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Katsuki Bakugo's apartment looked like a graveyard, cold and silent. It was too big, too sterile, too static to be in without going insane. He felt like a caged animal, furious and ready to explode.
But now, he was just an empty shell of a man, tired and drenched in sweat.
He had returned home, quickly turning the keys in the lock, opening the door as fast as possible.
Ironic, for a man like him who tried to spend as little time in his apartment as possible.
But he was exhausted; the latest confrontation with a Villain while on patrol had completely drained his energy. It had taken him over half an hour to capture him, a time almost like a rookie Hero for a Top 5 Pro Hero. Which made him boil with rage... he felt weak.
But he knew the real reason: he was distracted.
Distracted by what had happened with you about a month earlier.
He abandoned his dirty boots by the entrance and marched unhesitatingly toward the refrigerator, grabbing the first bottle of cold water to guzzle down like a desperate man in the desert. Katsuki tilted his head back, swallowing noisily, a few drops of water sliding down his chin, onto his sweaty neck, and then his chest. It was refreshing, but it didn't quench the bad mood that originated from the center of his chest.
It had gripped him mercilessly since that evening, which was now growing increasingly distant.
The relationship with you had always been complicated; you didn't live the fairytale everyone dreams of, but rather a continuous battle.
An incessant war, interspersed with moments of truce where there were no uncomfortable subjects causing friction, and you could communicate physically in the bedroom, where you never failed.
You had been together for years, since high school, and had broken up so many times in between that Katsuki had lost count.
Both having stubborn and strong personalities didn't help the cause. You were good at taking action, at disappearing and making him die of jealousy.
It drove him crazy like the caged animal he had become, now in radio silence for at least twenty days.
Katsuki, on the other hand, was good with words, and the last time, he had crossed a line. The heated conversation had started casually, while you were in his Porsche on the way to a damned event that Katsuki detested. He shunned social events and his own popularity like a thief running from the police.
The mere thought that you had managed to convince him to attend had made him explode shortly after.
You, who loved to be seen in public in your designer clothes, were calmly fixing your light makeup in the passenger seat. You were so beautiful that you didn't need anything to stand out among everyone else. Katsuki, already unstable, began to complain that you were getting powder on the car.
And from there, chaos.
The conversation had escalated from his obsession with the car to him acidly calling you the biggest mistake of his life.
You had stared at him, eyes wide with anger, without ever crying, and then, to twist the knife, he had told you to get out of his car. It was just a way to challenge you, to regain dominance over you and the discussion he was losing by saying such spineless things.
He certainly didn't mean to leave you at the traffic light in the middle of the road.
But you, disgusted by what he had said, immediately accommodated him to get away from Katsuki.
You got out, grabbing your purse, and amidst all the other cars, you kicked the side of the Porsche without hesitation, scratching it, and even knocking off the side mirror while Katsuki fumed angrily about his car. But he deserved it.
He lowered the window and asked you to get back in the car because you were making a scene; someone had already started honking and pulling out their phone to film it. "Fuck! Get back in immediately, goddammit!" And you hit the car with your purse one more time, giving him a poisonous look.
"You're just an egomaniac! Screw you!" you had screamed, walking away on your heels.
Between curses, Katsuki had followed you at a snail's pace for a while, calling out to you from the window and letting impatient cars honk and pass him. But you, too enraged, had changed direction, making it impossible for him to follow you.
And in the end, Katsuki had given up, punching the steering wheel himself.
It always went that way, both of you.
In that destructive direction, until one of you reached out first and you could resolve it in the bedroom.
But out of pride, it was never Katsuki who called first.
Between the two of you, you were definitely the emotionally intelligent one, even though you were both so much alike. He was emotionally constipated, desperately waiting for a message from you so he could breathe again.
Because despite everything being complicated and often toxic, he couldn't be without you.
He loved you too much, but Katsuki was a huge jackass. You were the only person who was just as much of a mess as he was, with just as bad a temper, and yet you still managed to understand and love him.
This time, however, even twenty days after that fight, you hadn't contacted him. You had vanished into thin air, leaving him alone to go crazy at work or in the apartment, with the few remaining objects of yours that reminded Katsuki how lonely and pathetic he felt.
He couldn't even sleep in the bed because it had become too big and empty, and it seemed to mock him when he reached for you in the covers in the morning. He hated feeling punished and abandoned. So, to feel worse, he had started sleeping on the sofa and fighting insomnia with extra shifts at work and a bottle of sake when he had a day off.
Katsuki threw the now-empty water bottle into the sink and wiped his mouth with his wrist, dragging himself toward the bathroom to scrub off the sweat and the Villain's dry blood that was making him smell like a damned pig. But before he could even take a step past his modern kitchen island, he heard other keys turning in the lock.
The only other person with a key to the house was you.
He stood at attention, watching the scene, waiting for the door to open completely and reveal the figure behind it. The familiar sound of heels anticipated his every thought. It was indeed you at his doorway.
You looked up, scoffing when you realized he was home.
Putting on an indifferent look, you entered the house without even taking off your heels, slamming them forcefully against the apartment's hardwood floor, enraging him. But the thing that bothered Katsuki the most was that you had come in using the keys he had given you as if it were your own home, after not contacting him for over two weeks.
First surprised and then profoundly angry, he took a step toward you, but you walked past him dismissively, proceeding toward the mirrored closet in the hallway. He barked your name.
"What the hell. What are you doing?" he said, frowning at the kitchen door, watching you rummage through the closet and pull out a pair of expensive heels he himself had given you, which you had forgotten there days ago.
"You came back just for a pair of shoes after disappearing for all this time?! You are completely out of line!" Katsuki snapped nervously.
Without even looking at him, and with the heels in your hand, you backed toward the door exactly as you had entered, stomping your feet with every step, and swaying your hips to show him what he had missed all those days. Clever and malicious, knowing how much he was dependent on physical context.
He called after you when he received no answer, following you.
You turned around, disgusted, and scoffing, you held up the heels.
"Do you know how much these cost? They're not even available anymore. Why should I leave them here to rot with your stench?" you asked, raising your eyebrows and walking away again, toward the door.
"Oh, I get it. You come here to take the stuff I gave you like a beggar, using the emergency keys I gave you while simultaneously elevating yourself to an independent woman. I haven't heard from you in weeks! Where the hell have you been?" He ran a hand through his hair, startled, and then instinctively moved, dodging the set of keys that you suddenly threw at him with a flick of your wrist.
The bunch slammed loudly against the wall.
"Then take them back, I don't give a damn!" You also frowned, losing your composed demeanor. "Didn't you want this? For 'your biggest mistake' to disappear? Fine, I accommodated you, and now you're complaining?!" Katsuki parted his lips, looking at the keys on the floor and then at you, grinding his teeth.
"Are you crazy? I just want to talk to you!"
"Fuck you," you hissed, opening the door.
Then, quickly, in a few steps, he reached you at the door, grabbing you. He took you by the hips, spun you around, and forcefully slamming your bodies together, he closed the door, trapping you between the surface and his body.
You blinked your eyelashes, looking at him sideways.
