DEATHBED | PART ONE.

Sugar Scorched | fic cover

Minors and ageless blogs, DO NOT interact with me or my work. Thank you!

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Summary: You’re hired on as a temporary consultant to Katsuki Bakugou, renowned  chef patron of Ground Zero. As you work to improve the image of the  explosive chef, you quickly learn that if you can’t stand the heat, get  out of the kitchen.  

“Looking as strong and scary as ever.”

He crossed his arms, smugly. The action emphasized the bulk on his biceps. “You are what you eat after all.”

“Funny,” you said, inserting yourself into the conversation. “I  didn’t know you ate ass for all three meals of the day, Bakugou.”

Status | COMPLETE!

Content warnings: No Powers AU, cooking, angst, drama, smut

Tw: eating disorders, medical trauma

Sugar Scorched is only on AO3!

Return to

Curated Masterlists

Bakugou Katsuki’s Masterlist

REMEMBER ME IN SUMMER — SATORU GOJO

pairing — one night stand!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary — six months ago, you left satoru gojo's apartment before sunrise, thinking you'd never see him again. now, trapped in a beach house for a weekend with mutual friends, you're forced to face the man who doesn't seem to remember that night—or does he? between shared walls, heated touches, and games of pretend, you're starting to think maybe one night wasn't enough after all. but in a house full of friends, some things are better left in the past… right?

word count — 9.5 k

genre/tags — beach house AU, summer romance, one night stand to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, tension, awkward reunions, friends gathering, miscommunication, beach vibes, satoru is a little menace in this one

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption, all characters aged up (mid 20s), language

author's note — hi everyone ! this fic came out of nowhere, and i literally wrote it in three days, but i really love the idea and the summer vibes in this one, even tho i wrote it while it was literally snowing outside, but somewhere on earth it's summer rn, so why not post it lol. hope you enjoy this mess of a summer romance story as much as i enjoyed writing it ! <3 (credit/art)

masterlist + support my writing

The last person you expected to see in Okinawa was Satoru Gojo.

Yet there he was, lounging on the deck of the beach house like he belonged there, white hair catching the sunlight as he laughed at something someone had said. Your heart tumbled over itself as memories of that night six months ago flooded back unbidden.

"You okay?" Maki nudged you with her elbow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

More like the ghost of past bad decisions. "I'm fine," you managed, gripping your weekend bag tighter. "Wasn't expecting so many people."

The beach house was supposed to be a simple weekend getaway with close friends. But somewhere between planning and execution, it had turned into a "friends of friends" situation to fill the eight-bedroom house Okkotsu's family had offered.

"Yeah, Yuta's cousin's boyfriend invited some people to fill the space," Maki explained, completely unaware of your internal crisis. "That's Satoru over there, by the way. He's actually pretty fun once you get past the whole—" She gestured vaguely at all of him.

You wanted to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both. Because you were already very familiar with how "fun" Satoru Gojo could be.

Six months ago, you'd met him at a bar in Tokyo. He'd been charming and gorgeous, all easy smiles and playful banter. One drink had turned into several, flirting had turned into kissing, and kissing had turned into...

Well.

You'd slipped out of his apartment before dawn, leaving nothing but a lipstick stain on his collar and a dip in his pillow. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. You weren't looking for anything serious, and someone like him definitely wasn't the settling down type.

Now, watching him chat lively with your friends like the universe's cruelest joke, you wondered if you should have at least left your number.

"Girl," Maki waved her hand in front of your face. "You sure you're okay?"

Before you could answer, Satoru looked up. His eyes met yours across the deck, and for a moment, your heart stopped. 

But there was no recognition in those sea blue eyes. No hint that he remembered the way you'd gasped his name in the dark, the way his hands had traced every inch of your skin, the way he'd whispered "stay" against your shoulder just before you'd fallen asleep.

He just smiled politely, the same smile he’s probably giving everyone else too, and went back to his conversation.

Right. Of course he didn't remember. You were probably just one in a long line of one-night stands for someone like him. The thought shouldn't hurt as much as it did.

"Come on," Maki said, tugging you towards the house. "Let's get settled in before the others arrive.”

Up close, the beach house was even more impressive. A sprawling three-story mansion of white stone and floor-to-ceiling windows that caught the afternoon light like rippling water, a wraparound veranda with a cozy sitting area led to a private path down to the beach, lined with swaying palms and colourful flowers.

Inside, the house opened into a huge room with soaring ceilings and an open floor plan that made the space feel endless. Ocean views followed you everywhere through the massive windows, and the whole place smelled of salt and lemon.

"The bedrooms are upstairs," Maki said as she led you up a floating staircase. "Most of them are on the second floor, but there are two master bedrooms on the third."

The universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor. Not only did you have to spend the weekend pretending you didn’t know how Satoru's brows draw together when he'd cum, but your room ended up right next to his—the two largest bedrooms on the top floor, sharing a wall and a connecting balcony. Of course.

Your room was bigger than your entire apartment in Tokyo, with a king-size bed draped in soft white linens. One wall was entirely glass, offering an unobstructed view of the ocean, while the other walls were decorated with pictures and minimalist art.

"My god, the view’s amazing!" Maki gushed and threw open the balcony doors. The sound of waves immediately filled the room, along with fresh, salty ocean air. "You can see the whole beach from here." 

But you were too busy staring at the wall next to you, where a door that must lead to Satoru's room was hidden behind a cupboard. You could hear muffled movement from his room, the sound of his laugh drifting through the wall that suddenly felt far too thin and your mind helpfully supplied memories of other sounds he could make, and you wondered if it was too late to fake some sudden illness and go home.

"Yeah," you said, dropping onto the edge of the bed. "Amazing."

Maki flopped down beside you, bouncing slightly on the plush mattress. "I know I've been here like five times already with Yuta, but it never gets old." She rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on her hands. "Usually it's just us and his family, maybe a few cousins. This is the first time we're doing a friend group thing."

You tried to focus on her words instead of the sound of suitcases being wheeled into the room next door. "How long have you and Yuta been coming here?"

"Since we started dating three years ago. His family does this whole summer tradition thing." She smiled. "First time I came, I was so nervous I barely left the room. Now it feels like a second home." She sat up, crossing her legs. “And since his parents said we could use it this weekend, we thought why not invite friends.”

Through the wall, you could hear male voices chatting and laughing, followed by the sound of a door sliding open. Probably the balcony doors. Your shared balcony. Where he could walk past your windows at any time.

“You’re okay with this, right? Yuta’s friends are actually really fun once you get to know them. Especially Satoru, even tho he can be a pain in the ass.” Your stupid heart tumbled over itself once more at his name. "And single, if you're interested. I could—"

"No!" The word came out louder than intended, and you heard the conversation next door pause briefly. Lowering your voice, you added, "I mean, no thanks. Not really looking for anything right now."

Maki gave you a strange look. "You sure you're okay? You've been weird since we got here."

"Just tired from the drive," you lied and stood up. "Maybe I'll take a quick shower before everyone else arrives."

"Okay..." She didn't sound convinced but got up anyway. "I should go find Yuta anyway, make sure he's not letting Satoru destroy any of Yuta's mum's favourite vases."

You waited until she left before falling with your face first onto the bed with a groan. Perfect. Not only did you have to spend the weekend next door to your one night stand who might or might not remember you, but now your best friend was trying to set you up with him.

Through the wall, you heard Satoru laugh at something, the sound familiar enough to make your chest ache. 

It was going to be a very long weekend.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 

You'd barely finished unpacking when Yuji burst into your room without knocking. "Hey! We're setting up a net for beach volleyball. You in?"

"Ah, I don't really—"

"Everyone's playing!" He was already on his way back to the door. "Even Megumi, and you know how he is about fun."

Before you could form a proper excuse, Maki appeared behind him. "Come on, it'll be fun, the sun is out and it’s better than hiding up here all afternoon."

And that's how you found yourself trudging down to the beach, trying to convince yourself this was fine. Totally fine. Just a fun game of volleyball with friends. Nothing to worry about.

But then the boys started stripping off their shirts. It was like watching some ridiculous scene out of Top Gun as they all shed their shirt in the afternoon heat. But it was Satoru who made your brain go silent completely. 

He pulled his shirt off, and suddenly you were having vivid flashbacks to exactly how that toned chest felt under your hands. The sun caught his hair like a halo, and when he stretched his arms over his head, the muscles in his back shifted in ways that should not make your knees so weak, but here you were, rooted to the spot, your pulse racing as if it had a mind of its own.

"You're staring," Maki whispered next to you.

"I'm not," you said, even though you definitely were. How could you not? It was like someone had taken every beach volleyball scene from every summer movie ever and combined them into one ridiculous moment.

Teams were forming, and with an uneven number, you volunteered to sit this round out. Not that you were particularly eager to participate in the first place. You were perfectly happy watching from the safety of your beach towel, where the risk of accidentally brushing against Satoru's unnecessarily perfect body was thankfully minimized.

The game started, and it quickly became clear that everyone was taking it way too seriously, as Satoru and Yuji seemed to be in some sort of competition to see who could spike the ball more impressively. 

"Show off," you muttered to yourself as Satoru delivered a rather dramatic jump serve, the ball landing dangerously close to your foot. But he must have heard you, because he caught your eye with a wink that made your stomach flutter. "Like what you see?"

"I've seen better," you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyebrows shot up and a slow smile spread across his face. "Have you now?"

Oh god. Were you flirting? This was definitely flirting. You needed to stop staring at the way sweat was making his skin glisten and focus on... literally anything else.

"Pay attention!" Nobara yelled, and Satoru barely managed to dodge the ball she'd spiked directly at his head.

The game continued, growing more competitive with each round. You had to admit, it was entertaining watching your friends become more and more dramatic with each point. One of Yuta’s cousins and Yuji had some sort of rivalry going on, while Maki and Nobara were trash-talking each other.

But it was Satoru who kept drawing your attention. The way he moved was almost unfair and you found yourself following the drops of sweat as they made their way down his neck, remembering how that skin had tasted under your tongue.

"Incoming!"

You looked up just in time to see the volleyball heading straight for your face. Before you could react, Satoru dove in front of you and caught the ball just inches from your nose. The movement sent him sprawling across your legs, his face entirely too close to yours.

You blinked at him for a few moments, then whispered, "Thank you.” But the words came out too soft, almost like they had that night in Tokyo when he'd helped you into a taxi and then convinced you not to take it and instead come home with him.

Time seemed to slow, the crashing waves and voices of the others fading into white noise as Satoru's eyes met yours. For a moment, something flickered in those blue depths—a flash of recognition, perhaps even remembrance. 

His breath caught, barely noticeable, and his hand on your leg tightened ever so slightly. You watched his eyes, saw the exact moment his gaze dropped to your lips, and suddenly you were back in that Tokyo bar, both of you caught in that same magnetic pull.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice so low that only you could hear it. There was something in his tone, a hint of question, like he was trying to place a hazy dream. His thumb brushed against your skin, possibly by accident, possibly not, sending shivers up your spine.

The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, thick with shared memories—memories you weren't even sure he had. Then someone yelled "Dinner!" from the direction of the house, and the spell broke.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

The sun was setting by the time everyone had showered and gathered around the huge dining table on the deck. Fairy lights twinkled overhead and the sound of the waves could be heard in the background as the chaos of fifteen people trying to organize a meal unfolded.

You'd taken extra care getting ready, telling yourself it was just because of the salt and sand, not because of the way Satoru had looked at you on the beach. You'd chosen a light summer dress that happened to be the exact shade of blue as his eyes—pure coincidence, of course—and had let your hair dry naturally in the sea breeze.

Yuta ended up ordering way too much from the local seafood restaurant, you concluded as you surveyed the spread of food on the table. 

You ended up squeezed between Maki and Megumi, which should have been a relief. Instead, you found yourself very aware of Satoru sitting directly across from you, his hair still slightly damp from his shower, wearing a loose white linen shirt that he should really button up and stop teasing the entire table with glimpses of his toned chest.

"Pass the crab?" he asked, and when you handed him the plate, your fingers brushed. The contact sent a shiver through you, and you could have sworn you saw his breath catch. But then he was turning to laugh at something Yuji said, and you were left wondering if you'd imagined the whole thing.

"—and then he just fell face first right into the sand!" Yuji was saying, gesturing wildly with his chopsticks. "You should have seen it!"

"We were all there, literally two hours ago," Megumi deadpanned.

"The game was rigged anyway," Nobara said, reaching for another plate of grilled shrimp. "You can't put Mr. Perfect over here on a team and expect it to be fair." She jerked her thumb in Satoru's direction.

"What can you do?" Satoru said, his eyebrows knitted together, but a grin played on his lips. "I just happen to be naturally gifted." And then his eyes caught yours once more across the table. 

Heat crept up the back of your neck as you remembered how he'd felt when he'd sprawled across your legs, his skin sun warm and slightly sandy. How his touch had lingered just a fraction too long to be casual. 

Something had changed in his expression, so subtle that anyone else might have missed it. But you'd spent hours that night memorizing his faces. His smirk when he had you right on the edge, his soft smile when you were trembling beneath him, the way his eyes darkened just before he—

Maki snorted. "Yeah, sure." And you looked over at her, breaking the eye contact before you could do something stupid like climb across the table and find out if he tasted as good as you remembered.

When the dinner was over, Nobara suggested to play drinking games, truth or dare to be specific, to which "What are we, fifteen?" Megumi commented but Maki already chimed in with "Never have I ever" and so it was decided.

Your stomach dropped. The last thing you needed was a drinking game where people confessed their secrets. Especially with the way Satoru kept looking at you, like he was one memory away from connecting dots you really didn't want connected.

"I think I'll pass," you said, pushing your plate away. "The sun really did take it out of me."

You gathered your plates and the sound of the others setting up their drinking game followed you into the kitchen—Yuji's voice carrying over everyone else's as he argued about rules, Nobara shouting something about "no questions about exes," and Megumi's long drawn out sighs.

A salty ocean breeze swept into the kitchen through the open wall of windows overlooking the water as you rinsed your plate. "You know," a voice came from behind you, making you jump, "I was starting to think you hate me."

Your heart skipped a beat. You didn't need to turn around to know it was Satoru—would recognize that voice anywhere, had spent months trying to forget how it sounded when it was rough after he’d cum. But you turned anyway, finding him leaning against the doorframe and the kitchen suddenly felt so much smaller. 

"What?" The word came out embarrassingly breathless.

"Let me rephrase, for someone who doesn't hate me, you're doing an impressive job of avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you.” You turned back to the sink. "I'm doing dishes."

"Sure. The dishes." His voice got closer, and you could feel the heat of him just behind you. "Though I have to wonder why someone would work so hard to avoid someone they've never met before."

Your hands stilled under the running water. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've barely looked at me all day." He was close enough now that you could smell his perfume that had lingered on your clothes for days after that night. "Want to tell me what I did to deserve the cold shoulder? Because usually, I at least remember if I've pissed someone off."

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it, but at the same time the irony of his words made you want to laugh. "You haven't done anything," you said, which was technically true. He hadn't done anything wrong. Except maybe be too good in bed and then forget about it entirely.

"No?" His voice dropped lower, and you could feel his breath on your neck. "Then why—" He cut himself off. "Wait. Have we met before?"

You spun around, hands dripping water onto the floor. The motion brought you chest to chest with him, trapped between his body and the counter. "No," you said, too quickly, way too quickly. "Definitely not."

"You sure about that? Because you seem familiar—"

"Must just have one of those faces."

He moved closer still, one hand braced on the counter beside your hip, effectively caging you in. "Is that so? Because I’m sure I’d remember a pretty one like yours." You felt your breath catch in your throat, every nerve in your body screaming. He was going to kiss you, wasn't he? You should probably do something. Like move. Or breathe.

But then he simply stepped back, his smile widening. "Sorry. Must have mistaken you for someone else,” he said and the loss of his warmth felt like whiplash, leaving you cold despite the summer heat that still lingered in the air. You watched him retreat towards the door, casual as anything, like he hadn't just turned your world sideways.

Through the open door, laughter spilled in from the deck, breaking the spell that had held you captive. Satoru paused in the doorway for a moment, silhouetted against the warm light from outside, before disappearing back into the noise of your friends.

You stayed at the sink, trying to convince yourself that the heat in your cheeks was just from the summer air and ignoring the way your heart refused to settle in your chest. What had just happened? You had no idea. But one thing was painfully certain.

This weekend was going to be a long one.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

Next morning, you decided to get up early and have your coffee on the beach before anyone else was awake. Sleep had been hard to come by anyway, with too many thoughts of certain one night stands keeping your mind racing. 

Dawn was just beginning to break over the horizon, painting the sky in orange and gold watercolours and the ocean stretched out before you, quiet and calm, each small wave catching the early light like diamonds.

You'd wrapped yourself in an oversized cardigan against the morning chill, bare feet buried in sand that was still cool from the night before. And of course, because the universe hated you, that's when Satoru appeared.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, settling into the sand beside you without invitation.

You clutched your coffee mug tighter. "Something like that."

"Yeah, me neither." He stretched his long legs out in front of him, and you definitely didn't notice how his shorts rode up slightly, definitely weren't thinking about how those thighs had felt under your hands. "Keep having these weird dreams."

"Oh?"

"Mmm." As he turned to look at you, the rising sun painted his profile gold, catching his eyelashes. There was something different about him in this light — softer somehow, more like the man who'd asked you to stay than the one who'd cornered you in the kitchen last night. "About a girl in a black dress. Red lipstick. The most amazing laugh I've ever heard."

Your heart stopped.

"Funny thing is," he continued casually, "I can never quite see her face in the dreams. But I remember how she tasted. How she felt pinned beneath me. How she clenching around my fingers. How she said my name when she—"

"Stop," you whispered.

"Why?" His voice was softer now. "Because you don't want to talk about that night? Or because you thought I wouldn't remember?"

You stared at the ocean, unable to meet his gaze. "You didn't seem to yesterday."

"Don’t be stupid. I recognized you the moment you walked into the beach house."

Your coffee nearly slipped from your hands. "What?"

"Did you really think I wouldn't remember the girl who stole my favourite shirt on her way out the door?"

Heat flooded your cheeks, you totally forgotten about the shirt. "Then yesterday, in the kitchen—"

"I wanted to see how long you'd keep pretending." He smiled, the bastard had the audacity to smile at you when he revealed that he was playing you the whole time. "You're cute when you're nervous, you know that?”

"You're mocking me."

"Mocking you?" His eyebrows rose. Then he leaned closer to you, but you still refused to look at him. "I spent six months trying to find the girl with the kind of laugh that makes you feel drunk just hearing it, who left before I could ask for her number—" 

"It was just one night," you interrupted.

"Was it? Because I distinctly remember asking you to stay."

"I couldn't."

"Couldn't? Or wouldn't?"

You finally met his gaze fully, and immediately wished you hadn't. Because he was looking at you the same way he had that night. He was enjoying this, wasn't he? Playing with you, teasing you, making you feel like a flustered schoolgirl. 

"Does it matter?" you asked.

"You're really a bit slow, aren't you?"

You wanted to protest, to tell him exactly what you thought of his arrogant everything, but then Maki's voice carried across the beach, "Breakfast! Come and get it before Yuji eats everything!"

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

The breakfast table was just as chaotic as the dinner the night before. Fifteen people crammed around the table had that effect, especially with Yuji already piling his plate high with pancakes while Nobara complained about him taking too many. 

You'd barely settled into an empty chair when Satoru slid into the seat next to you, as if he hadn't just admitted that he'd been playing jokes on you the whole day before. 

"Can you pass me the syrup?" he asked innocently, but there was nothing innocent about the way his thigh pressed against yours under the table. 

You handed him the bottle without looking at him, trying to focus on pouring your coffee without spilling it everywhere. Which was made all the more difficult when his hand found your knee under the table.

"So what's everyone's plans for today?" Maki asked, passing around a plate of fresh fruit.

You tried to concentrate on the conversation, you really did. But Satoru's hand was inching higher up your thigh, and your brain was shorted out. You kicked him under the table, aiming for his shin.

He didn't even flinch, just smiled wider and continued whatever conversation he was having with Megumi about later activities, all while his fingers danced along the hem of your shorts. You felt a sudden surge of heat, definitely not from the summer sun.

"You okay?" Nobara asked suddenly. "You look a bit flushed."

"Fine!" Your voice came out higher than intended as Satoru's fingers skimmed just slightly under the edge of your shorts. "Just... hot."

"It is pretty warm this morning," Satoru agreed, his tone perfectly pleasant even as his thumb pressed into that sensitive spot on your inner thigh that he somehow remembered. The bastard. You kicked him again, harder this time.

"Did someone just kick the table?" Maki looked around suspiciously.

"Must have been the wind," you said stupidly.

You grabbed his wrist under the table, intending to push his hand away, but he just interlaced his fingers with yours and kept them there on your thigh. It was like he was asserting dominance, staking his claim, and you were suddenly trapped.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay?" Yuji asked through a mouthful of pancakes. "You're acting weird."

"Totally fine," you managed. "Just didn't sleep well."

"Hmm, me neither," Satoru chimed in, his voice all false innocence. "Must be all these weird dreams I keep having." You dug your nails into his hand in warning, but he just squeezed your hand in response, his grip tightening.

"Dreams?" Nobara asked.

"Oh, you know," Satoru began thoughtfully, "the kind that keep you up all night, thinking about... things that got away."

You were going to murder him. Slowly. Possibly with the butter knife you were currently gripping way too tight.

"That's... weirdly poetic for you," Maki said, raising an eyebrow.

"You wouldn't want to know,” he replied, and you felt his fingers inch just slightly higher once more, making you jump and bang your knee on the table.

"Jesus, what is wrong with you two this morning?" Nobara asked, looking between you and Satoru.

Under the table, you finally managed to grab his hand in yours and hold it still. But that backfired when he started playing with your fingers instead, his thumb brushing across your knuckles in a way that made you gasp. You definitely wanted to kill him. Right after you figured out how to breathe normally again.

"So, beach day? I wanna go snorkelling," Yuji said, thankfully drawing attention away from whatever was going on under the table, and everyone agreed. JJust then, Satoru freed his hand from yours and placed it back on your knee before trailing it up your thigh. 

Okay, nope this had to end now.

"I need more coffee," you announced abruptly, standing up so fast your chair scraped against the deck.

"I'll help," Satoru offered, already rising.

"No!" The word came out too sharp, making everyone look at you strangely. "I mean, I'm good. Thanks."

You practically fled into the kitchen, your skin still tingling where he'd touched you. Through the window, you could see him chatting with the others, looking completely unaffected while you were here trying to remember how to make your heart beat normally.

When is this weekend going to end?

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

"You sure you're okay?" Maki asked, swimming up beside you. "You've been weird all morning. Is the sun too much?"

"I'm fine," you said for what felt like the hundredth time today. "I’m not used to be around so many people."

The water was crystal clear, stretching out in various shades of blue that seemed to go on forever. Everyone had eagerly jumped into snorkeling, with Yuji and Nobara already in a heated competition about who could spot the most fish.

You adjusted your mask for the tenth time, trying to focus on anything except how good Satoru looked in just swim shorts. He was a few meters away, the sunlight catching the droplets of water that clung to his ridiculously toned shoulders.

My God. You needed distance. You needed space to breathe, to think, to do anything other than stare at him.

"If you say so." Maki didn't look convinced. "But tell me if something’s bothering you, okay?"

If only she knew. "Sure."

"Guys, come look at this!" Yuji called from where he was floating near some corals. "Rainbow fish!" 

Everyone swam over to where he was pointing, and you had to admit, the sight was beautiful. Countless colourful fish swam through the coral, creating a vibrant palette under the water.

You followed the fish as a sudden pressure against your calf made you flinch. Satoru. He had brushed against your leg. It could have been an accident, a mere consequence of the crowded water, but somehow, it felt like anything but. You knew better. Nothing about Satoru was ever accidental.

You drifted slightly away from the group, desperately needing to put some distance between yourself and Satoru. The vibrant corals blurred into streaks of colour as you swam further from the group, the shouts of Yuji and Nobara fading.

The water a bit away from them was deeper, a darker shade of blue. As you peered down, you noticed the sandy ground was dotted with small stones, and a different kind of life seemed to thrive here. Sea anemones swayed gently in the current, and schools of silver fish, smaller than the ones near the reef, darted in and out of the anemones.

You floated on your back for a moment, gazing up at the sky, a vast expanse of pale blue flecked with fluffy white clouds as the sun warmed your face. It was so peaceful, and you were happy for the small pause amidst the chaos of the house.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

You startled at Satoru's voice right behind you, nearly inhaling water through your snorkel. He'd somehow managed to swim up without you noticing, and now he was close enough that his arm brushed yours in the water.

"What are you doing?" you hissed, pulling your snorkel out.

"I know a better spot.” He nodded towards a more secluded area around the curve of the beach. "If you're interested."

You glanced back at the others, but they were all absorbed in whatever Yuji had found. "I don't think—"

"Come on," he said, already swimming away. "Don't you trust me?"

"Not even a little bit." But found yourself following him anyway.

He led you around a small outcropping of rocks, the current tugging gently at your fins, to a quieter part of the reef. His hand on your arm gently guided you through the water. The water here was somehow even clearer, as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a breathtaking underwater scenery with colourful coral formations that created a labyrinth of archways and caverns with small fish swimming in between.

"How did you—"

"I came here earlier this morning," he said, treading water close to you. "While you were pretending to ignore me after breakfast."

"I wasn't—" You cut yourself off as he dove under the surface, the sunlight playing across his back as he swam deeper.

You followed him down, your breath taken away by the sight. This part of the reef was like something out of a documentary. Swarms of tropical fish swirled around you in ribbons of colour, and the coral itself seemed to shine in the filtered sunlight.

When you surfaced, Satoru was watching you with an annoyingly knowing smile. "Worth following me?"

"It's alright," you said, trying to sound unimpressed even though you were anything but.

He laughed. "You're still trying to play hard to get?"

"I'm not playing anything."

"No?" He swam closer, close enough that you could see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. "Then why did you follow me here?"

"To see the fish.”

"The fish." His voice was amused. "Sure. That's why you've been watching me all morning?"

"I have not—"

"You know," he cut you off, moving even closer, his body brushing against yours in the water. "You're pretty when you get all flustered. Just like that night in Tokyo. Same flush you had when I made you cum three times.”

Ha? Had he been keeping count or what? You frantically tried to replay that night in your head — there was the first time against his apartment door, then on the kitchen counter, and... oh god, he was right. The bastard had been counting. The smirk on his face told you he knew exactly what you were thinking about.

You splashed water at him. "We are not talking about Tokyo."

He wiped water from his face, grinning. "No? Should we talk about this morning instead? About how you nearly jumped out of your skin when I touched your—"

You dunked him mid-sentence.

He came up spluttering, pushing wet hair from his eyes. "Okay, I probably deserved that."

"You definitely deserved that."

But he laughed, and despite yourself, you found yourself laughing too. There was something infectious about him, something that made it hard to keep your walls up, dissolving your defenses with unnerving ease, like mist beneath the morning sun.

"We should head back," you said finally. "Before they come looking for us."

"Probably," he agreed, but made no move to leave. Instead, he floated closer, until his chest pressed against yours. "Or we could stay here a bit longer. I could remind you of all the other ways I can make you wet."

Heat flooded your body. "Satoru..."

"Yes?" His hands found your waist under the water, pulling you flush against him. One thigh slipped between yours, and you had to bite back a gasp at the friction. "You know, I still remember exactly how you sound when you're trying not to moan my name."

"We can't." But your body betrayed you, arching into his touch as his fingers skimmed along your ribs, dangerously close to your breast.

"Can't?" His lips ghosted over your lips, his thumb tracing circles on your hip under the water in a way that made you think of how those fingers had felt inside you. "Or are you afraid you won't be able to keep quiet this time?"

Before you could answer, Nobara's voice carried across the water. "Where did you guys go?"

You pushed away from him quickly, already swimming back towards the group. "Coming!"

"This isn't over," he called after you, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

"It never started!" you shot back, but you were smiling too.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

Satoru spent the rest of the afternoon driving you absolutely insane.

After snorkeling, he'd positioned his beach towel suspiciously close to yours, spending an unnecessary amount of time applying sunscreen to his chest and arms. His movements were deliberately slow, borderline pornographic, fingers sliding over muscle in a way that had you remembering exactly how those muscles had felt flexing under your tongue. 

You knew without a doubt he was putting on a show for you—every movement a reminder of how those arms had looked braced above you as he'd fucked you against his apartment door, how they'd felt pinning your wrists to his sheets.

During lunch, he'd somehow ended up next to you again, his bare thigh pressed hot against yours under the table like this morning had taught him nothing. Except this time, his hand didn't just rest on your knee. It spent the entire meal tracing patterns up your thigh, fingertips dancing dangerous close to where you'd been aching for him.

Your breath caught every time his hand "accidentally" slipped under the hem of your shorts, remembering how those fingers had curled inside you, how they'd made you beg.

The afternoon beach volleyball rematch was even worse. He kept finding excuses to touch you—steadying you with a hand on your waist when you stumbled in the sand (the same way he'd gripped your hips while taking you from behind), reaching around you to grab the ball (his breath hot on your neck like when he'd whispered how good you felt around him), his chest pressing against your back, closer than needed (making you remember how it felt to be pressed between him and that apartment door).

But dinner? Dinner was pure torture.

He'd shown up freshly showered, hair still damp and tousled in that way that made your fingers itch to grab it (like you had when he was between your thighs), wearing a dark blue linen shirt that he hadn't bothered to button properly once more and spent the entire meal finding new ways to make you squirm.

He'd catch your eye across the table and slowly lick sauce off his thumb, making you remember exactly how that tongue had felt when he'd spread you open. When passing dishes, his fingers would brush against yours unnecessarily long, making you shiver. At one point, he'd stretched his arms above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal his lower abs that had you gripping your fork so hard your knuckles turned white.

He knew exactly what he was doing, too—you could tell by the smug look on his face throughout the whole dinner. 

Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice anything amiss. They were all too busy with their own conversations, completely oblivious to the way he was systematically dismantling your sanity with nothing more than glances and touches.

Every time you thought you'd gotten yourself under control, he'd do something else — run his fingers through his hair the same way he had when you'd been on your knees in front of him, or bite his lip in a way that had you crossing your legs under the table. By dessert, you were a mess of sexual frustration and murderous impulses. 

He was enjoying this, the bastard. Testing your control, seeing how far he could push before you broke. And the most infuriating part? 

It was working. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

After dinner, everyone wandered into the living room in various states of food induced laziness. You'd barely managed to claim a corner of the big couch when Nobara disappeared into the kitchen, returning with an armful of wine bottles and a certain look in her eye that spelled trouble.

"No one move," she announced, setting the bottles on the coffee table. "I have an idea."

"Your ideas usually end with someone crying," Megumi commented from his spot on the floor.

"Or arrested," Maki added helpfully.

"Or both," you muttered, trying to ignore how Satoru had somehow appeared in the armchair closest to your corner of the couch. He'd rolled up his sleeves during dinner, forearms on full display, and you were having a hard time not staring at his fingers. Fingers that you knew from experience felt so good in your mouth to keep you from—

"Never have I ever!" Nobara's voice cut through your dangerous train of thought. A collective groan rose from the group.

"Not again," Megumi said, already trying to get up.

"Sit your ass down," Nobara commanded, pushing him back down. "We're bonding."

"We bonded plenty last night," you Yuta tried, but Nobara was having none of it and before you knew it, everyone agreed.

"Okay, I'll start easy," Yuji said, clearly excited despite his earlier protests. "Never have I ever cheated on a test."

Several people drank, including Satoru—and you, okay let’s be real. 

The questions started innocent enough. Never have I ever broken a bone. Never have I ever been arrested. Never have I ever dyed my hair. But as the wine flowed, the questions got progressively more suggestive.

"Never have I ever kissed someone of the same gender," Maki said, and half the circle drank. "Never have I ever faked it," was Nobara's contribution, and several people groaned but drank.

You were starting to feel a bit hazy, the wine making everything feel warm and soft around the edges. Which was dangerous, because Satoru kept looking at you like he was remembering exactly how you'd sounded that night when you definitely hadn't been faking anything.

"Never have I ever," one of Yuta’s cousins announced then, "had sex with someone in this room." For a moment, no one moved. Then Yuta and Maki drank, of course. And then Satoru raised his own glass slowly and took a long sip.

"Who?" Nobara shrieked, looking around the circle. "Satoru just drank, so someone else here has to—" Her gaze swept over everyone suspiciously.

"Someone's lying," Maki sang, already tipsy enough to find this hilarious. "Come on, fess up!"

You kept your face carefully neutral, even as you felt Satoru's eyes burning into you. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not this time.

"Maybe it was before any of us knew each other," Yuji suggested, but Nobara shook her head.

"No way. Look at his face!" She pointed accusingly at Satoru. "He's got that look. You know, that 'I know something you don't know' look."

Satoru just smiled lazily from his armchair, swirling the wine in his glass. "Maybe I just like keeping you all guessing."

"You're a dumbass," Nobara said, but the group's attention was already shifting as Yuji launched into the next question, something about falling asleep at work.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, but made the mistake of glancing at Satoru and he gave you a look that sent a shiver of heat through you over his wine glass. 

God, you were going to murder him. Slowly. Painfully. Preferably with the very wine glass he was currently smirking into. 

