the thing about writing denki aus is that i can make him as pathetic as i want in the name of characterisation, for example:
“WET DREAMZ”
a mha college au feat. DENKI K. & HANTA S.
“got me daydreamin’, man, what?”
wc: 6.7k
this is for @rumisgf very late birthday gift
mdni....
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
starting track….
denki fucked up.
he fucked up baaaaaaad.
and the thing is, he could've saved this, he could've saved himself a whole lot of trouble, a whole lot of sexual tension, a whole lot of bisexual confusion, and a whole lot of horny delusions.
his first mistake was letting sero meet you.
because, you're denki's high school best friend.
best friend, like, best fucking friend. best friend like you made denki what he is today.
he took his first shot with you, smoked his first joint with you, bought his first vape with your fake id.
every morning, he'd meet you at the bus stop, share those cheap ass, shitty ass, earphones of his, with your playlist saved onto his phone, only half of it downloaded with the 200MB he had left, using your phone to check the homework updates that neither of you completed.
and then you'd get the homework answers off some random, and spend registration scribbling out absolute bullshit, because even if it's incorrect and illegible at least it was done, and you wouldn't be given detention.
because you guys couldn't get detention, not when you had rustled up twenty dollars between you, to buy cheap weed off some sketchy guy, and smoke in the park next to his house.
late nights on face-time during family holidays, dinner at his house almost three times a week, helping your dad fix something that was broken in the backyard.
your lives were so intertwined, that when you made-out for the first time, it didn't feel like a big deal.
because, of course your first kiss would be with denki, of course the first guy to see you naked would be denki, of course the first guy to dry hump you on some random girl’s couch, would be denki.
so natural, so not-a-big-deal, so normal.
and then he left for college.
you knew it would happen at some point, that he would leave, that he would get tired of having to hide himself, quiet himself, tone himself down, in your small conservative little town, fucking duh. right?
and he told you he was going to leave, you were there when he applied for the university. and you were there, right fucking next to him, jumping for joy, when he got accepted.
doesn't mean it didn't hurt.
doesn't mean you didn't feel it in your chest.
despite the fact that you were doing your own thing, living your own life, becoming your own person.
it doesn't mean that every time you get a notification from him, an update about his new friend group, or something dumb that happened on a night out, or he comes back for a weekend, and he has a new piercing or tattoo or a different hairstyle, that you don't miss him so fucking much.
that doesn't mean that he doesn't miss you too.
every time he makes a joke that doesn't land, or references a meme from five years ago, or wants to go to a gig, or talk bullshit, or get high and go grocery shopping, he sighs to himself.
because no one really gets him like you do. no one sees him like you do.
you’re his person, his everything.
he had to invite you to come and see the city eventually, it took a while for your schedules to align for sure, but you got there in the end.
got here.
and denki's late.
you're late too if we're being honest. you missed the transfer, and had to wait for 45 minutes for the next train, enough time to leave the station for a smoke, fall asleep on the train, and nearly miss your stop.
but you're here now.
outside this big, loud, city station, suddenly feeling conscious of how you must definitely reek of weed, tapping your foot on the cracked concrete, lent up against the metal railing, idly scrolling on your phone.
travel bag full, headphones on, you don't even realise someone is calling your name till—
“—holy shit dude, are you that fucking deaf?” a sun-kissed hand waving in front of your face, “haven’t changed a bit—”
he cuts himself off to borderline tackle you into a hug, you nearly drop your phone, his warm body heat enveloping your system. arms wrapped tightly around your waist, he still smells the same, so do you.
you barely notice how he takes a deep inhale when he noses at the junction of your neck.
it’s so fucking weird to have you here, but in the best way. it feels like a dream, you feel like a dream, all disgruntled and weary from the journey.
“you gonna take her bag or what?”
oh right.
denki’s head stays where it is, nestled into your shoulder. the only move he makes is to stick a finger up from behind his back, but your gaze snaps up, meeting with the owner of the voice.
dark eyes meet yours, half-lidded, grin creeping onto his face, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, a few paces back from where you’re embracing the blonde.
“hey—”
“oh, fuck off, man,” denki still hasn’t let go, you feel his voice rumble through your skin, “don’t even talk t’er.”
“relax,” you say grabbing the back of his hair and pulling him off you, he lets out a small whimper, minuscule really, but you know him, yank a bit harder, voice dropping to a whisper, “don’t you dare.”
but denki doesn’t budge, he hums almost dreamily, “don’t talk to me like that, y’know it’s been a while.” with his arms squeezing you tighter, practically melting into your chest.
“free show for the general public, i knew you were freaked out but seriously dude—”
that does the job, denki finally unwinds his limbs from you to turn and scoff at his friend, talking about some, “you can’t let me have a moment,” and then turns back without waiting for answer, grabbing your travel bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
“not if i’m uninvolved,” the other guy scoffs out, hands in his back pockets, and he smirks down at the blonde who’s marched over to give him a light shove in the chest.
denki snatches the lit cigarette from his friend’s mouth, with a mocking sneer, and pops it into his own.
“‘uninvolved’ that’s not even a real word,” the words curl around the smoke as he waves you over.
“maybe you should read a fuckin’ book.”
“maybe you should shut your fuckin’ mouth,” he clears his throat, then dramatically flourishes to the guy standing next to him, whom you vaguely recognise. from blurry snaps, from instagram stories, from half of his figure in face-times, the one, the only, “hanta sero.”
he smirks at the introduction, something you reckon he does a lot of, and nods at you in greeting, “i’m surprised you’re a real person, i was almost sure this shit-head was making you up.”
your smile is strained because of the sunlight glaring right in your eye line, but your tone is warm, if not a little dry, when you reply with, “talks ‘bout me a lot, does he?”
“you don’t know the half of it—” denki shoves him forward, and sero laughs, bright and loud, let’s the momentum carry him into a step, which turns into another, and another, and then denki takes your hand to pull you along with them, as you make your way down the street, away from the station’s exit, back to their place.
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
“finally.”
denki huffs as he flops onto his bed with a groan, it creaks and shifts when you drop down next to him, his legs intertwining with yours like second nature.
and denki’s smelling you again. it’s less weird than it sounds, but still weird. it’s not his fault, you smell like sunshine and home, how could he not, nose buried into the top of your head, arms curled around your body.
you both lay like that for a minute, content in the silence, just basking in each other’s presence. electricity buzzing under your fingertips as he softly grazes his knuckles against your back.
until you decide to be a little bitch.
“your friend’s cute,” you murmur into his chest, you can feel denki’s heart pitter-pattering, vibrating through your body.
he doesn’t say anything for a beat.
you crack open an eye, try again, “i said, your friend is hot—”
he doesn’t give you the reaction you’d hoped for, which is a shame. instead he chuckles, snickers, softly against your hair, still tracing patterns into your skin, “you really gonna talk about another guy while you’re in my bed, no class.”
“take that back asshole,” and he catches your hand when you move to hit him, brings a thumb down to curl around your wrist, rolls his eyes as you squint up at him, “no class?” you repeat, “i’m so classy, so fuckin’ classy i brought my own bud—”
yeaaahhh, that wakes him up.
and because it's denki, because he has no manners, or boundaries, or concept of personal space, both his hands start sliding down your body until they feel the bulge in one of your back pockets.
you squirm out of his grip, feebly kicking at his legs, but he's so solid. you can feel his muffled snickers as you smack his arms away from you, but he barely moves, just presses you further into the mess of pillows and blankets that cover his bedspread.
“you're such an asshole,” but your shoulders shake with the uncontrollable laughter that tumbles out of your body when he starts trying to curl his fingers into the pocket.
you get a face full of armpit. “and you smell so fuckin’ bad, couldn't even take a shower before inviting me over here—”
he kisses his teeth at your insult, but doesn't flinch when your heel catches his shin, just lightly slaps your thigh to get you to chill the fuck out, because his bed-frame is cheap and creaking like it might collapse any second.
"dude," as he sits back on his knees and sticks out his tongue in victory, shiny foil package dangling between his fingertips, "the water pressure here sucks balls, i promise you, i tried my best."
you kick at him again when he starts to open it, and the baggy drops from his grip. you snatch it up before he gets a moment to breathe, and point a finger at him in warning, “nah-ah-ah. say please.”
he collapses on top of you again, bullshit doe-eyed expression, and juts out his bottom lip as he simpers, “oh please, my perfect princess,” you don't budge, “oh, please, dear goddess, let us roll a zoot.”
“well, seeing as you’ve always been a loyal subject.”
“you’re such a fucking dork.”
“me? me? i’m a dork?" you repeat back to him, voice wavering in astonishment, “the first thing you did when you moved in here was put up that zelda poster,” and you gesture to the aforementioned poster, corners peeling, plastered onto his wall next to the window, “and you wanna talk about dorks.”
“well if i'm a dork and you’re a dork,” he says, and with his face so close to your own, you can practically count the freckles matted across his cheeks. and that annoying little smile, so unchanging despite the time you've spent apart, despite the distance. "what does that make us?”
he answers for you, not before his eyes flick down to your lips as his tongue pokes out to wet his, “it makes us perfectly compatible.”
your eyes roll and you shove his face back with the palm of your hand, “you're a fucking loser.”
his hands crawling over your thighs, “yeah, what else?”
“a freak.”
his eyes boring into your soul, “keep going.”
“pathetic.”
his breath ghosting over your ear, “nearly there."
“and,” your hand suddenly stretches out, and denki keens when you take a fistful of his hair into your grasp, his body folds inwards towards you as you pull him closer, gently grazing your teeth across his earlobe while he shudders and you murmur, “i don’t fuck with blondes.”
unserious to a fault, denki breaks down into snickers, nuzzling his nose against your neck. it would’ve been believable, if not for the fact that, “y’know i can feel your lil’ boner pressing against my stomach.”
that makes him chuckle even harder into your neck. “guilty,” sarcastically muttered, and then denki cranes his head so he’s at the perfect angle to lick your cheek.
you groan in disgust and push his face away, but that doesn’t stop him, and you get his slobber all over your palms.
“get the fuck off me, i swear to—” he covers your mouth with his palm and continues to lick your face like a demented cat, what the fuck? “is this what the city life does to people?”
“no,” he whines suddenly, interlocking his fingers with yours against either side of your head, “i-i just missed you.”
oh.
you didn’t expect him to say it outright.
there’s been an annoying, awful, nagging, voice that has been whispering in the depths of your brain ever since he left. whispering that he stopped caring about you, that you were just a placeholder until he got cooler, funnier, friends, that you were nothing but an insignificant speck in the long, vibrant, life he was going to live.
denki’s warm, honey, eyes scan your face.
he’s frowning, and, well, denki should never be frowning.
you shake his hand off one of your wrists and he sits back immediately. no longer breaching your personal space, a brief look of hurt flashing through his eyes as you say nothing.
but then, your free hand reaches up, and your thumb, very carefully, very gently, smooths out the wrinkle that has appeared between his brows.
“i missed you too.”
the corners of his mouth uplift, his eyes shine, god, it's like the sunlight breaking through the dawn, the way denki's face contorts into a smile, “you really know how to make a guy sweat, baby.”
you snort, “oh, you're sweating now?”
“amongst other things, yeah.”
"amongst?" you repeat, eyes squinting in the way they do when you're about to take this piss, “is that a new vocab word?”
you’re trying to ragebait, but it doesn’t work.
because denki can't stop smiling.
there's just something so fucking dreamy about how you're here, in his college house, on his horrible twin xl bed. it's really hard to describe the feeling, because, sure, he's seen you, during holidays, on face-time and the like, but it's different having you in the city with him.
with him.
as in, not only did you trek all the way here, three fuckin' buses, two trains, all your essentials packed, with the sole intention of spending time with him.
but you missed him too?
that notion, that suggestion, that you thought about him nearly a fraction as much as he thought about you.
it makes him dizzy.
"you really like being mean to me, don'tcha?" and he can't keep his hands off of you, his fingers tracing patterns along your sides.
"i think you like it more than i do."
"you can't prove that."
that makes you laugh, genuinely, because, it's like, do you mention the hard-on that is throbbing against your thigh, again, or do you let him live in his delusion? questions, questions.
or…
the secret third option.
bringing your hand down, and cupping his erection through the material that covers his bottom half. using your nails to scratch at the seam that is straining with his hard cock, and watching his breath hitch, his brow furrow, his eyelids flutter.
"you're playing dirty," denki whines, as if that could hide the guttural moan that literally comes from the depths of his spirit.
you lean up towards him so you can mouth at patch of skin where his ear meets his neck, and you murmur into his ear, "i think you like it when i play dirty."
“well, i think,” as he traces your pulse points with his nose, “that you only have one voice line option," and then with his teeth, like the most least obvious vampire, "where's the variety?"
"don't be a dick."
"thought you liked my dick."
"i like your mouth more."
"oh yeah," he turns his head, kisses along your jawline, softly, like you’re something delicate, something he has to hold very carefully, something that he couldn't afford to break, something he wants to take his time with.
it makes your heart race, being loved on like that, you needed it to be honest. someone that knows you intimately, someone that knows exactly what you want.
you shrug his hand off you, from where one of his palms still had a firm grip on your wrist, so you can grab his chin, bring his face closer to yours, your breath intermingling.
and the next time he opens his mouth to make a smart comment, you stop him before he can even start.
by grasping his tongue with two of your fingers.
you know him as much as he knows you.
and you absolutely could not miss the shudder that wracks his body, or the way his eyes practically roll back into his head.
you have to tut at him until he stops trying to wrap the pink textured tip of his tongue around your digits.
so you have the space, to spit in his mouth.
oh wow.
there are not enough words to describe the pathetic mess denki makes out of himself at that moment.
i won't bother attempting to walk you through it.
but sero can.
denki's bedroom door slams open, hanta sero, giving no prelude before making his entrance, "are we still gonna go out tonighhh…"
now imagine this, your best friend, practically on his knees, on top his best friend, literally eating out of the palm of her hand, with both of his hands underneath her shirt.
sero grins.
and carelessly swats away the pillow that comes flying at his face.
the three of you just kinda blink at each other for a minute.
before sero turns on his heel and walks right back out.
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
“this is the best spot in the entirety of the old town, i'm telling you.”
“you said the same thing about the bar by the river—”
“—and about that arcade on the high-street.”
“anddddd, when we found the spot along the bridge with the benches.”
"that, that, that, that,” denki slurs, well stutters, a step behind you, “that doesn't diminish my point.”
you can’t see him but you hear the sound of him smacking sero when he mocks the blonde with a, “uh-ba-ba-ba-ba-da-ba-dah."
"shut up, just shusshh,” oh god, he really is licked, you can’t take him seriously, “i'm trying to show my beloved friend–in fact, you guys are even proving my point.”
"and what is your point exactly."
"well... that old town has all the best spots."
they all hum in agreement.
all being, the rest of denki's new friend group.
honestly, they're a cool bunch.
the girls are fucking lovely, stunning, nice as hell, like surprisingly. not that you thought his friends would be dickheads, but still, it's refreshing to be around.
almost as refreshing as the cool night air.
the sunset a while ago, while you were still pre-gaming at this one girl's flat, mina. she's a fucking legend. super hospitable, one of those people who never let's anyone sit out of conversation, a little prying but not enough to make you uncomfortable.
but she mixes drinks like a demon.
sero had warned you.
after denki had, ahem, had a shower and cleaned himself up, the three of you made your way over to mina's together.
but, denki was on the phone the whole time. one of the guys was having a crisis and apparently, it was very, super, extremely, important, so he had left sero to entertain you on the twenty minute walk over.
this sero guy is something else.
there's something very telling about the way he talks, like he's constantly trying to sus you out, but in the least discrete way he can. his questions are really leading, and it doesn't matter how you answer, it feels like you've fallen into a trap.
it doesn't help that he's fucking sexy.
with the piercings, the way his hair falls into his face, and that ridiculous sleeve of line-drawn patchwork tattoos, that denki seems intent on copying.
but his smile gets you the most.
this annoying, slick, grin that he gets when you say something a bit too sarcastic, or a bit too rude, or a bit too risky, and he visibly bites his tongue while he cheeses, flashing his pearly whites, all half-lidded eyes and barely concealed snickers.
fuck denki for leaving you to your own devices.
you'd been walking side by side with the dude, bare arms brushing, up until you got to the front steps of mina's flat, and even then, denki had disappeared almost instantly, leaving you with this guy, again.
and sero had not left you alone, maybe denki had told him to keep an eye on you or something, but you can't deny it, the attention was addicting. fetching you drinks when you asked, lighting your blunt for you, letting you smoke his cigs with nothing but a shake of his head and another one of those confusing, biting, grins.
aside from that, the rest of denki's friends had been great.
aside from the drinks.
sero, and the other girl, jirou, had fuckin’ warned you, that mina enjoys playing bartender, and that she takes her job very seriously. you had waved them off at the time, because honestly, two blunts deep, the glass you had tasted like fuckin' juice. really sweet, really orange, and apparently chock full of tequila.
which leads us to now, a large gaggle of about seven undergrads, arguing, then bursting into cackles, then tripping over their own feet, then arguing again, stumbling along the high street.
one dude, the guy that was having a "major crisis sorry for stealing him," is on your right, recounting the lore of their last night out, the group of 'em, getting lost on the way home, missing the last train, no ubers picking up the request, and having to walk back to the student housing, two hours away from where the gig was.
"and then, and then, that's not even the worst part," kirishima nearly hits you in the face when he gestures towards the other blonde of the group. he pats you gently on the shoulder in apology, but the volume level of his voice does not lower in the slightest when he says, "this dude, this fuckin' dude, ran off, like literally, sprinted into the distance, and left us."
jirou, who is to your left, chokes on her snort, pulls on your arm, calling your attention back to her, "all of our phones were dead, mind you."
"don't start talkin’ shit," the blonde in front of you suddenly cuts in, he's been quiet most of the night, aside from the occasional jeer, "i left you with the portable charger, i'm not a fuckin' asshole."
kirishima buffers, and then cries out, "dude, you left us. stranded."
"y'all made it home, didn't ya?"
"that is sosososo not the point."
the girls burst into snickers again, you are included in the hyena laughter, and you take a deep breath.
the streets are not quiet. it’s late, but it’s still so busy. cars and buses whizzing past, laughter and music pouring in from every open bar door.
this place, this city, it’s no wonder denki wanted to move up here.
bright, loud, vibrant.
just like him.
speaking of…
there’s suddenly a horrific, wailing, screech, that echoes around the street. you spin your head, sero and denki, both two steps behind you. or… were?
sero’s standing, sorry, crouching, hands on his knees, in a fit of cackles, coughing and spluttering. and denki, poor, sweet, denki, rushing back over to the group from where, you’re guessing, he was pushed into the road.
“stop fuckin’ around,” the blonde, scary, one bellows out at the both of them, to which they suddenly stand up straight, like well trained military dogs, “i’m not goin’ to a&e again for you schmucks.”
ah, that kicks off the idiots, “whadidhesayyy?”
“schmuck.” —and they both burst into another fit of boisterous cackles.
“are they always like this…?”
“yup.”
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
“mhmm, mhmmm that’s it baby, shiiiiit.”
denki’s always had this weird obsession with the way you smell. it’s not that you smell bad, usually you smell really fucking good, you have a… what’s the word… routine.
you have a routine. he’s seen you, watched you, even earlier tonight, he was sat on his bed ready to go, half scrolling, half watching you lather lotion across your limbs, practically drooling at the sight of your doughy thighs glistening with body butter.
and he thought that was the end. but then you pulled out your body oil, oh okay, which is actually very different to body lotion… apparently? and then, you’re done— oh, wait, no, now you have, uh, body spray? okay now you’re definitely finish– perfume oil? how many oils does one person need?
he can admit, the routine lasts, it does the job, he can get hints of it now, this close to you, whiffs of jasmine, and vanilla, and whatever that yummy spicy smell is, but that’s not what he means.
he loves the smell of your skin, of your sweat, of your natural body odour, that’s what makes it weird.
like right now, you’re sat on the closed toilet seat, in the back of that bar, the supposed ‘best spot in old town,’ with your legs thrown over denki’s shoulders, and him, on his knees before you, taking turns between viciously eating your pussy, and taking deep inhales of your cunt. he can’t help himself, there’s something addictive about you, pretty pink lips suckling on your clit, tongue lolling out to lick fat stripes across your sloppy, gummy, entrance, and his eyes rolling at you scent.
fuck, it’s “so good,” he dazedly mutters, nose buried into your bush, “sosososo so goooood mama holy fu-uck.”
your foot digs itself into his shoulder blade, as the vibrations of his drunken praise send shivers up your spine, “you’re so fucking nasty.”
“mmmm, i know, i know,” he does know, but he also doesn’t care, how could he, your fingers gripping his hair, your nails scratching at his scalp, your clit throbbing between his lips.
he takes a moment to very carefully trace his teeth along your pulsing bud, that makes you jolt, and hiss at him through your teeth, and clamp your thighs around his head, just like he wanted.
fffuck, he’s dizzy.
denki was already decently faded, but the smell of your pussy is even more intoxicating then any liquor, and so much sweeter, your juices just spilling into his mouth, so fucking delicious, oh lord.
you always get mean when you’re close, like your body doesn’t allow itself to experience pleasure without a negative output.
good thing denki likes it, right.
“shiiiiiit,” he gasps, between, disgustingly wet slobbers, his tongue prodding at your sensitive, stimulated, walls, “you gonna squirt in my mouth?” your mushy, gummy, pussy, just oozing with slick, all for him to gobble up, “oh, shit, please, pleasepleaseplease—”
and you cum with a hand burying his face into your cunt, hectic rolls of your hips, quivering thighs. your jelly legs collapse around his shoulders, your body slack against the wall, just panting for a minute, chest rising and falling with your laboured breaths. denki looks stupidly proud of himself, with that smug grin gracing his shiny lips. your heel kicks out again to smack that ridiculous look off his face, but it literally does nothing to deform his starry-eyed face.
“well, shit,” you breathe out finally, your eyes, half-lidded, as you watch him stand up, and snort at the crack of his knees.
“s’that all you got t’say?” denki snickers down at you while dusting the floor imprints off on jeans.
“what d’you want me to say?”
“oh, i dunno,” he fake contemplates, and then, in a stupidly high pitched tone that sounds absolutely nothing like you, goes “thank you, big dick daddy denki for eatin’ my pussy— OW FUCK.”
your foot, again, saying hello to his shin.
“who the fuck is calling you big dick daddy denki, you fucking loser?”
“ehhhh you’d be surprised.”
you’re about to say something else, maybe comment on how there’s a little wet patch on the crotch of his jeans, when a loud thump at the stall door interrupts your train of thought.
and, of course, no shame kaminari goes, “yellooo?” in the fucking most ridiculous, you’ve used ridiculous to describe him many a time but there really isn’t a better word, voice you’ve ever heard from a guy who was literally on his knees, seconds prior.
but, who’s voice is coming from the other side of the door?
“you’ve got all my smokes in y’er pocket, shitface.”
and you watch denki check, then pull a face, because he does have all sero’s smoke in his pocket, “oopsie, we’ll be right out!”
“we?”
and again, no-shame kaminari, just hits the latch on the door, and swings it open, while you’re still sat on the fucking toilet, recovering, and he’s still got your remnants smeared all over his mouth.
“stop fuckin’ disappearin….”
sero’s dark lazy eyes scan his friend, his glossy mouth, his flattened hair, the stain on his jeans.
he raises an eyebrow very slowly, then calls out to you, whom he can not see, but still, he knows his friend, “we have to stop meeting like this.”
“what did i say?” denki practically whines, “don’t fucking talk t’er.” and shoves his friend in the chest to make him back away from where he was leaning against the doorframe.
“what the fuck is your problem today,” sero sighs, not moving an inch, instead crossing one arm over the other and sneering down at his friend, “one minute it’s don’t talk to her, the next it’s please stay with her? what— i don’t even know what you’re thinking half the time.”
this is so fucking awkward, you wanna say something, or get up at least, but you also think, maybe, if you don’t move a muscle, they’ll both forget you’re there.
“unless…” sero pauses, the tip of his tongue peeking out, as he releases another one of those, vicious biting grins, “i know exactly what you’re thinking ‘bout.”
“you don’t know shit.”
