laina

swirled you into all of my poems ♡

[birdusmaximus]

katsuki bakugou who will truly wear anything you give him.

his stylists tend to despair: katsuki is too brazen, proud and stubborn, to accept any of their meagre offerings.

their colours ‘make him look like a damn fool pretending to be a hero’, their fabrics ‘trigger his quirk, and they should fucking know that’.

until you approached him with your sweet smile and pretty face, proposing he maybe try on a few of the suits you had to offer.

katsuki had been so tongue-tied upon laying eyes on you, he’d forgotten to protest vehemently. you’d clapped your hands at his seeming lack of resistance, and ever since you’d been drifting in and out of his life with outfits for public events.

he wanted to loathe you, he really did. who did you think you were—waltzing into his life all beautiful and full of ideas with good taste?

unfortunately for him, every article of clothing you left behind smells vaguely of your perfume.

that’s how he finds himself, full of shame, with his own huge suit jacket over his face as he thrusts into his palm.

he thinks maybe tomorrow he’ll talk to you like a civilised person, like a hero would: without fear of rejection or making a fucking idiot of himself.

but for now he’s too lost in the thought of your pretty voice and the smell of your perfume and the fact that your hands had touched this stupid jacket to care.

he’ll feel shame when he cums.

he’ll let himself feel good until then.

[birdusmaximus]

thinking of caleb, whose weakness is always you.

caleb has spent much of his life learning people, what they like, how to perform for their approval, what to say and just how to say it.

this means he carefully guards his true feelings with a veneer of whatever the other person wants to perceive.

however, that all falls apart when it comes to you!

his friends have long-since discovered that if they mention you, caleb is bound to crack. they’ll catch a glimpse of his true thoughts on a matter before he closes himself again, all because your name was spoken.

this principle can also be applied to getting caleb to engage with anything and everything.

“hey, caleb, you coming to the party this saturday?” a friend asks.

caleb does not want to go; it’s loud, and there are too many people to keep track of.

“i’ll think about it, man.” code for: never in my life will i consider this.

“right, right. you know y/n’s going, right?”

caleb straightens immediately. you’re going?

maybe the party won’t even be that obnoxious. maybe he’ll have fun trying different cocktails and satisfy himself with smiling just right.

if you’re going, it can’t be without merit.

“oh. i..yeah, i was planning on going.” caleb backtracks more clumsily than he would like, though he still sounds decisive.

now he’s thinking of you in a dress, seeking him out. he stays by your side all night like some guard dog…

he decides this won’t be terrible.

[birdusmaximus]

satoru is a liar, pathetic, and he wants you—in that order ♡

“satoru?” you call into his hotel room, peeking around the door, barely disguised worry in your voice. he can hear it in the higher pitch your voice slips into for a fraction of a second, in the way you say his name.

he could get drunk off the sound—it’s more worthwhile than alcohol, anyhow.

fuck. he needs to croak, sound vaguely close to death’s door, but not so close that shoko is called. he’s been practising with his reflection; he can do this.

he clears his throat, praying to gods he doesn’t believe in (because if they existed, he wouldn’t).

“i’m alright.”

ohhhh, that was good. he’s rather proud of his tentatively-edging-toward-the-door-of-no-return voice.

he really can do anything he sets his mind to—it’s a real shame satoru doesn’t set his apt mind to much at all.

“oh, satoru,” you approach him, trying and failing to sound stern. “could you not have waited until after the mission to get sick?”

there—softness in your tone; he’s in no real trouble. and, even better, you’re concerned on his behalf!

he takes in your attire—a robe that is tied taut over your chest—and the way you’re leaning over his bed. he’s never loved a vaguely musty hotel bed more.

is this heaven? satoru doubts he’ll ever see the pearly white gates, but this is good enough.

“look at you,” your palm presses gently to his forehead, and the impulse to press his mouth between your fingers is overwhelming. “you’re all flushed.”

your touch only makes his affliction worse, and he grits his teeth to suppress what may or may not have been a whimper. the sound of your voice is a fatality he’s not prepared himself for.

