Izuku Wants Another Baby

i literally cant stop thinkin’ about highschoolbully!gojo who used to be your ride or die ‘til he started getting attention from those popular jock type guys who are always assholes to everyone. and him being.. well, him means he preens under attention no matter who it’s from, so naturally he started to gravitate towards that group and their little troop of cheerleading fangirls. and then he started distancing from you and without either of you really realizing it, you’ve slipped between the other’s fingers. but the way he acts towards you makes you think he let you fall without moving a muscle to slow you down.

soon enough, a year swings by and by the end of it he’s gone from your life, save as just another face in the gaggle of boys who make crude jokes and laugh at smart kids and pop milk cartoons during lunch just for the hell of it. but you’re minding your own business, ‘cause you’re mature enough to realize that people come and go, no matter how close you might’ve been and you think it’s unfortunate that so many memories could be thrown aside in a blink of an eye, but it makes a lot of sense when you walk past satoru and his friends bullying some random kid. you don’t know him, but you’ve heard enough to realize it’s his girlfriend satoru’s flirting with while his ‘gang’ kick at the kid. and it’s sickening, but you don’t say anything when you walk by.

and when you don’t ever see the kid afterward and catch the dark eyebags under his girlfriend’s eyes, you come to the cruel realization that satoru isn’t the boy who’d bandage the scrape on your knee you got from tripping in the playground or buy you a soda because he’s noticed your sweat when you were walking home and you don’t have any money left on you.

it’s a glass half empty, half full type of situation. on the one hand, you don’t have him anymore. on the other hand, you don’t have him anymore. that is, you lost your best friend, but you’ve also lost someone who has the potential to absolutely ruin your life. and you don’t know whether to be glad or not, so you just mind your own business even if it hurts a little when he ignores you, stops tossing paper at your head in class (unless it’s to embarrass you) and stops walking you to and from school.

but the cherry on top of the shit cake is that he doesn't get it. so when he approaches you in the library one day after satiating the need to tear pages from books and make them into paper airplanes to throw at people, he doesn't seem to understand why you try to ignore him, or put off his attempts to hold a convo. but the worst part is that he's just sleazy and clueless about it. it's like he took an eraser and wiped every single year of your friendship off the chalkboard with one fell swipe, and you wish he'd done that too to the less-than-appropriate messages he and his friends had written towards one of your classmates.

he doesn't understand why you're hesitant to talk, and that's what makes it the worst. he always thinks he's in the right, and he keeps setting you off and it sucks that he knows exactly what sets you off. "i'm an asshole? what're you talking about? really, you're in over your head. you never change." he laughs, and you ignore him, and he gets bored, and he's about to leave when he spots your wallet open next to your book, on the table. there's a polaroid peeking out, and he recognizes the tufts of white hair to be him. but there's a weird feeling in his chest, and he thinks he gets it from you, so he leaves because he thinks you're weird.

and it goes on; you practically become a nobody in satoru's eyes, because of that weird, weird feeling you give him. it's unfamiliar and he's never gotten it before and he doesn't like it. but it's unavoidable when your professor pairs you two for the end-of-term project. and of course, you're ready to do all the work, because that's how it always was between you when you were kids. but sometimes he'd surprise you by helping, and he'd show you that he was actually intelligent just to earn your praise because he liked it. but he ignored you, and you did everything, and it would've been okay if not for his friends egging him on to present your entire project when the day came and leave you with no content for a grade.

that's the first time it hits him: does he really want to do that? but it's not like it'll be the first time; you've always taken the hits for him, because you're naturally smart and you'll pick yourself back up in no time, and you get why he does it, so it'll be okay. so he agrees, and he enjoys the time he gets to spend with you through it, but the nagging weird feeling that blooms in his chest like a pesky weed only grows stronger. that's all his feelings ever seem to do around you.

but before you know it, presentation day swings around. you had coffee this morning (on his card), and you're ready enough to shoot him a small smile that sends his heart a-flutter. so you go up, feeling up to the task and ready until— he starts talking, and talking, and talking, and people don't think that he's taking your words out of your mouth because he's intelligent when he wants to make you praise him and you don't get the chance to get a word in and you notice the guys are laughing and hitting each other's shoulders to themselves in the upper rows and before you know it it's over. people are clapping but moreso they're looking at you and they're whispering— but it's terribly loud and they don't bother to hide it. they call you things that shouldn't bother you but they do anyway, because it's satoru's fault, and you're such a fool for thinking you could have it your way again.

so you leave class early, excusing yourself and ignoring the way your professor gives you a distasteful look and scribbles something next to your name. you're out the door in a second, neglecting your bags and satoru's a little lost because— didn't he just do good? people were clapping, and laughing with him and not at him, but it's attention either way so he doesn't mind. so why do you? why did you look at him like he stabbed you in the back? and his friends are calling his name, and he wishes he could chase after you and do something but he doesn't.

and it's a little sickening what they do next; one of their girls grabbed your bags and tossed it to them, and they've started rifling through it as if they own it, tearing up your shit and dumping everything onto the ground and he's kind of just... glued to the chair by his feelings. his heart feels like it's been patched together and the weird fuzzy feeling he had in his chest that's been cultivating has extinguished to be replaced with something he realizes he's only ever felt when it comes to you— guilt.

he's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't realize his friend is silently offering him something— nudging his side to get his attention. he takes it without really realizing he moved his hand, and his silent friend with the gauges in his ears and the dark hair gets up and leaves without another word. when satoru looks down, he realizes he's been given your wallet. "the reward for betraying your baby," they call it. like all you're worth is the money in your account.

he's a little curious. that's how he's always been; asking you questions, rummaging through your stuff, laughing sheepishly and shaking it off when you caught him red-handed. so he opens it up, ignoring your sad little cards and the funny look on your license. he's looking for something, subconsciously; but he doesn't find it. there's no white tuft of hair to suggest his presence in your life; just empty black leather. nothing else.

and he doesn't see you after. or the following day. or the following weeks; weeks that turn into months that turn into the end of school and he's graduating but you're not by his side. and neither are his so called 'friends'; the only thing he has to their name is your own ruined friendship. it's a shame; he feels alone. very alone. no fuzzy weird feeling, not even that thing people call guilt. no attention to chase, and connections are ever harder to make. it shouldn'tve mattered that much, right? it was just a presentation. why wouldn't you just come back to him like you always did? were you not still friends...?

but the blood is still on his hands, and he doesn't manage to ever wash it off. guilt has a way of festering; of weighing on the heart 'till there's nothing left to feel or think but unfortunate circumstance and what could've been done differently. it just sucks that he never tried hard enough to keep you from slipping between his grasp. and now, he doesn't even have a polaroid to your friendship's name.

pt.2

p-perhaps they’re at a ball in Hero’s honor. In civie identities? Hero and Villain meet, Hero notices something about Villain seems familiar, but they write it off thinking Villain is perhaps a coworker or someone they’ve saved before. The two of them have a lot in common, they begin to hit it off. Hero is about to ask Villain if they want to go out for a drink some time when they notice something EXTREMELY telling of who Villain is. Hero begins acting very guarded around Villain, and Villain seems hurt, as they don’t know why Hero could be acting like that.

Guess who’s backkkk

Guarded

“Why won’t you talk to me.”

If the hero had still been completely clueless they would’ve noticed and cared for the other’s use of tone.

Stern but in a concerned manner, something Hero shrugged off, unaffected by the villain’s manipulation. Or at least, what they thought was.

“Why do you care?” Hero asked, monotone voice as they tried to stay calm. Pretending their nemesis wasn’t standing a mere few feet from them was harder than it looked.

The villain huffed, keeping their voice low as they spoke, not wanting to alert any of the other guests that surrounded them. “Because a minute ago we were on cloud nine and now you’re completely ignoring me.”

Hero didn’t respond, afraid that they just might snap at the villain or maybe burst into tears the second they opened their mouth.

Villains shoulders dropped, suddenly not so menacing anymore. “Or at least, I thought we were on cloud nine.”

Another pause, because Hero didn’t have it in them to make the situation any worse.

They fidgeted as discreetly as they could with the hem of their coat, but Villain was a vigilant bastard and the action surely didn’t go unnoticed. They took a deep breath to calm themselves before they downed the rest of their fancy drink.

Nothing worth savouring when your mouth tasted like acid.

The alcohol didn’t do anything to fix that.

“Look, if you don’t feel the same way then that’s okay, I just…”

Hero finally turned to face the one they had fought so many times over. Recognizing every tell about them now as they wondered how they could’ve been so clueless before.

The scar on their cheek, from a nick Hero had gotten through their mask with a blade. Their familiar, piercing green eyes, just not as dark as before. The consistency in which they cleared their throat and tapped their cheek when in deep thought.

It was all so obvious.

So obvious it hurt. It hurt that their heart still couldn’t let go and it hurt that their head didn’t even want to make the choice to leave.

“I just thought we had something…”

You made me feel like we had something.

Was left unspoken.

Words not Villain nor Hero wanted to speak, even if it was the cold hearted truth.

In reality, Hero felt the same way. Villain made them feel special, even if only for a few hours of the night, but they truly felt connected. Bonded—if they dared.

But it wouldn’t work, it couldn’t work. Not with their history, not with their past. No matter how good it felt now, one of them would have to deceive the other in the end.

Forbidden love. Hero couldn’t stand it.

“We can’t be together. It wasn’t meant to be.”

For the first time in Hero’s life they saw disappointment flash across the villain’s face. Then with a small smile and a heavy breath, Villain took the first steps away.

cover shot (through the heart) | masterlist

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

status: complete

length: 16,521 words

summary: For years, you’ve been the only assistant in the business equipped to handle foul-tempered supermodel Katsuki Bakugou. That is, until he catches on to your weak point.

tags: model AU, sexual tension, snark, praise kink, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, implied lighter-skinned reader

note: In retrospect, this work is one of my least inclusive. A large portion of the plot depends on the reader’s blush being visible on her skin. I just wanted to make this clear to anyone looking to read this fic, and apologize to any potential readers that this excludes. Going forward, I will endeavor to do better! 

chapter links:

one

two

three

four

five

six

cross posted on ao3: here

Love Bites Masterlist

You gave Toji Fushiguro a sweet tooth he doesn't want to get rid of.

Baker Fem Reader x Toji Fushiguro (mafia/yakuza au)

tags: Fluff, grumpy x sunshine, found family, a little angsty but nothing too bad, marriage proposal, established relationship, (last chapter only: kitchen sex, creampie, oral- fem receiving, other sexxy funtime stuff)

word ct: 15.1k, 11 Chapters

Chapter One: Apple Cinnamon Spice

Chapter Two: Chimayo Chai

Chapter Three: Mint Chocolate Chip

Chapter Four: Apple Cider

Chapter Five: Pumpkin Spice

Chapter Six: Warm Water

Chapter Seven: Eggnog

Chapter Eight: Sparkling Juice

Chapter Nine: Mint Chocolate Chip Pt. 2

Chapter Ten: Yes

*Bonus!!*

*nsfw

M.list || Ao3 || Twitter || Ko-fi

hiiii! I’ve been in such a funk since I lost my wips 🥲 but it feels good to be writing again! Thank you all for 700 followers 🥹🫶🏾 it’s crazy cause I was just celebrating 500! 

Also, I’m obsessed with this tiny font :)

Warnings: smut, dilf bakugo, milf reader, afab reader, black coded! reader, mutual pining, baby mentioned, breast feeding mentioned, unprotected sex, creampie, lactation kink, pet name usage (ex. baby, mama, papa), excuse any mistakes, MDNI!

Word count: undetermined

❀

Babydaddy!Bakugo who's stopping by to pick up his son Katsumi from your place. He scans the vicinity, still as quiet as usual but he does notice someone’s finally moved into the townhouse adjacent to yours. 

He’s not sure if it’s a man or woman, and he’s not comfortable with it, especially since it’s just you and ‘Sumi here. He made a note to get someone at the agency to check them out.

