to, but I will,” he hums, scooping the hair off his neck to tie in a low bun, “You can focus on everything else. When will the boys be here?”

“Another fifteen, probably,” you say, “They're bringing the moving truck.”

“Well, with five of us it should be pretty quick,”

“Yeah,” you huff, “Thanks, Shouta.”

“Anytime, kid,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“You have my merch?” Izuku coos, leaning past you to grab the sweatshirt behind you.

“Of course I do,” you laugh and slide another box across the floor and into the hallway. Katsuki scoops it up easily, grinning when you roll your eyes at his show of strength.

“I didn't know that,” Izuku blubbers suddenly, tears gathering on his lashes. “This is a limited edition, too!”

“Izuku,” you huff, snatching the hoodie back, “It's almost like I was desperately, embarrassingly in love with you for years.”

“Was?” he teases, catching you by the waist when you try to walk away and pressing himself against your back. He grins when you roll your eyes at him and leans down to leave a trail of light kisses over your shoulders.

You tilt your head back, urging him to drop one against your lips, “Kiss me and maybe that ‘was’ will change into ‘am’.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs into your neck, kissing a path from just below your ear to your lips and then leaving two more once he gets there.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

It's not a conscious decision, not on your part at least. You moving in with Izuku starts slow. Your time there begins to extend from a few days to a week, then more. Your things show up slowly at first, a couple shirts, your toothbrush. Shampoo and conditioner. It's not even you that's doing it, it's him. He's the one that's casually bringing more and more of your boxes up from his basement. He's the one that insisted you bring Hiro with you. 

It's been such an easy transition, you hadn't realized how normal it felt. Your dishes mixed with his in the kitchen, your books beside his on the shelves. Hell, you have your own dresser and a dedicated side of the bed and closet now. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to even notice. It's been nearly three months, and you're just putting it together on a random, lazy Sunday morning.

“Do I live here?” you ask, startling yourself. Izuku is across from you, lounging on the couch and half asleep. The TV drones on while he blinks a few times dumbly, mind lagging and drowsy. You gasp, horrified, “Did I accidentally move in with you!?”

“You didn't realize?” he laughs, sitting up with a stretch. You're momentarily distracted by the slither of skin that peeks out when his shirt rises with his arms. He grins when he catches the look in your eye.

“No? What the fuck? You did?” you say as soon as your tongue catches up with your brain again.

“Baby,” he snickers, “You never even started looking for apartments.”

“I'm– I was just procrastinating!”

“Every single one of your boxes has been unpacked,” he adds.

“I didn't ask you to do that!”

“Are you upset?” he murmurs, suddenly looking guilty.

“I–” you hesitate, taking in your home. Your things fit so seamlessly with his, like it was always meant to be like this, “I don't think I am.”

“Okay,”

“Just– sorry, I guess,”

“What? Why?”

“For moving in with you without asking, maybe? I don't know. Are you upset?”

“Are you kidding? Coming home to you is everything I've ever wanted,” he's so earnest when he says it, “I was gonna ask anyways, but then it just sort of happened.”

“Oh my God, that's so fucking embarrassing,” you whine and drop your head to your hands. He coos, crawling from the couch to the lounge you're occupying and crushing his weight down on you carefully. You let your hands fall from your face to wrap around his shoulders and curl into the dark green curls at the base of his neck, “Is love always this easy?”

“I don't know,” he answers honestly, “I wouldn't say this was easy. It took us a long time to get here.”

“Yeah, but now that we got here it is,” you whisper into his hair, pressing gentle kisses to the crown of his head. “I think it's supposed to be like this.”

“I think so too,” he groans, squishing his face further into your chest, “You're so warm.”

“Are you tired, baby?”

“Mm, no,” he says, turning to bite at the swell of your breast. When you hiss, he apologizes with wet licks and kisses over the mark until you make a softer noise.

“Oh,” you sigh, “Okay, not tired.”

“Definitely not tired,” he huffs, scooping you up easily as he stands. “But I still prefer the bed for this. Only the best for my love.”

Your laugh is warm, loud and unapologetic, bouncing along the walls of the house as he carries you up the stairs and to your bedroom. His own laugh twists together with yours, filling the corners of your shared space. Somewhere downstairs, the bell on Hiro's collar jingles.

