''there is no righteousness in suffering alone and isolating yourself from everything is never the answer because you'll eventually start to lose sense of who you are as you spiral further into depression and suicidal ideation this is why you need to let people help you and allow yourself to believe in a better future even if it feels impossible at times''
well shit. it does have a good plot
edit: yes i know this is the theme not the plot. i wrote plot, you still get the point. deal with it
synopsis: you and your boyfriend have to sleep on his family sofa because his mother turned his childhood bedroom into an arts and crafts room.
what's coming up: fluff, smut (p in v, fingering (f) unprotected), having to be quiet, loads of pet names, established relationship, bkg's parents here!, set in japan, italics for japanese
luna says: this was written when i was taking requests. i am not now. thank u @marsaplanet !!! probs needs another proofread. thank u aali for title hehe
“i fucking hate this,” you boyfriend says squished beside you, forced to be a big spoon on his parent’s tiny very public living room sofa. it’s only tiny because you’re sharing it with him.
it takes you longer than necessary to twist around with the small space you’re allowed. in order to accommodate bakugou’s big body that can barely manage a single bed, you’re left to only be able to lay on your sides. though once you manage, you give katsuki a pout in the dark and his chin a peck.
“i’m sorry your mum changed your bedroom into an arts and crafts room,” then you look away from him, which is quite hard considering you’re face to face, nose to nose, “it is such a nice room though. i’d love one of those.”
since bakugou became pro, he moved out of his parent’s home at the humble age of eighteen years old and never returned permanently. for the first few years, his parents kept his bedroom how it is, ready for him to visit when he wanted a traditional home cooked dinner instead of the unhealthy western food or just a break from the intense world of heroics.
but this visit, without warning, his mother has changed his sweet all-might and manga filled bedroom into a well prepared arts and crafts room. fashion drawings up on the walls, sewing machines that cost more than your computer, rolls and rolls of fabrics and so much more.
if bakugou didn’t plan to help his father out early tomorrow morning with his fishing gear, he would have booked a nearby hotel instead of attempting to stay over on the living room sofa with you.
he does love being this close to you though. having you tangled in his arms, your leg slung over his waist and your breasts pressed to his chest. you’re in a permanent cuddle unless you want to fall off the sofa or be crushed by your boyfriend during the night.
“no, i don’t care about my bedroom. i’d rather sleep in a goddamn bed,” he complains until you shush him.
“too loud, kats. your parents are sleeping.”
bakugou rolls his eyes but he does get noticeably quieter. he tightens his grip on you and his words tickle your ear, “shoulda got a hotel nearby. we haven’t… damn.”
he trails off, blinking slowly at you.
you know exactly what he means. you curl a wheat blonde lock around your finger and pull slightly. bakugou releases a low whine that vibrates into your body.
“i know, but we’ll be home tomorrow,” you sympathise. you get it. you really do. “you can have me all to yourself then.”
you shift your lower body to get comfortable, you swear it’s only because your leg is going dead laying on your side for so long. you twist into bakugou, your crotch bumping right over his. just at the feeling of him, hard and thick against your soft thigh, you eat your words. you don’t want tomorrow, you want him now.
bakugou had been on a two week long mission across the world, solving crime and fighting villains. he’s barely been able to call you during the weeks. a few texts littered in and definitely no photos due to the top secret nature of the mission. only to then arrive in your home country to meet you at the airport to fly to japan to meet his parents. it was the only time he could fit them in on his busy schedule and in an attempt to spend as much time with you as possible, you came along also.
which leads you about to hump your boyfriend like a teenager in his family living room. you were surrounded by family photos and cute baby photos. even a drawing he made of all-might when he was seven next to a photo of him with all-might at seventeen. you even see the baby photos his mother has already text to you, she knows to send every one she finds for your collection.
but face to face with the grown katsuki, large hand spread over your lower back to press your hips into his. you can practically taste his breath, minty toothpaste that freshens your nose also. even in the dark you can see the lovesick way he stares at you, a sad pitiful gaze on your lips then your eyes. it even makes you laugh because despite how hot you are, trapped in his sleepy cuddle, you refuse to wear your usual pyjamas in his living room. your usual little boy shorts and a tank top for bed time. big tshirt and underwear. you’re in a long sleeve plaid set, just in case anyone wakes up for a glass of water in the night.
bakugou can work around all the fabric. placing his hand on your bare back. pinging your elastic waistband against your hip. he doesn’t give a fuck, still counting this as his home despite the lack of bedroom. he’s shirtless, just a pair of shorts on.
“i haven’t seen you in weeks, doesn’t even feel like i had you today and the only alone time we get is on my fuckin’ sofa,” he huffs, stuffing his big head in the crook of your neck. bakugou inhales harshly, nose brushing against your silk bonnet, chest pressed right into yours.
you’re already whining, gripping on a semblance of control. “tomorrow, kats. tomorrow.”
you feel his stubble against your cheek, prickly but makes him look so fine. a few years older, a little rougher. bakugou pulls out your neck at your tone. he can predict you from a mile away.
“y’need me, baby? i haven’t been takin’ care of you, have i?”
always the first to read the room, always the first to read you. sugar sweet words from him have you falling apart like a dandelion, using your hooked leg around his waist to hump your hips against his cock.
it has been weeks. you’re used to being dicked down at least four times a week by him with multiple rounds but now, nothing. you could drool at the memory of being filled to the brim, your knees by your ears as he thrusts as an alternate way to show his love. honestly, you’d love to be pounded by him right now, pressed into a mattress with your beautiful man above you.
“b-but we can’t. your parents are across the hall. i’m not waking them. a-nd all your baby photos are out, this is your living room,” you reply, chewing on your bottom lip. you can feel your clit pulse, a hot tightness that gets you moving without meaning to, “we don’t have space either a-and you’re loud.”
bakugou narrows his eyes, pursing his lips, “you’re louder than me.”
“kats,” you warn, “remember in april, for your birthday?”
“that’s ‘cause you fuckin’ touched my—,”
you peck his lips to shut him up but it only draws out the palpable need between you both. your hand flies to his cheek as he pulls you back in. he rests on his forearm slightly to get the best angle on your lips, sliding his tongue into your mouth.
your kisses are louder than the words you just spoke.
everything happens all at once with a rush you didn’t know you both felt. on the same equilibrium, you clutch a tuft of bakugou’s blonde locks to keep his open mouth, his tongue licking after yours. but every time he tries, you smile or grin or touch his tongue for a second before pulling back.
“stop playin’ with me, baby,” he whines against your lips, “gimme a taste.”
it’s always done something to you, your boyfriend just yesterday was shouting at his sidekicks and team in a foreign country, strategising a plan and being the voice everybody listens to. to now, him listening to you, begging you to give him more.
you don’t need to speak, you just slot your mouth over his in a wet kiss that is all tongue. you lick yours over his, circle it with the tip before letting him suck completely.
your moans bubble up, your thigh tenses around his waist and bakugou’s hand under your shirt is hot.
“you’re gonna have to fuck me, kats. i can’t sleep like this,” you whisper, laying kisses across his jaw as he catches his heaving breaths.
you lick over his earlobe, complete with a nibble to make him fall apart. “fuck. i know, i know. turn around f’me.”
you pout, “why? i wanna see your face.”
he grins, he’s exactly the same, “just for now. it’ll be easier for me. i’ll still be here.”
you huff dramatically, awkwardly shifting around so your back is to his chest. you lock eyes with three year old katsuki in the cutest red dungarees you’ve ever seen. though the actual katsuki behind you already has his massive hand under your shirt and on your stomach, fingers passing your elasticated waistband.
your hand flies to his, “not in front of your baby photos. look how cute you were.”
bakugou scoffs behind you, instead opting to unbutton your pyjama shirt, “the fuck? were? i still am.”
you look back, letting him reveal your breasts. you shove down the blanket to your knees. “you hate me calling you cute?”
bakugou kisses your neck then presses his cock into your ass without meaning to, “i’m still the cutest man you know.”