He’s standing there for about a minute until you’re opening up the door with the baby attached to your tit in a tight fitting sun dress, just begging him to run his hands all over you. He’s undressing you with his eyes, not that the dress leaves anything to imagine anyway.

“Come on so you don’t let any flies in. He was fussing real bad so l'm feeding him, I'll be done in a second."

He just nods, it's all he can do as he stares, mesmerized. He doesn’t mind anyway, he isn’t in any kind of rush.

It never gets old—seeing you be a mommy. Seeing you care for the beautiful being the two of you created. Makes him fall in love with you all over again. It’s also a bonus being able to call you a milf.

He hands you a vanilla parfait from the cafe he gets his coffee from, remembers you used to love them before ‘Sumi, hopes you still do.

“Thank you.”

You didn’t have much of an appetite, taste testing your different dishes in the midst of preparing Sunday dinner has you a little full so you opt for picking the fruit off your parfait.

“No problem, you’re running a dairy farm over here, gotta keep ya fed.” “Are you calling me a cow?” 

“I’m not wrong.” 

Your kid has one breast occupied, the other is stuffed in the electric pump. You’re not sure if you’ve gotten used to being ‘milked’ as Katsuki usually calls it, but it certainly feels better than letting the milk swell inside. 

It’s safe to say you got this parenting thing down fairly quickly, or at least it seemed like you did. Time moved fast, your baby nearing six months already. He doesn't see much of you anymore, just those days when it's time for him to get the little brat or drop him back off.

He's not sure how things got the way they were—seems like just yesterday you were about to be his wife and now, things were just complicated. The two of you were high school sweethearts, first everything’s, now well into your late twenties with a baby. There was no infidelity involved in the split, just a matter of you two not seeing eye to eye, butting heads far too often for comfort. He admits it’s his fault, but he truly meant no harm, just wanted to protect his family.

But, he still loves the hell out of you. Hopes you still love him too. And even if you don't, he'll still love you. You gave him his child, after all.

That little boy is his pride and joy. He's the cutest thing he's ever laid eyes on, a chunky little nugget with rolls everywhere and now he has a double chin. Obviously didn’t miss any meals.

Katsumi's the perfect mix of the two of you. His complexion has settled as the months passed by, darkening to a deep golden tan, a head full of thick curly hair and of course his daddy's angry red eyes and ever present scowl. He looks like a mean little shit just like his daddy did at his age, except he's literally the sweetest baby, always ready to show those two little teeth in a big smile.

He can't believe he helped create something so precious and most of all he can't believe he created him with you.

“You haven't been sleeping much lately, I can tell." 

Time apart didn’t change much, you still knew him like the back of your hand and vice

Babydaddy!Bakugo finds himself seated in one of your bar stools, looking around at your home. 

It looks like you’re almost done decorating, and you actually did get that dumb couch you’d been raving about. He takes in the shades of green and cream, the earthy tones accented in,  the plants, fluorescent lighting, it’s all so you.

He loves it. Wishes he lived in it with you. Fuck he missed you so bad.

"Schedule change. I work a week on-week off now." Truth is, he hasn’t had a good rest since you left, on top of his new crazy ass schedule he’d be lucky if he got three consecutive hours of sleep a night. And some nights when he had ‘Sumi, he had to forgo sleep completely. 

“Damn, that’s a lot. It’s not too much for you? What if you’re too tired for ‘Sumi, he’s rolling over and shit now so you really gotta watch him.” 

“Yeah yeah, I’ve been a baby y/n, I know what babies do.” 

“Don’t piss me off, that’s not even the same thing.” You take a jab at the side of his head with your finger. “I’m just saying, he’s real active now, I catch him trying to do backflips off the bed at least ten times a day.” 

You feel his sucking on your breast slowing, signs that he’s done with his feeding. 

“I hear ya, y/n. I‘m not gonna let him crack his skull open on my watch.” 

“Good, best daddy ever.” You roll your eyes playfully but you mean your words wholeheartedly. Regardless of the situation between you two, Katsuki was so helpful and supportive now that ‘Sumi was actually here, and he made this co-parenting thing so much easier than you thought it’d be. 

Katsumi pulls away from you, easing his head away until your nipple is no longer in his mouth. He hears Katsuki but he can’t see him, tossing his head back and moving it side to side until he finally lays eyes on his daddy. 

One of his tiny hands is clinging to the thin strap of your dress while the other makes grabbies at Katsuki.

“You wanna come to Papa?” He asks, the big grin on his face is so precious. 

Bakugo washes his hands with cold water, drying them off before he gently grabs him from you, laying him over his shoulder to burp him. He catches the little bit he spit up with the bib, and hands it to you to swap for a clean one. 

He sits Katsumi on the counter, pretending to punch him with his own little fists and it sends him into a fit of giggles and screams. 

"You got anything going on today?" You’re leaned against the counter, just watching the two of them. It brings a smile to your face, one you quickly drop before he could realize it cause it almost feels wrong to enjoy it. 

"Nah, mom wants to see em' so we're gonna head over. That's all though, you?"

“Nothing today, but I’m going clothes shopping for ‘Sumi soon, tomorrow or Tuesday.”  

“Yeah? Already?”

You nod your head as you lift the lids on your pots, stirring one more time before turning the burners off. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think he’d be growing out of all his stuff so damn soon. I was thinking we could pick out some of the neutral stuff for Denki and Jirou. Donate the rest to the hospital.”

Now that he’s really looking at it, the onesie is a little tighter around his thighs. His baby boy is growing so fast it almost brings tears to his eyes. Soon enough he’ll be crawling, then walking and then college—he couldn’t even fathom the thought of his little nugget going to college! 

He disregards his manic thoughts when he hears your voice again. “Maybe we can go together..you can hold the bags like you used to…if you want to, and if you have time, of course.” 

“Of course I do, I’ll make time.”

You’re shocked at his enthusiasm because this couldn’t be the same man who’d ‘rather take a slug from Kirishima than get stuck shopping with you.’ 

But who could blame him, coming home to an empty house for the past couple of months had him going damn near insane. He was craving any kind of contact with you. 

Babydaddy!Bakugo who just can't resist your cooking, especially when it meant being in your presence even longer than usual. Now standing at your kitchen island eating the hefty plate you made him, watching you wrap the ones you’re giving him to go for him and his parents. Next you’re tidying up the area and putting the rest of the food up in tupperware bowls.

He's stalking your every move, watching you like a hawk. Like prey. And don't think for one second that he doesn't notice the way your dress gets stuck in between the cheeks of your ass when you bend down to put your clean pots and pans in the cabinet.

He thinks you’re teasing, bets you’re not even wearing panties. Maybe you're innocent, but either way he takes the bait, pressing his crotch against your ass while you’re still bent. 

“Katsuki.” You try to keep your voice stern but it doesn’t phase the crimson eyed devil behind you. 

“Y/N.” He says your name back just as serious, but you can hear it, the lust oozing from his tongue. It sends chills down your entire being as he rubs up against you, and god you hate being so weak.

Babydaddy!Bakugo who should've only been there to pick up his kid, but instead has you in his lap, palms planted on the round globes of your ass while you’re bouncing on his cock like your life depended on it.

It’s hard to keep a steady pace when he’s lifting you and dropping you back down so hard and fast. You're forced to bite your lip to keep your moans at bay, your son just a few feet away, sleeping in his swing.

“Kid can sleep through an earthquake, lemme hear that pretty voice."

Babydaddy!Bakugo who's still the hot headed idiot he's always been, is only gonna tell you one time. Gives you about a minute or so before he's holding you taut, bucking his hips up into you with the meanest, most devilish grin on his face.

ow you're whining and moaning like an absolute slut.

It makes his dick throb and his balls tighten, pussy clenching around him like a vice.

"Fuck, I miss hearing those sexy sounds."

He's licking and sucking on your nipple, squeezing and kneading until he's tasting that sweet liquid gold coating his taste buds.

"St-stopppp." You're whining and pushing at his head, doing nothing but egging him on. “You're wasting it."

"Nah, Papa's gonna drink it all up." He’s holding you tight, licking at the white beads that dribble from your nipple and fucking up into you so good you start to see spots of white in your vision. He feels the way you go rigid in his arms, the first syllable of his name stuck in your throat, and he knows you’re cumming for him. He doesn’t stop—his strong hips keep bouncing your stiffened figure like you weigh nothing, fucking you through your first orgasm.

Your pussy leaves him coated in your milky white cream, still dribbling onto his lap when he lifts you off.

“Made a mess of me.” 

You’re nodding like he asked you a question, it makes him chuckle. “I’m sorry.” 

He surely doesn’t mind, especially not with the way he swipes his two fingers through the folds of your cunt, gathering more of that creamy wetness on his hand to stroke at his cock. The loud squelch of his hand rubbing up and down, using it like a lubricant and coating himself in your essence, your scent. It all should’ve been disgusting. Lewd and indecent. 

Except it wasn’t. 

If anything it turned you on more, an indirect laying of claim, reminding you that he was still yours. God knows you shouldn’t be having those kind of thoughts, not until you two have reached a common ground, but Katsuki knew every which way to push your buttons. 

He’s got you on your back now, panting like a dog as he drills your cunt with remnants of your milk trailing down the bottom of his chin. 

A hand between your thighs and thumb strumming at your clit while he fucked you had you in a trance. Eyes rolled into the back of your head and your plump bottom lip pulled tightly between your lips. The sheer force and friction of every thrust has your bonnet slipping and sliding until the luscious jet black locks of your wig are free. Fuck it’s so long and pretty and you look like a fucking goddess underneath him. He wishes he could have you like this all day, everyday.

He's not letting up, both of those big hands of his now palming at the back of your thighs as he pushes them flat against the couch, pounding you to oblivion, digging you out like this might be the last time. You pray it's not the last time. You also pray your couch comes clean, he's got your pussy gushing, dripping all over your sage colored cushions.

Katsuki sees your eyes trailing over to Katsumi, the swing is still going, you wonder how long he set the timer for.

"Eyes on me baby, he's good. I promise."

He is. Mouth slightly open and he’s snoring a little, still sleeping like the little cherub he is while his daddy bullies your cunt, fucking you like he hates your guts.

"Just focus on me." He's peppering kisses all over you in between his speaking. "I know you miss me fucking you. Tell me how much you miss this dick."

It's been almost five months since you've been fucked like this, or fucked at all for that matter. 

"So so much! Miss you so much papa." You’re pulling his face down towards yours, pressing your lips together, legs wrapped around his waist. This scene probably resembles the one that got you pregnant in the first place.

"Yeah? Talk to me, mama.” He hopes you mean it. Prays it isn't just cock-drunk babbling cus he misses you too. So fucking much.

"Yeahh.” Your brows are scrunched together as you nod furiously. “I haven't fucked nobody else. This pussy's still yours baby."

God he misses you like this, so cock-drunk and cute.

He leans in to kiss you again, tongues fighting for dominance against each other’s. “Haven’t fucked anybody either. This dick is always gonna be yours baby.”

He feels you clenching around him and that’s all the confirmation he needs as he shoots his seed deep in your pussy. 

The both of you lie there together, there’s no telling how many minutes have gone by—just skin to skin basking in the afterglow of eachother until Katsumi let’s out a yelp that startles the both of you, whining a little as his swing comes to a stop. He’s stretching his tiny arms and smacking his lips, both signs of a great nap, making those weird baby noises. 

Katsuki smirks to himself. He knows his kid like the back of his hand and wants to hit you with a big, fat ‘I told you so’ for doubting him. Instead, plants a kiss on the side of your face before he gets up. 

Babydaddy!Bakugo who has you blinking back tears as you stare at his retreating form exiting the threshold of your home. 

“Be safe.” You call out just before the door closes. It’s always bittersweet every single time, watching the two of them leave, praying they both returned to you safely. It makes you yearn to have your family back. Back under the same roof, and back to the way things used to be.