It's a vibrant feeling, realizing that this is your home too. The bed he drops you on is yours too. And the shower you share after is yours. You and him have weaved parts of each other into your lives, intertwined everything to make it shared.

It's not ‘mine’ or ‘his’ anymore, it's ‘ours.’

It's shared . It's two people coming together to make one life because they love each other enough to make space for one another.

It's everything you've ever wanted.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

When you were a kid, you didn't ever want to fall in love. You watched first hand how love ruined your mother. The man who helped bring you into this world hadn't even stuck around long enough for you to meet him. And when he left, he took a piece of your mother with him you think. And she spent years looking for it. Chasing men, begging them. Changing for them.

Every man after that was the same. Kind in the beginning, sweeter than sugar to you and your mother. And then, somewhere along the line, a switch was always flipped. They didn't want kids, they didn't want you . And they never stuck around long enough for you to call them dad, not that you ever would.

You didn't need a dad, you had your mom. She was enough for you, she always would be.

You weren't enough for her.

She craved love so badly from a man, it wasn't enough if it was from you.

One man stuck around long enough. He treated her so well, he said he loved her. He asked if she loved him too. If she loved him enough to leave you behind.

The first few times he asked, she had laughed him off. You listened through the crack in your door, waiting and wishing that she would finally put your relationship with her first. 

When you were ten, she left. And you learned that unconditional love doesn't exist. Not with men or women. Not with family, not with your own mother.

“He's gonna marry me,” she had said, delighted and rushing to pack her suitcase. “He just– well. He doesn't want kids. You want me to be happy, don't you? You understand, right?”

You didn't. Of course you didn't.

If love could do that, if it could take your mother away from you, you didn't want it.

Your grandparents had been furious with your mother when they took you in. They raised you well. With so much love, they taught you it could be good . They were so proud of you when you got your acceptance letter from UA. And they cheered for you during your first Sports Festival.

They tried to show you better love, healthier love.

“Love is easy,” your grandmother said, time and time again, “It shouldn't be hard. Real love is so easy, so simple. They won't ask you to change, they won't want you to be different. They'll love you as you are. And if they really love you, you'll believe them when they say it.”

And eventually, you could see it in them, in the way your grandfather knew how your grandmother took her tea, in the way your grandmother still made his favorite meal every year on his birthday, even after he passed. When she passed three years after him, you were more happy than sad. Still heartbroken, of course, but she was with him again. He had always been her happy place, and you knew they were together again, wherever they were.

You see them again in your life, in the relationships around you. You see them in Izuku and yourself, in Katsuki and Hitoshi, in Shouta and Hizashi. You see that same love, the good kind. The unconditional kind. The kind your mother failed to show you.

And you can see it now. Written between the lines of love, of devotion you've given each other. It's so saccharine, warm and gooey like honey. Izuku is so easy to love , he is so quick to give it right back. He makes the space for you, so he can love you and the rest of the world too. He fits himself in that hole in your chest, he cups his hands so tightly together to collect your soul when you pour it into his accepting palms. And he doesn't hesitate to pour his own into your hands, because he trusts you with it. Because he loves you.

He is so sweet, so kind, when he says he loves you too. He is a good man, and you are grateful to be the one to love him. You're grateful for the mornings where you wake up with him and the nights you fall asleep with him. And he, in turn, is just as grateful. And he shows it so openly. Touching you whenever he can, even if it's just a hand on your arm as he passes by you or a leg tangled between yours while you sleep. He kisses you at every opportunity, in public and in private. He dances with you in the kitchen, dips you low to the floor and presses a kiss over your heart.

You've spent years wanting him, loving him, and you are so fortunate in being able to do that. He'd shout his love for you from the rooftops if he could, you're sure. And you would do the same damn thing.

Being in love with Midoriya Izuku is so easy, all things considered. It's as automatic as breathing and blinking and being, because he loves you back just as easily. And in some sick and twisted way, you're thankful for those flowers that had sprouted in your chest. Without them, you wouldn't have this easy, beautifully simple love.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you,” he replies. And it's so easy, and he doesn't ask you to change anything about yourself, and you believe him every time he says it.