“oh really?” he snarks back at denki, who is shaking with… you can’t even tell, and you’ve known denki for a long time, agitation? maybe?
until.
denki decides to make the very poor choice of turning his head, only slightly, to look back at you.
and it’s written all over his face.
because he's flushed, with something that is not the embarrassment of being caught eating pussy in a public restroom. in fact, he’s bitten his lips raw, his pupils are blown, and his eyes are formed into an expression you know very well.
you’re not stupid.
and this time you do want to say something, but you don’t even have the time to formulate the sentence in your head because denki pushes sero out of the stall with one hand, the other hand firm against the door frame, obscuring any vision of you from the outside, and says to you, “can you… uh… give us a minute? we’ll meet you outside—”
and then he’s gone. not by his own will, but because a tanned, flexed hand, has reached out, gripped his t-shirt and pulled him away.
the two guys stumble their way outside, through the bathroom and the purple lit bar interior, with sticky carpeted floors, and overwhelming chatter. there's no 'sorry’s' or 'excuse me’s' as they push past the intoxicated crowd with their elbows out, just denki spluttering the whole time.
“you are so— you’re such a— i can’t even—”
“then don’t,” sero breathes against his neck, as he pushes the blonde against the wall of the deserted alleyway. before his lips attach, grow teeth, and sink deep into denki’s skin, just below a mark that, sero assumes, you had left.
“so fucking needy, ain’t ya?” as he nibbles across the blonde’s pulse points, and curves his palm so he can cup denki’s straining erection. “s’kinda embarrassing if you ask me.”
“good thing no one was asking,” denki replies with his own fingers tracing along sero’s waistband.
sero groans at the tease, bucking his hips up into the sensation, “m’just saying, if you wanna ask her, ask her.”
this is like, the worst place possible to have this conversation.
it’s nearly 2am, the rest of the group is still inside, getting up to some bullshit like they always do, like denki has spent most of his college career doing. except he can’t participate properly, not this time, not when he has the self-proclaimed 'biggest moral dilemma of the century' looming over his head.
sero sighs, giving up on trying to undo denki’s belt, and rutting forward against his friend so both their crotches meet in this delicious tingle of friction, “i can hear you thinking y’know.”
“what if,” denki cuts himself off with a groan, and a roll of his hips, the cold brick wall doing nothing to soothe his feverish skin, “what if she thinks it’s weird?”
“why the— shit, that’s good— why the hell would she think it’s weird?”
his nails dig into sero’s shoulders at a particularly forceful thrust that has his head reeling, and his body whining, “’cos what do i even say like, hey i want you and my other-bestfriend-slash-roommate-slash-guy-i’m-currently-fucking-with to share me?”
“is that it?”
denki stills at the sound of your voice.
he tilts his head left and, you’re lent against the other side of the wall, half a joint hanging out of the corner of your mouth, patting your pockets down in search of a lighter.
sero, cheeses again, you roll your eyes at the sight of it, but hum in thanks when tosses a zippo your way. the sound of the spark wheel is like a honing signal, and sero release the tight grip he had on denki, who now crumples against the wall in embarrassment, to get a hit from you.
you inhale deeply, the end flaring up a bright cherry red, illuminating the bored look on your face in the dark alley.
you exhale in silence, pass the joint to sero, and make your way over to denki.
“dude,” you say softly, leaning your shoulder against the blonde, “you know you can ask me anything.”
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
“now what do you say?”
denki’s bed frame sounds like it’s gonna break, for real this time. it’s creaking and rattling like it only has seconds left to live before it collapse in on itself and takes the three of you down with it.
your pussy won’t let go, denki thinks he might actually die, with the way your walls are pulsing around his dribbling cock, practically milking him.
it wouldn’t be a bad way to go, the crease where your stomach meets your thighs and the sight of your jiggling tits will follow him into the afterlife. along with the way your hips tortuously grind down on him, and the unforgettable sensation of your pussy bubbling around the base of his cock, coating him in a juicy shine of slick, leaving that creamy ring stained forever into his memory.
“s-s-sorry?” he gasps out with laboured breaths, his chest caving, his heart feels like it’s gonna fall out of his throat from how fast it’s beating.
“hmmm, sorry for what?” you don’t give him a moment to think, sucking the soul out of his dick, you see his eyes rolls back into his head, dreamy, dopey, pussy drunk smile glazing his face.
“for–for being weird about it?” he finally croaks out when you slow at his silence.
you share a look with sero across denki’s shaking shoulders, from where he’s pistoling his cock into the blonde’s ass.
he sends you a smile, it forms slowly, beginning with a small grin, eventually spreading across his face, his lips stretching and curving, his teeth biting, with that same smirk in his eyes.
“and,” sero murmurs into his ears as his hands find purchase in denki’s hair, a mean grip that has the blonde carolling into your sweat slicked chest, the stimulus making his mind hazy, “you can ask for anything.”
denki’s head lolls, the sight of him, disoriented with pleasure, has you involuntarily clenching, which send him into another spiral, and leaving sloppy marks over any part of your body he can reach.
“say it.”
“i can—” denki groans against your skin, absolutely fucked out, his fingers bruising your hips with his grip, “holy fuck— i can a-ask for anything.”
"good boy," your voice is like honey in his ears, trickling sexual syrup right through his nervous system. the praise makes denki throb inside of you, you can feel it, the pulse, and you send it right back, rudely clenching down on him again, making him jerk his hips back in agony, right back into sero's cock.
it's disgusting, so fucking filthy, the room reeks of weed and your combined bodily fluids, his mattress is probably soaked in your sweat, and in denki's drool.
it's agonisingly good though, the near constant push and pull of three bodies.
denki feels like he's about to black out, and he keeps pathetically humping into both you and sero like that's gonna keep him from disaster.
his head tilts to suck on your tits, and you use his shoulder for leverage, so you can bounce on his properly, the motion sending him backwards into sero's hard chest, "denki, baby, you gonna cum for us?"
he gurgles in reply, too sex drunk to string any coherent thoughts together, just pleasure, pleasure, and more pleasure, his kiss-bitten body trembling, all your grunts and moans poured into his ears like fucking music.
"denki, denki, denki—"
god, he's gonna cum, he can feel it building, the two of you aren't far behind if the pick up in pace is anything to go by.
he can feel, fuck, hot under his veins, ecstasy thrumming through his body, it's never felt this good, he might die.
"denki—"
he's so fucking close, so close, oh god, everything, this long ass day, the constant tease from the both of you, and he finally gets to have this—
"DENKI!"
"huh, huh, what?"
his head flops back down into the pillow, the sunlight streaming through the open blinds is hurting his eyes, and god, his head is fucking pounding. his tongue slips out to wet his dry lips, fully content in going back to sleep, back to that fucking dream, anything to get away from the horrible light he can't seem to escape.
oh nevermind, he can't go back to sleep, not with his excrutiating morning wood, leaking pre all inside his boxers. he ruts down against the suprisingly smooth mattress beneath him with a satisfied groan, and another sleep filled sigh.
"dude are you serious?" an equally sleep stricken voice calls out from next to him.
oops. turns out his soft, smooth, mattress was his best-friends thigh.
denki's eyes flutter open weakly, and sero stares back at him, his dark hair a mess, his limbs stretched out across the bed.
"are you gonna stop that or what?" sero drawls back, voice hoarse with disuse, he raises a tatted arm to cover his eyes, and curses the morning under his breath.
the blonde's hips are still moving on auto pilot, relentlessly chasing a pleasure he can only imagine, until sero swats at him to stop.
hands rubbing his face, denki turns back around with a deep yawn, then starts feeling under the blankets for his vape.
"aren't we," sero yawns uncontrollably mid sentence, so hard tears start forming in his waterline, "uhh, aren't we supposed to go meet your friend at the station in a few?"
they can't stop the yawns now, denki stretches out his back as another one rips out, "s'too early man, s'way too early."
the blonde sits up against the headboard, smacking his dry lips for a minute, then says:
"dude, i just had the craziest dream."
taglist my asshole im so sorry im like dead on the inside lowkey
𑣲 you beat katsuki in a match for the first time, until his sudden flirtatiousness takes the win right out of you. ⋆｡° — suggestive! ♡♡
straddling katsuki's chest while you both caught your breath, you couldn't hide your smirk the moment you realized you'd finally beaten him. after endless years of sparring together, it finally hit you that you actually won against him.
maybe he was too distracted today. perhaps he was just letting you win—or maybe you finally got fast enough to predict his every move.
your hands stayed clamped on his arms as he rested on the floor, both of you too tired to care about how close you were.
"already giving up, katsuki? come on, i know you've got more in you than that." you teased him softly, even though you knew he was strong enough to toss you off him in a heartbeat.
"shit—you look so damn beautiful.." was all that slipped out between his heavy, ragged breaths.
you stared at him wide-eyed, searching his face to see if it was just a trick, but the cocky smirk spreading across his lips proved he meant it.
words like that coming from katsuki felt surreal, like the kind of thing he'd only say under a spell or a quirk.
"what, need me to spell it out for you, dumbass?" he rasped out, letting his eyes drop briefly down to your lips. "never thought i'd see the day you actually managed to pin me.. but damn. you look good like this."
your heart raced faster than it had all match, your face burning hot under his confident gaze.
"katsuki, did you take a heavy blow to the head?" you stammered, releasing his arms, but he just let out a low chuckle, wrapping a hand around your hip to hold you right where you were.
"shut up and take the compliment." he muttered, smug as hell. "so, you gonna let me get up, or are we sitting like this for round two?"
"i think i'd rather stay here a bit longer.." there was absolutely no way you were letting him sweep that compliment under the rug.
"careful." he muttered as his thumb stroked against your hip, his smirk softening. "you stay like this much longer, and i'm not letting you get back up."
Your first few moments alone with Katsuki as husband and wife are soft. Can be read as a stand-alone, or read the rest of my domestic vignette series here.
Warnings: alcohol, vomit.
If you thought you were grateful for Masaru and Mitsuki before, then you should surely be singing their praises now. Thank everything that is holy that you don’t have to pay the bar tab.
Both sides of the wedding party are out on the grass, half of them frolicking in zero gravity while the other half turn the venue’s bushes into a river of vomit. No one’s seen Kirishima’s dress shirt in the last two hours, but somehow he’s kept his blazer tied around his waist. Monoma’s spinning in circles as he tries and fails to get the hang of Uraraka’s quirk in his drunken state. Jiro and Yaomomo giggle as they float over Kaminari, pulling at strands of his hair and poking him while he bends into one of the bushes.
Almost all the other guests have left, or at the very least made themselves scarce. Hence why Katsuki and yourself are alone on the floor in the reception hall, your head on his shoulder, watching your friends through the huge windows and open door.
“We’re married,” he hums for what just might be the umpteenth time, “you’re my wife.”
Usually the designated driver, he’s let himself drink more tonight than he has since the UA graduation party. He’s not blind, but his tongue fails him every so often, slurring sentences together, and his hand is exploring every seam of your gown.
“And you’re my husband,” you whisper back.
As you turn to look up at him, he angles his head down and his chin knocks your nose. A laugh. Real and guttural, unlike anything you’ve heard from him in days. He’s been a total groomzilla.
“You laughin’ at me, husband?”
“Only ‘cos you’re so pretty I don’t know what else to do with myself, wife.”
Most of the time, you have to coax this kind of sappy stuff out of him, but the haze of a fair number of shooters — on top of his casual beers and the earlier san-san-kudo ceremony — have done things to him. Wonderful things.
“You could kiss me,” you offer.
“I’m still savouring the one from earlier,” he says, turning his head away from you like a petulant child hoarding a bag of lollies.
You shove him with your shoulder and chuckle. At the sound of your laughter, he looks at you again, red eyes melting like lava. You take his hand, his left one, running your fingers over the intricately designed band and admiring the minuscule diamonds set inside, mimicking the movements he’s been doing with your engagement ring for the last year and a quarter.
Rare aesthetic: having to share a bed with the girlfriend of the guy you killed while staying at his house for his funeral.
Camilla doing that and staying composed… makes you see how she and Henry got on so well. She went down that ravine, watched Bunny’s body stop moving and managed to hold herself to together while sleeping next to Marion who probably cried all night wondering how it could be possible that she’s at the funeral of her 24 year old boyfriend. When Camilla tells Richard and Francis about having shared a bed with Marion, there’s no guilt, just inconvenience.
once again blaring silver spring by fleetwood mac from the loudspeakers
Obanai Iguro x Vine Pillar!Reader
“I’m always in that dungeon. Always in the dark. I can’t see my way out.”
You say it so casually, as though you’re simply commenting on the state of the weather or the strength of your untouched tea.
Obanai’s stomach curdles.
A quick glance to you reveals passive features, as neutral as the cadence of your voice. And yet, despite the pleasant set of your mouth, your eyes are vacant; fixed upon some distant point in the garden, but not seeing anything at all.
You are not here; you’ve wandered off, gone someplace far beyond the safety of the Butterfly Mansion. Far away from him.
Despite the coolness of the early spring air, Obanai suddenly finds himself sticky; hot. He sets his own cup down to wipe his damp palm against the front of his trousers.
“In the beginning, I dreamed of one day seeing the sun; the trees. Watching the light filter through the leaves. I thought it would help me endure, but it only trapped me even more. Because I forgot what trees and leaves looked like. And that left me only knowing darkness.” You tilt your head, eyes narrowing as though in thought. “This is all a dream. And I am still there.”
The wilted bandages sticking to his skin skin threaten to slip down his chin, to choke him off around his throat. Already, it feels difficult to breathe, and his fingers shake when he tries to pry them away from his mouth.
“You’re not dreaming.” Obanai forces out a croak. “This is real. You’re out. You’re free — safe.”
“But, I never left. I don’t think I ever will.” Finally, your gaze shifts to him, though it remains empty. “What is it that I did, do you think? To be punished like that?”
Obanai cannot answer you; his lungs his shriveled in his chest. There is no more air to breathe.
“Was I that bad?” And this time, a tiny fissure snakes its way through your voice. “I must have been, to have deserved that.”
The lock is broken; you are cracking wide open and he cannot stop you. And yet, the selfish part of him wants you to pick open this shallow scab. Obanai is desperate and he’s in love, and he wants you to remember so you can remember why you need to despise him; remember the depth of his betrayal, and cast him aside for good.
It’s the least he deserves. If further damning you means you can also get your revenge upon him, then it may very well be worth it.
You’ve always accused him of never being able to make a choice; let this be his first.
“Maybe…maybe it was because of someone else.”
It’s as close as he can get to admitting the awful truth of it all, because the truth, won’t mean anything to you. It would only matter if you were still you and he was still Obanai. But it doesn’t mean anything, now. Not when he’s your stranger.
You frown. “I must have harmed them badly, for them to despise me so.”
No, he thinks desperately. I could never despise you. I could hate all the world and still never hate you.
But, Obanai is a coward, and so, he does not tell you this. Instead, he swallows hard, and he clings to his pretenses. “Maybe it was to hurt someone else. Someone who held you dear.”
“No one loved me that way. I would’ve remembered if they had — if not the person, then the feeling.”
Oh, but he did. He does.
I know I could have loved you but you would not let me
Pairing: Drummer!Sirius Black x Bartender!Reader
Summary: He plays like he's trying to break something, never pays for his pint, and walks you to the bus stop every week — the wrong way for him. Tonight you ask why.
Tags: slow burn, mutual pining, fluff, getting together
Thursdays are the worst for your feet and the best for your ears, and that's down to one man.
You pull pints three nights a week at The Crooked Tap, and Thursdays are band nights, which mostly means some lad with an acoustic guitar and a lot of feelings about his ex. Not this Thursday. Not any Thursday for the last two months, because the loud one's got a residency now, four blokes who call themselves something you can never remember, and a drummer who hits the kit like it's done him a personal wrong.
Sirius Black plays like he's trying to break something, because he is, a bit — he told you once, straight-faced, that if he's not knackered by the last song he hasn't done his job properly. You watch him from behind the bar, sleeves shoved up, hair stuck to his neck, throwing his head back on every crash like the room owes him a reaction. He gets one. He always gets one. By the time the set's done he's soaked through and buzzing, grinning like he's just got away with something, and he swaggers over and leans on your bar like he owns it.
"Go on then," he says, chin on his hand, all cheek, "cheapest pint you've got, and don't tell the landlord I didn't pay for it."
"You never pay for it."
"I know. Isn't it brilliant?"
You pour it anyway. You always do. He's the sort you can't quite say no to and can't quite work out why, which is, you suspect, exactly how he likes it.
It becomes a routine, the kind you don't notice building until it's already built. He stays till you're flipping chairs onto tables, wiping down taps that don't need wiping, and he doesn't ask if he can hang about, he just does, perched on a stool with his jacket over one shoulder, holding forth about the gig or some row he's had with the bassist or nothing at all, restless the whole time, tapping a rhythm on the bar like he can't quite switch the drumming off. He keeps you company while you cash up, counting notes into the little bag, and when you're done he walks you to the bus stop.
It's the wrong way for him. You worked that out weeks ago — his flat's east, the stop's west, and he does it anyway, hands in his pockets, telling you some story that goes nowhere in particular, cocky right up until you catch him watching you instead of talking.
"You don't have to do this, you know," you tell him, most weeks.
"I know," he says, most weeks, and keeps walking. "Who says I'm doing it out of obligation?"
You tell yourself he does this with everyone. He's got that face, that reckless laugh, the sort of bloke who probably charms the woman at the chip shop and picks fights with strangers for a laugh and means both equally. You've heard the stories — sacked from two jobs for mouthing off, thrown out of his own family's good books years back, never stays anywhere long. Act first, think never, someone at the bar said once, fond and exasperated in the same breath. You tell yourself that's exactly the sort of man who'd try it on with anyone standing still long enough. Except he never does. Not a hand on your waist, not a lean-in at the door, nothing. Which should be a relief, from a man like that. Somehow it isn't. Somehow it's the thing that keeps you up a bit, turning it over, wondering what you're missing, because if there's one thing Sirius Black is famous for, it's not holding back.
Weeks go by like that. Pint, chairs, till, the wrong way to the bus stop. You start setting the timer of your evening by him without meaning to.
Then one Thursday the stage stays empty. No amps, no drum kit, just the usual quiz-night clutter shoved into the corner, and you think, well, that's that, quiet night, and you're almost disappointed in yourself for thinking it.
And then he walks in anyway.
No jacket over his shoulder, no story loaded up and ready, just Sirius, in a jumper that's seen better days, dropping onto the end stool like it's owed to him.
"No set tonight," you say, sliding a menu his way out of habit.
"I know. I'm not playing. Can't a man come to a pub without a drum kit strapped to him?"
"Suppose he can. What are you having, then?"
"Surprise me. Lemonade."
You give him one. He nurses it for four hours, which is not like him at all — he's not a man built for sitting still, you've noticed that much, always tapping something, jigging a knee, up and at the jukebox picking fights about the song choice. Tonight he just watches the room, restless in a smaller way, and glances at you often enough that you start counting. By closing he's the last one left, same as always, and you flip the last chair and he's already on his feet, hands in his pockets, ready to walk.
Except tonight you stop at the door instead of going through it.
"Sirius."
"What?"
"You don't come for the lemonade."
He looks at you for a second too long. You watch him decide something, quick, the way he decides everything — and then he says it plainly, no run-up. "No. I come for the walk."
"That's daft. It's the wrong way for you."
"Never said it made sense, did I?"
You cross your arms, more for something to do with your hands than anything else. "So why haven't you ever tried it on? You, of all people?"
That lands somewhere. You watch it land. For once there's no grin ready to cover it.
"Because I'm no good at what comes after," he says, fast, like it's easier said quick. "The chatting up — that bit I could do drunk, half asleep, upside down. It's the sticking around that trips me up. Ask anyone who's ever bothered with me. I get bored, or I say something stupid, or I just — go. Every time. And I like you too much to do that to you, so I didn't do anything at all. Seemed the safer option, didn't it?"
You stand there a second, taking that in. It's the plainest thing he's ever said to you, none of the swagger holding it up, and it lands harder for that.
"So you settled for walking me to a bus stop instead? For two months?"
"When you say it like that it sounds mental."
"It is a bit mental."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, but his eyes don't move off you. "What's new?"
You think about all those weeks, the wrong-way walk, the free drinks he never needed, and you think, someone's got to be brave here, and it's clearly not going to be him — not this once, not about this.
So you take the two steps back to the bar, catch a fistful of his jumper, and kiss him.
He makes a small, startled sound against your mouth — Sirius Black, caught off guard, and you'd bet good money that's a first — and for a second he just stands there, hands hovering like he doesn't trust them. Then he catches up fast, the way he catches up to everything, hand coming to your jaw, kissing you back proper, none of the careful left in it now.
When you pull back he's still got that stunned look on him. "Well," he says, a bit rough. "Wasn't expecting that tonight. Or ever, really."
"Bit of a wrong way round, this," you say, "kissing you over the bar before you've even walked me anywhere."
"So I'll walk you now. What, you think I'm letting you get on that bus after that?" He's already got his jacket off the stool, already moving, quick as anything, like the decision was made before you'd finished the sentence.
"Wrong direction and everything?"
"Wrong direction's sort of my whole thing tonight."
He does. Same stop, same wrong way, except this time he's got your hand in his the whole walk, thumb moving over your knuckles, and he doesn't let go when the bus pulls up.
"Same time Thursday?" he asks.
"You're not even playing next Thursday."
"I'll come anyway. For the lemonade."
"You hate lemonade."
"I know," he says, grinning like it costs him nothing, though you're starting to suspect most things that look effortless on him don't. "Worth it, though. Isn't it?"
You laugh, and get on the bus, and watch him through the window walking off, hands back in his pockets, grinning like an idiot into the dark.
hmm I don’t know if you write this but could you do bartender!Sirius with a reader who doesn’t really belong in the bar scene but starts to frequent it and then he figures out she’s got a little crush on him?
love your theme btw! 🧸
Thanks angel!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
cw: alcohol
Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 896 words
Etiquette can work differently in bars. On busy nights, Sirius only has to make eye contact with someone on the other side of the bar and they'll tell him their drink order; not for lack of politeness, just for efficiency's sake. Most of the time the first words he hears out of customers' mouths are "vodka," "gin," or "pint."
You always approach with "hi."
"Hi," you say, leaning your elbows on the bar while Sirius shakes with one hand and stirs with the other.
He spares a grin for you. "Hello," he replies. Purring a bit, because he can. "What can I get you?"
The smile you shoot back is gut-wrenchingly sweet. "Anything you'd recommend?"
"Well…" Sirius passes off the two drinks and starts on a pint. "What did you think of the one you had last time?"
Your eyes blink wide. "I, um. It was good. I don't remember what it was called…"
"Mojito," he supplies. A customer down the bar calls for his attention, and Sirius slides a napkin to you, his fingertips touching yours briefly. "Sorry, lovely, can you excuse me for just a minute? I promise not to forget you."
He gets that customer's order and a few others, pouring some shots quickly to quell the urgency surrounding the bar for a little while. While he darts around, Sirius is conscious of the feeling of your eyes following him, like a shiver held at the base of his spine.
"So," he says when he circles back, "what'd you think of it? The mojito."
You make a sound like a puff of air turned to a laugh. "I can't believe you remember that." Sirius raises an eyebrow at you while he pours vodka into a shaker, and you go on almost shyly, "You must serve so many people every night."
"You remember certain faces."
And Sirius remembers yours. He thinks of it as his right, after putting up with so much shit from customers, to pay the pretty ones a bit of extra attention. You came in first a couple of weeks ago. Since then, you've been back fairly regularly, though usually with various other friends. This is the first time Sirius has seen you here alone.
"You can tell me if you didn't like the mojito," he says, looking you in your eyes. Indulging in a private delight at the way your lashes flicker when you have his full attention. "I won't take it personally, promise. We can make you something else."
Honestly, Sirius hopes you didn't like it. Mojitos are a bitch to make. He'd do it again for you, though.
"No," you say, "I liked it. I'd have another, if—only if it's not too much trouble."
"None at all," Sirius lies, and gets out the muddler.
"Thanks," you say, with enough quiet sweetness to make him happy to do it.
He finishes the drink he was making, delivering it to its customer and starting on yours. You watch his wrist twist as he muddles mint in the bottom of a clean shaker. Sirius flicks his eyes up, and yours move away quickly.
"You don't seem like a barfly," he says.
"Oh?" You lean closer as if to hear him better. "I don't know, what makes someone a barfly?"
"Hours logged, I reckon. Gotta do at least ten a week."
Your eyebrows fly up. "Ten?"
"Ten's really on the low end."
"Oh—then, yeah. I guess I'm not one."
Sirius snickers. No shit—you don't even know what a mojito is. "You've been coming around a fair amount, though."
You hear the question he isn't asking. Your bottom lip dents sheepishly. "I just like it here, I guess."