❀

and yes, now i'm here with you and i would like to think that you would stick around—

dabi x reader

wc: 11k+

warnings: 18+, explicit language, angst, dabi is really bad at feelings, referenced sexual content, referenced alcohol and substance use, dabi is just a bully, reader has a quirk

< < < part one | HOME PAGE

The first thing you need to know about Dabi, not Touya, is that he isn't your friend.

Okay, so yeah, you know he's alive. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna pop in and out of your apartment, joining you for dinner or bringing you flowers or something equally as humiliating. Not that you ever say anything about it, but he knows you want him to come around more, can tell by the little frown on your face whenever he insists he has to leave. The towel in your linen closet practically has his name on it, the couch always made up with a suspicious amount of pillows and a casual throw blanket (which is embarrassing—you couldn’t be more obvious). It makes him uncomfortable, seriously.

That's why he’s been such a good little boy and hasn’t come around that often (doesn’t even follow you anymore), maybe has stopped by when seeing you was an itch he just had to scratch. Dabi can count the number of times he’s knocked on your front door on one, scarred hand of his because it’s awkward now, you knowing his death was a ruse. Those beady little eyes of yours, always fixed on him, running over the ridges of his face like you were cementing the sight of him to the inside of your lids, like you were trying to peek through the gaps in his skin.

Gross.

It’s been six weeks since he’d seen you last, in the dark of your apartment as you moved around, cleaning up the mess he’d made. Sometime after 3:23 in the morning, he’d conveniently showed up, just as you were microwaving food you ended up offering him (even if it had been for yourself), and he’d fallen asleep in the middle of the painfully uninteresting recount of your shift. With his mouth all open, drool dripping down the side of his lips, head thrown back against the couch—the simple sound of you must have woken him up only a handful of minutes later. The lights had been turned off, that blanket over his lap, and you were in the kitchen, washing out his cup and plugging your laptop into its charger.

It had been a little nostalgic, him getting to watch you through lidded eyes, without you knowing.

When the light from your bathroom flashed in the hallway, just before the lavender smell of your body wash overwhelmed the entire place, he’d finally slipped away. Nearly busted his ass jumping out the window.

The second thing you need to understand about Dabi, not Touya, is that he’s a big fucking liar.

And if you keep asking him stupid questions, (where do you live? what do you do for a living? are you busy tomorrow? how’s your mom doing? ), he’s gonna get real fucking mad, and he’s gonna keep lying. For some reason, you don’t seem to believe he’s a door-to-door vacuum salesman—fuck knows why you can’t buy that—or that his mom changed her name and moved out of the country, works as a prostitute in Germany.

“That’s the last I heard of her, swear.”

The look you’d given him had been laughable, the deadpan expression on your little sunshine face. “I’m serious.”

Yeah, he knows, you always are. But, get this smarty-pants, he ain’t gonna fucking tell you, so stop asking.

The only questions you don’t ask him are the important ones, the ones he can tell you really wanna know, and that pisses him off even more somehow. Come on, sweetheart, just fucking ask already, why do you look like that now? why aren’t you a hero, like you wanted to be? since when did you become such a fucking asshole? That look in your eyes, the one you always fix him with, must be disgust or something, because it makes his rugged, burnt flesh crawl.

Sometimes you sit across from him at your kitchen table, as he tries not to devour the leftovers in your fridge like the starved animal he is, and tell him all about the stupid shit he already knows. Your brainless friends, why you work at the hospital, how many classes you’re taking online in the spring, what your favorite movies are—Dabi just grunts in response like this is all news to him and, if he’s feeling really soft, he’ll even ask a few pointed questions to keep you rambling.

“We should go to the cinema together, on my next day off.” With your chin in your palm, you’d said it under the dim light of your kitchen, smiling a little when he started choking. Water sloshed out of your glass when you slid it to him.

“Sounds great, doll, I’ll make sure to wear my Sunday best.”

“I’m serious—tsk, Dabi.” The free hand, the one not holding your head, reached across the table to slap lightly at his unmarked skin when he’d made a face and mocked you. “You don’t wanna go out with me?”

Whatever way you’d meant it, why you phrased it like that, and the little puppy dog look in your eyes: it all made him just start choking again. Stupid questions, all the damn time—which is why he needs you to understand he’s not your friend, which is why he can’t keep coming around your apartment. Awkward. Gross.

Don’t imply shit like that.

Another thing you need to know about DabiNotTouya, is that he’s not going to talk about it. In fact, don’t even bring up that day in the motel. As far as he’s concerned, it never happened. The little scar on your head has always been there, he would know.

Now he really wishes you’d give the sweatshirt back, though, because the first time he’d come to your apartment after the whole ordeal, you’d opened the door with messy hair and it draped over your body. What the fuck you were thinking, answering the door in such tiny shorts, is totally beyond him, but everytime he thinks about you rolling around in your bed, the fabric of his clothes rubbing against your tits, it gives him a really unfortunate boner.

It had that day, also, which is why he'd slipped out your bathroom window after starting the shower, leaving that fucking towel on your sink. Embarrassing, the reactions of the male body (because it didn't really have anything to do with you in particular—men get hard all the time).

There is still a little knot on your head, one that probably won’t ever go away, and—apparently—another blow to your brains like that could be instantly fatal. Dabi doesn’t really care, honestly, because if you get whacked in the middle of the night again, you deserve it—for walking home so late. If he had any money, he’d probably buy you a pink, sparkly little helmet just to rub it in your face. Maybe even dress you in some elbow pads, shin guards, give you some idiot-proof armor.

But then you might think the two of you are friends, so it’s a good thing he doesn’t have a cent to his name.

It’s been six weeks since he’d seen you last, since the smell of lavender made him shudder and ache, and he knows by now that you’ve seen the broadcast.

For some goddamn, stupid, motherfucking reason, you keep trying to get in contact with him—on his burner phone. Of all those movies you chatter about, none of them must be crime documentaries or gang related, because you call him by his stupid name in the fleeting little texts you send him, probably have Touya with little emojis saved to your contact list. Three times he’s screened a call from you—once in the middle of the day, another early in the morning (probably after you finished your shift), and the last, right before he’d started fucking celebrating.

By the time he realizes that it really is you, standing near the bar of the club he’s been in, almost 48 hours have passed since he’d hit ‘ignore’. Dabi has no idea how much alcohol he’s downed at this point, no idea what substances are making his bloodstream fucking sing, so when he thinks he sees your little sunshine face looking at him, he just assumes it’s an illusion.

(Here’s something Dabi doesn’t want you to know: sometimes he thinks about you. In the dead of night, when he showers, in the middle of conversations with Spinner—he thinks about what you must be doing at that exact moment. Somewhere, out there in the city, scrunching up your nose because you’re frustrated or smiling so wide because you’re laughing, doing your damndest to be a hero at work, sweating with all your effort. Thinking about him in return, wondering what he’s doing, worrying about it. Smiling and getting all hot, thinking about his hands on your body under that shitty water.)

(That last part is bullshit; you don’t remember anything from that day, had told him as much, just that the motel room seemed familiar and that’s why you’d shown up there after the hospital. Because something about it promised the sight of a kid you used to know, one from your class.)

There is a tight, little cat girl on his lap and she has been for hours, blowing smoke in his mouth, whispering filthy shit in his ear, but he’s been thinking about you—again—and pretending it’s your fingers popping the button on his jeans. It’s been relatively easy; the club is packed and so fucking loud, even though his head is pounding, he can close his eyes and pretend anything he wants.

That the blaring noise reverberating in his skull is just sounds from the movie on the screen, that the theater is empty—just the two of you sitting in it, somewhere at the back—and the weight on his lap is from you. You must be a little kinky, licking the hoop in his ear like that, and you giggle when his hips jerk as you slide your hand down the front of his pants. It’s so fucking hot, to be with you like this in an empty movie theater, because he’s wanted it for what feels like a goddamn eternity and now he can drop the act and sigh your name as you—

“What?”

The cat girl keeps purring, even keeps her tail wrapped around his leg when she pulls back to look down at him. It’s clear the name has been lost to her, because she doesn’t look pissed, just confused—as if she genuinely didn’t understand what he said—which only kills the new high he’d been chasing. Dabi is drunk as shit and he can feel his dick go limp under her hand, just as the rush of disappointment and reality rise up in him like a stomachache.

He can still see your face though, as if it’s watching on a couple feet from him, but all the sunshine has set on it. There isn’t a pout on your lips, but they’re open just a bit, brows furrowed and, oh fuck, your eyes. There is no puppy dog look in them, not even the kind you send him in the quiet of your apartment—they’re just wide and big and sad. Like you’re the one with the gaps in your skin, like they’ve been ripped open.

It makes his body cold all at once (which is fucking weird), this feeling like he’s a piece of shit boyfriend that’s ghosted the woman of his dreams for days, and now she’s caught him with a cat girl on his lap. As if she’s been trying to get ahold of him after the demons of his past had been revealed to the entire world—probably because she genuinely cares or something—and she’s even gone so far as to track him down in the dingiest of places. And she’s looking at him like she’s put her heart on a platter and given it to him, just for her ugly motherfucker, sorry goddamn excuse of a boyfriend to throw it on the ground and stomp it to bits, because he doesn’t know how to do anything but ruin.

The woman of his dreams knows she doesn’t deserve that shit, which is why she turns on her heel and begins to leave.

“Gettha’ fuck off’a me.”

By the time he manages to get to his feet, the girl is on the floor and hissing at him, but Dabi doesn’t care, because he’s busy doing what he’s always done—chasing you down, too many steps behind. Every one he takes is unsteady and he’s blinking rapidly with how hard he’s trying to focus, on the sight of your yellow dress, on the shine of your hair in the neon lights, of the curl of your little fist. It seems like all the substances in his system surge in his bloodstream, come up his throat (and go back down, as he stops and leans against someone so he can swallow), and nauseate him with every body he pushes through.

It all gets drowned out, though, by the anger he’s inherited from the man he despises most in this world—when someone grabs you by the arm and halts you in your tracks.

Of course it’s some big fucking guy, a tree trunk of a man that could crunch you in his fingers if he wanted to, pick his teeth with your bones.

(Look, Dabi totally has an eight pack—and he could show you, if you don’t believe him—but he’s not even half as wide as Enji. Fucking Natsuo has broader shoulders than him, and every muscle in Touya’s body is lean, probably a little malnourished. He’s never come across a fight that required his fists alone and that, coupled with the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a crowded club, when he can’t decide which vision of you is the real one, makes for a big fucking problem.)

Something comes out of his mouth, something completely unintelligible, but it’s lost along the music as he tries to close the distance between the two of you. Just as he starts to shout something again, you completely stun him; that fist uncurls, flattens out into a firm palm, and it slaps across the face of the man grabbing onto you. It actually gives Dabi a bit of a chub, makes him smirk as he sways back into the body behind him and mutters something that sounds like “fuck yeah”.

But then you’re getting backhanded into the floor and Dabi is launching his wiry body through the air before red finishes settling in front of his eyes.

If the two of you will ever stop getting into situations like this, when your precious, stupid little life is on the line, he doesn’t know—but he sure as fuck would like to. This is different than the time in the alley, because he’s the one on the ground, getting the shit knocked out of him, but he’s batshit insane anyway, so he just laughs the whole time. It’s like armor, this sick craziness he can wield, and though it’s dented and broken and dull, it still makes that tree fucker look nervous. Somehow he manages to get the upper hand once, manages to maneuver his lithe body on top of the guy, but then he realizes you’re screaming his name and grabbing for him.

It stuns him again, when his elbow rockets back and hits you square in the nose, when he watches with wide eyes as tears well up in yours, as blood starts spurting down over your lips.

And then staples are coming loose in his face as knuckles crack across his cheek.

Maybe you already know this about Dabi and Touya, maybe you don’t: sometimes, that fire of his burns so hot, it makes his skin peel away from his bones. The burning pain and sting of it all is starting, welling up in him like an ugly vice when he’s finally had enough of this little game, but then something pricks in his neck and it’s like a bucket of water has been dumped over him.