Painkiller

♡Pair: Miguel O'Hara x gn!reader Genre: minor Angst / fluff Warning: Injuries, blood. Incorrect British slang and spanish. A/n: Miguel can release how much Venom he wants to release, so this doesn't paralyzed (Y/n) Summary: You got injured from a mission and Miguel basically decides to numb your pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Miles! Watch out!" You yelp as the Lizard bites you. 

You made sure the Lizard didn't bite Miles. Its sharp teeth sink into your inner thigh. You punch the Lizard to get its teeth off of you.

As you did you swung a web out to a nearby building. Getting on top of it to check out your wound.

"Hey- Are you alright?" Miles swung by. He was in a panic.

You hissed in pain as you checked your wound. Your suit was ripped where you were bit. Bloody bite mark.

"Im- fine." You huffed. "Call for backup. Without Miguel's knowledge. " You spoke while holding your wound. And Mile did as he was told.

He called in Gwen, Hobie, and Pavitr. They jumped out the portal seconds later.

"S’You called it, mate." Hobie shrugged. As the three realized you were injured.

"Oh my god- (Y/n)- are you alright?" Gwen crouched to take a look at your wound.

"I'm fine, don't worry." You shook off your wound. Wincing slightly when you push a towel onto it.

"Uhm, guys there's a Lizard down here." Pavitr pointed as he played with his bangle.

"Right, that." You sighed.

"We'll get that handle for you." Miles laid a hand on your shoulder. "Trust us." He smiled. You sighed.

"Well you better not tell Miguel about this." You winced.

"You s’betcha." Hobie swung off the building. As well as the other three jump off the building too. You panic when you saw, your watch glow.

It was Jess. Thank god.

"Oh- hey Jess.. how's the baby coming along?" You smiled.

"What's going on? And why did Miles call for backup?"

"Oh! I told him to. You see this… Lizard is pretty strong?" You gave a low chuckle.

"But!" Before Jess spoke again.

"We have it under control, promise." You plead, hoping she doesn't send herself or even worse Miguel.

You knew Miguel was going to bench you after this injury. So you made sure he wasn't going to find out. 

And if he does Miles might not survive another day.

Jess nodded, turning off her side of the call. You lead back on the smashed concrete that was behind you.

But goodness. 

It hurts like hell.

+-~-+

The four spider people lead you to the Medbay, making sure no one sees you. Once you got there. Miles used his Medbay card to check you in and out. Making sure no one knew you were injured.

Your wounds were patched and clean. You were almost healed. Expected the part where you're limping. But, it was very light, so no one could notice it if they were a mile away.

After you left the Medbay you went back to your Spider-dimension. Going back to your apartment.

You quickly changed and lay in your soft cold bed. Taking a break. Your injury was sort of aching. Miles said he would sign you out.

Somehow, he likely would have made it worse.

"Morale. Where. The. Hell. Is. She." Miguel frowned.

"Somewhere?" Miles flailed his shoulders.

"Somewhere? SOMEWHERE? She's your partner, estúpido. How could you lose her?" (Stupid)  

"Do you like her, aye?" Hobie added. Which seems to have shut up Miguel.

The room was silent.

"I'm going to check her watch." Miguel Ignoring Hobie's question would make everyone confused.

Miguel turns on your watch's camera. Everyone was bracing themself for Miguel to yell.

But he didn't. More like he was mesmerized. The screen was big.

You were lying in your bed, covers right on top of you. The watch right on top of your nightstand. 

How Miguel was staring at you, everyone in the room knew Miguel had the fastest crush on you.

Lyla snapped him out of it. He was embarrassed. A deep scarlet red rose around his face.

"You can leave, now." He turned behind to see no one there. He let out an annoyed sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

+-~-+

Few days went by and you tried your best to distance yourself from Miguel, hoping he didn’t notice you were injured. Going on missions when needed, making sure to lower suspicions. This didn’t help your injury heal at all.

It only got worse. It was only time before Miguel caught on. He noticed your constant limping when you came back from every mission. 

He called you in one day.

“Yo, you need something?” You asked, webbing to his platform. Trying to stand still as possible.

“You want to tell me what you’re hiding?” He glanced at you, with his arms crossed.

“I’m fine.” You said.

“What?” He frowned more than usual.  “You're injured?”

Oh shit… He didn’t know?

“No-? What I meant to say is ‘What do you mean?’ ” You fidget with your hands. Not like he was going to believe that, but you still tried anyway.