"What the hell! Let me go right now!" you grabbed his shirt, trying uselessly to get him off you. Katsuki was tall and muscular, and too stubborn to let go. "Little witch... you disappeared, leaving me with damage to my car and an empty apartment, driving me insane, and now you come here to mock me?" he whispered, speaking directly into your face, puffing his warm breath onto you.
You, annoyed, continued to struggle in his grip, forcing him to hold you tighter.
"No, it doesn't work like that! You're the one who threw me out! Don't play the victim!" you said, losing your grip on the heels when Katsuki took your wrists with one hand, holding you completely pinned against the door. The shoes fell near your feet, and you gasped in surprise.
"Baby, where have you been? What have you been doing these past few days? I stopped by your place, but you weren't there..."
"Stopped by?" you focused your eyes on Katsuki's red ones. "Staring at the lights through the windows doesn't count as stopping by to see me! You couldn't even send me a text. If you were so worried, why didn't you call me? Because you're a pathetic imitation of a man and the worst boyfriend in the world!" you yelled, agitated.
And Katsuki would probably get neighbor complaints about the commotion.
Again.
"I haven't slept... not a single day in my own bed," Katsuki began, confessing in a hoarse voice and clenched jaw, staying close to breathe the scent of the woman he had missed like oxygen. "I can't, unless I know you're okay. I kept waking up reaching for you, for your stupid, annoying ass. I've been going insane without even a cryptic text from you." The genuine vulnerability in his voice, the tremor of exhaustion and need, threw you off balance.
Your struggling ceased.
Your cold gaze flickered, the mask of indifference momentarily cracking.
"You're doing this on purpose," you whispered, your voice tightening with anger and something else. "You know how to play dirty, Katsuki. You love to play the victim and then dump all your feelings on me, but you never apologize for the horrible things you say and do!" Katsuki couldn't take the lecture, the righteous anger, the mostly true accusation.
He needed to silence you, to claim the connection that had been severed for too long. He spoke over you, cutting you off, his eyes closing slightly as he brought his mouth closer to yours, your lips almost brushing.
"Shut up," he commanded, the word softer than a whisper, a desperate plea for truce. "Just... shut up, for a second."
He didn't fully kiss you. He simply nudged your lower lip with his, a featherlight brush of contact.
You gasped, the sound sharp and ragged, and your hands, still pinned, instinctively gripped the front of his torn shirt, balling the fabric in your fists.
The static of your volatile energy snapped, instantly replaced by a deep, undeniable current of desire.
He felt the familiar, consuming rush; you'd missed him too. His lips hovered, mere atoms away, waiting for the signal, the slight return press.
Then, you gave a decisive shove against his chest.
"No," you breathed out, your eyes still clouded but your resolve instantly back. You pushed harder, forcing him to take a step back.
"Absolutely not. You are disgusting. You stink and you're dirty, and I won't kiss you after what you said, you can't." You quickly bent down, retrieving your lost heels and checking that they hadn't been scratched.
Then you took his keys from the bowl, refusing to step over him and pick up your own from the floor after throwing them at him. You would never give up the privilege of having keys to his apartment; you even regretted throwing them.
"I'll come back to get my other things when I need them," you stated, already halfway out the door. You paused on the threshold, giving him one last, withering look. "And if I find even one scuff on these, I'm sending you the bill, Dynamight. Do not call me."
You slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the suddenly silent apartment.
Katsuki stood there, pressed against the hallway door, his breath still catching.
He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, noticing the faint scent of your perfume lingering on his skin.
A slow, utterly self-satisfied grin spread across his face, even as he fumed.
It wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
The fight had been reignited.
You were sure that ignoring what was happening in your love life would help you get through that nightmare of a month.
Between the problems with Katsuki and the problems at work, you had started to believe everyone was out to get you. At work, an important event had made everyone nervous and tense, and some of the staff had backed out at the last second due to the stress of the new fashion line, leaving more work for those who remained, including you, who came home late every evening with your head full of worries and a lookbook filled with scraps and correction sticky notes.
And those days were all the same, and you spent them the same way: with your hand always close to the pocket where you usually kept your phone, or glancing at your bag, waiting for a text or a call from Katsuki that never came.
Asshole.
Why was it so difficult for him to man up and claim you? You wanted to be told you were his woman, not a mistake.
That venomous phrase boiled in your stomach every time you thought about it, and you were glad you had messed up his car that day. You wouldn't let him get away with it easily this time: you, too, had dignity and boundaries. And Katsuki crossed all of them, acting as if he took you for granted.
But you were ready to prove that you were not to be taken for granted at all.
You were in love, but not stupid.
And if he didn't want to be the man, you would play the woman.
For once, you wouldn't call him first, giving in to his demands or games. You wouldn't settle for sweet words after sex or dates in luxurious places, and certainly not expensive gifts.
Your closet was full of them by now.
You wanted something different: for him to humble himself for once. Or even just admit he loved you.
Lying on your bed in your apartment, you curled your lips in annoyance at the idea that Katsuki was too dense to figure it out on his own. You had to be the one to flip that switch in his blond head.
Maliciously, you reached for your phone on the nightstand and called one of your work colleagues.
Nothing special, not someone you were interested in, or vice versa. But working in fashion, you knew many attractive, even somewhat famous, guys you could go out with and be photographed alongside. And to avoid appearing in the wrong, you subtly invited your other female colleagues and friends.
The ones you had a slightly closer relationship with, and who would allow you a quiet evening with expensive cocktails, good music, and a perfect opportunity for revenge.
Someone would soon suggest a trendy club, and you would show off your new expensive dress.
Thinking about it, though, only the boots in Katsuki's closet went well with that dress, so you would also have an excuse to drive him crazy and behave like a bitch: well-dressed, beautiful, radiant, and ready to go out without him.
Immature? Yes, but you had both crossed every line by now, and you would play the same game.
He had called you a mistake? You would just make him understand how much you could be one, by playing with the worst thing for him: jealousy.
Knowing that this would be enough to turn him from a superficial jerk into a desperate and neurotic boyfriend. Not immediately, but certainly after a couple more weeks of silence. A slow burn.
So, without any warning, you showed up at the apartment complex where Katsuki lived.
With a cunning smile, you opened the door, hoping to find him home, and indeed, his boots and the other set of keys, the one that originally belonged to you, were there at the entrance.
Besides those, the other clue that told you he was home was the sound of the shower coming from the bathroom in the master bedroom.
You didn't take off your shoes, walking straight to the bedroom to look for what you needed in the walk-in closet, where you usually left a few clothes, accessories, or anything else you needed when you stayed over for a few days. But now you were determined to take everything away so you wouldn't have to depend on him and his closet anymore, and wouldn't give him any excuses to see you.
You slid open the door, searching in the drawers and on the shelves where he usually left you the necessary space for your things. But they weren't there. There were other clothes, masculine ones, a couple of winter jackets from his Hero costume, and an old gym bag full of towels and some shorts.
In fact, Katsuki had shrewdly moved your things to create a need or inconvenience for you, thereby forcing you to have to ask for help to find what you were looking for.
Indignant, you first searched the walk-in closet yourself, hating him for moving your expensive things and replacing them with stupid gym gear.