Who did he think he was, just casually drinking like that, nearly exposing everything? He could have at least warned you, given you some sign he was about to blow up your secret. But no, he'd just taken that deliberate sip, probably getting hard on watching you squirm as you tried to keep your poker face. 

That sick bastard.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

Sleep was impossible. You'd been tossing and turning for hours, replaying the day's events in your mind—from that moment in the ocean to his deliberate almost-reveal during the game. The walls of this fancy beach house seemed paper thin at night, every small sound amplified in the darkness.

That's how you heard his door open around 2 AM, followed by quiet footsteps heading downstairs.

You waited a few minutes, telling yourself you were just thirsty, that going downstairs for water had nothing to do with knowing he was maybe down there. The wooden steps creaked softly under your bare feet as you made your way down.

Silvery moonlight streamed through the massive windows, creating silver patterns on the marble countertops of the kitchen. Satoru stood at the island, drinking water from a glass, looking unfairly handsome in just sleep shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt.

"Couldn't sleep?" he whispered when he spotted you.

"What's your game, Satoru?" You kept your voice equally low, padding closer. "That thing earlier? During never have I ever?"

"Game? I'm not the one who was afraid of drinking".

"Because unlike you, I don't feel the need to announce our business to everyone."

He set his glass down, turning to face you fully. "Our business? So you admit there's something to announce?"

"That's not—" You caught yourself before your voice could rise. "What are you trying to achieve here? With all the—" you gestured vaguely, "touching and teasing and almost exposing everything?"

He stepped closer, and suddenly the kitchen felt way too small, even though it was like three times the size of your Tokyo apartment. "Maybe I just want everyone to know that night wasn't as casual for me as you seem to think it was."

You felt the weight of his words settle in the quiet kitchen, heavy with meaning you weren't prepared to unpack while moonlight caught his features in a way that made him look softer, almost vulnerable.

"What are you talking about? It was only one night."

"Was it?" He moved closer, until you had to tilt your head back to keep eye contact. "Because I remember asking you to stay. I remember waking up to an empty bed and spent the next six months thinking about why you left."

"I... you were just saying that in the moment. People say lots of things in the moment."

"Do they?" His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face. "Is that why you ran? Because you thought I didn't mean it?"

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore how your skin prickled where he'd touched you. "Satoru..."

"You know what I think?" His voice dropped even lower, barely a whisper in the quiet kitchen. "I think you're scared. Not of me, but of the fact that you wanted to stay too."

"That's not—" But the words died in your throat as his thumb traced your jawline.

"Then why are you down here?" He was close enough now that you could feel the heat of his body against yours. "If it was just one night, just something casual, why did you follow me down here in the middle of the night?"

The counter pressed against your back—when had you started backing up?—and Satoru's arms came to rest on either side of you, caging you in. Position achingly familiar, reminding you of how this all started six months ago.

"I was thirsty," you said. You did not even believe yourself as you said it.

His laugh was barely a breath against your skin. "Liar."

And then his mouth was on yours, and god, you'd forgotten how good he was at this. His lips were soft but demanding, one hand sliding into your hair while the other gripped your hip, forcing you close against him. You gasped into the kiss, and he took the opportunity to deepen it, his tongue against yours in a way that made you forget your own name.

It was different from that first night—less urgent, but somehow more intense. He kissed you like he was trying to prove a point, like he was laying claim to every moment you'd denied him these past six months. His teeth caught your lower lip, and you had to bite back a whimper, too aware of the sleeping house above.

"Still want to pretend this is nothing?" he whispered against your mouth, and you could feel his smile when your only response was to pull him back down for another kiss.

His hands slid down to grip your thighs, lifting you onto the counter. You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him closer as his mouth moved to your neck, kissing your throat just the way you like it, just the way he somehow remembered.

"Someone could come down," you breathed, even as your fingers tangled in his hair.

"Then I guess you'll have to be quiet." His teeth grazed your skin, making you shiver. "Think you can manage that? Because I distinctly remember you being quite vocal last time."

You tightened your grip on his hair in return, but that just made him groan softly against your throat. "You're stupid."

"Mm, that's not what you said in Tokyo." His hands slid higher under your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. "In fact, I remember you saying some very different things—"

You cut him off with another kiss, partly to shut him up and partly because you needed his mouth on yours like you needed air. His fingers teased along your ribs, your back, your thighs, touching you everywhere except where you desperately wanted him to.

But then his fingers found the edge of your underwear, and you had to bite his shoulder to keep from moaning as he slid his fingers inside you, making you cum all over his fingers in seconds—just like that night in Tokyo.

You were done, dizzy, breathless, clinging to him as he stripped your shorts and underwear down your legs. He pushed one leg up your chest as he lowered you back down onto the marble kitchen counter, your other leg still wrapped around his waist. His forehead pressed against yours as he thrust inside, hard, slow, perfect angle—just like that night in Tokyo.

He tossed you around, manhandled you, fucked you against the fridge, threw you onto the couch and fucked you there too. He whispered your name, his voice husky against your ear, every letter a caress, even as he picked up pace, even as his hand closed around your throat, even as you bit into the pillow below to muffle your screams as he made you cum again. Multiple times. In various positions. Using his own cum as a lube for the next round—just like that night in Tokyo.

Afterwards you laid outside on the veranda in a big chair you both shared, gazing up at the stars scattered across the deep velvet sky, countless and impossibly bright. A second later his lips found yours and another second later you were on top of him, underwear pushed to the side and your head thrown back as he watched you chase your release on his dick—just like that night in Tokyo.

And his hand found yours, intertwining your fingers as he ate you out on the stairs just before you wanted to go back to bed, but he wouldn't let you, making you cum again before he carried you off to the laundry room to fuck you one last time for sure good mesure—just like that night in Tokyo.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

Morning came way too early, sunlight streaming through windows you'd forgotten to close. Every muscle in your body ached in the most pleasant way, reminding you of exactly how many surfaces you and Satoru had christened last night. 

Yeah. You were definitely going to be feeling this for days. You winced slightly as you sat up — apparently kitchen counters weren't the most ergonomic choice for certain activities, or the stairs, or the laundry room, or... Okay, we get it.

When you finally made it downstairs, moving perhaps a bit more strangely than usual, Satoru was already at the breakfast table. Because of course he was, looking absolutely perfect and fullyfull rested in a fresh shirt, casually sipping his coffee like he hadn't spent half the night making you bite down on your fist to keep quiet.

"Well, someone looks rough," Nobara commented as you lowered yourself carefully into a chair. "Too much wine last night?"

You caught Satoru hiding a smirk behind his coffee cup. The bastard didn't even have the decency to look tired.

"Something like that," you muttered, reaching for the coffee pot and trying not to wince at the stretch. Your thighs burned in protest of the movement, and you could swear you saw Satoru's smile widening at your slight grimace.

"Must have been some wine," Nobara said, eyeing you suspiciously. "I don't remember you drinking that much during the game."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Yuji asked, looking concerned. "You're walking kind of funny."

"I'm fine, really," you managed. "Too much wine, that’s all."

Maki, who sat next to you, leaned in closer. "Your 'too much wine' is showing," she whispered, pointing to your collarbone. Your hand flew to your neck, suddenly remembering all the attention Satoru had paid to that area—especially that moment on the stairs when you'd begged him to finish what he'd started before anyone heard them, while he sucked a very dark bruise right above your collarbone.

You quickly buttoned up your cotton shirt higher, but from Nobara's growing grin, it was too late. But thankfully, no one commented on it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟  

The rest of Sunday passed in a lazy haze, with everyone moving a bit slower thanks to varying degrees of wine headaches. Most of the day was spent sprawled out on beach chairs, hiding behind sunglasses and drinking coconut water that Yuta swore would help with hangovers (but, in fact, did not).

You dozed on and off under an umbrella, trying not to think about how your body still ached in several places from the night before, and enjoyed your last day in Okinawa before you'd return to work on Monday.

When evening rolled around and it was time to pack up, the house became a chaos of suitcases and forgotten phone chargers once more. You were struggling with your bag next to your car, trying to figure out the best angle to lift it into the trunk without stressing your still sore muscles, when Satoru suddenly appeared and took it from your hands without a word.

"I can manage," you protested, but he was already lifting it into your trunk with an effortless ease that really shouldn't be as attractive as it was.

"I'm sure you can," he said, closing your trunk with a soft thud. "But maybe I just want an excuse to do this." 

Before you could ask what 'this' was, he pressed a small folded piece of paper into your palm. You opened it to find a phone number written in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"Since you didn't stay for it last time," he said softly.

"What makes you think I'll use it?"

"Because this time, you want to stay just as much as I want you to." He leaned closer, his voice dropping so only you could hear. "Besides, I believe we still have a few surfaces in my apartment left to explore."

You shoved his shoulder. "Stop." 

He caught your hand before you could push him again. "Use it. Please?" His voice held a note of softness, an unexpected tenderness that made your heart ache with a strange longing. You nodded, tucking the paper safely into your back pocket.

"Still not announcing anything to everyone tho," you warned as Maki called out that they were ready to leave.

"Yet," he said with an eye roll. Then, before you could react, he pulled you in for one last kiss. It was slower, deeper this time, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you, as if he was afraid he might forget the feel of your lips.

"Someone could see us," you whispered against his lips, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

"I don't care," he murmured, one hand sliding down to your waist to draw you closer. "Let them see." He kissed you again, shorter this time but no less intense. "Besides, they'll find out soon enough when I take you to this little ramen place in Shibuya I've been wanting to show you."

You pulled back slightly. "Oh? Someone's confident about getting a second date."

"Third, technically," he said. "If we're counting Tokyo. And that thing against the washing machine last night."

"Those don't count.”

"Then I guess I'll have to make the next one special. Maybe dinner first. Then I can show you my apartment. Properly this time, not just the entrance hall and kitchen counter."

"Is that your way of asking me out?"

"That's my way of saying I'm not letting you disappear for six months again." He pressed a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Use my number this time, yeah?"

"Satoru!" Yuji's voice carried across the driveway. "Stop making out and help me with these bags!"

Satoru laughed against your lips, stealing one more kiss before reluctantly pulling away. "Think about it. The ramen place. My apartment. All the surfaces we haven't used yet."

"Go help Yuji," you said, pushing him away even as you smiled. "Before he comes over here."

"Call me," he said, walking backwards with that stupidly handsome smile. "Or I'll just have to show up at your office. Make a big scene. Maybe bring flowers. Really embarrass you in front of all your coworkers."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me!" He finally turned then to help with the bags, leaving you to shake your head, your lips still tingling from his kisses.

The drive home felt different somehow. Every now and then, your hand would drift to your pocket, fingers brushing over the folded paper with his number, making sure it was still there as the familiar roads back to Tokyo stretched ahead.

The beach house grew smaller in your rearview mirror until it disappeared completely, taking with it the memories of lazy afternoons under the summer sun and heated nights. But other things lingered—the ghost of his lips against yours, the warmth of his hands, the way he'd looked at you like you were something worth waiting for.

Maybe you'd call him tomorrow. Or maybe you'd wait a day or two, just to prove you could. But knowing you, you'd likely message him the moment you set foot in your apartment.

A smile tugged at your lips as you pulled onto the highway, the setting sun painting the sky in strokes of rose and  lavender. Whatever happened next, one thing was for sure — this weekend had changed everything.

And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't such a bad thing.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — and that's a wrap on our beach house summer story ! thank you so much for reading :)) & thank you again to @/nanamis-baker for beta reading !!

for anyone wondering, yes, she kept the shirt. and yes, he definitely noticed when she wore it to their first proper date to that ramen spot in shibuya.

if you enjoyed this fic, please feel free to leave a comment or reblog. it means so much !! until next time. stay thirsty hydrated, my friends <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga

@nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @chiyokoemilia @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @snowsilver2000 @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu

@90s-belladonna @fairygardenprincesss

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

chapter 0 : top-ultra-super-ultra-secret-mission.

no quirk au, mentions of fighting and violence, the yakuza and my very little knowledge of it (msorry yall,,i know about the video games :>..!), gang violence, found family trope my love, crime syndicate boss daughter! reader, badboy bodyguard! katsuki x fem reader, sunshine reader, reader is a sweetheart but a little bratty, CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LUVERS TROPE MY STAR, almost polar opposites, you get off on the wrong foot at first so kinndaa enemies to friends, reader has a last name but it will be explained later, original characters, all might is a fictional character, one piece easter egg lol, food n cookies ! katsuki gets recruited into a crime syndicate at eleven years old, but he doesn't do any fightin till a years later !, lemme know if i missed sum (might add more in future chapters !)

katsuki doesn't remember anything besides his own bloody and bruised knuckles.

it's all he remembers and all he's known his entire life. where he comes from you gotta fight to survive and every dispute was resolved with conflict. bloody fists and busted lips was all he grew up with until the age of 11 years old.

the orphanage he'd lived in for years didn't help in reinforcing that point : the place was neglected, faded and crumbling like a mansion in a horror movie. he'd heard so many rumors going around the halls that the place was haunted. none of the adults bothered to shut it down but they didn't bother to take care of them either, so katsuki didn't expect much from them. katsuki wouldn't be able to count the amount of times their caretakers, if you could even call them that, let him and his housemates run off without supervision on both hands and feet. their disinterested eyes occasionally glancing at the poor kid getting ganged up on by kids twice his size and age.

"if you don't pull your weight around here, you're deadmeat." katsuki remembers an older boy, his roommate at the time, saying to him. he hasn't seen the boy in years and katsuki is sure that wherever he fucked off to was miles better than the shithole he currently lives in.

fights weren't uncommon either. petty fights over pudding were often brought to the communal area, ranging from food fights to all out brawls. power struggles between kids where mostly for dominance, to show others who was the boss. it was all for the sake of a survival kids their ages shouldn't have known, one that they shouldn't have been desensitized to.

the disinterest of the staff members meant that the kids could run wild, running amok around the city streets as if they owned them. stealing and fighting, forming groups and alliances only for those who lagged behind to be betrayed and ganged up on by their pack members.

he recognized it whenever people where trying to get something out of him. katsuki knew he was strong and he knew others knew it too and it got him nothing but enemies and wannabe lackey's acting like errand boys in exchange for services. beating up some guy who had owed them money, some people simply wanted to be around him, hearing that his name had gotten notoriety around their neighborhood and simply using him to scare people off, like parents telling their kids about the boogeyman.

it worked out fine whenever they'd stay out of his way, but katsuki was a lone wolf through and through and didn't like people sticking to his heels, so after many more bloody knuckles, the sound of bones crunching and broken noses, people knew not to mess, or associate themselves, with the rage that was katsuki bakugou.

" i heard he beat some guys face in so bad he never left his house again.." "if you look at him for too long, he'll kick your ass !" "that little brat thinks he's the shit just because he beat some shrimp’s ass." he'd heard whispers like these for years. scared fleeting glances and nasty glares was all people offered him and he learned that striking fear into others was the only way you'd be respected. beating people up was the only way others would leave you alone. stealing from others was the only way others wouldn't steal from you.

being a monster was the only way people would listen. and just like how continuing to spread legends kept horror movie creatures alive. other people spreading rumors about how ruthless he was kept katsuki safe.

until that man showed up.

one of their caretakers had announced that someone would be coming to visit, meaning they should be on their best behaviour so they could find a new forever home. katsuki scoffs, the idea that anyone would choose him to bring home was laughable to him. all the grown ups that came by came for the golden boys: the push overs or the crybabies, was what they were called amongst the other kids.

the man that appeared infront of the line of young boys was anything but what katsuki could’ve ever imagined. tall, extremely so, with a long leather jacket draped over his shoulder, rings could be seen adorning his fingers when he cracked his knuckles. he was completely decked out in black : black coat, black pants, black belt and dark, hardened black eyes that had all the boys shivering. unconsciously having them stand up straighter by the heat of the man’s stare alone.

katsuki and his housemates had all gathered around the windows minutes before to see the man arrive in a big black cadillac escalade, peeking the curiosity of everyone in the room as they wondered what the hell this person could want from an orphanage like this one.

katsuki for the first time in years, feels a hint of fear wash over him when the man stops right in front of him. he feels the eyes of his other mates on him as well and feels himself sweating a little when he gulps.

the mysterious man offers him a large, friendly smile and katsuki doesn't know if he should feel threatened by the warmth he feels in his chest. the tall man kneels down until he's at katsuki's height and his deep, honeyed voice catches him off guard, because he thinks such a man shouldn't have such a..welcoming voice. especially with the multiple men he saw surrounding his car outside looking anything but welcoming.

"hey, kid." the man starts, sharp canines on display as he grins "how would you like to come home with me ?"

katsuki, wide eyed and mouth agape, can only think of one response,

"..huh ?"

katsuki's shocked expression has not changed once. not since the grown ups had talked about boring grown up stuff he'd barely tuned into, only hearing the scritching of the pen on the paper when the mysterious badass man had signed the adoption papers.

and now, inside of the big black cadillac escalade surrounded by other huge badass guys, his expression has yet to change, though he’d managed to clamp his mouth shut.

katsuki is currently gripping onto an apple juice box, (frankly he prefers orange but he doesn't think he can form a correct sentence right now) offered to him buy a stoic man--who was introduced to him by another huge man, although not as scary looking as the other one, who told him not to be frightened by his straight-faced friend as he was "a scary lookin' dude, but a big teddybear once you get to know him ! " katsuki hadn't taken a single sip of the juice yet, juice that he didn't steal but was given to. without having to threaten anyone for it. a strange feeling grows in his stomach that he's not familiar with. and in katsuki's experience anything unknown is bad, so he doesn't like this.

the scary men all pulled a complete 180 from what they were like outside, going from being quiet and serious to extremely loud. so loud katsuki wonders how it's possible that four men in one car can be just as loud as an entire communal area at his now old orphanage. the thought of not having to step foot in that cursed building ever again has him holding back a little smile. he squeezes the juice box in his hands a little tighter.

the men who's names he doesn't know yet are cracking jokes. they smack his shoulder randomly, causing him to basically fly forward and he's sure that if he weren't wearing a seatbelt he'd have flewn right through the windshield. they laugh and tell him they're excited to start working with him. this has katsuki tilt his head in question.

" working with you ?" he asks, it's the first thing he's said and the two more expressive men in the car brighten up. one of the guys, who's squeezed next to him speaks. he has bleached hair with black roots still peaking through. his sunglasses are pulling his hair back and perfectly showing off the scar running over his left eyebrow.

"yeah, starting today you're a part of our clan, little buddy !" he grins. their clan ?

the boss man, he assumes, speaks up from the drivers seat " takashi, don't just jump that on him so suddenly," he reprimands jokingly. he looks at katsuki through the rear view mirror and smiles, katsuki simply looks away. he doesn't know how to react to situations, or people like this well. or at all. "you'll frighten him."

katsuki's head shoots up at that, eyes squinted and brows furrowed "i'm not scared of shit !" he exclaims "what do you guys even do ?" he glares around at everyone in the car. it's silent and he sees the ringed hand of the boss guy turn the radio down. then after a beat passes everyone bursts out laughing again and katsuki jumps despite himself, even the stone faced guy cracks a smile.

"you're a fiesty one, huh ?! you're perfect for the job !" the bleached blonde man, who is apparently named takashi, speaks. he wraps an arm around katsuki and doesn't notice how he tenses and growls, that or he ignores it. "you see, we have a very special job."

"what special job ?" takashi responds with a mischievous smirk.

"we beat up bad guys !" he chirps happily.

katsuki can't help the gasp that comes out of his throat nor can he control the sparkle in his eyes, yet he tries his best to sound cool " y-you beat up bad guys ?" he asks carefully.

"u--huuuuuh" he squeezes katsuki between his bicep tighter, apologizing when katsuki punches at his arm, loosening his extremely tight grip. he offers him a little apology that katsuki only graces with a stinkeye. "we find guys who mess with us or our turf, and we fuck 'em up good !" he makes punching motions at the air with his free arm " y'know, like all might !"

" all might isn't real." katsuki shoots back.

"well, yeah. but he's cool isn't he !" the bleached man whines, giving katsuki a slight noogie. he shoves at his arm and looks away with a huff and a pout. unwilling to admit that the tv show superhero had been his idol for years now. takashi chuckles knowingly at the boys pink cheeks before finally releasing him from his grasp.

katsuki suddenly remembers the conversation before he'd trailed off "so..you guys beat up bad guys ?" the young blonde starts "and i'm part of your clan now ?" he eyes everyone curiously and they all offer him firm nods.

"why me, though ?" he hates how..desperate he sounds, it reminds him too much of the other loser crybabies that he used to share a space with. he peers at the rear view mirror only to be met with the boss man's eyes already on him. he jumps despite the warmth in said man's eyes.

"i like you, kid. you've got this look in your eye." he explains, he focuses back on the road once he finishes " makes me think of myself when i was your age."

katsuki sits stunned as the rest of the men in the car start up again calling their boss superficial for "going for someone who reminds him of himself" they say, yet katsuki can't find it in himself to feel insulted. he's been told time and time again the looks he'd give people were rude, cocky, scary and every other adjective in the book, none of them being exactly positive one's.

but for someone to say they like the look in his eye is shocking. the lack of any praise besides about how much of a monster he was when he got into fights was something completely unknown to him.

during the entire ride, katsuki grips his untouched apple juice box to keep from smiling.

when he arrives into a large office like room, following closely behind the boss man, who's name he found out during the car ride was kento matsumoto, he's surprised to find the room empty once the door slammed behind him. katsuki's immediatly on his toes and ready, already in a fighting stance, his eyes zipping around the room ready to attack should any bad guys show up.

"what're you doing ?" the older man hums in amusement, slowly creeping towards his desk in the middle of the room. katsuki's too focused on a surprise attack to bother noticing.

"where are the bad guys ?!" the unruly blonde asks, adrenaline already running through his veins, a smirks growing on his features until matsumoto laughs and--wait why is he laughing ?

"there are no bad guys here, you can rest easy." he chuckles when katsuki's shoulders immediatly drop, a pouty frown etched onto his features. "you won't be fighting any bad guys today," the more he continues the more katsuki's eyebrows drop lower and lower. he finally realises how quite and gentle he's been and tilts his head in confusion. he walks up to his desk chair which is turned away from katsuki's eyes. mr. matsumoto walks up and kneels towards the chair and whispers softly. katsuki can hear someone whisper back if he strains his ears hard enough and his brows furrow harder.

after a bit more back and forth, the tall man stands back up, and limps a little as he has two tiny arms arms dragging along with him. along with two tiny legs following along at his pace.

"i'd actually like you to meet someone today." the man chuckles to himself lightly. he presses his hand to the back of the little person behind him. and katsuki finally makes eye contact with them.

the girl looks about his age, maybe a year younger. she keeps alternating her gaze to him briefly and longer towards the floor. her socked feet rubbing at the other as she grips the taller man's pant leg.

katsuki holds back the urge to scoff. she would've been eaten alive if she spent one day back at his orphanage. pushovers don't survive long before becoming someone's lackey unless they pull their weight. you mutter something under your breath and mr. matsumoto scolds you gently.

"you don't wanna be rude to your new friend don't you ?" he encourages. both of your eyes widen and while a grin breaks out on your face. katsuki's mouth drops in near horror

"huh ?!"

"bakugou, stop moving !"

katsuki doesn't know where that old roommate he had fucked off to, but if it's someplace like this, he feels bad for him.

he'd found out that you were mr. matsumoto's daughter, which was shocking news by itself but you can imagine how much more shocked he was when the older male had asked him to spend time with you.

"i'm not a babysitter !" katsuki stormed "i thought i was fighting bad guys !" mr. matsumoto raises his hands up in surrender from where he's knelt down to diffuse tension.

"you'll start your training soon enough, and then you'll be able to fight as many bad guys as you see fit." he compromises. katsuki's somewhat satisfied, but still crosses his arms across his chest, awaiting further explanation.

"i'm just asking you to keep an eye on her. spend some time with her, stuff like that..you'll be like her bodyguard !" he offers.

"more like babyguard." katsuki scoffs. the older man chuckles nervously.

"my job's real dangerous, so a lot of people wanna hurt me, and my family. i can't have that, you get what i'm sayin' right ?" he speaks sincerely. katsuki's eyes soften the slightest bit as he readjusts his arms. "i want her to be able to spend time with kids her age. not some old guys in suits, you know ?"

katsuki doesn't say but he thinks that reasoning is stupid. he thinks constantly being around men like your dad would be cool as hell, but he digresses. the unruly blonde stares at the pleading man pensively, mr. matsumoto had gotten him out of the wretched orphanage, he owes it to him to atleast help him with this easy sounding request.

katsuki heaves a long, deep sigh and looks down at the ground.

"fine..i'll do it."

he wishes he could punch his past self in the mouth for agreeing to this torture.

he grabs your wrist when you try to sneakily press a tiny flavored lip balm stick to his lips. you pout and whine at him and he growls and furrows his brows at you in response.

"c'mon !" you whine. straining your arm still tightly clutched in his grip to press the lip balm to his pink lips. “it tastes like peaches !” you try.

"no ! i already let you put these shitty braids in my hair, m'not putting your stupid makeup shit on." he throws your arm to the side and you gasp. before crossing your arms,

"swear." you mumble grumply. you shake your head and lean towards him with new found vigor. you’re stubborn and usually he’d at least give you that, but you’re the annoying kind of stubborn, so you’re not getting anything from him.

"it's not makeup, it's just lip balm ! dad let's me put it on him all the time !"

"yeah, well i ain't your dad."

"yeah you're not. cus my dad's not a jerk !" you stick your tongue out at him and katsuki scoffs at you, looking away from you. he bets you wouldn't act all cool if he shoved you once, you look like the type of wimp who'd cry about tripping over your own shoelaces.

"i'll tell my dad you're bein' mean to me." you announce. katsuki's head whips towards you and he feels a vein on his forehead when you turn your nose up at the sky with a 'hmph !". you make his head hurt.

"don't go lying on me !" he fumed.

"but i'm not lyin', you are mean ! i asked you nice an' you won't lemme put the chapstick on you !" you bite back. katsuki inhales through his nose in anger.

"you didn't ask me sh—anything !" he stops himself mid curse, your father doesn't like him swearing around you for some reason and he'd rather you not snitch to your dad about his cursing habits.

you suddenly stop, then roll your eyes like the brat you are. "well, i'm asking now..please ?" you bat your lashes at him and give him, what katsuki assumes, are your best puppy dog eyes.

you're so much more different than when he'd first met you two weeks ago and he definitely doesn't mean it as a good thing. he almost wishes you stayed the quiet, meek little mouse you were. that would've been way less annoying than the bossy bratty princess you are, despite being a few months younger than him.

katsuki groans, loudly to himself, than turns to you again. gripping at his criss crossed legs to control his nerves.

"make it quick, princess." he spits, glaring at your bright smile, obviously pleased you'd won the argument even though you didn't play fair at all. katsuki had won every fight he'd ever been in but you were making yourself out to be his toughest opponent yet. he grits his teeth and sucks his loss in for another day. you make a happy noise and press the sweet stick to his lips. it tastes like peaches when he briefly licks his lips to get a taste. he let’s out a quiet pleased grunt.

"it tastes good, right !"

"shut up."

katsuki looks at you strangely when he sees you sneaking around corners.

he's stuck on babysitting duty again while your dad and the others get to do fun stuff like beating the shit out of people. from what he'd gathered from mr. matsumoto and when he 'accidentally' listened in on his passing conversations with his coworkers, your father was the boss of an underground yakuza organisation. the men he'd sat in the car with being his most trusted companions.

they all bore a similar tattoo’s somewhere on their body : some had them on their arms or hands, others were more showy and had them on their necks or on their backs like your dad did. katsuki was bummed to find out he wouldn’t be able to get one yet, he scoffs at the memory of your dad ruffling his hair and telling him to wait a few more years.

he was dreading having to put up with your whiny tantrums and sticky flavored lip balms, although he guessed it was kinda fun to guess the flavour. but today you surprised him by beckoning him over and telling him you needed his help with something. at 9 in the morning.

“a top-ultra-super-ultra secret-mission ”, you’d called it. and from the moment you’d pushed him out of the huge spare room he was currently using as his bedroom, you’d been sneaking around corners even though katsuki would look ahead (he has to take some risks, he is your bodyguard after all) and see no one there.

the prospect of a secret mission did peak his interest, it was the reason he had followed you without making a fuss. but even though ‘patience’ wasn’t an unknown word in katsuki’s documentary, it wasn’t frequently used. so it shouldn’t have been a surprise when he started complaining.

“what are we even doing ? and why the hell are you sneaking around like that?” he asks, the urge to go back to bed still clinging to him as he rubs at his eyes sleepily. katsuki doesn’t know how you can navigate this huge house so well and he feels like he’s been following you through a maze.

you quickly, after peeking around another corner, shush him. “shhh !” you hiss, placing a finger over your lips. if katsuki weren’t so tired he would’ve rolled his eyes at you but he simply decides to narrow his eyes at you.

“i told you, it’s super secret ! i’ll tell you when we get there !” you huff “swear, by the way.” you chide playfully, giggling when he grumbles at you.

if katsuki could compare you to anything, he’d compare you to rubber. it’s weird because it’s an object rather than a living thing, but he thinks it’s pretty fitting. he pokes and prods, throws snarky comments and mean names at you, pulling at you like rubber, yet all you do is snap right back into place. like that rubber man you like on tv ( he prefers the sword guy better).

you pout about his mean spirited ‘princess’ nickname after he tells you he doesn’t mean it as a compliment because to him it means your snobby, bratty and spoiled, but you never let him get you down. often just saying that princesses we’re super pretty “so therefore, you’re just calling me pretty !” you’d grin. he thinks your reasoning is more than stupid and rolled his eyes hard when you’d first told him that, but you intrigue him in ways he doesn’t wanna admit.

you’re so annoying and bubbly it puzzles him, he wonders how someone like you could exist in the same world as his. the world he was raised in was cold and unforgiving, quickly stomping and crushing pretty bright flowers like you under its heel before they were even given a chance to fully bloom.

you’re something he’s never seen before and you piss him off. but that’s mostly because you’re annoying though.

after sneaking around for a bit more, you get to what katsuki recognizes as the kitchen. katsuki hears the sound of chopping and sizzling before he rounds the corner and the smell of food fills his nose and his mouth waters.

you put an arm out to hold him back from rounding the corner and point towards something, katsuki looks up at where your looking to see..

a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies.

his eyes widen like he’d just seen a stack of gold. back at the orphanage, they were barely allowed to have any sweets besides during holidays, two for everyone. katsuki didn’t really mind much, since he doesn’t really like candy, but your home chef nakazawa really knew how to cook and katsuki would gobble up anything the man cooked.

the long white haired man never commented on his table manners and messy eating, only smiling brightly and always telling him it made him happy to see people enjoying his food so much.

katsuki would never say it out loud, but he would sometimes sneak around to watch mr. nakazawa cook. he’d never had any time to be interested in..anything back at his old hell hole and it’d taken him a while to admit he’d taken a liking to not only nakazawa’s cooking, but also cooking in general.

he bets those cookies would be fucking delicious. he gulps.

“those are our objective !” you whisper, turning back to him with a determined grin “your job as my bodyguard today is to help me snatch up those chocolate chip cookies mr zawa made.” you explain.

katsuki almost exclaims before begrudgingly remembering this is supposed to be a secret mission and you were supposed to be inconspicuous “huh ?!” he hisses. you nudge him away from the opening and place your finger against your lips to shush him again, katsuki growls at you.

"just cus i'm your bodyguard..or whatever," he grumbles, rolling his eyes "doesn't mean i'm your errand boy. i'm not anybody's errand boy." he spits, glaring at you. you don't look the least bit scared, instead your eyebrows furrow and you pout.

"but you're not my errand boy, we're doing it together ! you're helping me out !"

"i don't help anyone." he shoots back "what am i getting from this anyway ?" he scoffs, shuffling on his feet.

" you don't like sweets, right ? so the least you could do is help me get some cookies !" you declare, crossing your arms." but if you want, i guess i could share the booty with you." you say with a roll of your eyes. katsuki wants to be surprised that you remembered something he’d mumbled to you in passing once but he ignores that to sneer at you, eye twitching at your brattiness.

"gross. don't call it that." he snarks, you roll your eyes again "don't be a baby, bakugou." you quickly flip around and sneak towards the main kitchen doors. bakugou glares at your back as you slip away and throws you one last snarky comment under his breath before following you "you're one to talk."

mr nakazawa’s back is to the both of you still, he seems to not have noticed you both yet. even though katsuki hates being ordered around by you, pointing at where he should go so as not to be seen, he ignores it in favour of the giddy feeling in his chest. you're holding back a laugh too, he can see it on your face and as annoying as you are, he can't help but hold back a snort with you when the cook stops in his movements to scan around the kitchen, you both still going unnoticed.

he hasn't been allowed to go out on missions with your dad and his squad yet, simply undergoing training starting from every wednesday, to going monday through thursday for a few hours and though it was fun, it was pretty irritating seeing the grown ups do all the fun stuff while he's stuck carrying you around on his back and watching dumb disney channel original movies with you (he won't admit he enjoys most of them, though. never.)

but right now that's all been forgotten, adrenaline is pumping through him but it's different than the adrenaline rush he gets from when he beats up some no name kid that wanted to start a fight to prove he was some type of big shot, surrounded by the choruses of cheering kids and screams. instead, he's simply sneaking closer and closer to a tray of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. accompanied only by you, who's covering your mouth trying not to make a single sound so you don't get caught and scolded for getting to the cookies early.

it's different, it's unknown. but katsuki realizes it's not bad.

it actually feels really warm, and nice. and good. it's good to have fun with you. it's good to be able to bicker and playfight with you without it leading to his knuckles being bruised up. he hates to admit it but he has to hold back a snicker at your dumb jokes and antics. and maybe he can admit that some of the movies you pick out are kinda fun.

he doesn't have to fight for the remote with you because you let him pick whenever he wants. you've set up a system where you pick one night and he gets to pick the next night and you hadn't broken your promise, always handing him the remote when it was his turn to pick a movie, though you huff about it sometimes, but that's cus you're a brat.

but when katsuki finally reaches the tray of cookies and you silently cheer for him with a smile so bright you could rival the sun itself and two thumbs up in the air, katsuki has to admit you're not so bad to be around.