He walked up a bit closer to you. You walk back a few steps, almost falling off the platform, till he catches you by the suit. You wince slightly. Miguel seems to notice you wince. His frown turned into a concerned face.

He carried you bridal style on to his desk.

“Where does it hurt?” He asked, searching around your body. 

“I told you, I’m fine. You got off the desk landing on your bad leg. You hiss slightly, crouching a bit. Miguel lifted you back on the desk.

“Eso no suena bien. I’m not going to ask you again. Where does it hurt?” (That doesn’t sound fine.)  He looked at you. As he pressed around your leg, as soon as he heard you whimper in pain. He ripped the thigh part of your suit.

“You owe me a new suit.” You said, wincing.

“Lyla, make (Y/n) another suit.” As the orange hologram appears.

“You got it, bossman” As Lyla puts up multiple orange screens.

Miguel's eyes widened when he saw bandages, bled through.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were injured?” His voice softened. You look away from him.

“Didn’t want to be bench.” You shrugged. You heard him sigh.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it feels like an ant bite.” You said sarcastically.

“Have you taken painkillers yet?”  He asked.

“No, those don’t do much.” You sighed, aching at every movement.

“Could I perhaps try?”

“Giving me medicine?” You frown.

“Do you trust me?” He crouches to your knees.

“Yeah?”

“This might sting a little.” He spoke, spreading your legs out a bit.

“What are you-” You whimpered, as he stuck his two fangs into your thigh. You felt a cool numbing to your leg. It was a relief, but you were blushing like crazy.

“Better?” He asked, with a faint pink expose on his cheek.

You nodded at him with a million thoughts in your head. Your heart was beating a little faster than usual. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes. You always had a small crush for Miguel, but you never thought anything like this.

“You might not be able to walk for a little.” As he started to re-bandage you. “You shouldn’t be moving at all, either way.” He carried you off the platform into his spare bedroom.

“Take me out to dinner first, O’hara.” You joked. As he placed you down on the bed.

“Sure, when you get better.” He placed a light kiss on your forehead.

Wait what?

-

W.C 1.2k

Mammon's such a fascinating character because canonically:

*good at solving complex mathematical problems in his head in a matter of seconds*

*understands people, their emotions and how they'd react to specific situations and uses that knowledge to manipulate them and get what he wants (whether that's some physical object or a certain reaction from them or just for them to calm down)*

*when there's no other choice at all, he steps up and effectively takes charge*

*a good teacher and seems to have a good balanced mix between being strict, encouraging and helpful*

*whenever Lucifer wants a job done well (no matter what the job is), he relies on Mammon (and has done so since they were angels)*

*scams usually work, he just tends to get caught at the end*

*came up with a code on the spot to tell MC he missed them while also being a comprehensible message on its own, that fit with his 'tsundere' personality*

*constantly found ways to sneak into the human world from the Celestial Realm*

*has fast and spontaneous reactions during high stake situations where you need to move/react fast*

*enjoys playing chess*

*can multitask well*

*actual emotional intelligence*

*one of the first brothers (the second?) to realise there was something wrong with Simeon*

*has a variety of skills that range from making balloon animals to fitting in seamlessly in a corporate environment*

*extremely hardworking when there's a goal he genuinely wants that he's working towards*

*when giving it his all he tends to pick up new skills easily*

*by his younger brothers' own admittance, he can do anything, complete any task and he can do it well as long as he puts effort into it*

But also canonically:

*had no idea what the fuck rent was*

*a shit liar*

*said "what if I accidentally tell MC I'm in love with them" to MC*

*constantly failing all his classes*

*easily falls for traps/curses*

*emotional intelligence fizzles out when it comes to talking about his own problems/admitting anything about himself*

*bet and lost their new house*

*managed to trick himself into believing he'd get a prize if he won a competition that Diavolo explicitly said there was no prize for*

*came up with a plan to win the competition in a matter of seconds, easily and constantly changing it to better fit the situation at hand. a plan that worked extremely well. lost the competition because he couldn't be bothered to check the title of a book*

Mammon's a character who'll break down and teach you PhD level Mathematics without breaking a sweat and then ask you what kind of animal the Pink Panther is in the next sentence.

I love him. I want to study him under a microscope.