The shiver chooses this moment to zip up Sirius' spine, the feeling tingling all the way to his fingertips. Despite your obvious bashfulness, you hold his gaze across the bar. He almost spills simple syrup on the counter.
"It seems like you're always here," you say after a moment.
"Well, I actually work here," Sirius tells you.
You smile. "I mean that you're here every time I've come in. Do you work every night?"
"From five to two," he confirms. Your smile dims a bit, and Sirius feels himself frown in response. He sets your drink on the bar. "Try that for me, lovely."
You pull the straw towards you dutifully and take a sip. The soft breath you let out after does something funny to his knees. "That's really good, thank you."
"Yeah? It's okay? We can try something else if you like."
"No, it's perfect. I think this is my favorite." Well, Sirius has done it now; he owes an apology to all other bartenders you encounter. But you smile at him again, your eyes crinkling endearingly, and fuck all other bartenders, actually. Sirius will get out the muddler for you as often as you like. "Thanks very much."
"You're very welcome," he tells you. Sincerely, though not without a heavy dose of flirting. Your lashes kiss at the corners. "I do work every night, but that means I'm free during the day. I like coffee."
Your voice softens as though you're trading secrets. "You do?"
"I do."
"There's a coffee shop I like down the street from here. Would you want to go sometime?"
After Izuku reveals his streak of dominant sex has been broken by a first and last attempt at submission — one that turned him off the notion of surrendering control for good — you’re determined to show him that with the right partner, it may just be exactly what the hero needs.
⛰︎ ─── ALL I WANT FOR XXXMAS: A SMUTTY ADVENT event hosted by @niilue
CONTENT・MDNI・ sub!izuku, dom!fem!reader, post-timeskip, reader is a pro-hero, non-linear narrative, ft. the midoriya friendgroup, texting, drinking, bdsm/scene discussion, sub space, kneeling, bondage, handjob, edging, praise kink, pet names, mutual pining, guilt, aftercare・wc. 23.4k
MEL'S NOTE・so excited to participate in niik's delicious dom!reader event :) this fic was written in december to honour timeskip izuku finally being animated because... omfg 😭 the love of my life, fr. happy (very, very belated...) holidays! (what is it they say about being fashionably late again?) title is from last christmas by wham!!! here's a lil moodboard that encapsulates the vibes of this fic <3
‹‹ MASTERLIST ・ READ ON AO3
The Afternoon of the Friday-Flight Curse, Present Day.
Friday is widely known as the worst day to fly.
Particularly around the holidays, when the weeks sandwiching Christmas turn organised hubs of international travel into what may better resemble an overcrowded festival, filled with thousands of sleep-deprived, disgruntled, delayed fliers who together possess a penchant for invoking bedlam. Combine this with a destination that is infamous for its heavy snowstorms this time of year, and you have a recipe for complete and utter disaster.
You’d like the records to state, if nothing else, you had tried to warn your friends.
—
3 Months Earlier.
Among your friend group, Beans is a cult favourite—a mom and pop cafe with a name so on the nose you had laughed before ducking into the hidden entrance, recessed in overgrown shrubbery and advertised by a faded, barely legible signboard. It was a miracle you had spotted the place, as concealed as it was. And within a week, word spread like wildfire in your group chat until it became somewhat of the unspoken, go-to meeting spot for you all. In part, due to its proximity to your respective agencies, but mostly thanks to the homey atmosphere of the cramped space, lending a sense of anonymity hard to come by as Japan’s most distinguished heroes.
The event in which you would ever be bothered by anyone in the dingy corner you're all tucked in, where warm, coffee-infused air swathes you like a shield, feels impossible. And the patrons here mind their own business, too, which helps—content to ignore the heroes frequenting Beans, providing you have enough sense to keep your conversations at a respectable noise level. Which of course, you do.
Most of the time, anyway.
“Look here.” Ochako points to the listing on her laptop—a picturesque mountain lodge dusted with a fine blanket of snow, the glow of a fire leaking through the windows from within. It looks like a scene plucked straight from a holiday rom-com. “We could just go for the weekend before Christmas!”
Clustered around a wobbling table, you all peer at Ochako’s bright laptop screen. A folded wad of tissue jammed under the broken leg is doing precisely nothing to prevent the assortment of drinks littering its wooden surface from spilling their lip each time someone leans an arm on the worn, now-sticky grain.
Tenya opens his mouth to protest.
“Hold on,” Ochako interrupts, lifting a finger to silence him. “Before you say anything: yes, there’s reception, yes, Bakugou is on duty that weekend, and yes," she shoots Tenya a very pointed look, "Japan will be fine while we're gone.”
You raise an eyebrow in amusement before letting your gaze drift back to the inviting cabin. Ochako barrels onward, unperturbed by his disgruntled silence. She's grown into herself since graduating from U.A., and challenging Tenya's obstinacy became what seems to be her new favourite pastime.
“It’s only a few days and god knows we’ll be working straight through Christmas like every year. So we can have our own early celebration together.” When no one objects, she smiles and delivers the killing blow. “Don’t we deserve it?”
And isn’t that a loaded question…
Years of postponed or outright neglected festivities flash through your mind. You honestly can’t remember the last time you had a normal Christmas. During school, maybe? But even your time at U.A. was derailed with saving Japan, and you’re not confident the tree erected in your dorm common room ever got appreciated to the extent it was intended to. Nor that it was plump with gaudy presents or that its pine smell ever tangled with that of freshly baked treats.
Is it strange that only now are you realising you haven’t had a normal Christmas celebration since you were a child?
Shouto’s lips quirk upwards and Tsuyu releases a low hum of agreement, nodding thoughtfully. If nothing else, the deep bags below her eyes should be testament enough to how overworked you all are in the run-up to Christmas. It’s as though the excitement and stress of this season make the general public all the more prone to accidents. Not to mention the plethora of villains that love to strike when the conditions are worse; the days darker and shorter; the people’s spirits are at their lowest.
In reality, it’s exhausting. A fact peacefully co-existing with another: you wouldn’t change your life for the whole world in the palm of your hand. Thus, you can see perfectly where Ochako is coming from.
Tenya doesn’t seem quite as convinced.
“You said that three years ago when we went to that Christmas market in Yokohama," he counters, patting at your spilt coffee with a napkin, "and we were there for less than an hour before there was headline news of a terrorist attack."
Though his voice may carry indignance, you can tell by the stern set of his mouth that he's secretly impressed by Ochako's preparations, and his heart isn't in it. He's craving a break just as much as the rest of you are. But it's Tenya. It’s practically a given that he’s going to, at minimum, try and bring you all back down to planet Earth before the idea uproots him, too.
“Our friends handled it,” Shouto reasons, taking a pointed sip of his sugary concoction. Any suggestion of Ochako's is usually a great one in his books. They're remarkably similar in their approach to persuasion, and since Shouto discovered the importance of work/life balance from Ochako herself years ago, his workaholic routines have, thankfully, yet to return. “So I, for one, am all for it.”
“Me too,” Tsuyu replies, bumping her shoulder into Shouto’s. He smiles at the contact—a small, quiet thing that makes you want to sink into the floor at how lovely it is. Sweeter than his own crime of a drink, you’d bet money on it. “It’d be nice to spend more time with you guys than it takes to grab a coffee between patrols.”
Izuku leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on the laptop screen, and chews on his bottom lip. He’s been suspiciously silent since Ochako raised the idea and you can almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain as he, similar to Tenya, analyses every risk in the concept of several pro-heroes taking a simultaneous holiday. You study the gentle slope of his nose and let your gaze roam to the lip caught between his teeth only half-intentionally. It’s an awful habit, really. Not so much for Izuku as it is for you, unable to be anything but distracted by the contemplative action.
Once more, you’re struck by the thought that one day—tomorrow, or perhaps some years from now—another person will watch Izuku as you do. Develop an infatuation, as you did in school. A simple curiosity which will fester into an adult crush and eat away at them like a disease. Eventually, he will fall for them, too, as those things usually go.
All by virtue of you, the most heroic coward in human history.
“It does look cosy,” Izuku offers quietly. But you can tell by his hesitant tone and the anxious drag of his finger around the rim of his mug that he’s simply softening the blow to what will likely be an objection. “I’m not sure if being a whole flight away right before Christmas is a good idea though…”
Bingo.
“C’mon, Izuku,” Ochako implores, touching the trackpad of her laptop as she rapidly clicks through the tens of tabs she has open—several social media sites, her agency portal, and what looks suspiciously like a thirst edit of the actor she mentioned crushing on at the moment—until an airline page, preloaded with the dates of the trip she’s proposing, appears on the screen. “Here, look!” She scrolls down a list of flight prices.
Izuku releases a mild noise of shock.
“Okay, yeah I know,” Ochako sighs, impatient. “Whatever. Get over it. You can’t put a price on happiness.”
“I can,” Tsuyu chimes in, placing her elbow on the table and propping her chin on the heel of her hand. Izuku’s coffee splashes over the edge of his mug. “And so can Japan Airlines, by the look of it.”
Ochako giggles, flashing a delighted look at Tsuyu before she quiets and taps her fingernail on the table. Her voice is oddly serious when she continues, “What I’m trying to say though, is that it’s simple. I’ve been monitoring flights for like two weeks and the prices keep going up and up and up, so we may as well bite the bullet now if we’re really going to do this." She tilts her head. "Which I think we should, for the record.”
“Iida had some good points though,” Izuku says, looking to the man in question in a silent plea for help. “About all six of us being out of commission for the weekend…”
Iida regards him for a moment, takes a sip of his coffee, and sighs defeatedly. “Our friends will be perfectly capable of handling it.”
Then, Izuku turns to you for some unspeakable reason you refuse to ruminate on. You don’t waste your chance. With an imperceptible tilt of your lips, you feign deep thought and stare at the ceiling. But really, the battle with yourself is already lost. The allure of a warm fire and uninterrupted blankets of snow is too easy to fall for. Besides, it’s been months since you’ve had any extended quality time with your friends and you’ve been quietly beginning to feel the withdrawals from it, drawn away from them for so long a quick coffee meet-up like this one is considered lucky. The low, thrumming ache in your heart crafts your words for you.
“I haven’t seen heavy snowfall in years,” you say to Izuku, watching him carefully. He shifts in his seat and takes a quick sip of his coffee. Years of noticing Izuku, of observing his mannerisms and idiosyncrasies lead you to quickly understand the action is simply done to busy his idle hands lest the quiet, anxious energy he keeps a permanent lid on overflow. “I kind of miss it.”
When the hero places his mug back onto the table, it’s just this side of a little too forceful. He swallows and tears his eyes from yours. Dusted high on his cheeks is a light blush, and you slant your head, pointlessly attempting to read his spiralling thoughts.
Funny… you didn’t even really do anything this time.
Ochako claps her hands together, flashing you a grateful expression when Izuku doesn't protest any further. You smile at her over the rim of your drink once you manage to drag your eyes from the remnants of Izuku’s strange reaction. “Perfect! That settles it, then.”
“I gotta buy new thermals,” Tsuyu mentions offhandedly, watching Ochako click back onto the mountain lodge listing before her fingers start flying over the keyboard, typing in her details to reserve your stay. “And some warmer socks.”
“I think I should be okay,” Shouto murmurs thoughtfully, and you huff a laugh at the sincerity in his voice.
“You’ll be fine, Shouto,” Izuku replies, watching Ochako with an indecisive set to his shoulders. “Self-regulating quirks are some of the most efficient for handling extreme climates.”
Shouto fights back a laugh, entertained at Izuku’s mindless regurgitation of information he clearly knows inside and out, considering it is, after all, his quirk. “Is that so?” he teases, though it goes unnoticed in the face of Izuku’s distraction. “No thermals for me then?”
Izuku shakes his head vacantly, nibbling on his bottom lip again. You fight the urge to tug it free.
Tenya clears his throat. “Can we go skiing?”
“I’m down,” Ochako replies, without glancing up from her laptop.
“I wanna try snowboarding,” you say, excitement creeping into your voice.
“Oh, me too,” Shouto agrees.
Tsuyu drains the last dregs of her hot chocolate before placing her mug back in the damp ring of liquid printed on the wooden table. “Well, I want to have a snowball fight.”
All of you, even Izuku, who looks up at Tsuyu with a fond expression, make various noises of agreement.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ochako announces a heartbeat later, slamming her laptop closed with a flourish. “Pack your bags and book your flights. We’re going on holiday!”
—
Only a few days later, right as you’re about to slip beneath the waves of the paperwork drowning you, a few consecutive buzzes catch your attention. Before the noise has a chance to spur you into action, your phone is careening off the edge of your desk, where you heedlessly placed it earlier, and clattering onto the floor as though it’s also had enough of today.
You huff, extending a lazy foot to slide it back towards you, and pick it up. Although you have enough paperwork to bludgeon someone with, you’re quick to abandon it and swipe at the screen, grateful for the distraction presenting itself.
Christmas Getaway!! 🎄☃️
Ochako: Guys we should all book the same flight
Ochako: Start the holiday right at the airport!!
Ochako: No time for a drink than in a place where time doesn’t exist
You: i second that
You: love pre-gaming a flight with overpriced airport pints
Shouto: I’ve never drunk before a flight.
Shouto: Sounds fun.
Tsuyu: it very much is
Tenya: I’ll stay sober so we don’t miss our flight
You: boooooooo
You: the beauty of drinking in an airport is the risk of missing your flight
Izuku: that seems counterintuitive lol
Tsuyu: nah she’s right
Tsuyu: it’s like gambling
You: go big or go home
You: literally lmfao
Shouto: When should we book our flights for, then, Ochako?
Ochako: Friday, December 19th !!
You: babe friday is like the worst day to catch a flight in the history of global airline travel
Ochako: Are you kidding or not bc I can’t tell over text
You: dead serious
Tenya: I have read that online.
Tenya: And I must admit, any Friday flights I’ve caught for work are often delayed.
You: see!!! every single friday flight i have taken has been carnage
You: everything’s delayed, everybody is grumpy af bc everything’s delayed
Izuku: i haven’t heard this!! interesting…
Izuku: do you think that’s because of weekend getaways like ours??
Tenya: I suspect so.
You: the vibes are off i’m telling u
Tsuyu: i don’t mind when we fly out :)
Shouto: Me neither.
You: how about thursday?
Ochako: I have quirk counselling sessions all day rippp
Tenya: We could catch a red-eye?
Ochako: I lied
You: ???
Tsuyu: lollllll
Izuku: what’s up ochako?
Ochako: I only booked the lodge for Friday to Sunday night I'm sorry!!!
You: can we extent the booking?
Ochako: It's already booked up around our dates rip
Tenya: Ah.
Tenya: Don’t worry. Fridays aren’t that bad to fly on.
Tenya: Besides, the more time we’re in Japan around this time of the year, the better.
You: it IS that bad
Izuku: i can’t tell if ur being dramatic or not
You: i’m not
You: i swear fridays are cursed
Ochako: Forgive me!!!! I didn’t know
You: hush my love, it's my fault anyway <3
You: i should’ve said something as u were booking
Shouto: I’m sure it’ll be okay.
Shouto: If our flight is delayed, we have more time to drink in the airport, no?
Tsuyu: hell yeah
You: …
You: i hate that ur right sho
Shouto: Thank you :)
Tenya: Just found a morning flight from Haneda, Tokyo departing at 10:30am.
Tenya: Arrives in Hokkaido around midday.
Ochako: I saw that one too!!
Tsuyu: sounds good to me
Izuku: yeah me too
Shouto: I am also happy with that.
You: i’ll book it rn
You: better than doing my paperwork lol
Shouto: I’m also going to ignore my paperwork and book the flight.
You: that’s the spirit!!
You: everyone prepare for some serious morning drinking before our delayed flight
Tsuyu: 🫡🫡
Shouto: Will do!
Izuku: alright….
Izuku: you’re buying though
You: sure, i’ll buy you a drink izuku :)
Izuku: why does that feel like a threat…
Tenya: I am also picking up on the ominous undertones.
You: i do not have a clue what you guys are talking about 😇
Ochako: Bought my ticket!! I’m so excited
Tsuyu: ME TOO
Shouto: I have also bought mine!
Ochako: Holiday shopping trip asap??
You: please
Tsuyu: 100%
Shouto: I don’t need to buy anything but I can come to carry bags.
Ochako: Yes please!
Ochako: And that’s a lie, you may not NEED anything but that won’t stop me from shopping for you anyway!!
Tenya: I’m just going to order weather-appropriate clothes online.
Tenya: But have fun!
You: okayyyy
You: izuku stop typing you’re coming
Izuku: uhhh okay
Izuku: i suppose i could do with some warmer clothes
You: that’s what i like to hear
—
The Morning of the Friday-Flight Curse, Present Day.
In hindsight, perhaps you should have insisted harder that you all fly out on Thursday—a normal, non-evil day to catch a flight—and book some other hotel for the night before your stay at the lodge. Because, as it happens, your class of heroes has been a magnet for trouble since you were all fifteen and apparently, even the spirit of a Christmas holiday cannot erase such horrible karmic debt.
You're standing in line for security with Izuku, passport and boarding pass in hand, when your phone buzzes in your pocket.
“Must be them,” you murmur to Izuku, sliding your phone out and tapping on the screen.
Izuku nods. “Yeah I’d imagine so. Probably just letting us know they’ve arrived.”
A notification from the group chat flashes and you hum in response, unlocking your phone. Then, as you read the message, a groan crawls up your throat.
“What is it?” Izuku turns to you, calm and very much used to your dramatics, as he hikes his duffel bag higher up his shoulder. “Are they here?”
Since the moment you awoke this morning, you’ve been trying to ignore a sense of foreboding in your gut. Mostly unsuccessfully, but still. You thought it was flying anxiety—tried to convince yourself it was normal. Without speaking, you turn your phone and let Izuku watch the typing bubble appear to deliver two more messages. Credit where credit is due, it appears your body knew something was fated to go awry today.
If only you’d listened.
Christmas Getaway!! 🎄☃️
Shouto: Bad news
Shouto: Can’t talk
Shouto: Look online
“Shit,” Izuku hisses. He hurriedly tugs his own phone from his pocket and opens a news app. You lean over his shoulder, and sure enough, a headline reads:
LIVE: Pro-Heroes on Scene as Unknown Villain Threatens to Destroy Shuto Expressway
“Yeah,” you breathe, staring at the livestream of Shouto—clad in sweats and a hoodie, flinging up a massive wall of ice before pulling out his phone—before echoing, "Shit." It would be hilarious watching him try to type in the group chat and dodge the villain’s attacks, in any other scenario but the one you’re currently living in. “They’re going to miss the flight.”
“I think so,” Izuku murmurs. He glances away from the video and towards you, instead.
On his screen, you can see a blur of Tenya zipping between abandoned cars on the expressway as he extracts people from the heart of the fight. Tsuyu’s tongue flings out between Shouto’s attacks in an attempt to apprehend the villain. And somewhere amidst the flying rubble, Ochako is floating nearby as she clearly tries to de-escalate the situation in frantic shouts between each wave of the villain’s assault.
Forlorn, you finally meet Izuku’s eyes.
You’re not worried about them handling it. Hell, if Shouto is able to text you both, they clearly have the fight under control. But there is much more to protecting Japan than a flashy battle. Afterwards, a clamour of newspeople, their oversized cameras shoved in your face as they demand information, has to be addressed. Then, you must communicate with local law enforcement and help cordon off the scene, which often involves wrangling the aforementioned mob of journalists. All before examinations with on-site medics can clear you for return to your next immediate duty: the mandatory debrief with your agency. Long, often incredibly tedious, and resulting in, you guessed it, a shit ton of paperwork.
Even if they defeat the villain within the next minute, there’s no way they’ll make it through security and to the gate in time. You honestly doubt they’d get to the airport before your flight leaves.
Why today of all days?
The line shuffles forward, and you follow the chattering family in front of you, rolling your suitcase along. “Fuck. Should we leave?”
Izuku doesn’t reply for a moment, pocketing his phone and observing the snaking queue of travellers as he thinks. “Why don’t we just get through security first and go from there?” he proposes. “You did say you were desperate for an airport drink…”
You huff, amused. “I did,” you admit. “It isn’t quite the same if you’re not catching a flight, though.”
“Who cares?” Izuku counters, shrugging. “Plus, you owe me anyway.”
“That’s true,” you say, curious as to why Izuku is indulging you. But you’re reluctant to look your gift horse in the mouth, and so your acquiescence comes easily. “Fine. One drink. And then we’ll figure out what to do once they’ve apprehended the villain.”
Izuku nods, clearly satisfied he could convince you, and places a gentle hand on your lower back to coax you forward when the line moves again without you noticing. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
—
Scarcely a thimble of beer is left in your glass when Tenya finally calls the group chat about twenty minutes later. You swipe to accept the call, turn on the speaker, and place your phone on the round table between you and Izuku.
“We’re alright,” Tenya prefaces immediately, and you can hear plainly the adrenaline wound tight around his reassurance. "The villain is apprehended, local enforcement is on the scene, and there were no casualties—civilian or otherwise.”
You breathe a sigh of relief, lifting your glass to drain the final sip.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Izuku replies on behalf of you both, leaning across the table to speak into your phone amidst the steady hum of the izakaya. “It didn’t look pretty from the clip we saw.”
“We've had much worse,” Tenya answers humourously, and isn’t that the truth. “But I’m afraid we’re going to miss the flight.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, frustration already diluted by your drink. Perhaps that was Izuku’s original intention after all. Sly bastard, you think fondly. “We suspected as much. Don’t worry.”
“I’m sure Ochako can get a refund on the cabin if we explain the circumstance,” Izuku adds, his finger tracing patterns into the sweating beer glass in front of him.
“What are you talking about?” A siren rings briefly over the line, and you hear a shuffle as Tenya presumably cups a hand around the microphone before he continues. “Get on the flight, we’ll catch the next one and meet you there.”
Silently, you and Izuku glance at each other over the table.
Why had neither of you thought of that?
“Huh,” you start, a laugh threatening your voice. “Okay. We’re through security and everything already, so that works. When’s the next flight?”
“I’m not sure. Hold on.”
Tenya yells something indistinguishable. The frequency is clearly too high for the tinny call, because the words get jumbled and mashed into a half-distorted crackle over the line. Then, Ochako must grab the phone because her smooth voice comes through clear as a whistle only a beat later.
“The next flight is at four fifteen pm, so we’ll call customer service, explain, and I’m sure they’ll have no issue with squeezing us onto it.” Her voice dips lower, and at her next words you make a mental note to depart some choice words upon Shouto and his big mouth when you catch him later. “You guys go break the place in for us, alright?”
“What the hell do you mean—" You choke on your spit and grab the phone to speak into it indignantly. "—you know what. Nevermind. I don’t want to know. Contact us when you’ve rebooked and when you’re on the flight in one piece, alright?”
“Will do,” Ochako replies lightly, and you can practically hear the shit-eating smile she’s wearing. You roll your eyes. “See you guys this evening. Have a safe flight. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
Both of you lapse into silence at the beep of a hung-up call. At once, the easy-going atmosphere melts down into quiet tension that smothers you like a fire blanket. You try for an awkward smile, unsure why you feel so embarrassed, and you must hit the mark if Izuku’s twisted lips are anything to go by.
“Another drink?” Izuku asks—an olive branch, if you’ve ever seen one. “My treat.”
Grateful for a reason you can’t quite place, you nod and slide your glass forward until it clinks with his. “Sure. We have time.”
Izuku grabs both empty glasses. “Cool.”
He stands, tucking his chair back under the sticky table. It’s an action so laughably Izuku—polite and considerate and diametrically opposed to the chaotic atmosphere of the izakaya around you—that a tender exhale escapes you at the sight of him picking his way through the room.
After a few moments of people watching, you glance back at Izuku, as though it’s only ever a matter of when not if you will give in to the perpetual compulsion to do so.
Deciding to update your friends, you snap a quick photo of Izuku leaning on the bartop. Your breath catches in your throat when you look down at it. Dim, golden lighting reveals the lingering ghost of his smile, frozen mid-conversation with a bartender. You zoom in and swallow. Beneath the knit of his crewneck, strong muscles coil distractingly. You trace the slightly blurry mess of curls around his ears; the large, veiny hand caught mid-gesticulation in the air.
Only when your eyes linger on the denim-clad curve of his ass do you realise you’ve been staring at the photo long enough for it to be edging into pathetic territory. Especially given the real-life subject is currently stalking back towards your table, two pints in hand.
Quickly, you fire off the photo with the caption ‘preflight drinks, check!’ and convince yourself it was simply the satisfying framing which captured your interest, not the man within it.
