Shouto knows firsthand how deceiving appearances can be, how images are carefully constructed to create something that’s not really there. Sometimes even to hide something darker—to ensure the quietude of those poisonous, sinister secrets. But when confronted with your ability to dispel all the pandemonium in his heart and leave only the savoury taste of his favourite soba paired with his mother’s airy laughter, Shouto finds himself running headfirst into the nightmares you’ve skillfully kept under covers for years.
+ pairing. pro hero!shouto x ???!reader
+ warnings. cursing, mentions and signs of abuse, money problems, descriptions of a fight scene
+ word count. 4.266
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chapter 3. keep watch
By the time his wandering mind catches up to his legs, Shouto is already circling around the block that leads back towards his favourite soba establishment.
It’s become an unconscious habit formed over many years, for his body to immediately gravitate back to the shop that has nurtured his deep-seated wounds, mending cracks that threaten to tear him apart. Rather than that home, with that bastard, your place is where his stiff muscles can finally relax and let go of all the tension amassed from the day—whether that comforting atmosphere arises from your heavenly cold soba, your father’s rough words of affection or simply the warmth of your presence, Shouto isn’t certain of yet.
This time however, he is resolute in digging out some genuine answers from your tight-lipped, vague explanations. Your excuse for abruptly ushering him out earlier than usual isn’t convincing enough for him to honestly believe that you aren’t still lingering around the shop right now with a much deeper problem than “family stuff” could allude to.
His frustrations with himself for refusing to push the subject beforehand pump the well-defined muscles in his calves harder and tighter, picking up his pace until he’s just short of sprinting. He battles with the strong urge to speed himself up by creating an icy trail along the side of the road, convincing himself to take the extra time to calm down. The foreign, nerve-racking agitation that occupies his mind makes it difficult to slow his rapid breaths.
It’s been months since your birthday, the signs of your deteriorating health becoming more evident with each day that passes, and yet he’s done a grand total of absolutely nothing about your obvious plight. Disgust latches onto the walls of his veins. He’s supposed to be a hero, for god’s sake.
“—have it by next month.” The sound of your soft, defeated voice stops him dead in his tracks. He slowly turns the last corner to the noodle shop.
Your back faces him, standing a few metres away. Shouto conceals most of his body behind the thickened stump of a lamppost whose bulb has long gone dead, providing a convenient area off the road that wouldn’t attract unwanted attention.
His hackles rise at the sight of the three bulky, well-dressed men surrounding you, but his training at Yuuei holds him back from immediately jumping into the fray, prompting him to grasp the situation at hand first.
It proves to be more difficult than the simulations he tirelessly powers through at school. As bad as it sounds, he finds that he can separate his emotions with minimal effort during the rescue of counterfeit citizens, yet with your tiny form against those hulking men, he can hardly restrain himself from leaping in headfirst to place himself between you and the threat.
A measure of his restraint emerges as crescent-shaped moons indented on the calloused skin of his palms. He hastily racks his memories for any mention of the suspicious figures, but frustratingly comes up empty.
The man in the centre appears to be the ringleader of the trio. His eyes study you with a merciless, hardened look as he snarls out his displeasure. “Save it kid, we’ve heard enough of your shit these past few months. This is how we’re going to do this; you’ll cough up that pretty stack now if you don’t want poor ol’ dad to—”
You brutally throw yourself to the ground at his feet and Shouto grimaces, willing himself to even out his breathing when the powdered snow around his right foot begins to crystallize into solid clumps of ice. “No! Please, I-I’m begging you—please g-give me one more chance and I promise to return every cent. One more month, one more month and everything will be there, I promise, please sir—please.”
“Like I said bitch,” the man barks out, “we’ve already played the nice guy for two whole ass months now and your situation ain’t looking any better than it did back then. Y’know, it’s pretty disappointing how people only take their shitty circumstances seriously when violence gets involved, but well, I guess a good beating can help refresh your perspective, right?“ The man’s lips peel back from his yellowed teeth to display a menacingly predatory grin.
Shouto clenches his fists impossibly tighter, registering the droplets of crimson dripping onto the pristine white blanket of snow below him—the trickles of blood escaping through the broken skin on his palm.
The moment Shouto decides now is the time to try his hand at a makeshift ice pick lobotomy, you slam your forehead against the ground hard enough for the following smash to resound throughout the empty streets. Your torso shakes like a leaf in a violent storm from the force of your quiet weeping, disrupting any speech tumbling past your trembling lips from being intelligible.
“Shut up, stupid skank!” The man’s hand no more than raises up into the air before it’s encased within a block of ice. His outraged eyes flit up to peer at Shouto’s tenebrous frame striding out of his hiding spot, stepping out into the light of the neighbouring lamppost as he approaches the strangers.
“What do you think you're doing?” Shouto’s tone of voice alone could drop the temperature outside by a few degrees. Red-hot fury blazes in the gray and blue that pins the three men to their spots.
In his periphery, he catches you raising your head slightly to check on the commotion, shocked features morphing into that of confusion and fear. The frown that mars his lips clearly tells of his umbrage at your secrecy, although he can’t help himself from nodding the tiniest fraction in your direction, hoping to ease your nerves with his presence.
Their leader takes a couple of seconds to come to his senses, fruitlessly attempting to wrench his arm free. His annoyance at his plan for the evening going sour is practically palpable in the way his entire body tenses, his other hand subtly shaking with malice. “Now’s not the time, kid. Scram before we get serious.”
Shouto’s eyes narrow at the sudden movements of his lackeys, one pulling a hammer from his belt and shattering his leader’s hand free while the other cockily marches up straight up to Shouto. With a flick of Shouto’s wrist, all three men are buried within thick layers of ice that sprout from the ground up—snuffing out the impending danger before it can properly take flame.
He darts over to you, still hunched in the snow with beads of water tinged in a pink glow streaming down from the wet wound on your forehead. They mix with the stream of tears flowing from the corners of your eyes and Shouto’s heart aches with anger, worry—yearning.
Shouto kneels before you and tenderly dabs at the laceration with the sleeve of his coat, millions of questions dancing on the tip of his tongue. In consideration of your physical state, which he prioritizes first and foremost, he withholds his interrogation for later.