But not finding them, in a hurry and now nervous, you marched towards the bathroom without thinking about the consequences.
The bathroom was humid, full of steam, the mirror fogged up with condensation, and it smelled of the body wash he always used. For a few moments, it was that very smell that stopped you at the bathroom doorframe, reminding you of old times connected precisely to that shower or the scent of Katsuki's skin.
Taking a deep breath, you pushed aside that more irrational part of yourself and abruptly opened the glass shower door.
He was standing inside, under the jet of water, washing his hair, naked and obviously wet, soap and water running down his muscular body, which was marked with old scars. He was taking one of his usual long, relaxing showers after work or a stressful workout.
You knew it perfectly well: you knew him well. Katsuki still had his eyes closed, but feeling that sudden cold gust of wind, he snapped his eyelids open and found you in front of him with red cheeks and an angry look.
"Shit," he commented, startled. “Bitch, is this the way to show up?" he said, slightly impatient, then offered a playful smile without stopping the water.
He pushed forward slightly, leaning his arm on the glass wall and bending towards you, water dripping from his hair onto the floor, near your feet. He knew exactly what kind of situation this was and how to play it best. He was naked, and that was an excellent winning card, and even though you pretended to be indifferent and only stared at his face, he recognized the slight tremble along your body, your flushed cheeks, and how you were clutching the glass door, linking everything back to the deep instinct that connected you. And he knew it well, because you both thought the same way. And even though he was the only one naked, standing before you, who was dressed and ready to go out, he didn't feel vulnerable at all.
Instead, he felt he had the upper hand.
"Took you long enough. Are you getting in the shower?" he asked with a half-grin.
You rolled your eyes, took a step back to avoid getting wet, and scoffed, putting on an annoyed expression.
"Not even if you begged me on your knees."
"Are you sure?" he tried again, reaching a hand out towards you, which you immediately brushed aside.
"Yes, I'm sure. Stop being an idiot. Tell me where you put my stuff," you said, frowning and crossing your arms over your chest.
It was Katsuki's turn to roll his eyes, still very much in the mood to tease you, playing the indifferent and arrogant game. He wouldn't show he was happy to see you so soon, nor would he make the search easy for you.
Hiding your clothes had been a clever move, and he would play that card well too.
"You come here without warning, you don't take off your shoes, you interrupt my shower..." he began, finally stopping the water, flexing the muscles of his arm still against the wall, surveying you from head to toe in that designer dress. "...and you immediately start demanding and ordering without saying please. Who raised you?”
You stared at his massive arm for a few moments, and as if nothing had happened, you fixed your gaze back on his, remaining with your arms crossed and an annoyed grimace.
"It's my stuff, I need it, give it to me now."
"Or else?" he dared, raising an eyebrow, stepping out of the shower, dripping wet, without stopping his stare, invading your space mercilessly, physically forcing you to step back and bump against the marble sink.
You gasped, momentarily speechless, as he towered over you, tying a towel around his waist that barely covered the pronounced V of his pubic bone, causing your gaze to drop and immediately snap back up. He noticed it, smiling without commenting.
"Or else, what are you going to do?" he asked, continuing the game.
You, puffing out your chest for the sake of your pride, found the air to get oxygen to your blood, form a coherent thought, and then speak without your voice trembling.
"I'll break the other side mirror too. I have the garage keys, after all." You made a face, and at the memory of his car being scratched that evening, he grunted, annoyed, looking you up and down, and then nodded for you to go to the walk-in closet together, hitting you with a few water droplets.
You narrowed your eyes, immediately wiping your face.
"God forbid... Come on, let's go, dollface, I'll get them for you." He sighed, tossing his wet hair back and tightening the towel around his waist before leading the way for both of you, showing you his muscular back full of droplets, which ran down to the edge of the towel hypnotically.
You bit your lip to resist the temptation to reach out and touch him, and with quick steps, your heels clicking on the floor, you followed him into the walk-in closet, pretending to be satisfied because he was obeying.
Katsuki stood with his arms crossed in the center of the room, his bare feet on the soft rug, evaluating and pretending not to remember where your things were.
"Hurry up! I have plans!" you urged him. "If you've lost my Jimmy Choo boots, it won't just be your car getting dented."
"Oh yeah? And where are you going?" Katsuki asked, raising his eyebrows and walking toward you.
"None of your business." You tensed, convinced he would grab you like last time by the door, and you nervously moved away, because you would definitely give in to such contact today, and that towel would end up on the floor along with your dress. But he passed you, fortunately, opening the door of a mirrored cabinet, reaching up high where you could never reach.
"Calm down, tiger. I'm helping you, retract your claws. It's hard for me to remember where your things ended up; you haven't been here in such a long, long time..." he continued to tease you, glancing at you over his shoulder and finding you frowning. With a smirk, he closed the cabinet.
"They're not here... Let me see if I remember..." He tried to be vague, moving to a different wall, and you followed him, now on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
"Katsuki, it's not funny."
"I guess not..." he sighed, mocking you, opening another door. This time he didn't even rummage; he closed the door, shaking his head, and with his hands on his hips, he moved again.
"It would be easier to find them if you told me what you're doing tonight," he said vaguely, and you let out a short, irritated laugh.
"You're an asshole," you immediately commented.
The other man grinned, running his hand through his damp hair again, positioning himself back in the center with his muscular arms crossed over his chest.
"Well, you can stay here with me all evening to look for them if you don't want to talk."
A staring contest began, and you, exasperated by the whole situation, desperately needed to get away from him and have a gin and tonic.
"Damn it..." you muttered quietly, unhappy that he had won that first little game. "I'm going to the Golden with my friends from work. We have a table in the reserved area." You gave in, and he nodded, absorbing the information and immediately resuming the search for the boots.
"The one in central Shibuya?" he made an annoyed sound. "And you're going in that dress? I don't like it; you have everything hanging out," he commented, pulling out the first of the boots.
Suddenly, his memory had returned.
You grimaced, taking the boot from his hands and locking eyes with him.
"If you don't like it, then I'll have to wear it more often."
"I don't like the thought of other people seeing you in it all evening while I'm here licking my wounds... You should wear it to go out with me, so I'll be the one to admire you all the time instead," he said, looking you up and down, not bothering to reach for the rest of your things on the highest shelf.
"That's the worst pick-up line of your asshole career."
"Is it all girls?" he interrupted, as usual.
Annoyed, you hit his arm, having no intention of answering and losing another game.
"Just give me my stuff."
He grunted again, taking a couple of steps forward, trapping you between the shelf and the armchair in the corner, with the second boot in his hand, which you tried to grab while already blushing and parting your lips to catch your breath.
You could feel his body radiating the heat of the shower, the scent of the body wash, and his breath against your forehead. Katsuki held the boot in an iron grip, and you couldn't take it. Not wanting to ruin the leather, you let go, grabbing his wrist instead.
"Stop playing these games. You'll ruin it..."
"I don't give a shit about your boots; I can buy new ones, and all you want. But if you tell me who you're going out with, I won't ruin them. It sucks when something you care about gets scratched." He fixed his red eyes on yours, and you wrinkled your nose, feeling targeted, trying to resist the game, but as expected, his proximity like this played tricks on you.