The flames die out in his hand so fast, it makes his head spin, and Dabi somehow manages a breath before he looks back at you, before a cold panic sobers him up when he sees the club owner with a gun pointed at your chest. It almost makes him piss himself, but a little tack just comes out the end of the barrel and he watches your lips form around an 'ow’ before you tug it out of your skin. A loud groan of relief is released from his mouth at the realization you haven’t been shot to death before his eyes and it even makes him forget about the fight, until a heavy hand is twisting in his hair and his feet are dragging across the dance floor.

The quiet night air almost hurts his ears with its silence, the cold nips at his sweaty face as the concrete rushes up to meet him. More staples come loose with the bust of his head against the ground and he can’t tell what on him is blood or perspiration, maybe some of it is even alcohol or his vomit. It makes him think of how disgusting you’d been in that motel room, almost makes him laugh at the irony of it all—how the two of you always end up like this. The night sky is empty, much plainer than the walls of the club had been, but that somehow just hurts his head as a myriad of colors and shapes swirl in his vision.

The only thing he’s sure of is your face leaning over his, that the look in your eye isn’t as sad as it once had been. It’s a good thing he’s already on the ground, because it might have knocked him to his knees, and he says something questionable that only makes you shake your head.

“Touya,” When you sigh, a bead of blood drips from your nose, down your chin, and onto his lips.

The trek back to you apartment is fucking awful and damn near impossible.

At one point in time, during his youth, Touya had been shorter than you. Not by a lot, but it didn’t matter, it was just as embarrassing, and there is some kind of juvenile glee he gets now that his frame is towering over yours (even if he's still not as tall as his younger brother). Despite the blow to his skull and the fear you were gonna get blasted to Hell, there is still so much crap swimming in his head, he doesn’t care that the two of you are touching; your arm is wrapped around his thin waist, his is draped over your shoulders as you help him stumble down the sidewalk.

Blood is staining your little dress, turning the white flowers red, but you hug him close regardless. Sometimes he steps too wide or unsteady and it takes all your effort to keep the two of you upright, him on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the streetlamps, and it makes him laugh as you grunt his name.

Out there, in the night, it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the world, like the only ones in a dark theater. Something warm spreads in his chest at that thought, that maybe this is even romantic, but then he just starts sputtering out a cackle again because holy fuck, is that embarrassing.

Dabi doesn’t even realize you’ve stopped and are standing a little in the street, that his mouth is against your hair as he mutters, “I’m tall, huh?”

“Yes, Dabi, you are tall.” You sound a little annoyed with him, but it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. At least not for the moment.

When you raise your hand a little and wave it around, he thinks you’re trying to get his attention and he grunts at you, slouching down further, breathing in the smell of your shampoo, and it’s only then that he realizes a car is pulling up in front of the two of you. Dabi whips his head back so fast, his stomach lurches.

“Come on, get in.”

“What’re ya’ doing?”

With a huff, you try to usher him into the cab. “I can’t carry you all the way home.”

“’m not gettin’ in that fucking thing.”

The driver swivels around in his seat, glancing between the two of you, probably wondering what the hold up is. Even drunker than shit, Dabi wants to ask what the fuck you’re thinking, if you’re even thinking at all, as he instinctively tries to slink back into the dark. That feisty hand of yours latches onto his at lightning speed to stop him.

This is something he thought you already knew about him, that he can’t just go waltzing around in public, as if his face hadn’t been blasted all over the television, as if he wasn't a known and wanted criminal. There are a lot of choice words forming on his tongue, ones that he wants to say because he knows they’ll hurt your feelings, but you’re already slipping in the leather seats, tugging him hard enough that he nearly hits his head on the roof of the car.

The minute you can, you buckle his seatbelt and give the driver your address, even lean all up against him as his entire body goes rigid.

“Relax,” You try to tell him, but he absolutely does not do that.

First of all, Dabi hates seeing the streetlights pass him by like that, especially with his head reeling, and it makes him feel sicker than he already does. Yellow and black, yellow and black, yellow and black, lights and then darkness; it’s a damn nightmare for his headache. Second of all, why the hell are you so cramped up on him, anyway? Blocking him in, shoving your shoulder against his chest, trapping him like the cab is speeding to the hospital, so you can check his crazy ass into the nut house.

Fucking traitor.

For a brief moment, he looks down at your face, tries to read the tired sheen in your eyes, watches the gentle way you dab at your nose, to see if he can find any truth to this theory. There is a small bead of sweat at your temple and his eyes narrow at it suspiciously. If his heart wasn't beating out of his chest at the fear of being in a public cab, a lot of accusations would start flying, but if he opens his mouth, vomit will probably come out and get all in your fucking hair. If he needs to use that to distract you so he can escape in the near future, then he better hold onto his guts.

The glare he's sending you must be burning a hole in the side of your face, because you angle it up at him, get even more in his personal space, blow your minty breath on his lips as you ask him if he's alright.

And then things start spinning again, start making him feel warm like before. As if the darkness of this backseat and the flash of the streetlights are all just scenes in the movie, the ambiance in the theater, and the two of you are the only ones that exist. Only two tickets got sold for the showing of this crap—something girly and cheesy, something about a witch and her broomstick and a cat—and the whole room is dark enough that you can’t see the burns on his skin, the gaps in his face.

Dabi is such a fucking pussy, so he slurs something like, "oh, shit," as you stare at him like that.

But then the cab driver flips around in his seat with a surprised gasp and you’re shoving yourself even further into him, pressing the back of your head into his face and holding up your hands.

“Please keep driving.”

All Touya smells is lavender, all he feels is the warmth of your back against his chest. It’s too warm. When he shifts his head, the tip of his nose bumps against the shell of your ear and he thinks about you in that shower again. The copper of your breath, the faraway look in your eyes. How easily you'd let him hold you like that, even looking like he does, even after so much time. For some crazy reason, the muscles in Dabi's hands twitch and his fingers tighten on the fabric of your ruined dress.

“I know what you’re thinking, but please keep driving and I’ll pay you extra not to say anything to anyone.”

You stay like that for the remainder of the ride, only looking back at his face once, nose brushing against his as you check his eyes to make sure he’s alright—and the whole action sends his stomach into his fucking throat. One of your hands pats his, the one fisted in your dress, and your fingers even run over his knuckles softly, in a way that makes him want to lean his head back and pass out in this cab.

Or die. The plushy, sick softness of it all makes him want to just fucking die.

Another thing: Dabi can only do this like this, if you're wondering at all. Can only be quiet like this, can only touch you like this, when he can't feel your eyes on his face. If you're not looking at him, maybe you don't know. Maybe it's like before, when he could sit in the dark of your bedroom and count your quiet breaths as you slept, when he could close his eyes and pretend that it would be normal for him to crawl in with you, if he wanted to.

When you fish a (probably) outrageous amount of money out of your purse and toss it to the driver, he just keeps his head down, partially in shame, because his anger had come and gone so fast after you'd just looked at him, and partially because his neck is fucking tired. After you push him out of the cab does he realize the two of you are not in front of your apartment building, that you lied about your address just in case.

The walk up the block is a little less painful and Dabi doesn’t let you touch his hands this time, just wobbles around on his own.

It takes longer than it should for him to get up the stairs; every time he starts to fall, a reflexive laugh comes out of him as he throws his arms in the air, and you have to plant your feet into the ground, push your back up against his in order to further him along.

On the second floor landing, you say the line, you say, “Dabi, I’m serious,” when he pushes back against you, which only expels an exaggerated, exasperated groan from his throat, and then he lets you lean him against the wall while you unlock your front door. The couch isn’t made up and that surprises him, almost makes him a little mad, makes him instantly come to the conclusion you’d had company over, but he slumps down on it all the same. He starts to make a half-hearted inquiry about who you fucked on the cushions he’s sitting on when he realizes you’re not even next to him, that you’re piddling around in your kitchen. The absence of you gives him a small bit of reprieve and he tries to get himself the fuck together.

“Are you hot?”

When he opens his eyes—that he hadn’t realized he’d closed—you are holding an ice pack against his forehead, using some of the wetness to wipe at the blood there. There are two dried, crimson rings around your nostrils and a small, budding bruise right at your cupid’s bow, one that is just a little indigo in the shitty light of your apartment. The skin of his jaw is rough and he’s so caught up in looking at your swollen lip that he doesn’t realize you’re touching him there, doesn’t register the pressure of your fingers right away, but he smacks your hand away when he finally does.

“‘m fine, don’t touch me.”

The look you send him is surprisingly irritated and, now that the stillness of your apartment is shrouding him in peace, he can feel the laxity in his cheek when he grins. The staples are still in his face, just stretched out too far, so he tries to dig his fingers into his mouth to pinch them back together, but you stop him.

“Your hands are dirty!” You cry, like a little bit of bacteria is gonna kill him.

Get this, smarty-pants, a lot of things have tried to kill him, it ain’t gonna be some germs that take him out.

"Don' touch me."

With a sigh, the ice pack drops to your lap, eyes traveling over his face in that too-studious way you always do. Dabi has this urge, to grab the loose part of his cheek and pull at it so you can see his skin stretch, see all his ugliness up close, but the look in your big, Bambi eyes tells him you can already see it, without even trying. Your tongue comes out to lightly run over the puffiness of your lip, which grabs his attention (and you totally do that shit on purpose), and the absence of the ice on his forehead makes him realize just how hot he's running, like the heat is on in your apartment or something.

"You mad at me?" He doesn't know why he asks, maybe because some part of him thinks it's funny—he's seen your face for 11 years and none of your weak anger has ever been directed at him—and because some part of him really wants to know. If it's this easy to get under your skin, then you're in for a rough ride, princess.

Almost instantly, you open your mouth and start shaking your head, but, after a moment of looking at him, you close it and sigh—as if you actually might be. It makes him sputter out a silent laugh.

"No, Touya, I'm not mad at you." Is what you say, and it's so soft and distracting that he doesn't care when you put that ice pack on his forehead again. “I just—” It looks like you’re sad, ashamed even, the way you stare down at the couch cushions. “I wish I knew, that—I just wonder if there was something I could have said or done to—”

The broadcast, him, you’re talking about him; Dabi is drunker than shit, but it’s still sitting at the forefront of his mind, that fucking hilarious look on Enji’s face, how Shouto’s voice had gone hoarse from yelling so hard. All the dirty laundry in the Todoroki family, aired out for the world—you included—to see.

Whatever the hell you’re trying to say pisses him off.

“My bad,” Dabi rolls his eyes and knocks your hand away again, because you apparently don’t know anything about personal space. “Sorry I didn’t stop during our games of pretend to tell you my dad was a total fuckstick.”

The ice pack goes to your lip as you slump into the couch, looking defeated (which is funny), and you bring it away from your mouth two times like you’ve got some kind of rebuttal, but it just ends with a shake of your head. When you look at him again, Dabi realizes you’ve seen him without a shirt on, over the television, which is what he’d wanted, but you’re looking at his neck and his ears and his hands, and you must be envisioning what you saw then, wherever you were when it came across the screen.

“Say something,” he mutters, feeling perspiration drip down the back of his neck, “don’t just stare at me all stupid like that.”

A flat, unamused look flashes over your face just before you shift your body completely in his direction, laying your head on the couch to look straight at him. It makes his lips curl, especially the little smile on your annoying face. “Do you remember that game of tag we used to play? When I would touch you—”

And Touya would have to stand stone still, wherever he was, only could start moving freely again—out of your Mind Freeze—if he successfully completed a dare of your choice (and they were all stupid: "do a cartwheel” or “hang upside down in the tree” or “run three times around the playground”). If he caught up to you during the game, touched your arm or leg, you were forbidden from using it for one full round, because it was “burned”.

Embarrassing.

“No.” His eyes are on the hole in his jeans, the small one right above his knee. “I don’t ‘member any’a that shit.”