—
For all your complaints about how awful Friday flights are, your own flight is ironically smooth. With a few drinks down the hatch, you boarded (only 45 minutes late, a new record for a Friday, you’re positive), watched a cheesy Christmas film while sandwiched between two strangers, and landed without a hitch. It was even suspiciously easy to hail a taxi, and the driver had no problem when you requested to stop by a market on the way and buy a small mountain of food in preparation for the weekend.
Now, the taxi trundles up a steep, winding pathway so narrow you and Izuku have yelped more than once in fear for your lives as the driver flies around sharp corners. Evidently, he’s familiar with these roads, but you’re not much comforted by the knowledge. Not until you clear the mountain you’ve been hugging thus far and the scenery practically blooms before you; opening up into a sprawling army of evergreen trees, covered in snow so fine it looks like powdered sugar.
“Oh wow,” you gasp, your warm breath fogging the glass.
Trees shoot up into the sky before flying past you in a blur of deep green. You roll the window down an inch, just enough to smell the fresh air without being accosted by the darkening snowfall. Cold burns in your lungs.
“I can’t believe this is so close and I’ve never visited. Feels kinda criminal,” Izuku murmurs in wonder.
When your eyes dart to the man, he’s looking past you, snowfall reflecting in his gaze like you could step through into an identical world within him. Your heart squeezes in your chest. Hastily, you whip your head back to the scenery to hide your face, realising only a second later that the action is likely more suspicious than staring at him in the first place. Whatever.
“I know right,” you agree.
“Big storm’s on its way in,” the taxi driver chimes in, canting his head towards where you’re seated without taking his eyes off the road. “The whole town’s holding their breath. Probably best to stay inside tonight.”
Alarmed, you lean forward and brace a hand on the passenger seat in front of you. “You’re serious?”
Twisting the wheel, the driver hums in response. You all veer sideways as the taxi careens around a corner. “They’re pretty normal here this time of year,” he explains. “You’re lucky you guys arrived when you did.”
“What about the other inbound flights tonight?” Izuku asks, an undercurrent of worry in his voice.
“I have no idea, to be truthful. Usually, they’re grounded when it gets too bad. Just until the storm eases up.”
You groan and flop back into your seat, the beauty of the scenery flung far to the recesses of your mind at the news. “If they get stuck in Tokyo, ‘Zu, it’s the Friday curse striking us for the second time today, I’m tellin’ you.”
“I am starting to believe it’s real, I'll say that much,” Izuku replies, crossing his arms across his chest.
“What, you got more people joining you?” the driver asks, curious eyes straining to meet yours through the rearview mirror. You nod, and he purses his lips in thought. “When’s their flight departing from Tokyo?”
“In a couple of hours,” you answer.
“Ah, well… I can’t say for certain, of course, but it’s unlikely there'll be any flights coming in this evening. The storm’s supposed to hit full force right before dark.”
You glance out the window. While it’s blindingly bright outside right now, you can see the threat of dusk lingering beyond thick snowfall.
“Is that so?” you grumble, fiddling with the seatbelt across your body. “What about tomorrow mornin’?”
“Oh, it’ll be fine by then,” the driver states cheerfully, shooting you a smile through the mirror. “Storms 'round here arrive quick and fast, but thankfully they leave in the same fashion. Who knows, maybe I’ll be picking up your friends from the airport tomorrow,” he laughs.
“Maybe,” you agree quietly, not impressed by him immediately assuming your friends will be stuck in Tokyo until the storm clears.
“Anyway,” the driver grins, changing the subject. “Here we are!”
Sure enough, the taxi rounds a corner and drives into a large clearing. Across it, the brooding log cabin stands solitary, its wooden foundations rising from a sea of snow, and encircled by a wall of trees. The whole picture is eerily beautiful, as undisturbed as it appears. Almost as though it’s been lying in wait for millennia. When the car jerks to a stop, you step out into the frigid air and stare up at the spiked crown of the flanking forest.
A feeling of utter inconsequence envelopes you, and the sheer scale of the terrain reminds you of the human beneath your hero you so often refuse to face. Blood rushes to your cheeks at the bite of cold, and you eventually force yourself to move, rounding the taxi to pop open the trunk. You lift your luggage out one by one, followed by the bulging bags of food, and straighten up to watch the driver wave Izuku closer.
“I best be goin’, I want to get home before the storm reaches the town,” he explains when Izuku bends down. “But when you need to get back to the airport again, give me a call.” He passes Izuku a small business card through his window, rolled down barely a crack against the wind.
“Ah, we will. Thank you for your help,” Izuku says softly, smiling at the man as he takes the card.
“Stay safe,” the driver says.
“You too,” Izuku replies.
The taxi reverses and trundles back down the road it arrived from. You watch until the gleaming yellow disappears back off the mountain’s edge, weirdly content to remain in the chilled air and admire the view beyond. While you’re distracted, Izuku collects both your suitcases and, somehow, the shopping too, setting off towards the cabin before you can react. For a second, you stand baffled at the ease with which Izuku hefts such weight; how his big hands wrap around the baggage and what else you'd like them wrapped around, instead. Then, you snap out of it with a shake of your head.
“Wait! Here, lemme—” You jog up to him and make a grab at your suitcase.
Izuku sidesteps you easily. “Don’t worry, I got it.”
Huffing, you stuff your hands deep into your pockets to hide your awkwardness. “Fine. I’ll get the door.”
After fumbling under a frost-covered plant pot housing what looks to be a baby pine tree, you find the key. Old and antique and brass—embellished with curlicues that give the impression it’s teleported straight from another lifetime. You unlock the door and stand aside to let Izuku bundle past you, turning the key this way and that in admiration. He places the luggage down and surveys the space.
“Oh wow,” he murmurs, immediately venturing further into the cabin. “How did ‘Chako find this place?”
Following inside, you hardly notice when the door is slammed shut by a windy gust behind you. The space is gorgeous—warm-toned and rustic, littered with patterned rugs, thick, warm blankets, and fairylights, wound loosely around the wooden beams of the ceiling, the cabin awaiting their soft glow. You rub your hands together in an effort to recirculate the blood that’s vacated your fingertips. It’s freezing in here, too, but you can see a stone fireplace tucked in the living room, an arrangement of deep-seated, cosy chairs surrounding it, and a bundle of logs piled up nearby.
“I have no idea, but she outdid herself,” you finally say, running your hand over the back of a fur blanket covering the sofa. Under your frozen fingers, it feels impossibly silky smooth. “I feel like I’ve stepped right into a Hallmark movie.”
“Right! She could tell us this is a set, and I wouldn’t bat an eyelash.” Izuku laughs, and the sound settles into your gut like warm honey.
—
You settle into the mountainside cabin seamlessly. Before long, you’ve unpacked in your respective rooms, tucked any perishable foods in the rudimentary fridge outside—no more than a stone chest kept cool by the piles of snow surrounding it—and are perched on a barstool at the kitchen island while Izuku cooks for you.
Outside, however, the snowfall has only worsened. Night is encroaching, dark tendrils overtaking the sky, and you can barely make out the flurrying storm. You stare at the window, beyond where Izuku is hunched over a countertop, squinting as you try to distinguish the craggy mountain contours.
No luck. All you can see is Izuku reflected in the glass. Concentration lines his face, a quiet focus driving the rough, unpracticed motion of his knife on some unfortunate vegetables.
“You sure you don’t want me to cook?” you ask restlessly.
Izuku doesn’t spare you a glance, continuing to butcher the pepper he’s clutching into uneven strips. “Nope. You take it easy, I'm fine. Have a drink if you want.”
A proposal undoubtedly made in the hope you’ll stop bothering him if you have a drink to nurse, but you obey all the same, slinking from your seat to the back door. Down a set of uneven steps, the chest—a few paces away, yet enough for the blizzard wind to whip you blind—is covered in a growing cap of snow. Lifting the hinged lid, you grab two beer bottles by their necks and let the chest drop closed again with a thud. You make for the door.
You’re grateful to reenter the warmth of the cabin just as a violent shiver wracks your body. “Damn, it’s cold out there.”
“I kind of like it,” Izuku counters.
You nudge the door closed with your foot. "Weirdo."
Then, unable to resist, you stalk towards him and tap the frosty glass against Izuku’s cheek, laughing as he jerks away from you with a startled sound. You crack the bottles open against each other and place one by his elbow.
“Here. I can’t drink alone on holiday. It goes against the rules of nature.” You knock your bottle against his with a tiny clink and say, “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Izuku echoes as you slip back into your seat. He picks it up and takes a sip obediently, humming in satisfaction as the cold beer slides down his throat. “Thank you.”
His easy pliancy to your request, as mundane as it is, throws you back to a recent memory. One that, much to your despair, will be seared in your brain for the rest of your mortal life.
—
2 Months Earlier.
The life of a hero is… busy.
Times when your old classmates can be in the same room at the same time are, unfortunately, few and far between. But this evening, by some beautiful miracle, most of you are—spread across Denki and Hanta’s living room. It's decorated for the occasion. Strung with tiny disco balls, obnoxious mugshots of everyone over the years, and a projector dancing stars across the ceiling in a way that, paired with what tastes as if it could well be rubbing alcohol, prompts mild nausea when you stare at the moving lights for too long.
You feel like a kid again. Kind of giddy and hopeful and dreaming bigger than you should. Wrapped up in the excitement of being surrounded by so many others like you. And while you all carved out hero-shaped spaces for yourselves years ago, it’s stupidly easy to slip back into the familiar chaos of these long-awaited reunions as though you’re still on the path to proving yourself.
“No! No, dude, I’ve got that beat,” Denki wheezes, pointing at Mina with a plastic cup of alcohol. Shouto and Eijiro, sitting beside him on the carpeted floor, flinch out of the way just in time to avoid the splash. “Get this. Some chick I was fuckin’ asked me to slap her ass outta nowhere. I was like, 'Hell yeah, I’ll slap your ass.'”
“So I did, obviously. And she’s into it, moaning like crazy, and then she asks me to slap her again. Harder. And I’m nothing if not a quick study,” Denki boasts, leaning back into the cradle of Hanta’s legs, who is sitting on the sofa behind. “So I slap her harder. Dude, she was eating it up, I swear. And I'm like about to bust because she’s so fuckin’ hot, and then she asks me to slap her harder again. And I’m like… not thinking straight. So I slap her, and she starts fuckin’ crying, bro.”
“Denki,” you gape, cringing.
Around you, the reactions are similar to yours. Shock. Horror. Self-reflection on how they ended up in this conversation.
Denki grins as he takes the sight in, clearly satisfied with the response his story is provoking. “So obviously I panic, and I’m like tryin’ to soothe her and ask what’s wrong, and she whirls round on me with these big watery eyes, calls me an idiot, and asks why I slapped her so hard.”
Fuelled purely by the rancid, cheap alcohol Shinsou offered around like he was trying to get rid of it, the perfectly normal conversation you were all having derailed into this trainwreck. Unsurprising, really, considering how the taste has a gag threatening to make itself known with every reluctant sip you take, and how you can feel the edges of your consciousness blurring happily despite only nursing your second drink.
Precisely when your friends started to compare tales of the embarrassing sex they’ve had over the years, you truly can't recall, and it has since devolved into an increasingly out-of-pocket competition in order to determine who has the worst experience that trumps them all.
More adjusted people than yourselves may consider it oversharing, especially when such acute levels of detail are being colourfully articulated with next to no shame. But with the mountain of shared trauma you and your classmates stand upon, humiliating sexual stories are laughably tame.
You fight back a wheeze as Denki mimics the expression he’s describing.
“Dude,” Eijiro intones reproachfully, looking offended on behalf of the woman.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Denki yells, throwing his hands up. More alcohol flies over the rim of his plastic cup and splatters in a bowl of pretzels in the middle of the floor. “I was literally doing what she asked, I didn’t know she’d start crying, or I clearly wouldn’t have carried out her request, bro! Damn…”
“How the hell d’ya manage to slap her that hard?” Katsuki asks, a shade of bafflement painting his face.
“I have no idea,” Denki moans. “But I’ve been too scared to slap anyone since.”
“You slap me around enough,” Hanta states blandly from above him.
Denki wiggles his eyebrows. “You like it though.”
“Yeah, so did your girl at the beginning.”
Denki flings a hand up to cuff Hanta over the head. Next to them, Todoroki eyes the pair mirthfully.
Kyoka leans forward, and though her voice is modestly level, she captures your interest immediately. “I got one worse than that.”
“Shoot,” Denki replies, settling back between Hanta’s legs.
“I brought a first date back to my place. It was like pitch black, and we didn’t bother turning on any lights,” she starts, swirling the cup in her hand. “I was kinda drunk too, because we went to this metal bar beforehand, so I didn’t notice right away when we got down to it, and she got on top of me, but my face started feeling wet.”
“The fuck do you mean wet?” you ask incredulously.
Mina makes a gagging noise.
Kyoka just shrugs. “So I turn on the lamp next to my bed, wipe my face, and my hand is covered in blood because this girl got a nosebleed and didn’t wanna tell me.”
“Oh my god,” Ochako laughs, covering her mouth.
You echo the sound, leaning into Fumikage at your side in glee.
“But yeah. I go to the bathroom, and I genuinely look like something out of a horror movie. Like my entire face and neck were covered in this woman’s blood.”
“That’s so unsanitary,” Tenya says. “And gross.”
“Tell me about it,” Kyoka agrees, shivering like she’s reliving the memory.
Izuku fights a grin. “I’m guessing there was no second date?”
Kyoka shakes her head vehemently. “Hell no! Maybe if she’d laughed it off or something, I would’ve considered… But when I got back outta the bathroom, she was gone. I thought it was all a bad dream the next morning, to be honest. Still kind of wish it was.”
There’s a lull. A few brief moments of rumination at the hilarious picture of Kyoka scrubbing some stranger’s blood from her face. Then, Hanta asks, “What about you, Izuku?”
“What about me?” Izuku echoes, feigning innocence.
You stare at him in amusement from your spot across the floor. There are very few things you enjoy more than seeing Izuku try to lie. He’s awful at it.
Hanta smirks. “You got any bad sex you wanna share with the class?”
“Uh,” Izuku chuckles nervously. “Nope.” His voice—too quick, too tight—gives him away instantly.
Most of those involved in the conversation veer towards him conspiringly. You’re no exception; studying Izuku as though the weight of your gaze alone could keep him from fleeing.
“Yes, you do,” Katsuki accuses, narrowing his eyes.
“No, I don’t," Izuku shoots back.
“C’mon, Izuku,” Mina whines, grabbing a handful of pretzels. “We won’t judge. Hell, Kyoka could’ve starred in a horror movie by the sound of it. Can’t get much worse than that.”
Izuku’s sour expression screams how badly he wants to dispute Mina’s statement, but how unwilling he is to incriminate himself in the process. Your mouth opens to encourage him before you can think better of it—luckily, your voice fails to show itself, hiding behind the thundering rhythm of your heart. Asking about Izuku’s sex life directly is a slippery slope and one you’re not keen to start down.
As though sensing your attention, Izuku glances at you furtively. His eyes are like fog clinging to a windy day; so brief and fleeting, there isn’t even time to blink. But whatever Izuku was searching for in your expression, he must have found it.
He falters for a moment before steeling himself with a big inhale. “Are you guys familiar with, uh… ah, this is embarrassing,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sure you are, but… uh, BDSM?”
A rope wraps tight around your heart and yanks it into your throat.
“Damn, Izuku,” Shinsou says, raising an eyebrow. A low whistle sounds from somewhere behind you. “You into that?”
“Well, I— I don’t know. Yeah. Kind of, I guess?” Izuku replies. He flings his gaze across the circle quickly, not really looking at anyone before he continues. “I like the control side of it. Always have.”
When you read between the lines of his sketchy phrasing, it’s like time freezes. This isn’t new for him. Wielding power and control, drawing a curtain of safety around another. If you truly think about it, you suppose it isn’t an unprecedented concept at all. Izuku has been a martyr as long as you’ve known him. Concerningly fast to disregard his own well-being and even faster to throw himself in harm’s way. It’s in his nature—must be embedded somewhere deep in his genetic coding.
So, of course, Izuku is a dom. Why wouldn’t he be? All signs point to such a reality. He’s stronghearted and attentive and the epitome of a true leader. As your stomach sinks, it’s all you can do to ignore the horrible sensation and try to keep a straight face.
Eijiro nods, and you bounce your leg nervously as he continues, “I get that.” When Izuku doesn’t continue on his own, Eijiro prompts, “So… you gonna tell us the story?”
You lift your cup and take a sip. The burn of the liquid slipping down your throat is secondary to the roaring inferno eating away at your composure.
“Ah… well, I wanted to— I thought I’d try the other side of… it. Being, uh.” Izuku swallows. “Releasing that control.”
Releasing control?
“Being a sub, you mean?” Katsuki asks quietly from where he’s sprawled out next to Hanta on the sofa.
Oh my god, you think. No. Please no.
Izuku winces, looking skyward for a moment before answering, “Yeah.”
You choke on the alcohol that decides to lodge itself midway down your throat. Luckily no one, besides Fumikage next to you, appears to notice, too absorbed in the new information Izuku has parted with, though you can't be sure, largely distracted as you fight for air. Fumikage pats your back absently.
“Thanks,” you mutter when you can breathe again. Fumikage just hums, glancing askance at you once as though to deem you won’t immediately keel over, before focusing back on Izuku.
Panic overtakes you.
Izuku has always been out of your reach—foggy, concealed from view, unable to be tainted by your stupid desires, those wishing to replace the faces of your previous partners with his.
Yet this… this.
Izuku’s confession: words which banish the fog like a ray of sunshine.
This is no good.
A notion you have suppressed for such a length of time, you forgot just how potent it is when allowed to roam your mind unbridled and unpunished. As you brush your fingertips along it, your skin withers away as the disease takes hold once more, spidering poisoned roots into your veins.
“I was so nervous,” Izuku huffs. His next words flow more smoothly, like the Herculean part of his story was simply admitting he’s into kinkier sex. Now it’s been conquered without judgment, he appears relatively relaxed in comparison. “I hadn’t done anything like that before and I haven’t since. But they were… I don’t know. We didn’t click I guess.”
Music thumps lowly in the background—some R&B playlist of Denki’s you’d wager—but each word from Izuku’s mouth strikes you with a sobering clarity, as though he's pouring the words right into your ear.
“I don’t, uh, love being degraded, I discovered. Granted, I wish it hadn’t taken that for me to find out but...” Izuku shrugs. “You live and you learn.”
“That’s not embarrassing,” Kyoka pipes up, chewing on the edge of a snapped pretzel.
Ochako agrees, “Not at all. At least you tried it!”
Izuku flushes. “It kind of was... They tied me up and forgot about me.”
Around the circle, there’s a general clamour of disbelief. Offence, too—on behalf of lovely, lovely Izuku who deserves no such treatment.
You, however, sit there in gobsmacked silence.
“They… how long did they forget you were there?” Momo asks gingerly in her honeyed voice.
Izuku’s answering laugh is awkward, his words evasive. “I don’t know exactly. An hour or two, maybe? I felt like a bad dog left outside or something. And then they uh, when they came back they just apologised, untied me and that was that.”
“No aftercare?” Shouto asks quietly, shooting you a meaningful look that you don’t catch, too distracted with deciphering Izuku’s myriad of fluttering expressions.
“Well I didn’t really need it,” Izuku defends, though you cannot fathom for what reason. He shrugs once more. “Not like anything happened.”
“I can’t figure out if this or a face full of blood is worse,” Tsuyu chirps before Shouto can say anything further on his aftercare front.
“This definitely. Holy shit, dude,” Denki breathes. “That’s wild. How the hell did they forget you were there?”
Izuku’s tone levels out, clearly relieved to conclude his story. “No idea. I definitely won’t be trying it again though,” he chuckles.
After this, the conversation moves on, yet you remain rooted to the floor as though your limbs have been filled with lead, and your mind reduced to fleshy mush. Momo supplies an anecdote of her own shitty experience with an ex, yet it’s scarcely able to breach the muffling static between your ears. When it ends, you don’t react to her punchline, only remembering to conjure up a stilted laugh after Katsuki gives you an indecipherable look, because those never bode well for you.
Swiping a hand down your face, you linger on Izuku’s words. For the hero’s first experience with submission to be tainted like this—and for him to think it may be normal, or possibly even deserved—makes you feel nauseous in a way unattributable to the spinning sky of stars above you. Such a terrible dom should not be allowed to scene with anyone. Let alone Izuku.
Irritation claims you like a sweeping storm and abruptly decimates your composure.
“I’m gonna go refill my drink.” You stand, not waiting around for any response before fleeing the scene.
Denki and Hanta’s undecorated kitchen is an entirely different world from the party underway in their living room. One with a colder climate. Quieter, too—the music dampened by its walls. You refill your drink to avoid suspicion before thunking your head on the wooden cabinets above the punchbowl. You take a few deep, grounding breaths and try valiantly to ignore this new knowledge that your best friend is into submission—or, was into submission really—but the effort is in vain. The desire pooled in your heart begins to leak. To slog through your veins, until it is the very thing that fuels your brain’s senseless overthinking.
“Oh god,” you whisper into the sliver of air between your lips and the wooden grain. Humiliating self-pity washes over you. You don’t fight it. “What is wrong with me?”
The stale kitchen air doesn’t respond. You already know the answer.
—
“You know, I wouldn’t have expected you to be into submission.”
Perhaps you should wait longer than the next day to bring up such a sensitive topic, but you’ve never been one for unending patience.
Izuku—your best friend, your partner in crime, a hero currently on duty and in the middle of apprehending some low-level nobody who unsuccessfully robbed the jewellery store on your patrol route—baulks at your words. Mere seconds later his face is aflame with mortification. He fumbles with the quirk-suppressing cuffs until they lock into place around the villain’s wrists with a harsh clank. You grin, gratified at the sight.
“Not here,” he hisses, darting a look to the end of the alleyway. It’s pointless—you’d already done that thirty seconds ago and deemed there to be sufficient privacy. If you ignore the villain sprawled out on the floor, of course. “What the hell is your problem?”
With a hum and a half-hearted shrug, you cross your legs on the wall you’re perched atop before answering, “Jeez, I’m just curious. Let a woman wonder about her friend’s bedroom activities.”
Izuku splutters and looks up, raising his hand to block the sunlight streaming behind you. “That is so—”
“I never said it was moral,” you interrupt.
“I was going to say inappropriate but immoral works, too. Besides, what makes someone look like they’d be into submission without stereotyping anyway…”
Braving your elbows on your knees, you tug at the collar of your hero suit absentmindedly. “It’s just a vibe people give off. Or don’t, in your case, I suppose. I can’t put it into words.”
Izuku squints, clearly unimpressed with your explanation. But before he can shoot back a no-doubt righteous response, the villain squirms on the gravel beneath him. Chiming in with, “Fuckin’ weirdo freaks.”
You tilt your head and ask cheerfully, “What was that? Don’t think I heard you right the first time…”
“I said,” the villain emphasises, his voice climbing higher in volume. “Fuckin’ weirdo freaks.”
"Ah," you breathe. "Apparently I did."
Offence simmers under your skin. You hop from the wall, landing a hair’s breadth from the villain’s face and, without another word, jab a fist into his temple. He falls limp.
“There we go,” you say, dusting your hands off. “Much better.”
“That was unnecessary,” Izuku murmurs. But he doesn’t argue any further, hoisting up the villain and slinging him over a shoulder like he’s no more than a sack of rice. “Thanks, though.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome, hero.”
Izuku sets off towards the nearest station and you follow, studying the shift of muscles in his broad back. Controlling that kind of power over someone in the bedroom must be a rush second to none, below only that of being bestowed control of Izuku himself. And strangely, you find yourself jealous of whoever this someone was despite the fact they did such a dreadful job that Izuku won’t even consider trying submission a second time.
Ultimately, it is this harrowing thought—Izuku living out the rest of his life under the belief that his experience was the best submission has to offer him—which compels you to speak.
“It was your dom,” you blurt, wincing as your brain catches up with your mouth. Izuku stutters a step but doesn’t stop his procession through the quiet back streets of the city. “That was shitty, I mean. Not you. It’s their responsibility and all to take care of you.” You think for a moment, before adding dryly, “And to remember you’re still there…”
“Maybe,” Izuku replies, though you can tell it’s more to appease you in the hopes that you’ll drop the topic than it is him being convinced.