“you’re so stupid,” you giggle softly, eyes fluttering shut as his hands finally sneak past your waistband, over your tuft of hair and onto your soft clit. “oh shit.”
bakugou knows you better than he knows himself. he knew you wouldn’t be wearing underwear, he knew you’d already be wet and he knew you’d give in.
with two flat pads of his fingers, katsuki rubs firm clockwise circles into you, letting you shove and kick your pyjama bottoms to the ground. he lets you adjust to him, opening your legs wider and resting your leg on his hip behind you.
you moan open mouthed, head falling back onto his bicep as he lifts himself upon his elbow.
“quiet, baby. feels good, though?” he asks, completely captivated by you.
it looks like you’re from a sexy christmas calendar despite it being mid july. your red and green plaid pyjama shirt is completely unbuttoned, naked body stretched around his and rolling your hips into his hand.
“so good. so good, gorgeous,” you mumble, running your hand over his thick arm between your legs. you kiss his bicep by your cheek, “missed this with you. being—,” you inhale sharply, then soften into a whine, “being this close to you.”
“i know, baby. i get it. didn’t see your pretty face for two weeks. was going insane, staring at photos of you. fisted my cock over them one night,” he grunts into your ear and he feels your breathing hitch, your head roll back to look at him already looking down at you.
“kats, oh god,” you mewl as the sounds between your legs get louder, squelching and wet. “w-which picture, baby?”
katsuki stops the circles on your clit, instead choosing to sink his two fingers inside of you. you reach your hand behind you, fingers crawling into his hair and gripping. it only riles him up, a deep growl into your neck.
“those mirror selfies you sent before i left. on your bed, ass up in those tiny ass yellow panties you’ve got. and that one i took of you in my bed half naked in my old tee, so fuckin’ sexy baby.”
he curls his fingers inside, rubbing at your wet ribbed walls over and over again, pressing against your softest spots.
“oh fuck. oh fuck, kats,” you chant, your hips jolting without thought, your lower half burning up with the influx of pleasure, “right there. please.”
“you’re so beautiful, baby,” your boyfriend coos. he feels your stomach tense on his arm and he knows exactly what that means, “come for me, all over my hand. c’mon, darlin’.”
sliding your hand between your thighs, you only rub your clit a few times as bakugou keeps up pistoning inside you. despite your brewing orgasm, you’re only excited about being completely and utterly full by him afterwards.
you let your orgasm wash over you with ease. clenching your eyes shut as you’re mindful to keep quiet. honey and delight ripples over your body, a warming heat spreading under your skin starting right at your core.
“kats… kats… fuck,” you mumble and when you’re about to do one of your typical high pitched screams, bakugou smushes his face over yours to swallow them. he’s feels your vocal chords vibrate in the kiss and only when he’s sure you’re going to be quiet, he pulls off you.
you stop touching at your clit and bakugou slowly pulls his fingers out of you to stuff in his mouth.
you’re panting heavy, eyes closed and laying back on him with all your weight. still, you manage to laugh “you’re so… you really missed me?”
with your heaving chest, you look back at katsuki, shirtless in the dark with his tongue between his two fingers. “a fuckin’ stupid amount.”
you eye his tattoo of your name on his collarbone, then your eyes on his inner bicep amongst his tattoo sleeve. katsuki hasn’t seen his parents in months, you only a few weeks ago yet he still flew you across the world to spend time with him. it all hits you differently now, his love spreading through you at a rate you can’t measure.
“i love you. thanks for bringing me here.”
bakugou smirks, pecking your forehead, “one orgasm and you’re getting sappy on me?”
you scrunch your eyebrows together, “katsuki. say it back now.”
“‘course i goddamn love you.” he hums, watching as you twist around to face him again.
you’re back to being nose to nose with your lover, bare chest against bare chest. “your koibito.”
this is your second visit to japan with katsuki meeting his parents. you’ve heard him speak japanese over the phone and chatting with his friends. he’s taught you a few words and sentences, often helpful when he’s watching his japanese dramas with the english subtitles on for you.
but one word his father taught you was koibito. it was the first thing he said when you stepped out of the taxi with the same smile as your boyfriend and his arms out to embrace you.
“you brought your koibito!” katsuki’s father says to him, in a mix of both languages so you understand also. his arms wrap around you in greeting.
you don’t miss bakugou’s blush but you do miss when he says something very fast to his father in japanese.
“what’s koibito?” you ask, as his father brings your suitcase inside and you watch katsuki take his out the car boot.
he’s still flushed, cute red cheeks as he glances up at you. “lover. like my partner. my person.”
“oh!” you say, “why didn’t he just say girlfriend?”
you know the word for girlfriend.
bakugou sighs under his breath, placing his suitcase on the floor, “i think ‘cause it’s my second time bringing you ‘round. koibito is more serious, a committed relationship.”
you grin, hugging his arm, “i’m your koibito!”
bakugou says the same thing he said then but more solemnly. with a soft nod, “you are and i’m yours.”
you can’t help but pout at him, lifting your face to press your lips into his. it’s starts off slow, controlled but all too soon, bakugou is shoving his shorts below his ass and you’re wrapping your fingers around his cock.
“gonna love you properly when we—,”
“shh, it’s okay. just want you now,” you speak into his mouth, obsessed with how quickly he begins panting. you flick your wrist over him a few times. he’s already as big as he can get, stiff and curved, slapped against his lower stomach.
“put me in, baby,” katsuki drawls, his lips over your cheek.
again, you cock your leg over his hip. you just need to lift up a little, press his cockhead between your legs and let him do the rest but—
“we need to use a condom. can’t make a mess on the sofa, kats,” you whine.
half lidded eyes look back at you. you can tell he’s strategising, adding up ratios to likelihoods and where the hell his wallet is and if he even stocked it with condoms.
you feel him pulse, hot and heavy in your hand.
“no clue where they are, baby. we can put the blanket under us and i’ll wash it in the mornin’. yeah?” he brushes his nose over yours.
honestly, bakugou could have said anything and you would have said sure.
after a rushed shuffle of stuffing the blanket underneath your hips, you fist bakugou’s tip and press him against your opening.
“move kats,” you whisper and in one push, bakugou slides into you utterly and completely.
in unison, a moan ripples out of you both, one of pure relief. even though you’re across the world from yours, slotted like a final puzzle piece with your lover feels like home.
you slide a hand under bakugou’s cheek between the pillow and wrap your other arm around his back in a cuddle. bakugou’s the same, with a hand spread over your lower back and his other arm under your side to keep you close.
“you are so perfect,” bakugou whispers to you, pressing a kiss to your lips. you’re warm and slippery, an easy glide from your orgasm before. he almost doesn’t want to move, wanting you to cockwarm him until the morning.
“so are you,” you smile, breathing a little shaky because despite not moving, he still manages to press against your sensitive spots. you bite down on your bottom lip to suppress a groan. “f-fuck.”
“i used to sit here as a kid, wonderin’ when i’d get a girl. what she’d look like, if i’d even like her,” he chuckles to himself. he taps your ass softly.
“w-why wouldn’t you like your girlfriend?” you reply, blinking slowly.
“i was a dick. girls would ask me out at school and i never liked ‘em back. thought my first relationship would be completely one sided.” he breathes a half hearted laugh. “how wrong was i?”
you giggle softly, brushing his locks off his forehead. “so wrong. i’d love to tell teen katsuki how many times you begged to take me out.”
he kisses your cheek, “he’d say you’re a fuckin’ liar.”
“flying me here to meet your parents twice. you love me so much. it actually might be one sided.” you cheese and bakugou playfully rolls his eyes.
“won’t even be fuckin’ surprised with how much i think about you.”
bakugou punctuates his comment with a thrust, an easy bounce of his hips as you lay tangled side by side.
he sees your eyes roll back in real time, a swear falling past your lips.
“oh shit. oh shit, i missed this,” you warble as bakugou keeps up his thrusts, every one keeping him deep and full inside of you.
“shh, baby,” he says over your lips, “fuck, i love you.”
“i love you too.”
every slap of bakugou’s hips causes your chest to bounce, has you inching up the sofa but he keeps you in place. he feels incredible, everywhere. his lips on your neck, nibbling your shoulder. you don’t mean to scratch down his back but when the sweet gets sweeter you need a release somewhere.
it’s only when bakugou speeds up his thrusts, thighs slapping against thighs, heavy breaths transferred from mouth to mouth that the sofa starts to creak. loudly.