“Hmm,” There is a smile on your face, he can tell without even looking at you, because you’re always so fucking obvious. “I remember—always winning, of course.”

It’s bait and he’s not that stupid. Nice try, smarty-pants.

“Doesn’t really sound like the you I ‘member.” Dabi risks a glance out of the corner of his eye, sees the lump on your lip darkening a bit, sees the way your cheek squishes against your hand when you tuck it between your face and the couch. “Couldn’t even use your quirk without losing your guts.”

The small kick against his shin isn’t accidental.

When you shift a little closer to him, he sits back, further into the cushions. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you don’t remember, then.” You make a teasing sound as you stick your tongue out at him.

The long-sleeve he’s wearing is sticking to him, clinging to the textured skin of his back. Sweat drips down behind his ears and it’s not from the ice pack—which has melted down to water—like he had originally thought. It’s fucking burning up in this apartment of yours, what the fuck? If he closes his eyes, he can almost envision it’s crawling all over his skin, that blue fire, peeling back all the layers of his stapled face.

It’s almost like you’re waiting to see it, looking at him like that. Like you’re waiting to see what hides in all the ugliness, in the meat of his muscles and the char of his bones.

“You know,”

Maybe if Dabi didn’t feel like he was melting into a puddle of human goo, he would feel a bit cold as you start saying this soft bullshit.

“You were the first boy I ever had a crush on.”

A sick fucking freak, that’s what you are. Waiting on his reaction, trying to dissect the way sweat is drenching him, watching every breath he tries to pant out. It must be why you’ve got the heat on—it must be—trying to trap him and force him to come out of his skin, to see all the hatred that’s kept him burning all these years. What you want with it, what you want him to say to that, he has no clue.

It’s like you’re using that loser, piece of crap quirk of yours, digging your fingers into the staples just to pull them out, just to see him unfurl into pieces.

Dabi feels hot, like really hot. Hot like he does when his skin burns, hot like he had hugging Shouto, hot like he had at Sekoto. Hot like he had under that tree.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” You sigh, finally turning your face away to close your eyes, furrowing your eyebrows as you run your tongue over that swollen bruise on your lip again. “I lit incense for you, too, at the grave.” The words come out a little stuttered, a little different, like you’re the embarrassed one. “One thing I realized about death is that—well, of course it’s never easy, it always hurts, but there’s something about being a kid and—and one day your friend just stops showing up to play.”

There is a faraway look on your face, staring absentmindedly at the television, as if you’re remembering. The little version of you he’d known comes to his mind, the one he tagged, the one he kissed (or kissed him, really), and he tries to imagine you on the playground alone.

It’s never been something he’s thought about, never something he had the luxury of thinking about. A few weeks had passed before he screwed his head back on right, before he found you again, and you must have figured it out by then.

Maybe if Dabi cared about anything other than himself, maybe if he could cry, his eyes would be a little swollen right about now.

“At school, they never told us, you know, no one. Even after the paper came out, even after we asked about it, no one would say anything. It was—” One of your hands goes into your hair and you tug at it, like the memory still stresses you out or something. “—frustrating. And the entire time, we’re all just waiting, stuck as kids no one listens to, just trying to find out what happened to our friend and if—”

To his absolute horror, your voice cracks.

“I just wanted to know if you were coming back.”

Out of the corner of his eye—because he’s sure as fuck not going to look at you—he can see you wipe your tears, hears you sniff up a bunch of snot. The spot beneath his palm on the couch has gone dark with his sweat, he can feel what’s gathered in the collar of his shirt. If he still dyed his hair, it would be running down his face, the way your mascara is.

“It had a monumental impact on my life, being young and losing you like it.”

There’s one last thing you need to understand about Touya. If you peeled back the layers of his skin, took all his staples out, dug through all the ugliness—

“It still does have a monumental impact on me, you did in the alleyway that day. You do now.”

—there’d be a little version of you, standing under a tree, blood on your lips.

It’s buried so far in there, in the tendons and hot blood of him, you’ll probably be stuck there forever. Not even his own hands could dig it out, no matter how hard he tries, or has tried. It’s a curse, a terrible, sweaty sickness. A chink in the crazy armor he thought he’d forged.

It’s his only weakness, the only thing that could ruin him. Maybe it already has.

There’s a question simmering on his tongue, one he’s always had, and Dabi can feel himself fucking losing it, so he tries to cling onto the only emotion that makes sense. “Then how did you find out?”

When you swivel your head to finally look at him, you see the mess he’s melted into and sit up in a hurry. “Touya, you’re—I think you should get in the shower.”

Before you can spring to your feet, he’s beaten you. Fists clenched, the answer he already knows, all the emotions he’s tried to bury—all thrumming in him like the headache behind his eyes. “How did you find out what happened?”

“We can have this conversation later, after you cool off.” You step toward him and he steps back, until he’s slipping against the wall. “Take your shirt off, it’s soaked, Touya, we—”

This time, when you reach for him, he grabs your hands in his and squeezes, wants to turn your fingers to ash under his palms with how pissed off you’re making him. Rage is twisting his face the way it always does, the way he hadn’t wanted you to see once. “Answer my fucking question. Now.”

“I asked Enji.” It’s obvious that you’re saying the wrong thing, he can see the way awkward regret is blooming on your face (there’s a bitter part of him that is giddy about that—welcome to his world, where saying the wrong thing is only natural). “They wouldn’t tell us what happened, I had no choice! I cared about you, I deserved to—”

“You’re crazy!” Dabi shoves you—hard, because you fucking deserve it—and his hands fly to his damp hair. “What the hell is wrong with you? Asking him? Why the fuck would you do that?” The tone of his voice is hysterical, almost two octaves higher than it usually is, and panic makes you sweat. Another wave of heat rolls over him and almost makes him heave.

“You were my friend, Touya, what else was I supposed—”

“Fuck! You’re nothing but’a huge problem for me, you know that?”

Everything Dabi has ever needed to be, everything he has the chance to be, comes crashing down at the simplest bat of your stupid fucking eyelashes, and it’s finally driven him insane.

Did that mean Enji knew? Or Shouto?

Only days ago, when he’d shown them the man he’d become—how heartless and bitter, how strong and unbreakable—did they watch on with that stupid look, knowing what had happened underneath that tree? Did they know the fucking weakling, the fucking coward, he had once been in your mere prescence?

Wrapped around your stupid finger, turning red and dreaming about you at night, imagining himself—fuck—imagining all the things the two of you would be when you were older.

Rei had to keep popping out kids for a man that forced her into a fake, bullshit marriage; Touya didn’t know what love was, wouldn’t know it if it slapped him in his stupid, chubby face, but there was something he had felt at school, when he saw a girl, when she played tag and talked about their future as heroes—there was something that felt real good about that.

It was distracting, you were (still fucking are), and the last thing he needed during all his training was a damn girl to steal his mind to other possibilities, to other futures—but you had regardless.

And Enji wasn’t supposed to know. Not then, not now, not ever.

“We weren’t friends! We were never friends, I—I hated your annoying ass.”

Finally, he hurts your stupid feelings; your nostrils flare and another flat look tries to shine over the sadness in your eyes. “You don’t need to talk to me like this.”

“Fuck, you were pathetic!” The laugh he lets out is all Dabi, all crazy and furious and fire. “I should have killed you, just like I wanted to!”

“Touya, stop.”

Dabi takes a step towards you, another one when you back up from him, and grabs the front of your shirt. Any minute now, it’s going to burst into flames and maybe, if he’s lucky, you’ll fuck out of his life forever. “I wanted to dig your eyes out with a spoon while your parents were sleeping. I wanted you to scream and cry and—”

“No, you didn’t.”

“—while you asked me why, why, why me? so I could finally tell you how much I hated you.”

It only infuriates him more, the look on your face, which isn’t as scared as he wants it to be. Which isn’t really scared at all.

“I daydreamed about it every day, I fucking jacked it to the thought of your dead, rotting body laying six feet—”

“I’ve been inside your head.” Your hands come to wrap around his, which prompts him to yank them back. “In the alleyway, trying to find out who you were. I know, Touya, I know that you’re lying, so please,” with a sigh, you squeeze your eyes shut, “stop talking to me like that.”

Every part of you is sick and soft and quiet, from the look on your pinched face to the shaking hands that reach for him again, and Dabi realizes it is something he has never known. What does all of it even mean, anyway? The tone of your laugh when he makes an ugly face at you, when he mocks the stupid questions you ask, when he rolls his eyes at your fucking implications. All of you, every last piece of you, has always been a mystery to him, one he wasn’t able to leave unsolved.

When he yells at you like this, you’re supposed to turn away and you are supposed to cry. When he raises his hands to strike you, to burn you into fucking nothing, you are supposed to be afraid, you are supposed to fear the scorch of his flames against your skin, the ones that will turn you into him. When he ignores your calls and doesn’t come around as often as you want him to, you are supposed to get it. You are supposed to know you’ve been replaced—by a cat girl, one that is more talented than you, one that fucks better—and he is supposed to turn away and forget you existed.

But none of that ever seems to fucking happen.

“What?” His voice has gone hoarse, “You don’t know anything.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Though he’s the one with the fist raised, though he’s the one with sweat slicking his hair to his neck, though he’s the one that’s put that bruise on your lip, an apology is evident in every word you speak. “I just wanted to know who you were, I didn’t mean to see it all.”

The only response he gives you is the thunderous beat of his heart in his chest, the wide-eyed look on his ugly mug.

“I wanted to tell you and talk to you about it, but you come around so rarely and you never answer when I—” You shake your head, “I’m not blaming you, I’m sorry. But then everything happened and—” In the black screen of the television, he sees how trapped he looks when you gesture to it. How small he looks. How Touya-like he looks. “—and I just never got the chance to, before now.”

Every thought he’s ever had about you makes him sway on his feet. Every lustful thought, every remembrance of the jokes you’d told him as kids, of the games you played, of the looks you’d given him. Every horrible thought he’s ever had about you—sincere and in an attempt to stuff his feelings back down his throat. All the wanting he’d ever done, for the future, for the past, for now. It’s all laying out in front of him, between the space on the carpet between the two of you. Like he’d vomited it all up. Like you’d peeled back the layers of his skin and dug it all out of him.

“You’re full of shit.”

“No, Touya, I’m—” Frustration flashes over your face again and you rub at the crease between your eyebrows, dab at your nose, tongue the bruise on your lip. “I would never lie to you, I need you to know that.”

“Yes you are,” Pressing himself further into the wall behind him, he whispers, “Yes, you are lying. I know you are.”

“What makes you think I’m lying about this?”

“In the alleyway, that wasn’t the first time you’ve ever put your fingers inside my brain.” The first time he’d met you, at that fucking private school, when you told him about your quirk, he hadn’t believed you. Some kind of mind game bullshit? How was that fair? A nobody-girl, one that wasn’t even from a prominent family, like Touya was, would rise through the ranks as a Pro in no time flat, with an OP quirk like that.

When he asked you to tell him what he was thinking, to prove it, you’d gone quiet, flinched a little, and told him that the burns on his shoulders were hurting him. It was the first day he’d met you, wearing a school uniform, one that covered him up in a way that hid it all—from his teacher, from Enji, from a nobody, smarty-pants girls like you; there was no way for you to know that kinda shit.

Whatever he wants to say next doesn’t come out, not even when he opens his mouth and gasps like a dying, stinking fish. Maybe if Dabi could cry, he would be.

If you could read his mind in half a second, in the alleyway, to know, then how did you not know then? In the classroom, peeking inside his mind, knowing about the burns and somehow not knowing about it all. About Enji. About the Hell he was living.

It all seems to dawn on you, all your petty, stupid fucking lies, and you take a step forward. “I didn’t know back then because I didn’t know how to use it yet. I—I still don’t! Because I can’t, Touya!”

“It doesn’t make sense, no matter what you say. Because you’re lying.”