What makes this even better is that I'm 100% sure his brothers have managed to gaslight the entire fandom into thinking he's the biggest fucking idiot alive with just the windows screensaver bouncing around in his head and nothing else

Don't get me wrong, he's a dumbass. He probably runs face first into a glass door at least once a week. But also....I mean....c'mon

In conclusion,

If you like Mammon, you're NOT a morosexual. You're a morosexual with a competency kink. Good Day.

On a side note, all of mammon's traits are like this,

*he's greedy but here's a long list of all the times he put his friends and family before money*

*he's a jerk but here's a long list of when he's one of the kindest people and an amazing brother*

*he's possessive but here's a long list of all the times he put mc's consent and/or choices above all else*

he drives me mad.

I love the legitimate fear in his eyes here.

It's less that he's shaken by the fact that he almost died, and more by the fact that he would have died a hero. A man willing to die for the justice of the denizens of Hell, believing in the friends he has to carry out the mission. And it's THAT fact, that possibility that his reputation would have been RUINED if not for pure dumb luck on his part, scares him. He would have been fine dying, he wouldn't give a shit if it was in the blaze of glory. But the fact that he would have died a HERO is what scares him more.

THAT'S how you write a good villain.

touch-starved

summary: dante is touch-starved, and he thinks the only way for him to feel something is to get punched by you pairing: dante x afab!reader | based on the netflix version but definitely canon divergent warnings: dry humping, unprotected p in v, creampie, degradation kink, very light choking, lots of swearing, kind of soft dom dante if you squint, idiots in love, friends to lovers, bit of praise, fem bodied reader w/c: ~3.2k

a/n: this is definitely not my best work but it's a warm up ig. lol anyway i absolutely loved the dmc netflix version, and i'm considering getting the games

"Punch me."

Not a question, but an indisputable demand coming from the demon hunter, which made you do a double take, place the barrel of your M4 carbine on the table, and flat-out refuse.

"No."

He snarled, yes, snarled at you, slamming his pistol against the table with a loud bang. You looked up from your own weapon, taken aback by Dante's reaction, concern written all over your face. Was he high??

"Come on, Y/N, just do it. Just one punch, one tiny little punch. I know you want to." His cocky grin did numbers on your nerves, but you still refrained from giving him the satisfaction of hitting him. It’s been years since you met Dante, by this point you were used to his shenanigans.

"Why, though?" You decided to focus on cleaning your weapon, the sharp smell of isopropyl alcohol filling the room.

"Because," Dante groaned, snatching the bottle of liquid from you, causing you to glare daggers at him, "I'm touch starved."

You blinked once, twice, trying your hardest to process both his honesty, and the logistics of his request.

"Why not ask for a hug, then? Or, I don't know, go to therapy?"

"Hah! I'm sure my therapist is gonna have a field day with me! So, my dad, a demon, disappeared without a trace, then my mother and twin brother died, but actually my brother is alive somewhere. My therapist is gonna need a therapist."

"Okay, okay, you made your point. Still, you could just rephrase it. Maybe leave out the demon bit." You wiped the barrel clean before setting it aside.

"I'd rather get punched. Now, please."

"Dante, a punch isn’t gonna solve it. Are you sure you don’t want a hug? I could cook you something. Or we could grab a few beers and watch a movie, or talk about your feelings." You shrugged.

Both of you had done this before — went out for drinks, danced, cooked together, fell asleep together — it was so intimate, almost like you were a couple. But the reality was that you weren’t. Not by a long shot. Unfortunately for you, Dante was protective of you in the way an older brother was. You thought that, perhaps, he missed Vergil so much that you were the closest thing he had to a sibling in years.

"A punch would be less time consuming. Cooome on, babe, just hit me!"

You hated when he called you babe. He called other girls babe, girls that were hot, pretty, girls that were his type, and it was the nickname that made you clench your jaw and purse your lips.

"Ugh, fine!" You sat up, rotated your wrist and flexed your fingers. "Are you sure this is going to help in any way?"

"Positive. Right here." Dante pointed at his cheek.

"What, in your face?"

"You're stalling."

Without a single ounce of hesitation you swung your arm, hitting the demon hunter square in his face, but it caused you more pain than it did him, and you stumbled back, holding your fist in your other hand.

"Son of a fucking bitch!" You cried out in pain, knowing damn well that would happen. Still, you couldn't say no to him. Ever.