"may i ask what you kids are doin' ?"

both you and katsuki stiffen at mr. nakazawa looming over him, he doesn't look the least bit angry. he's trying to, but he can't fight off the smile on his mock dissapointed face.

"mr. bakugou is a newcomer, so i can't really be mad at 'im" he starts, katsuki gulps when the white haired man's frosty blue eyes land on him, then zero on you "but lady yn should already know what happens to misbehaving children.." he slowly stretches his arms out towards you, making a grabby motion and you start uncontrollably giggling, eyes widening as you slowly stand up and back away.

"they go...into the oven !!"

"mission complete, cookies obtained, get outta there !" you exclaim, hightailing it with your laughter trailing down the hallway. katsuki starts up and dashes for the door to follow you. mr. nakazawa barely makes any effort to catch both of you and katsuki knows he's stopped following you but he doesn't bother telling you about it.

he's having too much fun right now.

he's holding the tray of cooled off cookies to his chest to keep them safe and he can't stop laughing especially because you're basically hollering next to him, cheering loudly and katsuki mimicks you. it's probably still around nine in the morning and you're running around like headless chickens, screaming around the hallways, but katsuki's having too much fun with you to care.

you get to your bedroom door first and katsuki would usually blame it on your hands being free, but he doesn't care about being first right now. you quickly wave your hand around, signaling for him to run inside before you slam your door shut and fall to the ground, helplessly snorting and giggling with your fluffy pyjama pant legs kicking in the air.

katsuki sits down next to you, placing the cookies down between you both slightly above your head. he's calmed down more than you have, but he's still buzzing, chest rising and falling. he snorts and giggles some more looking at you and after you finally calm down you sigh. you take a deep breath before looking up at him with stars in your eyes.

"that was so fun ! we booked it outta there so fast !" you giggle. katsuki sits more comfortable, cross-crossing his legs. he hums in response "mr. nakazawa always says he's gonna put me in the oven when i sneak a cookie, but he's super nice, so i knew he wouldn't do anything if he caught you !"

katsuki scoffs pridefully, turning his nose up in the air "he wouldn't have been able to do anythin' cus i woulda kicked his ass !" he smirks. you giggle in response.

"that's expected of my bodyguard !" you chirp. he rolls his eyes but doesn't complain. you sit up and look at him all starry eyed and katsuki's eyes widen in turn.

"you were awesome, bakugou ! no wonder dad likes you so much !" you beam. it's too bright, you're too bright. katsuki wants to look away, wants to go back into his shell and pull the curtain shut on the sun that you are. he wants to be scary and feared by all and yet for some reason he likes that you're not scared of him. he wants it to stay that way. he knows he shouldn't and yet,

"..you can just call me, katsuki. i don't mind.." he mutters, looking away from you and towards the wall. he doesn't dare look at you or he'll have to acknowledge your expression, acknowledge the fact his face is burning alarmingly hard and fast. "i don't care..if you do." he rephrases.

a beat passes and he feels the cold metal of the tray against his hand, he looks down to see your hand pushing the cookies towards him.

"since you did the most work, you can have the first one." you say shyly, fiddling with your soft sleeves.

katsuki feels his heart beating and thumping hard in his chest. he can faintly hear it in his ears, can feel it softly bumping in his head. he's never felt this before.

he doesn't like the unknown. but he can't find it in himself to care when he reaches out and takes a big bite of a cookie. it tastes heavenly and his eyelashes flutter as he munches away, his eyes snap open when he hears you giggle.

"s'good, right ?" you grin, leaning towards him to grab a cookie before popping a piece into your mouth with a hum. katsuki gulps a bite of his cookie down.

"mm.." he hums in agreement. that's enough for you, so you lean back more comfortably and you both continue silently munching away at the slowly dwindling tray of cookies. until you speak up again.

"usually i eat all of mr. nakazawa's cookies on my own. dad and my other uncles are always gone before i can share with them." you explain, katsuki sees your puppy eyes shining with sadness. they're the same as the pushover's at his old orphanage who'd cower in corners and cry as the bigger predators of the institution prey on them.

"they're really good.." the happy tone in your voice is gone and is instead replaced by a more bittersweet one. "but whenever i eat too many, my stomach hurts. and that's not fun at all." katsuki feels his chest tighten at your words, and it tightens harder when you look up at him and send him the sincerest smile he's ever seen.

"but today, i ate a lot of 'em and i'm completely fine, cus i shared them with you !"

katsuki only remembers the feeling of fighting. of bloody and bruised knuckles and the rush of adrenaline that eventually fades away and all he feels is the stinging pain in his body. and that's not fun at all.

but sitting here with you, he hopes and he hopes with all his might that the way he feels when his chest blooms with warmth never fades away.

"yeah..." is all he says, looking down at the ground. tugging at the carpet.

"y'know, you're my fifth bodyguard." katsuki's eyes widen "fifth ?" he parrots and you nod, stuffing the last bit of your cookie into your mouth.

"why so many ? you go out on missions or something ?"

you shake your head "no, but dad says it's safer because a lot of people could wanna hurt me." you say simply, wrapping your arms around your knees, wiggling your socked feet " 'i wouldn't let anyone hurt you, but you can never be too careful.'" you mimick, deepening your voice best you can to copy your father's tone.

"all my other bodyguards were super old, and they never talked, or played with me. no fun at all." you mutter bitterly, grounding your heel down against your soft carpeted floor.

"you're kinda mean, and very aggressive. especially for someone your age." katsuki scoffs at your doctor like tone like you'd just done an analysis on him. he kicks at your foot with his and you giggle and stick yout tongue out at him. katsuki wants to hold back the smirk growing on his face, but he can't. maybe because he isn't trying very hard to hold back at all.

"but you're funny..and you can be really nice when you wanna be." he hears it again, the thumping and beating of his heart at your words and your smile. "you're definitely my favorite bodyguard, katsuki !"

the thumping of his heart gets so loud he can feel it in the tips of his fingers, rhythmically beating away. he gets that feeling of adrenaline from when he wins a fight. when he's got a nasty bloody nose but people are inching away from him. whispers of his name and strenght all around and he feels like he's on top of the world for a while.

but this feels nicer. it's foreign, but katsuki feels like he can get used to that.

"'f course i am, i'm the best !" he exclaims. the warmth in his chest still present and burning harder when you smile at him brightly with a giggle.

katsuki unfamiliar with these kinds of burning feelings that aren’t accompanied with pain. they’re unknown and foreign, but he thinks he likes them. and, maybe, he can admit that he thinks he likes you a little bit, too.

soooowww...whatre we thinkiiinnnn..personally i like this alot and would love to hear whatyallthinkaboutthisconcepttttquestionmark... i was inspired to post this after getting back into akabane honeko no bodyguard, and my love for delinquents mix in some childhoodfriends to lovers and i HAD to write this, i rlly like this and i hope yall enjoy !!

There's a slow song playing when you get home. You drop your bag, toe out of your shoes as you make your way to the living room to find that Dabi's cleared the furniture away, giving the room more space.

On his phone, is a slow song blaring through the speakers, just loud enough that you can talk normally.

'Dabi, what's this?' You ask, and he turns. He's wearing simple clothes, but his grin is bright.

'This is for you, babe. Come here.'

He takes your hand, pulling you close. 'May I have this dance?'

Giggling, you nod and let him lead, the sides of your heads pressed together. It's unexpected, but that's what makes it even better.

-dabihawksluva

This is so sweet 🥹🥹 thank you. I woke up not feeling great but seeing this just made my day @dabihawksluva

I’ve never actually danced with anyone before but for dabi I’d do it any day 💙

The Way You Kiss Me - G.S.

Synopsis. The four times Satoru tries really hard not to kiss you - his best friend’s pretty younger sister. And the one time he doesn’t.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Suguru’s sister! reader, childhood enemies to lovers, PINING Satoru, like really really disgustingly down bad, creampíe, oral (fem receiving), pússytalking, needy JEALOUS! Satoru, running away from it, spítting, punching is Suguru’s love language, mentions of aIcohol, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 7.4k (That’s wild)

A/N. BOO! Surprise upload. This was so fun to write omg.

“You sure this is how the grown-ups get married?”

“Duh, I know everything.”

“Nuh uh, Toru.”

“Yuh uh!”

The first time Gojo Satoru kissed you was underneath that dingy playground slide that the two of you always raced to after elementary school. 

Usually, your older brother, Suguru, would walk home alongside you two - but this time, he’d just so happened to have been held back for throwing paper planes at the teacher that day.

A sign from the universe, Satoru internally celebrated, something he’d learned from those sappy romance novels his mother left lying around the house. No matter that he was the one that made those planes.

You were six back then, standing in front of a determined Satoru - reaching up on his tip-toes, face pink, smelling of those cheap strawberry lollipops he’d sneak into class and taunt you with. At the much older and wiser age of seven, he’d insisted on being the first one to lean in.

Just barely even grazing your dramatically puckered lips before-

Satoru learned two things that fateful afternoon:

Even as a seven-year-old, Suguru’s punches really hurt. 

Never mess with you. Anyone but you. 

Life only seemed to go downhill from there - because that last lesson was proving to be hard along the years. Really. Fucking. Hard.

Little did Satoru know that this would be the start of some strange, unpredictable little dance of push and pull. No, you definitely weren’t his wife. Nor were you exactly best friends - not really, that spot was reserved for your brother. But you didn’t think you could ever be just that either.

And the punch that’d knocked his wobbly tooth out onto the playground floor that day was a painful reminder that whatever that was - whatever weird thoughts he had later in middle school about how you’d tasted like candy - didn’t matter. No matter how part some tucked-away little part of him wanted it to.

Hell, eleven years later and Satoru still can’t walk around that familiar block without feeling slightly queasy. Which is why, after that failed first kiss, he knew there wouldn’t be a second. 

Instead, he settles back to teasing your pouty self, pushing all your buttons, tugging on those cute dresses you wore. Face burning so strangely with- humiliation? when you bickered right back, calling his haircut a “tragic attempt at modern art.”

“So you’re saying I look like art?” A gangly, now-seventeen Satoru blocks the bustling high school hallway, ignoring the bell. Grin only growing at your frustrated huff, he half-jokes, “Aww, if you’re that soft on me, sweetheart, maybe we should go to prom tog-”

You slam your locker, effectively shutting both it and Satoru at the same time. “I’d rather go with Yaga.”

“...you would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would- Sugu–!”

And all Suguru can do is wrap two hands around his neck, mock-choking himself, wondering if it was really too late to embrace a quiet life as a monk. “You’ll both be MLA cited in my farewell note.”

He was used to it, though, forced to watch all this chaos since quickly mending his friendship with Satoru over ice cream the day after the punch. Convinced that this was some punishment for a past life’s misdeed.

With a squawk of protest, Satoru’s turning back to you, eyes crinkling with a hint of mischief you knew too well, “Would not.”

Your face burns, “Would to, Toru.”

You didn’t go with Yaga. but Satoru didn’t exactly count that as a win in his books, either, because you did show up that night hanging off the arm of some jerk from the football team. 

And there you were, all dolled up - which he very objectively noted - way too prettily for some bastard like him. Stars in your eyes, and everything he couldn’t have in that smile. 

Everything. 

Way too gorgeous, even when he finds you sitting outside the gymnasium later on in the night. Too busy bawling your mascara off to even throw out your usual greeting insult his way. Murmuring out wetly about “that asshole” and how he humiliated you by stranding you in the middle of the dance floor for someone else. 

“Well, he was a jerk anyway. Even Yaga would’ve been better, hell, I-” Satoru stops short to his horror at the way you only cry harder.

Way too irresistible, especially as his body moves before his mind - holding out an open hand before he knows it. “I’m a much better dancer than him and you.” And oh Satoru will forever remember the way his heart lurches as you blink your teary eyes up in confusion, “Well, aren’t ya gonna take up the challenge?”

Weirdly, it wasn’t weird at all. 

If anything, you had to hold back your laughter the entire time at the way the great “campus sweetheart” Gojo Satoru was so on edge.

Just a friend comforting a friend, right?

So why was he avoiding your gaze with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, summer blue eyes pointedly trained right over your head. That pretty pink blush dusting his cheeks reflecting the hands hovering in midair over your waist. So close - and yet, fear in each and every turn and swirl.

Yours were searing into his broad shoulders as you tried to guide him to the muffled music from inside. And shit.

That night ended with a second kiss. 

You don’t know who leaned in first, just that Satoru’s soft lips were just fleeting on your glossy ones - barely even a touch. And that shit shit shit- this was Satoru. This was you. 

Everything. 

But it seems that every time Satoru was about to kiss you dangerously close to the way some tiny, forbidden part of his heart wanted to - the universe throws an obstacle at him. An obstacle that was six feet and named “Suguru”, currently running at break-neck speed out of the gym.

“MOVE YOUR ASSES!” he cackles, “THE FOOTBALL TEAM ISN’T TOO HAPPY ABOUT ME BREAKING THEIR STAR PLAYER’S NOSE.”

And not a word is uttered about the kiss as the three of you speed out of the school parking lot in Suguru’s busted-up black hellcat, the wind mussing up the hairstyle that took Satoru over two hours to perfect. Sneaking in glances at the sight of you singing along at the top of your lungs to some overplayed pop song on the radio. 

He learns another two things that night:

Apparently, Suguru’s right hook still really fucking hurt. And thank god for tonight’s casualties of noses, because it was a wonder that he didn’t look too hard at how close Satoru was with you. 

He didn’t…dislike the feeling of your lips on his. And judging by the way you meet his eyes in the rearview mirror - you didn’t either.

It’s mainly that last one that makes him gulp.

Neither of you remember the third kiss - though, Satoru’s sure that at least 80% of Shoko’s instagram followers did.

According to a very hungover Shoko, and the many, many forms of documentation, it had happened on the New Year’s eve during your third year in university. In which you were much more used to the raging parties that would be hosted at Suguru’s apartment, and only slightly less intimidated by them.

“And you’re a lightweight too, dumbass. You were gone.” Shoko sighs from across the café table, eye bags deeper than the last time he’d seen her. “Like gone gone.”

God, what a way to start the year.

Satoru bites back a remark about how “gone” Shoko herself had been. Sitting up straight in his seat, regret immediately hitting his senses faster than the guilty throbbing at his temples. He winces, managing out a semi-disbelieving groan of, “Gone gone?”

And she’s only nodding wearily, subconsciously tapping out the rest of her cigarette ashes onto his untouched plate of sweet pastries. 

“I’m talking dancing on expensive coffee tables and fighting to stop you from giving everyone there a strip show.” She cracks a smirk through a waft of smoke, “Though, she would’ve loved that I’m sure.”

“Har har har, you’d make even Nanami laugh with that one.”

“Eugh, gross.” Shoko taps through her phone briefly, swirling it around to show Satoru a few pictures that definitely gave him a mini-heart attack at 8:57 in the morning. “You look like you’re about to pen really bad poetry.”

And perhaps this was Shoko’s plan all along - to shock Satoru to the core hard enough that she can note it down as one of her sketchy psychological experiments. 

But he knew. Could feel it in the hazy fragments of memories - or, at the very least, in that entire highlight that Nanamin had oh-so-conveniently put up on Instagram titled, “Blackmail.”

You knew. 

You’d kissed him back. 

“I don’t have a-.” you slur, stumbling ever-so-slightly as you try to meet Satoru’s glassy eyes. Because shit the years have had him shooting up faster than you could look up. “-a New Year’s kiss, y’know.”

You were older - more gorgeous, if that was even possible now. That tight dress hugging your body so unfairly in a way that had him forgetting you were his best friend’s sister. 

The one person in this whole world that he couldn’t have.

But Satoru leans in closer, more because he wants to than anything - he could pick out your voice anywhere let alone over the thumping music currently filling his crowded living room. Lips loose as he tries to play up the cool-guy facade he’s been dubbed with since freshman year, “Hah, loser. Because I do.”

“Where?”

At this, Satoru is stumped - damn, you were good. 

“Not- uh here?” If he was in any clearer state of mind, he’d have been embarrassed at the way his voice cracks so traitorously as your unsteady hands pull him in closer by his overpriced button-up. 

Your body was flush against his now, so addictive. Gaze half-lidded and flickering between the sliver of milky skin exposed on his chest - from that impromptu striptease he’d almost started earlier - and the blue eyes that were currently locked you. You whisper a strained, “Liar.”

Close - too close. So dangerously close.

He breathes out against your lips, the smell of booze and you so heady in his mind. And the heavy words falling from his lips sound like lies, even to him. “Not.”

“Toru?” you hum, a sound that has him gasping. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And there went your New Year’s kisses. At exactly 11:37PM, if the photos were anything to go by. 

And holy shit were there many. All of which showed your arms looped around Satoru’s neck, crashing his lips to yours. His own, resting against your waist, a scandalously red blush - whether from the alcohol or you - adorning his cheeks. Looking more blissed out than he ever remembers feeling. 

“I’m a dead man, Shoko.” 

There’s a lengthy silence, leaving Satoru stewing in thoughts of how Suguru would react once he finds out. And whether or not he’d be able to rise from the dead just to see how pretty you’d look at his funeral.

Morbid thoughts broken only by Shoko’s cough, “Hey, can I keep your eyes for experimentation if he actually catches you?”

Subtly, he sends himself those photos from last night.  

Luckily for Satoru’s eyes, they never ended up being donated towards Shoko’s questionable contributions to the world of medicine. 

And by some grace of the gods above, Suguru never mentioned a word about the kiss that would’ve inevitably made its way to him. Or maybe it was because Satoru stole his phone until he managed to pester Nanami just enough to take down that highlight. But, semantics. 

His heart, however, might as well have been part of some experiment.

Because it’s been working overdrive since that night - mind reliving that moment over and over and over and- shit, he’s fucked. So, so fucked. 

Fucked enough that it took Satoru months just to muster up to even look in your pretty eyes once more, unless he wanted to get lost in them forever. Fucked enough that he dared to wonder again and again when there might be a fourth kiss - if there would be a fourth kiss. 

He just never thought it would happen the way it did - with you, standing outside his front door. 

“I’m sorry, Toru.” you mumble, “It’s just- I think we both need to grow up.”

You’ve freshly graduated now, looking more and more irresistible each time he sees you - even when you’re looking at him like that. 

Rolling his eyes, “Ha, is this another way of saying you want my secret to getting taller? Because the first thing is to-”

“I’m serious, Satoru.”

And oh how he wished you’d say something - anything - else right now. Call him anything but that. Maybe even throw an insult his way, tell him those new sunglasses look ugly, or about how you got that internship he would’ve died for. 

Satoru manages to choke out a heavy, “I don’t understand.” But that uncomfortable coil of something curling at the pit of his stomach said otherwise. And it causes him to finally breathe out a hesitant, “Maybe you’re right.”

As if that was all the answer you needed, you’re stepping out of the front door. Slow, and deliberate like you were giving him another chance - a thousand more. Sighing out a defeated, “It’s been years.” It has. “And we’re just running in circles.” You have. “I’m starting to think this is just some game to you.” It wasn’t.

“Wait!” he grasps your hand - soft. The look in your eyes even softer as you turn around to face his desperate face. “Please, sweetheart.”

Satoru doesn’t even know what words he wants to say - let alone whether they’d come out of his heavy mouth. 

So, instead, he’s crashing them into yours. 

Brief. Fleeting. Like each one before this. Too addictive, too short, that he thinks he’s almost imagining it as you pull away gently, until he sees that look in your eyes. 

“Toru, I have a date.”

The fourth kiss.

Satoru’s letting go of you like it burned - and, truly, it felt like some deep, dark part of him was burning down right now. “Great.” That should be hm that should be him that should be- “I’m…happy for you.”

And the last.

He fucked up.

He really, really fucked up.

That first date turned into a second. The second into a third. And unfortunately for Gojo, eventually, you were nearing your one-year anniversary with that asshat you’d met during the early days of your internship. 

He’d seen the man himself once, briefly at another one of Suguru’s famous parties. Ducking out of sight before he could be introduced, yet long enough to know that he wasn’t as tall, or as handsome, or as absolutely fucking hilarious. 

What did he have that Satoru didn’t? 

The answer to that, Satoru’s reminded of every time he’s causing ruckus over at Suguru’s apartment, and sees you walking out of your room, tittering on the phone to none other than your boyfriend. So gorgeous. So not his. 

You, that loser had you.

“If you sigh again I swear I’m shoving this popcorn up your a-”

“It’s a sad movie, Suguru!” he defends, draped across your couch at another one of those movie nights you loved to organize. As usual, there was the popcorn, the god-awful movie (if Satoru picks it), and the arguments. The only thing missing, however, was you. Ugh, something about an “anniversary” and a “seafood date”. Seriously, it’s not like you even enjoyed that new seafood restaurant in town, and he’s sure that bastard didn’t know-

“Satoru.” his best friend’s deadpan voice cuts through his little reverie. “We’re watching Mean Girls.”

And he’s barely even opening his mouth to snark back before-

SLAM!

Suguru pauses the movie almost immediately, turning to the direction of the front door. “Uh oh.” 

And lo and behold - there was you in all your pissed off, beautiful glory. Throwing your keys on the table, your fiery glare passes over the two men as you stomp to your bedroom. 

“Seafood wasn’t that good, sweetheart?” Satoru calls out behind you, eyes sweeping down your figure. Heart stuttering in his chest when you turn around with your fists clenched, lower lip wobbling in a way that Satoru would both kill whoever made you feel this way and die to be on the other side of those daggers in your eye. 

Sniffing out an icy, “Fuck off, loser and loserette.”

Then in a whirlwind of rage, you’re gone - your bedroom door slamming only slightly more gently than you’d done with the front door. Leaving a deafening silence, and Satoru whining, “Why am I the loserette?”

“Deserved.” Suguru shrugs. Warily eyeing your door, as if it was about to pounce at any given second, “Let her cool down before you give her an aneurysm at least.” Unpausing the television, propping his feet back up, “S’enough having to deal with you on top of a boyfriend like that.”

And that has Satoru perking up in interest - both figuratively, and literally as he snatches the remote and pauses the movie. “Wait wait wait what-” Holding it way out of Suguru’s reach, “What do you mean a ‘boyfriend like that’?”

Scoffing, “Funny. Now give me back the remote.”

A beat of silence passes. One. Two.

Only then does it dawn on Suguru that this might just not be some strange prank to stroke Satoru’s ego, and he was actually  more serious than he’d ever seen him. Damn. 

“Bro, have you really never met the guy or something? He’s a complete tool. I don’t know what happened, but this breakup was a long time coming.”

Satoru blinks, feeling a red hot surge of anger. “What? Seriously? Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“You think I didn’t try?” he sighs, running a hand through his hair at the other’s uncharacteristic silence. “Hah, and just imagine, the man was talking about marriage, too. As if.”

And suddenly, Satoru’s hit with an image of you walking down the aisle. Not something he was a stranger to, but it still takes him aback. The sway of the fabric beneath his fingers, your lips against his. Hell, in that split-second he even dreams up how Nanamin would be crying very reluctant tears of joy. 

Everything. Everything that wasn’t his.

His fist tightens around the remote, until he could hear the cracking of plastic. Mind whirling with the thought of you and him and you. How he wished it was him and you. “I would’ve been better.”

Oh. 

Shit. 

“I- fuck this. Suguru, since elementary school I…”

And, well, Satoru’s so busy putting that extra physics seminar he took in university to work - trying to calculate the odds of surviving a jump out of this seven-storey window - that he almost misses Suguru’s low hum, a distant, almost barely-audible little interruption, “Well duh.”

“Hold on.” he’s snatching away the remote that had somehow slithered its way into the other’s hands once again. Ignoring his best friend’s croak of protests to pause in the middle of Regina George being hit by the bus - which, he felt was strangely enviable right now. “That was- what? YOU KNOW?”

“Huh? Even my parents know, the only one that doesn’t is her.”

“...”

Satoru didn’t know how Suguru seemed so calm, but he felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. Heart stuttering in his chest as he sideglances at your firmly shut door - like he was just waiting for you to jump out and tell him this was some elaborate prank. 

Begging for you to come - it would’ve hurt less.

But you don’t.

Fuck. 

And the only response he gets is a low whistle, before a phone is being shoved in his face - flashlight illuminating that crimson blush. “Damn, the great Gojo Satoru speechless? The groupchat is gonna love this, might even send it to my sister, y’know.” 

He didn’t care - didn’t give a shit if this video made rounds to Gakuganji himself. Only one thought racing through his mind right now. 

“But why aren’t you punching me like in elementary school?” 

And Satoru knows he’s smart - intelligent even. Hell, he was the valedictorian, the youngest employee to claw their way up to being on the board of directors. But he’s never felt more stupid when Suguru breathes out a bewildered, “Dude. That was for blaming me for the paper planes.” 

“Oh.”

Then the movie is unpaused. 

---

The last time you kissed Gojo Satoru was at the doorstep to that overpriced penthouse of his, exactly a year ago today. 

The last time you saw Gojo Satoru was just a few hours ago, lounging around your living room like he owned it. Honestly, he might as well have been part of the furniture at this point - like some expensive, fluffy couch. One that prattled on about your “dumbass boyfriend” and god-knows-what else to rile you up just for the fun of it.

Which is why it was odd to step out of your bedroom - eyes just a bit puffy, throat still tight - to a suspiciously quiet hallway. 

The lights were turned off, nothing but the pouring rain sounding from outside, television paused on some rerun of The Princess Diaries. Damn, you told those idiots not to start that one without you.

“Sugu?” you call, finding his bedroom empty. “Thought tonight was movie night?” Padding across the empty apartment, contemplating whether or not to get your phone and call him when-

Ding!

Ah, there. 

You roll your eyes as you head towards the front door, ready to give Suguru a piece of his mind for going out at this ungodly hour and forgetting his key. Seriously, what if you opened the door and he was hurt, or worse, or…

Satoru. 

Speaking a mile a minute.

Satoru.

“-florist was closed and the store clerk looked at me like I was crazy but I got this for-” he pauses abruptly, as if realizing something with a jolt. “-you.”

“You- what-” you don’t know where to look - at the drenched, disheveled Satoru filling your doorframe - rain in his hair, curtaining his frantic eyes, drenching his snug t-shirt. Or at the obscenely large bouquet of cheap strawberry lollipops being placed gently into your arms. 

What follows was an electric silence - and you have half the mind to tease Satoru for finally shutting the fuck up for once in his life. 

But, no. Instead, you eye the way he stands stubbornly at the doorway, fists clenched, blue eyes locked so intensely on yours that it was like they burned. 

Face flushed a familiar pretty pink that makes you realize that shit, he might be taller, voice deeper, broad shoulders tight against his t-shirt - but this was still the same boy that cried when you stole his favorite Digimon card in middle school. The same one that kissed you underneath a dingy slide, smelling of strawberry lollipops.

It’s the steady tap! tap! tap! of the water droplets from his hair that have you tearing your traitorous eyes from his see-through white t-shirt.

Guess you’ve both done some growing up since then.

“You loser.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

The pink wrapping of the bouquet rustles as your grip tightens. “He proposed to me today, y’know.” and yet, your quiet, even voice was the only thing ringing in Satoru’s ears. He jolts, as if some visceral, primal part of himself had been poked awake. Breathing heavy, fists clenching until he could feel the neat indents of his fingernails on his palm. Of course. He’s late. He’s late he’s late he’s late-

That is, until you’re plowing on, “I said no.”

“Huh?”

You think back to the stuffy restaurant, the man sitting from across from you - how wrong it felt. And all it took were those four words for you to realize that. “I said no.” 

Satoru snaps his head up, stepping close - so close. Voice strained like he wasn’t asking - begging. Praying, “Why?”

“We…” you raise a brow at the way Satoru flinches as you trail off. So desperate. A smirk makes its way onto your face, “...we haven’t divorced yet, right?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you. 

Fuck, you don’t know - nor do you really care right now. Not when Satoru’s got his lips crashing against yours for the fifth time in your life, kissing you like it would be the last. Big arms dipping down to your waist, pulling you so tight against his muscled frame that he had half the mind to wonder whether it hurt. 

“Love this. Love the way you kiss me- fuck-” he’s spitting against your lips, kicking the door shut behind him. “Oh- would ya get mad if I-” he tries to get out through kisses. Only to suck on your pretty lips with a pained grunt. “If I-” Again and again, like it killed him to part. “-hah- celebrated right now?”

“Yes.” You’re letting the bouquet fall to the foor, white-knuckling that useless, drenched excuse of a shirt. “Now kiss me properly, Toru.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Such a sloppy mix of teeth and hands and him. Shoving a knee between your legs, making up for years and years of late nights with nothing but his fist and the pretty thought of you. 

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart.” Satoru breathes out, as your urgent fingers that dispose of his shirt, feeling the gorgeous dips and curves of years of hard work to impress you. “Suck on m’tongue pretty- fuck-” His own fisting your shirt, pulling. Ripping.

“Toru!”

“I want you.” He’s letting the poor, tattered pieces drop in a pile on the floor, trailing a hand between your damp thighs before he can stop himself. “Oh how I’ve wanted you. And I don’t care if I have to buy fifty new outfits to make up for it.”

And it’s the feeling of his long index stroking up your sopping slit through your shorts that has you pulling away with a gasp. Delicate little strings of saliva snapping from Satoru’s kiss-bitten lips. “If we continue like this…” your voice wavers as he presses hot kisses along your collarbone. “-my brother’s gonna walk in.”

“...wouldn’t wanna relive that playground kiss, huh?”

It’s all he says before picking you up so easily, hands resting on your ass. Giving a playful spank ass you wrap your legs around his toned waist. 

And it’s sloppy.

Both his lips still hotly on yours and the way he’s stumbling urgently to your room through pure muscle memory. Pulling away only when you’re all splayed out so prettily for him on your mattress.

“Blue?” he breathes, pulling your shorts off. And it comes out strained - like the very sight of your panties - all soaked and flimsy with your slick - has whatever’s remaining of Satoru’s sanity flying out the window. “Blue? Oh, you’ve gotta have planned this, you little minx.” his hot breath hits your cunt as he shifts down the bed, tongue drawing languid, wet little circles on your inner thigh. “Because don’t tell me this was all for him?”

It was coincidence - or maybe fate - but that doesn’t stop you from giving Satoru a slow, teasing nod. Muttering out, “So what if it was?”

The only answer you get is thumb hooked around your shorts, pulling it just enough so that your brother’s best friend can spy your pretty pussy.

“Well then.” he chuckles at the way you jump when his fingertip just barely grazes your clit. “Guess I jus’ hafta prove m’better.”

A low groan is falling from his lips as soon as they meet your puffy ones, giving your pretty clit a chaste peck. Lingering long enough that he’s sure your sweet sweet juices cover his mouth.

And oh Satoru’s sure he’ll never forget the way your jaw falls slack, glassy eyes following his every move as he runs his tongue along his glossy lips. Savoring your candied taste, “Never kissed you like this before, huh?” 

Fuck, you’re sweeter than he’s imagined.

You whine desperately, something that has him smirking smugly, “Hah, what? Cat got your tongue?”

“You’re better when you shut up.” It’s all you can do to buck your hips into Satoru’s pretty face - not that you had to, because one taste of your dripping cunt and he was addicted. Surging forwards until he was nose-deep, locking your ankles around his head with a firm yank.

And you can’t lie - maybe you’ve imagined this exact scene a few times before on those lonely nights. But you just never expected Satoru to be so depraved. Desperate.

“Ngh- fuck, Toru-” you reach a hand down to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging his face up. But Satoru doesn’t stop - not even for a second. Tongue still dipping to spread your swollen folds with his tongue, looking you right in the eyes as he murmurs a strangled, “Mhm?” 

“Thought you were gonna prove you’re better, hm?”

So goading. So like you. 

At this, Satoru pulls back ever-so-slightly to laugh - laugh. His plump, glistening lips curling into a humorless little grin, “Oh I will.” Thumb circling your throbbing clit. Just dragging your twitching body across the silky sheets close to his, one hand pinning your hips down. Hard. “I will.”

Loving his new favorite place between your legs one hand toys with your clit, quick, messy little patterns. Tongue even more so. 

“Not just better.” he grunts, “Gonna make you cum so much harder, too.” Having your thighs shake with each word hissed out into your cunt, each turn of his deft fingers. “Till I’m the only thing on your mind. Me.”