“If I had known what you were going through, don’t you think I would have—” For some reason, you start crying, like you’re the victim here. Like you’re the one with the gaps in your skin and the burns on your body and the hate in your stomach. Like you’re the one that fucking lost it. “I didn’t know how to use my quirk back then, in order to see more than what you were thinking. I cared about you, I still do! If I had known—”

“Shut up!” Dabi raises his hands, curls them in the way he does when he wants to burn everything around him. He grabs you then and he doesn’t care about the gentle way you’re touching him, doesn’t care about the hands on his or the breath on his face when he drags you closer. “You’re a liar!”

“You’re burning up, you have to calm down!” Still, you aren’t scared of him, just trying to wipe the sweat pooling all over his face and neck. Pleading and crying, just like he wants, but the worry dancing in your eyes isn’t for yourself.

“I’m going to kill you, right now!”

You can’t know. You can’t know all the things he’s thought about you. You can’t know him like that because no one does, not even Dabi knows all the things about Touya like that.

“If you don’t calm down, you’re going to roast yourself alive, Touya, you’re overheating!”

“Right now, I’m going to do it! Just like I’ve always wanted!” He’s going to shove his thumbs in your eyes, he’s going to snap your pretty little neck, he’s gonna cut you up—just like you’ve done to him. Hands on your jaw, fingers cradling your face: he’s ready.

Any minute now.

Any second, he’s going to finally do it.

They’ll close that movie theater down. No one will ever go there again. It will all be reduced to ashes.

“Touya, please.”

Any moment now. He can do it, no problem. Absolutely no problem.

But your fingers cradle his face, and then you push them up his nose and in his ears and everything gets cool, just for a little while. Just enough that he can finally lean his head back against the couch you’ve made up for him, just enough so that he can finally sleep.

The first thing Dabi knows when he wakes up is that he’s in your bed (it takes him a long time to figure this out—what with the migraine and sour taste in his mouth and all that), and he knows this because the mattress is way too soft to be his, there are too many pillows all around him, and your smell is invading every piece of him.

The second thing he knows is that he’s wearing the sweater again—and that you must have put it on him, which means you’d seen—and then that the sheets are a little damp from all the towel-wrapped bags of ice near his neck, his hands, his thighs. It all comes painfully flashing back to him, the night before, and it’s a testament to how tired he is—seriously—because he doesn’t really do anything, just lays there like a dead, stinking fish.

There are two piles of sheets balled up on your floor, stained with blood, stained with (what is obviously) his vomit, and he can faintly hear your washer banging across the apartment. For a minute, he wonders if this is how you felt, laying for 30 minutes in that bathtub—somehow alive, but feeling like death—fading in and out from the world around you, thoughts coming and going like the breeze from the ceiling fan above him.

Today, whatever time it is (late afternoon, maybe?), Touya is too exhausted to put up the act.

It’s embarrassing, the way he wraps his arms over his face and breathes you in, the soft little groan he lets out when the smell of lavender subdues his headache for a moment. His tight jeans are still on, though they’ve been unbuttoned, zipper down, and—with all the wiggling he’d done in his sleep—they’ve come down uncomfortably around his ass. It takes a long time before he moves his arms, before he pulls them back on right and rolls out of bed.

The idea of you makes his stomach hurt, so he doesn’t go there just yet.

Peeking out of your room, there is no sign of anyone else in the apartment, and Touya quickly pads across the hall and into your bathroom, leans against the door when he closes it and holds his breath, just in case you’re gonna pop out somewhere.

It’s hard to meet himself in the mirror, always is.

Somehow, the burns under his eyes look worse, darker, and two of the staples in his cheek are more crooked than usual. Part of his hair is flattened against his head and the other parts are wild, a little crimped and folded, and running a hand through it all doesn’t do a fucking thing, which makes him snort. It’s strangely domestic, the rugged sight of him in your bathroom, wearing a sweater that was originally his, that he’d seen on you, that you’d put back on him.

The bristles on your toothbrush are stained pink, but he brushes the sour taste of puke out of his mouth anyway—no, he’s not gonna tell you about that.

When there’s nothing left to do but face you, Touya wonders what else you’ve seen in this crazy head of his. In between the time since you’d read his mind in the alleyway and last night, he’d worried about you, thought about the future the two of you were supposed to have. He’s wanted you, and a date at the cinema, jacked off to the thought of your tits under his sweater (and a bunch of other things, honestly), cursed himself for being such an asshole by ignoring you, and hated you. Every part of you he couldn’t understand, every part of you he wanted to.

That laptop of yours is open, the headset around your neck as something dull and boring drones on quietly, and you look at him for a long time before hitting your spacebar, before taking off the headphones and standing up to approach him.

The bruise on your lip has fully settled and it’s ugly.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” You’re whispering, which is nice for his headache. When he shrugs, you turn back to the table and grab a piece of buttered toast from your plate, the piece that isn’t bitten, and offer it to him.

And he’s too tired to fight, so he just takes it and moves around you, away from the way you’re looking at him—soft, like fucking always—and slumps down on your couch. It’s been made up, with the blanket and the pillows; you must have slept on it last night.

The toast crunches real loud, gets crumbs all over him that he swipes onto the carpet, and some are clinging to your cheek when you eventually come to sit beside him. Dabi thinks it’s too close, Touya thinks it’s too far away, and all three of you just stare at the empty television screen. Out of the corner of his eye, you’re opening and closing your mouth, sighing quietly, and it almost makes him laugh, it would if it didn’t require so much effort.

Then the apologies start.

“I’m sorry for knocking you out like that.” All the words are still whispered. “I don’t know if you remember,”—he does—“but they shot us with suppressants, at the bar, and you were overheating.”

Suppressants. That Yakuza fuck.

It makes you sound real small and sad, with your Bambi eyes and sunset face. “I was afraid you were gonna cook yourself alive, so I—”

“‘s’fine.” Touya grunts, and you just nod in response.

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about it earlier, I should have made time to find you.” The huff you let out is a little bitter, too harsh for someone like you. “I did it just fine yesterday, I should have tried harder before then.”

None of this really means anything to him, so he shifts a little bit—cringes—and looks at you. “How did you find that place?”

“You’ve been there before,” Even though it’s all out in the open, you seem shy about admitting it, which is real fucking hilarious. “It’s the second place I looked.”

The image of you, in that yellow dress, wandering down streets and sidewalks, looking in the places he hangs around, makes him want to throw up. What the fuck are you thinking? Another blow to the head will kill you, stupid, so why are you walking around like a ripe little peach, around people that would love to take a bite?

(There is a small, uncaged part of him that feels warm about it, that makes Touya feel like he did at school with you; the idea that you had searched high and low, slapped guys that grabbed you, tried to talk to him about his embarrassing fucking feelings—it all makes you seem like a mystery again.)

You’re quiet after that, thoughts flashing over your face as you lightly touch the bruise on your lip, and it pisses him off suddenly. All of his memories and daydreams, all of his fears and wants and desires, all of his plans and secrets have all been strewn out before him like a disemboweled pig, and you get to sit quietly with all your own feelings.

“Tell me what you’re thinking. Now.” When you raise your eyebrows at him, his face scrunches up like that of a child, like it probably did back then. “I deserve to know.”

Because you’re an annoying little goody-goody, you just shrug.

“I think that’s fair.” You shift to face him, the way you had last night. “I’m thinking that I’m still worried about you overheating. I’m thinking that I’m tired, that I’m upset with myself.” A frown pulls on your lips. “I’m thinking that...you’re going to leave, and I’m worried you won’t come back this time.”

Not in some you’re-gonna-die-out-there kinda way, but in some you’ll-never-talk-to-me-again kinda way. It’s as plain as day on your face and he, Dabi, thinks it’s good that you feel that way, that you should. Because he, Dabi, shouldn’t ever speak to you again because he’s been compromised, he’s been found out. All the secret inside shit you aren’t supposed to know has come to the surface—in fact, you dived into that water to find it yourself—and, by the rules of the street, he shouldn’t come around you again. He should kill you, actually, to prevent anything from happening to him or his mission.

“I’m thinking that I regret not trying to find you sooner, when we were kids. I maybe could have done it, I don’t know,” You shrug again and it becomes obvious how tired you are. It must have been a long night, for the both of you, after you’d finally shut him up. “But I’m also thinking there is no use regretting, because it won’t change the past. I’m thinking that,” Bambi eyes, big and worried and sad and gentle. “I just have to keep trying, for the future.”

For once, he doesn’t know what to say. Or think. Or do.

Because nobody has ever tried for him, for Touya, not like you have.

A little chuckle comes out of you, brings his eyes back to your face, and he’s surprised to find it a little shy. “I’m also thinking that it’s a little silly for me to be sad, because I should have known there were other women in your life, after all this time.”

And that confuses the hell out of him, makes him roll his eyes and shake his head—painfully—as he tries to figure out what the fuck you’re talking about.

“What?” It’s absurd, really, this idea that he’s the kinda guy worried about other women, that he’s the kinda guy that has a multitude of them stored in his back fucking pocket or something. Toga? He wouldn’t call her a woman, more like a noisy little brat that could go to Hell, for all he cared. “What other women?”

The smile on your face wavers, like you want to drop it into a frown, but you hold it steady. “I don’t know, just, whoever. Like the one from last night.”

Are you kidding?

Your stupid ass quirk has reached into the recesses of his mind and broken open that seal, spilled his guts all over the floor of your apartment and cleaned it up with your sheets, and you still think—

“The cat girl? I don’t even—I couldn’t tell you her name if my life depended on it.”

“Oh,” The laugh you let out is a little surprised, but your face still looks pinched and upset. “I don’t—uh—I don’t know if that’s better or worse, actually.”

“There are no 'other women', smarty-pants.” Touya scoffs and leans closer to you, sneers in your face so you fucking get the point. “Use that brain of yours, Miss College Classes, there ain’t no one else, just—”

When he cuts himself off, you raise your eyebrows, lean closer to him in response—which sends him back to the other end of the couch. “Just?”

This is so stupid, makes him cross his arms in annoyance as a wave of embarrassment heats up his whole body. “If you wanna know so damn bad, just read my mind again. You seem to have a real affinity for that!”

“Touya,” You chide, “I’m serious. Just—?”

Here’s one last thing to know: he isn’t going to say it. Absolutely not. If you wanna cough up blood and dig through the gaps of him to find out, be his fucking guest, but he is not going to say it. Not even if you scoot closer, not even if you put your hand on his—not even if he lets you—and certainly, not even if you run your tongue over that bruise on your lip.

You do that shit on purpose and he knows it.

“Get out of my face.”

But you don’t.

It makes his head crane back, the way your minty breath hits his lips again, the way your nose nudges his like it had in the cab, and—even though any and all thoughts from last night are painful—it has the same fucking effect. Everything about you is soft and touchy, your fingers over his cheekbone, your eyes watching him, your lips on his.

Touya hasn’t ever done anything softly, doesn’t even know how to, but he tries. Because he’s too exhausted to put up the act anymore, too eager for this to finally happen, too distracted to care about the gaps in his skin. He tries because he’s been ready to cross this boundary with you for a long time, too long, maybe because the two of you did that day in the motel. Touya tries for you because you’re the only one that tries for him.

When he pushes his lips back in response, a little breath comes out of your nose and fans across his face, makes him stop pulling his head away from you so he can move his chapped lips against yours, so he can nip lightly at your bottom lip and so he can dig one of his hands into your hair. A little sigh of relief is exhaled between the two of you and he moves in closer, presses his lips a little harder, so he can lick into your mouth, the hand on the back of your neck pulling you into him. The metal in his tongue must surprise you, because a little sound squeaks out of you; it isn’t one of arousal or pleasure, but just the mere fact that your lips are slotted together, that you’re making little noises against him, finally gives him the energy to nearly push you back into the couch.

“Ow,” The word murmurs around his lips and he pulls back instantly, eyes wide and zero-ing in on the purple bruise marring your face.