Especially when he leaned down to speak against your ear, breathing warm and hoarse, still wet.
A damp hand took hold of your covered hip, trapping you completely while you slowly closed your eyes.
"Cancel the night out... We can grab something to eat here, or I'll take you to a nice sushi place. You can keep the dress and the boots on while I take you in the bedroom or on the sofa... even in the bathroom of the damned restaurant. I want to shut that mouth of yours for a bit." He tightened his grip on your hip, making you softly gasp. He grinned, kissing your ear and continuing to speak over it. "That way, you get that rabid dog expression off your face."
You bit your lip and closed your eyes, clutching his wrist, still holding the boot high, with one hand.
Your other hand, though trembling, maintained its grip on the first boot you had managed to take.
It took an act of conviction, ignoring the kisses he was giving your neck, to pull back.
Because that had always been the way you solved things: ending them in bed or with expensive gifts.
There were never real apologies or remorse; things piled up under the rug, and neither of you ever cleaned up. You just moved past it, and then threw everything under the rug again and again. You had done it for years, but now the rug was too small to cover all the dirt. And you were tired of swallowing the lump in your throat and forgetting days of tears and pain just because the flesh gave in.
Tired that Katsuki had never bothered to find a different solution, so used to that easy way of getting you back.
"We're three girls and three guys, all from my fashion house. I can send you the list if you want. Can I have my boot back? I'm going to be late," you replied coldly, and he immediately pulled back to look you in the eyes, frowning.
It wasn't working.
And he was confused.
You understood this, but you wouldn't change your mind now. They stared at each other for a long time, and he, increasingly frowned and nervous, backed away, passing you the second boot as if it burned him, physically stepping back to give you space.
"What am I supposed to do, you? You go out with other guys while I stay here and go crazy at home?" he sighed, annoyed, changing his attitude so as not to appear affected by the rejection.
"Stop acting like a child. They're colleagues... you can go out sometimes too, instead of rotting at home," you murmured, quickly changing out of your heels and into the boots while he watched you with a grimace that screamed no way in hell.
"They're still men."
"News flash, you're a man too," you pointed out, forcing a bitter laugh. "So don't worry, I'm already prepared for the worst."
He raised one corner of his mouth, irritated, watching you grab a clutch bag from the closet all by yourself.
"Don't play games. What you're doing isn't fair."
"Second news flash, you're the last person who can talk about right and wrong." You threw him one last glare and started walking out of the walk-in closet with your heels in hand.
"Oh, is that so? You don't care anymore?" he asked in a raspier voice now that he was getting angry, not following you. "Then maybe I should start going out with other girls too, or inviting them over to spend the evening together."
You slowed your pace momentarily.
Hearing that sentence, a wave of nausea rose in you, which you immediately repressed, because you knew he would do it. He would always do worse until you gave up and hid the dust under the rug.
With watery eyes, you turned to look at him, letting him make another grimace.
"Do whatever you want, but the day I see you with another woman is the last time you'll see me."
"Empty words," he spat, and you immediately started walking away from him again, your stomach now burning at the thought of him with someone else, knocking down an entire rail of shirts before leaving for good.
Katsuki heard the front door slam, and sighing, he ignored the clothes on the floor, running a hand over his face.
He couldn't understand why you wouldn't give in. And finally, venting his frustration at the idea of you going out with other guys that night, he punched the mirror on the cabinet door next to him, instantly shattering it.
He had held back until that moment not to do it in front of you, and now, with his knuckles split, he only felt worse.
He just had to hope they were only words.
The Golden was a cavern of pulsating neon and artificial heat, a place where the music didn’t just play; it throbbed against your ribcage like a second, unwanted heart.
You sat deep within the velvet shadows of the reserved area, feeling already quite intoxicated by what you were drinking, on top of what your rotting relationship had been making you feel for years.
Your dress barely covered your legs, but it didn't matter.
You thought the stares from other men would help; instead, they just made you feel incredibly repulsed.
In front of you, the glass tabletop was a graveyard of empty cocktail glasses, the translucent remains of gin and tonics and dark, bitter scotch that you had drained with a mechanical, desperate efficiency.
It was the most effective way to get wasted.
The friends and colleagues you had arrived with, whom you had invited just to have an alibi, were of no use to you anymore. They had slowly dissipated into the crowd or drifted home as the clock crept toward 3:00 AM.
Now, the only thing left of the group was Ken, a junior designer from the accessories department whose name you barely cared to remember. He was a textbook idiot, the kind of man who mistook your silence for mystery and your intoxication for an invitation. Christ, just the idea of ending up in bed with him just to be spiteful made you sick.
The only one you fucked when you were drunk was Katsuki. And generally, the only one you went to bed with at all.
Ken was leaning in far too close, his breath smelling of cheap beer and desperation, rambling about the narrative flow of the new spring line.
You didn't hear a word. Your mind was three miles away, trapped in a cold apartment with a man who would rather cut his own arm off than apologize for making you cry for days on end.
You were in love with a bastard.
You hated him as much as you loved him.
You stared into the bottom of your fifth… or was it sixth? glass, watching the ice cubes melt into watery nothingness. You were thinking about anything except the person talking to you at that moment.
You were imagining the opposite situation: a woman with Katsuki.
A jagged, ugly jealousy was clawing at your throat, sharper than the alcohol.
Was Katsuki out now? Had he followed through on his threat? You could almost see it: bent over another girl, ready to send you a photo to make you understand how stupid you were for still wanting him, and for not staying in the apartment with him that night.
The thought made you feel physically ill, a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the gin and everything to do with the toxic, unbreakable tether that bound you to him.
You felt a hand slide onto your shoulder, Ken’s fingers squeezing the fabric of your dress.
"You know, you’re too beautiful to be looking so miserable," he slurred, his face looming into your peripheral vision. "Why don't we get out of here? My place isn't far, and I have some stuff that'll really help you forget whatever’s got you down."
The mention of "stuff," the silent offer of a chemical escape, lingered in the air.
For a fleeting, dark second, you considered it.
You wanted to be numb. You wanted to stop feeling the phantom heat of Katsuki’s breath against your ear and the memory of his hands on your hips.
You wanted to be so far gone that the "mistake" he called you wouldn't hurt anymore. And maybe you’d actually manage to go to bed with someone else.
But then, the sheer pathetic nature of the man beside you broke through the fog. Ken wasn't an escape; he was a symptom of the same rot. Just the idea of waking up the next morning, naked at some stranger's house, made your stomach boil with hatred toward Katsuki, who at that point would have forced you into that cycle of desperation and loss of dignity just to prove a point to him.
"Get your hand off me," you hissed, your voice low and vibrating with a sudden, acidic venom.
Ken blinked, startled by the sudden change in temperature.
"Hey, I’m just trying to be a nice guy. You’ve been sitting here like a statue for two hours—"
"I said, get your hand off me, you pathetic little vulture," you snapped, turning your head to fix him with a look of such pure, concentrated loathing that he actually recoiled. "Do you think I’m here for you? Do you think I even know your last name? You’re a placeholder. You’re a footnote. Go home." You spat the words, furious with the entire male gender that only wanted one thing from you.