“we’re… we’re too loud,” you moan in pleasure, practically hugging bakugou’s big head to your shoulder.
“old ass fuckin’—,” bakugou bites on your shoulder to stop his moan waking up the whole house, he can’t stop now. if it’s not the squelching of you and him, the sofa is groaning too.
there’s nothing you can do about it but stop though you both refuse to. he’s hitting all your best spots at this pace. it’s as if fireworks are being lit all over your skin, your next orgasm rumbling.
“p-please don’t stop,” you cry into him, “i’m so close.”
“not stoppin’ for shit, baby,”
having not seen each other in two weeks, means you’re both closer quicker than usual. bakugou notes your cute little gasp, you’re about to come.
“all for me,” he coos, “lemme have it all.”
amongst the slaps, the creaks and bakugou’s accidental loud grunts, you come all over his cock.
again, he envelops you in a kiss, swallowing everything you release. you tremble and shake in his arms, tensing tight around him which only sets him off.
he tries to keep up his pace for your orgasm but his own makes him jolty and stuttered. instead he goes for slow and deep, keeping you still with his arm locked around you.
“my beautiful baby,” he’s completely fucked out as he spills inside of you, the added friction of his come making him slide even deeper.
your hand flies to his hip, “t-too much.”
bakugou gets you, mumbling an apology in your temple and opting to pull out. but once he does, dribbles of his come does too.
“oh fuck.”
with the original plan completely forgotten, bakugou grabs your pyjama bottoms and wipes you up.
“katsuki!” you whisper-whine.
“didn’t wanna make a mess. don’t want my mum on my case,” he speaks to between your legs, lightly dabbing you down.
“i hope we weren’t loud” you say, blinking up at him. then embarrassment washes over you, “acting like horny teenagers. we should have waited katsuki. we were so loud.”
bakugou kisses you quiet, “they’re both old as fuck, nothin’ is wakin’ them up. you’re good, baby. we’re good.”
“still don’t even know if your mother likes me—,”
“fuck off with that shit. you both text all the time.”
it’s true, that’s how you grow your folder of bakugou fun facts and baby stories.
“okay,” you mumble and you feel cosy when he kisses you on the tip of the nose. “i really liked this.”
bakugou grins cutely, stuffing your dirty pyjama bottoms on the floor. he’ll remember to wash them tomorrow. “yeah? next time i’ll eat you and—,”
“shh, i said i enjoyed this now with you,” you emphasise and bakugou understands.
“me too. missed you.”
breakfast with the bakugou’s is a mixture of japanese and english. you forced katsuki into a t-shirt because your scratches down his back look like hes been attacked by a cat in his sleep. he’s also in a new pair of shorts since he gave the ones he wore last night to you. your pyjama bottoms stained with him are currently what you’re staring at, swirling around the washing machine.
you refuse to talk, completely convinced your boyfriend’s parents heard you fucking their son in their living room the night before. you stuff your scrambled egg in your mouth and katsuki can feel the anxiety dripping from you.
he sighs to himself, “did you guys hear anythin’ last night?”
you gasp, kicking katsuki’s foot under the table. what the fuck?
“what do you mean? was it the matsumo’s sprinklers again? they’re always fucking going off at night.” his mother replies in japanese and you blink at her, “our stupid neighbours sprinklers are broken. sorry if they woke you up, honey.”
you sit up straight, shocked at how you weren’t caught, “oh uh, no! it was only for five minutes and it stopped.”
you look over at katsuki who grins sadistically.
“i heard dad snoring. still haven’t got that checked out, huh?”
“snoring?” his dad frowns, with accented english.
“snoring, dad.” katsuki translates.
“i’ve been tellin’ him!” his mother chips in, “he still refuses to go!”
“there is nothing wrong with a little snoring,” his father defends, “sorry if you heard it though, yn.”
you shake your head, “not a thing! i must have been asleep.”
for the rest of breakfast, you watch as the bakugous laugh, eat and bicker amongst themselves. every booming laugh from katsuki has him looking at you, checking if you’re okay, feeling safe and included.
as katsuki’s mum shows his dad something on her phone, katsuki squeezes your thigh.
“told ya they didn’t hear shit.”
but katsuki’s mum has ears of an eagle, her head robotically turning to look at you both.
“hear what?”
you almost choke on your spit.
katsuki rolls his eyes, “nothin’ mum. mind your business.”
“don’t smart me. i will still slap your head.”
comments n reblogs are appreciated. no part 2 comments thanks
— keiji decided that mla formatting is the only way to confess his undying devotion.
akaashi keiji x f!reader
c: full of fluff!
showed this to my little sister for a review then got called a nerd. ok. god forbid, i want a letter in mla format
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
akaashi sits at his desk like a man about to defend a doctoral thesis, except instead of research on economic theory it’s a 7-page mla-styled confession to you. his laptop glows at 2 a.m., word count taunting him. bokuto had, unhelpfully, told him to “just tell her you like her!!” but no—akaashi is incapable of such casual lawlessness. if he’s going to confess, it will be formatted, cited, and double-spaced.
he adjusts his glasses, rereads the first paragraph for the 43rd time, and agonizes over whether “irrevocably tethered” sounds too intense. (spoiler: it does, but he leaves it anyway, because it’s true.)
when he prints it out, he holds the warm paper like a newborn. his hands shake. he rehearses—should he hand it to you with a bow? slide it across the desk like contraband? staple it to your notebook so you have to read it? in the end, he folds it neatly into thirds and tucks it into his pocket. his heart beats like a libero sprinting after a shanked ball.
all day, he hovers like a malfunctioning ghost. when you finally ask if something’s wrong, he thrusts the letter at you with the urgency of someone handing over state secrets. “just—read this. when you have time,” he mutters, then immediately flees, which is not suspicious at all.
the letter contains:
────୨ৎ────
love letter in mla format by akaashi keiji
keiji akaashi
the love of your life (self-proclaimed but factually accurate, see works cited)
english iii, but make it personal
16 september 2025
dear y/n,
in consideration of recent empirical evidence—that is, every recorded instance of my pulse accelerating upon the sight of you, supported by first-hand observations and internal peer-reviewed studies of my own psyche (see fig. 1, appendix)—it has come to my attention that my feelings for you are not only profound but also academically verifiable. this letter, then, attempts to both a) confess my adoration in accordance with mla guidelines, and b) ensure that you cannot possibly misconstrue my devotion as anything less than a peerless thesis of love.
i submit the following statement: you are, inarguably, the most radiant, delightful, and inexplicably perfect human being i have ever encountered. the scope of this claim is intentionally broad, for narrowing it would diminish its accuracy. to contextualize, when you walk into a room, the oxygen molecules themselves seem to rearrange, as if auditioning for the chance to be breathed in by you. i find myself taking notes in my head, as though i am preparing a literary analysis of your smile (compare to: sunlight, starlight, the flash of a libero’s perfect receive).
i recognize that the previous paragraph verges on hyperbole, but i assure you it is in fact a faithful account of my interior world. even bakugo (2014) notes in *the unspoken laws of attraction* that “extreme emotional expression is the natural consequence of proximity to someone you care for deeply” (p. 43). therefore, my exaggeration is merely a symptom of clinical sincerity.
consider, further, the sheer gravitational pull you exert on my attention. i do not mean this metaphorically—though if einstein were alive, i am confident he would posit a new theory of relativity solely around the event horizon of your existence. my eyes, much like poorly trained freshmen, cannot stay in their lane whenever you are nearby. and yet, unlike those freshmen, my attention does not waver. i cannot look away.
and to be transparent: this inability to look away may appear unsettling to others, but to me, it is simply truth. i am tethered. undeniably. irrevocably. i wake and think of you; i sleep and dream of you; i annotate the margins of my textbooks with your initials, as though the structural integrity of my education depends upon your presence.
some might call this level of fixation unsustainable, but i argue the opposite. in fact, i have conducted (admittedly biased) research, and the conclusion is clear: life without you is a poorly cited essay, full of gaps, missing a works cited page, doomed to fail. with you, however, my life achieves not just coherence but eloquence.