It’s fucking hilarious; he’s finally getting the chance to kiss you, for the second time in his pitiful life, and—of course—your lips would be too tender for him, with the injury he gave you. Fucking great. So fucking funny, in retrospect.

If he backs out now, he might lose his wits and jump through your window again, so Touya just adjusts his head and presses another kiss into the corner of your mouth. It makes you laugh, how hard he tries not to smash into that bruise, and he keeps pressing his lips to yours, keeps licking into them, digging his fingers into your scalp, even as you say his name.

“What?” He grunts, finally pulling away from you when you laugh again. Your hands follow him, lay gently on his cheeks—and he lets you, even if it makes him sweat a little—and settle your forehead against his.

You press another soft kiss to him, just to be a fucking tease and pull back when he chases you. “No other women?”

“Does it look like I’m—”

“Touya!”

“No, damn it!” As annoyed as he’s trying to sound, one of his arms is wrapping around you, pulling you closer to him as one of yours goes behind his neck. It makes him a little tense, the unfamiliarity of it all, like you’re gonna dig your nails into him or choke him out when you get the chance. But your eyes are big and wide and shining with something that embarrasses him, shining the way they always do when you look at him.

And you better not fucking tell anyone about the little kiss he gives your bruise.

“Ain’t no one else but you.”

The smile you give him makes him pull back his head, or he tries to, but you keep your forehead against his, and give his nose a little kiss in return. It makes him groan—in embarrassment and not because he likes it—so he presses another kiss against your lips, lets it get a little passionate and heavy, hands running from your back to your thighs, from his hair to his chest, before he purposely nips at your lip again. All this cutesy shit makes him queasy, but it’s the first time he’s seen you really smile since he’d been in your apartment, since before last night, since six weeks ago, when you let him fall asleep on your couch.

And for some reason, you look just about as happy touching him.

“You aren’t gonna leave and never come back?” Even through all the sugary sweet kissing, he can hear the concern in your voice, can feel the heat from the burn in your eyes against his own.

It makes him laugh, actually; get this, smarty-pants, he tried that shit for 11 years. It didn’t work then and it sure as Hell isn’t gonna work now, not when he’s touched you like this, not when you’ve seen the inside of his skin the way you have.

And, come on, you should know better than to ask a stupid question like that.

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.

if i could keep cool | masterlist

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

status: complete

length: 20,322 words

summary: A villain attacks Shouto Todoroki’s apartment and kidnaps what he apparently believes to be Todoroki’s secret lover. The bad news—for both you and the villain in question—is that you’re just there to clean the place. That’s how it starts.

tags: romance, reader-insert, accidental sugar daddy shouto, misunderstandings

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

chapter links:

one

two

three

four

five

six

deleted scenes: (requests for short drabbles related to the fic)

What was chapter 2 like from Shouto’s point of view?

How does Shouto react to the reader cooking him vegetables?

*SPOILER* How did Shouto’s mission go, and was his mind on the reader?

*SPOILER* What was it like when Shouto discovered reader’s twitter for the first time?

*SPOILER* How did Shouto prepare for the veggie date?

cross posted on ao3: here

Scraped Knees & Silk Sheets

Prince!Shouto ♡ Maid!Reader - Chapter 1 out of ??

-> You've always been kind, wanting nothing more then to spread warmth into a cold castle. When you were a child, you had given some of your kindess to a boy in need. It was because he recognized your kindess, that you live to tell this story today.

fiction contains: fluff, angst, romance, reader is almost executed because endeavor is a piece of shit, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, assassination, pining, shouto is a little too in love with reader, shouto is also an extreme romantic, reader is almost killed again because, you guessed it, endeavor is a piece of shit, pining, izuku + bakugou are shouto's right hand men, little bit of violence chapter contains: nothing extreme worth mentioning, shouto n reader are so cute omgomg PROLOUGE

COMMENT ON THIS POST TO BE ADDED TO THE NEXT CHAPTER'S TAGLIST.

chapter word count: 4.4k

Flowers fall salubriously over the skies of Venora, the sun’s warmth spreading over the fingertips of anyone sauntering outside to perform their duties for that day…or to any of the many children that decided to skip around their village knee-level of the citizens with flowers in their hair, engaging in anything that excited their blooming curiosity. Venora is one of- if not the most flourishing of countries, being outstandingly large, and having one of the most capable and efficient militia. It is a strong belief here that everyone has their purpose in life, and everyone has their own “talent” or gift given to them to serve that purpose. Many people are aware of their gifts from an early age, some without, and have hairs turning silver and still letting life lead them in whichever direction the wind blows. All in all, it’s a safe country to live your hopes and dreams in.

Besides, you learned the punishment for breaking some of the laws can be quite severe, and said punishments are severe enough to strike terror into the citizens who consider tampering with them.

“Really?? We get to visit the palace??” A little child squealed into their mother’s lap, that child just so happened to be you. Playing princesses with your friends was entertaining, yes, but it couldn’t compare with the real thing. It played over and over inside your feeble brain, the diamond chandeliers, the gold-plated statues, the doors, the throne room. Just the thought would make any insouciant child like yourself shake with anticipation.

“You mustn't make a scene when we get there, dear. As much as I understand your excitement, the palace can’t be mistaken to you as a place of fun and games, it’s quite serious. Your father is attending a meeting, so you and I get to stay for a while to attend the holiday. If you’re lucky, you might be able to attend the ball with me.” Your mother almost immediately regrets the last few sentences of her speech, now having to deal with a squealing 5-year-old who cannot control their emotions any longer. After a long sigh, she scooped you off her lap, walking over to the bedroom to place you into bed. There were paintings with stars and sparkles adorning the ceiling above your bed, and you convinced your mother to help hang stars from the faded paint spots. The dim lighting in a shade of dark blue truly did make the stars sparkle, including the ones hanging in your room and the stars that dance together in the sky. It made you wonder if they had the same paintings on the palace walls, maybe even more. With a kiss to your forehead, she tucked you in your bed and tried to step away, but failed due to you reaching out your tiny hand to grab onto her yellow sundress. “Do you think I can be a princess? Like the ones in the big palace?” “I'm sure you can, and I bet you’ll be the prettiest princess ever. However… I'm afraid princesses get beauty sleep, and at this rate, you’ll turn into a gremlin with baggy eyes!” She smiled when your body immediately went lax, and you flopped onto your bed sheets and snored as if you’d been sleeping for over a hundred years. With that, she left your room.

Your father was in a state of alamort, putting in as much effort as his soul allowed him to move your family higher status and reputation, but to no avail. His majesty had barely spared a glance at him, and he hoped that this ceremony would be an opportunity to bring his family higher. Your family was by no means struggling with money or bringing food on the table, more so struggling to maintain the reputation that's been withheld in your bloodline for generations.

Nobility was a hard bargain. Your surname was well known in the village you lived in, but it didn’t advance any farther than that. The family’s worth compared to that as a bystander you’d see in royal events, just slightly over a commoner, nothing to ever be placed near the grand royalty of the Todoroki bloodline.

The annual Crescent Moon ceremony was taking place in just a small amount of time, a celebration to symbolize family, fertility, empowerment, and to appreciate life’s lavish graces. It most certainly wasn’t the most important of events, but the meaning behind it gave reason to be very…lavish, and thriftless. A perfect event for a child to witness, as it romanticizes royal life to the utmost degree.

So, in the restless dreams of a 5-year-old girl, you’d be sitting on a throne adorned with diamonds, and a version of yourself that you would assume is an older you. A crown so shiny that if angled towards the sun, would blind anyone looking in your direction. It sits atop your perfectly placed strands of hair, not a single one out of place. Maybe if you thought hard enough, you’d be able to visualize a chromatic ring wrapped around your 4th finger, followed by the lips of a handsome prince pressed against the front of your hand.. is there a prince at the castle? Even a little girl can be bashful sometimes, maybe he’d be like the books, with a prodigious sword attached to his hip and weighty boots that slammed against marble floors, signaling his arrival earlier than his presence could. So.. speaking like a 5-year-old girl, this place is gonna be super duper awesome!!!

This… however..was not very awesome. It'd been almost.. 5 hours now? The sun is still high in the sky, burning down at the wooden carriage you rode in. It was hot, and your mother said that if you whined one more time about the heat, she’d make sure you’d get none of the palace desserts when they got to the capital of Venora, also known as Solaris. It was the diamond of the country, and where the tremendously large castle stays solemn. It’s where the royal family of Venora has resided for years. There are neighboring castles, much smaller, reserved for the high nobles, and your mother promised you’d get to see them when the carriage reached Solaris. Some were located on the way to the main castle, but some were buried deep in the wispy green forests, lakes, and hills that were outspread in Solaris, practically smothering the land. The only exception being the main village, which is said to be the largest city in the country. Your mother said that it’s not the best or most habitable place to live in. Tourists, and merchants, all of them practically suffocate the city, leaving little to no room for long-time inhabitants. If you want to live close to the castle, it’s best if you build your own place.

“Are we there-”

“Don’t even start, missy.” Your mother quipped before you could finish your childish statement.

“But-”

“You know, princesses are very calm and patient people. They ride in royal carriages all the time, simply waving at passersby. How could you be a princess if you can’t even make it to the castle without whining, dear?” Comparing you to a princess is the only way she knew would always get you to behave, it always worked well, proven by the silence the rest of the trip.

However, the mind of a little girl never stayed quiet, and as you peered out of the lights that the wood would allow, you could see your father’s carriage right in front of your own. It seemed that he was a quiet man, always thinking, but never speaking. Unless it was towards your mother about mundane things, he was always in his study, thinking. You couldn’t fathom what he could be up to, what could be so interesting or demanding that a simple nobleman as your father would be locked up inside the silence of his stone-walled office.

Sometimes at home, you’d see fathers - laughing and playing with their children, but that was never the case with yours. In fact, he never really spoke to your mother either. In contrast, your mother was as warm as a white fur blanket, like the ones she said were common in the palace, but rare and expensive to find in your own village. She always spoke with you, seeing as you had no other siblings. Speaking of which, you asked her about that idea once, having siblings. Quickly your mother hushed you of the idea, saying that it wouldn’t be happening anytime soon, almost looking hurt at what you said, so you never mentioned it again.

Having many children was a miracle at this age, why was she so against it-

The sound of faded cheers and chatter dragged you out of the deep reflection of your thoughts. Are we there yet-?

You slammed a hand over your mouth when you realized you had said that last part out loud, slowly turning your gaze over to your mother, who narrowed her eyes at you. Yet the look on her face quickly softened as she sighed, and announced; “Yes, we are here!” Even she couldn’t contain her excitement, yet she quickly had to compose herself and grab you, as you were just about to leap out of the carriage. “We are in Solaris, not near the castle yet. I can’t let you go out into the village, it’s filled with people for the ceremony and you’d surely be trampled. If you want to view the commotion, simply watch through the carriage.” She simply grinned at you as you whined, and pressed your face to the carriage glass.

The sun was still in the sky, but much lower. You had made it to your temporary estate, and you were astounded at the sheer size of the exterior. It was nearly thrice as big as your regular estate, with gardens on each side with their own unique plants, your favorite being the dazzling lilies on the left side, and the charming gladiolus on the right. There was even a butler waiting for you, and you scampered up to him with a smile, which he gladly returned to you. Your mother was, discreetly, also amazed at the size, simply internalizing her emotions, with nothing but soft upturned lips and a slight sparkle in her eyes. Your father, though, had the exact opposite emotions. He looked rather displeased, evident with the slight scowl on his face, what could he be so upset about? You decided to tug on his suit pants, directing his scowl at you, but he loosened his angry face at the sight of your frown.

“Why are you sad, pa? This place is so big!” He lost his scowl completely, opting to look at you with a neutral face instead to not upset you anymore, and walking towards the front door of the estate, lamenting to himself instead “It could have been bigger.”