And it’s all you can do to let out choked up groans of his name, back arching off the plush mattress to let him make out with your cunt deeper. Sloppier. So, so starved with the way he’s speeding up, tongue dragging across your walls. In and out in and out in and-

“Fuck! Hngh-” you angle his head - and he lets you. “There- Toru-”

Honestly, you didn’t even have to tell Satoru - he could feel it. Could feel it in the way your plushy walls are squeezing his hot tongue so harsh, until it was almost difficult to fuck your pussy so sloppily. In the way you’re letting out such delicious whines each time he grazes against those sweet spots. 

“There? Hah- I know.” he pulls away to muse, and your cute, disappointed whine goes straight to his already rock-hard cock. “Did he?”

He didn’t. And you’re shaking your head so pathetically - in a way you’d be embarrassed about usually. 

But that’s the last thing you’re thinking bout because you feel it - the cold, sinful feeling of Satoru spitting on your filthy cunt. Once. Twice. Blue eyes widening in delight at the way the mess of spit and slick drip down your slit. 

“Cute.” his tongue smoothes over the slutty pool, and the only thing your delirious brain can make out now is a low moan of, “So? Who’s better?”

It’s all you can do to choke out a broken little, “T-T-” Face burning at the way he was so clearly enjoying your struggle. And, well, no matter painfully hard it made his dick - he had to go just a bit easy on his girl, right?

“Shhhh, s’alright.” you flinch as he shoves two absolutely drenched fingers into your mouth, making so much more of a mess of it than necessary. Drinking in your cute gags, “I was asking her.” He’s making your head spin with the way he’s speeding up. “N’ she’s hah- very talkative.” Words muffled, and slurring together - like he was drunk off of you and your cunt. “Let’s hear what she has to ngh- say, huh?”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and squeezing into your sloppy entrance - like he couldn’t - didn’t - want to make up his mind. Oh, with your teary mewls strangled, the sound of Satoru making out with cunt is so loud. The squelches so obscene. 

“Fuuuuck.” he drawls. “Louder than I thought. I think she says I’m better, don’t you think?” 

You angle your head just right to catch the way his jaw grinds deeper into you, eating you out like his last meal. Your slick drooling down his chin so sinfully. 

“Ngh- fuck fuck fuck- ngh-” your yelps are dreamy, feeling like you were losing your mind with the way he was stretching you out. 

Like you were about to snap. Any second now. 

But Satoru’s only increasing his movements, drawing out your little moans. “And I think she’s saying…”  Getting sloppier. More erratic - and it didn’t matter if his fingers were cramping up now, cock aching with the need to be inside you. “-that she’s about to cum.”

You do - so hard and loud - both you and your cunt. 

You’re shaking, all but gushing all over Satoru’s mouth, tight pussy squeezing his tongue so hard. Barely even realizing the searing grip you’ve got on his hair as you drag your sloppy pussy all over his mouth.

But Satoru doesn’t mind - he gladly welcomes it, in fact. Tonguefucking your snug cunt senselessly, letting you chase your high as roughly as you wanted. Over and over.

Even when you’re vision isn’t as spotty as before, even when nothing’s coming out of your mouth but little whimpers. Your breathing dying down until all that rings in your barely-lucid mind were those obscene noises of Satoru’s lips all on yours. 

“T-Toru-” you whine, big fat tears pricking at your hazy eyes. “M’so sensitive.”

And of course this is Satoru, the same boy who’s been pushing your buttons for years just to giggle at your adorable reactions. Which is why he grins against your twitching cunt, “So?”

It takes everything in you to raise your head off the pillow that just seemed to be swallowing you whole, and even more to shoot Satoru a half-hearted glare. “So m’gonna ngh- assume you’re jus’ a pussy with a s-smaller dick than-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence - he doesn’t let you. Because Satoru’s fumbling with his belt, peeling off those still-drenched pants just enough for you to admire his clothed erection. 

And, shit, admittedly you expected him to have a big dick - having been subjected to way too much locker room talk with your brother - but this was ridiculous. 

“What? Too big?” He flashes you that infuriating grin. Palming his rock-hard cock through his boxers at the way your beautiful eyes trace the outline of his cock, all swollen and big. So intimidatingly big. “Damn, sweetheart, if I knew that this was how I’d get that feisty lil’ mouth of yours to shut up then I’d have done it a lot sooner.” 

And you don’t even know if you’re breathing, the pads of your fingers dancing along his bulge. Tracing those prominent veins. Thumbing that little damp spot at his fat head. “You wouldn’t have.” 

He hisses as your soft hands dip into the hem of his underwear. Voice cracking slightly, “I wouldn’t.”

Then you’re gasping - in sync with Satoru’s low moan - as you finally let him spring free. Thick cock hitting his sculpted abs, red tip smearing precum in a lewd little pool. Weeping and so so angry at the sight of you.

At the heavenly feeling of your thumb teasing under his sensitive slit, “Oh, shit.” 

He’s throwing his head back when you give an experimental pump, all the way from his pretty tip to the tufts fo white at his hilt. Fist gliding all over the thumping veins. Bucking his hips up like such a slut into your touch. 

“O-oh fuck.” he cracks an eye open at the way your hand looked so small compared to his dick, how well you were taking care of him. “Been ngh- dreaming of this since I learned what handjobs were, y’know? Hah- shit- ya gotta stop before I fuckin’ pass out.”

And Satoru thinks he could cum right then and there at the way you’re bringing your soaked index up to your mouth. Batting your lashes as you suck on them with a lewd pop! “From jus’ that?”

“You have no idea.”

That’s all it takes for Satoru to throw your still-quivering thighs over his shoulders, effectively shutting up whatever tease is on the tip of your sharp tongue by kissing your swollen folds with his fat head. Giving it one, long drag. 

Your mouth is sagging open at the slow, torturous teasing. The sheer anticipation that had your mouth running, “S-so much for ah- jus’ being ‘friends’, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” And you’re flinching from Satoru’s deep, dark tone. The way he’s bracing his fingers so bruisingly on your hips, reeling all the way back till his tip was just kissing your hole. “We stopped being friends the day you married me on that playground.” 

And then he’s slamming in - pushing past that first, feeble ring of resistance, gummy walls stretching out so perfectly for him. As if he fit right in - and he tells you that. Pants it into your open mouth a little over fifteen times, in fact. 

“Shiiiit, look at you.” he can’t tear his eyes away from the side of your lips stretching so wide to try and milk him. Sloppy entrance stretching out like magic. “S’like you’re made for me, huh? This pussy is made f’me?”

“Ngh- fuck, Toru! S’too big-” you keen, feet flattening on the mattress. As if to escape. To maybe fucking breathe.  

Not even half-way in yet, but aleady torn between pushing away and sinking yourself down on his swollen cock for more more more-

“Don’t you dare run away.” he warns, looking up at you through his long lashes. “I’ve waited too long for this. N’ you’re not taking this pretty pussy away any time soon.” Inch by fucking inch. Grinding in short, sharps jabs - no rhythm of rhyme, like they were genuinely out of control. “Way too f-fuckin’-” All the way until your puffy folds was meeting his hilt. Finally. All the way in. “-long.”

And once Satoru had you split apart on his dick - had those tears rolling down your cheeks, cunt swallowing him so sluttily - it’s like something snaps. 

Because he doesn’t waste a second - he’s already wasted almost two decades, anyway - filling you up with his mean hips. Not fucking easing you into it because you always did bring out that part of him, the part that him looping two strong arms around your waist. Pulling. 

“Oh- f-fuck c’mere.” Satoru gasps, pressing your body so crushingly against his. Kissing your shaky shoulers, your sweaty forehead, the gentleness so contrasting to his hips.“God I’ve missed out- fuck fuck fuck-” 

You’ve never seen the great Gojo Satoru - campus sex symbol - so uncomposed. Eyes half-lidded, just boring into yours, mouth slack in a soft oh! as he drags his cock all over inside your gummy walls. And the sight is so heavenly that you make the mistake the mistake of cracking a minute smile.

Just barely curling your lips before - “Don’t smile at me like that.” He’s dipping down a hand to roll your ravaged clit between two bullying fingers. “Fuck, she’s gonna be the death of me. Right?”

You keen at the- stimulation? The strech? The sheer embarrassment as you realize that Satou’s still talking to your sloppy pussy? Nodding so mockingly up at you as he plows on, “Mhm, she says you needa be ngh- knocked down a god, you’re tight- peg or two. So- get- ready-” 

He’s using this as an excuse to sit up on his knees, dragging you onto his lap so easily like some ragdoll. 

“That’s more like it.”

You’re sliding deeper down his painfully hard cock - all the way till his heavy balls rest beneath your ass, clit rubbing against his pelvis every time he bounces you like some slut.  

Deep. Ruthless.

“Keep your eyes open, sweetheart.” He chuckles, and you’re screwing open your eyes that you don’t even remember shutting. Trying so hard to stop crying out at the feeling of the curve of his dick massaging your walls. “Ya gotta hngh- see the o-only one who’d fuckin’ you properly, right?”

You squeal when he’s taking your clit captive once more. Finger quick, deft. “Y-yes.”

But that wasn’t enough for Satoru - it might as well never be. Because he’s only ramming his hips up further. Like he’s pushing into your stomach, your lungs, all the way into your cockdrunk brain. Fat head alternating between kissing your poor, abused cervix and all those sweet spots he’d mapped out with his tongue.

“Sounded unsure to me.” he’s pouty against your hardened nipples bouncing enticingly in his face. Fingers quirking faster on your clit, “Maybe I should ngh- stop then?”

“No!” Your hips stutter against Satoru’s. Nails clawing down the sculpted panes of his shoulders, leaving red angry marks for him to take as a sign tomorrow morning that no, it wasn’t just one of his dreams this time. “No no no- m’sure. You’re the only one makin’ me feel this way.”

You can feel the way he’s twitching wildly at your words, dick thumping harder inside your sensitive cunt. 

He punctures each word with a heavy, calculated thrust. Hand stretching and squeezing open your cunt from behind to let him slide impossibly deeper. “Hmmm, I’m not convinced.” 

Your stupid mouth is only capable of letting out broken, choked-up little moans of his name, ankles locking around those dimples at the end of his spine. “S’you–”

“Still not convinced.”

But he’s still speeding up his movements, just dragging you up and down his cock. “Who else made you hah- feel this good?” Sure to claim you from the inside out - to leave marks everywhere. Heavy balls on your ass, weeping tip on your cervix, lips bruised as you whimper at his murmured, “That ex of yours?” Biting down your neck, “That barista that always flirts with you?” Pulling away only to breathe into your lips, “Who?”

“ I- fuck it’s only you, Toru.”

“Sound convincing to you?” Satoru hums down at your cunt, biting his lower lip at the way you were milking him so good. Your slick soaking him all the way down to his balls - so needy in a way he never thought he’d see. “Yeah-” be breathes, nosing at your neck. “She agrees- fuck does this tight lil’ pussy of yours agree.” A few tears, a few gorgeous marks down his back, and he was finally convinced. “You’re mine.”

You don’t even realize it when you’re cumming, and Satoru doesn’t either.

Both of you too caught up in each other to recognize that familiar, white-hot pleasure running down your spine - all the way down to where he was so mercilessly buried in your cunt.  

And you’re well into the blood roaring deafeningly in your ears, the sight of Satoru - all wrecked - blurring as he fucks his hips up. Harsh. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he paints your quivering walls white. 

Cumming and cumming so hard that you can feel his seed dribbling down your thighs, making such a mess all over Satoru’s lap. Your poor, overfilled cunt soon bloated and unable to keep up with it.

“Toru–” you whine, like a prayer. Milking the fucking soul out of him while he gently paws at your messy hair.

“Shhh, I know I know, sweetheart.” Such a stark contrast to the way he was filling you up like his favorite sex toy. Not even bothering to move anymore, one hand on your hip, moving your limp body up and down his sensitive cock to fuck it deeper. The other still playing with your clit, “S’alright, my girl”

Satoru’s hands never leave you, and he prays that now that he got a taste - well, you better be alright with them not leaving you for as long as he lives.

“As long as you live, huh?” you chuckle groggily, a noise so dreamy that Satoru can’t even be mad that he said it out loud. “And all that riling me up these years. Do you have a degradation kink or something?”

“Well, only one way to find out~”

“Oh shut up you-”

SLAM!

“Yooo, I bought dinner from that- WHAT THE FUCK?”

There were only two more lessons to be learned:

Always lock the door. Always. And in case you don’t, a bouquet of lollipops will do the trick to a Suguru reeling from the newest addition to the family. 

Cheap takeout tastes better with an apologetic Suguru, and an ice pack to his cheek - and you to kiss it better.

A/N. Can you tell I kept listening to that one Artemas song while writing this?

Plagiarism not authorized.

𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚

feat. katsuki bakugo x fem! reader

cw: ansgt

˗ˏˋ+ ´ˎ˗ leaving y/n a series a voicemails, katsuki regrets not telling her how he truly felt for her.

❝to see you walk away.❞

+ wherever you are by ulrich schnauss

shoto's version

you have one new voicemail!

"hey... it's... katsuki bakugo. you remember me? that one loud mouth that never knew how to keep his mouth shut, or at least that's what you'd say. always talking back to me like i wouldn't man handle your ass. anyways, yeah, everything seems off.

"... your funerals tomorrow. after a week of you being gone, they're finally putting you in the ground. everyone's acting different. everyone stares at the front door waiting for your grinning face to pop up at any moment. i don't know why, but, i'm also waiting to see your face.

"can i see you tomorrow?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"i gave my speech at your funeral. if you were here you'd say it's corny or some sappy shit. i think icy hot got a little mad. you remember him? your devoted little boyfriend. bet if you were here you'd be disappointed in him. he didn't even bother saying anything at your funeral.

"he just... stared at your empty casket. where you're supposed to be. i think he made himself believe that your body was still intact instead of... yeah. he didn't cry like everyone else did, i mean neither did i, but, he was silent. it was weird in a way. i couldn't stand the look in his face.

"do you see me?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"we got this new girl. it's eerie, she looks so much like you. half 'n half can't keep his eyes to himself. he thinks she's you. but i know better. she can never be you. she doesn't even reach where you're at. you two are on a completely scale. but you don't reach me.

"it pissed me off when aizawa had her sit in your seat. she probably thinks i like her because i keep staring back there. but it's not her that i'm staring at. it's your desk. because slowly, they're trying to replace you.

"what even pissed me off more, was when your dorm room, that used to be empty, was now occupied. for the new lousy american bitch. they're slowly getting rid of you. they're slowly getting rid of our memories.

"can you tell that i'll never get rid of you?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"aizawa can tell i've been slacking off. i can hear your sarcastic voice already saying, 'what, the katsuki bakugo, slacking off?'. he's trying to get us back into shape, not let another... mistake... happen again. but i can tell it's hard for him to. with his leg missing and his eye missing.

"i— this may sound corny, but, i kinda miss seeing your stupid face. i miss you talking back to me. did i tell you that the new girl talks back to me as well? i think she's trying to be you. the group, shitty hair, pink face, dunce face, and elbow guy don't like her.

"they said she's trying to be like you. i see it. i agree with them. she is trying to be like you. she's decorated her dorm room like yours. she even has that same poster from your favorite band. my instincts are telling me that your parents had left it by mistake and she took for herself.

"do you miss seeing my stupid face?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"i still come see your grave. i leave your favorite flowers. shitty hair told me to stop seeing you. that i need to move on and focus on my career. but how can i move on when i all i think about is you? yea, you're right, i am being soft.

"but if i had told you how i felt about you, you'd probably laugh in my face. it's why i never told you about how i felt. because i was afraid you'd reject me. i didn't want to look like a fucking idiot.

"but then i remember the way you would stare at me. the way i would catch you looking at me when you thought i wasn't looking. i know you know how i felt about you. and it hurts, because you never said anything.

"can i see you in my dreams like i do every other night?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"okay, don't get mad. yes, it has been a two weeks, but that's because the old hag took my phone away. she say's that you being gone has mess me up. i don't think so. she say's i need to get out there more. but she doesn't understand.

"don't get mad. i may or may have not kicked icy hots ass. before i hear you yelling at me, just listen. he took that american girl on a date. they're dating. how unfaithful is he. while everyone was congratulating him, i glared at him. how could he do this to you? if you were with me, i wouldn't do that. i would never move on.

"i told him off. shitty hair and elbow guy had to stop me from doing more damage. he just stood there and took it. i think he also knows that i liked you. 'liked'... i don't know what i'm doing, y/n.

"do you think you can tell me that everything is going to be okay?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"do you remember when that day i went knocking on your dorm? i had told you to turn of your shitty music because i could hear it from my dorm. but that wasn't true. i didn't come knocking at your door because of your music. hell, i couldn't even hear it.

"i knocked because i wanted to hear your ugly voice. i was also scared. ever since i got kidnapped by the league of villains. you comforted me and told me everything was going to be okay.

"then we stayed up talking about the randomness shit ever. and then you told me your secret. it looked like you didn't care when you pulled me down to your bed and covered me with your blanket. we huddled up so close, that i swear you could feel the heat radiating off my cheecks.

"can we do that again when i see you?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"everyone forgot about you. even your boyfriend, scratch that, your ex. no one calls your name out, no one mentions you anymore, the posters on the walls are no longer there. they completely gotten rid of you. it hurts. so, so bad.

"shitty hair wants me to go to therapy. i don't know. he's funny. he can tell i'm still clinging onto you. he catches me looking at photos of you. he got upset when he found the confession letter that i have planned on giving you.

"he says it's not healthy. he sounds like deku. oh, yeah, you remember deku? ever since he disappeared and came back, our relationship has gotten better. i think he feels guilty of you dying. we don't argue as much. you got your wish.

"do you think if i accomplish all your wishes i get to see you again?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"you know what sucks, n/n. is that your selfish ass left me all alone before i even got to tell you how i felt. you are so selfish to save some random civilian knowing you would get killed in the process. you saw it coming. why did you push me away!?

"... what sucks even more... is that your own family killed you. he knew and yet he still did it. yeah, if you're wondering, i kept your secret. i'm kinda glad you told me it, it was the only thing keeping me closer to you. you trusted me.

"can you tell me if you're okay wherever you are?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"be honest with me. and no fucking jokes. if you weren't with that bastard and if you never felt any feelings for him, would you have accepted my feelings? a part of me tells me that you wouldn't, because i'm harsh and rude.

"but another part says that you would have, because as you said it yourself, you didn't mind my attitude. you said it's what made me, me. i think that's why i was so drawn towards you. you accepted me for who i was and never once tried to change me.

"it's why i fell so hard for you. it's why i call you at midnight when i'm having panic attacks. your voice calms me down. yeah, okay, you can laugh. i'd do anything to hear your voice one more time. call me a big fucking softy.

"do you want to hear me say those three words?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"i came across your parents house the other night. ... i had a dream of you. you were sitting on your front porch, smiling up at me as you offered my hand. you were talking but i couldn't hear you. you sounded distant. then the next thing i know, you kissed me.

"maybe dunce face is right. i am down bad for you. he would always say that when you walked by and i'd always glance at you. he doesn't say it anymore and a part of me wishes for him to say it. he avoids your name like the black plague.

"i hope your family has moved on."

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"can i see you tomorrow? do you see me? can you tell that i'll never get rid of you? do you miss seeing my stupid face? can i see you in my dreams like i do every other night? do you think you can tell me that everything is going to be okay? can we do that again when i see you? do you think if i accomplish all your wishes i get to see you again? can you tell me if you're okay wherever you are?

"do you want to hear me say those three words?"

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

you have one new voicemail!

"i don't know when your parents are gonna stop your phone services. so, before they do that, i want to let you know that... i, i love you. i know it's to late for me, but if you got a second chance i wouldn't hesitate to say those three fucking words.

"i wouldn't even care if anybody was around. i love you, y/n. i always have, since the first day i laid my eyes on you. i will always love you no matter where you are. i'm glad i got to met you. i'm glad you had bumped into me and talked back to me.

"i love you, y/n. i will always fucking love you."

⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆·˚ ༘

i'm sorry, but the number you have dialed is no longer in service. please dial back again to make sure you have entered the right number. goodbye.

'cause i love the way you call me baby—

bakugou x reader

wc: 15.6k+

warnings: 18+, explicit language, spicy situations (no smut), bakugou is like really bad at feelings, kirishima continues to be a well-meaning menace, angst, fluff, pro hero au

< < < part one |

7:32 A

Bakugou is always so subtly punctual.

By the time you gather the will to meet the chilly morning head on, he is already sitting in your parking lot. The black SUV is idling quietly and he isn't rolling down the window, urging you to hurry your ass up or honking like he'd threatened to at work only days ago. His eyes, much brighter than yours this early, are already on you—as they seem to always be, these days—and you swear it is the cold bite in the air that steals the breath from your lungs.

Though the warmth of your apartment is enticing, you give him a small wave (that he doesn’t return) before locking the door behind you. There is a thin layer of ice covering the short walkway in front of the complex and you strain your toes in your fuzzy boots while stepping carefully, though the effort not to make a fool of yourself is wasted; the pro hero waiting safely inside his vehicle laughs, loudly, when your foot slides across the ice, hands going to grip the rail along the sidewalk so tightly, you fear it'll yank loose from the stud.

It's the first thing you hear out of him, so early in the morning, his brash laughter. Despite the offense, the giggle that bubbles out of you, too, can't be helped.

"Thanks so much for the help, sir!" Is the first thing out of you upon yanking open the door and scrambling in, eager to bask in the warmth of his vehicle (and him).

Immediately, the mischievous glint in his eye dissipates. "Don't start with that crap."

Though you're well aware of what he means, you tilt your head curiously; early morning be damned, you can always find the will to tease your boss. "Crap, sir? I'm afraid I don't follow."

Bakugou throws his car in reverse and leans close, putting his arm around your seat as he backs out of the parking lot. The muscle in his cheek is jumping as he grits his teeth, drawing your eyes to the sharp cut of his jaw, and the scent of his cologne almost makes you sigh audibly. It smells expensive, like orchids and spice and comfort, and sleep is still so heavy upon you that it takes genuine effort not to sink forward to bury your face in his chest.

With his arm still around the seat, he glares down at you. "You clock in this morning?"

"No sir, but—"

"Bakugou." He barks, lips pulling back slightly, enough to show his canines, enough to show how serious he is.

A small smile graces you, one that cools the flickering heat in his red eyes, and you say, "Bakugou."

His gaze lingers for another moment, another thud of your heartbeat, before he shifts in his seat and begins to drive. "The hell are we going, anyway?"

Yukiko—the Sports Illustrated representative who will be interviewing Bakugou later—has already sent you the address of the diner she'd like to meet at. The printed out email is folded into the small backpack you'd brought along for the day, but the location has been typed into your phone so many times, it's well ingrained in your memory at this point. The navigation app in his expensive, massive car could easily guide him, but he lets you pull up Google Maps on your phone, let’s you tell him to take a left at the next stop sign, let's you direct him.

(The back up camera on the dash of the SUV could have also helped him get out of the parking lot; turning around, putting an arm behind your seat, leaning close had all been a choice.)

(It's still a young enough morning that you're embarrassed for already falling prey to this giddy, school-girl manner—as you always seem to do, these days—though it's safe to say this isn't anything new, not with Bakugou.)

The route offers a 45 minute drive and this acknowledgement is met with a disgruntled groan as you say it. There's a weighted, guilty part of you that feels bad again that you've dragged him to do this bullshit ass thing, though Bakugou does little more than huff and sigh; days ago, when you'd voiced the penitent nerves gnawing at you, he'd said (with red ears),

"I'm not forcing you, if you don't wanna go, don't."

and that hadn't been what you meant and that's what you told him, to which he replied (eyes on his monitor),

"Then cram it. We're goin'."

It almost feels like he's just waiting for you to say something, because he sends you fleeting little glances everytime he checks his rear view mirror, ready to cut you off at the first chance should you start that crap again. It takes all your strength to bite back a smile, to keep your hands and gaze on the phone.

Things with your boss have changed—subtly. There's this air that settles between the two of you now—different than before, when every thought you had ended in a question mark—and it's almost a little awkward, like at any moment something could come forth from either one of you and it would be somehow both unexpected and yet not entirely.

The lock on Red Riot’s door has been replaced, it's no longer a hassle to open (one less struggle in your morning); administrator privileges have been granted to you in order to change the schedule easier, quicker ("might as well have 'em, since you bother me about it all the damn time"); a single cup coffee maker appeared on your desk overnight.

Bakugou has asked you to lunch one time—"you hungry or what?"—and if you hadn't already eaten with Reverse, you would have indulged him (and yourself). That snub—and the unreadable look on his face—has haunted you more than once late at night, springing your eyes open as your brain worked through all the things he might have said during a meal with a friend and not under the guise of a work related afternoon.

Maybe he would have complimented you, trying to remain indifferent while admitting he thought you looked nice, or maybe the afternoon wouldn't have ended, extending into the evening, the two of you unable to fall back into a routine that—somewhere along the way—began to feel limited.

"Oi!" He snaps, and you jerk your eyes from your reverie, away from the window and back down to your phone.

"Oh, um, oh, shit," the heat of Bakugou's glare is scorching the skin of your face, "you need to change lanes, like, now."

"Are you fucking kidding me—" He leans completely away (another choice, one that has you grimacing to yourself) while looking behind him, probably breaking several traffic laws because of your absent-mindedness. "Gimme that!" One of his hands completely encompasses your own, warm fingers sliding between yours and the phone before he snatches it away.

"Sorry." The sheepish smile you send him goes wholly ignored. "Am I fired, sir, from navigating?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely," Bakugou spits, "you're the worst."

Maybe he would have held your hand or paid for your meal, but maybe he would have swatted at you for trying to steal from his plate. Maybe he would have insulted your taste in food, or chastised your less-than-healthy meal option.

You would have enjoyed it all the same.

—

8:36 A

There's a handful of things you know about the interview:

The topic at hand is hero life after graduating

Absolutely no questions about any past, present or future cases

Absolutely no personal questions, such as religious views, political opinions, or the intimate details of Dynamight's notoriously private love life

The whole interview will be video recorded and released on YouTube later—along with a few behind-the-scenes questions—in a few months

The photo shoot will take place at a separate location

The diner the company rented out is nice, decorated with neon lights and posters of American icons: Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Martin Luther King Jr., and the like. It's a little tacky, you think, but cute.

Bakugou thinks it doesn't make any damn sense to have the interview here, considering it has nothing to do with hero work—his or any other in Japan. It’s a valid point; while you agree with the argument, there is a pink and white jukebox near the entrance that is just waiting for you to start throwing your paycheck its way.

"Would you rather it be at your apartment, or the office?"

It's gloomy out, skies a sleepy mixture of blue and gray, and the dim glow filtering through the windows compliments him; it's Bakugou in a different light, a tranquil one, as if the weather is any indication of his change in attitude from those feral U.A days.

"Fuck no," he grumbles, ever unrefined, slouching into the table as if it will swallow him up and deliver him from this personal hell of your own making.

Yukiko is a few minutes late—despite the two of you being a few minutes late—so you're sitting across from him, leaning forward so that neither of you have to speak loud or disrupt the morning lingering in the empty restaurant. There's a waitress behind the counter brewing a pot of coffee and you're tempted to ask for a cup.

"Then cram it, sir." The unstoppable smile that blooms is hidden behind your fist, trying in earnest to press your mouth against your palm so he won't detonate.

"Think you're real fucking funny, don't ya'?" His carmine eyes are impossibly small and, though the sight might have scared you at one point, all it does is roll your eyes to the window. When you look back at him, he's staring hard at your face; the annoyance is undeniable, but there's something lingering between the clench of his teeth.

His hands are resting on the table, only inches from yours, and the urge to reach out and touch him fills you so abruptly that even he notices the motion of your fingers.

But—like always, these days—the doors to the diner swing open and the sounds of technical equipment and cameras flashing tell you all you need to know without ever turning around.

"My hero!" Yukiko beams, though your boss visibly recoils.

The first thing you notice about her is how professionally stunning she is—and the second is the quick up-and-down scan Bakugou gives her.

With a poreless face and smile so bright you nearly need to squint, she greets the both of you in such a charming way, any frustration you'd held at her for being late is immediately soothed. Her hair is long and dark, thick, curled in a way that is meant to look effortless (and it does), falling near her collarbones where two dainty necklaces ornament her. The pantsuit she's wearing does wonders for her skin tone and you are reminded of your own slightly damp clothes, outfitted in a jacket that probably makes you look puffer than usual.

When she calls him Dynamight, he has the decency to nod once and grit out, "Bakugou."

Then she turns to you in the plastic, pink booth across from him and asks, "Mind if I sit here for the cameras? You look like you would enjoy a milkshake!"

Life isn't a competition, and Yukiko's overwhelming beauty and professionalism (and charm and fashion sense and cute laugh and manicured nails and fit figure) doesn't mean that you are any less than her, but the insecurity rising within you while sliding from the booth is remorseless. She looks like the type of person that's been cut from the pages of a magazine with a perfectly scripted personality and has been pasted over your own face in the image of you and Bakugou in the diner.

It's so ridiculous, you tell yourself over and over again, because it is, but she's known him all of seven minutes and already she's calling him by his name. You attempt to remind yourself that the seven months it had taken you were all by choice, but then Yukiko laughs when he insists his entire hero moniker be in the magazine and you’re pouting.

It's nine in the morning and you are drinking a milkshake at the counter, far out of the way of the camera, far out of the way of Dynamight and his little bubble.

Last night, as you were scrutinizing the directions to the diner fervently, you'd thought of a few different ways this day might go; feeling pitiful and drowning yourself in milk and ice cream was not a scenario you had considered.

Yukiko starts by asking him questions about the area, if he's familiar with it at all, and this dissolves into a small discussion about where he was born—Atami, near the sea (a fact you were unaware of)—though he moved to Musutafu when he was very young, due in part to his father's career.

Of course, nothing is as easy as your boss up and giving this information away; the representative is already beginning to look a little flustered at the thirty minutes it takes in order to obtain that much.

(An image is born into your imagination of baby Bakugou, diapered Dynamight, in tiny swim trunks by the ocean with a little, chubby tummy. It earns you a sharp glance when you laugh quietly at it, ruby eyes narrowed as if he knows.)

"I'll go where I'm needed." Is what he spits out, arms crossed, when Yukiko asks if he plans to stay in Musutafu for the rest of his life. The question takes a slight turn towards plans for a family and if he'll raise any children here, but his stubborn silence is enough of an answer.

That certainly wasn't an approved subject.

Another surge of guilt rises at how awkward he looks, more than uncomfortable with his shoulders up around his ears. You think he’d rather be at home, catching up on some rest—he surely deserves it—and the pit in your stomach deepens until she brings up the topic of that one day, with the sludge villain, and you think maybe not, afterall. Maybe he likes it this way, so far from the child he once was, so much stronger and different.

"I’m not worried about shit from way back then," he grunts, leaning a little further back in the booth, grasping for distance. "Thought you were supposed to be asking me about the present, how much 'm dominating the hero board right now."

Yukiko laughs—musical, pleasant, rehearsed—but Bakugou isn't joking. She spares the cameraman another look, something she's been doing frequently, and you assume it's an indication on where they'll need to cut certain footage.

One of the crewmen holding the lights pins you with an expectant look, as if you should perhaps be sheepish for his gruffness, but you just send the man a simple smile. You're not his handler; if Bakugou wants his own milkshake, you'll get him one, but you aren't here to school him on how to act, nor to ask for forgiveness either.

It makes you wonder if you've grown used to it all, being so close to the warmth of him. Nothing that he's said so far has taken you off guard or made you flinch, and you've even found yourself surprised at the look on the representative's face when her sculpted mask cracks. Maybe he's calloused you, gotten you used to the heat in which he constantly burns.

Something about that is comforting.

"It's almost intimidating, how fierce you are against competition, even when that competition is made up of heroes you graduated with—"

"My assist rate is nearly triple what it was last year."

"Hey," it’s not difficult to tell where she was going with her question and you definitely should not be hissing at him, but you can't help yourself. He looks at you almost instantly. "Stop interrupting."

The scowl he sends burns your face as if he'd touched it with his own hands, but he only grumbles to himself before turning his attention back to Yukiko. You may not apologize for him, but you'll definitely encourage him to mind his manners. Whatever surprise you think you might have seen on Yukiko's face is gone when you look at her, and she nods once in thanks.

If you let him walk all over you, he will, and you wonder if you should have warned her of that earlier. It's not like he means to, but he has the kind of innate confidence most people don't and sometimes it manifests as arrogance, but they should have known that, surely? Bakugou commands the attention of everyone when he steps into the room because his presence is massive, authoritative, the kind that villains cower in.

The kind that says I am here.

(or, I am here, you fucking bastard.)

"Does it ever bother you to hear that you are being likened to heroes like Endeavor or Snipe? The kind of men that leave certain people divided when it comes to their approach to heroism?"

“I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks. They shouldn’t be comparin’ me in the first place.” Bakugou tightens his arms around his chest (you’re thankful he’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt, though it only masks the tension in his biceps in the most minute way) and casts you a quick glance, anticipating your reaction to what he says next. “You worry about the crap people say about you?”

Yukiko sits back a little in her seat and smiles—practiced, restrained—before clearing her throat. She doesn’t answer, only asks, "Does it ever bother you to be compared to Deku, who is projected to be the next Symbol of Peace?"

The diner goes so silent that everyone can hear Yukiko's jewelry clink as she shifts. So silent that everyone can hear you choke on your milkshake (you aren't spared a glance, though, because you are still outside the bubble).