(parenthetical note: i am aware that i am currently begging in the subtext of this letter, but if begging is a sin, then please grade me an “f” so long as i may keep kneeling at the altar of your kindness.)
i must also address your laugh. it is not hyperbolic to suggest it should be classified as a renewable energy source. if the government were to bottle it, we could shut down every power plant tomorrow. when you laughed that one time at bokuto’s pun (the one even he wasn’t sure landed), i swear the axis of the earth tilted three degrees closer to joy. i have replayed that sound in my head more times than i care to admit (approx. 78,391, but who is counting).
my point is: you are vital. not “important” in the way we call breakfast the most important meal of the day, but *vital*, as in: you are air, you are gravity, you are the annotated bibliography without which my research collapses into incoherent rambling.
i acknowledge that the tone of this letter may lean towards desperation. and while i strive for academic neutrality, my bias cannot be suppressed. every fiber of my being wants you. in this moment. in every moment. i would cite the beating of my own heart as evidence, but that feels less like a citation and more like a confessional (which, admittedly, this entire letter is).
should you accept my humble, academically formatted declaration of love, i promise the following:
unconditional support for all your endeavors (including but not limited to: late-night snacking, impulse shopping, and venting about minor inconveniences).
a lifetime subscription to my undivided attention.
the type of devotion typically reserved for tragic victorian protagonists, except i plan on surviving long enough to actually make you breakfast.
in conclusion, and to restate my thesis: i love you, wholly and without qualification. this is not conjecture, nor is it tentative. it is the strongest claim i have ever made, the kind that requires no counterargument.
with all my footnotes,
akaashi keiji
────୨ৎ────
works cited
bakugo, katsuki. the unspoken laws of attraction. u.a. press, 2014.
einstein, albert. relativity, but make it romantic. princeton university press, unpublished manuscript, probably.
akaashi, keiji. every heartbeat since meeting y/n. unpublished primary source, ongoing since 2009.
you read it. you laugh so hard at his fake citations you nearly choke on your drink. the “renewable energy source” section about your laugh has you snorting while laughing, which only confirms his thesis. the part about begging in parentheses? you highlight it in your mind forever.
when you finish, you find him pacing outside the classroom like a medieval knight awaiting judgment from the queen. the moment you approach, he looks at you like he’s seconds away from fainting.
“so,” you say, grinning, holding up the letter like evidence. “mla format, huh?”
akaashi’s ears turn pink. “i thought… it would be clear. academically.”
“it’s definitely clear,” you assure him, and then—because the dramatic irony is too perfect—you kiss his cheek.
he freezes, then exhales like someone just lifted a two-ton bibliography off his shoulders. “does this mean—”
“yes,” you cut in, laughing again. “you don’t need to write another works cited page. i get it.”
he looks equal parts relieved and terrified, like you’ve just accepted his marriage proposal instead of his love letter. and from then on, every time you so much as giggle, he mutters something about “fig. 2: confirmation of hypothesis” under his breath while scribbling imaginary notes in the air.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: take my phone away from me so i could stop coming up with stupid ideas (˶˃⤙˂˶)
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
synopsis. satoru is sick and tired of pretending to be just friends
contents. sfw! hurt / comfort. best friend! gojo x fem! reader. no-curse au. second part of this fic. mutual pining. classic case of miscommunication. idiots in love. happy ending! they get together despite me wanting to leave this unresolved ࿐
satoru isn’t beside you when your eyes flutter open to see the slithers of sunlight filtering through your curtains. you think nothing of it because you know he’s halfway through making you breakfast.
( you’re a light sleeper — a fact he constantly teases you about — and you’d stirred when he’d slipped out from your sheets half an hour ago, the loss of his warmth a brief disturbance in your deep, alcohol-induced slumber. you’d gone back to sleep knowing you would meet him in the kitchen when you finally mustered up the strength to get out of bed. )
the air in your apartment is thick with the scent of melted butter, sweet batter, and the sharp, clean tang of citrus. you’re ravenous, to say the least. and you could kill for a stack of satoru’s perfect pancakes right now. or french toast. or even a regular jam and butter sandwich. he’s infuriatingly great at everything he does, and cooking is no exception.
a groan escapes your lips as your hangover makes itself known. it’s an insistent throb behind your eyes that threatens to blossom into a full-blown headache if not dealt with accordingly. and there, on your polished nightstand, arranged with precision are: a little sachet of ibuprofen, a fruit punch flavored foil packet of electrolyte powder, and a tall, sweating bottle of water.
( satoru always knows exactly what you need before you do. it’s like he has a sixth sense just for you )
you rip the electrolyte packet open, the crimson powder puffing up in a small cloud as you pour it into the water. it swirls and dissolves, turning the liquid into something that looks alarmingly like blood.
you take a long gulp regardless, letting the sugary liquid pool in your mouth before you drop the two pills in and swallow. you lean against the headboard for a moment, letting the medicine and the sugar work their magic whilst you take in the state of your room. it’s a disaster.
your bra and that stupid, overpriced dress are a heap of silk and lace by the foot of your bed, reminiscent of the date that ended in tears and satoru’s arms around you. you kick them aside, the fabric whispering against the wooden floorboards as you pad to the bathroom to brush your teeth.
you’re going through the motions on autopilot. up, down, up, down. minty froth covers your teeth and gums. it’s a welcome distraction from the lingering bitterness of last night’s champagne. you swirl with some mouthwash, alcohol burning your tongue, and then you’re finally ready, finally heading towards the kitchen.
( you’re not sure if you’re anticipating the breakfast satoru’s making or just the excuse to be near him again. it’s probably the latter. it’s always the latter )
the kitchen is quiet — too quiet — for a sunday morning. satoru’s usually humming to himself while he cooks. but no chords or melodic notes carry to your ears as you pad towards him.
he’s standing at the stove, his back to you. he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even seem to register your presence despite the floorboards creaking as you approach him. the easy smile that was forming on your lips freezes, then slowly melts away.
“morning ‘toru,” you murmur, it sounds more like a hesitant question than a greeting.
he flips a pancake with a sharp flick of his wrist. it lands perfectly in the pan, a flawless golden circle. “hey,” he replies, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth. a single, clipped word. no ‘mornin’ sleeping beauty’, no teasing about your hangover. nothing. . .
a cold knot forms in your stomach, completely unrelated to your nausea. you lean against the kitchen island, suddenly feeling unsteady on your feet. “smells good,” you offer.
“pancakes,” he says, still not turning. he gestures with his spatula towards the bowl of fruit on the counter. you don’t want them. not really. you want him to turn around. to look at you with those ridiculously blue eyes, to crack a joke, to do anything normal. he’s too quiet
“‘toru,” you start, his name feeling foreign on your tongue. “are you okay ?”
he finally turns, and the sight of his face makes your breath hitch. his expression is unreadable. his eyes, usually so bright and full of light, are a dull blue. they don’t crinkle at the corners. they don’t hold any of their usual mischief. it feels like they’re looking right through you.
“i’m fine,” he says, a lie so blatant it’s insulting. “just tired. . . how did you sleep ?”
“okay,” you murmur, rubbing your arms, feeling suddenly exposed in just your t-shirt and shorts. “thanks for. . . picking me up again and taking care of me.”
“what are friends for ?” he hums, and the words shock you. it’s a phrase he’s never used before. he’d usually say : he’d do it all over again. and that someone has to save you from the assholes you seem to attract. he’d ruffle your hair and you’d squirm and play fight until his cheeks are flushed and your chest is heaving.
but today he just slides the ceramic bowl across the counter towards you without a word.
it’s a work of art. tangerine segments with all the bitter white pith carefully peeled away, crisp apple slices, glistening with a sheen of freshly squeezed lemon juice to prevent them from turning brown. ripe mango chunks, impossibly orange and sweet, and plump strawberries, all the green leaves meticulously plucked off. you can’t help but grin.