“Shou, no, you can’t—you can’t be here now, Shou. I-It’s not safe, you gotta go.” You rest back onto your damp shins, hiccuping violently from the aftermath of your sobs and weakly pounding your fists into his defined chest. “You don’t even have your provisional license yet, you’ll get into trouble for using your quirk against them. Run please, go—g-go now.”
He clenches his jaw to keep a traitorous outburst at bay, firmly reminding himself that now isn’t the most ideal time to chew you out for your unreasonable decisions in regards to tonight’s events. However, he can’t help but cry out, “You knew it would be dangerous and you still came out here alone?”
Your lips part to stutter out an answer, but Shouto can’t discern your words over a sudden ear-splitting crack followed by a revolting growl that reverberates through the air.
“Thought a little ice would be enough to stop us, you little shit?” Shouto’s attention snaps to the three men who shake fragments of shattered ice off their clothes. The lackey wielding the hammer points a metal nail at Shouto’s head while the other has off-white spikes pointing out of each knuckle, which Shouto belatedly realizes is composed of his own bones.
“Don’t hurt him! I’m the one you have business with. Let’s all calm down so we can talk this out.” You inconspicuously begin to shift your body in between Shouto and the troubling men. Shouto’s brows furrow at your absent sense of self preservation, tugging at your elbow to lessen the distance between you two while simultaneously shielding you behind his broad back.
“I think there’s been enough chit-chat, looks like you fuckers are gonna need a nice pounding to get our point through your thick little skulls.”
Shouto hurriedly gathers you into his wide chest, flinging the two of you outside of the trajectory of the many nails being pounded your way courtesy of the subordinate with the hammer, each metal spike flying at unrealistically high speeds. Some of the barrage manages to catch onto the shoulder of his jacket, ripping the fabric off the left side of his body and exposing his dirtied uniform underneath.
You tug at his sleeve to catch his attention. “Shou, I’ll deal with them. Let me down and I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Take a beating?” Shouto clicks his tongue, gritting his teeth at the mere thought of it.
You remain silent and that’s more than enough of an answer for him.
The man lets loose another shower of rusty nails that Shouto barely manages to dodge, resulting in a few nicks and scratches along his arms. As he pulls out another set of nails from his belt, the ringleader pulls the hammer away from his subordinate, irritation evidently painted onto his expression in the dim light.
He examines Shouto from head to toe, narrowed eyes lingering a second too long on his tattered school uniform. His subordinate reaches for his hammer, halting when the leader murmurs a string of inaudible commands. The same raw vexation is mirrored onto both lackeys’ features.
Shouto readies his stance for another attack, desperately searching for any possible openings to escape without the nasty man equipped with the bone quirk getting the chance to impale you two on the way out.
Although Shouto’s quirk paired with his physical prowess and calculating capabilities makes him a decent-sized threat, three grown men with their own sets of dangerous quirks is not something he’d like to gamble his power against right now—especially with you in the midst of the fight.
“If you pull the same bullshit next month, you’re in for it, bitch,” their leader hisses, casting a venomous scowl. Before Shouto can manifest more ice to strike into the man’s abdomen as payback, he whirls back with his subordinates hot on his heels and disappears into the obscurity of the narrow streets.
Shouto ruggedly surges up to his feet in order to tail them, but your quivering figure wrapped around his torso roots him in place. “Let me go. I have to make sure they don’t come back again.”
“Don’t, Shou.” You sniffle pathetically, head buried in his dirtied uniform. He’s sure you can feel the agitated beating inside his chest, spurred on by the sight of black and blue splotches littering the base of your neck, exposed through the ripped collar of your shirt. They each vary in intensity and hue, depicting the distinct methods in which they were battered into your flesh.
His hands grab at your shoulders, pulling you away from him. With careful fingers, he traces over the torn hem of your top, wary of brushing against the signs of abuse underneath. The simple slashes decorating your collar can be easily dismissed as the aftermath of the small scuffle, but the larger, hand-sized marks obliterates any coherent thoughts from his befuddled mind.
“Why is—” his voice cracks, despair dripping off his every word, “Why do you have—it doesn’t make sense.”
His head is spinning. Everything burns. Sandpaper claws at his throat and translucent flames lick at the space in front of his left temple. His hands ball up into tight fists while the fire grows in size and saturation.
Shouto faintly recognizes the whispers of his name over the harsh pants he takes for some much needed oxygen. Despite his efforts, his body involuntarily curls up into a ball, muscles quivering and lungs throbbing with overexertion. An excruciating chill rips down his spine, replacing the dreadful heat embedded in each vertebrae with an agonizing frigidity.
Your pained cries snap him out of his trance. His head is resting in the crook of your neck with one arm planted on your lower back, snugly wrapping around your waist from underneath your thin jacket. However deafeningly loud his mind is screaming at him to pull back and check on you to inquire the reasoning behind your wounds and your odd behaviour as of late, the pads of your fingertips mapping out vast valleys and meadows on his shoulder blades are enough to silence it all.
Shouto stills in your firm hold, matching his rapid inhales and exhales with your own slow, serene ones to regain his composure. Your hands travel up to his red and white mop of hair, tangling your fingers in the long strands and massaging his scalp.
In your embrace, time feels defunct. Insubstantial. The product of someone’s wild imaginations.
Shouto’s unsure of how many minutes—or possibly hours—pass before he gingerly drags his head away from your shoulder, dreading its heavy weight settling back onto his neck. Your tears have long since dried out, the evidence of tonight’s horrors lying in the puffy bags underneath your eyes, your frayed and threadbare clothes, and the dirty injuries lining your flesh, peeking out through the cutouts of your garments.
Although his thoughts remain hyper fixated on the mystery behind the bruises unaccounted for by the little skirmish with the strangers, his mouth chooses to instead lamely blurt out, “Are you okay?”
As you nod, he catches sight of the singed edges of your coat, trailing up from your right hand that’s currently clutched onto his left wrist. There’s a lurch in his stomach as the contents of his cold soba from earlier threaten to unload onto the snow-covered pavement.
You notice his gaze travelling, taking note of the vicious self-hatred beginning to bud from the dark recesses of his varicoloured eyes. “It only caught onto my jacket, don’t worry.”