"Are you okay?" Dante was visibly concerned — a rare sight since he was always cool and edgy, even when his own life was in danger.

"Fuck no! Feels like I punched a brick wall!" You practically growled at him, gaze quickly softening when you saw the pure look of terror in his eyes. "But hey, nothing a little ice can't fix, right?"

"Right." He nodded and got up, making a beeline for the freezer.

There was no ice in it, but there was a pack of frozen peas somewhere at the bottom of a drawer, which Dante picked up and brought to you. When you reached for it, he, instead, took your sore hand in his, gently pressing the cold legumes onto your knuckles. You winced, instinctively trying to retract your hand, but he held it in place, his fingers wrapped around your wrist to stop you from backing away.

The pain wasn't gone, but it was becoming bearable, and a relieved murmur escaped past your lips, one that sounded closer to a moan than a sigh. Dante's cheeks burned, tinted red with embarrassment and arousal because you were yet another girl in his life who just didn't want to be involved romantically with him. Not that he tried anything with you, because he always thought you deserved better. Sure, he was cocky and flirtatious, but he wasn't a dick. If no one reciprocated the flirting, he didn't push his luck. It was simple. And he wasn’t the type who did one-night stands, despite the rumours. Dante enjoyed having a connection to the people he took to bed, he became sexually attracted to those he knew on a deeper emotional level. But sometimes, when he was really, truly desperate, he would download Tinder and hook up with random girls.

And he reeked of desperation.

"Dante, you can let go of my hand now."  You told him, part of you hoping he wouldn't.

Who could blame you? He was an objectively attractive man, with a charming smile and a body sculpted by the gods themselves. Why would he ever want to get involved with you? Dante was your opposite — he talked, he sang, he danced, he was obnoxious. You were quiet, most of the time, and shy. In fact, when he first met you, he thought you had some form of speech impediment, with your nose in Boccaccio’s The Decameron, a book you stole from the public library because you were much too young to read. That’s when knew you were trouble, just like him.

"Yeah, of course." Dante stepped back. "How's your hand?"

"Better. How are you feeling?"

"Me? Why are you asking?"

"Hello?" You scrunched your nose and frowned. "You wanted me to punch you because you were touch-starved. Did it help?"

"I'll be honest, it felt more like a tickle than anything." He shrugged. "Are you sure you didn't pull your punch?"

There it was, the one thing that turned you from an introvert to a bat-shit crazy bitch — his stupid little mouth that he opened without ever thinking.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You're telling me I risked breaking my bones so you could feel better, only for you to not feel anything? I swear to fucking God, Dante, this is the last time I'm doing anything nice for you."

"Nice? You punched me!" He threw his hands up in exasperation, while your blood boiled inside of you, sending you into a blind rage.

"You asked me to punch you, you maniac! You should've fucked me instead!"

Your eyes widened at the sentence that came out of your mouth without a single thought, mortified at your own stupidity.

"Hugged. I meant hugged. Shit."

"No, no, hold up, you didn't say hugged." Dante tilted his head, one hand rubbing his chin. "Isn't that called a Freudian slip?"

"I- well- how the fuck do you even know what a Freudian slip is?" You tried changing the subject but he didn't bite.

"Google." He closed the gap between the two of you, and for the first time you felt intimidated by him. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

The bluntness of his question, coupled with the sudden change in the pitch of his voice made you feel like a cornered prey. There was no possible way he was serious. But he wasn't wrong — the nature of your jobs made it impossible for either of you to have partners, and besides, you've known each other for years. It was only natural that some form of physical attraction would have developed between you two, right? But why you? Why now? And the worst of all your questions, why not?

You didn’t want to think about how this would ruin almost a decade of friendship. All you could think about was the look of pure lust in his eyes as he held your gaze, and how months upon months of sexual frustrations accumulated inside of you, bubbling and boiling and exploding when you dropped the pack of peas on the floor.

"Yes. I want you to fuck me."

Without a sliver of hesitation, you felt him pick you up with ease, hands roaming up and down his back as he slammed you down onto the table, desperately pushing away all the guns and knives. How thoughtful of him. Your hands slithered under his blood red coat while he tugged at your t-shirt, pulling it over your head to expose your bare breasts to him.

"No bra? Kinky." Dante stopped to take a better look at you.