( he really does know you like the back of his hand )
your smile soon wavers because for once satoru’s not talking to you as he fries the pancakes. no prodding about the date, no gentle teasing about your terrible taste in men. you’re genuinely confused because he’s usually so loquacious in the mornings, a running commentary of bad jokes and complaints about the economical and political state of the world. but he seems to be so far away, lost in a world you can’t see
“these are perfect,” you murmur, popping a strawberry into your mouth. the saccharine juices explode on your tongue. “you’re the best ‘toru”
“i try,” he responds, his voice clipped. not ‘of course i am’. not ‘you’re lucky i love you so much, prepping your fruit is a pain in the ass.’ none of your usual banter.
( it’s like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world instead of being here in your kitchen. anywhere else in the world instead of here with you )
you’re thrown off kilter by it, the typical rhythm of your friendship is suddenly syncopated and strange. it’s like hearing a song you know by heart being played in a minor key.
he serves you a stack of perfect pancakes, golden brown and fluffy, their edges crisp. and immediately starts cleaning up. he’s scraping leftover batter into the sink, loading your dishwasher. washing his hands, drying them on a dishtowel. all the while his back is still to you.
he doesn’t set down a plate for himself. there’s nothing for himself today. he usually sits right beside you — his thigh brushing against yours, thumb smoothing a crumb from the corner of your mouth as he hangs on to your every word and you tell him about your date in detail — but today he seems hellbent on keeping his distance from you. on keeping his voice to himself.
( he never cleans up this quickly. never talks this little. never avoids your gaze as if you’re the last person on earth he wants to look at. why is he being so weird ??? )
“gotta head out,” he says, finally looking at you. “sorry. suguru and i are going to the gym.”
your fork freezes halfway to your mouth. you look so disappointed it almost kills him. he swears he can feel the chambers of his heart caving in because your lip is quivering and you look so confused. he has half a mind to sit down and kiss you until the crease in your brow disappears. to sit down and tell you how he feels. but he’s positive he doesn’t stand a chance. and it’s fucking killing him.
“it’s sunday,” you frown. he never goes to the gym on sundays. sundays are for pancakes and bad movies on the couch. sundays are for you. plus, he’d said he was tired. none of this is adding up.
“the grind never stops,” he shrugs. you’re in disbelief as he leans over and gives you a side hug, a brief, awkward press of bodies before he’s inching towards your front door. you’re still frozen, fork suspended in mid-air, a perfect pancake suddenly looking like cardboard in front of you.
“satoru,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks, the sound pathetic and thin in the suffocating silence of your apartment.
his hand freezes on the doorknob. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his entire body goes rigid. but he doesn’t turn around. he just stands there, a silhouette against the light filtering in from the hallway, a stranger in your home.
“i have to go,” he says, his voice strained. and then he’s gone. the door clicks shut behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. you’re left alone in your kitchen, with a stack of perfect pancakes growing cold on your plate. the scent of melted butter and sweet batter, once so comforting, is now, suffocating. what. the. actual. fuck ???
the question echoes in your mind, in the silent kitchen, but there’s no one here to answer it. you slowly lower your fork, the clink of it against the ceramic plate unnaturally loud. your appetite is gone. the plate of pancakes sits untouched, golden-brown circles slowly turning cold, their edges losing their crispness. beside them, the bowl of fruit look like a still life painting. you push the dishes away. you can’t eat. the thought of putting any of that meticulously prepared food into your churning stomach is unbearable. because he’s not here to eat with you.
you stare at the door, half-expecting it to swing back open, for him to reappear with a sheepish grin and tell you he’s pranking you. for him to pull up a chair beside you and steal some of your pancakes. but the front door remains closed.
you wrap your arms around yourself, a futile attempt to hold yourself together. your mind is a chaotic mess, replaying the last twenty-four hours on a relentless loop. satoru’s arms around you at the restaurant, the low murmur of his voice in your ear as he helped you into bed, wiped off your makeup. the warmth of his body beside yours as you drifted off to sleep. you’d slept so deeply, so peacefully, nestled against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady and reassuring against your ear. in your drunken haze, you’d dared to hope, just for a little while, that maybe this was it. maybe this was the turning point. maybe he’d feel the same way and you could finally be something more.
but now your hope has curdled into confusion, into a deep, gnawing ache. what had you done ? what had you said ? was it the dress ? the stupid, overpriced dress you’d worn for a date that ended in tears and a five-word text message to satoru ? was it the way you’d clung to him ? the way you’d cried ?
your brain spirals, searching for the mistake, the single misstep that triggered this sudden change in him. and the person you’d usually call to unravel this mess with you , the one person who could always make sense of the chaos in your head, is the very person creating it.
you don’t hear from him for the rest of sunday. the day passes in a blur of hollow silence. you don’t leave your apartment. you don’t even drift to shoko’s room. you try to read, but the words swim before your eyes. you tried to watch a movie on the couch, but the familiar dialogue sounds like a foreign language. you pick up your phone a dozen times, thumb hovering over his name, heart pounding with a mixture of desperation and dread.
what would you say ? ‘are you okay ?’ he’d already answered that, with a lie.
‘why did you leave ?’ you’re not sure you want to know the answer.
‘i miss you ‘toru’ ? that feels too vulnerable, too raw.
so you just stare at his name, and wait as the silence grows, filling every corner of your apartment until you can barely breathe. seeping into your bones until you feel like you’re made of nothing but emptiness.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
monday is humiliating. you wake up alone, again. your bed is cold unsurprisingly. the weak light filtering through your curtains does little to chase away the chill that’s beginning to settle deep into your bones. you lay there for a moment too long, your mind replaying the memories of saturday night and sunday morning.
sleepovers with satoru are nothing new. you’ve shared a little over a decade of tangled limbs, stolen tubs of häagen-dazs from the fridge at midnight and whispers in the dark until the moon gave way to the sun.
( you remember the tantrums you’d both throw when your parents dared to try and separate you, to take you back to your respective homes. your shared fits of rage always ended the same way: hastily packed overnight bags, staying up talking until your voices were hoarse and the sun was kissing your cheeks.
you’d spent countless nights falling asleep beside satoru, and you’ve spent countless mornings waking up beside him, his face soft and peaceful in the morning light.
the sleepovers evolved during those awkward teenage years, when your mom decided to waltz around the topic of puberty and drill it into both of you that you weren’t kids anymore and sharing beds was no longer an option. even then, he’d just migrate to your couch, long limbs comically cramped in the small space, his presence comforting despite him being in a completely different room. sleepovers with satoru are the norm, even though you hadn’t actually slept beside each other intentionally in years. )
saturday was reminiscent of simpler times. saturday, he’d actually slept in your bed. not out of necessity, not out of convenience, but because you’d asked him to.
you’d fallen asleep tangled up in the soft sheets, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you to him.
and although your heartbeat was erratic and your breathing was heavy and shaky — because satoru is without a doubt the most attractive man on the planet, and the gentlest, and the weirdest and most annoying and an asshole too, everything all at once, and you’re still that girl with a crush on him despite him treating you like one of the guys — you’d slept like a baby.
in his arms, you’d dreamt of him being the one to take you out on a date, of him loving you the way you love him. and now, you’re laying in bed alone.
for the first time since he’d pushed you off the swings on the playground and you’d demanded a hello kitty bandaid for the scrape on your knee, satoru isn’t talking to you. and you don’t know why.
there’s a void where his voice used to be. and your brain is still searching for the mistake you’re certain you must’ve made.
did you say something in your sleep ? did you do something wrong ? you can’t think of anything.
you go about your day in a fog of confusion and hurt. you expect to see satoru on campus, expect him to fall into step beside you on the quad, to sling an arm around your shoulders, carry your ridiculously heavy tote bag on his own shoulder and complain about his eight a.m. physics lecture. but he doesn’t.
nor does he text you to ask how your international political relations class went.