But he does. He catches your subtle attempts to shift the cloth in a manner that hides the slightly charred skin underneath the cover of your ripped sleeves. Words catch in the rough surfaces of his throat and fail to make it past his quivering lips.
He burnt you.
Shouto wants to scold you for attempting to confront those wicked men all on your own, to tell you off for keeping quiet and refusing to rely on him when you so clearly needed help—but really, how can he blame you? How could you possibly trust someone who failed to shield you from the brunt of their attacks, who couldn’t hope to overpower even one of the treacherous men after you? How can you put your trust into someone who hurt you?
That night, neither of you exchange another word.
That night, Shouto questions whether someone as incapable as him is deserving to dream of becoming a hero.
Shouto is frustrated.
With Yuuei’s rash decision to hole up the students into dormitories on campus, the chances of him crossing paths with his father lessens considerably, but the opportunities to stop by your noodle shop are all but nonexistent. His days are dedicated to classes, training, homework, more training, and finding time to sleep after all that.
The spare moments he does manage to squeeze in an escapade—by cutting into his own meager resting hours—you deftly turn him away with a couple take-out boxes shoved into his arms. Slighted by the notion that he desperately carves out less than an hour every other week for him to simply stock up on your soba, no matter how illegally divine it is, sends a pang to his chest.
“Your brother and sister are probably waiting with a warm bath running and dinner on the table, there’s no time to loiter around here. Go, go, go!” You exclaim enthusiastically, rendering Shouto unable to finish his sentence before you’re ushering him in the direction of his family’s home.
The amount of buckwheat noodles you pack into those compact boxes never fails to amaze, lasting Shouto eight meals at the very least. Along with some tupperware stuffed with Fuyumi’s own home cooked feasts, he rarely picks up Lunch Rush’s food anymore, a horrendous crime that lands him on the Cook Hero’s hit list.
Shouto loses track of the apologies and questions he has stored for you, distracted by the ensuing chaos brought about by the League of Villains. His worry for the safety of his classmates and teachers fans the flame of his fierce desire to train harder, grow stronger, and become a powerful hero. A reliable one.
Weeks quickly blur into months. Shouto ensures that the image of your charred skin is engraved into the ridges of his brain whenever he’s not pondering a million other concerns surrounding his hero schooling.
It’s not until he struggles to imagine your eyes curving into amused crescents at your own lame jokes, your nose scrunching in distaste as he nudges your pristine white shoes with his own muddy sneakers, your forgiving smile when you hopelessly reassure him, “It didn’t reach me, but you do owe me a new jacket”—that he decides to return.
His request to ditch tonight’s exercises is seamlessly accepted. Guilt festers in the thin line of his mouth, adding another apology onto his endless list for believing the tedious process of beseeching an administered absence outweighed the importance of checking in on you. He dismisses his incoming musings filled with self-deprecating thoughts in favour of booking it to your shop.
Instead of contacting his family to mooch off a free ride back to his neighbourhood, Shouto utilizes the tenebrous shadows connecting various side streets and creates a path of ice to propel him forward. In no time at all, he is faced with the familiar navy banners stained with kanji scrawled over each square of fabric lining the outside of the establishment.
Frankly, Shouto couldn’t care less for proper etiquette. Regardless of his disregard, he begrudgingly quells his impatience to stop himself from storming inside.
He smoothly strides past the entryway, ducking under the signs hanging overhead, and finds the entire place empty. Hesitantly, Shouto calls out for you as he totters over towards the back room.
“Welcome! How can I hel— Shouto? You little—”
Shouto folds into a polite bow only to receive a smack on the nape of his neck. His hand rubs at the spot while he straightens, about to protest against the undeserving violence when a palm lands on the crown of his head, ruffling his strands into a messy nest. “How hard is Yuuei working their brats that you can’t spare the time to come pick up some cold soba, huh?”
“There’s still a lot we need to improve on before we can become pros. Plus, there’s only two years left until graduation. With everything going on, we need to get stronger in a much shorter time period than the upper years.”
Your father grimaces. “Ah, I heard about the villain attacks from the news. Is everyone holding up alright?”
Shouto tunelessly hums as he recalls the many trips to Recovery Girl’s office and the countless scars littered across their bodies. “For the most part.”
“It’s good to hear that you future heroes aren’t completely useless,” your father quips with a proud grin. “How much time you got?”
“About an hour or so.”
Pulling out Shouto’s designated chair, your father gestures for the teen to take a seat before rushing off towards the kitchen. “It looks like you’ll get to see firsthand how twenty years of experience running a noodle shop causes your hands to move quicker than your eyes.”
The distinct sound of water boiling fills the silence. Your father lays out a bowl of ice water to chill the noodles afterward, then combines a few sauces into a bowl in perfect proportions that Shouto can’t seem to duplicate no matter how hard he tries. And Shouto has definitely tried.
He’s learned to simply accept his lack of culinary skills as yet another excuse to come over and eat your father’s cold soba rather than his own mediocre recreations.
An unspoken question lays heavy in Shouto’s mouth, evident in the way his gaze rakes over the shop once more, trying to peer past the partition that separates the back room from the rest of the interior.
“She’s not here.”
Disappointed, Shouto focuses back on your father. As you grew old enough to start taking on some of the responsibilities around the shop, you were here more often than your father, who you only called on when the occasional rare customer wandered in for a single serving.
Shouto can’t remember a time where you strayed farther than a block away—practically living, breathing and eating at your shop. “Is she picking up ingredients from the store? I can walk her ba—”
“She’s been gone since this afternoon, spoutin’ off some nonsense about running an errand for a friend.” Your father sighs, swiftly garnishing the two plates of soba to create his classic cartoon rendition of pro heroes. Handing the dish with the larger portion of noodles over to Shouto, he identifies the abnormally long-necked individual as the Fiber Hero, Best Jeanist.
Your father relaxes on the chair next to Shouto, beginning to pick at his own meal. “That punk doesn’t tell me nothin’ anymore.”
“Did she mention which friend?” Although Shouto admittedly isn’t the most caught up with the intricacies of your daily life, he gathers that he can string together the copious amount of miscellaneous knowledge you’ve stuffed into his memory all these years to connect the dots together.