"Stop talking." You firmly told him, but the chuckle that erupted from your throat betrayed you.

He was the one person you felt most comfortable around, so much so that you didn't feel weirded out by him pressing his lips onto your neck, or his fingertips bruising the plush of your hips, or his tongue flicking over your sensitive nipples. No, it felt natural, too natural, like your skin was made to be touched by him.

With his coat on the floor, you tackled his shirt, effectively tearing it off of him because you were just as desperate as he was, and Dante pulled your body closer to his, your clothed cunt accidentally rubbing against the bulge in his trousers. You were aching from the lack of sex, and you uncontrollably moaned at the tiny bit of friction before mumbling a weak 'sorry.'

"Fuck, don't be. That's actually kind of hot." He shamelessly admitted, and you rose a brow.

"Yeah? Then you wouldn't mind me doing it again?" You chewed on your lower lip, but he could see past the fake innocence when you rolled your hips, frantically and feverishly rubbing your clit through the layers of fabric. "Shit, I could come just from this."

For a split second, Dante wondered if this was all real. What happened to your shyness? How was it possible that his best friend, the quiet, nerdy girl he'd known for such a long time, was worse than any demon he'd ever encountered? Not that he was a saint. Far from it, because when you threw your head back, desperate to climax, his is eyes darkened, black seeping into his sclera. It should've made you afraid, but it had the opposite effect. The thought that he could activate his Devil Trigger and quite literally snap you like a twig turned you on.

"Do it, then." Dante's hand snaked behind the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him. "Show me just how needy you are."

Beads of sweat trickled down your forehead as you fucked yourself on the half-demon, fog settling in your brain with each breath, each movement, each beating of your heart. Faster. Harder. Faster. Harder. Faster.

"Oh-" Any sentence you tried to utter stopped in your throat, replaced by a string of whimpers and curses. Whatever you were trying to babble was reduced to incoherent words.

"Well shit, I didn't know you were such a filthy little slut."

"Just- oh- shut up-"

"Hmm, I don't think you really want me to shut up." Dante sneered when you picked up the pace. "I think you like it when I talk like this."

"N-not true!" You yelped as he pinched your nipple, barely doing anything and yet you were a mess already.

"So, you don't want me to call you a fucktoy, then? Bet you're dripping right now. Bet you want me balls deep inside of you."

"Fuck, I'm gonna come!" You proved his point when your entire body quivered under his, mind blank and vision blurry.

"There, there." Dante pressed his lips onto your forehead. "I got you."

The noise of his belt unbuckling made you snap your eyes open, filling you with newfound desire and guilt — poor Dante, his cock was probably aching by now while you had the time of your life. He stepped back, letting his trousers pool at his feet, and you lifted your skirt to peel your panties off. You caught him staring at you, taking the sight in, and what a sight it was — locks of hair fell out of your bun, sticking to your sweaty temples, your legs still shaking from the orgasm, and your cunt dripping wet.

"I'd love to eat you out, babe, but my balls are genuinely gonna explode." He confessed, earning a giggle from you. Even with his eyes pitch black and his Devil Trigger on the verge of activating, Dante was still Dante. And you loved that about him.

"Hurry up and fuck me, then."

"Are you that desperate that you forgot your manners?" He dug his fingertips into the plush of your hips, violently pulling you closer to him.

"Please hurry up and fuck me?" You pouted.

"Good girl, that's better." Dante pushed your leg to the side with his elbow, dragging his cock up and down your slit.

You didn't get the chance to take a look at it, but the tip felt huge, so much so that you gasped, propping yourself on your elbows to see better, and you were not disappointed. In fact, you were concerned. You could not take it.

"Dante, it's not gonna fit."

He shook his head with a half-smile, finding your concern quite cute.

"I'll make it fit."

It was both a promise and a threat, but you trusted him. God, you trusted him with your life. He slowly and gently pushed the tip, your slick more than enough to lubricate his cock, but he stopped every time you looked uncomfortable to make sure you were okay.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"No, you can- it's fine, keep going." You closed your eyes, the discomfort causing you to clench around him instead of relaxing, which made Dande forget how to breathe or think.