( hell, he doesn’t seem to have any interest in relations with you at all. )
you finally see him at a little past noon. he’s sitting under a giant oak tree with your friends. laughing at something shoko’s saying, head thrown back, the sound carrying on the crisp air. and then his eyes sweep across your approaching figure on the lawn, and for a split second, they meet yours. then his smile vanishes, wiped clean away, as if it never existed.
despite the sinking feeling in your guy, you walk over, forcing cheerfulness into your voice as you greet your friends and plop down near him. he gives you a curt, almost imperceptible nod, then turns back to shoko, and continues his conversation without properly acknowledging you.
shoko raises a brow but doesn’t comment in fear of making things even more awkward. suguru avoids your gaze as he gives you an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. yeah, satoru is definitely avoiding you. like the plague.
usually, he’d flop over your lap, demanding you play with his hair, his eyes fixed on yours as you’d swipe his sunglasses off his nose and wear them. usually, he’d tell corny jokes until you were breathless with laughter. but now ? nothing. he doesn’t even lean towards you. doesn’t even look at you. you’re practically staring at him, brows furrowed as you try to figure him out. he’s not happy. he’s not sad. he just looks numb, hollow.
satoru doesn’t go off with you when the group splits off for your next classes. he trails after suguru. shoko comes with you, and the first thing she asks is if something happened with you and satoru. you can only say you don’t know as hot, tears threaten to slip down your cheeks and your throat closes up.
despite feeling like an absolute idiot for sitting by him. despite being humiliated by the way he’d blatantly ignored you, you try to get through the rest of the day. your heart feels like it’s splitting in two. satoru is such a core part of your day — your life — that having him flat out ignore you makes you feel physically ill.
you cross paths again after your last class. you’re heading to the cafe to grab a passion fruit refresher, and he’s coming from the opposite direction. your paths are set to intersect. your heart hammers against your ribs, a burst of hope.
maybe he’ll talk to you now. maybe he was just in a weird mood earlier. something with his parents ? his basketball coach ? but he doesn’t even look at you. he just smoothly veers away, leaving a wide, empty berth of space between you, and you’re left standing there, feeling like the world is ending.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
tuesday feels suffocating. you feel like you can barely breathe as you go about your day. this is the longest you’ve gone without speaking to satoru. even when you had petty fights over who got to be player one and whose turn it was to choose a game on the play station, you’d never ignored each other.
( okay, maybe once or twice you’d given him the silent treatment for a couple hours. but you’d never gone this long without making up. )
you want to fix this more than you’ve ever wanted anything. you’re willing to go out of your way to bridge the gap between you. you buy him a sticky sweet cinnamon roll and a perfect red velvet cupcake from the cafe that’s twenty minutes away from campus. the one that’s overpriced but has the best pastries. the one he loves and frequents often.
satoru’s a sucker for sweet treats. he always has been. he’s got the biggest sweet tooth ever. you know he won’t be able to ignore you when you’ve got so much as a jolly rancher in your palm. talk-less of two fresh pastries. you’re certain you’ll be best friends again as soon as he sees the crisp boxes.
thankfully, you still share locations with each other so it’s pretty easy to track him down. you find him in the engineering building’s computer lab, hunched over his laptop. you approach him cautiously, your hand trembling slightly as you hold out the pastries.
“peace offering?” you try, aiming for a light, airy tone.
he glances up, his eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second before darting back to his screen. “oh,” he says, his cadence a neutral tone that’s somehow worse than anger. “you didn’t have to do that.”
“i wanted to,” you say, your voice sounding smaller than you’d like. “i know you like these.”
“yeah, they’re my favorite,” he says, but he doesn’t make a move to take them. he just keeps typing, fingers flying across the keyboard. “i’m just in the middle of something right now. a project. it’s due soon.”
“oh,” you sound like a deflated balloon. “okay. well, i’ll just. . .leave them here.”
“thanks,” he says, his eyes still glued to the screen. “appreciate it.”
you stand there for a moment longer, before you turn and leave, your shoulders slumping in defeat.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
by wednesday, the sad plasma coursing in your veins starts to bubble into searing rage. who does he think he is ? to just. . . erase you ? ignore you ? to discard years of friendship without a single explanation ? it’s condescending and inconsiderate and you’re so over it. you’re not a toy he can put back on the shelf when he gets bored of playing with it. you resolve to corner him and confront him after your history lecture, your patience worn thin to the point of nonexistence.
“satoru,” you say, your voice low and shaking with fury. “we need to talk.”
he looks at you, really looks at you, and his eyes are ice cold. “i can’t talk now,” he says, his voice quiet. “i have to meet with suguru. we’re working on a presentation.”
“be so fucking for real suguru can wait, you two live together. . ” you shoot back, your fists clenched at your sides. “you’ve been ignoring me for three days, satoru. three whole days. you barely look at me, you won’t talk to me, you’re acting like i don’t even exist and i want to know why so don’t you dare stand there and give me another excuse.”
he sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to drain the last of the energy from his body. “it’s not an excuse,” he says, his voice rough. “i really do have to go. i’m sorry.”
( he doesn’t deny any of your former accusations. and that infuriates you even more )
then he walks away, leaving you standing there, fury and melancholy warring for dominance in your chest. you want to scream. you want to cry. you want to throw something. you want to grab him by the collar of his stupid hoodie and shake him until he tells you what you did wrong. but he’s walking away too quickly for you to do anything but stand there and look stupid.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
thursday comes and goes, and you feel so pathetic that you decide to stop trying completely. you stop looking for satoru in crowds. you stop hoping he’ll sit down next to you and fix everything. you stop typing and deleting messages. you stop. and it hurts. it hurts so much more than anything you’ve ever experienced. it hurts more than being stood up. it hurts more than being led on. it hurts more than being cheated on. it hurts.
there’s a constant ache in your chest. your throat feels tight every time you you try to speak. you chase the comfort of sleep every night and it runs faster. you’re zoning out in your lectures. zoning out in conversations every time shoko asks if you’re okay, you force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
you haven’t lived a day without satoru since that fateful day on the playground. and now you’ve gone four days without him. you have no idea if you’ll survive another.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
friday nearly kills you. you have a two hour literature lecture with satoru, a huge class in a cavernous auditorium where you usually sit together, in the back row. where he usually slips you notes with ridiculous drawings and nudges you under the table. where you usually draw on his toned arm, little flowers and stars that he complains about but never washes off until they fade on their own.
today, he’s already there when you arrive, to your surprise he’s saved a seat for you like he always does. and a small flicker of hope sparks in you. it’s quenched and dies just as quickly. you realize he didn’t actually save a seat for you. it’s just empty coincidentally. you’re too embarrassed to find somewhere else to sit so you plop down beside him.
he doesn’t even seem to notice because there’s someone on his other side, a pretty girl with long, dark hair who’s laughing at something he’s saying. he’s smiling, and he’s leaning in, his body angled towards her, his attention completely captured by her. you can feel tears prickling the back of your eyes.
you blink them away furiously as you pull out your laptop. heart pounding with anticipation. but he doesn’t even acknowledge you. he doesn’t slip you a note. he doesn’t nudge you under the table. he just keeps talking to the girl on his right, his voice a low murmur that you can’t quite make out over the drone of the professor.
you want to hurl. you want to stand up and scream, to grab his arm and demand that he look at you, that he acknowledge your existence. but you just sit there, your hands clenched in your lap, your eyes fixed on the front of the lecture hall, blinking back tears.
he’s never spoken to this girl in his life. you’ve never even seen her before. and sure, he’s by far one of the most popular people on campus but he doesn’t make a habit of starting conversations with random girls.
( he’s always said he didn’t need any more girl friends because he had you. and you were more than enough for him. )
you resolve, right then and there, that you’ll speak to him on saturday. you can’t do this anymore. you can’t live like this anymore. you refuse to. partly, because you miss your best friend. partly, because this week has been the most miserable week of your life. but mostly because you love satoru too much to let him go.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
on saturday, you muster up the courage to go to his dorm, heart pounding against your ribs. you can’t do it anymore. the silence, the avoidance, the gaping hole in your heart where your best friend is supposed to be. 
( you don’t bother knocking because he’ll know it’s you. and you’re not sure he’ll let you in. you decide to make good use of the spare key he gave you last year for emergencies. because to you this feels like an emergency. )
you can hear the sound effects of a video game as soon as you step over the threshold. you pad towards the living room and find satoru and suguru on the couch, controllers in hand, eyes glued to the screen where sub-zero is brutally launching at kitana.