Your father rubs at his forehead as if the friction will help warm up his ability to recall your earlier words. “She left in such a hurry that I barely understood half the words coming out of her mouth. It was a familiar name, but my ‘old man’ memory isn’t really helping out here.”
Shouto suppresses a chuckle, listing off any names he remembers you mentioning when you rambled on about how grueling school was or embarrassing slip ups that brought you to the logical conclusion of drowning yourself in dipping sauce—but to no avail. Your father shakes his head at all of them, undoubtedly irked at his own memory.
At this point, there’s nearly a half hour remaining until he is due to return. “When is she coming back?”
“Late. Well past the time I head off to sleep, at least. She’s always back by morning with a limp in her step or another gauze on her head.” Your father’s frown deepens, eyes glazed over in thought with parental worry seeping into his gruff voice. “I don’t know what that kid is up to, getting herself hurt all the time. I just hope she’s alright.”
Shouto’s heart catches in his throat. Were those men bothering you again?
Before he can bring the topic up to your father, Shouto’s gaze catches onto the older man’s sunken cheeks and the darker hue painted under his eyes. All at once, your father seems to have aged another decade.
Instead, Shouto cleans off the last few bites on his plate and asks for seconds, a request which your father is all too happy to oblige.
By the time Shouto notices the distorted face of noodles your father shaped for his own dish, the only defining features remaining are the mouth and chin, bordered by dried bonito flakes. It takes him another few seconds to realize the red shavings are meant to represent the fiery facial hair of the Flame Hero. His lips unintentionally purse, the flavour of his own cold soba turning bitter.
“Can’t stomach a second serving, brat?” your father questions, reaching over to the reusable bag filled to the brim with tupperware containing mountains of the food in question. “Pack it up to eat later. Don’t want you complaining about no stomach ache, ‘specially not from my dishes. Gonna scare away my customers.”
Gripping harder onto the edges of his plate to prevent it from being stolen by the older man, Shouto pointedly swallows before speaking. “Don’t worry, there’s never any customers around anyway.”
If that comment doesn’t land him a smack upside the head, his next remark surely drives the nails straight into his coffin.
“I doubt that it’s the taste scaring them off so much as it’s the aesthetics, anyway. You’re not exactly the best artist out there.”
Your father all but tosses Shouto out the door as he scrapes off the last of his cold soba, flinging the bulky bag of take-out along with him. Feeling oddly playful, Shouto bows respectfully at the exit. “Thanks for the food!”
“Don’t overwork yourself. Eat well. Sleep lots.” Slapping a large palm onto Shouto’s shoulder, your father smirks. “Try to grow a little taller by the next time I see you—I’m not sure if I trust you to save me when you’re this tiny, hero.”
Shouto understands the discreet encouragement laced in his taunt. “Just watch me.”
Bakugou unloads his worries for you in the only way he knows how.
+ pairing. bakugou x reader
+ warnings. lots of swearing, some violence (can be seen as abusive/toxic), mention of sex
+ word count. 1.436
+ author’s note. who hurt me? this playlist and its title did, now suffer with me :) jk there’s comfort i’m too much of a sappy bitch to make it edgy
The door to your hospital room slams open with a powerful bang that nearly threatens to displace the flimsy wood from its hinges.
You refuse to turn your head towards the clamour and acknowledge your unwelcome visitor, feigning disinterest by relaxing your features into a cool, blank facade. It’s silent for a few moments—no boisterous yells, no low growls, nothing. Restraining your curiosity, you keep your eyes trained on the bare, weathered tree outside your window.
Your heart contracts with a greater force at his slow, sardonic snicker, sending more blood rushing to the muscles in your arms and legs and nearly kicking into your fight-or-flight response. “Tell me, was it fun?”
After one deep inhale followed by a lengthy exhale, you languidly turn to gaze upon the number three pro hero, Dynamight. He’s in his signature tight, black costume with his toned muscles on display, mask pushed up into his hairline. His blond locks spill over the makeshift headband in sharp spikes that you know from experience are delightfully soft to the touch.
Agitation and fury radiate off him in waves, exacerbated by his heavy breathing coupled with his clenched jaw and fists.
A flock of concerned nurses crowd at the entryway, evidently conflicted on whether to step in and risk their neck to an infuriated Dynamight or to simply turn a blind eye to the hero’s rampage. You send them a weak smile, flicking your wrist to aid their conscience and leave you to handle the ticking time bomb in front of you.
Once they hurriedly shuffle outside, carefully closing the door behind them, you heave a sigh. “Was what fun, Kats?”
“Stop acting like such a prissy ass bitch,” he seethes, liquid venom oozing out between his pretty lips. Bakugou edges closer to your bedside, leaning in to fist at the collar of your hospital gown. “What else would I be fucking coming in here for? Were you having trouble paying rent even with all your shitty rescues? Pretty smart fucking plan, I gotta hand it to ya—taking up camp in the hospital where the cost is already paid off for dumb fucks like you.”
His knuckles dig into the soft flesh of your neck. You concentrate on the flash of pain to ground yourself, chewing on the inside lining of your cheek to keep your own words level and calm. Two fiery knuckleheads is a recipe for disaster, and a hospital is the last place you want to duke it out with him anyway.
“There wasn’t any heroes aroun—”
“Oh, that’s it!” The heavy sarcasm laced in his tone raises your mouth into a snarl, eyes hardening on his own deadly crimson ones. “The selfless cripple stepped up when there was no one around to help out! Rather than waiting for help with the other civilians, you thought you could play hero, right?”
Smacking his hand from your clavicle, you purse your lips to guard the hateful words bubbling in your mouth from spilling out into the open as Bakugou fans the raging flames in your stomach. In order to keep the situation from escalating any further, you reach over for the red call button on your bedside to give both of you time to cool your heads.
Before your fingers can graze the button Bakugou snaps, trapping your wrist within his larger hand. With your other arm hanging uselessly in a cast, he’s free to entangle one hand into your hair, harshly pulling on the locks to tilt your head up towards his bulky form that climbs up onto your bed and straddles your waist.