All you can think is that if Bakugou was going to blow the place to hell, he would have done so by now. At a different time in his life, you assume he might have gone berserk and shit talked Deku until people were having to hold him down in the booth—but now he just stares across the table, thinking.

The representative seems unable to look away and shudders; you're glad you can't see the exact expression on his face, though one you have seen comes to mind: in the bright lights of the conference room, footage you shouldn’t have been privy to still casting a faded picture on the wall, an unpleasant, clammy hand on your lower back. The memory heats you, almost the same way it had that day, though it’s less embarrassed now and more fond as you take in the jut of his chin, the line of his sharp nose in the downcast morning light.

("My hero!")

"I ain't gonna talk about that damn Deku."

Even if she wanted more from him, even if she meant to rile him up for some kind of sales-boosting answer, Yukiko only nods and takes a long pause before turning to the cameraman. Her beaming smile is wavering the tiniest bit—something obvious to you because you’ve been obsessing over her this entire time. "Quick break?"

Bakugou is up and out of the booth, stalking towards the door before her face has time to flatten, and you take that as your cue. The sky is still the same dismal shade, even though you've been at the interview for nearly an hour, and it dampens one of the sunny scenarios you'd imagined for today.

The warpath doesn’t end once he’s outside, nearly ripping the car door off its hinges so he can climb in and slam it shut behind him. The silence is so tense that you try your best to follow quietly, closing your door gently just in case it will reignite him somehow. Bakugou doesn't say anything, just throws his head back against the seat and tries in earnest to glare a hole through the ceiling of the car.

You go through a number of different ways to ask if he’s alright (“are you okay?” or “you good, man?” or “is there anything I can do, sir?”) but you can already tell that all of them would just be met with grunted, ‘m fine. So you try to approach him a different way, the kind of way you would a friend that was upset, saying weightless things just to steal their mind from anything stressful.

“I didn’t know you were born in Atami.” Rain starts to lightly fall against the SUV. “That sounds nice—do you ever go back there?”

“You askin’ questions now too?” Bakugou shoots, but it leads without malice, without bite as he keeps his eyes fixed.

Turning your head to watch the rain, you murmur out a quiet “sorry”, pressing your lips together to stop them from betraying you by frowning. He’s upset, and you would be too; constantly shadowed by other heroes, even when the topic of Dynamight only—Bakugou himself—is assured; triggers written down, buttons pressed, waiting just outside the blast zone for a response that will provoke the stereotypical headlines that readers go berserk for. It’s not his fault. At the sound of your voice, his hair shifts against the headrest as he turns to look at you, quick, before sighing.

“We used to go a lot during the summer, but I haven’t been back in years.” His voice is mild, extinguished for the moment. “Don’t have the time.”

“We should go,” you say it urgently, without thinking, trying to cling to something that will lighten the mood. “In the summer when it’s nice. If we plan it out right, we can maybe write it off as a work thing.” The grin on your face is probably embarrassing, but you wiggle your eyebrows playfully.

Bakugou huffs out a laugh, unsmiling, before his own brows pull down as the words, and their meaning, settle in his ears. “Doesn’t hafta’ be a work thing.”

Neither of you have spoken about what happened that day. Neither of you have spoken about what would have happened if Kirishima hadn’t shown up.

For a nerve-wracking, paralyzing moment, as your sweaty toes begin to curl in their boots, it almost looks like he’s going to.

“Look, I don't know—fuck—this is so fucking—” Bakugou’s hands go to the steering wheel and he grips it, the leather making an audible noise as his fingers tighten. He refuses to face you—mouth slightly open, surprised even though you thought you wouldn’t be—and instead glares forward at the diner, as if it’s somehow Yukiko’s fault neither of you know how to talk about this, about It.

After a moment of prolonged silence, you swallow thickly and realize he isn’t continuing because Yukiko is, in fact, standing in the window, waving the both of you back inside. When you nod at her, she crosses her arms but walks away, and Bakugou sighs.

“I’m sorry.” It blurts out before it can be stopped. A little bit of anger is left in his eyes and he directs it straight at you. “I’m sorry you have to come here on your day off and do this thing that you can't stand.”

He’s certainly tired of hearing your guilt about this, that much you’re sure of, but the expression that washes over him still surprises you; completely unhappy, even more so by what you’ve said, and almost—hurt that you keep apologizing.

“You’re so—” with a grunt, he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, clearing it, before glaring at you. No, not glaring, not quite. Something softer. “You think I’m the kinda guy that does shit he doesn’t want to, idiot?”

“Bakugou, you hate this kind of stuff,” it sounds like you’re asking for absolution and it only makes things worse.

Bakugou just shakes his head again as if you aren’t understanding what he’s saying. Maybe you aren’t.

—

11:12 A

The first thing Yukiko says when the interview finally concludes is, “the company has already set up lunch at the arena, if we could all make our way there!”

And the first thing Bakugou says in response to this is, “as fucking if.”

But by this point, after struggling for two hours with him, she must be hardening up to his bark and bite, because she doesn’t say anything or try to stop him as he beelines for the exit. Which leaves you scrambling behind him, giving a half-bow to every disgruntled person you pass while muttering, “thank you, thank you so much, we had a great time, can’t wait to see the article”.

It’s finally stopped raining, but the sun is still hidden behind a wintery haze; there’s a chill inside his car, the kind that settles in unoccupied spaces (the kind that exists when Bakugou isn’t around). It seems to calm down your boss instantly—that, and the fact that all the questions are finally done.

“That wasn’t so bad!"

Near the end, Yukiko asked if Bakugou had any other plans for his future, if being a hero didn't work out somehow, and he looked between you and her, and then her and the camera, and then you and then her and then you and—

Then he said, "What kind of stupid fucking question is that?"

He's giving you that same look right now (bewildered, disbelieving, hassled). Still, you try to charm the expression off his face by smiling and telling him,

"You did great Bakugou, I'm proud of you!" It earns you a soft snort and relaxed, avoidant eyes. "Now, to the arena!"

"'m not eatin' at that place. Who knows what type'a tasteless shit they catered." He’s quick to catch you taking out your phone and snatches it away before you can unlock it. "I know where 'm going, I don't need you trying to kill us again."

An exaggerated pout works its way to your lips. "Aw, come on Bakugou, don't you trust me?"

He huffs but the use of his name doesn’t deter him, "I'm not gettin' a traffic ticket just because you've got your head up your ass."

Though you loathe to admit it, sighing comes easier now that the SUV is putting miles of distance between you and Yukiko. You're feeling a little more playful again, like the day is falling back into its usual routine, gearing up for one of the many scenarios you've imagined. The image of her figure in the pantsuit is still at the forefront of your mind, however, so you shuffle around until you can wiggle out of your puffy jacket. What you’re wearing isn’t anything as fashionable as her no-doubt expensive ensemble, but at least you’re less of a shapeless blob.

"I'll be good this time, promise." Impishly, you extend your pinky out towards him but he only grunts in response, shifting forward in his seat as he swallows—audibly. The movement allows his collarbones to peek out above the top of his shirt, growing your unfounded need to drag your fingers along them, maybe even your breath, maybe even your mouth.

The threat he mumbles goes unheard by you, but the baritone of his voice stops you from drooling like a pervert any longer.

Even he looks a bit more calm—jaw unclenched, shoulders back and rested, nostrils unflared—and his hand goes from the wheel to the gear shift between you. Long fingers cup it loosely, drumming against it as an afterthought, though the music he once had playing has been turned down low; on the ride over, you’d passed a towering, verdant dragon statue that could be seen from the highway and promptly squealed about it, reaching to tap his shoulder with urgency. The radio had quieted, his attention momentarily snapping to you before muttering “‘m driving,”.

Watching him now, Bakugou’s face relaxes further—the permanent crease between his eyebrows softens—and you wonder if he feels it, too, this effortless comfort that shrouds you.

From what you can tell, he's heading back towards Musutafu and it's only after about 20 minutes that you begin to genuinely wonder if he's decided to blow the whole day off, if he's sick of the questions and antagonizing, if he's speeding back to your icy parking lot to be rid of you—but then he's taking an exit, grumbling about slow drivers and old people, and turning down a street that definitely isn't yours.

It's a part of the outer city-skirts that you aren't all too familiar with, where the buildings are set too close together and the parking lots are too small, fitting six cars at most. Apartments look over thin alleys, fire escapes nearly creating a bridge between bedrooms. You pass a man sleeping next to the garbage, a family of stray cats, a blue rolling cart holding brown plants, a woman selling homemade crepes—everything about the area is intimate, and that realization has your stomach flipping.

Lunch with your boss, with Bakugou, for the second time; you find yourself both anxious and willing, for whatever comes next.

Bakugou circles a block twice before parking in a stray lot, grunting something about anyone daring to say shit to him while tucking the side mirrors of his car closer to the windows. No explanation is offered as to where the two of you are eating, but you don't miss the quick glance he gives your top, which makes you feel suddenly exposed and silly, as if he could read what you were thinking when you tossed your jacket to his backseat. There is a strange crease in the fabric near your tummy due to the seatbelt, and you throw it off and yourself out of the car so that he'll stop looking.

Before you can ask where he's going, he's turning down a thin alley ahead of you. It's nearly noon, but the day is so overcast, white-golden lanterns are still lit to guide the way past an izakaya that’s closed, a gentleman outside stacking empty Kirin cases on top of one another. There are two abandoned bikes, a sign leaning against a rusty ladder that advertises a shop for refurbished furniture and hand-stitched clothes. You can’t take a step without landing on a manhole, but the sewage smell is nearly drowned out by the fresh crepes—and something salty, too.

It's silent between the two of you, save for the rustling of a beaded curtain strung up in the middle of the alley as you pass through it. Bakugou holds it open for you to step under and then keeps a hand on your back, urging you forward, though you have no idea where.

Electrical wires criss-cross into a spider-web above your head, a strange sense of seclusion emanating from their disjointed design; other than the gentleman, you are the only two between the bricks. It feels like you are the only two in the world—far from Musutafu, far from Dynamight and Yukiko. Just you and Bakugou.

When you glance back up at him, he’s already watching you—as he always seems to be, these days—and his eyes are nearly orange in the lantern light, made up of something so entirely different than they had been in the diner.

"Kirishima Eijirou was your fellow classmate, is the co-owner of your agency, and has been a Pro Hero Partner of yours for sometime." Yukiko seemed to have a talent for not only segueing into question after question, but also wording them in a way that stoked Bakugou’s aggravation. "Would you say you have a hard time trusting other heroes, or even getting along with them?"

It's no secret that Dynamight has been controversial in the past, that people still look at him and see the wild beast of a child he once was, and though there is nothing you can do about it, it still gets under your skin to see him and his intricacies boiled down to misconceptions. Patience, understanding, you wanted to tell Yukiko, that’s all you need, though you can’t exactly imagine Bakugou would have appreciated you coming to his defense. More than likely, he would have protested you getting involved or making excuses: that much you know already, because you’re used to him.

You wonder if Yukiko, or anyone, would believe the way Dynamight—the explosion hero, number 5 on the hero board—looks in fond, untroubled moments like this one (half-lidded, citrine, peaceful).

Perhaps the only thing that can be done is be thankful, that they are reserved for you.

"Move it, dumbass," he murmurs, and the soft rasp of his voice makes you smile, draws his eyes—unashamed—to your lips.

(You want to tell him to finish it, what he started that day in his office. You want to tell him to kiss you.)

(You don't.)

There is a white neon sign that is lit up just ahead, though there isn't a name, only gyudon in black. It's the source of the salty smell and, when Bakugou reaches in front of you to shove the creaky door open, no one bats an eye at either of you. No one looks up as he comes in and no one says anything until he's chosen a booth at the back, near a large window that looks out into another cramped section of a street.

Winter peonies are hanging from a window box, blushing pink against the gray painted bricks of its apartment. You can see a stray shopping cart from a market out of sight, a handful of brightly colored signs (red, orange, black) advertising all manner of baked goods and beer, ready for the day to darken just a little more before coming to life. A woman carries her baby down a flight of stairs; a stack of books on the ground appear heavy, water-logged and forgotten near three tied trash bags; two boys in university sweaters take turns looking through a magazine, a half naked woman splayed across the cover.

(Just you and Bakugou.)

An older woman comes to the table offering water and tea, though she doesn't ask if or what type either of you would like before the clay pot in her hand thuds onto the wood. She leaves while muttering, “try the Jasmine Pearl”; your boss looks so unbothered by this, by her, that you come to the conclusion he must have come here before, maybe many times.

And maybe Bakugou knows you, too, because he says, “The owner’s kid almost died in a train crash a few years back, before I was—” he trails off while gesturing to himself sarcastically, but you know what he means: before he was Dynamight. It’s all said without looking at you, eyes on the flowers, the books, snorting when he sees the magazine. “I wasn’t looking for anything in return, that ain’t the point of this shit, but the old hag wouldn’t leave me alone until I ate at her place. Food's decent.”

A grin works its way onto your face, earning a glance from the corner of his eye. “So, you took me out for a free meal, huh? Cheap date.”

Bakugou’s eyes zero in on you as a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, and you realize too late where you've gone horribly wrong. "Date?" He asks, hands clasping together atop the table as he leans across it, closer to you, "Who said this was a date?"

Now it's your turn to look elsewhere: the ceiling, the teapot, the signs (red, orange, black). "Well, um, lunch date, as in, just having lunch together. Like—you know, between colleagues, sir."

"Colleagues, huh?" The curl of his lips is sinister, too-sharp, has tea slipping down the wrong pipe in your throat and heating your entire body to a similar, boiling temperature. Some jealous part of you sings; Yukiko witnessed quite a few looks from your boss today, but she hadn't been graced with this one. "'s'that why you got all pouty about whatshername?"

Pouty?

"Pouty?" You gasp, jaw falling slack as your hands curl into fists on the table. It's as if he can see right through you, can read what you're thinking, as if you’re not the only one paying too much attention in all this time at the agency. "I was not pouty."

(You definitely were and you know it, which makes the accusation all the more worse.)

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he smirks, gently flicking one of your knuckles as you narrow your eyes at him. "Never seen you give me that look before."

You pause in the middle of sipping your water to stick your tongue out at him, unable to stop from grinning when he snickers. Amusement is an unseen string tying you together; it's impossible not to smile when he does.

He continues, though you aren't sure where he's leading the conversation, eyes flicking to the door, out the window, at his fingers brushing yours. If you didn't know any better you would say he almost looks— "and you've given me plenty in the last eight months."

Looks, he means, and it takes a moment to recover. Plenty of looks? No, if anyone is giving looks, it's him, not you. It's Bakugou with those eyes, orange and fox-like, watching you squirm like he's caught you in his trap, ripe for the taking.

(That analogy does little to settle your still flipping stomach.)

"What do you mean by that?"

It's a talent, how quickly his eyes can change, how they can go from desirous to unreadable in an instant. A part of you wonders if that's all Dynamight, a skill he's acquired since being forced into the public eye—but a part of you believes that's him, Bakugou, too accustomed to shielding his emotions.

"I mean they aren't the kind y'give a colleague."

An air duct rattles brokenly; birds land near the window; a group of school girls laugh without regard, standing together to peer at something on a phone (too close, you and Bakugou, anxious and willing, for whatever comes next).

"And what do they look like?" There are warning sirens going off in your head, vigilant in their duty to remind you of the line you’re knowingly crossing. Regardless, you unwind your fist, curl a finger around his. "Why don't you show me?"

Bakugou's eyebrows draw down, making him look pinched and offended—though you're used to that look, to him, and you know that's not how he really feels—and then the two of you are in the car outside the diner all over again, ready to talk about It.

But a shadow comes over the window, two palms flattening against the glass as the birds—and your intertwined fingers—scatter. It's the shadow of a man too large, too friendly, too red.

"You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me."

"Red Riot!" The sight of him is so unexpected that the grin that paints you is entirely genuine, and you wave at him, laughing too loud for this compact, secret place when he presses his nose up against the glass. He waves back at you, then Bakugou, before dashing around the corner.

The door kicks open so fast that it bounces off the wall, jingling all the while, and that does earn Kirishima a few glares, which he meets with a sheepish wave. When his eyes land on you in the back corner, an expression so utterly smug and satisfied comes across his face that Bakugou lets out an incensed sound, signaling his impending implosion.

"Well, well, well, what do we have—"

"What. The fuck. Are you doing here." It sounds less like a question and more like a demand, as if Bakugou isn't really worried about the how or the why; he just wants Kirishima to answer so the response will stoke the fire currently flaring to life.

"I could ask you the same thing." Red Riot beams, trying to squeeze into the booth beside his partner, though the blonde doesn't budge. He almost looks like a feral cat, arching his back the closer his colleague gets. "C'mon man, this is the spot, we eat here all the time."

"Oh, do you?" At the sound of your question, Kirishima flashes you a knowing grin, though you aren’t sure what he’s so certain of: that Dynamight would bring you to this pace, or that he’d been jumpy about it. Bakugou’s neck turns the color of his eyes—which are far from orange and back to their usual blood-red hue.

The realization that he’s brought you here, to the spot, softens you considerably; allowing you into this cramped little space, behind a beaded curtain, across from a dingy apartment complex twenty minutes out of town, nestled into a web of privacy. It means something to him and Kirishima, which means something to you.

At the sight of him now, there in front of you, you're reminded of your previous conversation with the red head, how you'd argued that they didn't need your friendship, had never asked for it—and they still haven't, just placed you inside the bubble quietly, tenderly, without so much as a second thought.

"Kirishima," Bakugou grits out, and the sound of his actual name and not Shitty Hair surprises you (and the man in question), "you're supposed to be on patrol."

"I am!" Red Riot's voice goes up a defensive octave, holding out his arms and gesturing to his hero outfit. The look he sends you resembles one Dynamight had in the diner—like he doesn’t understand the charge against him—and your heart tightens without warning; they’ve been together so long, Pro Hero Partners for some time, and it shows in the finer details.

"Then why the fuck. Are you—"

"I was in the area, man, thought I'd scope this place out before lunch. Then I saw you two," he grins again, which is always the worst thing he could do in this situation, "and thought I would check on how things are going, you know, between you lovebirds—"

"Don't even—this is just a stupid fucking work thing." The finger he points is menacing; you're surprised he's not sparking. "Don't fucking say shit like that."

(And then your bubble pops.)

Bakugou is downright snarling, less like a hungry fox or feral cat and more like a rabid dog, and you can't stop the embarrassment flooding you as it comes crashing down that this abrupt change of pace is simply because Kirishima thought you two were on a—

—date—

—together as anything other than colleagues.

An instinctive voice inside your head pipes up to defend him from, well, yourself, that he's only being so vehement in his denial because he's embarrassed at falling prey to his partner’s teasing, but the immediate part of you, the emotional part, bites her lip to stop from frowning. You do the opposite—smile casually—though you can feel how forced it must be, like it doesn't fit on the curve of your lips in the moment. It must be obvious, you think, it must be.

"It's a work thing," you echo, nodding once (and you don't miss the hot look Dynamight slices you with).

Doesn't matter; Kirishima laughs slowly and winks, as if the three of you are all in on some secret joke, as if he knows Bakugou too well. "Of course, definitely! Work thing. I'll make sure to mention that to Mina later when I—"

"You aren't gonna say shit about this, unless you want me to tear you a new one." Bakugou's eyes widen a frightening amount, palm slapping against the table as he nearly upends it. Kirishima remains unphased and it makes you think of Yukiko again, of how indifferent you were to some of his answers.

(“In the past, it’s taken more than a little elbow grease to obtain an interview with you, despite being a household name. Do you find you struggle with the newfound fame of being such a public, top-ten hero? I don’t think it’s a secret that Dynamight likes his privacy.”

“I don’t have time for shit like this because I’m busy doing my job. I don’t know what else anyone wants from me, why they care how long I spend at the gym or what my beer of choice is. I save the fucking day and then I go home, what I do there isn’t their business.”

“...so you do struggle with being in the spotlight so frequently?”

“I don’t struggle with anything, because I ain't the one that’s bothered!”

Yukiko had, in fact, looked bothered, especially when you snorted and rolled your eyes at him, especially when he peered back to make an exasperated face at you, shaking his head like he didn’t understand how he wasn’t making sense.)

And that hurts, you can't lie, with how mortified your boss is at the prospect of anyone knowing you two are together, even during a work thing. It's ridiculous, but you have to blink once, and then twice suddenly, because you can't stop thinking about the up-and-down look he gave Yukiko, how well put together she seemed.

It's not as if you are neurotic enough to believe it was love at first sight, or that he's even minimally interested in her—by the end of morning, actually, you were almost certain he wouldn't have offered her a glass of water were she to spontaneously combust—but she was so chic and elegant. She probably knew 6 different languages and drove a car priced in the same range as his SUV, she had innate charm and structure, business aptitude, she was wildly impressive.

If even she couldn't entice him, then who could?

It's ridiculous. You're being ridiculous because he's your boss.

Before you're forced to try and interrupt the unhinged hissing going back and forth between your employers, the older woman returns and quiets both of them with a single look. Kirishima gives a shy smile and steps out of the way, far out of her way, and Bakugou sits back down, muttering out to her that yes, he would like two bowls of gyudon with kimchi (like always). There’s a story here, maybe many; suddenly bitter, you wonder if you could ever be authorized to hear them.

(You haven't even had time to think about what you want, but there's a yellowed, dimly lit menu on the wall and your eyes catch on chicken curry, so you repeat that and she's off again.)

The first thing Bakugou says to his partner then is, "would you get. The hell. Out of here."

(Again—it's not so much a question.)

"Alright, alright, I can take a hint—" (Dynamight growls his disagreement) "—don't wanna interrupt you two like last time, so feel free to start the smooching once—"

Kirishima cracks up when Bakugou shoots from the table, though a flash of something like panic smears out his smile. Even when he puts his hands up and starts backing towards the door, babbling all the while, your boss doesn't stop following him, palms curled the way they are when he's gonna blow something straight to hell, and he doesn't refrain from advancing until Kirishima is bumping into the door, scrambling to get it open.

And he still doesn't stop until they are both back out in the alley, for a long time.

The food arrives, the woman looking at you for the first time as she asks, "he ditch you?" When you tell her he hasn't—that you know of; maybe he did?—she mutters, "little punk" before stalking away. You wish she would have stayed to hear you agree, but you dig into the food to stop the pit deepening in your stomach.

Quietly, you go to war with yourself, arguing that it was Bakugou who had his hand on your neck and it was Bakugou with his eyes on your lips and it was your boss who insisted you call him Bakugou.

And it was Bakugou who was embarrassed by this, by you and your stupid little work thing.

You miss the jingle of the door when he returns, only offering your attention as he slumps back into the booth, red-faced. He doesn’t acknowledge you, only splits his chopsticks and stares at the still simmering bowls of food while holding his breath, before tossing the utensils on the table, wood clattering lowly as he shoves his fingers in his eyes. They dig forcefully into the muscles, as if he’s trying to stop a headache that won’t quit.

“Everything okay, sir?”

He looks stressed, more-than; another wave of guilt wracks you, though it’s hard to determine where it’s building from this time. The truth is out: he does hate this bullshit ass type of thing, and you wonder why he tried to insist he doesn’t; he should know that you know by now.

Bakugou's hand drops from his eyes to his mouth, where he pulls at his lips absentmindedly. Underneath the table, his knee won't stop jerking, just like how the fingers on his other hand won't stop drumming against the table; he's thinking, too hard.

If life were a scenario of your brain’s creation, you think he would lean across the table and take your hand fully, but instead he just kicks you lightly to get your attention. It’s so on brand for him, so Bakugou, that you realize instantly where your imagination was wrong and dare to smile, tucking your chin down to hide it.

Your boss is not smiling. "You—he's a fucking—" his struggle is almost painful, and you can feel the tug and pull of the words he wants to say and the words that are leaving his mouth. "Y’know what I meant, right?"

And it's not so much a question as it is a plea.

Yukiko calls three times before Bakugou digs into his second bowl.

—

12:24 P

The first two attempts go ignored, mainly due to the horrendous glare he gives both the phone and your hand, frozen mid-air, before he snatches it from you during the third call. He doesn't even bother with a greeting, just grunts "yeah, yeah, we're comin'," and then proceeds to eat faster than you've ever seen a human eat anything.

Some inane side of you has half a mind to bring your chopsticks together near your mouth and ask, "How many calories do you consume in a single day, Dynamight? Fans everywhere want to know," but things are still intensely awkward, made even worse now that you’re pressed for time, so you store that little funny away for later.

Later; all of your exciting scenarios have washed away with the returning rain and you'd like nothing more than to go back to the office, to return to the space with Bakugou, with Dynamight, that you know best. The ground is too unstable, shaking as easily as your breath every time he meets your eyes. It's a lot to handle, more than you expected, and that—like all things, these days—only brings back the guilt.

The entire drive back is quiet, save for a few vexed sighs, and he listens to the navigation guide in his car as you pick mindlessly at your cuticles; it feels like something's been ruined, and the silence makes you sadder than you expected, puts something in your throat that’s hard to swallow.

Sports Illustrated has rented out a stadium, one that's equipped to deal with any stray explosions that could bring about the savage cover shot they're looking for. It has a sleek and shiny gym, one prepared for an entire rugby team—which may or may not equal Bakugou and his immense presence—, a locker room, and even a small conference area that's been set up to look like a U.A classroom.

("Thought this was supposed to be about me now, not back then."

"It is," you said, standing in his office, reading from the itinerary Yukiko had forwarded. "How different you are.")

Freshly powdered and matte, she's waiting just inside the doors, looking appropriately in place against the gray-slate tiles and smile-white walls. "Welcome back to high school!"

Ahead of you, Bakugou grumbles, "fucking great."

"The makeup trailer is just down in the hall, so we can head that way! We'll start with the gym first, and then move to the 'classroom'." Just as you begin to follow him, she produces a lanyard with a plain white badge reading visitor and extends it out to you. "Just in case anyone says anything." She assures, back to beaming.

Bakugou rears his head as if she's attempted to slap him. "Who's sayin' something? She's with me."

"Oh, no, no!" Yukiko waves her hands urgently, trying to put out the fire before it starts. "Just in case!"

"Just in case what—"

"It's fine." You say, Miss Customer Service™, "I get it, it's fine." Bakugou is frowning when you look up at him, though you slip the cord over your head and flash him your best reassuring smile. Yukiko is given a warning glance, one that says this isn’t over with just his eyes before he’s stalking away.

You hope she’s not able to read that look.

It looks strange so empty, the arena, and your brain likens it to a carcass: the walls feel hollow and massive, the concrete echoing back every noise you tentatively make; you’re afraid to think too hard in case that, too, will reverberate. It’s entire design was born with thousands of people in mind, but it is just you three under a never-ending stream of LED screens, banners of sports teams COMING SOON!, closed coiling doors, blocking the advertisement of takoyaki, yakisoba and cold beer, syrupy kakigori. Bakugou eyes the portraits lining the walls, black and white candid shots of fans cheering wildly, and you don’t realize he’s slowing down until he’s right beside you.

Very vaguely, you remember the U.A Sports Festival, maybe had it on as background noise at a friend's house while chatting amongst yourselves, oblivious and uncaring to the quirk-blessed people that were using their talents to the fullest. It dawns on you how strange it is to be here, beside Bakugou, how far both of you have come. Any clear images from the three festivals he had been in are all recent, only replayed on your laptop after he'd become a household name, after he became your boss, after he started meaning something.

In an eight minute video you'd watched titled dynamight being dynamight, you remember his sixteen-year-old self standing at the microphone, saying something about winning that made every one of his peers furious, and it's just so him that you're forced to throw an elbow, smile and shake your head when he asks what your deal is

Hands shoved into the pockets of his loose, dark jeans, he elbows you back lightly. "Don't fuckin' laugh at me."

"Don't be so funny."

"Don't be so easy to amuse."

"Don't be such a child."

"Me?" The look he gives you is bewildered, though the rigidness of his eyes has melted. Muttering another threat under his breath, he leans against your arm like he's going to push you again, but he doesn't, he just stays. One of his hands comes out to gently flick the plastic badge, making a face at it like its very existence is an insult, and he looks away when it lands back against your chest, when you snort at his impudence.

"Nobody will question you," Yukiko affirms, smiling softly when you both glance back. You’d almost forgotten about her, embarrassingly enough, and she looks between you two and the lanyard before rolling her eyes, waving her hand like the idea of it is silly—even if she’d been the one to produce it. "Trust me."

The expression on her face reminds you so frighteningly of Kirishima’s, like she knows something you don't, and it only winds you up even further as Bakugou is ushered away into another exclusive bubble. Her heels click pleasantly against the concrete, between just the two of you, leading the way through a small twist of tunnels impossible to navigate without her. The floral scent of her perfume is intoxicating, filling up every cramped area she enters, and you’re ashamed that you can’t stop inhaling through your nose.

"It's nice to finally meet you," she says suddenly and offense is a reflex that rips through you, wanting to remind her that you two met hours ago, but you become distracted by the texture of her skin, more obvious now that she’s so close to you. How human; gorgeous, stunning, daunting—but perhaps not as high on the pedestal as you had placed her. "We've been emailing for a few months now."

"Oh," you blink, dumbfounded, "yeah, I guess we have."

"I meant what I said,” Yukiko stops and holds her hand out, letting you go ahead of her in the direction she's leading you. "It's easier to outrun Ingenium than it is to get an interview with Dynamight, so we have you to thank for setting this up."

"Oh," you parrot, then, quickly, before she thinks it's all you know how to say, "no, I mean, I was just as surprised that he agreed. Dynamight, uh—" she laughs at the sheepish smile you give her, "he hates these things."

"Does he? I couldn't tell." She makes such a cute face that you might have been jealous if you weren't laughing with her. It's less awkward than you might have expected it to be hours ago, less forced, and a feminist, eat-the-patriarchy side of you is immensely disappointed in yourself. "Well, we, the company, are blessed he has you to influence him."

Another dumb blink; you make a disbelieving face to yourself before looking down at your fingers. "I wouldn't say I influence him, maybe know how to wear him down, but,” you trail off as she laughs again, shrugging.

Of course you do, know exactly how to bother him, how to bug him and push every button that will set him alight; you almost want to tell her it’s in your job description to understand exactly how to get away with harassing Dynamight—and keeping your head.

Yukiko leans against your shoulder with the same sentiment Bakugou had, though you can feel the stark differences between her arm and his. “I think he’s lucky to have someone that understands him to such an extent. It’s very rare to have assistants that can accept people as they are, behind their hero persona. I'm sure you might be aware of that, though, working with others in the business.”

Around the corner is a set of large glass doors that she steps up to open, once again gesturing for you to enter, and you want to tell her to back-up, to rewind a minute or two. The gym is just as you imagined: spacious, set up for industrial sized workouts, stock full of equipment and weights that look as if they could snap your back in half, were you unable to work with them properly. The fluorescence—and the light boxes and white sheets and reflective umbrellas—confound you long enough that Yukiko whisks away further into the room, up to the cameramen from the diner and a new gentleman, one you easily conclude will be the photographer for the day.

By the time you regain your composure—and close your mouth—Bakugou is entering, cementing you to your spot, withdrawn from the attention behind a treadmill that sits taller than your head. Nerves begin to take flight in your stomach at the sight of him; upon first glance, he doesn’t seem any different than usual, handsome as ever, but then you notice how dark and long his eyelashes look, the light contour under his cheekbones erasing what little roundness there is to his rarely-seen stoic face. He looks all Dynamight: sharp angles and jutting edges, dangerously keen, ineffable.

With all the attentiveness of an enlisted serviceman, he scans each corner of the room until he lands on you, small and out of the way, and you give him a small wave (one he doesn’t return). It looks like he’s got something to say, something serious, something important, judging by the sincere expression on his face. It’s tired, worn-down, though not in the way you imagine it is when he’s had a long day of hero-ing; it reminds you of the look on his face that day in his office, when the both of you had finally let go of whatever was keeping you back, when you’d finally crossed a boundary together.

It’s longing, you realize, that look.

“—so, I think it will be best to get a few warm up shots, maybe just doing some light stretching.”

Shamefully, you realize you’ve missed the photographer’s name and are somewhat relieved he hasn’t acknowledged you outside the bubble; the idea of having to ask him to repeat it makes you want to sink into the floor, to be dragged down by the weights the size of your head.

Bakugou jumps on his feet a few times—sporting a pair of bright orange kicks—before extending his arms to the ceiling, bending them behind his back, rotating his shoulders in some deliberate way that looks almost painful. Yukiko comes to stand beside you then, unnerving you with that look on her face, and she only grins before asking, loudly,

“He looks great, don’t you think?”

He glances back at you lazily, eyes—which have darkened—trained on your face, and you begin to realize that he does, he does look great.

He looks—immaculate.

The pair of compression tights he’s wearing only highlight how strong his thighs must be and his legs seem unending, long and powerful underneath the black fabric. A loose, orange tank is covering his torso and, though you hadn’t thought much of it at first, it becomes apparent to you why it seems so slack on him: in all the places it would hug the average man, Bakugou’s body is tight, muscular, rigid. His shoulders are capped and you can see the curve of his traps due to how thin the straps of his top are, the tension in his biceps as he just stands, relaxed.

Oh my god, you think, horrified. You’ll have to wait there for the next two hours—maybe three—watching as he builds up a sweat, as he works out and grunts with effort and pants and—

“Uh, y-yeah,” the attempt to clear your throat only makes you choke, has your voice coming out as a pathetic squeak, “he—you look, yeah, great.”