He’s likely run the scenario over in his mind a thousand times already, turning it this way and that, finding fault after fault after fault in his own performance rather than the dom who should have ensured he had a good time. Who should’ve taken care of him. Who should’ve known he would jump at any chance to pick himself apart until he’s nothing but a tangle of jaded threads.
“Not maybe,” you press, jogging a couple steps forward until you’re walking beside him. You glance askance at his tense face and continue. “It was your dom,” you repeat.
Izuku is uncomfortable, clearly—a furrow between his brows, a foul twist to his lips—but even so, he replies, “They weren’t my dom. Just a dom, I guess. And anyway it doesn’t matter because it’s done now. Everyone has humiliating experiences with sex; yesterday was proof enough of that, so there’s really no use in stewing on it,” he finishes, though you don’t doubt he’s been doing exactly that since.
“I’m not denying that,” you insist, giving his shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze before dropping your hand. “But there’s a lotta communication involved in these kinds of dynamics, and it’s all too easy for a dom to disregard the scene prep and scare someone inexperienced.”
The 'like you' goes unspoken, but you know Izuku hears it all the same.
The hero sighs, obviously sensing that you’re not going to let this go anytime soon. He’s right—you’re acting on pure instinct. It would be like trying to stop a lion from converging on its prey, a fruitless endeavour that can only end in the lion's victory. “How do you know so much about this anyway?” he asks instead, hiking the villain higher up his shoulder.
You hesitate for a brief, clattering motion of your heart. Then, you remember why you brought Izuku’s story up in the first place. “Uh, I’m a… dom.”
Izuku whips his head towards you so fast it looks painful. “Huh?”
“I’m a dom,” you repeat more steadily this time, an expectant expression plastered across your face. “Most of the time, anyway. So I think I’m somewhat qualified to give you some advice.”
“Since when?”
You tilt your head back thoughtfully. Above you, the sky is a clean, deep cerulean and undisturbed by clouds. If someone were to describe the ocean to a person who’d never seen it before, you’re sure they would believe it to be the sight before you.
“Since as long as I can remember,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve always had this… appetite for control. And it translated into the bedroom, too,” you explain to the sky. “I spent so long feeling guilty about my desire. Thinking it was weird and perverted and… I don’t know really. I just thought it was all bad. But now… well. Now, I’d argue it’s kinda hot.”
Letting your head roll, you shoot Izuku a lopsided smile. There’s a reality to your words. Sometimes it truly is as simple as finding the silver lining and clinging to it for as long as it takes to accept the cloud it’s attached to.
“Wouldn’t you?”
Izuku’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “I, uh…" He swallows heavily. "I… yes. No. I mean, shit. That’s up to you,” he deflects.
“It’s up to you, as well,” you reaffirm, maintaining eye contact. “So is it?”
A familiar blush is bleeding back across his cheeks, its ruddy colour washing out the freckles you love so much, and his jaw clenches as though fighting to keep whatever it is he wants to say inside the safety of his throat. You can quite honestly say it’s been a while since you’ve seen him this embarrassed. He grew out of his perpetual stuttering shyness many years ago. You didn't realise part of you missed it.
“Let me rephrase. Do you think it’s hot that I’m," you point a finger to your chest, "a dom, ‘Zuku?”
Unsurprisingly, this question only seems to make his predicament worse. The hero’s shoulders hitch up to his ears and he tries to duck and hide behind the villain’s limp body. You don’t let him, tucking your hands into your pockets and bending at the waist to stare at his face. Izuku makes a panicked, garbled sound as he gawks at your crooked smirk.
“How do you want me to answer that?!” he asks, hysteria creeping into his voice. His pace hastens, as if trying to outrun both you and the conversation you're insisting he participate in.
You shrug. “It’s not a trick question. Answer it however you want, I won’t be offended.”
“It’s— I don’t know, it’s alright.”
“Another glowing review to add to my profile,” you joke.
Next to you, Izuku turns his head forward and stares at the horizon resolutely. You straighten up and give a small wave to a little girl on the opposite side of the street who’s bouncing up and down excitedly at the sight of you both, before you round the corner and she disappears from view. Izuku’s so wrapped up in his own messy snarl of emotions that he doesn’t even appear to notice.
“I don’t feel any particular way about it,” Izuku grits out, tightening his hands on the villain.
Unbidden, you see those strong hands grasping desperately in the air as he awaits this shitty dom’s return. Surely he could’ve broken free. But the more you think about it, the more you wonder over the possibilities. Perhaps he was holding out hope for their return, or already too deep in subspace to do anything about being abandoned. The thought has bile rising in the back of your throat, and you promptly switch your attention to a much more alluring one: would anyone be strong enough to hold him down?
You hum, “Liar.”
You’d be strong enough to.
“I’m not lying,” Izuku insists, every muscle in his body coiled tight like a spring-trap waiting to be triggered.
You toe the trap, curious how much pressure it will take for it to snap closed and sever your foot. “Tell me you think it’s hot, ‘Zuku.”
If you didn’t know him any better, you’d say the expression smeared across his face is fear. But you do know him—almost as well as you’ve come to know yourself—so it’s with this confidence, and your newfound knowledge of his preferences, that you know what he’s truly feeling isn’t fear, but that woven pull he must possess to want to give in, to let go, to comply.
“Tell me.”
“I think…” Izuku swallows, finally looking at you in a clear plea. You tilt your chin up, barely, and don’t say a word. “I think it is… hot,” he murmurs. “That— uh, that you’re a dom.”
A familiar flower of pride blooms in your gut, and you offer the hero a gentle smile. “Atta boy. Wasn't so hard now, was it?”
Embarrassment washes over Izuku’s face as his lips pinch shut.
“You’re awfully good for someone who claims to dislike submission.”
“Well that wasn’t… this doesn’t count…” At your silence, he inhales. “Besides, I don’t dislike it. I just don’t think it’s for me, clearly.”
“I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to write yourself off.”
Izuku hums dismissively before asking, “Can we drop it now, please?”
There’s a plaintive note to his voice that you can’t, in good conscience, ignore, and thus you fall silent for the remainder of the block. It’s probably the least you can do after grilling him.
Yet, when you turn a corner, you can see the station at the end of the street, looming too tall and large for the residential area it occupies. Can you be blamed if this is as far as your silence extends?
“What if I showed you what it was really like?” you ask quietly.
Izuku would have to be willfully ignorant not to understand what you mean by the unsolicited question. It’s a simple question. Surface level, really. Just sex. Not your heart served up on a silver platter for him like you wish to be brave enough to do.
He turns to you sharply, and in a burst of confidence that surprises you both, he asks, “You actually would? With me?”
With me…
As though Izuku being in the equation would be the final straw for you. As though Izuku isn’t the entire equation himself. As though Izuku isn’t quite possibly the answer you’ve been seeking your entire life.
Vulnerability is plain in his voice, and it snatches any trace of a tease from your next words. “I would.”
When you reach the steps up to the station, Izuku pauses and finally turns to face you. “Alright.”
“Alright?”
“Alright,” Izuku repeats, a tiny gleam in his eye. “Show me.”
—
The Afternoon of the Friday-Flight Curse, Present Day.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
You’re drawn from your daydream with a start, and being snapped back into the present feels much like you imagine it would for an insect captured by a Venus flytrap. Direful. Then, horribly disquieting. For a split second, you’re ruminating over the last few months of weird, anticipatory tension simmering between you.
Then, Izuku answers your phone, and you pull yourself together. He leans his forearms on the table, a kitchen towel patterned with polar bears slung over his broad shoulder. You fight not to stare down the billow of his soft, button-up shirt.
“Hi,” Izuku says.
“Hello,” Shouto replies. From that one word alone, you can tell the others have roped him into his first authentic airport experience. Voice slightly slurred, vowels curling around the consonants. “It’s snowing.”
You glance questioningly at Izuku, who shrugs, similarly lost as to the context of Shouto's statement. “With you?” you ask.
“Nope… with you guys. We’re stuck here until the morning.”
“Ah,” Izuku breathes. “Funnily enough, we suspected as much.”
“Huh?”
“Our taxi driver mentioned a storm was coming this evening,” Izuku provides. “That most flights would be grounded. We just hoped it wouldn’t be yours.”
Shouto hums down the line. “There is a Friday curse,” he whispers conspiratorially.
In the background, you can hear Ochako agreeing, “It’s real!”
“I told you guys,” you croon, taking a swig of beer. “That sucks, though. What’s your plan?”
“Stay and drink,” Shouto chirps happily. “I’ve discovered I enjoy airport pints.”
Tenya, sounding more sober but only by a margin, cuts in, “And then we’ll crash at Tsuyu’s because it’s closest to the airport and come back for the first flight out tomorrow, 7 A.M.”
You chuckle. “And you’ll be good for a flight that early?”
“Don’t doubt the allure of morning drinking in an airport,” Shouto chimes in haughtily.
“Oh, I won’t,” you reply, amused.
“Have fun, guys,” Izuku tacks on, leaning his weight further onto the table. The tendons in his forearm shift where he’s rolled his shirt sleeves up, and you eye the sight dazedly.
Overlapping shouts reverberate down the line in response. You think you hear ‘we will,’ and maybe ‘you too,’ but really, it could be anything. Faintly, Ochako calls for another round, and a sappy grin spreads across your face. Izuku hangs up the call, still chuckling at the clear inebriation in your friends' voices. He shares a fond look with you before turning back to his chopping board. A clunky chorus of thumping meets your ears once more.
Sat stationary as you watch, the chill throughout the cabin begins to settle into your bones. You slide from your seat.
“I’m going to light the fire,” you tell Izuku.
“Sounds good,” he replies, chucking the butchered vegetables into an ancient cast-iron pan.
Once you’re kneeling by the hearth, you balance logs atop the ashes of a previous fire and bundle some kindling in the gaps. A box of matches lies next to a fire poker. You strike one on the red phosphorus strip and hold the flame to the tinder. It catches, burning quickly through peels of wood until it reaches the thick logs and begins to gnaw at the bark.
This isn’t the ideal place to guide Izuku through submitting once more. You don’t have any of your toys, you’re not surrounded by the familiar nerdy decorations of Izuku’s bedroom, where you’d agreed the scene could take place, and you feel a bit untethered after a day of travelling. Yet still, some quiet urge gnaws away at your skin.
The fire crackles and snaps. You watch until the flame chews through a log, cleaving the wood in two.
“Food’s ready,” Izuku calls, curbing your fireside brooding. “Come eat.”
You rise to your feet and call back, “Coming!”
The flame seems to have cleaved your own resolve in two; there are worse places to scene with Izuku than a secluded cabin with no occupants but the two of you.
Sending a BDSM checklist on your work email must go hand in hand with a litany of ethical and cybersafety concerns, but considering how tightly protected hero communications are and how you know Izuku won’t be running to HR, you figure it’s acceptable to ignore them on this occasion. With this in mind, your mouse hovers over the Send button for less than a blink before you press it and lean back in your plush chair. Beyond the glass walls of your office, a steady rush of traffic lulls your mind into contemplation as you stare at the Message sent notification.
What is Izuku into? Besides the obvious submission of course. His tendency towards self-flagellation makes you wonder if he will enjoy having someone lift the burden from his shoulders for a night. Or if his stubborn nature will translate to brattiness. If he needs someone stern and mean to put him in his place. But even as you picture it, it doesn’t seem to fit him right.
Then, you remember what he mentioned at the party.
“I don’t, uh, love being degraded, I discovered. Granted, I wish it hadn’t taken that for me to find out but... You live and you learn.”
No. He doesn’t seem like a brat. And that works perfectly for you—someone good, who behaves, who hangs onto your every word like a puppy.
You honestly can’t think of anything better.
Some hours pass in this way, interspersed with half-assed attempts at filling out your own paperwork from an arrest earlier this morning and even more deliberations over the green-haired hero who must have checked his email by now. A knock on your office door disturbs your procrastination.
“Hey.”
When you glance up, Shouto is leaning against the doorjamb—arms crossed, a suspicious expression plastered over his face. It immediately sets you on edge.
“Hiya, Sho.” You twirl a pen between your fingers and offer him a small, innocent smile. He just finished patrolling with Izuku, that much you know. But there’s no way he’s aware of the email sitting in Izuku’s inbox right now. “What’s up?”
He tilts his head. “Nothing much.”
“How was the patrol?”
“Fine.” Shouto moves further into the room and perches on the arm of the chair before your desk, still clad in his hero suit. You stare up at him, trying your best to seem inconspicuous. “Izuku was acting weird, though. Started right after he got an email from you.”
Shit. Well, it’s not like he knows the contents of said email anyway. Worst case: deny, deny, deny.
“Is that right?”
Shouto nods. “Saw your name right before he turned his phone away.”
“Nosy,” you say pointedly, tilting your chin down to straighten your keyboard and mouse mat aimlessly. “I don’t know why he was acting like that. Just a normal email.”
Shouto narrows his pretty eyes at you, the corners of his lips turning down. “Just a normal email,” he repeats blandly.
You nod once.
“So you won’t mind showing me, then?”
“Ah, I— uh, I really shouldn’t. Confidentiality clauses and all that. I would hate for you to get in trouble with the agency.”
“Now that I think about it…” Shouto begins in a low voice, leaning forward. Instinctively, you rear back. He can be so unnerving when he wants to; feline eyes, laser-focused on you like you’re a helpless field mouse one wrong move away from being eaten. “I think I might recall seeing the subject line. Something about… ahhh, what was it?” Your heart patters something dangerous in your chest and you chew on your bottom lip as you wait for him to hammer the final nail in your coffin. “Something about a scene checklist.”
Now here’s the kicker about your friend: he was your first scene partner. You were a few years younger, as was Shouto, and when you brought up an interest in BDSM—namely domming—one drunken night post-patrol, and he’d expressed his own in trying submission. One thing led to another. You will be forever thankful you had a chance to experiment and learn within the safety of your friendship with Shouto before you explored a scene with anyone else. And because of him, you finally discovered how brilliant it was to release the guilt you carried for so many long, tiring years.
This history alone is not unfortunate, but paired with Shouto’s cripplingly nosy nature and his absolute zero concept of personal boundaries, it becomes a bit of a bitch to hide anything sensitive of this nature from the man. He has an uncanny ability to weasel it out of you, anyway.
Sighing in defeat, you raise your hands. Your deny, deny, deny plan is out the window. Shouto already knows what exactly you sent Izuku and he’s probably guessed the reason, too. “Fine. Fine, Shouto. Yes I sent him a scene checklist. Please don’t ask any follow-up questions.”
Predictably, he asks a follow-up question.
“When did this happen?”
You fold, finding it difficult to keep anything from Shouto even when you want to. But not before heaving a laborious sigh to communicate just how much you don’t want to be discussing this with him. “Maybe a month ago. After the party at Denki and Hanta’s.”
Shouto huffs a small laugh. “I knew it.”
“The fuck do you know?”
You’re halfway along the path to offence, busy trying to figure out if he means it as the condescension it comes across as when he answers, “That you were looking at Izuku like you wanted to eat him the second he said he tried subbing,” Shouto deadpans. “And for many despairingly long minutes after that.”
“I was not.”
“You definitely were. It’s okay, though, it was kind of funny.”
“Brilliant,” you sigh, gaze flickering to the perch Shouto has on your chair just to avoid his gaze.
“You filled out a new list yourself?” Shouto asks curiously.
You swallow. “Yeah, obviously.”
“Still into edging lucky people until they cry?”
Here’s another thing about your friend: he’s even more shameless than you are. And you truly don’t know who taught him this, but you fear you may have set something dangerous in motion when you allowed him into your sex life.
“Shouto, what the fuck.” He doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. Just stares until you wilt like a sunburnt flower. “Asshole… yes, I am. Okay. Not that it’s any of your business. Happy now?”
“Very,” Shouto says. He brushes imaginary dust from his thighs and stands, making his way towards your door. You remain rooted to your seat in bafflement at this entire interaction. Right before he leaves, he glances at you over his shoulder and offers a tiny smirk. “Have fun.”
You flip him off as he disappears.
—
On your desk sits a fresh cup of coffee you’ve just made, wafting delicious steam around the room. You shake your mouse to wake up your computer, type in your password, and sigh in relief. Right at the top of your inbox sits a new email from Izuku. You lift the mug to your lips and click on it, zeroing in on the attached file.
That afternoon, you find out things about your best friend that will stick with you for the rest of your life. It feels clandestine to be reading a litany of kinks and Izuku’s corresponding interest levels at work, but you can’t tear your eyes away.
“Tentacles, huh?” You blow out a small breath. “Who would have thought?”
—
“What’s your fantasy?”
“Me?” Izuku asks indignantly.
You roll your eyes. “Yes, you, dumbass, who else would I be asking for their sexual fantasy in a public park?”
Izuku shrugs. “I don’t know, some people do that.”
“Yeah, perverts maybe,” you say pointedly.
He just gives you a strange look. “And you’re not?”
“I suppose you’ll have to find out, won’t you?”
Izuku’s gloved hands wrap around a steaming takeout cup of coffee as he changes the topic. “I really don’t get why we have to do this here,” he mutters.
“Neutral middle ground,” you explain, gesturing at the public park around you. It’s quiet today, overcast and grey. The grass matted with a thin sheen of morning dew. “It’s easier to have a vulnerable conversation somewhere where neither of us holds much power. I thought about a cafe, but it’s too easy to overhear conversations there. What would be worse than a news headline the next day reading: Japan’s top heroes discuss BDSM contracts in quaint cafe.”
Izuku laughs before continuing warily, “Still.” He eyes the scuff of his trainers on the path you’re both meandering along. “Feels weird. I’m usually on the other side of this interaction.”
You consider this before replying. Perhaps you should have offered to do this at Izuku’s place. While this is far from either of your first scene-planning rodeos, with Izuku’s history as a dom, it’s likely still unnerving for him. You chew on your bottom lip absently. “Do you wanna go back to yours?”
Izuku folds quickly, nudging his shoulder into yours and taking a sip of his coffee. “Ignore me. I think I’m just nervous.”
“That’s normal. If it would make you feel better, though, I’m happy to do it at your place, ‘Zuku. Doesn’t bother me. In fact," you rub a self-conscious hand on your nape, "I should've thought to offer it in the first place, really."
Izuku shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
You nod. Then, unsure how to transition into planning a scene with your best friend, you try to break the ice. “So… you’re… not into physical pain?”
Izuku jumps as if you’d just broken the frozen ground beneath his feet with a sledgehammer, plunging him into frigid water. “Uh, yeah. Not really.”
“Or degradation.”
Izuku nods his confirmation. “Get enough of that in the media.”
“You and me, both. Which you’ll know is perfect if you read my list, too,” you prompt.
Overhead, the trees sway in a cool breeze and Izuku hums. “I did. Never gonna be able to look at you the same way.”
At this, you huff a surprised laugh. “Yeah, ditto.” You turn to him. “Tentacles?”
Izuku’s face flushes and he looks at you in mock betrayal. “Okay, well… uh. Pet play?” he accuses.
You grin. “Yep. Specifically puppy play, if you were curious.” Izuku swallows. “And let the record show, I checked tentacles, too. Which you already know. But that might be a bit much for a first scene.”
Izuku seems slightly bewildered, but you can tell he’s trying to remain laid-back as he tries to keep his affirmative hum steady. You find it way more endearing than you should.
“Do you have an idea of what you want to get out of the scene?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, not just kink-wise but emotionally.” When he doesn’t volunteer any answer, you ask, “Why did you wanna try being a sub, ‘Zuku?”
Izuku breaks eye contact and fiddles with the cardboard sleeve of his drink as he thinks. You give him space, letting the peaceful atmosphere of the park keep you occupied while you walk. As it turns out, you don’t have to wait long.
“I liked the idea of… of not thinking, I guess? Not having to make any decisions for once. Letting someone else… Ahhh, I don’t know. It sounds silly when I say it out loud,” Izuku laughs awkwardly.
“No, it doesn’t," you reassure instinctively. "You wanted someone to take care of you for once, right? Stop all the overthinking in that brain of yours. Make you feel good.”
Izuku takes a deep breath and nods, silent.
“I get that,” you muse, wrapping the soft fabric of your scarf tighter around your neck and rearranging it to cover your chin from the brisk wind. “And I can do that for you.”
“And it’s not, uh…” he begins uncertainly. You prompt him with a gentle hum. “It’s not selfish?”
Is it embarrassing how you can physically feel his words lance your heart?
“No,” you shake your head, turning to meet his eyes. “It’s not selfish. Everyone deserves to be looked after. Especially you.”
Izuku steels his shoulders as though your words have to be endured rather than met with acceptance. You don’t push. It’ll be easier to show him just how good it can feel to be cared for than to try to convince him of such an unfamiliar concept.
“Now, tell me. What do you want to happen in the scene?”
“Like… like kink-wise now?” Izuku asks quietly.
You laugh. “Yeah, kink-wise. And then we’ll choreograph a dance, ‘Zuku. All the main steps. And along the way, we can freestyle or improvise, but during the scene, you will have the comfort of knowing which major steps are coming next. And that we will follow them one by one until the dance is over.”
Izuku stares at you curiously, openly, and you remain quiet as he extracts what he needs to from your expression. “Alright. Where should we start?”
You smile and think back on his list for a moment. “I seem to recall you expressing an interest in kneeling...”
—
The Evening of the Friday-Flight Curse, Present Day.
Over the cabin, a strange film has settled—almost like a breath withheld. Yet you know this isn't the case. In the stone hearth, a fire roars freely as the logs accept the oxygen atoms to continue burning; in your chest, your diaphragm expands and contracts; in your lungs, alveoli exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide; you can hear Izuku breathing. All these facts confirm the existence of air in the high-lofted room, and confirm that time is indeed passing, but in truth, you’ve never felt further away from any of it.
Tiny tremors shake your hands. “Take off your clothes.”
Izuku hesitates for a beat, nervous eyes meeting yours, before scarred fingers begin to pop open the buttons of his shirt. Under the white noise of rustling fabric, you slacken the leash on your own mind and the quiet seeps in as though visiting an old friend. Izuku’s shirt drops to the floor. Followed by a clink and a thump as his belt joins it. He toes off his shoes, tucks his socks in them. Lowers his trousers and kicks them aside. Then, he’s bare save for the underwear wrapped around his thick thighs. Izuku doesn’t cover himself, but his hands spasm in a motion suggesting he wishes to do so.
From where you stand—two paces away perhaps, yet right now it feels more like a vast, unending ocean—your eyeline wanders down his body, tracing the scars sliced into muscle and the outline of his cock steadily filling out his briefs. All you’ve offered him is your attention, but it’s enough, and you file that little tidbit away for the future.
Once satisfied, the heavy weight of the air guides you into a low armchair by the fireplace. You settle there and tuck your legs beneath you like a child. On the rug before you lies a cushion, and there’s no secret what it’s for.
You tilt your head up to Izuku. “Kneel.”
In a few jerky steps, Izuku crosses the space and sinks to his knees atop the pillow. Closer to the fire now, deep orange light dances across his skin. Warmth, with it—you can feel heat stroking the side of your face and wonder if you must be similarly painted in strokes of sunset. Soon the fire may become oppressive, but for right now, there is nothing more welcome than how it staves away the snowstorm swirling outside.
Coiled like he’s ready to bolt, Izuku sits tense at your feet. Your hand breaches the gap between you to touch the crown of his head and soft curls give way without fight. When you picture Izuku’s own nervous hands ruffling them in that compulsive, pacifying tendency of his, you slide the pads of your fingers down to rest on his nape and he exhales something small.
“C’mere,” you whisper, coaxing his head down and watching his spine naturally bow to accommodate the stretch. “Palms on your thighs.”
Posture corrected, you retract your hand and pick up the novel next to you—one you placed on the coffee table earlier. Having already started it on the plane, the spine is cracked, lines of glue peeling away at your rough treatment. You slip back into the story as simply as breathing; waking up in the cyberpunk city you left, rain drizzling like blood under the darkened sky.
Some minutes pass in this way, the novel resting in your lap, its pages warm by a fire wishing to consume it. Quiet, briefly disturbed by the brush of a new page. Then, a surreptitious glance at Izuku, who’s still bearing his body like a loaded weapon.
You sigh. “Relax, ‘Zuku. ‘S just me, I’ve got you.” Splaying your hand across the grain of your book to keep it open, the fire melts your tone. “Let your thoughts drift by. Try imagining a lazy river carrying them far away from here. Don’t need to think of anything but me taking care of you tonight, sweetheart.”
Subtly, Izuku unfurls. Tense lines softening into curved shoulders and silken expression, entirely unencumbered by responsibility, by expectation—left to drift like a seed in the wind.