“You just can’t quit, huh? After almost fucking dying on your last mission and landing yourself months in this hell hole, you still didn’t learn a fucking thing. It’s all a game to you. Nothing scares you, not even an A-list villain.” You wince at the cracks in his voice. “Did you miss it here? Why do you bother getting all beat up when I can kill you right here—no need for any of this pointless bullshit if you’re dead!”
“Shut up, asshole. Don’t start with me,” you warn, cursing your weakened muscles for being unable to fling Bakugou off your lap. It’s laughably easy for him to pin you down and halt your fruitless flailing with a brawny thigh to your abdomen that knocks the wind out of you.
“This is what you wanted! You needed to hear how great of a person you are, right? Saving people even when you’re off-duty—even when you got discharged this fucking morning! How heroic of you!”
The last thread of your sanity snaps.
“Shut up Bakugou! You know that’s not what I became a hero for!” Your voice raises to rival his own deafening volume, lungs aching from your sudden screeching added onto your previous injuries.
“Hah? Don’t make me laugh.” The menacing smirk etched onto his face only serves to rile you up further. “You did all this for you, didn’t even give a second fucking thought about other people—spare me your fake righteous crap.”
“What did you want me to do? Watch while innocent people get slaughtered by villains—”
You’re cut off by a stinging pain in your scalp, Bakugou’s sharp pull to your hair angling your face up towards the ceiling as he drags his knees closer to your waist.
He smashes his forehead against yours. There’s not enough force behind his pounding to leave a mark on him, but the lacerations near your temples open up once more, oozing blood down the sides of your head.
Bakugou’s features scrunch up, poison still spitting out of his mouth, but eyes watering with unshed tears all the same. “What is it gonna take for you to learn to save yourself first, dumb fuck? Should I help you get back on death’s door for it to get through your goddamn skull?”
Your expression instantly softens at the helpless worry scattered in the burning reds and gentle pinks of his irises. “I did evacuate with the rest of them, Kats. We were all huddled up in the storeroom, but I saw a kid run back when he heard his mom screaming outside.”
The tension in Bakugou’s face melts off, leaving the defeated slouch of his brows, mouth relaxed into a frown. He lowers back until he’s seated in your lap, releasing your wrist in favour of tenderly wrapping his arms around your waist and cuddling his head into your neck while cautiously avoiding your wounds. “You still should’a stayed where it was safe, idiot.”
You giggle lazily with no amusement behind the act, lifting your hand up to his sturdy back to trace abstract loops into the spandex. “He was yelling out the filthiest curses I’ve ever heard. I think even his mom was shocked—I saw her lecturing him about it afterwards.”
Bakugou grunts into your sensitive skin, understanding your plight without needing to hear your explanation. You two fall into a comfortable silence, reveling in one another’s presence with an occasional nip to your nape.
“Come live with me.”
A short, estranged cry escapes your mouth. Bakugou remains unmoving, curled up into your torso. “Kats?”
“Maybe it’ll stop you from holing up in this stupid place all the time.”
You land a smack to his shoulder blade, scoffing at the implication that your pockets are so despairingly empty that you are forced to rely on the free services gifted upon injured heroes. “You know I pay rent whether I’m at home or not, right?”
He presses his fingers into your sides, massaging the sparse areas that aren’t covered in wraps of bloodied bandages. “I don’t fucking care. Move in with me, your apartment is shitty anyway.”
You hum, shifting around to fight off the numbing sensation spreading throughout your lower limbs. “That’s not what you said the last time you were there.”
Shivering at the snarky grin pressed into your neck, you tighten your hold on the tight fabric hugging his waist. “That’s because I spent the whole day fucking your brains outta your—”
You dig your own fingers underneath his ribs to silence him from tainting the innocent atmosphere of the hospital any further. His spine straightens as he removes his head from your shoulder, looming over you with a cocky smirk. “Live with me.”
“It doesn’t even sound like a question at this point,” you point out, unable to resist pecking his lips after.
“Because it’s fucking not.” Bakugou chases after your retreating mouth, swirling his tongue with yours once reunited. His long fingers grasp onto the back of your head, bringing you infinitely closer.
Shouto knows firsthand how deceiving appearances can be, how images are carefully constructed to create something that’s not really there. Sometimes even to hide something darker—to ensure the quietude of those poisonous, sinister secrets. But when confronted with your ability to dispel all the pandemonium in his heart and leave only the savoury taste of his favourite soba paired with his mother’s airy laughter, Shouto finds himself running headfirst into the nightmares you’ve skillfully kept under covers for years.
+ pairing. pro hero!shouto x ???!reader
+ warnings. none
+ word count. 3.376
Shouto distinctly remembers how his mother used to dawdle at the counter right before they left, insisting for the millionth time that your father accept the benevolent tip she was shoving into his hands.
Shouto has seen the sight play out more times than he’d like to admit, what with their continuous visits and both parents’ adamant refusal to welcome the other’s generosity. His mother manages to sneak the wad of cash under the register or behind a container filled with noodles by the time they leave, albeit the stack still manages to magically find itself back inside her purse the next day.
However, this time the money is slipped into Shouto’s miniscule pockets.
You simply grin at the brow he raises. At his age, he’s still not aware of the importance of currency, his ignorance amplified by his own family’s wealthy status, but he has observed his mother long enough to know that his role is to fish out the cash and to return it to you.
Shaking your head, you wrap your puny fingers around his wrist—unable to encircle the entire circumference of it with one hand—and shove a pair of chopsticks into his open palm instead. “It’s yours anyway. Don’t worry about it, eat.”
Shouto begrudgingly allows his empty stomach to make the decision for him and forcefully swivels his head back to his cold soba, flicking his hair to cover his newfound scar as best he can.
After picking at the noodles in the obnoxious form of Thirteen, the space hero, for a few moments, he musters up the courage to face you once more, still insecure about the harsh injury around his left eye. The only indication that you notice his burnt flesh is the brief glance you cast towards his forehead. “Does it still hurt?”
He directs his apprehensive gaze to your dirty shoes in lieu of a response, wondering if you find his left side as repulsing as his mother does.
“Pretty.” Shouto’s eyes snap up to your glossy lips, covered in specks of dark dipping sauce, as he traces the contours of your face up to your softened brows. “So pretty, Shou-chan.”