He stuttered, his face flushing a humiliated crimson. He tried to muster some semblance of dignity, muttering something about you being "crazy" and "impossible," before he stood up and beat a hasty retreat, leaving his half-finished drink behind.
Finally, you were alone.
The silence that followed within the booth felt deafening despite the roar of the club. You leaned back against the velvet, your head spinning as the alcohol fully took hold. You felt hollow, a porcelain doll with all its stuffing ripped out.
You were the woman who had everything: the career, the designer clothes, the Top 5 Hero boyfriend… and yet, here you were, rotting in a VIP booth in Shibuya, drowning in a relationship that felt like a slow-motion car crash.
A bit of cocaine wouldn't have hurt, but then you would have buried your relationship for good if it ever came out in some tabloid. Katsuki wouldn't have tolerated that.
You stared at the exit, wondering if you should just walk out into the cold morning air and keep walking until you reached your apartment.
You were jealous of the girls he might be with, you were angry at the words he had spat at you, and more than anything, you were terrified that this was all your life was ever going to be: a cycle of screaming matches and shattered glass, followed by the silent, suffocating darkness of an empty bed.
Your eyes welled up at the thought of losing him forever and, at the same time, of never being able to leave him.
You signaled the waiter for one more drink, your heart a heavy, leaden weight in your chest.
You would stay until the lights came up, until the music stopped, until you had no choice but to face the wreckage of the life you had chosen.
The waiter brought the final glass, a double of something dark and burning, and you dismissed him with a flick of your wrist, not even looking at his face.
You let your head fall back against the top of the velvet sofa, exposing your throat, staring up at the shifting patterns of neon light on the ceiling.
The world was spinning in slow, nauseating circles.
You were so drunk that your thoughts felt like they were underwater, heavy and distorted.
You closed your eyes, but the darkness was worse; it was filled with the image of Katsuki’s smirk in the shower, the way his muscles had rippled under the water, and the way he had looked at you when he handed over that second boot, like he wanted to crush you and worship you all at once.
You hated him.
You hated how much you needed his anger to feel alive.
You hated that you were sitting here, hoping he was suffering, hoping his knuckles were bleeding, hoping he was staring at the door of his silent, sterile apartment.
And indeed.
On the other side of the city, the silence in the apartment was a physical weight. Katsuki was pacing the length of the living room, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor.
The mirror in the walk-in closet was a jagged web of silver shards, a testament to his lack of control.
He had tried to lie down on the sofa, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw you in that dress.
That dress that showed too much skin, that dress meant for other men to look at while he sat here rotting.
His phone was a lead weight in his hand. Twenty days. He had gone twenty days without hearing your voice, and then you had reappeared acting like a bigger bitch than ever.
He was vibrating with a toxic cocktail of adrenaline, jealousy, and pure, unadulterated need.
Christ, how much he loved you and needed to fuck you in his own bed. Actually, in your bed.
He looked at the clock. 3:45 AM.
"Dammit," he growled, his voice a low, animalistic rasp. He didn't care about his pride anymore. He didn't care about who called first. All he could think about was the three guys you said were with you.
The fashion colleagues. The "attractive" ones.
He imagined one of them touching your waist, whispering in your ear, leading you to a taxi.
His thumb hovered over your name.
Then, with a curse that echoed through the empty rooms, he hit the call button.
The vibration of your phone against your thigh felt like an electric shock. You didn't move for the first three rings, just stared at the ceiling, a bitter, triumphant smile touching your lips.
He broke.
On the fifth ring, you fumbled the phone out of your clutch. You didn't even check the ID; you knew it was him. You swiped to answer and held it to your ear, staying silent, letting the ambient roar of the club speak for you.
"Where the hell are you?" His voice came through the line like a gunshot, hoarse and trembling with a fury that barely masked his desperation. You pulled the phone away from your ear, annoyed.
"None... of your business, Katsuki," you slurred, your voice thick and honeyed with alcohol. You let out a short, airy laugh that you knew would drive him insane. "Why are you calling? Are you tired of playing with your hand?"
"Don't fuck with me right now!" he roared, and you could hear the sound of something, a glass, maybe, being slammed onto a table. "Are you alone? Tell me right now, are you fucking alone or is one of those pricks with you?"
"Maybe I am, maybe I’m not," you hissed, the acidic jealousy you’d been feeling all night turning into a weapon. "What do you care? I’m a mistake, remember? Go fuck some other idiot who will put up with your bullshit."
"You’re drunk," he spat, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "You’re fucking wasted, and you’re sitting in some trashy club in Shibuya waiting for someone to take you home. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look? After all that talk about dignity, you’re just out there acting like a common slut to get a rise out of me."
"Fuck you! Fuck you, Katsuki!" you screamed into the phone, ignoring the few lingering patrons who turned to stare. "You’re the one who threw me out! You’re the one who hasn't called for three weeks! I can do whatever I want, with whoever I want! I hope you're staring at the empty side of your bed and losing your goddamn mind! I’ll find someone else and get knocked up!" you muttered drunkenly.
"I’m going to kill you," he breathed, the words sounding more like a vow than a threat. "I’m going to find you and I’m going to drag you out of there. You think this is a game? You think you can just play with me like this? You’re mine. You’ve been mine since we were kids, and if I find out another man has touched you, it'll be a massacre."
"You don't own me!" you shrieked, tears of rage finally stinging your eyes. "You don't get to call me a mistake and then act like my master! Stay in your graveyard, Katsuki. I’m staying here. I’m going to have another drink, and maybe I’ll find someone who actually knows how to say a kind word instead of just barking orders like a dog! Someone who doesn't leave me at a damn traffic light!"
"Shut your mouth!" he yelled back. "Stay right there. Don't you fucking move a muscle. I'm coming to get you."
"Don't bother! I’ll be gone by the time you get here! Go to hell!"
You slammed the 'end call' button and threw the phone onto the velvet seat next to you. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm. You were shaking, your vision blurred by the sheer intensity of the hatred and love you felt for the man on the other end of the line.
It was sick. It was a fever.
It was a poison you had been drinking for years.
In the apartment, Katsuki didn't even bother to put on a shirt. He grabbed his keys and a hoodie, his movements jerky and violent. He kicked a chair out of his way as he headed for the door, his mind a chaotic storm of images.
You, crying. You, laughing with someone else.
You, looking at him with that disgusted expression that made him want to drop to his knees and beg, even as he wanted to scream at you.
He slammed the apartment door shut, the sound like a final gavel strike. He didn't care about the neighbors, didn't care about his reputation, didn't care about the laws of the road.
He was going to find you even if he had to burn the whole city down to do it.
He threw himself into the Porsche, and the engine roared to life, a mechanical scream that matched the one trapped in his throat. He shifted into gear, the tires screeching as he tore out of the garage, heading toward Shibuya like a man possessed.
He got there in 10 minutes.
The heavy, double-paned glass doors of the club didn't just open; they seemed to buckle under the sheer force of Katsuki’s entry. He ignored the bouncer, entering without paying the cover charge.
Even at four in the morning, the club was a swirling vortex of sweat, expensive cologne, and the kind of frantic energy that only exists in the hours before dawn.