“Good boy,” you murmur—a new, quiet appreciation of the man at your feet and the trust he’s yielding to you.
A shiver licks up the hero’s spine, and his head deepens like that of the bowing deer in Nara Park. You suppress a smile and turn your focus back to the novel in your lap to delve into the story once more. While you don’t know what’s going on inside his head, you sincerely hope it isn’t much of anything. And if you’re successful by the end of the scene, there should be nothing at all.
Time begins to stretch and shrink indiscriminately. Only marked by each scene you pass through and the chapters you leave behind. This you find to be the true magic of being a dom—bearing witness to the strange whims of the seconds coasting by, all the while your sub floats above them. A special privilege for you alone: timekeeper.
You’re unaware exactly how much time has gone by when you finally close your book. But the fire still roars in the hearth, and the placidity settled over Izuku is almost tangible, like a weighted blanket depressing him closer to the floor. Untucking your legs, you place your feet on the soft rug, calves brushing Izuku’s thighs, and lay a gentle hand on the back of his head.
“Colour?” you ask quietly, keeping your fingers still to ground him.
He doesn’t reply right away, fighting his way back through the fog to reach you. His head sways slightly. “Green,” he finally replies.
You hum, skimming your knuckles under his chin to lure his gaze from the floor. “Well done, sweetheart.”
Izuku meets your eyes, pupils blown and glassy despite being so early in the scenes, and inhales shakily.
Carefully, you lower yourself onto the floor beside Izuku and splay a hand in the valley between his pectorals. You press lightly, not enough to move him but enough to command, and he lets you guide him down, down, down, until he’s lying on the colourful tufted rug, crowded amidst you and the fire.
You stroke your thumb across the soft muscle. “There we go. Easy now. I didn’t bring my rope with me, but I think I’ve got a solution that might work.”
Izuku’s head tilts to the side. You dance your fingertips down his chest and tap on the buckle of his belt. They flare, wide and wet like a rabbit’s.
“Is that alright with you?”
“Uh,” he swallows. “Yes.”
“Good.” You undo his belt and tug the leather out from under him in one smooth motion. At his silence, you ask, “Having second thoughts?”
You’re only teasing, but Izuku startles like you’re dead serious. Like he’s already messed up. “No! No, I… no second thoughts. Sorry.”
“No sorry’s. I’ll tell you if you have something to be sorry for, okay?” you say firmly. Stroking your hand, belt in tow, up to the smooth skin of Izuku’s neck—slightly tacky with a whisper of sweat. You stare at the sight contemplatively. “It’s a real shame I don’t have your collar with me.”
Izuku tenses. “You bought one?”
You exhale in amusement, though not unkindly. “Yeah, I did, gorgeous. Matches your hair and all. The prettiest shade of green you can imagine.” It’s unnerving, the way Izuku is beholding you so intently. But you don’t let that thought show—tossing it far from the forefront of your mind until it’s barely a hiss in the dark. You finger a line across his throat where the soft fabric would lay. “But I think you’ll behave for me regardless. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” he whispers immediately. “I will.”
Just once, quick enough to be mistaken as an accident, you press your thumb and forefinger into his neck. Branding an imaginary collar there. Izuku sucks in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering.
“Hands up, hero.”
As Izuku raises his arms, your touch strays to help him. Curling around the calloused skin of his hands, slotting your fingers between his, shadowing the slow arch his arms carve above his head and joining them on the warm, soft rug.
It’s easy. Almost too easy, you would think if you didn’t know Izuku any better—how he responds to your touch like water to gravity. Bending and reshaping at each new request. Your brain feels like it’s melting from your ears, and a shiver drips down your spine. With every passing second, a shard of your heart slots neatly into a hollow you weren’t aware existed.
How did your heart work so tirelessly to pump blood around your body without it spilling out of these holes with every thumping beat?
How could you have been this oblivious to yourself?
Exhaling a controlled breath, you force yourself to focus. “Gonna tie them now,” you say, keeping your voice level as you gather his wrists. “'S that okay?”
“Uh-huh,” Izuku warbles.
A smile breaches your face and another fleshy shard sinks into a perfectly sized gap.
Cute.
Deftly, your fingers weave the belt around his wrists, and once they’re secured, you wrap the excess leather around the leg of a heavy, low coffee table, a stretch above Izuku’s crown. You knot him to it. Izuku could be free of the binds in a blink—there’s no doubt about this truth. But it’s a test. And secretly, you hope it may calm him, too; the ability to physically stop the scene if he wishes.
To test the restraint, you pull on the slack connecting his wrists to the table and Izuku’s triceps tense in response. Then, you run your fingers along the snug fit of the leather against his skin. All before settling on your knees by his chest.
“How’s it feeling? Anywhere too tight?” You know it isn’t, but somehow, giving Izuku an opportunity to safely reject the scene once more feels necessary.
Izuku closes his eyes. “No,” he murmurs quietly.
“Perfect,” you hum. Izuku’s eyes flicker back open at the sound, dragging lazily over to you. You pet his warmed cheek. “I’ll be right here. Right by your side. Not goin’ anywhere, sweetheart.”
Izuku smiles. Small, guarded. Undeniably fond. You fight the playful scoff that bubbles up in your throat—the habitual impulse to tease your best friend over his saccharine tendencies sweeps over you. It’s a close thing to resist, and you think Izuku notices, because the fringes of his expression brighten.
“Thank you,” he says, mouth twitching.
This time, you do roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome, hero.”
Hero, hero, hero.
The blessing and curse bestowed upon Izuku Midoriya. Without warning, the word carries far more weight than mere moments prior. You remember his hushed request, precariously balanced on the belief he is somehow unworthy, and shudder.
"I liked the idea of… of not thinking, I guess? Not having to make any decisions for once. Letting someone else… Ah, I don’t know. It sounds silly when I say it out loud."
Izuku relaxes further into the floor. You suspect it has something to do with the inherent familiarity of your teasing tone, and quietly, you notice you have calmed too. Despite the fragments of your heart returning home, despite the significance of Izuku’s request, despite the sinewy length of him strewn out for you like a royal banquet. This is your best friend. Your equal.
“Colour?” you ask again.
“Green,” Izuku replies easily.
A glance tells you he’s already half-hard. He audibly swallows as you drink in the swelling outline of him beneath his nerdy, All Might-patterned boxers. Izuku seems self-conscious enough about this whole process that something tells you he would have packed a less conspicuous pair had he known your friend's flight would be delayed. As it goes, though, you’re endeared by another display reminding you of who exactly you have at your mercy right now.
Your middle and ring fingers tease the length of him and Izuku's cock twitches. Before long, he’s hot and hard and breathing so shallowly you’d think he is trying to conserve air as you tease him. You fit your hand over his dick, its heat beating into your palm, and circle a finger over the wet fabric at the head. Izuku inhales a stuttering breath, hiding a startled noise behind his clenched jaw.
“Gonna take these off now,” you say, unable to be patient any longer as you finger the elastic of his boxers.
Izuku wordlessly lifts his hips when you begin to coax them off. The fabric slips smoothly down his freckled thighs, calves, and off his bare feet. You toss the pair over your shoulder in the direction of the chair behind you, but whether it lands on its target or in a heap on the floor is beyond your current concern.
Izuku’s dick lies heavily on his hipbone, twitching occasionally as though it has a mind of its own.
“Look at you,” you breathe lowly.
Arousal drips from the head like sap from the wound of a tree. You move, entranced, and guide his legs to bend at the knee, to part, before slotting yourself in the V you’ve created. Izuku is warm, so warm, and on your knees, you settle into the heat like this is where you’ve always belonged. Like you’re finally where you should be. Your thighs rest against his flank, caging him in. Izuku hesitates for a blink, but you see straight through it and, acting on your hunch, press your hands atop his knees, persuading his thighs to slacken and rest over your own.
This position has you shifting subtly, aroused and barely subduing the way you wish to squirm as you imagine the weight of a strap between your legs, the harness tight around your hips, the lubed latex resting atop his cock. It’d be so easy to draw your hips back and slide into the heat of him. You swallow. Try to draw your focus to the scene at hand. Hide the indulgent fantasy deep in your mind like a magpie hoarding a shiny object from prying eyes.
A flash of movement in your periphery catches your attention: Izuku’s hands. Balling tight, splaying wide, balling tight again. Rhythmic. Impulsive too, you’re sure. It makes you want to bite him. Sink your teeth into the softness of his dewy skin and hold onto him like a dog with a new toy.
“Please,” Izuku breathes softly. He’s studying the direction of your gaze, how it drifts from one sign of his arousal to the next like a lazy, snaking river.
You let him. What harm can it do?
“So polite,” you tease. Ever spineless to the rare requests the hero makes, though, you take him in your hand. Stroking him from root to tip, tempo slow as you memorise the veins running along its length with curious fingers.
Izuku’s mouth parts, stomach concaving with a pleasured gasp. “Oh… oh-hah.”
The corner of your mouth quirks up at the noise. Beneath your hand, his pulse thunders—beating like it's as alive as the roaring hearth to your side. You wonder if Izuku can taste the burning fire in the back of his throat, too. Cedarn and smoky. In the corner of your vision, the flames whip the hearth’s inner walls. Swelling, striking higher and higher until you half-worry they’re about to leap straight onto where the two of you are entwined at its base.
You twist your wrist on an upwards stroke, swiping your thumb over the head of his cock, and Izuku jolts hard enough to rattle the unlit candles atop the table he’s tied to.
“Haaah-nghhh— oh my-ah god—”
Intrigued by his reaction, you focus your touch on this area, rubbing your thumb in quick, tight circles below his cockhead. Izuku bites his lip, tiny echoes of a whimper trapped safely inside him. Your brow furrows. Why is he fighting his reaction? You haven’t asked him for silence, not yet at least, and surely Izuku of all people knows the pleasure a dom derives from hearing their sub’s own. Perplexed, you press harder. Surely he cannot remain silent forever.
“Why’re you tryin’ to be so quiet, hm?” you finally ask, after no amount of stimulation seems to encourage him to divulge his pleasure any further.
“I— I don’t know,” Izuku answers, confusion marring his own reddened face. At his temples, green curls are plastered with sweat. You watch a rivulet run down the tendon jumping in his neck.
He’s being honest, that much you can tell. But it still doesn’t answer why he’s holding back, despite the havoc you’re wreaking. His chest stutters, juddering up and down; his thighs tighten around your hips; his fingers scrabble to hold onto the slack tied to the table, the belt drawn tight from all his fidgeting, and he squeezes the length as though it will ground him. Yet he will not let himself make any real noise but breathy pants.
You bring your other hand to work the neglected length of his cock, jerking him harshly while you continue to abuse the sensitive skin under the head of his dick.
“Haah—”
This is the most you can draw from him. Severed, mutilated proof of pleasure.
Is he the type of sub you need to break?
But the notion seems odd, and your gut is already stirring in malcontent while your brain works to catch up to what the real issue is—rapidly dissecting his reaction into parts small enough to analyse.
All of a sudden, you understand. Izuku doesn't want to fall apart to get out of his head; he wants to be guided from it—by you. By the dom who will shoulder the weight of his burden so Izuku can float up into the sky. He needs gentle, confident touches to press into like a stray cat learning to trust.
“It’s okay, baby," you murmur, nodding to yourself as you let this information stretch your patience. "You don't have to know."
Izuku shudders—at your words or your touch, it’s unclear—and juts his head backwards when you fail to relent the pace you’re jerking him off.
“You don’t have to do anything but lay there and take what I give you.”
Izuku nods his head against the floor, gasping. You eye the taut line of his neck. Relish the pressure of his thighs against you. How lucky you are to see the hero like this.
“Good as gold,” you murmur, eyes lidded.
You didn’t bring lube to the cabin for… obvious reasons. But you wouldn’t need it anyway. Izuku is leaking steadily, arousal smearing along his length, your hands entirely coated and sticky. For good measure, you lean over him and gather your saliva, letting it trail from your mouth in a filthy waterfall until it hits the side of his cock. Izuku jumps and he tilts his head forward to look at you. When he realises what you’ve just done, he groans. A sound low and gravelly, scraping the back of his throat.
You smirk. “You like that?” you ask, your voice deepened with your own arousal. “Me spitting on you?”
Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes.”
“I know,” you reply, somewhat cheekily. Halting the motion of your thumb to bring your palm over the head of his cock, swirling it there. Izuku keens, clenching his jaw shut, and you speed up your other hand, fisting his length. “Saw it on your list, after all,” you croon.
Izuku doesn’t hear—or perhaps ignores the tease—but his tied hands draw towards him like a bow. They don’t get far before being snapped back. Then, his knees bend instead as he attempts to curl them up into his body. You shuffle deeper between his thighs and stop the motion with your elbows.
Izuku pants like a dog as you circle your palm over his cockhead mercilessly, and it’s incredibly rewarding to watch the edges of his subconscious resolve crumble.
“Thought I’d surprise you, sweet thing,” you tell him.
Finally, Izuku bucks up into your touch, right as a rubber band of pure willpower around his hips snaps. You grin, all teeth, and slide your palm back down to hold his cock, fisting it with both hands. On each upstroke, you twist them both and he outright moans for the first time tonight—this lilting, melodic sound that, combined with the steadily stifling heat of the fire, has you feeling a little dizzy where you sit.
You study the haggard rocking motion of his cock sliding through your hands.
Have you done it? Unleashed whatever lay beneath the cloak of responsibility Izuku is permanently wrapped up in. Freed a side of your best friend even he didn’t know existed. You recall seeing Pet names on his kink list, a little cross in the box beside it to indicate his interest, but the reality feels much different. Like each sickenly sweet term of endearment is that much more air beneath his balloon, and that much higher he floats away from the world you occupy.
“Close,” Izuku gasps, “‘M close.”
“Thank you for letting me know.” You do nothing but tighten your fists around him. He stutters mid-thrust at the sensation. “Being so well behaved f'me, gorgeous. Gonna get you even closer though, isn't that right?”
Izuku trembles. “Ah— yes— yes.”
You smile, swiping a thumb over his head. “What about now?”
“Close,” Izuku says, face screwing up, shoulders rising to his ears.
“How close?”
“Ah— haah— gonna-nghhh— gonna come—”
You stroke him once, twice, and remove your touch to splay your hands wide across his pelvis. Izuku’s hands ball into tight fists and he inhales a wet, gasping breath, as though surfacing from deep water. Every muscle lining his body is coiled tight as the shocks of his denied orgasm wrack through him.
“There you go,” you soothe, brushing your damp hands up to his waist, squeezing the soft muscle there, before drawing them back down, past his tensed thighs, and up to his knees.
Izuku makes a noise so pitiful and pained, hidden deep in his throat, that your heart lurches up into your own. You know this is part of letting him down into subspace, but something about the noise has an innate part of you rising to protect. Yet from what? Yourself? It truly doesn’t make much sense at all.
“Don’t worry about a thing, sweetheart. I’m doin’ all the thinking tonight, so just let yourself feel what you’re feeling. You’ll get what you need," you pet the inside of his knees softly, "I promise.”
When your hands drift back to his pelvis, teasingly close to his twitching dick, you press down. He isn’t moving—not anymore—but it’s a silent acknowledgement of what you can do. Of how you can hold him down if you choose to, and keep him at your mercy as long as you like. Izuku’s fists jerk open so fast his fingers remind you of fireworks shooting across a blackened sky. Izuku’s lidded eyes flutter open to look at you. Arousal tingles in your core before shooting straight up your spine like liquid fire.
“I know,” he murmurs simply in reply.
The admittance sweeps through you, flushing away any sane thought you have left.
I know.
I know. I know. I know.
A suspiciously shaky noise escapes your mouth. Izuku’s eyes widen in something almost like wonder, but you refuse to entertain that train of thought. You hide his words among memories and desires fated never to surface, and content yourself with reality: Izuku is your best friend. He trusts you. Nothing more, nothing less. Act normal, for the love of god.
Izuku’s arms strain to reach where you’re trapped in your mind, though he forgets that he is tied and you truly have no idea how, before letting out an agitated grunt. Beneath the leather, his skin is tinged a slight, irritated pink you wish to kiss and soothe.
“Can I—” Izuku starts, pulling again on his restraints again. You’re really not sure what’s unsettled him so, but you don’t like it. All at once, anxiety seems to seep through the film you’ve carefully laid, his breaths climbing into frenzy, his words into panic. “I’m not sure— I want to— But I can’t touch you—”
“Izuku, breathe,” you remind him. “Eyes on me. Just copy my breathing, baby.”
You inhale carefully, hold, exhale. Izuku imitates you, gaze fixed on your parted lips, over and over, until he begins to relax. His fists loosen, the belt slackens.
Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you ask, “Colour?”
Izuku takes a moment before replying. You feel much like you’re being tried—suspended on the precipice between innocent and guilty. “Green, I think,” he eventually says.
You shake your head, voice firm when you respond with, “I don’t want you to think tonight. You need to be sure.”
“Green,” Izuku says, resolute this time. “Definitely green. I’m sorry.”
You sigh, lilting in relief. “I thought I told you no sorry’s, hm? Nothing to be sorry for, I’m just glad you’re alright.”
Raising your hand to his face, you brush the dry backs of your fingers over his cheekbone. Izuku tilts his head and cranes his neck, chasing after the fleeting touch.
“I’m alright,” Izuku echoes. Then, he raises an eyebrow. When you lift your own in question, he huffs as though you’ve inconvenienced him, and you bristle in offence. The feeling lasts for mere seconds before Izuku cautiously cants his hips up and washes it away. While the request may be wordless, you don’t think you’ve ever understood him so clearly in your life.
“You still want more,” you observe. Slightly more surprised by your own guileless, inarticulate statement than you perhaps should be.
“I do,” Izuku whispers, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and desire.
You stare at the man under you—mind swimming with your own potent mix of emotions—long enough for Izuku’s expression to splinter into self-consciousness, which certainly won’t do. You curl your hand loosely around his cock once more and he sinks into the ground like melted butter.
It’s startling how beautiful Izuku is like this—as open as windows on a sweltering summer day. You actively sear the image into your memory, branding it to admire in the safety of your mind once this is all over. Which… huh. Stupidly, you hadn’t thought about the aftermath when you proposed the scene with Izuku. Too wrapped up in the allure of his submission, then in the high of his acceptance. Yet you’ll be expected to return to normal by tomorrow, to act like best friends, and to pretend as though nothing in you has fundamentally been rewritten by Izuku tonight.
At such a daunting thought, you can't bring yourself to tease as harshly—the barest brush of your thumb beneath the head of his cock, one sticky hand dipping down to fondle his balls. But Izuku reacts as though it’s a punishment, and his head drops back to the floor with a low cushioned thump and a muffled groan. You suspect it might have something to do with how much quicker it is to rile him up. As it’s not long before Izuku’s chest is heaving and he’s shallowly jerking up into your hand once more.
You're pretty sure the quiet is slowly killing you. Amongst the small list of previous subs you've had, most expressed their pleasure readily. And while you know Izuku feels good—evidence damning in the wanton arch of his body and his glassy eyes, pupils blown wide—you’re still anxious. You refuse to let it show, not wanting anything to remove Izuku from the moment. But deep down, lodged inside you like a trapped animal, is the worry that you’re not doing enough. The worry that you won’t be able to return to normal tomorrow. The worry that you’ve ruined your friendship forever.
A ruptured gasp breaks free from Izuku and sufficiently distracts you from this line of thinking for the time being. You roll his balls in one hand, twist the wrist of your other, and listen to Izuku’s staggered exhale, like it’s a fight to even breathe through the pleasure.
You know it all too well.
“Relax,” you remind him. “Doin’ so good, baby. So good. How does it feel?”
Have seen it in subs before him.
“Good,” Izuku chokes out. Echoing your word as though he knows no others he could use. “Really good.”
Will see it in subs after him.
You bite your lip to suppress a smile at his affirmation, and your mouth opens around a reply right as Izuku begins thrusting up into your hand, vigour renewed and clearly chasing his release. Indulging him, you tighten your grip. Izuku hides a moan. Your hand fondling his balls dips down, and when you brush a finger along his perineum and over his hole, he seizes up, hurtling right towards the edge with a surprised, tangled gasp.
"Ohh-fuu-nghh—"
You yank your hands away from him, unwilling to let him come so soon. Izuku’s expression immediately splits into upset and his arms strain the belt, a whine slipping from his lips. You touch his waist, stroke the smooth skin there and soothe, to the best of your ability, as though you aren’t the one putting him through this agony.
Izuku slips slightly. You can see the fog pulling over his gaze, clouding his world down to just you, your touch. “It hurts,” he mumbles, voice smaller than it usually is.
“It does,” you agree, though you feel nothing but pure gratification alighting in your mind. When you stroke his cock again, Izuku lets out an exhale that is more a keening noise than air. You’re so aroused you could die. “Oh, sweet thing, I wish I could make it stop,” you coo, “but you’re being so well behaved. So proud of you, ‘Zuku.”
Izuku bobs his head, fingers straining towards you from where they’re tied. “Y'r proud?” he echoes.
“Yes,” you murmur. “I knew you had it in you. And who would’ve known how lovely you are, hm? Listening to me so carefully. Reacting so beautifully.”
Deciding a reward is in order, you focus your touch on the head of his cock, stroking it in short, shallow motions. Izuku’s back lifts from the floor and his jaw drops open on a silent moan.
“Just like that,” you croon, voice low and velvety, pleasure coursing through you. Then, more quietly, you add, “No one deserves this, baby.”
You’d be surprised if Izuku hears your words. On some level, he must. But his feet start scrabbling across the floor as his whole body rises like the swell of a wave. You don’t stop jerking off the head of his cock. Perhaps it is cruel. But you’d be insane to stop now when Izuku looks nothing short of a wet dream. Flushed and sweaty and twitching—so physically responsive it’s going to drive you to insanity.
Even now, as his body writhes in clear, overwhelming pleasure, he barely makes a sound. Little puffs of breath tangle with the barest whisper of a moan.
"Why are you bein’ so quiet, hm?"
"I don’t know."
Perhaps if you were older, wiser, and more inclined to rise above the caveman-like urges screaming for you to draw forth Izuku’s voice, you could resist. But as it stands, you’re not. And the ghost of his dying whines—each a reminder of your failure as a dom—only makes you want to torture him more.
“Ah— st— stop—” Izuku bites his lip, caging what registers as dangerously close to a whimper. His thighs squeeze your hips, fists clenching and relaxing in time with his quick pants. Then, “—close, close, close. Please—”
For the first time in years, guilt bubbles up in your throat. Deeply familiar, its acridity coats your tongue. You keep pumping Izuku, waiting until he’s a knife-edge from his release; his entire body drawing taut, breath held, the calm before the storm. Then, you tear your hands away and his dick drops back onto his navel, twitching there madly, smearing more shiny tracks of arousal across the tan skin of his stomach as it quivers with the shallow, frantic breaths.
Izuku makes a wounded noise, halfway between a whimper and a genuine cry of distress. Slick as oil, arousal smothers you. This time, while Izuku is attempting to keep another denied orgasm at bay, you drag your finger up and down his sticky length, unwilling not to touch him at all. Izuku’s reaction makes you question if you are truly being unfair, but you don’t linger on it long. Not when his cock twitches like something dying under your touch and his hips begin rocking up into your fingers again.
Izuku pants each time his cock taps back onto his stomach, and you don’t doubt, at this stage, it would be enough to get him off, as delirious and desperate as he is.
“Look at me,” you murmur, staring at the long line of his throat, shimmering with sweat in the flickering firelight. Izuku obeys immediately, almost as though his body acted before he could fully process the request. Such a thought is embarrassingly satisfying.
Izuku looks nothing short of wrecked—a magnificent ship washing up on the shore in desecrated fragments. From the slow, syrupy movement of his eyeline as it tracks over every inch of your face, and the deliberate twist of his brows, you suspect, if not already there, Izuku cannot be more than another failed orgasm away from subspace.
Why does that make you feel so guilty?
Years ago, before you started scening with Shouto, the feeling was as familiar as family. Now, it’s anything but. You haven’t felt like this in so long and you find it incredibly disconcerting to once more be caught in its nasty web. But you feel for Izuku. More than what he must believe, more than this—sex, desire, and power. You fear it may lie somewhere between love and until death do us part.
You knew this. And you still asked Izuku to scene with you. Let him bare his vulnerabilities, let him trust you. For the first time in months, you see clearly how you’ve been taking advantage of him. Accepting any facet of himself that Izuku was willing to give to you, any facet you didn’t already possess, all because you’re consumed by cowardice.