But the worst came to a halt when he was fully in, stopping briefly to allow you to accommodate to the size. Your breathing went back to normal soon enough, and the last ounce of pain in your body was swiftly replaced by a surge of electricity when Dante moved, slowly and softly rolling his hips, unable to abstain any longer. And you didn't want him to when his cock filled you up so good, reaching places you didn't even know existed inside of your body. Your fingernails dug into his back, clawing at his skin with desperation and impatience, like you needed more than what he was already giving you.

"See? I told you I’ll make it fit. And you take me so well." Dante said, dragging his mouth over your neck, your scent overloading his senses.

But it just wasn't enough. No matter how painful, you wanted it-

"Harder."

Assertive, demanding, you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he pulled back to look at you, as if not believing your request.

"A minute ago, you were wriggling in pain, now you want it harder?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation. "I want it harder, faster, please-"

You were shushed by two digits forcing open your mouth, and you instinctively wrapped your lips around them, sucking obediently.

"You talk too much." He gave you a taste of your own medicine. "Should've known you were just a dumb little cocksleeve."

The degrading words caused you to moan and drool around his fingers, tears welling up in your eyes. Each thrust had you clench tighter, the tip of his ridiculously large cock punishing your cervix. Pain and pleasure bubbled inside of you, sparking through your body as Dante practically ripped his fingers from your mouth, only to wrap them around your throat. He was a hungry man, and you were dinner — arching your back to get closer, deeper, you fucked yourself on his cock with his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, and he revelled in your worship.

"Shit, you like it when it hurts, don't you?" He whispered, squeezing harder while you nodded eagerly. "Of course you do."

Of course you did. How could you not when he fucked you so good that your dignity and modesty were long forgotten? When Dante stripped you of your decency to bring out the worst in you? You felt your second orgasm build up, causing you to twitch under him, eyes rolling back as you slipped your hands under his arms, holding on for dear life.

"Again- gonna come again, Dante! Fuck!"

"Atta girl." He held your quivering body, his own hips stuttering, brutally thrusting into you with raw, animalistic passion.

You came undone on his cock, fingers carding through his hair, pushing away white locks to look at his pretty eyes while his arm slithered under your lower back to both support you and bring you closer to him. Dante was close, his throbbing cock still stretching your sore cunt out. He bucked his hips, splitting you open while you latched your arms around his neck, tits pressed against his chest and your lips ghosting over his earlobe.

"Almost there, babe." Dante promised. "You're doing so well." He pulled back, nearly on edge, but you squeezed your legs tighter around his waist.

"Don't pull out." You demanded, and that was enough to help him reach enlightenment.

He filled you up, and when he did pull out, watching his cum slowly leak out of you, you could've sworn he whispered 'marry me' under his breath. Surely it was just the brain fog, or the post-orgasm high. Your whole body was numb, and you stumbled into Dante's arms when you tried to get down from the table, muscles sore and aching.

"You wanna get pizza?" He nonchalantly asked, as if he didn't just fuck his best friend.

"I- shouldn't we talk about this?" You avoided looking into his eyes, opting to stare at the floor instead.

"About what?"

God, he was either insufferably oblivious or remarkably good at pretending.

"Us." You sighed.

"What's there to talk about?" Dante's fingers found your chin, and he gently lifted it up, forcing you to look at him.

"Don't make this harder for me, please. You know things won’t be the same now. We’re not in a relationship and-"

"I don't follow." Confusion was written all over his face. "Do you not want to be my girlfriend?"

"Girl- I- hold up, what? Do you want me to be your girlfriend?" You tilted your head, baffled by his question, because of course you wanted to. You just never had the guts to admit that you like him. It was even more shocking that he liked you back. Wasn’t this all just a one-time thing?

"I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious when I fucked you. What, you thought I nut and dip? That I shoot a load and go back on the road? That I cum n go?"

"Wow, please never use those euphemisms ever again." You cringed at his words, trying your best to hide the smile that crept on your lips.

"Christ, babe, you know I don't do one-night stands unless I’m really desperate. And here I thought you were my best friend. Guess I was wrong." Dante gasped, dramatically feigning offence by placing a hand on his chest.

"I’m not your best friend anymore." You said, voice serious and cold, and his charade was quickly replaced by actual worry and offence. "I'm your girlfriend now. And your best friend."

"Okay, I was genuinely concerned. Fuck you." He flipped you off and you sneered.

"You already did."

"Wait, that's my line!"

"Skill issue."