The inside was just as impressive, ancient paintings with gold plated frames, silverware decorated in intricate patterns and designs carved into the metal. The thing that caught your eye the most, was the stunning piano in the foyer of the estate. You had half the mind to climb the piano stool, and mash your little fingers against the keys, you were almost successful too, if it weren’t for your mother holding the collar of your dress. …

Much to your mother’s delight, the length of the trip ended up giving her a tuckered-out 5 year old. This was good anyway, the ceremony was tomorrow evening, and they wouldn’t be leaving the estate for another 3 weeks, anyway. This part seemed to be the only thing that pleased your father, maybe it was because this gave him more time to talk with The King himself.

Your mother had a very difficult pregnancy regarding your birth. Infact, the birth itself was a blur in her memory. From what the midwives had told her, the bleeding was what almost caused her death. Luckily, her having held onto the strings of consciousness for just a few moments longer was what caused her to recover just enough for the healer to arrive intime. Due to the heavy bleeding, it was highly encouraged, almost demanded of her, that she never conceive again.

This had angered your father to no end. He had at least one child, but it wasn’t a male..an “heir” to his legacy. No matter how many times you had promised him to carry on his legacy, he wouldn’t listen. His anger got so severe, he had almost forced himself onto your mother- completely disregarding her safety, all for the chance of an heir. From what little bit of morals he had left, he stopped.

This was the reason why he was quite desperate in his attempts to raise his family’s status and reputation, but in this day and age, a daughter and a title can only get you so far. He watched as his once peers outgrew him in their own rankings, no longer speaking to him and throwing away their companionships as if it had only been brought together by a scroll, waxed stamp, and word from the king.

Deep down inside, he wanted to be able to disregard people like that- and throw them away. He’d never admit it, though.

The sun hadn’t even risen yet, but the whirlwind of activity never slept on a day such as this one. Your estate was over a mile away from the bustling city, and yet the cheers could be heard as loudly as the chirping birds outside the windowsill. Your mother must have heard it too, as she appeared in front of your doorway.

“I'm glad that trip wore you out enough to have you sleep in early, I'm afraid that was all the amount of soundful sleep you're going to get until the cheers die down in a few days.” She smiled at your little pout, walking over to you and gently pushing your fists away from your eyes as you rubbed them.

“Nonetheless, I bet you’ll be glad to hear that we get to enter the palace early, so it’s best you get yourself ready now, that is if you want to be princess material.”

“…Do I get to pick out my dress?”

“Of course you do.”

The sun was now peeking above the horizon, almost as if it was hiding from the beautiful chaos to come. The fear collides with the sky in an ethereal array of colors, the exact same array of colors as your dress. A shimmering light yellow, something lighter and purer than golden honey, but just as divine. It’s adorned with coral-like pink colored designs, and the prettiest golden shoes to go along with it. A dress, truly, fit for a princess.

The maid finished the final touches of the curls in your hair, so defined that they bounced on your head whenever you jumped in delight, much to the maid’s displeasure.

The sun had finally crept from its hiding place, now sitting lowly in the sky. It’s still well before noon, and you were stepping outside the estate with your mother’s hand holding your own. She wore a dress similar to your own, but fully yellow. Your father stood in front of you both. He was..suspiciously quiet, to say the very least. It was one thing to be in your own head, but his eyes seemed dark, like he was thinking about one thing only.

However, he snapped out of it when he realized the carriage wasn’t coming as soon as he expected it to.

People with high reputations get invited to the castle far far earlier than commoners get the chance to even get close to it. The earlier you get in depends on your status, and clearly your father thought he’d be escorted by now, and his pride would not allow him to go back inside to wait. Even the butler was starting to get concerned, it had now been over an hour waiting outside. Your mother had tried to persuade him 30 minutes ago, but was met with a rather harsh lecture, and didn’t dare to press further. He wouldn’t allow you two to go back inside either.

Finally, after about an hour and thirty minutes, the carriage arrived at your estate. Luckily the sun still wasn’t high enough in the sky, and the air still had a slight chill to it, so you didn’t overheat too much, it was just a little bit too warm for your liking.

The carriage was beyond anything you’d ever seen. It was laced with gold and diamonds beyond comparison to anything you’d ever seen. It was lavish, and the seats were laced with cold silk, much to your delight.

There were no words to describe the castle, none at all. Well, if you could explain it in one way… large. It took nearly 30 minutes to just get out of the carriage, due to the huge lineup at the side entrance. That was another thing your father hated, that he wasn’t “noble” enough to use the grand front entrance. You couldn’t even register his anger though, as you stepped out of the carriage the only thing you could think about was the sheer size and elegance at the massive structure standing proudly before you eyes. You clutched onto your mother tightly, as it felt as though you’d get lost if you so much as moved an inch from her body.

This was the moment you separated from your father, as though he had other plans, and stuck to your mother, heading towards the ladies’ hall, a portion of the castle where all the noblewoman and their ladies-in-waiting sat together for tea, from what you heard. It was strange though, why didn’t your mother have her own lady in waiting?

When inside the hall, you followed you mother to the room where the commotion was coming from, and were surprised by the sheer elegance of the woman inside. Did they go to galas all day? The ballgowns and tiaras they wore told you so, there was no way they could sit in such attire all day without dying.

You were almost intimidated by them as the silence built up and your mother walked in with you in her grasp. However, a breath of relief washed over you as some of the women smiled at you and your mother with a courtly wave, and a small portion just simply decided to ignore your existence, and go back to whatever conversation they were having moments prior.

Your mother seemed even more relieved as you did, surely feeling the anxiety building up about her own place in the room. She was older, but still had the girlish tendencies of wanting to fit in.

One of the noblewoman was very welcoming, opting to stand up from her loveseat and make her way over to your mother with a warm smile and curtsey. She even smiled down at you, which made your heart leap at the thought of being greeted by a princess.

“I see you’ve come right on time, and you’ve brought us a gift, too.” notioning at you, “she’ll fit in well with all of our children, the little girls out in the garden. It’s safe here, if she wants to play with them.”

Your mother curtseyed back, “I’m sure she’d like that, do you want to go [Y/N]?”

“Mhm!” The lady in front of your mother giggled at you, and notioned her head towards the entrance of the side garden. Your mother nodded at you, giving you permission to go, and so you skipped off.

The garden was filled with children playing and flowers of all colors blooming from every direction. Some children opted to go a little too high on the large garden swing, others chased butterflies, which is what you did. You got along well with a blond-haired blue-eyed girl, her hair tied up in pigtails and wearing a bright blue dress with gold accessories on it. She had some freckles on her face too, as she proclaimed to be “the professional of catching butterflies”. She taught you how to do it as well, and ushered you to catch the white and red colored butterfly, what an interesting color.

So you followed it, as it fluttered away into the forest-like part of the garden, with trees for what felt like miles. There were no children here, except for you and the childish butterfly slipping from your grasp at every chance.

Well, you thought you were the only child, until you heard crying from a distance.

A boy, about 8-9 years old, was sitting under an oak tree with tears in his eyes.

You hated it when people cried, you always ended up crying with them, but you’d try to keep your composure for the sake of this boy.

A light tap on his knee had him flinching, looking up at the person who had just dared to disturb him and his privacy. Almost regretting it, as he didn’t want to scare the intruder with the horrid scar on his face, but to his surprise, you didn’t flinch or widen your eyes at all. He was even more surprised at the person who was in front of him-

It was just a child.

“…What do you want?”

“Why are you crying?”

He didn’t answer your question.

“Is it because you're lonely?” “..No.”

“Are you nervous about the ceremony? I know it’s pretty scary, but can’t you believe how big this place is? As long as you have your parents by your side, you won't get lost! What’s your name?”

You didn’t know who he was, he was sure of that now. Giving away his last time would reveal who he was. He’d never had an outsider talk to him like a normal person before, and he wouldn’t admit it, but he enjoyed it. He enjoyed the informality, in contrast to the formality that he was forced to drown in all his life, up until now.

“..Shouto. This place is big..but I am used to it.”

“Oh! Do you come here often?? Oh- and my name is [Y/N]!! Unlike you- I am TERRIFIED! I feel like I might get lost here! Like I might get sucked up into a painting or something!”

“..You can’t get stuck in paintings.”

“Of course not silly! I’m just joking!”

“Oh.”

“Uhm.. is it because of your injury? Does it hurt?” you pointed at the scar on his eye. Clearly this wasn’t the best thing to have said, as the boy looks like he’s going to cry again.

“No.. it doesn’t hurt..well..not in that way I don’t think.” His voice is wobbly.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry Shouto. I hope it doesn’t hurt at all. When you grow up, though, I’m sure people will respect you alot with that super duper awesome scar!

“…What?”

“Well..your scar, it looks cool!”

“It..does?” He looked at you like you had grown a second head. He’d never been told that his scar looked cool before. When the incident happened a few years ago, the only thing he was ever met with was horrid looks and fear.

“Of course it does! It’s like you battled one of those big dragons and came back to tell the story! Or- or you're an amazing knight who battled an entire army!”

“A dragon..an army.” He wasn’t frowning anymore, and maybe it was just your imagination, but you swore you saw his lips turn upwards just slightly, thinking about the idea.

“Yeah! Even better if you saved a princess along the way!” That striked an idea to your head, and you began to climb up the tree he was curled under a few moments prior. Only making it to the middle of the tree, you started to faux cry.

“Heeeelp me Shouto!!" The dragon is going to eeeeatt me!!! I’ll become dinner to a hungry dragon!!!”

He looked at you, “There’s no dragon?”

“You have to pretend, silly.”

“Oh, okay.”

He tried his best to climb up the tree, and to your surprise, he did it alot better than you did. He grabbed your hip and pulled you out of the tree, placing you back on your feet.

“You saved me! You are a true heeeero, knight Shouto! The king will surely reward you for your greatness!” with that, you attempted to flash him your best princess smile, you’ve been practicing.

He giggled at you, which nearly surprised himself. It’d been years since he genuinely smiled, let alone laughed at anything.

His laughter was cut short though, with the sound of someone calling your name, in a rather panicked fashion.

“Oh… I have to go..or my mama will be soo mad at me, Shouto.”

“That’s… okay.” He frowned. “You're going to the event, right..?”

“Mhm!” You beamed up at him.

“..What’s your family's name?”

“Uhm.. my last name?”

“Yes.”

“Ohh! It’s [L/N].”

“I see. [F/N],[L/N] is it?” He thought to himself for a moment, then looked at you.

“Yep! That is mee!” You smiled once, again this time he smiled back.”

“[Y/N]!!!” The voice that was calling you got louder this time, startling you both.

With a final wave and a “Goodbye Shouto!! I’ll see you at the ball!” you ran back in the direction you came from, or, where the voice came from? You hoped you were running in the right direction.

“..Goodbye..[Y/N].”

Now he was left by himself again.

Shouto had his own fears and insecurities, all bundled up inside his broken heart and he didn’t have the strength to piece them back together alone. The people alongside him didn’t do much to help, not even his own prestigious family, the ones who were always supposed to be incharge and handle the country with diamond crowns on their heads.

He knew that the same neglectful family would come looking for him soon after they found out he wasn’t isolated in his room like they had thought he had been doing.

And he didn’t think that the one who would even try to piece his heart back together would be a girl 4 years younger than him. That she would make him happy.

Shouto Todoroki was happy with you, and you alone. Even if it was just for a moment, he remembered it well, and he would for the rest of his life.

AUTHORS NOTE: aerhsbdv eliusbfdv awilsubdf fkdbv its 12:34am please i want to be tumblr and a03 famous i put my whole constanceussy into this

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Being a housewife but not really knowing what the hell you’re doing, you had to get married early because your husband is a BigWig(?) with sponserbilities to take care of… but you’re also sort of neglected by him because he’s So Busy trying to Make It Big…

And you somehow end up neighbors with Bakugo, who, two seconds into meeting you decides that he literally can’t be mean to you: looking a right mess with a naked baby on your hip and messy hair 24/7… but still always offering him the bentos your husband doesn’t take to work and inviting him in for tea…