“you’re cooked” suguru grins as he mashes buttons with a ferocity that makes you smile for a second.
“in your dreams, emo” satoru drawls, a lazy smirk on his face as he leans back against the cushions. he looks so relaxed, so normal. because he hasn’t noticed your presence yet. the sight of him grinning sends a fresh wave of pain through you.
“satoru” you frown, he glances up as you stumble back, and his smirk vanishes, replaced by that same cold, expression you’ve been getting all week.
“what are you doing here?” he asks, his voice flat, trying and failing to mask the shock racking his body.
“i’m here to talk to you . . . obviously.” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound strong. “i want you to tell me what i did to upset you.”
suguru’s hazel eyes dart between the two of you, taking in the tension, the way satoru’s whole body has gone rigid. the way your eyes are sparkling with unshed tears. he slowly sets his controller down on the coffee table. “okayyy,” he murmurs, standing up. “i don’t think i should be here for this conversation so i’m gonna go to my room and you two do your thing. . .”
“yeah, you should leave,” satoru snaps, at the exact same time you say, “you should probably leave sugu.”
suguru raises his hands in mock surrender, “relax i’m going,” he mutters, and practically bolts into his bedroom, shutting the door with a soft click that echoes in the silence.
“i gave you that key for emergencies” satoru murmurs, picking up the remote beside him and turning the tv off.
( you can’t believe him. is that all he has to say? after nearly a week of radio silence . . . he’s seething over a stupid tiny silver key ? )
“you’ve been ignoring me for five days, satoru,” you start. “five whole days. you won’t look at me, you won’t talk to me, you’ve been acting like i don’t even exist. so don’t you dare sit there and make me feel crazy for coming here and trying to fix things. instead of telling me what i did and how i can fix this.”
he finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the ice in his eyes cracks, just a little. thawed by something raw and vulnerable and so full of pain it makes your own chest ache.
“you didn’t do anything. it’s not you,” he sighs “it’s me.” you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he’s red, blue, and purple in the face.
“don’t give me that cliche bullshit,” you shoot back, taking a step closer to him “don’t do that. talk to me properly. we’ve always talked about things properly.”
( the statement sounds less true as each word drips off your tongue. because you’ve talked about everything under the sun with the sole of exception of the thing that matters most: your feelings for each other )
“maybe i don’t want to talk anymore,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice.
“yes, you do,” you mumble through gritted teeth, taking another step closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “you’re the most talkative person i know. you can’t go five minutes without telling me some ridiculous joke. so please, satoru. just talk to me.”
he looks up at you, blue eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to break. you think he’s finally going to end this stalemate. he opens his mouth, then closes it again. he shakes his head subsequently.
“i can’t,” he whispers, and the words are so full of pain they break your heart all over again. “i just. . . can’t.”
“why?” you query, your voice barely a whisper.
he looks away, his gaze fixed on a point just over your shoulder. “because if i start talking,” he shudders, “we can’t be friends anymore”
“you’re my best friend, okay?” you choke out, the words torn from your throat. “i don’t know what i did, but i know that you’re the most important person in my life and the last few days have been killing me— ”
“i don’t want to be your fucking friend,” he cuts you off, his voice is ragged, sapphire eyes glinting like coal in a fireplace, burning with a scorching intensity unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.
the words hang in the air between you. unraveling everything you’ve ever known. it feels like the world is tilting on its axis. it feels like your friendship is shattering into a million irreparable pieces. you can only stare, your mind a blank, static, the tears on your cheeks are frozen in time.
“what. . ?” you breathe, “you don’t . . what?”
“i don’t want to be your friend because i want to be more than that” he repeats, his voice cracking. “i’ve wanted to be with you since the day i pushed you off the swings. since the day we met on the first day of elementary school and you wouldn’t stop talking about your brother’s obsession with digimon and pokemon. i’ve been in love with you for over a decade, and i’m so fucking tired of pretending i’m not.”
‘since the day i pushed you off the swings.’
‘since the first day of elementary school.’
‘over a decade.’
the phrases echo in your mind and you finally, finally understand what he meant when he’d said he was tired on sunday. he was never angry at you. he was never trying to hurt you. he was just trying to preserve your friendship. all your memories suddenly take on new meanings. all those times he’d linger after holding your hand, all those inside jokes, all those moments when you’d catch him looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. it wasn’t just friendship. it was never just friendship.
how did you not see it ? how could you have been so blind, so oblivious to something so obvious ?
you’d been so focused on your own feelings, so caught up in your own fears about what might happen if he knew how you felt, that you never even considered. . . never even allowed yourself to fully hope. . .
“i . . ” you don’t even know what to say “i didn’t know.”
you shake your head, trying to process the weight of his words. the years. the pain he must have felt watching you date other people, listening to you talk about your feelings while repressing his own.
“i didn’t know you felt the same way.” you whisper
his brow furrows as the words carry straight to his heart. he’d never believed in a world where he’d be this lucky. never believed in a universe where you’d love him the way he loves you.
but you do. you have. for years. you’ve buried it under layers of friendship and fear, convinced it was one-sided. convinced he was too good for you, too popular, and here he is, telling you he’s been in love with you since you were children.
“all this time, we could’ve been . . .”
you can’t finish the sentence. the possibilities flood your mind, overwhelming you. the wasted time, the missed opportunities, the years you could have had together. but then you look at him, really look at him, you see the hope dawning in his eyes. and you realize it doesn’t matter how long you’ve waited. what matters is what happens now. what you say today.
“i want to be with you too,” you say, the smile that breaks across his face is like the sun coming out from behind clouds after a grueling thunderstorm. a torrent of everything you’ve been feeling — everything you’ve been holding back for years — pours out of you.
“i’ve been looking for you in other guys,” your breath hitches. “that’s why my dates never work out. because there’s no one like you. i could go on a million dates and i’d think about you on every single one. i didn’t think you would ever see me that way. i was too scared to ask, i didn’t want to ruin our friendship. i didn’t want you to hate me. i didn’t want to lose you forever, and i felt like did. i’ve been dying all week, satoru. literally dying. because i thought i’d lost you, and i couldn’t . . . i can’t. . .”
you’re rambling, pouring your heart out to him, your words a jumbled, messy stream of consciousness, and then you start crying, really crying, your breath hitching in your chest, your vision blurring.
“shit, please don’t cry,” he frowns. “i hate seeing you sad. fuck, don’t . . you could never lose me” he’s cursing under his breath, running a hand through his ivory hair, blue eyes wide with a mixture of horror and regret. “i can’t believe you’re crying because of me. i’m such an idiot”
he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug, and you bury your face in his chest, crystal tears soaking through his shirt.
“did you expect me to be all giddy and happy when you were avoiding me all week ?” you mumble into his shirt.
“no, i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” he says, his voice muffled against your hair. “i should’ve never left you. i should’ve told you how i felt but i didn’t think you’d ever see me that way, okay ? i thought i’d be stuck in the friendzone forever and i couldn’t deal with it. i didn’t actually want to ignore you. it wasn’t fair to you in the slightest and it was honestly a dick move on my part. . . i got in my head and i was trying to force myself to move on, but i’ll never do something that stupid ever again.”
“you promise ?” you ask, your voice small.
“i pinky promise,” he murmurs, looping his pinky around yours.
you’re glaring at him through blurred vision and half-lidded eyes. you’re so beautiful. even when you’re sad and mad at him.
( he’s a goner. has been since you walked into class, clinging to your mom’s leg, wailing because you didn’t want her to leave. he’s been a goner since you were sitting three desks away from him, learning how to count up to a hundred. he’s been a goner since the first time you looked at him like this. right after you’d clambered to your feet and demanded he made amends before you snitched on him. he’ll fix everything. he’ll fix everything even if it kills him. )
“please stop crying,” he groans, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “i’m really fucking sorry and i’m really fucking stupid too . . . and i know that’s surprising ‘cause i’m the smartest person you know—”
“you’re actually the worst. you genuinely suck satoru. . .” you interject, shoving at his chest to release yourself from his cloying grip. you’re laughing in spite of the tears in your eyes.