The strobe lights cut through the darkness in jagged, seizure-inducing flashes, painting the crowd in strobe-effect snapshots of movement.
But when he stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
It wasn't that the music stopped, but the air itself seemed to go thin, charged with the static electricity of his impending explosion.
He didn't check the coatroom. He didn't look at the bar. He moved with the terrifying, predatory precision of a man who could find you anywhere.
He knew exactly where you were.
Deep down, through the haze of the alcohol and the ringing in your ears, you knew he knew.
You had stayed in that specific, elevated booth not for the comfort, but because it was a stage.
You wanted to be found.
You wanted him to see the wreckage he had caused, and you wanted to see him burn for it. You wanted him to find you so you could fight, to be seen by the only man you actually gave a damn about.
When he reached the VIP section, he didn't even acknowledge the velvet rope. He stepped over it, his heavy boots thudding against the floor with a finality that made the nearby patrons shrink back.
His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot and glowing with a manic light.
He didn't say a word at first. He just stood there, towering over you, his shadow swallowing the table and your empty glasses. You looked up, your head lolling back against the cushion, a mocking, drunken smirk playing on your lips.
"Look who decided to join the party," you slurred, your voice thick and dripping with sarcasm. "God, you look terrible…"
His response was a hand like a vice clamping around your upper arm. The heat of his palm seared through the thin sleeve of your dress.
"We’re leaving. Now," he grunted, the words vibrating deep in his chest. It wasn't an invitation; it was a sentence.
"No," you snapped, trying to jerk your arm away, though your muscles felt like overcooked noodles. "I’m not done."
"I said move, you stubborn brat!" he roared, pulling you upward. You stumbled, your heels catching on the carpet, and you fell against his chest. For a split second, the familiar scent of him threatened to break your resolve, but the alcohol turned your heartache into a jagged weapon.
"Don't touch me! Get your hands off me, you bastard!" you shrieked, making a scene that finally drew the attention of the floor staff.
A young waiter, looking terrified but duty-bound, scurried over, his eyes darting between your struggling form and the Top 5 Hero whose face was plastered on every billboard in the city.
"Um, excuse me, sir? Is there a problem? The lady seems—"
Katsuki didn't even look at him. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a wad of cash that was probably double the cost of your entire night's tab, and slammed it onto the sticky table without breaking eye contact with you.
“Katsuki!” You yelled while squirming in his grip, indignant.
"She’s fine. Keep the change and get the hell out of my sight," he hissed. The waiter took one look at the smoke curling from Katsuki’s free hand and vanished back into the shadows.
"You think you can just buy me?" you yelled, swinging your clutch at his head. He caught it mid-air, his eyes narrowing. "You think you can just show up and act like you own me after calling me a mistake?"
"I own this conversation!" he yelled back. "And right now, I'm taking the trash home!"
Before you could process the insult, he moved with the blur of a professional athlete.
He didn't pull you this time; he ducked low and hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
The air left your lungs in a sharp woosh as your stomach hit his hard, muscular shoulder. He effectively covered the bottom of your dress with one hand so as not to leave you exposed.
"Put me down! Katsuki, I hate you! I fucking hate you!" you screamed, your fists drumming a frantic, useless rhythm against his back. You kicked your legs, your expensive boots striking his thighs, but he didn't even flinch. He marched through the club, ignoring the camera phones that were inevitably recording the "Hero’s" scandalous exit.
“Stop screaming, you moron!”
The cool night air hit you like a slap in the face as he reached the curb where his Porsche was idling, double-parked and defiant. He opened the passenger door with one hand and practically launched you into the leather seat. You fell onto the seat, shrieking more insults.
You tried to scramble out the other side, but he was faster, leaning over you to click the seatbelt into place, his face inches from yours.
"Stay. Put. Or I will lock you in the trunk," he growled, his breath hot against your lips.
"I hope you crash!" you spat, clawing at his face. He caught your wrists, pinning them against the headrest for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours with a mix of fury and something that looked dangerously like despair.
“I swear on my fucking job that if you don't stay still, I’ll leave you in there all night.”
Then he slammed the door and rounded the car.
The drive back was a descent into madness.
The interior of the Porsche was a pressurized chamber of mutual loathing. Katsuki drove like a maniac, the needle on the speedometer climbing as he tore through the empty streets of Tokyo.
"You’re a coward!" you screamed over the roar of the engine, fumbling with the door handle. "You can’t even apologize! You’re so broken and small that you have to kidnap me just to feel like a man!"
"Small? You're the one drowning yourself in gin because you can't handle the truth!" he shouted, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "You want an apology? Apologize for being a psychotic bitch who scratches my car and goes out to get fucked by some other guy from your office out of spite!"
"I didn't want to fuck anyone! But maybe I should have been! At least they would know how to treat a woman without using their fucking quirks!"
You suddenly yanked the door handle, the lock clicking open as the wind began to howl through the crack. You didn't care that you were going sixty miles an hour; you just wanted out of his orbit.
"Close the goddamn door!" he roared, reaching across the center console with one hand to pull it shut while keeping the other on the wheel. The car swerved, tires screeching against the asphalt as he wrestled with the door and the steering simultaneously.
"Are you trying to kill yourself? Is that the plan, you idiot? How much the fuck have you drunk?!” He slammed the door shut again, checking that you were okay with one hand in the center of your chest.
"Anything to get away from you!" you sobbed, the anger finally giving way to the raw, jagged edges of the alcohol-induced comedown. "Just let me go, Katsuki! Let me go!" You kicked like crazy on the floor mat, starting to hit him, and he grabbed both your wrists with one hand, holding you still with a grimace.
"Never!" he screamed back, his voice cracking. He slammed the locks, the electronic thud sounding like a prison door. "You don't get to leave! We’re going to get home, and we’re going to finish this if it takes all fucking night!"
“No!”
He pulled into the apartment complex with a violent jerk, the car skidding into his reserved spot in the garage.
The silence that followed the engine cutting out was even more violent than the shouting.
You sat there, chest heaving, hair a tangled mess, looking at the man you loved more than your own life and hated more than your own death.
"Get out," he commanded, his voice now a low, dangerous simmer. "Inside. Now. Without screaming, for God's sake.”
Everything about it was wrong.
It was toxic, it was immature, and it was breaking both of you into a million pieces. And as you stepped out of the car, stumbling on the pavement, you knew that the second you crossed the threshold of that apartment, the real war was only just beginning.
You were stumbling, the dress shimmering under the artificial lights of the underground garage full of cars, as you tried to maintain a dignity that had long since dissolved into the bottom of a glass.
Every time you tried to take a step, the world tilted forty-five degrees to the left. You were a mess, a beautiful, designer-clad wreck with a broken heart and a sharp tongue. He didn't say a word as he marched toward you. He didn't have to.
The sheer force of his presence was a scream in itself, he reached out to pick you up again with a disgusted grimace.
"Don't... don't you touch me," you slurred, trying to point an accusatory finger at him, "don't you touch me."
"Shut up," he rasped, his voice vibrating with a mixture of fury and relief so sharp it was painful.