You smile warmly. “Good boy.”
Izuku slips. His resounding whimper is fractured and quiet, but it is there. Your cunt pulses in want. Contentment clouds you. Sliding your finger up to the head of his cock, you wrap the rest of your hand around him. Stroke it slow and deep, from root to tip. Izuku blooms like a Queen of the Night, what you can tell will be a brief, beautiful blossom, destined to fade away before the sunrise.
You decide to enjoy it while it lasts.
Izuku falls at your feet swifter following each denied orgasm, and this time is no exception. Instantly, his hips stutter up into your hand, and he begins thrusting into your hold messily. Slick, filthy noises curl in the air, overpowering any sane, rational arguments about why you should stop that may attempt to make themselves known to you.
“Oh— feels so—” Izuku chokes out. You hum, prompting. But he simply screws up his face, tugs on the belt binding him, and fucks up into the tight, wet hole of your fist.
At the corner of his eyes, tears well up and suddenly, you’re not thinking much of anything besides how much you want to see him cry. You bar one forearm across Izuku’s hips and press him down to the floor. He startles, unable to buck up into your touch. But it doesn’t matter. Not when your free hand starts jerking him off with a pace that is punishing, and a grip tighter than it should be. Your biceps burn, but in the face of Izuku’s surprise, you hardly register it.
“Nghhh—” Izuku keens, positively torched by the flame of your touch. His moan, clear as a whistle, is so intoxicating you find yourself huffing a helpless, almost delirious little laugh in response. Unable to quite comprehend how you’ve gotten yourself in such a predicament, unable to believe you’ve finally breached the barrier holding him captive. “Mpfhhaah—”
“That’s it, sweetheart. You’re spoiling me, here. Sound so pretty.”
“G’nna come!” Izuku gasps, eyes flying wide to catch your own.
There’s an urgency in his voice heretofore absent, and you heed it like a warning, drawing your hand down to squeeze the base of his cock.
You kiss your teeth in reprimand. “Not until I say.”
Izuku makes a wounded noise, hips jerking up in search of his release. But it’s fruitless, his orgasm ebbing away with every passing second. His chest heaves like he’s run a marathon.
“Breathe,” you remind him.
Izuku does as you say, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath. As though not really in control of his body, it quivers. Sparks of pleasure-pain zipping across his form. You slide your tight grip back up his cock, and Izuku whines, looking up at you like a kicked puppy. It only takes a few slow strokes for his arms to be straining against his belt as he gasps out, again, “G’nna come g’nna come g’nna haaah—”
You grip the base of his cock, letting him catch a breath, then two, before you glide your touch along him once more. This is your favourite part: when the window between flying over the edge becomes shorter, and shorter, and shorter, until the sub doesn’t know up from down or how to keep their body still or how to do anything but try to brace for the unending whims of your torture.
“No, you’re not,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over the head.
“Please, ah—”
You grip the base. Wait a few thundering heartbeats. Then, resume jerking him off. Izuku’s eyes flare wide in panic, like he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out before he disobeys you against his own will. You meet his gaze and smile. It can’t be a terribly reassuring one because Izuku’s face only crumples further, focus flicking down to the wet shtick of your hand on his sensitive dick.
“I can’t—” he starts, before biting his lip as a strange whimper threatens to make itself known.
“You can.”
“No, ah, no, no, I’m g’nna—”
You slide down and squeeze the root of his dick. Glistening arousal beads at his tip and you ache to lean down and taste it, to take him into your mouth. Izuku’s fingers scrabble clumsily along the knot of the belt holding his wrists together, and you eye the action suspiciously until it becomes all too clear how he’s trying to free himself. Before you have the chance to chastise, Izuku’s babbling once more.
“Please,” Izuku begs, a curious wobble to his bottom lip, warbling his words. “‘M gonna let,” he heaves in a hiccuping breath, “you down.”
Something in your fragile, mended heart slips out of place and you can feel the blood gushing from the wound. Hurriedly, you rush to comfort the hero, settling your voice into a low honeyed tone. “Oh, baby, no you won’t. Doing so well, letting me play with you like this. I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”
Izuku inhales shakily, hands stilling. “You did.”
“So let me,” you urge, ducking down slightly to force his eyes to yours. When he gives in, the fat tears gathering on his lashline finally spill, drawing wet paths across his cheeks and dropping into the tufted rug below. “Sweetheart,” you sigh, impossibly fond.
“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, looking far too off-kilter to even gather up any embarrassment over his teary state.
You shake your head. “No sorry’s, remember? Just trust me. You’re doing fine, ‘Zuku.”
Izuku appears persuaded, relaxing back on the floor.
“Colour?” you ask.
At your stern expression, Izuku’s mouth—which opened instinctively to answer—snaps closed.
“Think about it this time, please,” you say.
He does, moving small parts of his body from his fingers down to his toes, as though cataloguing his injuries. Then, ever so quietly, he responds with, “Yellow.”
You give him a gentle smile, nodding. “Okay. Want me to slow down a little, honey?” When he hums, you continue in a coo, “I can slow down.”
You trace your fingers up the side of his abused cock, twitching where it rests on his navel. Izuku inhales.
“How ‘bout I let you come, hm? Since you’ve been so good.”
Izuku looks up at you gratefully and your heart lurches up into your throat. Feelings were never supposed to be a part of this scene and yet here they are. Undeniable. Impossible to ignore. All you hope is that Izuku hasn’t noticed them from behind his glassy eyes—maybe the blanket of subspace pulled over him will be enough to dampen his own perception.
“Please,” Izuku breathes, forearms tensing like he wishes to reach for you.
“And so well-mannered, too,” you tease.
Izuku huffs a weak laugh. As though using the last vestiges of his energy to do so. Then, his head thunks onto the floor, and when you start jerking him off again, the smile is wiped from his face completely.
Knowing that you’re working him to release, the atmosphere feels different now. Izuku must think the same, because his body trembles in anticipation.
“Ah— yes, yes, yes—”
You want to hear him undone, just once more. And you focus your touch on the tip of his dick, quickly jerking off the head with one hand while the other focuses on the length of him. It works like a charm; Izuku’s gravelly moan crawls from his throat like a gutted animal clawing away from a predator.
“There you go,” you murmur mostly to yourself, “so pretty.”
But he never finishes his sentence, his orgasm slamming into him like a freight train running behind schedule. It takes every ounce of self-control you possess not to moan with him. Long, winding curls of pleasure ring out in the air as he rides each wave, shooting come across his stomach, his ribs, his hips, which jolt like they have a mind of their own, almost convulsing in their dedication to unseat themselves from your lap.
I want you—
You stroke him through the aftershocks, studying the sheen coating his sturdy body as it dances and letting his simmering keens slowly melt your brain.
I want you.
These cursed words pick and brush at the ground of your mind until they’ve made themselves a lovely little home to lay down upon, lazing there as though it were a summer field overspilling with flowers.
Realistically, you’re aware those words were not supposed to be the end of his sentence—that he meant to say more, anything more. But he is gone, as far as you’re aware. Already drifting before his orgasm. And as you look upon him now, panting quietly into the air as his body relaxes, now only rocked by sporadic, tailing shocks of pleasure, you know he’s lost to you.
I want you, you think helplessly, staring at the hero in your lap.
Gently, you let go of him and stroke the dry dorsum of your hands along the dip of his waist. The only indication your touch registers is the low twitch of Izuku’s hands, still bound together.
Right.
Slipping from between his legs, which splay out on the floor at the loss of your own to hold them up, you shuffle up his chest. Izuku makes a low, displeased noise and you shush him quietly. Work the knot loose. Let it dangle from the table as you instantly move to soothe the pink chafing around his wrists and start mentally organising through the products you’ve packed for what would be best to calm the irritated skin.
Izuku’s eyes have long since fluttered closed, but it gives you a chance to study the way he floats without judgment. His green curls are matted to his temples with sweat and his whole face is flushed so red you can barely see the freckles beneath. It’s a sight you usually only see in flashes after the chaos of a fight, or later, when you watch the news broadcast clips and allow yourself to look unabashedly; when no one is around to capture the way you stare and post it online for the whole of Japan to view and analyse and pick apart.
You tenderly tug at his bicep. “Let's get you cleaned up, hero.”
—
The still of night makes Izuku appear strangely small, almost fragile, where he's perched on the ledge of the cabin's fancy bathtub and hunched over like he hasn’t yet noticed your arrival. Placing two cool glasses of water down on the sink, you clear your throat and try to pretend as though his tenuous disposition doesn’t bother you. Izuku’s head jerks up right away.
“Just me,” you reassure, shifting past him to flick on the bath-tap. A thrush of water hits porcelain. Idly, you wave your fingers under the stream as you wait for it to warm up and shoot a sidelong glance at Izuku, only to find him already watching you vacantly. “You doin’ alright, gorgeous?” you ask softly.
Izuku hums in response, eyes slipping to the motion of your fingers. Deeming the water warm enough, you press the bath plug into the drain so it can begin to fill. He sits patiently, covered in sweat and come, and entirely bare, but the exhaustion lining his posture is loud. Threading your fingers through his hair, you scratch at his scalp and drag your touch down to the nape of his neck. You wait for Izuku’s head to bow forward in a wordless plea before you gently massage the tense muscle there.
Once the bath is full, you help ease the hero into the water, watching as he sinks until small bubbles lap gently under his nose. You remain quiet, lather a flannel, and begin to scrub his body, careful to keep your touch light. It’s a repetitive task, albeit oddly soothing. And you don’t realise until you’re lathering shampoo into his mess of curls that this isn’t intimacy you usually indulge in with your subs.
Aftercare includes physical touch, massages and balms, food and water, soothing words. But bathing Izuku feels excessively affectionate. Like he’s going to come back to himself tomorrow, lose the obscurity clouding his mind, and see straight through your poor act of pretending to be his friend. Only his friend.
For the nth time tonight, you force yourself not to linger on the worry, and apply all your attention to Izuku. You wash the shampoo from his hair, wrap a towel around him when he clumsily steps out of the tub, and help him into warm clothes, before rubbing a thick, overnight balm meant for facial use onto Izuku’s chafed wrists. And you even linger when he’s tucked into bed, finally pushing one of the glasses filled with water into his trembling hands.
“Drink,” you state.
Izuku gingerly tips his head back and drains the glass. You place it back on the nightstand with a soft thump, next to the full glass and two painkillers for when he wakes tomorrow. All it takes is a brush of your fingers along his cheekbone and his eyes flutter shut, breathing evening out within moments. With Izuku asleep, and with no clever rope binding you to the ship’s mast, you veer forward and brush your lips over Izuku’s forehead.
Only shipwreck and death await you.
—
While Izuku is fast asleep, you lie wide awake. Staring at the wooden slats of the cabin roof like they’ll strengthen your resolve. They don’t. So, throat thick with guilt, you slip a hand beneath the waistband of your pyjama pants, unable to resist the compulsion a moment more. Only two empty beds keep you company, prepared for the girls' arrival tomorrow. Every slick movement of your fingers echoes uncomfortably in the night, but you can’t stop. The humiliation of your predicament zipping through your veins, coiling your pleasure tighter and tighter.
I want you.
This might be a new low—getting off to a few throwaway words Izuku said in the throes of pleasure. They're not even a full sentence, for fuck's sake. Yet the molten pleasure gathering in your core with each unmeasured thrust of your fingers is all thanks to these fragments of a thought. The lines of an architectural blueprint. The basecoat of a beautiful masterpiece.
Nothing conceivable about you.
Certainly not enough to be getting off to them.
The knuckles on your hand catch and you throw your head back, plunging your fingers inside as you try to reach that blissful spot inside you. With your other hand, you frantically rub tight, quick circles over your swollen clit. Stoking the embers of the arousal you’ve been ignoring all evening.
Flashes of Izuku’s pliancy hammer the nails into your coffin: the strong muscles lining his arms tensing to break free of his restraints, the warm weight of his thighs clasping around your waist, the soft lilt to his moans—the urgency in them when he finally let his noises be heard. Thud. Thud. Thud. One after the other. Sealing you in without an escape.
Frantic. That’s how you feel. On the verge of an orgasm so wild you can taste the destruction it brings. Guilt carves a home in your body.
All it takes is the thought of Izuku waking up tomorrow entirely satiated because of you, and you’re rising from the bed as your orgasm sets you alight, burning through you with no remorse.
It’s the hardest you’ve come in months.
—
You wake up to the smell of pancakes drifting through the cabin walls.
For a split second, you’re disoriented as you try to remember why you’re sleeping in an unfamiliar room, why the cold is more biting than usual, why the muscles in your arms are pleasantly sore yet your body deeply satiated. Then, the past twenty-four hours come rushing back to you so fast the breath is physically swiped from your chest. You throw an arm over your face and groan. Mind now disconcertingly alert for how early it must be, considering the white sun slicing through a gap in your curtains.
You prop yourself up gracelessly and place your feet on the floor, dragging your hands lazily through your hair in a half-assed attempt to tame it before you stand and follow the smell.
In the kitchen, you find Izuku wrapped in the quiet of early dawn.
“Morning,” you call, shuffling sleepily to fill a glass with water. Your voice is rough with disuse and you clear your throat before taking a sip.
Izuku turns, poised over the stove; a spatula in one hand, a frying pan in the other. “Morning,” he replies, and you wouldn't say his tone is cautious, but it certainly holds a degree of stiltedness.
You down half the glass, fill it back up again, and hoist yourself up onto a countertop a few paces from the hero. Pretending you haven't noticed, you keep your voice level and ask, “Sleep well?”
“Ah, uh— yeah. I did. Thank you.” Blush bleeds across his cheeks.
You laugh softly. “Anytime.”
Izuku’s eyes widen slightly.
When you register what you just said, you choke, spluttering on a mouthful of water.
“I meant— fuck—” You cough again, patting your chest frenziedly. “You’re welcome. I wasn’t thinking. There’s no pressure for like… a repeat, or whatever.” You awkwardly paw at the water spilt on your pyjamas and wince when Izuku’s bewilderment only seems to increase at your nervous rambling. “Sorry. I’ve made it weird. I just meant 'anytime' to be like, 'yeah, it was no bother, you’re my friend.' Which is… worse… now that I say it out loud. It wasn’t a chore or anything, I swear. I’m just… an idiot. Apparently," you finish with a heavy, self-loathing sigh, scrubbing a hand down your face in mild horror.
Surprisingly, Izuku doesn’t laugh. You can hear the shuffle of him sliding the pancake onto a plate and the sizzle of him pouring new batter into the pan. Then, he appears in front of you, plate in hand.
“Eat,” he says, pushing the plate under your nose. You glance up at him quizzically, flustered and beyond baffled at why he’s passing up the perfect opportunity to poke some lighthearted fun at you before easily letting you down. Instead, he offers you a small smile. “I feel… lighter… than I have in months.”
The crease between your eyebrows deepens. You can’t think of anything to say.
“I would’ve lived my whole life not knowing how good it could feel to release control. Properly this time. And even if it was slightly terrifying,” Izuku continues earnestly, dipping his head to meet your elusive gaze. “I trusted you, and I’m so glad I did. If doing…” Izuku gestures between you both, “...this again has crossed your mind, I want you to know I’d— I’d like that.”
You suck in a breath, fiddling with the edge of the plate Izuku handed you. “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack,” Izuku replies. You exhale a small laugh. “But only if it’s something you’d like too.”
“It is,” you blurt. Traces of sleep washed from your tone, along with any potential excuse as to your eagerness. Luckily, Izuku doesn’t question it. “It is something I’d like.”
Izuku places a heavy hand on your thigh, swipes a brief thumb over your soft pyjamas, and it feels like the start of something new. The touch is gone before you can get used to it, and then he’s turning back to the frying pan to flip his pancake.
“Eat,” he repeats. And you do.
—
Later that morning, your friends arrive at the cabin in a flurrying tornado of loud-wheeled suitcases, excited chatter, and warm, bone-breaking hugs which you sink into with all the eagerness of someone who has never known touch. It doesn’t take long to tour the space, to drop off bags in bedrooms, and before you know it, you’re bundling back into the living space to catch up.
“Psst.”
You look up from where you’re dealing out playing cards into six even piles for a game of Bullshit and see Shouto staring at you ominously. You raise your eyebrows. “What?”
Shouto’s gaze tilts downwards, and you follow it until your stomach feels as though it may drop right through the floor. “Might wanna hide the evidence,” he murmurs.
“Holy fuck,” you choke, scrambling on your knees over to where Shouto just nodded at.
On the leg of the low coffee table is Izuku’s belt, still knotted around the wood. In all the mess of your emotions following the scene and your intent focus on Izuku’s aftercare, you’d completely forgotten to retrieve his belt. So, it seems, has Izuku. Not that you’d expect him to remember, given the state you put him in. Hurriedly, you work your fingers over the knot and slide the belt free.
Shouto looks at you, amusement plastered over his face. “I see you’ve been occupied while you wait for us.”
“If you breathe a word about this,” you hiss quietly, glancing at the kitchen to check that your friends are still busy gathering a heinous mountain of snacks and drinks from the kitchen. “I will kill you and make it look like an accident.”
At your successfully ruffled feathers, Shouto preens. You ache to smack the expression from his face, but can’t think of a good enough reason to justify the action when the others question why Shouto has a big red mark on his cheek. Instead, you fix him with a sharp look and Shouto raises his hands in surrender, but not before peeking at Izuku curiously.
On instinct, your eyes follow. Izuku is chatting animatedly with Ochako, precariously balancing bowls of popcorn in his arms while he tries to pick up a handful of beer bottles by their necks, too. You truly hope the lightness in his shoulders and the ease of the smile blossoming on his face is visible only to you. And as much as you try, you can’t muster up anything less than primitive satisfaction at the sight of Izuku so clearly content.
“Shut up,” you mumble.
“Hey!” Shouto scoffs. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but you were thinking it.”
“Maybe,” Shouto admits, turning back to the fire which he lights with a flick of his finger.
Finally, you wind up the belt and shove it under an armchair, making a mental note to retrieve it when everyone’s gone to bed. “Nosy bastard.”
“That I can’t dispute,” Shouto replies, glancing at you coyly over his shoulder. “How was it?”
Grunting in disgust, you glare at him right as Izuku flumps onto the floor next to you, and any rebuttal dies in your mouth. Izuku glances curiously between you as he relaxes against the sofa behind him. And just like that, the conversation is over, though the pointed look Shouto sends you suggests your salvation will be short-lived.
Izuku offers you a small smile and takes his pile of cards, shuffling through them to organise his hand. While objectively, he isn’t acting much different towards you—perhaps a margin more sentimental, but really, who’s paying attention—the air between you has shifted. Each brush of his shoulder with yours is more charged. The warmth of his thigh is now burning where it touches yours.
If this is the new normal for you both, you’ll be a puddle before the day is out.
But then he pulls back, and the heat vanishes, and you can breathe again. And for some illogical reason, you find yourself craving its return. Hungering for acknowledgement of this new relationship you share, despite the truth of it all swelling deep in your bones.
You are so deeply, irrevocably fucked.
AFTERWORD
If you've read this far, thank you 🥹 I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it, and please consider leaving me a comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think! <3 This fic, as with all, was a labour of love and it was such a joy to write about Izuku getting shown the time of his life LMFAO
I have a real soft spot for the world of this fic, and this particular version of Izuku, whom I find to be literally the sweetest thing ever. I'm hoping to, at some point in the future, write a few more chapters for it. I have four additional chapters planned for Izuku and the reader's story, and I've already started chipping away at the second. But as I'm sure you can tell by the length of this chapter alone, they're quite a big task, and also the reason why I've listed this as a one-shot. While I plan to continue this universe one day (I will likely do so by adding another chapter to this work), and possibly expand more on some of the reader's lore, it can happily be read as a one-shot in the meantime :)
tattoo artist! iwaizumi hajime x nail artist! reader
oh no! you own the nail salon next to iwaizumi's tattoo shop.
what do we do? him!
my masterlist
warnings // reader is female im so sorry it just flowed out of me, swearing, mentions of drunk men, smoking, kys jokes, a gun, mentioned AI once but u need to understand i will never use it
miyako's notes // i shat this out bc i couldn't stop thinking about tattoo artist! iwaizumi but i couldn't sit and outline a whole story for it IM SORRY
shoutoutz to @dumdogs and @lilylilylilylilysstuff for enabling me
atsumu is getting ripped to shreds in front of the entire team in the middle of practice, and the fucker is grinning. sick with it, he might be.
you’re getting all up in his face, finger jabbing at his chest. even coach looks afraid of interfering with the scene unfolding.
he’s seen his teammate get into it with people before. hearing him snap back and give them a piece of his mind, isn’t unusual. this, on the other hand, is completely new territory.
every sane person knows not to meddle in a lover’s spat. it’s rule number one next to minding your own business, in the guide to keeping out of trouble.
something atsumu, if the way you’re tearing into him right now is any evidence, is not very good at.
you read it on the train, the blur of the city whooshing past. you've been resisting this day, resisting the very idea that touya—dabi, you remind yourself, that's what everyone calls him now, ever since that video came out—probably wouldn't survive.
but it doesn't hurt any less to see the years he was alive stand so impersonally on your phone screen.
you dig the palm of your hand into an eyeball. tears form regardless, hot and fat, spilling down your cheeks and into the soft down of your scarf.
they don't mention that he used to leave out cans of food for the stray cats. he'd stand outside shaking the bag if one of them was late, hands on his hips like a disappointed mom.
there's nothing about how much he liked having his hair played with, that whenever he laid on your chest and you stopped fluffing it, he'd pull back and glare at you until you started again.
nothing about how he used to call you 'love' when he was tipsy, 'my darling' when he was drunk.
not a word about how sore of a loser he was in mario kart, or that he told you once that he'd like to be a really good dad.
"might be cool." you can still remember the sly glance he sent your way. "you know. if the world was different."
TW/CW: me trying to write broken speech sorry, not much other than that, shocking attempt at a slowburn?, polytheistic religious system common in fantasy tropes, my awful naming conventions
A/N: helloooo so glad people wanted a part 2 I’ve been maladaptively daydreaming this scenario for soooo long 🫶
Previous, Next
Silence lingered between you once more. Katsuki observed as your lips moved almost imperceptibly, softly repeating fragments of his words beneath your breath. You weren’t ignoring him—quite the opposite. Every unfamiliar syllable was carefully sounded out, turned over in your mind as you searched for understanding. It was painstakingly slow. Yet, there was something oddly earnest about the effort. You weren’t frustrated, nor embarrassed by your stumbling attempts to grasp him. You refused to give up. For anyone else, Katsuki’s patience would have run out long ago. Normally, it would have.
His temper was infamous throughout Aaroya. Men twice your size had been thrown from his audience chamber for wasting less of his time than this. Yet, he found himself waiting.
Perhaps it was because you looked as harmless as a newborn fawn, standing in the middle of a wolf’s den without the slightest idea of the danger surrounding you.
Perhaps it was because, even covered in dirt, dried blood and travel-worn clothes, you were… beautiful.
Or perhaps it was because none of it made sense.
The nearest settlement was days away. The mountain passes had been buried beneath snow for weeks. By every account, you should have died long before reaching Aaroya’s gates. Still, here you stood, alive at least.
Finally, your expression brightened. An idea, or fragment of understanding. You looked back at him, carefully choosing each word before speaking.
“May,” pause, “I stand?”
Katsuki clicked his tongue. The sound echoed softly through the hall. He didn’t answer; he stepped aside.
You took that as permission. Slowly, you pushed yourself upright. The movement was awkward, your balance wavering for a moment before you steadied yourself. Even standing, you barely reached the middle of Katsuki’s chest.
He frowned.
Your injured hand remained tucked carefully beneath your cloak in some form of makeshift cast, cradled against your body.
You still weren’t reacting to it. No grimace or complaint. Nothing. His irritation returned almost instantly.
“You shouldn’t have been kneeling in the first place.”
The words were directed past you. His crimson eyes settled on the guards instead.
“You.”
One unfortunate soldier stiffened.
“Bring water and a clean cloth.”
The guard disappeared before Katsuki had even finished speaking.
Only then did his attention return to you. He pointed towards the hand hidden beneath your cloak.
“That wrist’s going to be a problem if someone doesn’t set it properly.” He flexed his own fingers, attempting to demonstrate, “Can you even move it?”
You blinked, your gaze dropped to his hand, then to your own.
You didn’t answer; you hadn’t refused; you just hadn’t understood. Katsuki sighed through his nose.
“Right.”
Stupid question.