The hungry sheen that will gloss over his eyes; the curve of his cheek with the smirk that rattles your knees; the poorly disguised want in his voice as he teases and taunts your revealing choice of words; any minute now he’ll spark to life, sweetheart on his tongue, taking note of the sweaty palms you run across your thighs—

But it never comes.

Instead his eyebrows pull down in that Bakugou way, jaw and fist clenching in tandem as his breathing changes, deepens, giving you that same up-and-down look that bothered you earlier. Now that it’s directed at you and not Yukiko, however, it has a different meaning, riles you up in an eager, impure way. Nothing else is said as he turns towards the weight rack, but the muscle in his cheek doesn’t release and his leg doesn’t stop bouncing until the photographer is kneeling on the floor to get a shot of him curling a dumbbell.

The ceiling becomes extremely interesting then and you spend the camera flashes and the “ooooh, great shot, just like that,”’s admiring the tiles above everyone, all 27, 28, 29, 30 of them. There aren’t any cuticles left on either of your hands by the time Bakugou sniffs, drops the weights to the floor with a sound that demands your attention—unfortunately; the photographer, bless him, whatever his name is, gets a wonderful shot of your boss’s abs as he uses the bottom of the tank to wipe the perspiration above his lip, over his eyebrows, down his neck.

You’re sure there’s a great shot of the white-blonde trail of hair leading from his belly button down into his shorts, because that becomes all too visible, too.

Oh my god, you think, horrified.

Or you think, you think; you actually say it, feeling sweat pool in all the uncomfortable spots against your skin when you realize everyone is looking at you, everyone; Bakugou’s eyebrows are raised expectantly, waiting for you to continue as he works his jaw.

“I have your headphones,” you say idiotically, as if that warrants the carnal thoughts digging through your brain, swiveling your backpack to hang in front of you for emphasis. “I—can he—does he want them? Or—I mean, do you, sir?”

Yukiko frowns apologetically, “I’m sorry, that would be like product placement and only certain brands were approved for the shoot.”

His eyes—dark, deep and dark—bounce between the two of you before he shrugs, “whatever, s’fine.”

“‘kay!” Synapses momentarily defecting, you give him a thumbs-up, smiling so hard that it hurts, until he snorts and turns around to rack the barbell.

Once again, Yukiko leans into you, flowery and smiling, and when she winks, you’re astounded by the sharp turn this situation has suddenly taken. It feels like only minutes ago you and Bakugou were eating in tense silence, too self-conscious to even look up from the designs of your plate. It feels like only minutes ago he was glaring at the badge around your neck, averting his eyes from your chest, elbowing you.

It feels like only minutes ago Yukiko was implying you were intertwined with Bakugou in some way no one else was.

I think he’s lucky to have someone that understands him to such an extent.

Understands him? No, you can hardly say that you do, why he works 100 hours a week, why he comes to the office early and stays late, why he won’t call Deku back, why he doesn’t find the time to go to Atami anymore.

Why going with you doesn’t have to be a work thing, but this does.

You don’t understand why he wants you to call him Bakugou, or why he cares if you still want to go to Backdraft’s charity event, why he tells you not to take the late train or why he gets mad if you work through lunch. You don’t understand what the hell any of this is, why he knows the kind of looks you give him and leans against you and says things like, “she’s with me”.

But you think he might understand you, to some extent.

Since you’ve known him, he’s always been too clever for his own good, too perceptive; he knows why you’re being pouty about Yukiko, notices when you shuck your jacket off, he had the locks changed on Kirishima’s door, though you’d never spoken a word to him about the effort it took to get inside, Bakugou knows—in the dark, lights off, during a meeting—when some cop has their hands around your wrist or resting on your back.

And he must know what you’re thinking, then, here, now, because he’s sitting on the bench, sweating, chest heaving, looking at you like—

—like he’s had enough, like he’s fed up with all the back and forth, the tug and pull. The looks, dancing around It, Kirishima and his hero sense, his precise timing. And you think you’ve had enough, too. You think you're anxious and willing, for whatever comes next.

“Alright, we have some good shots in here. Back to the makeup trailer, and then we can revisit U.A!”

It’s all been undone wordlessly, the ties holding you back, the wall you’ve both tried to build, and Bakugou stalks by you, eyeing you like the fox he is, like you’re the mouse caught in his trap. Before he’s fully out into the hall, he’s already pulling the tank up and over the expanse of his back and you have to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, because he knows; broader than you ever realized, embellished with pale scars, shoulders steady enough to hold the weight of Japan.

“Come on,” there’s a light hand at your elbow, manicured nails digging lightly into your sleeve as Yukiko tugs you from your trance. “I think you’ll enjoy the classroom set up.”

The corridors twist and turn again, your floral guide leading the way as she talks aimlessly about how many reps Bakugou can do—a secret she will keep to herself and away from the public, she promises with another wink. She’s kind and funny, easy to socialize with, good at making conversation; these recognitions are met with more compassion, more relief than jealousy.

As pointed as some of her questions may have seemed during the interview, it feels as if Bakugou is in good hands, that she won’t twist his words to make him out to be a jackass or a villain or someone the people shouldn’t look up to. All of her little glances to the cameraman; hopefully those footage cuts will be handled with care. You want to trust they will.

“He’s a natural, I’m surprised.” She comments, “He photographs very well.”

Not that you’ve spent any certain amount of time looking at Dynamight promo shots, but you’ve no reason to believe anything otherwise. “He’s beautiful, I think anyone would be hard pressed to get a bad photo from him.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, you’re clapping a hand over it, trying belatedly to slap them back between your lips.

This little confession is met uneventfully, Yukiko only sparing you a glance at the sound before continuing down the concrete. She’s an angel, you realize, a god-send. “I suppose that’s a good point, Nakano has to spend at least 20 minutes with me in order to get a good headshot.” Another admission that makes her seem less superior. “It helps that he’s confident. Anyone would be, with a body like that.”

“Yeah,” you hum, noncommittal, eager to get as far away from this topic as possible.

The doors she opens are steel, painted white, and—though you’ve never been in a U.A classroom—it looks exactly as you would expect. Desks organized in four rows of five, cupboard at the back, a green sheet on the wall that Yukiko says will be edited to look like the field outside the school, a wide chalkboard that has DYNAMIGHT in an explosive font that’s meant to look hand-written.

(You want to tell Yukiko, and the others entering the room, that Bakugou has nice penmanship, better than what’s displayed on the board, if that’s meant to be “his”. It’s not any kind of cursive calligraphy, but his is neat, clean, professional.)

(Suddenly you want to tell Yukiko a few things, that Bakugou is confident, that he’ll walk all over you if you let him, but you want her to understand that he’s considerate, thoughtful in a way that the public could never comprehend. You want to tell her that he means well, that he tries in all the ways he knows how, that he asks questions that aren’t so much questions as they are pleas, you want her to understand he doesn’t do shit he doesn’t want to do.

You want to tell her that he’s made you accustomed to the heat in which he constantly burns, that his fingertips have left marks on the back of your neck, that he’s calloused you.)

And it must be written all over your face, these unsaid things that are bursting at your seams, because she smiles the same soft smile she had before you and Bakugou parted, like she understands, like she knows. A manicured hand squeezes your shoulder and then she’s exposing to you the purposeful look she gives the cameraman from the diner, a look so familiar, so pained and open you have to gasp. There’s a ring around his finger, you realize, but not around hers.

“Yukiko,—” you breathe, though there isn’t anything else that comes from you, there isn’t anything else you know how to say.

A sheen of tears fills her eyes as she shrugs, powdered mask never betraying her as she smiles complacently. “He looks great, don’t you think?”

This unspoken thing that has been laid out before you has you so shaken, so surprised that you don’t even realize she’s talking about Bakugou, that he’s arrived for class until she gestures to him with the hand that has led you here.

(He does, he does look great, you realize, he always looks great.)

They’ve dressed him in a school uniform, one that must be an oversized twin to whatever he wore in highschool—or was supposed to wear; already, he’s tugging so hard at the red tie around his neck, you fear he’ll yank his own head off.

An instinctive side of you, Miss Customer Service™, is meeting him in the middle of the classroom, waving his hands away so you can release him from his leash. “Stop thrashing,” you chide, receiving a grunt in response as he peers down at you. The starched shirt he’s wearing underneath his blazer is only buttoned up to the middle of his chest, giving you another view of his collarbones, of his clavicle, of the tendons in his throat.

When he swallows, his Adam’s apple absorbs your attention, hands halting in their movements as his own come down between you. You feel his fingers lightly brushing against your stomach, deftly working to undo the belt around his pants and all the blood in your veins stops—

—because what the fuck is he—

“Didn’t wear this stupid thing, either.” Bakugou mutters, eyes black in the studio lights surrounding you both. The clinking of the pin against the frame has you looking down, forehead just barely grazing the white-blonde hair lightly dusting his chest as he pulls the leather from around his waist in such a provocative fashion that you’re forced to—

You have to step away from him, the loose ends of his tie falling against his shirt as one of the desks digs into your back. It must look like he’s shoved you or startled you somehow, it must. Dynamight, your boss, Bakugou—he’s a sight, with his shirt half-open, tie undone, holding a belt in his hands as his pants sag down around his hips the way they always do, the way he prefers.

(It’s longing, you realize, that look.)

(It’s want.)

The photographer, Maybe-Named-Nakano—or is that the name of the diner cameraman?—steps in, a reminder that you two aren’t the only ones in the world, you and Bakugou, by instructing him to lean against the chalkboard lazily. Next to his name, which he insists ain’t really mine because it’s missing the “Lord” and “Explosion” and “Murder God”; just as you expected, just as you feared, his blood-lust gaze never leaves your face.

For some reason, you want to tell him about Yukiko, about what she’s shown you, about what she’s implied. The urge fills you so suddenly that you think you’ll explode if you don’t tell him right now, if you don’t grab him by the free collar of his shirt and shake him, meet the wistful eyes that have been ripping you to shreds all day, all week, for the past few months, longer than you can remember.

It feels like a warning somehow, this thing she has given you, that if the feeling inside you doesn’t find its way out of you and into him, you’ll be the assistant in the puffy coat, sitting off to the side, drinking a milkshake as Dynamight gets interviewed, as he twirls a silver ring on his finger because you didn’t have the fucking guts to just say—

“Fuck this,” Bakugou snaps, breathless, arms winding back to tear the gray blazer off. It makes you blink, this outburst, and you look at him as he looks at you, as he looks at Maybe-Nakano, at Yukiko, before tossing the jacket on the teacher’s desk in front of him. “I’m fuckin’ done,” he spits, already half-way out of the room.

Uh oh.

“Wait,” you call, though it’s too late, “You—I—,” instead, you just face all the raised eyebrows and the few fed up frowns (and those instantly put you on the offensive). “Sorry, I just—give me a minute! Be right back!” Miss Customer Service™ goes scrambling out into the hall, head whipping left and right as she tries to discern where her Hero(!) could have stormed off too. The only thing you see lingering in the carcass of the arena is the makeup trailer, though you hadn’t heard his feet on the steps or the slam of the door.

The berating doesn’t stop as you hurry across the lobby; what the hell is wrong with you? Clearly something has upset Bakugou, your boss, and you were too busy with your head up your ass to realize what’s ignited him. The day has been stressful enough for him, that much you managed to stay aware of, but somewhere in the costume change and makeup retouch, his mood has taken a downward spiral.

There are several jumbled apologies swirling around in your mouth as you bound up to the trailer, knocking once, then twice, before yanking open the door; if he’s that pissed, he wouldn’t have opened it for you anyway.

“Bakugou?” Empty; your voice bounces around the vacant space. It’s nothing particularly spectacular: a few vanities set up, one on the end near a sink in the event they need to wash or style his hair. The floor is carpeted and the lean-back chair looks comfortable, there’s a muted television in the ceiling corner playing videos from the Sports Illustrated YouTube channel.

God, you can’t imagine how you look, burdened by the emotional rollercoaster you can’t seem to dismount from. When you step up to the mirror, you see the bags under your eyes, not as well hidden by your concealer as you thought at 6 this morning, and only growing darker since then. However you’d attempted to style your hair is alright, not perfect, but it looks like you at least put some effort into it. All at once you are reminded of Yukiko, insecurity rising without your permission, but the shine in her professional eyes fights it off.

The door yanks open all too obviously, the same way he does his office door, his car door, and Bakugou stops on the steps as he stares at you.

Waiting, for you to say something, for him to say something, for either of you to crack.

“Hey,” you breathe, the tension in your shoulders dispersing at the sight of him. The two of you have been together all day, but it feels as if it’s been a while, too long, since you’ve talked to him, just him (just you and Bakugou). “Is everything okay?”

He’s still standing on the steps, hand on the door, glaring at you. The closer you look, you realize his teeth are tearing up the skin inside his mouth, the tie is still clenched tight in his hand, leg bouncing just enough. He’s thinking, too hard.

“Bakugou?”

The slam of the door echoes off the concrete in the lobby, making you jump as he crosses the few steps between you and him (his legs, unending, long and powerful beneath his loose slacks). A myriad of words splutters out of you, none of them quite formed or making sense, when he grabs the front of your top, forcing you back against the vanity, forcing you closer as he crowds against you. The smell of his cologne is exhilarating—expensive, like orchids and spice and comfort—and it just barely masks the lingering sweet smell he’s never without.

“What’rey’do—”

“You’re driving me fucking insane!” It’s like he’s had enough, like he’s fed up with all the back and forth, the tug and pull.

(You think you’ve had enough, too. You think you're anxious and willing, for whatever comes next.)

And then you both erupt, all at once; he presses his mouth to yours (hot, chaste, close-lipped), one hand moving from your shirt to the back of your neck to keep you flush against him. A small sound of surprise and sudden want has him curling into you, pushing you further into the edge of the table until you have to wince out a whiny “ow”.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he grunts and it does something to you, has you scrambling to sit back on the vanity, opening your thighs wide, allowing him to crash so close that he chokes on his gasp. You aren’t sure if he’s aware of it, but his hips are knocking against the wood, straining to grind in tandem with yours.

Back against the mirror, you do your best to shift so that a hand can go up your shirt, splaying out against your ribs, just under your bra, but the table shakes with how aggressive he’s becoming, how unhinged now that the line has been crossed, and things clatter to the floor. Miss Customer Service™ is an idiot, one that turns her head to see bottles spilling onto the carpet, cotton pads and Q-tips strewn out amongst makeup wipes and brushes—a wet bite to your neck has you squealing, unintentionally rutting against the hard length of him as you return your attention back to the man between your thighs.

“—fucking damn it,” Bakugou groans, slanting his head so his mouth can capture yours entirely, parting your lips, tongue stroking yours in a way that has a moan slipping from you. “You’re—”

You’ve no idea what he means to say, but you’re too dizzy to care, agreeing with a breathy, “yeah” that sounds so pornographic, it has you freezing, silently fighting off the embarrassment that threatens to ruin the mood. It seems to spur him on, to ignite him, teeth meeting teeth as he growls like it isn’t enough, like it isn’t close enough, like he’s not getting what he needs.

One of his hands leaves your face to work on the buttons of his shirt, furiously trying to undo them while kissing you so deep, so hungry, but he pulls back to look down at his chest when he barely manages to get one open, “fuck!”

The sight of him so flushed, lips spit-slick and chest heaving like he’d just finished 27, 28, 29, 30 curls has you tightening your thighs around him, a hand going to the table to inch you forward to where you need the pressure of him the most. The look he sends you is threatening, lips curling back to bare his canines like the feral brute that he is, that you need in this moment, but it only eggs you on. You want him to give you that look and many more, new ones, heady ones, the kind that will sear into your eyelids.

“‘m gonna fuckin’ lose it,” he warns, buttons clinking against the mirror as he yanks the fabric apart, tearing the seams and tossing it to the ground.

“What does that look like?” It’s a little humiliating, how out of breath you are just from kissing him; you can’t imagine how it would be if the two of you actually— “Why don’t you show—me!”

Bakugou’s hands cup around the backs of your knees before you can finish, drawing you as close to the edge of the table as he can while rutting against you, hard. A sigh of bliss spills from his mouth into yours as he reconnects his lips, and one of your hands goes to his stomach, shuddering at how tightly it tenses under your touch. After spying it earlier, you can’t help it; he huffs through his nose when you follow the trail of hair underneath his bellybutton to the top of his briefs.

“You’re—oh, fuck—” He’s coming undone in the best way, hand shaking as it slips back into place behind your neck (his fingers are searing, leaving prints on your skin that burn down to your muscle and bone, that brand you), and you can’t believe this is happening, you can’t believe this is actually, finally, happening.

The two of you have put it off for too long, tried too hard to avoid this thing that’s been threatening to carbonize you and now the flame is wild, out of control, consuming you both.

“Bakugou—”

“Katsuki,” he rasps, he pleads, “jus’—you can call me by my name,” his nose nudges yours softly, taking you back to his office, your fingers stroking over his eyelids, him nodding urgently as you said what he wanted—needed—to hear.

You arch forward into him, chest to chest, sternum to sternum, bone to bone, and travel your hands up to his neck, to scratch against his scalp. It draws a groan from deep within his chest and he succumbs, leaning against you so that he can kiss you with significance, with purpose; it’s slow but deliberate, desperate, saying all the things he’s unable to.

“Katsuki,” you say, you yield, and you don’t care that the two of you are in a makeup trailer in a stadium rented out to Sports Illustrated; you don’t care if he’s your boss and you’re his assistant; you don’t care if Kirishima knows, or Mina, or Yukiko or Maybe-Nakano or the old woman from the gyudon place; if he burns, so will you.

Because he’s gotten you accustomed to the heat, because he’s calloused you.

“I don’t want to be Yukiko,” it’s whispered against his lips and he slows down the tiniest bit, trying to listen to whatever you’re saying, “watching you from the sidelines because I couldn’t say it when I needed to.”

Katsuki can’t know what you’re talking about, has no idea of what was revealed to you, but he shakes his head slightly, nipping your lip. “What sidelines? There ain’t any sidelines.”

When he tugs at your visitor badge—the horrible, rotten, loathsome thing—you grin so hard it hurts. “I’m with you?”

His hips rock into yours unhurried, as if you have all the time in the world (just you and Katsuki), and a breath stutters out in the space between you. “‘s’right.”

And then the bubble pops.

“Is everything alright in there?” Comes a voice outside the trailer, and you strain your ears desperately, pleading to the universe that it is not, somehow, Kirishima Eijirou. “We heard some crashing.”

Yukiko—the grin in her voice translates through the door.

Oh my god, you think, you say, horrified. Your hand slaps over your mouth as Katsuki rolls his eyes, stilling his hips but not yet leaning from you. When she knocks again, he grits his teeth and barks,

“We’re come—we’ll be out in a minute, damn it!”

The fit of laughter you devolve into has him scowling, fingers pinching your sides as he grumbles at you to shaddup, though his words are laced with fatigue; neither of you have the strength not to fall into whatever this is.

“‘m never doing this interview shit again, got it?” he groans, grabbing a stray button from the vanity to scrutinize.

Giving a playful salute, you say, “sir, yes, sir.”

Katsuki glowers, rolling his shoulders in that way that looks like it hurts, in that way that looks mouthwatering—and he knows it, by the smirk growing on his face. “If you keep that sir shit up, we’re gonna be in here longer than a minute.”

In your fuzzy boots, you sweaty toes curl, biting your lip to keep from smiling as he retrieves his ruined shirt from the ground—oh, god, how were you gonna explain that to Maybe-Nakano? “Is that a promise?”

His eyes widen furiously and he pinches you again, trapping you back against the mirror as his nose bumps yours, “are you. Trying. To drive me. Crazy.”

And it’s not so much a question as it is a confession.

—

8:13 A

The photos of Dynamight are, as expected, impeccable.

Yukiko had forwarded you a few of the unedited shots through her official email address—and she had also sent several winking emojis through her personal, which she had given to you not long after the shoot.

There are only three sample photos, stamped with an embossed, Sports Illustrated watermark that takes up the majority of the picture, but you’ve been peeking at them whenever Kirishima isn’t incidentally prowling past your office. He looks amazing, changed, grown, in the untouched versions, with scars peeking out on his chest and across his nose, the stubble he refused to let them shave shadowing his chin, the deep, permanent crease between his eyebrows—it’s all him, Dynamight, Katsuki, exactly as he is.

The wooden blinds in his office are pulled open, flooding your office with the fluorescent light burning through his, and when you look up to give him a wave (that he won’t return), his eyes are already on you—as they always seem to be, these days.

Alright already, he means, get your ass in here.

The low heels you're wearing today don’t require a clasp, so slipping them on is all too easy, and you peer out of your office warily—your clipboard and the folder with the photos hugged tight to your chest—while searching for any pesky redheads. When the coast seems clear, you hurry to round the corner from your office into his, leaning back against the door—which you realize has a bright green sticky note that says FUCK OFF, SHITTY HAIR—holding your breath until it’s safely shut.

Your boss is waiting, chin in hand, one ash eyebrow raised.

“Good morning,” you beam, waving the manila folder like a prize before setting it on his desk. “I can’t wait to show you these, they turned out great—”

It’s flicked back across the desk at you, “Not interested.”

“Aww, c’mon!” You whine, shoulders slumping, “don’t you want to see the fruits of your labor?”

“Decline.”

Tapping a pen against your lips, you narrow your eyes at him, biting back a smile when he frowns. “I’ll find a way to show you, somehow, anyway! Deku called at 2:37 yesterday—”

“Decline.”

“And he did not ask you to lunch, y’old grouch.” You smirk when his lip twitches. “I just wanted to gloat that he called and asked to speak to me—”

“What the hell did he say?”

Katsuki looks bewildered; you’re in the elevator, you’re raising the sack.

“Uh, sir, are you asking about my personal conversations with your fellow—”

“I’m not fuckin’ around, what did he say?”

He’s in the corner, hissing and spitting, but you’ve still got him in your sights.

The pen taps against your lips again and you hum, “I don’t really think it’s appropriate that I divulge that information to you, sir, but if you’d like to call him—”

“I know what you’re doing, y’little brat.” His chair flies into the file cabinet behind him with how quick he rises to his feet. “And it ain’t gonna work. When I want to call him, I will.”

Shit, eluded you again. Sorry Deku, you think, maybe next time.

“Okay,” you shrug, checking the box on your clipboard, “Best Jeanist called, he wanted to congratulate you on hitting the number four spot.”

He stands straighter, suddenly looking awkward, out of place, that he’s been acknowledged. “Well, it’s about fuckin’ time.”

Clearing your throat, you lean a little more into the door, keeping your eyes trained on a not-entirely-real to do on your list. “And your romantic partner, she would like to congratulate you also.”

“Hah? My—” Katsuki’s eyes narrow suspiciously at you as he comes around the front of his desk, taking measured, predatory steps as he looms closer. “Better be something other than—”

“Tuna-mayo, I know,” you pretend to read another Post-It before dropping the act, smiling up at him as his eyes dart down to your lips. “It definitely is.”

“When ‘m I gettin’ this congratulations?”

“Later, when certain heroes aren’t in the same—”

But Katsuki doesn’t care, relying on the note tacked to the front of his door as he captures your lips with his own. The hoodie he’s wearing is making him entirely too warm, spreading to you when his hands come up to hold your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks in such an affectionate way, you think to hell with Kirishima knowing.

The clipboard clatters lightly to the floor as you wrap your arms around his waist, hands coming up to rest in the comfort of his back (broad, scarred, steady enough to hold the weight of Japan). He groans lowly when you scratch him through the fabric, though it is more a sound of contentment than lust, and you giggle against him as he pulls back to peck you once, twice, three times.

“Sir,” you try to pout, but your lips don’t listen, “this is entirely inappropriate for—”

“Cut the sir shit, or else.”

“I am never, ever going to cut the sir shit, I’m sorry, I just can’t.” Your arms tighten around him when he tries to pull away, scowling down at you.

“Then you’re gonna get fucking railed in here one day, and I don’t want to hear shit about—and don’t you ask me if that’s a goddamn promise, ‘cause it is!” Katsuki goes to kiss you again, just to shut you up since you can’t stop giggling into the fabric of his chest. “Don’t fuckin’ laugh at—”

There is a wild banging on the glass window of your office, where the blinds are still open and revealing.

Where Kirishima stands, grin lighting up his smug face brighter than you think you’ve ever seen it. Just as he gives a giant, rewarding thumbs up to the both of you, Katsuki tears the door of his own office open, shouting out a raging—

“That’s it!”

—before Eijirou’s wild laughter can be heard echoing off the high-vaulted ceilings of the agency. The sound makes you laugh, feeling so full in your chest at the familiarity of it—Red Riot’s sunshine, Dynamight’s inferno—and it has you wondering if maybe you’ve been inside this bubble a lot longer than you realized, if maybe you’ve been inside it all along.

Thank you for the tag :) @dabihawksluva

1) who is the better cook?

Me but it depends tbh

2) who takes longer showers?

If alone then dabi but if together then 🙈

3) who is more organised?

Dabi

4) who spends more money?

Me 😫

5) who sleeps in more?

Dabi

6) who is the better driver?

Me I think. I don’t have a licence yet but I feel like dabi would speed a lot

7) who is most stubborn?

Dabi

8) who is more romantic?

Um I’d say both? I have a bunch of ideas but I feel like if I said them out loud then dabi would actually do it?

9) who is more laid back?

Me

10) who is more likely to ask for direction?

Google maps has been my bestie recently

11) who is the blanket hog?

during the day me and at night dabi. I can’t sleep without a fan regardless of the weather 💀

12) who is more likely to lose their phone?

Dabi most likely. I have my phone on me majority of the times so hard to lose

13) who initiated the first kiss?

Dabi 🫦

14) who fell in love first?

Me

15) who planned the honeymoon?

Dabi. He had a few things he … wanted to try out so I left him in charge

thank you so much for the tag eliza @postwarlevi 💕

i thought i'd make a new post so it doesn't get too long 🥲

anyway here are the answers for milk x dabi :3

1 who is the better cook?

me lmao

as much as i hate cooking it's better than eating burnt [whatever the black mess sticking to the pot was supposed to be]

2 who takes longer showers?

i'm pretty quick with showers but i love soaking in my bathtub xD

for showers specifically it's def dabi esp after he used his quirk a lot

3 who is more organized?

eeeh i'm pretty organized but he has a lot less stuff than i do so it's easier to keep track of everything

4 who generally spends more money?

me 🥲 (don't look at my genshin account)

5 who likes sleeping in more?

both. we're night owls and we'll sleep in whenever we can

6 who is the better driver?

me bc poor baby gets motion sick

7 who is the most stubborn?

both of us can be very stubborn but considering his over a decade long revenge plan i'd say dabi

8 who is the most romantic?

neither of us xD

he tried one time and it went as follows:

dabi: *tried to set up a romantic evening* milk: that's really nice of you but you didn't have to do that. i don't care about that kinda stuff. dabi: oh thank fuck. i hated every second of it.

9 who is more laid back?

i think i am but it depends on the situation i'd say

10 who is more likely to ask for directions?

i get lost constantly so me lmao

if we're together and need to ask for directions he's the one asking tho (i force him bc my anxiety acts up around ppl)

11 who is the blanket hog?

i would be but he pushes them off the bed in his sleep

12 who is more likely to lose their phone?

prob him. he just forgets about it since he doesn't use it all that much

13 who initiated the first kiss?

dabi. fucker just went for it (mostly) as a joke

14 who fell in love first?

as much as i hate to admit it - me. i develop feelings too easily 🥲

15 who planned the honeymoon?

me. we went to mcdonald's and it was great :3

tagging: @dabislittlemouse @dabislittlebeaniebaby @shadowsandshapes @mossy-opal @shockinglysubmissive

and anyone who sees this <3

- 🥛

❝ 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 ❞

❝ SATORU GOJO HAS LOVED YOU SINCE YOU WERE KIDS - HE’S GONNA MAKE YOU HIS ! ❞

✧ series: call it what you want (part one)

✧ pairing: younger!satoru gojo x reader

✧ summary: satoru gojo fell in love with you from the moment he met you at eight years old. and now, in his twenties, when he sees you again after you move back to be closer to your aunt and your cousin, suguru, he knows — he has to make you his by the end of the summer.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, eventual smut, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, fake dating, gojo is four years younger than you, rich boy!gojo, suguru is your little cousin, very fluffy, slow burn, like they don't even kiss, but they will :), love at first sight for gojo, naoya is your ex,

✧ w/c: 15,285

“Never thought we’d be doing this, did you?” Satoru muttered in your ear, breath fanning hot against your neck, “be a little quieter, sweetheart, otherwise Suguru might hear us,” 

You whine, but his fingers drag against your kiss bitten lips, until the digits slide into your mouth, as his hips rut against yours. And you didn’t think you’d ever be in position with your cousin’s best friend — pressed to the doorway of your apartment where Suguru could walk in at anytime. 

This isn't what you thought would happen when you invited him over to talk. This isn't what you thought would happen when you agreed to pretend to date him. This isn't what you thought about -- but how could you think about anything with the way his breath felt against your skin?

He loved you -- loved you since you were kids, and he couldn't let you go, not like this. Not when he had you.

Not that you even wanted him to.

You didn’t think you’d shiver as he pressed open mouthed kisses down your neck, tongue flicking against your burning skin. You never thought you’d want to moan his name, like you had, far too many times. 

“You may have never thought about this, Princess, but I sure have,” he presses a kiss to your jaw, the wet sounds your skin slapping together, as he reaches around your body, pinned on your stomach to the mattress, to rub at your swollen clit, drawing a muffled cry from your lips, “far too many times,” 

In fact, Satoru Gojo knew exactly the first time he fell for you. It was the day he first met you. 

“Be my girlfriend!” 

It was less of a question and more of a statement.  

One declared in the doorway of your room, with flushed cheeks and flowers in hand. And they weren’t your cheeks or hands, but your baby cousin’s best friend. 

The first time Satoru Gojo asked you out was at the ripe old age of eleven, but truth be told he had held this crush since the moment he saw you when he had come over to Suguru’s house for the first time, almost three years ago now.

Your fingers brushed his as you gently took the flowers, “Satoru, you know I care about you, but not like that. You’re better off seeing other people your own age, ok?” You smiled at him, the same way you always did, a slight pout on his lips as he nodded, saying nothing more. 

And you knew you were right — there was no fucking question that you were right. He was eleven and you were fifteen — an age gap untenable and unreachable.

But now—

“Long time no see,” Satoru said, lips curled in an all too cocky smile that you couldn’t believe belonged to the same blushing kid who confessed so earnestly back then, “it’s been too long,” your name rolled off his tongue with a familiarity that was the same but all too different. 

But he wasn’t a kid anymore — far from it. It had been over a decade since you had seen him, as the summer he confessed was the last one you had spent at your aunt and uncle’s home. And you and your family moved overseas shortly after that, and you didn’t return until now, four years after you graduated college, for a job offer you couldn’t pass up. 

And you didn’t realize that so much time had passed. 

But he did. 

“Eh? What do you mean you can’t help me unpack today, Sugu?” you hold the phone between your ear and shoulder, as you rip open the tape on yet another box you had hauled into the proper room to unpack, “you told me—“ 

“I told you I’d help you unpack if I had time. But now, I’m stuck at work until the evening,” you heard your cousin sigh over the phone, “But don’t worry — you’ll have help—“ 

You’re too busy trying to rip the tape off as you rip into Suguru to notice the door creaking open behind you, “Suguru, I swear to god if you’re sending a total random stranger to help me—“ 

“Not a total stranger,” a voice says behind you, and your head whips around so quick, you nearly drop your phone, gripping it, “unless not seeing me for years makes me one,” 

A mess of white locks and sunglasses tilted downward to reveal a hint of his cerulean eyes that you could never forget — but still, you barely recognize the man that has them. Even if the grin on his lips with the lilting sound of his voice told you that he very much recognized you. 

“Satoru?” Suguru’s explanation falls on deaf ears, as Satoru’s eyes don’t bother to take in your new place, all too focused on you, hands slipping into his pockets, “you—“ 

He steps forward and plucks the phone from your fingers, “Yo Suguru, I told you it’d be better as a surprise,” and you gape at him, as his grin curls wider, “yeah, yeah, I didn’t take the phone to have you lecturing me — I get enough of that from my dad,” and Suguru says something that makes Satoru’s cheeks flush, and he hangs up, before his attention returns to you, “so, shall we unpack?” 

A few minutes turns into hours of hauling boxes inside and then unpacking them. It’s relatively silent, surprisingly for Satoru. The silence was a far cry from the boy who couldn’t shut up for two seconds, telling you about the test he aced or something stupid that one of his classmates said or asking you about your day. 

Instead you watch him haul boxes like they were filled with styrofoam and air from the truck outside, and then lift his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, a flash of his abs shiny with perspiration. Your eyes dart away, suddenly incredibly fascinated with the contents of this box of kitchenware you opened up, cheeks burning, wondering when did the little boy you looked after become a man? 

“Princess, where do you want this?” Satoru lifts a box, and you can’t see the writing on it from the angle he picks it up. 