He didn't even give you the chance to resist. In one fluid, practiced motion, he hooked an arm under your knees and another behind your back, hoisting you up again. You were light in his arms, but you were a squirming, uncooperative weight.
"Put me down! You're an asshole! Stop treating me like a fucking doll, I can walk by myself!" You beat your fists against his muscular chest, the sound muffled by the leather of his jacket. Your head was lolling against his shoulder, the scent of him.
He ignored your protests, his jaw set so tight it looked like it might shatter.
“Damn it, I told you not to scream!” He was carrying you through the lobby like a piece of prize luggage he had stolen. You were crying now, the ugly, sobbing kind of crying that comes with being too drunk and too hurt.
"Let me go... I want to go home... not here... anywhere but here..."
"This is your home, dammit!" he yelled as the elevator doors closed, his voice echoing in the small space. "You’re staying right here where I can see you."
He kicked the apartment door open and dropped you onto the modern sofa. You bounced slightly, moaning continuously and annoyingly as if you were bleeding to death, kicking while he took off his shoes and jacket and locked the door. You tried to sit up, your hair a wild mess over your face, your mascara probably running down your cheeks in dark streaks.
"You think you can just... just pick me up and everything's fine? Take me back to my house!"
He snorted angrily.
"Nothing is fine! You went out with other guys! You let them look at you in that fucking dress! You drove me to the edge of a goddamn cliff, and you’re complaining about the way I picked you up?"
"Because you're an egomaniac!" you shrieked, standing up unsteadily, using the back of the sofa for support. "You only care about your pride! You never apologize! You treat me like an accessory for your Porsche!"
“How much do you love that word, huh?!” He said angrily, approaching you, while you threw a pillow at him and he dodged it.
"I treat you like the only thing that matters, and you throw it back in my face by disappearing for three weeks!" He stepped into your space, his heat radiating off him in waves. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them to your sides. "You want an apology? For what? For being right? For knowing that you’re just as addicted to this chaos as I am?"
"I’m not! I’m tired of it!" You were screaming again now, the tears flowing freely, your chest heaving against the silk of your dress. "I want to be loved, Katsuki! Not managed! Not owned! I want to be someone who isn't a 'mistake'!"
"You're the only mistake I'd ever make a thousand times over!" he roared back, his face inches from yours. "You think I'd go this crazy for anyone else? You think I'd break my own house for anyone else?"
The air between you was thick with the scent of ozone and adrenaline.
The fight was at its peak, the insults becoming more vulgar, more desperate, more personal.
You called him a coward who couldn't handle his own heart; he called you a manipulative brat who knew exactly how to twist the knife.
You were both shaking, both exhausted, both bleeding from wounds that no hero could heal.
And then, the screaming stopped.
“I can't stand you.”
“It's mutual, damn it, you never shut up!”
“Fuck you!”
The silence that followed was even more violent.
You were looking into his red eyes, and he was looking into your tear-blurred ones, and the bridge between hate and desire finally collapsed.
He didn't ask. He didn't lean in slowly.
He lunged.
His mouth crashed against yours with a bruising, desperate force. It wasn't a kiss of reconciliation; it was a collision. It tasted of gin, salt, and the bitter edge of a month's worth of resentment.
You fought him for a second, pushing against his shoulders, but then your fingers curled into his hair, pulling him closer with a ferocity that matched his own.
This was the only way you knew how to communicate when the words became too sharp to swallow.
This was the physical context he was dependent on, the only place where the power struggle felt equal.
It was aggressive, fueled by the lingering echoes of your insults. Every touch was a claim, every bite was a punishment, and every gasp was a surrender.
He stripped you with a frantic, destructive energy, the expensive fabric of your clothes discarded on the floor like the trash he’d called your relationship. He was moving with a feverish desperation, as if he could purge the memory of the other men at the club by marking every inch of your skin as his.
You met his aggression with your own, your nails digging into the muscles of his back, leaving red tracks that matched the ones on his knuckles.
You continued to kiss him, moans and whimpers muffled against each other’s mouths, a desperate, frantic symphony you had composed together since you were teenagers. It was the same heat that had fueled you just days before the fight, back when he had turned a simple trip to the hair salon into a jealous, screaming match because you’d spent too much on a look he claimed was meant to attract other men.
Every time you tried to cry out, his tongue silenced you, pressing possessively against yours, a carnal intrusion that made you shiver and bite down on his lips in a sharp, bloody punishment.
It was toxic. It was messy. It was the furthest thing from a fairytale.
Katsuki didn't take you to the bedroom; he didn't have the patience, and neither did you. The friction between your bodies was so high it felt like the air itself might combust.
He yanked you up by your wrists, hauling you away from the sofa with a rough jerk. He wanted you in your favorite position, the one that left you the most exposed, and you understood immediately, your breath hitching as he dragged you through the apartment, your lace lingerie digging into your skin.
He had you pinned against the cold marble of the kitchen island, the stone a shocking contrast to the fever-pitch heat radiating off his skin. You gasped again, leaning heavily against the counter as your head spun from the alcohol and the sheer, overwhelming proximity of him.
His hands were frantic and rough, stripping your panties off your body without a shred of care. He yanked at the delicate fabric, the sound of lace tearing echoing in the kitchen until you were left completely naked and exposed under the harsh light.
“Katsuki…” you breathed, his name a broken plea as he hoisted you onto the edge of the island.
You reached out, fistfuls of his ash-blond hair in your hands, pulling him toward you. In response, he sank his teeth into your shoulder, a sharp, excited bite that made you cry out in a mix of pain and raw arousal.
He didn't stop to admire you; he looked at you with a gaze so sharp and hungry it felt like he was flaying you alive.
"You think you can just walk away?" he growled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your collarbone as he bit down on the sensitive skin there, hard enough to leave a mark that would last a week. He wanted to mark you, to leave the ghost of his teeth everywhere, starting with the heavy, aching swell of your breasts. "You think you can go out and let other bastards look at what's mine?"
"I’m not yours!" you gasped, your head falling back as his teeth scraped against your pulse point. He sucked mercilessly at your skin, leaving a dark, plum-colored bruise, while his hands worked frantically to unbuckle his belt. He laughed against your throat, a dark, knowing sound, because you both knew it was a lie, and the realization only made your core throb with a more violent need.
You hated him.
You were crying again, the tears hot and blurring your vision, but your hands were buried in his hair, pulling him closer, begging for the very thing you were fighting.
"I hate you, Katsuki! I fucking hate you!" You let out a jagged moan as he forced your legs wide, dragging you toward the very edge of the counter.
You were suspended there, dangling, entirely dependent on his iron grip to keep from sliding off and crashing to the floor.
"Liar," he spat, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin with bruising force. He hiked your leg up over his hip, his other hand fumbling with his own clothes, his movements jerky and filled with a manic energy. "You love this. You love how much I ruin you." He pressed his massive, straining erection against your wet, aching entrance, still covered by the fabric of his pants, and you threw your head back, desperate for the fullness, desperate to be filled.
"Please," you whispered, the word escaping your lips before you could stop it. It was a pathetic, broken sound, a total surrender of the pride you had spent all night guarding. "Please, Katsuki... just... I can't... please."