While biting back the liquid gathering at his waterline, desperate to spill over his chubby cheeks in thin rivulets, Shouto scarfs down the cold soba that, in combination with your unexpected compliment, feel unmistakably akin to his mother’s embrace.
He’s glad that he elected to march over for his favourite meal despite his mother being unable to accompany him—even more glad that the path to your shop is engraved like a tattoo in the back of his mind, perhaps even clearer than the directions to his own house.
“Why aren’t you eating anything?” Shouto fails to keep his voice from quivering, making it painfully obvious that he’s about thirty seconds away from a breakdown.
You pay no mind to him, drumming your fingers along the countertop instead. “Dad’s been try’na perfect Power Loader’s mask for the past ten minutes because I couldn’t tell which hero it was when he asked the first time.”
He recalls The Excavation Hero, a short ginger with a hefty yellow helmet shaped like a rectangular excavator claw perched atop his head. “Was it so bad that you couldn’t even guess?”
A simple shake of your head with your eyelids drooped down in a theatrical agony is enough for him to piece together the abomination you faced.
“Hey! You little brats, what’re you goin’ on about now?” your father growls from his spot in the kitchen, hunched over a plate of buckwheat noodles with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “This soba is gonna be so perfect that even Power Loader himself will come over to thank me!”
“Power Loader doesn’t know who you are, Dad.”
He whips back to aim a sharp glare your way, clicking his tongue at your aloof grin. Unbothered, you swing your short legs back and forth, unable to reach the ground with your growing height. “Shut it, punk.”
Although Shouto’s known your father long enough to know that he’s all bark and no bite—okay, maybe minimal bite, he can’t help the way his spine automatically straightens, muscles stiffening when your father’s hardened gaze lands on him. Like a predator cornering his prey, he smirks with a strangely familiar sense of mischief. “Get your ass over here, kid.”
Shouto is hesitant to comply, but rushes over after your father threatens to add a vicious hot sauce into all his future orders until he’s sneezing out flames from his nostrils.
“What do you think? Only an idiot like her wouldn’t be able to tell that it’s Power Loader, right?”
“Uh—uhm.” Shouto stupidly stares at the deranged mess before him, trying to identify where the face is located within the piece of abstract art. “It’s d-definitely… Power Loader?”
He doesn’t intend to phrase it like a question, although his tone unknowingly raises up at the end and earns him a fist plonked onto the crown of his head.
“Don’t force yourself, kid.”
With the rare glimmer of affection in your father’s rough features, Shouto deliberates the meaning behind the older man’s words. Before he can reach a conclusive explanation though, your father sticks a dark plate into Shouto’s hands and shoves him back in your direction. He picks up the murmurs of “snotty brats acting twice their age” and the heavy stomps of your father exiting through the back door.
By the time he scuttles back to his seat, delivering the cold soba to your twiddling fingers, the weight on Shouto’s shoulders shrink to the size of miniscule pebbles. They’ll always be there to remind him of the tragedy his father wrought along with his oppressive responsibilities, but the brief respite is well appreciated by his fatigued body.
“How could you lie to his face like that,” you mumble, tearing into what Shouto assumes is Power Loader’s neck. “This looks even worse than when I first saw it.”
Soft snickers fill the space between the two of you. Shouto doesn’t realize how they spill between his own lips until he watches as you choke on your noodles, a sight that transforms his giggles into full-blown laughter that shakes at his torso. He feels as though his mouth is tearing at the seams, but he enjoys every second of it.
You two slip into a comfortable silence afterwards, punctuated by occasional bits of meaningless conversation. None of it picks up though, both of you too busy munching on your respective meals until there’s nothing but shiny residue left smudged onto the bottom of the bowls.
“You know, nobody comes in at this hour.”
“Is there ever an hour where there’s lots of people arou—” A quick smack to his arm interrupts him.
“You better listen up because I’m not gonna repeat myself.” Shouto lightly scoffs, mirth still swimming in the grey and blue pools that pierce you. “It means that it’s time for me to help clean up. You’ll just get in the way.”
A dull pang resounds in Shouto’s chest. With no influx of customers, the shop remained in a constant state of cleanliness that merely required a wipedown of the space where you and Shouto spent your dinners coupled with a brief dusting and mopping every night. It hardly takes more than half an hour to get the whole place spotless.
Of course, you must be tired of taking care of him all day. He selfishly ate up all your time today, desperately clinging to you and your father to help raise his spirits when his own blood pummeled him into the ground yet again. Truly, it must be exhausting to deal with someone like him.
He fumbles with his fingers. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Go play in the back room.” You’re already up, reaching for the grimy mop stashed away in the corner of the kitchen and wheeling the accompanying bucket to the centre of the room when Shouto snaps out of his reverie. “Dad won’t be back for a while, so you can close the door behind you if you want some more privacy.”
Surreptitiously biting the inner lining of his cheeks to halt the vicious trembling of his lower lip, Shouto bolts to the dingy room hidden behind the kitchen before you can get another word in. Right as the door closes behind him, he falls to his knees and burrows his head between his legs to muffle his wails.
Needless to say, he lacks the forethought and effort to conceal the volume of his sobs. The knowledge that you, and only you, stand behind those walls is enough reassurance for him though.
Shouto’s overwhelmed. Horrified at his father, worried for his mother and siblings, appreciative of your father, and grateful that he’s met you. The amalgamation of all these emotions present themselves as a pounding migraine that eventually lulls him into a pleasant slumber.
The next he knows, Shouto is swaddled in a thick knitted blanket that surrounds him in your sweet scent. From the window facing the outdoors, he can make out a perfect white sphere in the sky, spilling rays of soft moonlight over his surroundings. He rubs the sleepiness out of his eyes as he shakily stands to his feet, lithe muscles struggling to catch up with his hurried pace.
You and your father sit across from one another, a pile of disorganized papers sprawled across the table. As Shouto edges over to your side, wary of the rolled up newspaper your father smacks into your forehead under the guise of “waking up your nonexistent brain cells,” and peeks at the incomplete math equations staring back at him.