“Do you still have to call me Princess?” The embarrassing nickname your aunt had given you still stuck — the one that Suguru would always tease you with, while Satoru’s decidedly lacked any malice, “my aunt only called me that because she wanted a girl so bad,” 

“Is that why Suguru is growing out his hair now? Trying to fulfill her dreams?” You snort, as you walk over to him, “it still fits you regardless of the reason Princess,” 

You’re close, even with the box providing glancing around the box until you find it scrawled on the box underneath his arm — his very…muscular arm, veins bulging and muscles tense underneath the weight of the box—

“So this is stuff for my bedroom, you can just leave it on the floor, it’s right over here,” you lead him over and he places down the box, “I think that’s mostly it, I’m sorry Suguru made you come down here to help,” 

“You don’t need to apologize, I wanted to see you,” and you smile softly, “it’s been too long,” 

“It really has,” and your neck strains a little with how he towered over you, “can't believe you’re the same little boy I used to babysit,” 

And he rolls his eyes, “Suguru would say it’s arguable I could still use a babysitter,” and you chuckle, “I’m not so little anymore, but I wouldn’t mind if you were my babysitter,” 

Was he? No. No, he wasn’t. 

Right? 

“Stop fucking around,” you shake your head, as you head into the kitchen, “do you want to wash up, and then maybe I’ll order take out to thank you?” You’re turning on the faucet. 

You don’t notice the slight pout on his lips, one he schools into a smile as you glance back at him, blinking as you find him shirtless. 

Fuck. How was it possible for a person to be this gorgeous? Sweat slid down his body, slipping between the dips of his chest and ridges of his abs until disappearing into the fabric of his pants, or somewhere hidden— 

You look away — “I’d rather take a shower. Do you mind?” And you force your voice not to come out a squeak, busying yourself with washing your hands, just so you don’t have to look. 

“Yeah, of course, the bathroom is just around the corner. There should already be fresh towels inside,” and yet his steps grow closer, as you glance back, “uh—“ 

He’s still fucking shirtless. 

“Instead of take out, can we grab dinner somewhere? You haven’t been back to the area recently so it’s a good chance to show you around,” 

“You really don’t have to—“ 

“I want to, Princess,” he cuts you off, reaching around you to grab a water bottle off the counter, “get ready while I clean up?” 

And you bite your lip, “Okay, okay,” and he grins back, a glimpse of the little boy that beams at you when you’d praise him for a high mark on a test. 

“It’s a date!” And he’s off, disappearing into the bathroom, and you’re left there, wondering — what had you gotten yourself into? 

~~~

“So,” Satoru lifts a spoonful of his dessert — a fruit parfait with a sugar coma inducing amount of whipped cream — and you were almost relieved to see some things about him hadn’t changed. How many times had you scolded him as a kid not to eat so much sugar — and he still hasn’t kicked the habit. You bit back your chuckle, as he spoke, “did you get dumped?” 

You almost choke on your drink, as you splutter for a moment, before glaring at him. 

And yet the more they stayed the same. 

“I see you’re as subtle as you were when you were 11,” you mutter, setting your drink down, as you wipe your mouth with a napkin. Satoru tilts his head, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. 

“So you dumped him?” He leans back, “I didn’t know you had such high standards,” your cheeks burn, distracting yourself with becoming enthralled in the menu — Satoru had dragged you to a hole in the wall barbecue place (after your insistence that you didn’t want anything fancy after unpacking for hours). 

“How did you know I broke—“ and you cut yourself off at the obviousness of the answer, slapping another piece of meat on the grill, the sizzle punctuated by your words, “I’m going to murder him,” 

“Well, you’re in the right place to dispose of his body,” Satoru licks the spoon clean, before sticking it back in the whipped cream, “why did you break up with him?” 

You shrugged, “I realized he was a narcissistic prick who only wanted me as a trophy,” and Satoru whistled lowly,  “I’m done with dating losers. And dating in general,” 

“I don’t think you should give up on dating just because you had a few bad experiences,” his voice grows soft, “you deserve to be happy and taken care of, even if you have bad taste,” 

And you pout, “I don’t have-“ and he tilts his head, and you lift a few pieces of meat from the grill onto your plate, tongs clattering slightly as you set it down, “fuck, I do,” you groan, shaking your head, “that’s why I had to get out of there. Just needed a fresh start you know?” 

“Sometimes that’s just what you need,” and your lips curl. 

“Sounds like you speak from experience,” and his eyes flit up to yours, gleaming in the low light of the restaurant, cerulean irises catching the drops of light like comets across his gaze. 

“Don’t know what you mean, Princess,” he busies himself with his parfait, and you scoff. 

“Come on, half the girls in this place are glaring at me while I sit here, the waitress has been flirting with you, and now they had brought you out the biggest dessert that I’m starting to wonder if they even serve it here,” he spares a glance around, several gasps from giggling girls who avert their gazes, before his eyes are back on you. 

“Jealous?” You roll your eyes — he wasn’t lacking for ego at least. 

“More like wondering what a guy like you is still doing single,” and he sighs, leaning back, with a tilt of his head. 

“You sure are curious about me,” and his gaze softens for a moment, while he picks at his dessert, scooping the strawberry off the top, “there’s only really been one person that I really wanted,” his tone grew more serious, lips in a bittersweet smile, “but she’s never really looked me like that,” 

“Don’t tell me it’s one of those things where she rejected you and you have to have her now,” and he chuckles, shaking his head, gaze far too wistful. 

His words are slow, as slow as the ice melting in your glass, “It’s more of if I don’t have her, I don’t want anyone else,” and your heart squeezed — would you ever have someone care so deeply for you? 

“Then why haven’t you said anything?” you picked up another piece of meat off the grill, “anyone would be lucky to be with you,” and you meant it — he was blunt, but also kind, sweet, not to mention rich and you flushed as you thought back to his hiked up shirt — good looking. 

But he only stares back at you, tilting his head — expression unreadable, an emotion you can’t grasp before it’s hidden under his gaze’s tempered waters, “Are you included, Princess?” 

There’s a pause, as you almost chuckle, but your laugh dying in your throat at his expression — that same smirk, but the way he looks at you stops your mind in its tracks — only one word rolling around in your head: what? 

And your brow furrows, your lips parting in a response you don’t have — only questions, ones you don’t get to ask as Suguru slides in beside you. 

“Sorry, I’m late,” Suguru sighs, the moment broken, and you don’t catch Satoru’s expression, too distracted by your cousin, “got stuck in a staff meeting,” 

“I told you academia is hell,” you elbow him, and Suguru rolls his eyes, as he shrugs off his suit coat, “were these meetings the reasons you got held up or are they just an excuse so you didn’t have to help me?” 

“Who said it can’t be both?” And he earns a smack to his shoulder, your attention turning back to Satoru, his gaze fixed outside. 

“You’re unusually quiet, Satoru” Suguru kicks him lightly under the table, “not like you,” 

He looks at you first — and you grasp the emotion he had hid before — what was it? Sadness? Longing? — right before it’s gone again as he slides his mask back on, grinning as he always does. 

“What can I say? The view outside is much better than your ugly mug,” and the two of them begin to bicker, and you lean back in your seat, a smile pulling at your lips, even as you glanced back at Satoru. 

And now you wondered if you would ever get an answer to your questions. Or maybe, you sipped your drink, it was better not to have it answered at all. 

~~~

Satoru Gojo was eleven years old when he fell in love with you. It was from the moment he met you. 

And there hasn’t been anyone else since. 

He supposed it was inevitable in a way — since Suguru was his best friend, and his first, and when his family finally decided to enroll him in school, instead opting for private tutors, for the social aspect of making connections, of course. Because what else was your eleven year old son good for then helping to make future business deals easier? 

But Satoru made friends with the one person who couldn’t help their deals — Suguru Geto, one of the only scholarship students in the entire school. And Satoru’s want to avoid spending his days with servants or on the rare occasion, dealing with his dad’s lecture for getting in another ‘disagreement’ with one of his classmates (that ended with that classmate crying after Satoru evaded his punch and kicked him in the shin), ended up with him at Suguru’s place. A lot. 

Then soon enough, he was spending most of his summers there too. And that’s when he saw you. 

“You said your cousin’s here? Is she nice?” Satoru asked, taking off his shoes, as Suguru shut the door behind them. 

“She is, except when she’s being a pain about homework. And when she gets mad, she reminds me of my mom,” Suguru grimaced, as he walked past him, calling out for you. You rounded the corner, book in hand, and Satoru’s eyes grew wide. 

“Hey Sugu, you brought a friend?” You walked over, still clad in your high school uniform, before introducing yourself, and offering him a warm smile, “it’s nice to meet you. I’m Suguru’s cousin,” 

Satoru didn’t know what this feeling was — and he wouldn’t until a few more summers passed, and his hormones kicked in — but all he knew was that he would do anything to see you smile like that at him again. And he did — he would spend as much time as he could with you — talking to you about a test he aced, about something funny that happened at school, or even ratting on Suguru about what he was up to (earning him many knocks to the head by his best friend). But every time you smiled or laughed, it was worth it — worth every second he spent counting down the time to summer break so he could see you again. 

But he didn’t know his seconds would run out so soon — and he only learned one random day going home with Suguru, from a snippet of a conversation he had with his mom. 

“I know, I know she’s coming next week,” Satoru’s interest hadn’t been peaked by Suguru’s conversation until then, because he knew exactly who they were talking about. After all, you always came right at the start of break, and finally he could see you again — and maybe this time, he could tell you how he felt. 

“I know, I know it’s her last time here so it has to be perfect,” and Satoru’s head snapped back to Suguru, last time? “I will,” and Suguru hangs up, a sigh on his lips, “my mom is being so annoying about my cousin. So what it’s her last time staying with us? It doesn’t mean we have to—“ 

“What do you mean it’s her last time?” Satoru kept his tone steady and slow, even as his heart thrummed against his ribs as if it was a xylophone, “she always comes every summer—“ 

“Of high school,” Suguru corrected him, “she is applying to university this year — most of them are abroad, and it seems likely she won’t be back in Japan, not for a while,” Suguru continued to complain on their way back to his place, but all Satoru could do was think about you. 

It was your last summer with him. His last chance to make a move, to be something more than your younger cousin’s friend. His last chance to make you see him as a man, not a kid. 

He had to confess, his fingers curled into fists, before the end of the summer. He would make you his girlfriend — one way or another. 

And he did confess back then, Satoru thought, as he picked up a photo, wrinkled and yellowed at the corners, a picture that Suguru’s mom had taken of you and him the summer you had left. A candid of him and you looking at each other — one that Suguru’s mom had slipped to him with a knowing smile and a wink (one that had mortified him as a teenager). 

He was always looking at you — no matter where he was, his eyes always found your form, a magnet to its opposite pole, and he didn’t know how to stop you from drawing him in. It had been over a decade and he still couldn’t. 

He stared at your smiling face, the very same face that had looked at you with a smile fading to confusion this evening. He had gotten so close to asking you — to telling you how he felt — and he flips to the next picture, a scowl on his face as a picture of him and Suguru with his smug smile stared back at him. If only fucking Suguru hadn’t interrupted. 

He shook his head, flipping back to his picture of you. This wasn’t the summer and he wasn’t a kid anymore. And you weren’t out of his reach, bound for another country across the ocean. No, you were here — only a short drive away. 

And he made a promise to himself — he would get you to fall in love with him, before the end of this summer. 

~~~

You hate first days. 

“Did you see the guy waiting outside?” one woman whispered not so softly as you passed by. 

“Yeah looks like he’s waiting for her,” the other’s lips formed a frown but only to hide her smirk. 

From the time you were a kid, your first day of school was something you had all the time from your family moving around. You were always the new kid — the one who would be met with wide eyes and curiosity, only to be tossed aside a few days later. 

But this was a fresh start that you had wanted — a new job far away from where you had started, with new responsibilities — a first day you had looked forward to, until it went so downhill. 

And it was all your ex’s fault. 

You texted Suguru — is it too early to quit on the first day? 

He replies, well it’s been four hours, think you’ve lasted through one of my dad’s long winded stories longer than that. What happened? 

You glanced outside towards the front of the building. It was more like ‘who happened?’ 

It was an innocuous enough morning, of introductions, trainings, orientation, and finally computer set up. You were rifling through your paperwork, trying to figure out what sheet looked the least daunting when someone called for you. 

“There’s someone looking for you outside the lobby,” you saw a flurry of looks shared and smirks shot in your direction, and when you arrived downstairs you knew why. 

What. The. Fuck. 

You couldn’t help it. You bursted outside, “what are you doing here?” It was your ex — the very same ex who had started at the same overseas company after you both graduated and the one you had. And again, had chosen to follow you here. 

“Waiting for you to change yer mind,” Naoya tilts his head, hands in his pocket, “and I know you will, because you love me,” he raises his voice to catch the eye of several passerby, and you grab his wrist, dragging him away. 

“Fuck off,” you hiss under your breath, “I told you it’s over, and don’t you have a fucking job?” 

“Did you forget? I’m rich, another reason ya can’t do better than me,” Naoya’s lips curl into that same grin, one you knew as charming once, until you saw past his pretty pink lips and glimpsed the sharp fangs behind them, “I took time off. Did ya think it was a coincidence we ended up at the same company?” 

You gritted your teeth, “Naoya—“ and he breaks from your grip, instead his fingers dig into your wrist. 

“All ya are is me. All that you have is me. And all you will have is me,” he dared closer, breath warming your lips, as he took hold of your other wrist and tugged you close, “the sooner you accept that, the better, doll,” 

‘Doll.’ The term of endearment you had seen as precious to you. Something you always loved to hear roll off his tongue, the word you had learned to learned to reply to, even more than your own name. The one you regarded with such love had burned, burned until the flames licked your skin and knew what it really meant — a doll with strings, one he was meant to be the master of. 

“Don’t call me that,” you rip your hands away, “leave. You’re embarrassing yourself,” 

“Am I?” He tilts his head, jerking his head in the direction of your building where your offices had a clear view of this, “or am I just embarrassing you?” 

You stared out the window for a moment and you knew he was still out there — judging but the way your phone was on the verge of suicide by notification, he was still very much there. And now, all people would know of you is the new worker with a crazy stalker ex. 

I’m calling the police, Suguru’s text popped up, what’s your workplace’s address? 

You think I hadn’t thought of that, Sugu? You sigh, he’s not doing anything. He’s on a public sidewalk. They can’t do anything to him. 

Another text: when do you get out? You glance at the time, seeing another two coworkers whisper to each other, stealing looks. 

An eternity — In another two hours. 

I’ll handle it. Just wait in the lobby after work. And you frown. 

Sugu, I can handle it. I don’t need you to come down here. 

You always fought your battles. You didn’t need anything else to — or anyone else to pick them for you. Not even your baby cousin — no matter how sweet his intentions were. 

Don’t worry. I’m not coming down. And you frown, staring at the text, before your phone rings, and you groan as ‘Assistant Director’ flashes on the screen.  

You were so fired. 

You weren’t — as you shut the door of his office behind you. However, he did advise you that this company had a strict no nonsense policy and did want personal drama to be dredged up in the office. And you were given the day to sort out your “mess.” 

You scrub a hand down your face, but it wasn’t even your mess, and how would you fix it? He wasn’t going to listen to you. You sit at your desk, packing up your bag for the day. And your phone vibrates. 

Come down. 

You hesitate, But he’s still downstairs. 

Just go. 

Fuck. You sling your bag over your shoulder, piercing eyes digging into your back, vultures circling an already dead carcass, whispering still even as the elevators doors shut. 

And you almost wish they never opened when you see what’s waiting for you outside. 

Fuck. 

You grit your teeth, stomach in absolute knots as if to brace yourself for the complete shitstorm you’re about to deal with. 

“Satoru?” 

Satoru Gojo leaned back against his expensive (likely imported) car, shiny as it was new, sunglasses glinting in the light, but not brighter than the grin he gives you. He holds out your favorite drink, a tilt of his head. 

“Are you ready to go?” 

You glance around, as he places the drink in your hand, “But what about—“

“Let go of me!” 

Satoru’s lips curl, sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, “Oh, I’ve gotten him handled,” 

Naoya stood between two men restraining him, both in suits, as his face contorted in anger, veins bulging, eyes darting between the two of you, “Do you know who I am? I’m the heir to the Zenin Corporation — you cannot treat me like this. I’ll have you—“ 

“Heir? Really?” Satoru stepped forward, blocking him from your view, “is that right? I thought the Zenin hadn’t decided announced a successor yet,” 

You furrow your brow — how does Satoru— but then you’re being put into a car with Satoru’s arm curled around your waist, as he opens the door and tucks you into the passenger seat. 

And now you won’t know. At least not now. 

Naoya scoffed, “And who are you to know anything about—“ 

“Have you heard of the Six Eyes Corp,” and Naoya’s eyes narrow, “you should have because we account for a large chunk of your business. And if that support were to disappear,” he flashes his blue eyes at him over the rim of his sunglasses, “I’d hate to tell them it’s because of this,” 

“You fucking liar, like you could tell anyone anything—“ 

Satoru chuckles, “You’re right, I am a liar,” he runs his fingers through his hair, “I don’t need to tell anyone. Except my father,” 

Naoya’s sneer fades into confusion, his eyes narrowed, “Don’t fucking tell me—” 

“Then I won’t,” he steps forward, hands slipping into his pockets, “but if you ever step in her presence again,” he jerks his head towards you in his car, “then I will, and you don’t wanna know what happens if I do,” he steps in front of Naoya, back blocking your view so you don’t see him grab Naoya’s wrist, blue eyes aflame with something far deeper than anger, “because it will much worse,” he squeezes Naoya’s wrist hard making him flinch as he grits his teeth at Satoru’s smiling face, “who knows? Maybe I’ll break your wrist next time.” 

He turns around, waving off the guards, as he makes his way back to his car, sliding into the driver’s seat, smile fading to concern. 

“Are you alright, Princess?” You’re watching those people drag Naoya away, his hateful gaze trying and failing to get a last look at you as the guard takes a hand to the back of his head to force his gaze forward. 

“Where are they taking him?” 

Satoru starts the car, the quiet rumble of the engine filling the silence of his pause, “just to the proper authorities. He won’t bother you again,” 

You bit your bottom lip, eyes burning with tears — and you don’t know whether if it’s embarrassment or relief, “I’m sorry—“ 

“Don’t finish that sentence,” and your eyes slide to his, a soft smile on his lips, “you don’t have anything to be sorry about. Or to thank me for,” he cuts you off as your lips part, “is your wrist okay?” 

You glance down and see the slight redness still lingered, a final parting gift, and your other hand closes over the wrist, “it hurts a little, but I’ll ice it when I get home,” 

“We’ll go to a hospital to have it looked at,” and you’re shaking your head. 

“I don’t want to sit—“ 

“Then I’ll hire a doctor to come see you,” and you stare at him, as he rolls to a stop at a red light…is that a pout? “I just want you to be ok, Princess, please,” 

You bite back a small smile, and ignore the flutter in your heart, “Fine, you win, let’s go to a walk-in clinic,” and you spot his shoulders relax, “but it’s not really fair when you give me your infamous pout,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “‘Infamous?’” 

“You used to whip that out all the time on me and on my aunt when you were a kid — it did always work,” 

“Not always,” he replies, as he turns into the parking for the walk-in clinic, “in fact, I remember a time that it specifically did not work,” 

“And when was that?” You tilt your head. 

And he smiles, “When I asked you to be my girlfriend,” and you furrow your brow, nearly forgetting the memory, until it hits you. 

“Oh my god, the last summer I spent here,” you covered your mouth with the tips of your fingers, a chuckle on your lips, “you were very direct,” 

“I could say the same about you,” and you roll your eyes. 

“You were a kid. You were way too young for me, you know that,” you unbuckle your seatbelt, “plus now I bet you could get any person you want. That’s why I was surprised why you didn’t have a girlfriend,”

“Like I said, there’s only one woman in the world for me,” his eyes find yours, cerulean bathed in sunlight, light catching across his irises, “and only one woman I ever wanted to be with,”

Oh. 

Oh. 

No, no, that couldn’t be it — you couldn’t be her, not after all this time—

You blink, “Satoru, you don’t—“ 

“Well our age difference isn’t a problem anymore is it?” Your brain is struggling to process, lips parting with no words, “Princess,” his fingers brush yours, gently grazing your hand, as your gaze finds his again, “when are you going to take me seriously?” 

“Satoru—“ 

“Just don’t say no,” Satoru cuts you off, pulling his hand away, “don’t say no and think about it,” you open your mouth only to waver at the sight of the pout on his lips and you sigh. 

It was hard to say no, especially right now. 

“Okay I won’t say no,” you slip from the car, lips breaking into a wide grin, before sticking your head inside, “don’t smile like that. It’s not a yes,” you huff, cheeks burning and stomach erupting in butterflies. 

“Not yet,” Satoru says as you shut the door, “not yet, Princess.” 

~~~

“Huh? You did what?” 

You loved your aunt. You really did. She and her husband had taken you in when your parents were too busy working to properly take care of you during the summers. But times like this reminded you—

—-she truly was her mother’s sister. 

“Well your mother was telling me that you haven’t dated anyone since you’ve been back—“ 

“It's only been a month!” You had barely finished getting unpacked, and in fact, you still had at least five boxes still stacked up in the closet, “I’m not interested in dating, I’m trying to focus on work,” you rubbed the back of your head, “new topic, please,” as you sip on your drink. 

And after the debacle Naoya had caused, you needed to — you had put up with the whispers and stares for a few days, but since Naoya had stayed away, the rumors faded with time. Now things had died down for the most part. Except for—

“Has Satoru still been picking you up?” You nearly do a spit take, but instead you choke down the water, coughing, “eh? Are you okay, honey?” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” your cheeks burn at the thought of Satoru — he was always a bold kid, but you didn’t think he’d confess to being in love with you all this time. Especially now as a man — and not a kid, “yeah he’s still picking me up,” 

When he had confessed to you all those years ago as a young teenager, you had thought nothing of it. Except that it was a crush on his best friend’s older cousin — something that would pass easily with time. You hadn’t even thought of it in all these years. 

But now, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

Especially when he kept showing up to pick you up from work. And now you were stirring other sorts of rumors. 

After he had taken you to the walk-in clinic, he had driven you home, making sure to check if your place was secure enough, and that you weren’t too shaken up. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off to Suguru’s?” he had asked, crossing his arms, “I could also drag his ass here, he owes me anyway,” 

“No, no I’m really fine,” you chewed your lip, looking down, “you sure he’s not going to come back?” and he leans down, forcing you to meet his gaze, as he tilts his head. 

“Sweetheart, you think I’d even leave your place if I thought there was a chance of him coming back?” he offers you a smile, and you scoff softly, shaking your head, “trust me, he won’t be bothering you again, not while I’m around,” and he added, “and I’m not going anywhere.” 

And you didn’t know what to do with the promise in his words. Because you knew he meant that — in more than one way. 

But even so, he hadn’t brought up his confession — not once. 

“He’s so sweet isn’t he? Suguru is always so busy but Satoru’s making time to pick you instead,” your aunt gushes, and you shake your head, your aunt did have a habit of being a little hard on her son, “by the way, would you mind stopping by the house today?” 

“Why’s that?” 

And well, how did you end up here? 

You stood in front of the entrance to a very expensive looking building with a very intimidating doorman, with a large tote bag full of food that your aunt had insisted you drop off. She had given you his address, but by the time you arrived, you realized that you didn’t even have his number. And now Suguru or your aunt weren’t picking up their phones. 

Fuck. 

You were internally debating whether to talk to the doorman or to just go home and deal with this another time, when you heard someone speak behind you. 

“Looking for someone?” You jump slightly, whirling when you see Satoru, hands in his pockets, a smile on his lips, as he lifts his sunglasses to meet your gaze, “didn’t think I’d find you hanging outside my apartment building, princess,” 

“Well, you show up outside my workplace and I’ll be showing up outside your apartment building,” the words leave your mouth without much thought, as your cheeks burn at the implication, “I mean—” 

“Is that supposed to discourage me from picking you up?” he grins, “Doesn’t sound like a bad deal to me,” 

You roll your eyes, before holding up the bag, “My aunt asked me to drop off some dishes for you. She’s worried you’re eating too many sweets,” 

He takes the bag from your hand, fingers brushing, as he shakes his head, “I shouldn’t have ever told her that I had cake for dinner,” and you snort, unable to hide your giggles, “what’s so funny?” 

“I can see a lot about you has changed, but your sweet tooth is just as bad as when you were a kid,” and you see him scratch the back of his head, “is your favorite dessert still mochi?” 

“You still remember that about me?” A smile pulling at his lips, and your cheeks burn, but you refuse to waver. 

“Well, it’s hard to forget you threw up all over the rug when you ate too many,” You bite back a smile when you spot the tips of his ears burn red, as he gapes at you. 

“Did you have to bring that up?” He mutters, a small pout on his lips, and you snort, as he can’t help the curl of his lips, “now, c’mon,” his fingers brush the small of your back. 

“Satoru, where—“ but his hand is firm as he guides you towards his building. 

He flashes you a grin as he signs you in with the doorman, “Do you think I’d let you come all this way without staying for dinner?” 

~~~

“Do you want anything to drink?” Satoru’s penthouse was nothing less than immaculate — high ceilings, pristine floors, and an interior designed living space. You swore in some places it was still shiny — and you felt very out of place in your casual wear for the weekend. 

“Just a water,” you reply, as he opens his refrigerator and you raise an eyebrow at the fully stocked compartments, “wow,” you murmur, and he’s pulling a water and a fancy looking juice out of it. 

“What was that?” He raises a brow, and you stammer a moment, “c’mon princess, share with the class,” 

“Just surprised your refrigerator isn’t just stuffed with just desserts, sweets, and ice cream,” and he hands you your water, before sitting beside you, spread out on the couch, as he always was. 

“Oh it is, it’s just very well hidden,” and you snort, as he throws his arm over the back of the couch, “I may be an adult but I’m not going to be a boring old geezer like my father,” 

“I don’t think I could ever see you becoming boring, Satoru,” you chuckle, and he tilts his head. 

“Is that a rare compliment from you, princess?” And his grin only makes your cheeks warm, as you roll your eyes.

“More like an observation,” you reply, as your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check — who would be messaging you now? 

Oh fuck. 

“You ok there?” 

No, no you weren’t. Because your lovely aunt had given your number to a prospective match, and now he was texting you. A lot. 

“It’s nothing,” you sigh, shaking your head, putting your phone on ‘do not disturb.” You would have dinner first, and then you’d murder your aunt after dessert, “do you want me to help take out dinner?” 

“You expect me to believe you don’t hire a chef to make these sides?” The food was spread out across the table, many of the dishes your aunt had made plated and presented, but along with sides that Satoru had made, “Suguru had made it seem as if the only thing you ever made was microwave ramen,” 

“Well jokes on him, I burned it the one time I tried,” he grinned, “but I did learn to cook, I just never bothered to cook for Suguru,” 

“And why’s that?” You take a bite of the pickled radish he had prepared. 

“Because I’m not trying to impress him, am I?” And you nearly choke slightly, as you manage to swallow, “you should know I’m so much more than a pretty face, Princess,” 

You sigh, “Satoru—“

“Have you thought about what I said at all?” 

And you had. A lot more than you cared to admit. Especially after all he had done. Everything he had to Naoya to defend you. And just about him — how sweet he’s been, how protective, how kind, and how you’d like nothing more than to do the same for him—

But…

“I have, but Satoru, our ages—“ 

“We’re both adults. We both graduated. We haven’t seen each other in over a decade,” his leg brushes yours as he shifts closer, “are you telling me you don’t feel anything?” 

You didn’t know how to answer that — not when you didn’t really know yourself. And you always knew the answer — you knew you wanted to study abroad, you knew you had to leave Naoya’s company, and you knew you wanted to live here — so why was this the one time you didn’t? And why was he the one thing you were unsure of? 

You bite your bottom lip, “But, Suguru—“ and he scoffs softly. 

“Are you really thinking about Suguru right now?” he asks, “or would you rather date the guy blowing up your phone earlier?” 

Your eyebrows knit together, “How did you know—“ 

“Well I know it’s not Naoya, and I heard from Suguru that your aunt wanted to set you up,” fucking Suguru—and your lips twist into a pout, he tilts his head, not bothering to hide his smile, “if you dated me, you could get your aunt off your back,” he muses, leaning against his elbow, “she always did say I was family, and I’m not looking to be your brother,” 

Your cheeks burn at his words, “Satoru,”

“Think about it, Princess, you don’t have to give me an answer now,” but his eyes flicker to your phone, “but I know you’ll find me once you meet any one of these guys your aunt sets you up with,” 

You grimace at your phone, picking it up to see the messages from the guy your aunt had given your number to, “fuck,” you murmur, locking your phone before tossing it away, an image of you trapped at a dinner across the most boring man alive. And then you glance up at Satoru, still a smug smile on his lips, and then back to your phone. 

“What’s your plan?” 

~~~

“So, I heard you turned down the boy I gave your number to,” 

Your aunt hardly pulled punches. 

She never did when you and Suguru were growing up — she always knew what the two of you got up to, even if you were both sure she could never find out — she always did. Even the one time that the two of you had snuck out to get ramen on a late night, Suguru’s parents were in a dead sleep — but by the time you both snuck back in, she was waiting for both of you in the hallway. But this time, she wasn’t even leading with a wind-up before swinging. 

And then she adds, eyes narrowing, “He said you declined because you’re dating someone,” 

She was going for the kill. 

She turns to grab the whistling tea kettle, turning it off, before pouring the hot water into two cups. You force yourself not to bite your bottom lip, the smallest tell was dangerous, even with her back turned, “Is there anything he didn’t tell you?” She’s placing the tea cups one by one on the tray, as if laying out her pieces on a board only to corner you. 

Your aunt frowns, “His mother told me,” great, even better — he was a momma’s boy, and now you were starting to wonder just how many bullets did you dodge,  “are you seeing someone?” 

You were beginning to regret this plan — and you don’t know why you let Satoru talk you into it. 

“You want me to do what?” You stared at Satoru as if he had suggested going diving with sharks, which is not far from what he was suggesting, “tell my aunt that we’re together. No way,” 

“Aw, am I that embarrassing to date, Princess?” And you roll your eyes. 

“Yes, for me,” and he’s tilting his head, “my aunt will immediately tell my uncle and Suguru — and I don’t know which one of them would kill you first,” your uncle wasn’t one for words or conflict, but he had a soft spot for you — and a fist for anyone that tried to come date you without his approval. 

“Eh? Doesn’t Uncle like me?” And you snort, the one sided conversations that Satoru had with your uncle that usually ended with your uncle excusing himself to get away from that “annoying moron.” 

“He doesn’t hate you but,” you choose your words carefully, “he doesn’t prefer you,” 

Satoru scoffs, crossing his arms, “Well Auntie loves me, and I had a plan for this,” and she did, she had quite the soft spot for Satoru, ever since he was a kid. You couldn’t exactly blame her — he looked like an angel, even if the words that left his mouth made it seem like the contrary, his fingers brushing against a strand of your hair, “and soon I’ll make you love me too,” 

Fucking cocky bastard, you thought to yourself, cheeks burning at the thought of the smirk on his lips, but you’re jarred back to reality as you hear the clattering of cups and spoons.  

“I am,” you reply, and your aunt’s head whips around, the clinking of the glasses cutting through the pause, “it’s new,” you add, as she sets down the tea cups, placing the tea dispensers in each one, “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything,” 

“Why wouldn’t you? This is wonderful,” she blinked, and her brow wrinkles, “unless it’s that Naoya—“ you flinch at the thought of him. 

“No, I’m done with him,” you wave her off quickly, wrinkling your nose at the thought of that bastard, grabbing the tea cup, the scent of green tea wafting from the steam that warmed your face, as you blew air to cool it off, “it’s someone I reconnected with here,” 

Your aunt raises an eyebrow, “So soon? Is it someone from work?” Again, is the word she implies with the sentence, a sharp tone that nicked your armor. 

“No, it isn’t,” and she’s sipping her tea, and you take a sip only to burn your tongue, “but he is younger,” 

“That’s not a problem if he’s not too much younger — how old is he?” and this was exactly why you hadn’t wanted to tell your aunt, it was more of an interrogation than a conversation. 

“He’s about Suguru’s age,” and she’s tilting her head, “Suguru introduced us,” and that wasn’t a lie — it was true — both in the past and now. 

“Really? And Sugu is okay with you dating his friend?” Your aunt may be gossip and a meddler, but she wasn’t a fool, your hesitation is your end, “and I assume you’re telling me all this to get me off your case and to ask not to tell Suguru,” she sighs. 

“Auntie—“ 

“You know I don’t like lying for either of you—“ 

“But—“ 

“No, I can’t—“ 

“How about lying for me?” Satoru stands in the doorway, head tilted, a smile on his lips. And your aunt blinks before she slowly puts the puzzle pieces together, a mix of emotions crossing her expression — confusion, disbelief, and maybe a hint of joy, before she settled on a neutral 

“Satoru—“ 

He frowns, “Auntie, you know Suguru will kill me for dating his cousin, please,” and then he does what he does best — pouting. 

And your aunt breaks — with a one hit-KO. 

“You must have been blessed by some needlessly annoying god,” you murmur as he walks you back to your place, sun gleaming as it gave off its last rays of light before setting for the night,  “because I don’t know how you still get her to fall for that,” 

“I was born blessed,” and you snort, as you catch sight of his smile out of the corner of your eye, “and speaking of which, when’s our first date?” 