“I know you can’t, you dick addicted brat…” he insulted you, the words making you shiver with a sick thrill as he kicked away his pants and boxers. He stayed flush against you, his skin searing yours, his mouth never leaving your neck as he tasted your desperation.
“Please… I beg you…” you sobbed, drunk and overstimulated, feeling the slick evidence of your need coating your thighs. He rubbed the hot, broad head of his member against your lips and your clit, making you jump and moan at the sheer anticipation of being fucked, of coming for him, of forgetting every nightmare of the past weeks in the intense pleasure of the orgasms only he could provide.
Everything you needed was right here.
He let out a sharp, jagged laugh, a sound devoid of humor.
"Please what, princess? Tell me what you want. You want to be fucked? You want it all the way to your stomach? You want to be fucked until you're so stupid and full you can't even speak?"
You moaned again, feeling him shift his hips, positioning himself to sink deep inside. He held one of your thighs over his shoulder and gripped the other with a hand like a vice. His tip teased the entrance, sliding in just an inch before pulling back to strike against your clit, driving you to the brink of insanity.
"Yes, fuck! Just do it!" you shrieked, your nails scratching long, red welts down his back.
He didn't wait for another word.
He didn't bother with a condom; he wanted to feel you without filters, to claim you territorially and fill your womb with his heat. He entered you with a sudden, violent thrust that knocked the remaining air out of your lungs. It wasn't gentle; it was an invasion, a forceful reclamation of everything he thought he had lost during those twenty days of silence.
You let out a ragged, high-pitched cry that was half-sob and half-ecstasy, your fingers clutching the edge of the marble so hard your knuckles turned white.
He was huge, broad, invading you without mercy until he hit your cervix with the very first strike. He forced you down flat against the kitchen island, your spine arching over the cold marble, your hair splayed everywhere. Your hands gripped the edge of the counter as your hips were bent painfully into the void, held in place by his rough hands as he hammered into you.
He made you see white, making you bite your lip so hard you tasted copper.
He didn't know kindness, and God, you didn't need it.
The rhythm was frantic and punishing. Every thrust was punctuated by a curse, a low-vibrating insult whispered through clenched teeth as he stood between your legs and practically broke you in two on that counter.
The ache in your lower back was completely drowned out by the violent, mounting pleasure in your gut.
He called you a brat, a witch, a beautiful, maddening disaster, his voice thick with a desire that was indistinguishable from rage. He wasn't just taking your body; he was trying to break your spirit, to ensure that no matter where you went or who you saw, you would always feel the ghost of his hands on your skin.
"Look at me," he commanded, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his glowing, crimson ones. "Look at me while I take you. Don't you dare close your eyes. You wanted this? Watch it disappear inside you.”
You looked, and what you saw was a mirror of your own soul: dark, twisted, and utterly obsessed. You met his pace, your body arching off the counter to meet him, your movements just as desperate and aggressive as his.
When he leaned over you, his hips moving with a blurring speed that made the items on the counter rattle and shake, you bit his shoulder, tasting salt and blood.
You whispered every foul thought you’d had about him into his ear. You insulted his ego, his arrogance, his inability to love like a normal human being, and he only pushed harder, his movements becoming a blur of friction and heat.
He did it just to make you moan louder, to make you feel the pleasure while you hated him, mixing those feelings until you were hopelessly addicted.
His hands were everywhere, never still, never soft.
He gripped your hips until his fingerprints were etched into your flesh; he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling you like a man starving for oxygen.
The air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of sex and ozone, tiny sparks popping against your skin when he couldn't control his quirk.
"You're never leaving again," he grunted, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "I'll tie you to the fucking bed if I have to. You don't get to go."
"Katsuki!" you screamed back, your climax beginning to roll over you in dark, heavy waves. "Fuck me, harder!"
You just closed your eyes, feeling the cold marble beneath you and the suffocating heat of him above you, knowing that you were trapped in a cycle that would eventually burn you both to the ground.
The kitchen island was no longer a piece of furniture; it was a cold, marble altar where you were both sacrificing what was left of your sanity. The shouting had died down, replaced by a much more dangerous sound: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin and the broken gasps of two people exorcising a month’s worth of resentment through physical force.
Katsuki’s grip was punishing, his fingers sinking into your soft flesh. He wasn't just holding you; he was anchoring you. Your nipple ached where he had bitten it, and your lips were slick with the saliva he continued to spit at your face in his fervor.
Every thrust was deep, agonizingly slow and then sudden, a blunt-force trauma of pleasure.
"Look at me," he grunted, grabbing your chin and forcing your head up. His thumb pressed into the corner of your mouth until you tasted blood. "I told you. Eyes on me. I want to see you break."
You couldn't help it. Your head fell back, a choked moan escaping as he hit that specific spot. Your swollen clitoris rubbed mercilessly against his coarse hair, making your toes curl inside the boots, the only thing you still had on.
You were shaking, your breath coming in shallow hitches.
You were soaking his thighs, a pool of your shared heat dripping onto the floor and the discarded clothes with every thrust. You took him deep, his anatomy slamming violently against your wet skin with an obscene sound.
The alcohol was a dull thrum, but the sensation of him filling you up was the only reality. It was painful in its intensity, a riot in your lower belly, but it silenced the screaming in your head.
"Katsuki..." you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Say it again," he hissed, his pace becoming a frantic blur. He leaned down, his chest crushing your breasts, his heart hammering against yours. "Say my name. Tell me who you belong to."
"You... it's you," you gasped, the first waves of climax rippling through you. "Katsuki, please... I’m going to—"
"Not yet," he growled, pulling back until he was barely at the edge, teasing you with a cruelty that was purely his own. He watched your face, watched your eyes roll back, a dark smirk on his lips. He wanted you desperate.
He moved his hand down, his rough fingers finding your clit, working in a fast, clinical rhythm that made you arch off the counter. He watched every twitch, every tear.
“Please… I beg you..”
"Say it," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rasp. He worked his fingers faster, making you grit your teeth against the edge of pain mixed with the orgasm you were fighting to hold back.
"Yours!" you shrieked as the tension snapped. "I'm yours, goddammit! Katsuki!"
The moment the words left your lips, he slammed back into you with everything he had.
The sound of his hips hitting yours was like a gunshot. You shattered.
Your world dissolved into heat and friction, your legs locking around his waist as you shook. He followed you over the edge, his body tensing, his grip on the marble so hard the stone seemed to groan. He filled you with a hot, pulsing overflow, a final act of territorial surrender.
He let out a guttural, animalistic roar into your neck, his weight collapsing onto you. For a long time, the only sound was the gasping for air and the drip of water from the sink. The kitchen was a wreck. You were a mess of sweat, bruises, and cooling skin. He stayed buried in you, afraid you’d float away if he let go.
There was no "I'm sorry."
There was only the toxic, undeniable truth of this connection. He pulled back eventually, his thumb tracing the bruising on your thigh with a strange, dark reverence.
"You're staying," he whispered, a final decree. "You’re staying right here."
You didn't argue. You pulled him back down to you, closing your eyes as the grey morning light began to illuminate the debris of your lives.