“i know” he chuckles, somehow managing to hold you even tighter
“i hate you” you say, knowing you meant the opposite.
“i love you. romantically.” he murmurs. and you know he’s clarifying because you were the type of friends who said it casually. frequently. the type of friends who said it everyday without fail. “i don’t love you the way friends are supposed to. which checks out ‘cause i’ve been an awful friend recently,”
“recently, yeah,” you say, giving him a watery smile, and he swears he’s going to have a heart attack if you keep looking at him. “but you’re still the best friend i’ve ever had.”
“i’ll be the best boyfriend you’ll ever have if you’ll let me,” he says, eyes sparkling hopefully. “can i be your boyfriend ? will you give me a chance to make you the happiest alive ?”
“you’re such a cornball,” you say, laughing through your tears. he’s asking like you’re about to get married.
“is that a yes ?” he asks, cheeks tinged cherry blossom pink, heart thumping erratically in his chest. he’d understand if you said no. right now he doesn’t feel like he’s any better than the losers you used to go on dates with. but unlike them he’s willing to pay his dues tenfold. a hundredfold. a thousandfold. . .
“yes, i’ll go out with you,” you grin, and before you can process it he’s hugging you so tight you can barely breathe and spinning you around as your laughter echoes in the living room.
when he puts you down, he cups your face in his hands, thumbs gently wiping away the tear stains on your cheeks. “you’ve gotta tell me what to do to fix everything now” he murmurs. “i don’t have any hello kitty bandaids on me.”
“you still don’t have any ?” you gape, choosing to indulge in his cheesy bit. he’s never going to shut up about him pushing you off the swings or your demand for a cute bandaid. he’ll probably tell the story even when your skin is all wrinkled and your hair’s turning silver. and you’re very okay with that. you’re ecstatic actually. “think of something quick or i’ll tell on you.”
“y’know i’m a genius, i already know what to do” you arch a brow and grins, “i’ll kiss it better.”
( he’s been waiting his whole life to say that )
“you should’ve said that after you pushed me off the swings,” you sigh. “or when you broke my favorite monster high doll. or maybe every time you picked me up from a date . . . we would’ve gotten here sooner.”
“i should’ve just told you i wanted you from the start,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “i could’ve saved us a lot of time and heartbreak.”
satoru finally kisses you, and it tastes like strawberries, the salt from your tears, and the spearmint from the gum he’d been chewing while playing mortal kombat. his hands are everywhere—your waist, cupping your neck, caressing your cheek. your hands are in his hair, pulling him closer. it’s such a slow, sweet kiss, one that you’ve both craved forever. his lips are plush and soft, and he’s pulling you impossibly closer until you have to pull away, cursing the need for oxygen.
he’s looking at you, his cheeks rosy and flushed, blue eyes shining brighter than all the stars in the universe. “pinch me,” he says.
“what ?” you splutter, brows furrowed, head tilted as you blink at him
“pinch me,” he says again. “i’ve gotta make sure i’m not dreaming this time.”
you don’t know whether to laugh or melt. you do a mixture of both as you pinch him and he pretends to wince, “do you dream about me a lot then ?”
“all day, every day,” he quips. “you’re all i’ve ever dreamed of.”
“that’s so corny,” you say, but you’re smiling.
“oh that’s rich coming from you, little miss obsessed with rom coms,” he scoff. “if noah calhoun said that, you wouldn’t think so. you’d be geeking and saying you wish men like that existed. but last i checked i’m a man and i exist—”
“it wouldn’t be cringe because that’s the notebook,” you tut. “but y’know i think you’re quite like noah, actually. personality wise. i can see you hanging off a ferris wheel. and i’d definitely pants you.”
“of course you would” he shakes his head, “looks wise, i’m hotter than noah. wouldn’t you agree?”
“mmm, that’s pushing it,” you say, and he’s about to protest and pout and whine, but you cut him off with a kiss. it starts sweet and gentle before blossoming until you’re beneath him on the couch, his body pressed against yours, his kisses tickling you until you’re laughing so loud you can barely breathe.
“say i’m hotter than noah,” he murmurs against your skin.
“you’re hotter than noah,” you giggle. he loves you. he loves this. this is what he lives to do. make you laugh. he’s made you cry for the first and last time — okay maybe the third and last time if you count petty childhood escapades but he digresses— and he vows, right then and there, that he’ll die before he lets you cry because of him again.
he’s still hovering over you, forearms braced on either side of your head. but he’s not kissing you anymore, he’s just looking at you, and the look in his eyes is so soft, so tender, it makes your heart feel like it might just burst.
after over a decade of pining, of waiting for you to see him with bated breath, satoru can finally breathe easily. his longs are full of the air he’s denied himself of for so long. satoru could never live, never breathe, just be your friend. not really. as awful as it sounds it was a role he played, a costume he wore to stay close to you. but underneath it all, he was always yours. he’ll always be yours
people say the best things come to those who wait, and satoru has always been waiting. always been hoping. and now, looking at you, your eyes shining, your lips swollen from his kisses, he knows every moment of longing, every year of unspoken feelings, every day of carefully guarding his heart, was worth it.
boyfriend!megumi who remembers every single one of your anniversaries, no matter how ridiculous. first date, first kiss, first time you brushed hands—whatever it was, he always remembered. when you’d tease him about it, his ears would flush pink as he muttered, “shut up,” while holding out a bouquet of your favorite flowers.
boyfriend!megumi who notices every one of your hyper fixations. new favorite band? you’d find their albums and posters slipped under your door. hooked on a new game? he’d silently hand you a gift card so you can buy all the skins you want.
boyfriend!megumi who lets you steal all his hoodies. you claim you “haven’t seen them anywhere,” but they mysteriously go missing right after he gives you one. he never complains and thinks you look better in them than he ever could.
boyfriend!megumi who lets you play with his hair. the two of you would be sprawled on the couch, watching a show as you run your fingers through his messy hair. you hum softly as you do so, and he leans into your touch like it’s nothing.
boyfriend!megumi who complies when you ask him to try a new recipe you’re working on. even if he’s convinced it’s a biohazard, he taste tests without a word and gives you a nod of approval that makes you beam.
boyfriend!megumi who lets you do his skincare. he’s skeptical of the weird pink liquid you’re patting into his skin, but since you love it, he sits still and lets your work… though not without the faintest scowl crossing his face.
boyfriend!megumi who always offers his jacket. you insist your outfit is fine but megumi knows better: you’re going to be cold later. one shiver from you and he’s already shrugging his jacket off and putting it over your shoulders. “thank you,” you smile. “if you get sick, i get sick,” he shrugs, like it’s nothing. but you know megumi, and you know he cared for you in a way no one else could.
boyfriend!megumi who studies with you. even if you’re working on completely different things, he sits by your side, occasionally passing you snacks or refilling your water, silently keeping you company until you’re both too tired to keep your eyes open.
boyfriend!megumi who pretends he doesn’t care when you fall asleep on him, but he adjusts his position so you’re more comfortable and doesn’t move for hours just to avoid waking you.
boyfriend!megumi who doesn’t say “i love you” a lot, but shows it in every small action—walking on the outside of the sidewalk, remembering your order without asking, leaving space for you beside him like it’s reserved just for you.
“Why don’t you use ai” idk man beyond the obvious environmental and “this machine causes psychosis and encourages people to kill themselves” thing I think asking the equivalent of a solid D student who is also a pathological liar if they can answer my question/do the work for me seems pretty fucking stupid
There's a recurring online tendency to aestheticize consensus itself. The imagined future village is full of emotionally compatible people who enjoy communal gardening, conflict resolution circles, acoustic folk music, mutual aid potlucks, and repairing bicycles together at sunset. Which is nice for the people who genuinely enjoy that lifestyle. But plenty of humans are solitary, prickly, obsessive, urban, nocturnal, sensory-seeking, technologically attached, contrarian, novelty-seeking, private, or just plain difficult. Those people do not evaporate after the revolution. They do not get Left Behind while you are Raptured into the Utopia. They become your neighbors.
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