He seamlessly slips into your tutoring session as if he’d been there from the very start—even taking over when your father grows frustrated at your lack of ability to multiply basic numbers together. Your grumblings over your hatred for the subject are too quiet for your huffing father to overhear from his pacings in the kitchen, but loud enough for Shouto to understand. His favourites include, “stupid numbers never make any stupid sense,” as well as “whoever invented stupid math must’ve been a stupid villain.”
After he’s stayed long past the hour you normally close at, he belatedly comes to the realization that your doors are open for him to remain for as long as he wishes. Neither you nor your father scowl at his back with weary bodies, tired of nursing his raw wounds all day.
Your father ruffles his hair into a messy mop of white and red locks and you tangle your arm around his as you beg him to spend the night at your place for once. You deliberately play with your words to make it sound as though he’s the one doing you a favour, but you both know better than to voice your intentions out loud—the raw, pink skin around his puffy eyes serving as definite proof of his raging emotions.
Shouto momentarily wonders if the past twenty-four hours that shattered his entire world into sharp, jagged fragments was enough time for your childish mentality to mature. Were you always so perceptive—so considerate?
The outrageous number of times he’s heard the word “stupid” being whispered under your breath tongiht makes him think twice.
Your offer is terribly alluring. He would prefer not to face the grim reality his father whipped into the tender skin of his limbs, seeping into his very bones to hang the broken pieces of his cruel, ruined ambitions there for Shouto to piece together. Remaining in the pleasant, healing atmosphere of your shop—where his stomach is always filled to the brim with cold soba and his very being doesn’t weigh on him as heavily as it did when he came in—is nearly too tempting of an escape to pass up.
As badly as he wants to accept, Shouto reluctantly refuses, deciding to confront his problems back at home sooner rather than later.
On Shouto’s way out, your father drapes his navy blue coat onto Shouto’s narrow shoulders, engulfing his short stature in your father’s lingering heat. The lower half drags onto the ground behind Shouto, but your father doesn’t mention anything about it. He sticks another few bills into Shouto’s hands and grumbles, “Go buy your mom something nice, punk.”
That night, he brings a single autumn bellflower back to the household devoid of his mother.
Shouto can’t exactly recall when his fear for your well being takes root, snaking thin vines around every nerve in his body until he finds himself unable to act. The signs gradually pile up and he catches wind of your burgeoning problems, although he’s much too late—the helpless wave of a hand just before you’re drowning.
On the day of your fifteenth birthday, you congratulate him on his acceptance to Yuuei with a hideous recreation of All Might in your family’s classic buckwheat noodles and seaweed style. He brushes off your high praise, claiming he hadn't been subject to the same grueling examination process as everyone else, but you deny all his modesty, complaining that he’s most likely among the strongest within his year—recommendations or not.
When he rolls around with your cake in hand, you’re cleaning off the windows from the interior side with a washcloth in hand, countenance blank as though your thoughts couldn’t be contained within the thin walls that enclosed the tiny noodle shop. His unease worsens at the absence of your customary elation directed towards the appetizing aroma of anything sweet.
Near closing hours, you wander around sweeping, dusting off the tables or rearranging the chairs and Shouto lends his aid with some menial tasks like refilling the napkins or taking out the trash. You two fall into an efficient routine hardened by years of practice.
However, as of late, Shouto catches you staring off into space more often than not. Although you continue to pull your usual shenanigans like swapping out his savoury dipping sauce for a dark hot sauce that has him seeing stars for a couple minutes, he notices the dull shine in your murky eyes, the jaded sigh you heave when you believe nobody’s around, and the tattered state of your lips as a result of your constant gnawing on them.
After the first few hints, countless others follow—all pointing to the growing turmoil brewing between your ribs like an uncontrolled cancer, creeping into the crevices that were once crammed with your kind sincerity.
But really, how can he miss the signs when an eerily familiar misery awaits back at home?
Your strange mannerisms are merely the start of it all.
Toga, the kitten you snatched off the road so long ago, no longer lounges around the tops of your appliances. You claim that she’d finally grown tired of the tough countertops and the lack of luxurious food, hoping that she would find such extravagant accommodations wherever she ran off to. He’s befuddled at the covert relief weaved into your otherwise flat tone.
Shouto discovers the shop’s reduced opening hours a few days later when your father gruffly apologizes for being unable to compensate him for lending a hand the shop and sending him home earlier than usual—quietly disparaging how useless he is when he “can’t even take care of this little brat.” The money doesn’t interest him in the slightest, although the dragging of your father’s feet adds on to Shouto’s growing list of worries for you.
The final straw is when you hand him his cold soba, served with buckwheat noodles in a foreign lump shaped like a mountain. No awful Cementoss, Wash, or even Vlad King pictured in a contorted fashion, incomplete without the addition of seaweed to add dimension or bonito flakes to add a hint of colour. “Have you hit an art block or something?”
When you turn back to send a strained smile his way, he knows something is very, very wrong. “Something like that.”
Shouto can’t put any force behind his tongue to keep the conversation going further than that. His arm lays at his side like a dead weight, refusing to reach out and grab for you before you spin around to head back into the kitchen.
Before he can properly process the meaning behind your actions, he wolfs down his food—barely registering the bland taste that slides down his throat. He rises out of his seat with the intention of cleaning off his dish and uncovering the truth behind your dreary expression matching that of your father’s exhausted features.
“Shou—oh thank god you’re finished,” you practically stumble over your words, dashing out of the kitchen and rushing to steal the empty plate from his hands.
“It’s fine, I’ll wash—”
“No, no, they’re co—uh, y-you gotta go.” Shouto’s eyes widen imperceptibly at the erratic pace of your breath, exacerbating your frazzled state. Your hair rebelliously falls out of the messy bun you throw it up in during work hours and the skin underneath your eyes is an aggravating shade of red that was most definitely not present a few minutes ago.
Grabbing both your shoulders in his palms, he bends down to reach your eye level. “Calm down. Take some deep breaths for me, okay?”
Though you follow his instructions, making a point to inhale as much air as your lungs allow and pausing for a quick second before letting it all out, Shouto’s not convinced. Your acting is commendable considering your panicked state, though you fail to hide the tremors in your fingers and the distinct chewing at your chapped lips.
“Sorry, but it looks like I have to close up the shop now.” Sparing a moment to redirect your gaze back to Shouto, you feebly explain, “family stuff.”