“Straight to the point, huh?” You stop walking, hands in your pockets, “Satoru—“ 

“Don’t tell me you’re about to launch into another speech about how you can’t date me,” he gives an exaggerated sigh, “I could go back to your aunt and tell her how you broke my heart and let her pull out list of aunties who have sons who are excited to meet you—“ 

“Alright, fine, a date, but one thing first,” you step close to him, making his breath catch, pretty blues finding your gaze, the very same he would love to get lost in, before they flicker down to your lips. And he swears you can probably hear his heart beating out of his chest, thumping at the bony bars of his ribcage, and he hates it, hates how you have him twisted around your finger without trying, “Princess—“ 

You reach for him, fingers nearly about to brush his cheek, his eyes fluttering, before you flick his forehead, “ow!” 

“I was just going to ask when our first date is going to be, but if you rather I go on a bunch of blind dates—“ and he’s shaking his head, rubbing his forehead all the same, “then do you have any ideas?” 

He grins, “Plenty, but there’s one in particular.” 

~~~~

“An amusement park?” 

He sat next to you, driving, hand on the console and you couldn’t help but brush your arm against his each time you moved — and you felt as if he did it on purpose. 

He raises an eyebrow, stealing a glance out of the corner of his eye, “Uh-huh, got a problem, Princess?” 

“No I’m just surprised, we went to plenty of these as kids,” you glanced at him, his eyes concentrated on the road, fingers curling a little tighter around the steering wheel. 

You had raised an eyebrow at his choice, but now that you were here…it wasn’t a bad pick. 

You hadn’t been to one in years — not since your summers with Suguru. The screams in the distance told you there was a rollercoaster not far off, the syrupy sweetness of sugar somehow emanated from every inch of air, and the park was filled to the brim with families and couples. 

You glance at Satoru, a plain t-shirt and shorts, and somehow he still looked as if he stepped off a page of a men’s style magazine. He looked around, his eyes landing on a vendor selling cotton candy, and you hid your chuckle. 

“C’mon,” you took his hand, leading him over without a second thought, and you’re grabbing a giant cotton candy for him, made into a flower by the vendor. Satoru’s practically vibrating with excitement, slinking his hand around to sneak the vendor money before you even had a chance, “I wanted to pay—“ 

“You think I’d make my date pay?” He takes a bite out of his cotton candy, sugar sticking to his lips even as he nearly inhales a petal, “even the arranged set ups should do that much,” but it’s hard to take him seriously with blue sugar all over his mouth, “what?” 

You snort, grabbing a wet nap from your purse,“Well, you’d be surprised,” and you wipe his face, fingers cupping his chin, “some guys are a little immature,” and he stares back, and you swear you see a flush settle over his cheeks, before he turns away to wipe his lips. 

“Not me,” he mumbles, tips of his ears burning red, and you bite your bottom lip, cute. 

“Should we find a ride to go on?” he immediately grins at that, offering his arm this time, and you take it, a smile tugging at your lips. 

Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. 

~~~

Oh you were wrong. 

So wrong. 

“I changed my mind, I don’t want to get on,” and before you can leave a hand catches you by the wrist gently, blue eyes judging over his rimless sunglasses, “Satoru—“ 

“It’s just a rollercoaster,” just a rollercoaster? No, it was literally your death. You stared up at the contraption above you, the echoing screams growing louder as the line crept forward — akin to a rickety boat that Charon would wade you across into hell itself. 

“No, I can’t—“ you shake your head. 

“C’mon it won’t be that bad—“ 

“So you admit it’s going to be bad,” and he’s biting back a smile, “what?” 

“I just never really saw you being scared of anything, Princess,” he sighed loudly, “I guess I’ll have to ride it all alone,” but that only serves to make many women (and men) stare at him as if to offer him their company. 

“You have options,” and he shakes his head, his hand outstretched as the two of you enter the final stretch of the line. 

“Like I said, sweetheart, there’s only ever been one option for me,” and your fingers graze his with several second thoughts, but when his fingers laced with yours, you knew there was no turning back. 

“I didn’t know you could scream that loud,” 

You grinned at a shaken up Satoru, throat probably raw and aching as he frowns, face turned away, “I’m not used to the speed, unlike you, from how I heard you drive,” and you bite back a laugh, as he fails to hide his flush from you, his ears burning red. 

Your chuckle is a badly disguised cough, “Are you pretending to be this way to make me feel better?” You tease, and he’s crossing his arms. 

“No way I’d let myself look so lame in front of you, I’m no better than Ijichi,” and you raise an eyebrow. Ijichi was a boy in Suguru and Satoru’s class when they were kids — one that Satoru loved to complain about being slow. 

“You still think about him?”

“He’s my assistant,” and you snort at the thought of Satoru still hassling that poor guy. 

“I hope you pay him well,” he’s officially pouting again.

“I didn’t know it would be that intense!” you tilt your head, as the two of you find a corner of the park that’s not so crowded and riddled with children running amok, and you watch him down a sugary soda drink he had bought from one of the food stalls. 

“You act as if you’ve never been to an amusement park,” he’s quiet for a second too long, and your eyebrows knit together, “but Suguru—” 

“You guys would go every summer, but it was when I had my prep classes on the weekends,” he runs his fingers through his white locks, “I would have skipped when I was older, but by the time I had stopped caring what my father thought of me, you had already gone to college and Suguru’s family stopped going,” 

You frown — you knew Satoru didn’t have the best upbringing — yes he had every opportunity at his fingertips, all the money in the world that you couldn’t even fathom, but you could count the number of times he’s mentioned his parents on one hand. 

“I was always so jealous when you guys would go,” he sighed, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips, “it seems silly now—” 

“No, it’s not,” you cut him off, shaking your head, “you should have been allowed to be a kid,” 

He chuckles, a noise that sticks in your chest, “Well, more than anything, I wanted to go with you,” his cerulean eyes find yours, a soft smile on his lips, “thank you for indulging me, princess,” 

“Well, you’re the one doing me a favor, right?” you tease, getting to your feet, “c’mon we have plenty of other things to do — I saw a booth with candy apples not too far over there—” you point, and his fingers are already finding yours as he nearly drags you along, a laugh caught in your throat as you can’t help but smile at his excitement. 

It’s infectious, you thought as the two of you got in line, Satoru nearly vibrating with need for his sugar fix, and you shook your head, biting back a laugh, just like him. 

~~~

“You don’t have to walk me home,” the sun had long sunk by the time you both had left, staying to catch a glimpse of the fireworks before heading back, “it’s not that far from here,” 

The two of you had opted to take public transport to the amusement park, knowing there would be next to nowhere to park or rather only the middle of nowhere to park. The cicadas were already beginning their symphony, filling the relative silence of the neighborhood now, except for the chatter heard from inside houses or outside in gardens. 

“Who would carry your loot home?” and he tilts the giant plushie to show his unimpressed face, “you barely wanted to carry this at the park, even after you begged me to win it, and I did, in one shot,” 

And he did, he had won you a giant polar bear plushie nearly as tall as you were in his hands, along with several bags of sweets he had bought on the way out, just to snack on tonight (and you seriously wondered if he ate anything that was not coated in mochi, chocolate, or sugar). 

“I don’t remember begging you — I asked you,” you cross your arms, and you know he’s smiling behind the bear, using the plushie to hide his goddamn smirk, “i did! I just asked if we could try to win it—” 

“And I remember the phrases ‘please’ and ‘i need it’ being involved in the conversation,” you felt your cheeks burn, “you still like these things, huh?” 

“What do you mean?” and he moves the polar bear under one arm, the bags in the other so you could actually see his face. 

“You always loved plushies, you had that one from your parents that you kept in your room with you all the time—” 

“Panda, I was very original with that name,” you shake your head, before your gaze turns to him, his sunglasses gleaming on his head in the low light of the streetlamps, “I can’t believe you remembered that,” 

“There’s barely a thing I’d forget when it comes to you,” and you bite your lip, heart squeezing at his words, “you look like you wanna say something, princess?” 

You reached the outside of your apartment building just as night fell, humidity still clinging to the thick summer air. The light of the lobby spilling out into the sidewalk through the glass doors, just as the streets grew quieter. 

And you do — you’re not sure if you should ask it — a question posed on a precipice of uncertainty that you didn’t know if you wanted to step off of. But you know you had to, at one point or another. 

You could just go inside, brush off his question, and leave the day at that. But a nagging question had wriggled it’s way to the forefront of your mind, and you knew it wouldn’t leave your mind until it left your tongue. 

You chew on your lip, “You say these things so easily when it comes to me, but how are you so sure?” 

And he shrugs, his eyes not leaving yours for even a second, “I just know,” 

“But how?” He’s shaking his head, stepping forward, until he’s a breath away, your eyes flickering from his gaze to his lips for a split second, your own air caught in your traitorous throat. 

“Instead of wondering why I feel why I do, I think you should wonder why you’re so unsure,” and his fingers graze your cheek, tilting your chin upwards, his touch sending heat to the far reaches of your body, and he’s leaning forward. Your eyes nearly flutter shut, as his words nearly warm your lips, but no, instead they brush against your ear, “because if I was still just that kid to you that I was all those years ago, then why aren’t you pulling away?” 

Your eyes blink open, as he pulls away, grin on his lips, as he hands you your polar bear plushie, “Satoru—“ and you don’t even know what you want to say — you want to argue, you want to say something, anything, but nothing comes out but his name. 

“You shouldn’t let a guy get that close, Princess, especially not twice,” he sighs, lips still curled, “because if you let me that close again, I won’t be leaving without a kiss,” 

And you could only stare after him as he left — fingers touching your ear he had whispered against, lips pursing, as you huff, cheeks burning as you step inside your building, burying your face in white fluff of the polar bear that looked a little too much like someone’s hair. 

“Idiot.” 

~~~~

You’re avoiding me. 

Satoru wasn’t wrong. You were — but not exactly on purpose. Or at least you didn’t think so. It had been the third time you had turned him down in the last week. Although, today’s wasn’t intentionally so. You stewed in a corner of the bar, eyes glancing at your phone — what was really an appropriate time to leave a work-sanctioned event without looking completely anti-social? 

It was never really fun coming to these events alone — but you knew if Satoru was here, you’d actually have a good time. You were almost surprised he hadn’t shown up at your place or your work to see you — all he had done is text you. And why did that almost disappoint you?

You checked the time again, met with the notification of Satoru’s message again before you swiped it away out of sight. But he wasn’t out of mind. He hadn’t been for days. You rubbed at your temples — you hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since your day at the amusement park, thoughts spinning in circles and it was all his fault. You had done everything to get him out of your head — minimize contact, not see him, even drag yourself to an event like this — but still, you stared at your phone screen again, the ghost of his words still warming your ear. 

You couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

Fuck. What were you doing? You took a long swig of your drink, hoping the alcohol could erase some of that night out of your mind. The last thing you needed to be thinking about was Satoru Gojo. 

“So who’s the guy who has been picking you up after work?” 

You nearly choked on your drink. Really? You downed your drink, hoping you can ignore the question if you take long enough downing the searing concoction that the bartender had handed you, maybe they would let you off the hook. But as you finish the drink, you only find your coworkers staring back at you still. The hush that fell over this group of women was far too reverent for a conversation about a man. 

“He’s my little cousin’s best friend,” you reply, ordering another drink — you were going to need it, and the women exchange glances, fake smiles plastered on their lips. 

“He’s not your boyfriend?” and a strange twinge settles in your chest at the question, poking and prodding your tongue to say no, no he wasn’t, but you almost didn’t want to. 

“No, he isn’t,” and the women grin amongst each other, “if you would excuse me—” 

“Wait, wait, we just started talking, come on now,” you sigh internally, as they order another round of drinks as they corral you to their table, maybe after this you could finally leave. 

~~~

“What’s got you so down?” Suguru slides into a seat across from Satoru — Satoru who couldn’t stop checking his phone to see if you had replied. 

“What do you mean?” he sighs, he shouldn’t have sent that text earlier. He shouldn’t push so much, he’s already pushed enough with his comment. God, why the fuck did he say that? What if you thought he was a creep—what if you thought he was disgusting? What if— 

“You look pathetic,” Suguru sips his coffee in his hand, scrolling through his phone, “who is it?” 

Satoru sits up, locking his phone, tucking it away as if it would incriminate him — flashing your name across the screen like it was plastered over his mind, “what do you mean?” 

“I’ve never seen you like this, you keep checking your phone — you barely can keep track of it most of the time,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I figured you must have grew a dick and started liking someone,” 

“Look who’s talking — when’s the last time you dated someone again?” And Satoru catches the crumpled up paper Suguru tosses, “don’t get on your high horse if you don’t want the same thing back,” 

“At least I’m not waiting like a lovesick puppy over my phone,” Suguru mutters, taking another sip of his drink, and that’s when a phone ringing cuts through the silence — that was your ringtone, the very one he set to know when you’d call — just so he wouldn’t miss it, “looks like your waiting by the door paid off,” 

“Fuck off,” Satoru mumbled, walking off with his phone as he picked up, “hello?” 

“Suguru!” Satoru’s brow furrowed at the sound of your cousin’s name leaving your lips, “can you pick me up plz—“ your words were slurred, sounds of chatter cutting through the background. 

“Princ—“ you hiccuped, a small groan leaving your lips. 

“You can’t tell Satoru, he’ll come here and my coworkers won’t stop asking me about him,” you sigh again, mumbling, “why does he have to be so—ugh, it’s not fair for someone to be that pretty—“ 

Pretty? 

His cheeks burned, as he covered his mouth with his hand, trying and failing to bite back a stupid smile on his lips — it’s not fair for you to be this cute. He would have preferred ‘handsome’ or ‘perfect’ or ‘your boyfriend’ — but he could settle for pretty. 

“Anyway!” You cut his thoughts off, “could you come get me?” And Satoru bit his lip, glancing at Suguru — he could tell Suguru to get you, he could, but the odds of you letting something slip to Suguru—- “remember you can’t tell Satoru—“ 

—was really high. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be right there, and I won’t tell him,” he adds, because you already had. 

~~~

“How did you find out where I work?” Satoru didn’t know after so many years that there were still new things to learn about you still — and one thing he had learned tonight was that —- you pouted at him, stumbling slightly as he came to a stop in front of your building — you were really whiny when drunk. 

“I picked you up there, remember?” he lightly flicked your forehead that only made you huff, “now do you have your keys?” 

“Do you know how annoying you are?” And he has to bite back a laugh at your scrunched up face. 

“I do, sweetheart, but I’d love to hear you tell me,” you scoff, crossing your arms only to immediately uncross to dig through your purse for your keys, tossing out several things that Satoru catches or picks up. 

“You come to my work and pick me up, and act all swoon worthy, and perfect, and you look like that—“ 

“Like what?” he can’t hide his smile this time, and your brow furrows as you pull out your keys, lips opening and closing, until you purse them. 

“Like that,” you grumble as you teeter on your feet again, before he supports you, and he swore he heard you mumble, “so disgustingly handsome,” 

And he’s glad your eyes are half closed and focused ahead, otherwise he knew you’d smack him for the grin on his face. 

“Oi, don’t—“ and you don’t listen, nearly falling over as you unlock your door, whole body weight leaned against it, but his arm slips around you, holding you up from face planting into your floor, “you’re gonna break your neck, Princess,” 

“You wouldn’t let that happen,” You break from his grip and lean up close, your breath warming his lips, your gaze half lidded, “not when you love me,” and his heart thuds against his ribs, rattling his lungs and bones alike, “that’s what you said, right?” 

You weren’t making this easy, not with your fingers now sliding up his chest, toying with the top button of his shirt, “I did—“ 

“So are you going to prove it?” And the floor feels as if it slips out from underneath him, and all he feels is you, only you — the brush of your fingers against his chest, the faint scent of lavender from your perfume that your aunt had gifted you, and the caress of your gaze against his lips, the same eyes he could easily lose himself in — if he wasn’t careful. 

But he had to be careful — because it was you. 

“But—“

“But what?” it would be so easy to kiss you, when you were only half a breath away, lips parted and gaze asking him to do so, to just lean in—but he can’t.

Not like this. 

His thumb runs down your lips, your eyes fluttering shut, fingers sliding to cup your jaw, and he leans in — feeling your breath catch—

But he only flicks your forehead, drawing a soft yelp from you. 

“I’d like you to remember our first kiss,” and he’s corralling you into bed after that, your body keeling over into the soft mattress, as he’s able to wriggle you under the comforter. Your body relaxes into the plush bed, eyes shut, as your muscles loosen and unwind, while Satoru stands over you, the exact opposite — muscles taut and mind whirring. 

Fuck.

“You never make it easy, do you, Princess?” he mutters under his breath, swallowing thickly as he scrubs a hand down his face, “good night,” his fingers ghost over the swell of your cheek, before turning to leave—

And your fingers caught him around the wrist, eyes half open as you stared up at him, a pout on your lips but now for an entirely different, but somehow the same reason—

“Stay,” one word nearly had him crumble right there — and how pathetic was that? Maybe Suguru was right — he was no better than a puppy at your beck and call — waiting by the door for his master to return. And he almost didn’t mind — if you always came home to him.  

“Princess, you have to go to sleep—“ he could easily break from your grip, fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist, but your grasp may have been very well made of iron with how you had pinned him into place — an entomologist pinning their butterfly in their display. 

“Don’t wanna sleep alone,” a slight whine in your voice makes him waver again, but he had a problem with sleeping beside you—

He shifted in place, adjusting himself, a somewhat big problem thst wouldn’t go away — no matter how many times he thought about Gakuganji in his underwear — especially when you were looking at him like that, half dressed in bed with a pout on your lips and want in your gaze—want that he never thought would be for him. 

“Please?” And that’s all it takes, his thumb rubbing against your fingers — because he could never say no to you. 

~~~~

“Are you okay?” 

Satoru was never left alone — not since he had managed to wander off alone when he was five. It took several hours and a dozen security guards to find him at a bakery, having his third piece of cake. And when he was brought home, he was told just how many ways that could have went wrong — what could have happened to him, and most of all — how badly it could have made his parents look. 

After that, he couldn’t remember a time that his hand wasn’t clutched by a caretaker or escort — from school to home to anywhere else he wished to go. But he never wished to go anywhere, not with a stranger at his side. 

It was only when he met Suguru that he was allowed to go out without someone hovering over his shoulder. But without warning — warning that if any incident would mean he would be stuck back in his daily life. But that meant when he got distracted in the pastry section of the supermarket — looking for the exclusive mochi he desperately wanted — he found himself alone, with you and Suguru nowhere in sight. 

“Suguru?” Satoru called, head whipping around, chest thudding as the white noise of the market grew louder. His gaze falls, ears ringing with all that could go wrong, back to the life with no one at his side, only strangers— 

“Toru?” Satoru’s gaze snaps up, your hands on your hips, your head tilted, “you okay?” And he’s quickly wiping away his tears, sniffling softly, your hand finding the top of his head, “i got you something,” and you hold out a mochi in front of him, and he blinks. 

“You found it?” He’s blinking and your lips curve into a pretty smile. 

“Anything for you, Satoru,” your fingers run through his hair, “Satoru? Satoru—“ 

His eyes flutter open, finding you leaning over him, your tousled hair in messy tangles, “finally awake?” And a soft chuckle on your lips as you speak, rubbing your eye, flinching as you rub your temples, “what exactly happened last night?” 

“You mean besides you calling me pretty?” And your jaw drops, biting your lip, “and begging me to stay? Didn’t know you liked my company that much, Princess,” 

You glare at him, “well with charm like that—“ you mutter, when it occurs to you, “why did you sleep on the floor? And with that?” You point to the polar bear plushie he used as a pillow last night. 

Not his most preferred bedfellow. 

Always full of surprises, his cheeks burn, and he only can hope it doesn’t show on his face, hidden behind a cheeky smile, “Didn’t know you were so eager to share a bed with me, sweetheart,” and you roll your eyes, “I have to warn you, I have a tendency to cuddle—“ and you smack him with a pillow, he sighs, “someone wasn’t too keen on sharing her pillows with me, so this was the best I could do,”

You snort, as you take the offending plushie from him, “Did you do something to him?”

He tilts his head, “Eh?” And you hold up the polar bear plush, “what could I do to him?”  

“Someone did threaten to toss him out into the ocean so he could join his family,” 

“I can do a lot of things, but I can’t solve global warming, Princess,” and you bite back a laugh, “I was on my best behavior with him last night, even though he’s a shitty pillow,” and you didn’t have to know how he had slapped him a couple times. 

But even so, you bite your lip, looking down as you toy with your comforter, “why did you come?” 

He blinks, “what do you mean?” 

“You could have sent Suguru, but you came, and you stayed, on the floor,” and he curls his lips. 

“Well what kind of fake boyfriend would I be?” And you roll your eyes, still waiting for an answer, and his voice grows soft, “you know why, Princess,” 

“I do, but I don’t,” you murmur, fidgeting with your blanket as you chewed on your bottom lip, “my coworkers couldn’t stop talking about you last night, they kept saying how handsome you are, how wonderful, how perfect—“ 

“Should I be less handsome or perfect? Because don’t know if that’s possible—“ and it earns him another whack with the pillow, but he only catches it, “you say that like it’s a bad thing,” 

“It’s not, but I don’t know why after all these years, you still want me,” you sigh, words pushing past your lips,  “you could have anyone, Satoru,” 

“If I just wanted anyone, I wouldn’t have fell in love with you,” and you bury your face in your pillow, gaze peeking down at him. 

“You say that with such ease, how do you know what love even is? I don’t know if I know what it is,” you add, mumbling under your breath, and his eyes can’t help but follow the way your fingers run through your hair. 

“I don’t think I need to know when I feel it,” Satoru sat up, dangerously close to you, within reach yet so far out of it, “do you need to know to see the sky is blue? Do you need to know to feel pain when you burn yourself?” 

“Didn’t know you were taking philosophy classes with Suguru,” and he snorts, shaking his head, “Satoru—“ 

“Like I said before, Princess, just give me some time,” his fingers reach for you, and your breath catches, before he slowly smoothed your hair out, “and I’ll win you over,” 

Your eyes flicker to his, and god, he wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss you, but he couldn’t. He had to be patient. He couldn’t push you — he wanted you to want him just as much. He would make you fall into his arms willingly, and you’d kiss him — not the other way around. 

“Want some breakfast?” your lips curl into a soft smile, the very same smile that he had fallen for time and time again. 

“You offering to cook me breakfast?” 

“Just wondering what would shut you up the quickest,” and he has half a mind to reply with ‘your lips,’ but he decides against it, “pancakes?” 

~~~

“I can feel you staring,” 

Even with your back turned to the stove, bowl in hand as you whipped the batter with the whisk, hoping your laser focus on the pancakes would help you distract yourself. But it did little when you could feel his gaze sticking in your back, spotlights on every little movement — something that wouldn’t have bothered you before — but after last night—

This was why you never drank. 

You covered your face with the back of your hand, cheeks burning, as you placed the bowl down, what had your life become? 

“C’mon you can’t just let a guy like that go,” one of the women from work nudged you — you couldn’t remember if her name was Kanae or Kanao — handing you a refill of the drink you had gotten, “he certainly seems into you from the way he looks at you,” 

“If he isn’t, I’d take him off your hands,” Saki slurred, nearly spilling her drink, “he seems to like you. Is there really nothing between you two?” 

“Not really,” you sipped your drink, if confessing to you after over a decade was nothing, “he’s just a friend,” and he was — a friend who was your fake boyfriend. 

“You know with how you started, I thought your love life would be a lot more interesting,” Kanae sighed far too loudly, as she took another long swig of her cocktail. 

“Well we’ve talked a lot about what you guys are but we haven’t asked how you feel,” Saki grinned, sloppily drunk yet somehow masterful with her questions, “how do you feel about him?” 

And how did you? If someone asked you a few weeks ago, you would said he was just your little cousin’s best friend, a childhood friend — and you wouldn’t have thought twice. But now, he has given you so much to think about. Would you be this hesitant if you two haven’t met as kids? If he wasn’t Suguru’s best friend? If he didn’t seem so far out of your league? 

Maybe. But you were never good at going for things you wanted — or accepting things as they were. Even with Naoya, you knew you should have broken up with him — you knew he was toxic, and yet you stayed — because it was easier. 

And maybe it was easier to push Satoru away than to face how you felt.

Fuck, you were too drunk for this — you needed to get out of here, “excuse me,” you manage to slip away into the bathroom, washing your face, leaning over the sink. 

You held your forehead, steadying yourself against the cold porcelain, fingers digging into the rim of the sink — eyes burning as your head throbs, a wave of nausea pulsing through your stomach. Fuck, there was no way that you could get home alone. 

You pulled out your phone and scrolled — who the fuck would you call? The only people you knew were your family and…

Nope. No. Not an option. 

You found Suguru’s number and tried to text, only to find your eyes blurring, and you knew if you sent a message he would be holding over any typos or fuck ups over your head forever. 

You found his name, your head spinning as you clicked and called. 

He didn’t pick up.

“Fucker,” you mumble, trying to hit his name again, your head spinning, and finally someone picked up—

And then you woke up in bed. A soft groan fell from your lips, knives prodding at every inch of your brain, memory blended and choppy as you drew into consciousness. You were home, your eyes fluttering open to sunlight illuminating your bedroom, a dull stiffness in your muscles that makes you stretch, turning on your side only to be met with a sight. 

Satoru Gojo. Asleep on your floor, cuddling the plush polar bear he won for you. You stared, blinking, wondering if blinking away the sleep would somehow blink away Satoru too (it did not unfortunately). So you did the only other thing you could think of — take a picture. 

As you glanced from the image to him, bits and pieces came back — from your drunken ramblings on the phone to the ones in person, your cheeks burning as you buried your face in your comforter before staring down at him. Was it possible to die of embarrassment? You were really testing those limits. 

But even so, as you watched him sleep on top of the plushie, the only thing you could wonder was why had he stayed? He could have left after you fell asleep, or even before that, there wasn’t much you could have done to stop him. But he stayed, even on the floor, rather than anywhere else. 

“So?” you didn’t need to turn from the stove to know he was grinning, “can’t I enjoy the show, Princess?” 

“If you’re enjoying it so much, how about you become part of it and help?” you offer him a spatula, as he makes his way over, leaning over you, his body brushing against yours, but you ignore it all the same, eyes focused on the task instead on the warmth blooming from his touch, “I’ll spoon and you flip,” 

The two of you work in silence, as you spoon batter onto the griddle and he flips the pancakes — and it’s only when you’re both just about done that you glance over, and his lips are curled, “What are you smiling about?” and he shakes his head, as he flips the last of the pancakes onto the stack, “Satoru—“ 

“I just never really have made breakfast like this before, or had someone make it for me,” he scratches the back of his head, “my parents always had chefs or maids or someone make me all my meals, and even when I moved out, I always cooked alone or bought my meals out,” he shrugs, as he turned the stove off, “it reminds me when you’d make me and Suguru instant ramen after we came in from playing outside,” 

You snort, “You remember that?” You would get stuck making ramen for the two of them, tossing some seasoning and sauces into the mixture along with an egg, “I always put too much black pepper. I thought you hated it,” 

“But I always finished,” he added, and he did, even if his cheeks were burning red and eyes watering by the end of the bowl. Your lips curl at the memory of him at the age of twelve downing an entire glass of water and spilling it all over the front of himself. 

“Well I can make a lot more than instant noodles now,” you have Satoru set the table while you start to clean up, turning on the sink. You hear the clink of plates and utensils behind you, as he sets them down on the table, but you can feel his gaze fall over you even as your back is turned. 

“I’m going to need some proof — there were a few times you almost burned those noodles,” and you pout, turning with your hands on your hips. 

“Oh you want me to prove it now?” You turn, running your finger discreetly up the side of the used mixing bowl, finger full of batter as you walk up to him, hands behind your back. 

“And how’re you gonna do that, Princess?” the corner of his lip quirks upwards, as you step close up to him, and god, he’s fucking tall — and it kind of pissed you off — all these boys shoot up like fucking weeds, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t knock him down a bit. 

“Close your eyes, and find out,” he raises an eyebrow, suspicious, but still he obeys — good boy, the praise runs through your head to the tip of your tongue, but you bite it and the words back alike. And you’re so close, you can see his snow white eyelashes fan out against his cheeks, and he’s so unfairly pretty, 

For now. 

You’re so close, you nearly feel his body warmth radiate your skin — and you swear you hear his breath hitch — and it would be so easy to lean forward— “Princess — what—” 

And then he gasps when you smear pancake batter down his cheek, a snort leaving your lips as he gapes at you, mouth ajar. He blinks, his hand reaching for his cheek, before he stops when his eyes flit to your batter caked finger, “You—” 

You’re giggling, trying to stop yourself from doubling over at his expression, “What? I just wanted to give you a taste of my cooking before you tried it,” and he frowns at you for a moment, before his lips curl deviously, tilting his head. 

“Is that right?” and his fingers run through the smeared batter, caking his finger tips before he’s stepping towards you, “then it’s fair, if I make you taste it too—“ and you’re trying to back up, giggles leaving your lips,  but he catches you by the wrist. 

“Satoru—“ you whine as you’re trying to squirm away, “let go!” but he only pulls you close, your body nearly bumping against his — and it was your turn for your breath to catch, cerulean irises stealing the air from your lungs as you drowned in them, “hey—“ 

“Just how much are you gonna tempt me, Princess?” and you should step away, but his fingers around your wrist send warmth blooming down your arm, straight to your chest, and you can’t bring yourself to step away. 

“And how am I doing that?” His fingers tug you closer, thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist, before he leans close. 

“You know exactly how,” and your glance flickers from his gaze to his lips, and back again, resisting the urge to shut your eyes — but you don’t have to, when he smears the batter all over your cheek. 

“Toru!” You stare at him, and he’s laughing, as you grab at him, only for him to slip away, “I’m gonna kill you—“ and you move towards the sink, batter covered bowl still inside, “oh just you wait—“ 

But your beeline is cut short by his grip, arm darting around your middle, as he pulls you back. You gasp, struggling in his arms in vain — fuck his stupidly toned arms,  “you shouldn’t start something you’re not ready to finish,” his words are said against your ear, but they rush down your body in almost a shudder. 

His lips are an inch or two from yours, you would barely need to lean to reach them — the words of your coworkers ring in your ears 

“Who said I wasn’t?” His eyes find yours, his fingers tilting your chin ever so slightly, when your phone rings. 

You jerk slightly at the sound, your eyes flickering to the name across the screen and see Suguru’s name flashing on the screen. 

“It’s Suguru,” and Satoru lets go of you, as you make your way to the phone, and you swear you hear him mutter something under his breath, “what did you say?” you don’t pick up the phone but a few texts come through anyway. 

“Nothing,” he scratched the back of his head, “what did he say?” 

“He’s asking if I wanna come over for dinner tonight, said you’re gonna be there too?” And you raise an eyebrow, as Satoru fishes his phone out of his pocket and glances at it. 

“Apparently I am,” you turn on the faucet, cleaning your face off, offering Satoru a damp tissue. “Guess this won’t be the last meal we’re sharing today,” 

“Guess not,” his fingers brush yours when taking the tissue, trying to clean the batter off his cheek but only spreads the mess. You snort, as you take the napkin from him holding his face by the chin, “so how’re we gonna play it?” 

“Play what?” You toss the napkin away, both of you taking a seat at the table. 

“Did you forget?” He stabs a pancake and places it in his plate, “we told your aunt we’re dating — and that we’re hiding it from Suguru, and you just agreed to dinner with both of them,” 

Fuck. 

✧ a/n: hi it's been quite a while T_T. sorry work has been so busy. i haven't had a moment to post, and now i had to split this up because it just got too long lmao. part two will come later, i'm going to be prioritizing my kinktober fics. thank you to @coffee-and-geto for betaing :)

✧ taglist: @satorusmochis , @celestialgojo , @sugurubabe , @being-me-is-not-a-sin , @strawberryfanatic01 , @cira273 , @sobbangchan , @hiraethwrote , @peppertoastuniverse , @dreamtardisspace , @redmangotango , @h4ru-h4ruu , @anpacax0 , @theshylittleelfgirl , @hyori2 , @elliesndg , @maddietries , @roses-can-be-deadly-too, @vernasce-blogs , @mrsoikawa17 , @spider-fan72 , @haoxiaoxi , @horchatacow , @lovemoreworrylessv, @maybe-a-bi-witch , @missroki , @rubyarerosies ,, @ranatherealestsigma , @svt-backup , @catsgomurp , @sakurastorm , @forest-fruits-jam , @lemonpoppy-seed , @goddess-ofthe-godless , @notgoodforlife , @johannakhalafalla , @fushitoru , @kentosbutterfly , @augustwinesworld

The Whisperer

Pairing: Villain!Shinsou x Reader

Warnings: smut (18+), mind control, violence, blood, murder, yandere behavior, umm a bit of dubcon I think because of the mind control (want to be safe)

Y’ALL PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS.

Word Count: 2K

A/n: Alrighty roo, This was born from an idea that wouldn’t leave my head because the potential for Shinsou to be fed up with everybody sleeping on him is just GLORIOUS.  However, my mans loses his mind so this isn’t a romantic justice story aiight? It’s creepy.  Be aware it’s a bit dubious because the reader is being mind tricked so if that is something that will bother you please don’t read. 

Happy Halloween Everyone!

Special thanks to @linestrider​ for not only encouraging me to write it but ALSO beta reading it. I love you forever. 

tagging: @tomurasprincess  @pleasantanathema @dymphnasprose @elektraeriseros

Keep reading