Even if you could understand him, the hand was obviously broken. Still, you didn’t seem to care. The injury remained tucked safely beneath the folds of your cloak, forgotten almost as quickly as it had happened.
Instead, your attention drifted elsewhere. Your eyes caught something hanging upon the far wall: a map.
Without asking permission, you crossed the room. Every guard remaining inside the throne room instinctively shifted. Katsuki merely watched.
You stopped before the enormous parchment stretched across the stone. It depicted every known territory bordering Aaroya.
“I,” You searched for the words, “come,” your fingertip rested against a vast stretch of ochre painted across the southern edge of the map, “from here.”
Katsuki followed your finger. His expression hardened.
The Crags.
Even written across the parchment, the name carried little respect. A barren wasteland where endless dunes swallowed entire caravans. A place so dry and unforgiving that even seasoned travellers avoided crossing it whenever another route existed.
His people often joked that nothing lived there. Nothing could. Your finger moved again. Slowly tracing an impossible journey northeast. Across rivers. Across kingdoms. Over forests. Until finally, you touched Aaroya.
“A sleep,” you hesitated, reaching out for words to come, “told me,” your vocabulary faltered again, “head east.”
A tiny smile crossed your face when you remembered the final word, tapping where Aaroya sat upon the map.
“…to here.”
The throne room fell deathly quiet.
Katsuki didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His hand slowly tightened around the edge of the nearby table until the wood creaked beneath his grip.
“You walked?” His voice was dangerously calm as he stepped forward, following your fingers, “From there. Alone?”
His crimson eyes searched yours for any hint of a joke. Any sign that this was some elaborate misunderstanding?
“No caravans were crossing those lands.”
No answer.
“No escorts.”
You shook your head.
“No supplies.”
Another shake.
His jaw clenched.
“Through winter.”
You nodded.
As though you’d merely confirmed the weather. Katsuki stared. His eye twitched. Either you were lying…
Or you had somehow survived a journey that should have killed ten seasoned soldiers. He stepped closer until only inches separated you.
His presence was overwhelming, towering, and intimidating. Most people would have shrunk beneath his shadow. You looked up at him, curious and patient. Waiting for his next question.
“You’re lying,” his voice dropped lower, “or you’re the single most idiotic, lucky fool that’s ever wandered into my kingdom.”
Your head tilted again—that same innocent confusion.
“Why?” The question escaped more sharply than he intended. “Why come here?”
You answered almost immediately.
“Told… to find man. The sleep, it said,” You smiled faintly, pleased that you even remembered the words, “find Katsuki.”
Everything stopped. Even the crackling fires seemed quieter—his name. You had crossed the continent for him.
Katsuki felt something tighten in his chest. He didn’t like hearing his own name spoken in your accent. It sounded wrong. Too soft. Too gentle.
His gaze swept over you once again—the tangled braid. The dirt streaked across your face. The blood is drying beneath your sleeve. You looked less like some prophesied traveller and more like a woman who had somehow wandered into the wrong story.
“A voice,” he repeated slowly, “Told you to find me.”
You nodded.
“And you just listened?”
Another nod.
“No questions?”
You blinked.
“No.”
“No weapon.”
You looked down.
“…No.”
“No food.”
A small shrug.
“No.”
“No plan.”
You considered that one.
“…Walk.”
Katsuki closed his eyes for a moment. Of course. Your entire plan had been to walk.
When he opened them again, you were studying him with newfound curiosity.
“You,” a spark of recognition crossed your face, “are Katsuki?”
For the first time since entering the throne room, genuine surprise coloured your expression.
Katsuki held your gaze. Long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable. Finally, he answered.
“Yes.”
The change in you was immediate. Your eyes widened. Relief flooded your face with such unmistakable intensity that, for a moment, it seemed you might collapse.
Instead, your injured arm slipped from beneath the safety of your cloak. The broken hand dropped carelessly, limp to your side. Katsuki’s eyes narrowed.
Not even a flinch. You didn’t seem to notice the pain at all. With your good hand, you reached for the sleeve covering your opposite arm, and you pushed the fabric of your grotty sleeve back.
Gold caught the light. The room fell silent. Not painted and not embroidered. Scars.
Brilliant golden markings spiralled across your skin in intricate whorls that shimmered beneath the firelight as though molten sunlight had been woven into your flesh.
The patterns climbed beyond your wrist. Past your elbow. Disappearing beneath the sleeve still covering your shoulder.
No one breathed.
Every man in that throne room knew those markings. Golden ink. The sacred blessing of Solesis. A Golden Scarred. Chosen by the Sun God himself.
A mark of devotion and favour.
Yours were unlike anything Katsuki had ever seen.
The gold flowed over your skin like rivers of liquid sunlight, weaving intricate spirals that seemed almost alive beneath the flickering flames.
It wasn’t a blessing. It was a masterpiece.
A forgotten memory stirred somewhere deep within him. A story told to every child born beneath Aaroya’s mountains. A tale so old most dismissed it as myth.
The Sunblessed Queen.
A woman marked by Solesis himself. A woman destined to stand beside the greatest king Aaroya would ever know.
The one who would birth an empire.
Katsuki’s breath caught.
Katsuki had seen golden ink before. Every devotee of Solesis had. Most bore only a fragment of the Sun God’s blessing—a narrow band circling the wrist, a small spiral hidden beneath a sleeve, perhaps a single golden stroke curling across the back of a hand.
He had his own, a poor mimicry common in Aaroya. Drawn in black ink against his skin, rather than gifted as he was born. They were modest, earned through years of devotion rather than birth, a quiet reminder of the god he had served since childhood.
But this… this was unlike anything he had ever witnessed.
His eyes followed the molten gold as it curled across your skin in intricate spirals, every line catching the firelight until it seemed your arm had been carved from sunlight itself. The patterns climbed beyond your elbow, disappearing beneath your sleeve in graceful rivers that promised there was more hidden beneath the cloth. Too much more. Not the mark of a devotee, or the blessing of a priest.
A hush swept through the throne room. Somewhere behind him, someone inhaled sharply.
Katsuki didn’t need to turn around to know it had come from one of the guards who had dragged you into the hall. The same guards who had forced you onto your knees. The same guards who had broken your hand.
His stomach twisted. They had mangled the body of the Sunblessed.
For decades, no child had been born bearing Solesis’s sacred markings. The Golden Scarred had slowly disappeared from Aaroya until only one remained—the High Priest himself, whose faded blessing had become little more than proof that the Sun God had once favoured their people.
Many believed Solesis had abandoned them. Even the High Priest had begun to wonder whether the silence of the heavens meant their god had finally turned his face away. How wrong they had all been.
Because you were standing before him. Marked from wrist to shoulder in living gold. The castle seemed to hold its breath. Even the mountain wind howling beyond the stone walls felt strangely distant.
Katsuki’s fingers twitched at his sides. Some instinct urged him to reach for you. Another warned him not to touch something so impossibly sacred.
This wasn’t a lost traveller with timid speech. This wasn’t chance or mere coincidence. It was a prophecy.
His head snapped towards the guards. Every face had gone deathly pale; realisation settled over them one by one.
Someone’s knees buckled. Another quietly whispered a prayer beneath his breath.
They understood. They had laid violent hands upon a woman chosen by Solesis himself.
“Out.”
The single word cracked through the throne room.
No one moved.
Katsuki’s glare hardened.
“I said,” His voice dropped into something that made every soldier instinctively straighten, “out.”
The throne room erupted into motion. Guards hurried towards the doors, servants scattered, and councillors abandoned their places without question. Within moments, the enormous chamber stood empty.
Only the two of you remained. The heavy doors groaned shut behind the last guard, their echo rolling through the silence.
For the first time since your arrival, there was no audience.
Only the prophecy had been delivered to him. Katsuki looked at you again.
No.
He looked at his bride. His kingdom’s salvation. The answer to prayers he had buried years ago beneath duty and war.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than before: “You should’ve led with the arm.”
You repeated the unfamiliar sentence beneath your breath, carefully sounding out each word before inevitably becoming lost halfway through.
He watched you. Only now did the pieces begin falling into place. He had mistaken your silence for stupidity, your wandering for foolishness, your calmness for ignorance.
Instead, you had crossed a continent guided by nothing except unwavering faith. You had memorised every word of his language the moment you heard it.
You had endured a broken hand without complaint. You had walked into the court of the most feared king in the east.
You looked down at the shimmering markings curling over your arm. Your expression troubled.
“Curse, no…?” You gently traced one of the golden spirals with your fingertips.
“I thought,” A small frown creased your brow, “you fix?”
His mind stalled.
“You,” He stared openly at you, “thought they were something to fix?”
You looked back at him, uncertainty finally creeping into your expression.
“You… can’t fix?” For the first time since entering the throne room, your voice sounded genuinely afraid.
Katsuki couldn’t understand it. How? How could you carry the greatest blessing Solesis had bestowed in generations and think it was a curse? How could no one have told you?
“You’re not something to fix.” The words left him before he realised how fiercely he’d spoken them.
His voice softened almost immediately, “You’re…”
He stopped. How was he supposed to explain a prophecy to someone who barely understood his language?
Before he could try again, your face crumpled, not with dramatics or hysteria. As a thread pulled too tight had finally snapped.
Your gaze dropped to your arm. Your lips trembled. Then a stream of unfamiliar words slipped free in a language he had never heard before. He understood none of them; he didn’t need to.
Grief sounded the same in every tongue.
Something tightened painfully inside his chest. You had walked across deserts, crossed kingdoms, survived the dead of winter, and reached him carrying nothing but weeds and faith.
And somehow, the thing that finally broke you was learning the markings would never disappear.
A single tear slipped silently down your cheek. Katsuki froze. He had faced armies without hesitation, negotiated with a hostile king, and killed men larger than himself.
But a crying woman? He had absolutely no idea what to do with that.
Especially not one who cried so quietly. He cleared his throat, a little too roughly, then turned towards the doors.
“Someone,” His voice echoed through the chamber.
When servants cautiously appeared, he gestured towards you without taking his eyes off your face.
“Take her to the eastern guest wing.”
His orders came quickly now.
“Have the royal healer set her hand. A bath. Food. Clean clothes.” He hesitated only briefly. “And send for the seamstresses. The language tutors as well.”
The servants stared. No one questioned him. They bowed deeply before approaching you with far gentler hands than the guards ever had.
Katsuki remained where he was, watching until you disappeared through the doors. Only when the chamber fell empty again did he finally allow himself a slow breath. His kingdom had spent decades praying for a miracle.
It had arrived carrying weeds in its pockets, and it thought the blessing of a god was a curse.
synopsis: waking up in a prison cell wasn’t the interplanetary welcome you were expecting. this hero they’ve sent to question you is the most welcomed distraction though.
info: hey! this is heavily inspired by SUPERGIRL! if you haven’t seen it, it’s still easy to read. me and aali watched it and whilst the credits were rolling i told her this idea. different to what i usually write but i enjoyed :) this is probably going to be a one shot.
bakugou katsuki hates this part of his job. he finds it incredibly boring, uneventful and somewhat like those detective movies his mother watches in the evening. he’s not a detective or a police officer, he’s a pro hero built for the streets, fighting real villains. not in the foreign governmental holding cell with the purpose of asking questions, while the person in it has anti-quirk handcuffs on. so fucking boring. at least take the handcuffs off them, give him a real challenge.
bakugou barges into the cell, shoulder first into the iron heavy windowless door and the first thing he does is sigh. he crosses his arms across his chest and he flicks his eyes over the room. grey brick walls, square room, a metal toilet in the corner and a thin mattress on the floor. it’s the same as every other high risk room in this prison.
minus you, the woman he’s supposed to be talking to. bakugou frowns, a low unimpressed huh leaving his throat. he was told he’d be dealing with an alien here but from what he can see of you, hugging your arms to your chest on the floor, head resting on your knees… you look human. like him. two arms, two legs. he needs to check your face when you look up but otherwise, there’s nothing particularly alien-like about you and bakugou’s met many aliens before.
apparently you haven’t spoken to anyone in three days. police have tried, detectives and doctors. they decided he’d be the next step in case you end up being violent.
“fuck, how does it go?” he mutters to himself, shutting the squeaking door behind him. “hate this shit.”
you don’t move at the sound of his voice but your handcuffs glow green around your wrists. you’re in the same orange jumpsuits as everyone else in this building. bakugou’s a fan of the colour.
“my name is dynamight, i’m a hero here on earth. i’ve gotta ask you a couple questions ‘cause protocol and shit. we dunno who you are, why you’re here or what you can do. the quicker we get this done, the quicker we both can go home.”
it’s the mention of home that gets your attention. you lift your head up off your legs and you turn to face the man who’s taking up more space than necessary in your cell.
as bakugou gasps, you snigger.
what the hell is this guy wearing? those wings by his head? are the height of those boots to compensate for something else?
you’re definitely human looking. two sparkly eyes, a nose in the centre of your face. nobody told him the alien was beautiful. fucking stunning.
he wants to go home now, he’s not prepared to be speaking to a woman like you after a ten hour shift. fuck, he doesn’t think he ever would be.
bakugou clears his throat. he stands up straight and tightens his arms across his chest.
“you’re very… fuck, anyway,” he’s so goddamn embarrassing.
you start laughing, these light buttery giggles that feel like they’re breathing air into bakugou’s lungs. your eyes brighten, you even lean back on the wall like you’re taking a better look at him. he feels your eyes travel from his boots to the top of his head.
thank god this man has a pretty face, or at least he would if he stopped frowning because this outfit he’s wearing looks stupid. does anyone else on this planet dress like this?
you’re laughing… and it feels like it’s at him instead of with him. he knows he didn’t say anything funny.
“do you not know english? they always say i need to speak english for this shit.” he grunts, scratching his head.
damn, he’s finding it hard to even look at you directly. the orange compliments you, makes your skin glow, makes you— stay focused.
“i doubt you’re gonna know any japanese. d’you understand me now?” he tries and he sees the frown on your face. confusion.
“ah, so you understand english. you just don’t want to talk to me.” he punctuates by jabbing his thumb into his chest and then leaning on the wall behind him.
you roll your eyes, which only gets bakugou grinning, then he calms down. he doesn’t need to be reacting like he won the lottery over a reaction from you.
“what’s your name?”
nothing. you blankly stare at his face.
“why are you here?”
nothing.
“c’mon just say somethin’ so i have somethin’ to say to them outside. then you get to go back home.”
you swallow, resting your head in your palm.
“this is an odd planet. a traveller lands and you immediately arrest them, deprive them of sunlight and dignity,” you nod your head towards the toilet in the corner of the room, “treating me like a criminal.”
you’ve got an accent. one he can’t place from anywhere specific on earth. it sounds almost melodic, easy to understand and very clear.
“so the alien talks,” dynamight, you think he introduced himself as earlier, says amused, “you fell from the sky, at a speed none of us has seen before. it was so fast, not even our meteorologists caught it. then you came out of this metal-like sphere that isn’t quite metal, they’re still workin’ that out, in a coma. not to mention you set alight the fields you landed in, causing a wildfire through acres and acres of land.”
bakugou squints at you, “you can see why we’d have a fuck load of questions, right?”
you look away from him. fuck. you were told the earth on this planet would have been able to handle your ship, not that you’d start a wildfire.
“i didn’t… i didn’t hurt anyone, did i?”
bakugou’s quick to shake his head, “no, the farmer ushered out all the animals in time. though you did destroy a families hundred year old strawberry farm.”
“shit.” you mutter, in your language. then in english, “i’ll help them as soon as i’m out of here.”
there’s a hero complex to you somewhere. hm. “and to get out of here, answer my questions. yeah?”
you sigh, “what do you want dynamo?”
bakugou’s face scrunches like a ball of paper, “dynamight. my name is dynamight.”
“is it actually? earth names didn’t sound like that when i researched.”
“it’s my fuckin’ hero name, i said that in my introduction at the beginnin’— you know what, never mind. call me dynamight. nothin’ else.”
you blink at him.
“what’s your name?” he tries.
he really wants to know your name. not for the sake of government purposes, just for himself.
“that’s personal, isn’t it?” you laugh but dynamight raises his eyebrows.
“not at all actually,” he breathes, equally restless and intrigued, “quick or we’ll be here all goddamn day.”
“you swear a lot, don’t you? is that normal?”
that catches bakugou off guard, he leans off the wall. “hah? you’re not askin’ me questions, woman. i’m doin’ the askin’.”
you chuckle, loud and sweet. “okay, okay! my name is yn.”
“yn,” he likes the sound of it on his lips, though it’s even better from yours, “yn where are you from?”
“why are you dressed like that?”
bakugou looks down at himself. he’s always been voted highly for best dressed hero. his black body suit, black and orange chunky boots. he’s got his wings at his shoulders. he doesn’t have his gauntlets on though, he doesn’t need them for this.
“this is my hero suit. how many times do i have to tell you, i’m a professional hero—.”
“hero,” you try, “is that your version of a protector? looking after civilians? the strongest of the people?”
bakugou can’t help but let his grin slip. he likes the sound of that. it’s all true. “y-yeah i am. currently third on the charts but i jump between one and two, so technically i’m the best in the country.”
you do an upside down smile, somewhat impressed. so this man is one of the strongest and cocky about it. his grin is cute too. his lips stretch wider, only one corner rising. a gold tooth shining. okay, his smirk is sexy.
“family must be proud.”
“they expected it,” he shrugs. wow, is it easy to get off topic with you. “any quirks?”
“quirks?”
“abilities different to the average.”
you scrunch your nose, “not that i know of.”
bakugou doesn’t know if he can trust you. “so if i took those handcuffs off you, nothing about you would change?”
honestly no. your body feels fine. mentally, not so much.
you snap the handcuffs apart, the middle chain breaking with ease, now appearing as two ugly grey bracelets on your wrists as the green glow slowly dies down. bakugou jumps at the sound, jaw dropping on command.
“what the fuck?” bakugou can’t even get out of those. he’s tried before in hero training. what are you? “why the hell didn't you get out of them before?”
“i…”
you’ve never experienced grief before and to experience it on the scale you are now... your parents, your family, your people, your home. all gone. you don’t think you wanted to break out of it yet.
“had other things on my mind,” you offer, looking up at this dynamight man. “what’s your… quirk?”
something about him is comforting. with those boots on, he’s as big as the men back home. just as wide too.
so to get information out of you, he has to give a little back. that’s okay for now.
“i sweat nitroglycerin. can create explosions from my hands,” he gives you a little show, facing his palms up to the ceiling and creating little sparks.
that gets you facing him, now cross legged on the floor. you sound like a child, brimming with curiosity. you don’t recognise the word nitroglycerin but you can assume. “how big can you make them?”
bakugou chuckles to himself, slowly sinking to sit down too. “question for question then. so it’s my turn now.”
you huff, “fine.”
have you showered in these three days? you look as if you have. a beautiful glow like those women in skincare adverts he sees.
“how old are you?” not the most important question, but he’s got to know. they couldn’t have gotten a more selfish hero to question you.
“fifty moon shines,” you say without a beat. “how old are you? wait, let me see your explosions!”
“woah, woah, hold on. fifty?” you either look good for your age or—, “how are years measured where you’re from?”
“182 days. isn’t it my turn to ask a question?”
“how long are your days?”
“twenty three hours.”
bakugou relaxes. you’re the same age as him.
“so you’re twenty five.”
“i just said i’m fifty.”
“to me that’s like you’re sayin’ you're a hundred in your time. you’re twenty five in this world, darlin’.”
“darling? what’s that?”
bakugou shakes his head. shouldn’t have said that. “nothin’. i’m twenty six.”
that pleases you for some reason. you both stare at each other for a few seconds, sizing the other up. you could take him in a fight you think. in bed too, if it came down to it.
“how big can you make your sweat explosions?”
bakugou winces. what an ugly name. “they’re not sweat explosions.” “but you said—,” “the size of buildings. could blow this whole building up. can also fly, use them as grenades, blind opponents, shoot them like a gun.”
he’s sharing too much now. you shouldn’t be telling your enemies your main attacks. it’s going to be a beautiful woman to take him down. that tarot reader kaminari took him to was right.
“that’s really cool, dynamight. i can’t do that.”
you sound honest, real. bakugou bends his knees and rests his arms on top. “it’s whatever. what can you do?”
you shrug, looking at your bare hands. there’s some dirt under your nails and they’re all chipped from your lack of basic essentials. “where i’m from, everyone is the same so i don’t know how different i am to you guys.”
bakugou gets that, “what’s the most you can lift—,”
“my turn now, hero. why’re you so pissy?” you ask, tilting your head at him.
bakugou can’t help the loud, “hah?” he sits up at that comment, hands flat on the floor.
“you came in here moaning. you swear in every sentence. you act like the world has done you wrong. what happened with you?”
there’s a part of you that wants to find solidarity in this man. that perhaps he understands the pain you’re going through deep within your soul. after waking up from your coma three days ago, you feel sure the grief is going to eat you alive. you don’t want to hate the world, become evil and angry. you also don’t know how to not.
you get this blonde man blinking at you. a silence takes up the room quickly but you give him all the space in the world to speak.
“what d’you mean what happened to me? you think i have a sad tragic backstory like those american game show contestants?”
now you’re frowning back at him. you don’t understand that reference. “don’t you? or you’re just pissy for no reason?”
it feels like a weird competition now, that he should have something under his belt. something odd and sadistic to impress you with. bakugou bites.
“i died when i was sixteen. i fought a war and died.”
you’re not impressed. “how are you here now? i didn’t know this world has magic—,”
bakugou shakes his head, “nah not magic. another… another hero here fixed me up. brought me back.”
“oh,” you trail off, “and you’re fine now?”
he is. though it seems as if you’re looking for more. he deals with villain attacks often. fights them with his friends. he hasn’t been close to death since. he lives a wealthy luxury lifestyle now he’s professional and he’s got all his friends around him. all his greatest traumas he’s working through in therapy. yes, he goes therapy.
you keep talking, “you’ve got both your parents? all your friends?”
“y-yeah i do? i answered your question, didn’t i?” he spits.
you roll your lips in.
“are you… are you laughin’ at me again?”
at that your dam breaks, giggles spilling out. your shoulders shake and your hand covers your mouth in an attempt to be polite. though you lost that once you had to use the toilet beside your bed being recorded by security.
j“no, well yes! i don’t know, i thought you had a tragic backstory to explain your shitty attitude. guess it’s just you.”
bakugou’s walls go straight up. he doesn’t know who the hell you think you are to read him so easily. because yeah, maybe he is just a dick. but he owns it. he’s apologised for his mistakes in the past. he doesn’t hold all his worth to his quirk anymore and he doesn’t blame himself for anyone’s death. he’s actually quite well adjusted now.
“okay, so the fuck is your problem? why’re you on earth? where’s home? where’s your family? they just send you here and can’t be bothered to get you outta ‘earth jail’?” he snaps.
that slows your laughter down, your grin is the last thing to drop before pain shakes your heart. it’s a harsh squeeze that doesn’t let up.
“you’re not getting all of that out of me in one day. see you tomorrow, dynamight.” you’ve got nobody to come get you.
bakugou hates how he likes the sound of that. another day, a reason to see you again. he’s got a whole load of questions to ask you but he’s got to get back to his other tasks for the day.
“fine, if that’s what you want.” he begins to rise to his feet. he’s too petty to be somewhat nice. “y’know if you cooperate we can send you home.”
you look up at bakugou, hugging your knees to your chest on the hard concrete floor. “i don’t have a home anymore.”
bakugou stands still, mouth open to speak but nothing right is about to come out. until there’s a rough knock on the door, one of the jail guards.
“you okay, dynamight? times up unless you need more?”
bakugou doesn’t take his eyes off you, now back to your original position with your forehead on your knees. he won’t be surprised if you move to fetal position once he’s gone.
“i’ll be back tomorrow, yn.”
you don’t bother replying to him but you hear his thick boots walk out.
as soon as bakugou steps out the door, the guard pipes up.
“we saw she was speaking to you on cams! the alien’s gorgeous, isn’t she? doesn’t look like no damn alien either. what was she saying?”
the first thing bakugou does is shove the man away. “down my fuckin’ neck. i’m not sayin’ shit to you. who runs this place?”
in about an hour, you’re pulled out of your cell to a new room. one with a bedframe for your mattress, a pencil and a pad of paper. most especially, the toilet is in a separate room to your cell. you’re especially grateful when they remove your handcuff bracelets and don’t lock new ones on.
there’s no chance you’re going to thank dynamight for giving you your basic rights. you appreciate the changes to your new home though.
part two comments will be deleted. comments and reblogs are appreciated!