“i know, i know,” satoru tries to inject his admission with his usual winning charm, but the gravel he’s forced into his voice has seemingly lodged itself there.

the need flooding him is so great he feels as though he could crawl out of his skin. “typical gojo, right?” he tries to focus on grinning; watching you watch him is making him ache. “inconveniencing you until my final breath.”

“should i..” your eyes skim the bed, which he fills entirely (‘unnecessarily long’, suguru once called him, to which he’d said ‘yeah, like my di-‘). “should I call someone? shoko?”

panic flares, but satoru keeps his tone measured. “please. you do realise she didn’t even pass med school, right? she just likes cutting people up.”

he could high-five himself: a whole two sentences!

now he’s resorted to closing his eyes, because the sight of you is too much. he’ll moan if you lean any closer, so he’s decided hardly breathing is the safest option.

you never usually agreed to do overnight missions with him; the higher-ups had never seen satoru so delighted to be shipped off on a mission before. of course he had to fuck it up by thinking about you in the room opposite his and getting so hard he couldn’t fucking think.

“oh, I’m sorry,” you say with an edge to your voice, placing your hands on the sheets, dangerously close to his thigh. “would you rather i nurse you? i can promise i won’t be as gentle or as careful as the only doctor we’ve got.”

“you’re seriously getting on at me for being ungrateful? in my condition?”

if you’re any meaner, he’ll cum all over these white sheets, and then what will the two of you do?

“i don’t even know what’s wrong with you!” you tell him, frustration clear in the pretty furrow of your brow.

he should tell you how pretty you are; maybe the ache between his legs will ease with honesty.

“okay, okay,” you collect yourself quickly, like you always do, “what are your symptoms?”

“come here,” satoru mumbles without thinking, and he sounds so completely serious that you do lean into his space.

“i feel-“ holy fuck, it’s hot in here. is this dante’s inferno? he can’t handle looking at you from across a street, why did he ask for you to come closer?

on the bright side, his desperation seems to work on you—noted.

his dick is twitching, and he’s shuddering like a fool. what’s worse, the humiliation is only turning him on more. “-hot all over, kinda like i’m being burned, but..heavier? and my throat feels all clammy- do throats get clammy?”

what the fuck is he saying, blabbing on and on. is he high?

your deft fingers slide to his throat, pressing against his pulse point. satoru can’t help the gasp that escapes him; he’s too busy firmly instructing his hips not to buck.

think of things that don’t arouse you, satoru. you’re not even that hard.

mission reports. the curse that tried to eat him yesterday.

“your pulse is fast.”

yesterday you thanked him reluctantly for carrying your bags when he insisted he would. you’d looked..pleased. pleased with him. he should mark the day in his calendar, so he never, ever forgets your begrudging thank you, that thing you do when you smile with your eyes and your mouth is almost forced to follow-

“satoru?” as you try to rouse him from his stupor, your fingers are ever-so-slightly grazing his chest.

that’s all it takes.

instinctively, he presses his face into your neck; one large, shaking hand comes up to pull the back of your neck as gently as he knows how.

the shock of pleasure coursing through him makes satoru bite down on his tongue, and even then, a pathetic whine leaves his slightly parted lips.

he should be undeniably ashamed of himself; he’s been trained since he knew what the word meant to restrain himself: his sorrow, his rage, his power. but he finds he cannot withdraw from joy, and he finds pleasure to be much the same. at least when it’s you causing it.

which he should be more irritated about by the way! but if you’re the sickness, you can’t also be the cure.

“shhh, you’re okay,” still hazy, he can vaguely hear you..comforting him.

satoru considers how this must look—he’s trembling, breathing heavily, clinging to you for support in a way you’ve never known him to.

“you really are sick,” you mutter, half to yourself.

he hides a grin, adjusting his drenched sweatpants.

“mhm,” he doesn’t have to try to rasp.

your poor, terribly sick satoru