You pull the corners of your lips upwards to display a reassuring grin. Shouto knows you’re hiding something, but he’s not quite sure what.
He recalls your absurd excuse for your father’s absence as a business trip, off scouting other noodle shops and visiting old rivals that he’d grown to miss over the years. Doubt seeps into the furrow of his brows as worry pools into his gut.
He’s shooed off with a hasty pat on his exposed neck, shivering at the cold feel of your hands against the left side of his body and the bitter chill outside stringing along a heavy snowfall. Too preoccupied with admiring the clumps of white outlined by the yellow glow of the streetlights against the darkened sky, Shouto doesn’t notice your gentle hands reaching up to wrap your scarf around his collar.
On his way home, he deliberates the reasoning behind your sudden shift in attitude. Between the time you presented his meal and then came rushing back out couldn’t have summed up to greater than five minutes. What could’ve happened in those few moments?
Considering the first time he caught your bizarre behaviour during your birthday, and your conversation constantly circling back to the topic of Yuuei back then, could his school have something to do with it? He fondly reminisces about easier times when you rambled on and on about everything concerning Yuuei, from its prestige to its alumni.
Perhaps your dismayed state stemmed from your inability to even qualify for the entrance exams, seeing as you had no quirk of your own.
Whenever the topic of quirks is brought up, the focus seems to always deviate to how “cool and awesome and super amazing” his powers were. You boast about them almost as often as Shouto visits your noodle shop. Perhaps your raucous excitement was simply a means to bury your disheartenment into the murky corners of the shop where they couldn’t ever dream of coming to light.
A chill runs down his spine at his own thoughtlessness. You’re the person who carefully tended to the open lacerations in both his own heart as well as his mother’s. He dares to dream that someday that you might influence his siblings as well, possibly even his father if he can stomach the thought of you meeting the monstrous man.
You’re his person, and it’s his turn to save you. You’re the real hero out of the two of them and Shouto is going to make sure you know that.
+ pairing. dabi x reader
+ word count. 1.174
+ warnings. kinda explicit mentions of violence/wounds
+ author’s note. that one scene from the new suicide squad movie had me rushing home to whip this very random and unneeded scene up
Slashing through the neck of another hopeless officer, you shove his limp form into another burly man headed your way. His breathless gasp is cut short when you skewer your blade through both their bodies and effortlessly flick their dead weight off to the side as you push open the front door.
The overwhelming brightness of the light outside burns your irises, having become well accustomed to the dim interior of the police station. Your narrowed eyes scan the length of the empty street before you, nonchalantly searching for a taxi.
Trying to rub off the copious amounts of blood staining your skin only spreads the crimson colour over a larger patch of your arm, countering your attempts to clean up your ragged appearance. The torture you had undergone is horridly evident in the tattered, grisly state of your clothes, unveiling the open wounds festering in the flesh underneath.
It’s sure to be a pain in the ass later, but the adrenaline high from your murdering spree leaves you up in the mellow clouds, where your nerves fail to report the presence of the many lacerations eating away at your skin. Right now, all your concerns lie with the pint of ice cream you left waiting for you in the freezer, warning everyone in sight that their necks were on the line if they so much as looked at the frozen treat the wrong way.
To your despair, not a single soul stirs nearby—no pedestrians for you to threaten, no vehicles for you to highjack, no shops for you to snag some spare cash from. You spin around to head back to the station filled with fresh corpses before you spot a lone policeman rounding the corner of the building.
“Thank fuck,” you sigh, whipping a dirtied blade out from your belt and beginning to advance on the unsuspecting man. “I really didn’t feel like walking all the way back there. Since you’re helping me out here, I’ll end this quickly.”
He evidently catches wind of your voice, stiffening at your rapidly approaching figure. An illegally high-pitched screech rips through his vocal chords as he shakes his fists back and forth, hopping from one foot to another with his harsh features scrunched up in… elation?
You aim for his exposed neck to end the torment he wreaks upon your unsuspecting eardrums, but he swiftly dodges out of your line of fire. Huffing at the man’s agility, you suppress the tick raging near your temples from the delay in your plans. The weaklings inside the station were nowhere near this stranger’s ability.
Today’s officers didn’t prove to be as challenging as Shigaraki made them out to be, leaving you sorely disappointed by both their cowawrdly methods of torture and their physical prowess—not that you minded ripping this man’s jaw off in exchange for all your troubles. “If you don’t stay still, this might hurt a bit.”
When everything from the strands of his scraggly, unkempt hair to the royal blue fabric of his uniform begins to melt into a gray puddle, you abruptly halt in your advance. “Toga-chan?”
She howls out your name as her stark naked figure bolts into your arms with a force that nearly topples the both of you straight to the rough pavement. You carefully pocket your knife and delicately wrap what’s left of your outer coat around her shoulders, wiping the grime off her soft cheeks. “What’re you doing here?”
Toga giggles, snuggling deeper into your chest. “We’re here to save you, silly!”
Your hands around her torso tighten, still unfamiliar with the sudden throbbing that hammers at the organs within your chest. “Save me? We?”
Two towering men appear from the dark shadows behind the buildings, sauntering up to you. From the tophat and the creepy mask, you detect Mr. Compress flanked by a startled boy with jet black hair and scars covering the lower half of his face. Mr. Compress accusingly points his cane at you. “And to think Shigaraki made us come all the way over here for this.”
“He told you to save me? Shigaraki did?”
Mr. Compress hums his affirmation, and—without waiting for a response—wanders off to inspect the body count lining your bloody trail of escape, most likely to report back to Shigaraki. You stay stunned in your spot, shifting your gaze between the three of them before lamely spitting out, “I-I mean I can go back in there, the chains and ropes and everything are still there. You can come and save me as planned!”
Dabi’s deep chuckle sends a chill down your spine. “I don’t know, doll. The lack of armed soldiers guarding your cell kinda kills the fantasy.”
You can’t rip your eyes from the piercing cerulean that stares you down hungrily, exasperation and pride swirling in their depths. Stroking Toga’s locks in order to feel the pleased purring rise from her chest, you outstretch your other arm and flick your fingers as a signal for him to come closer. “I’ll let those idiots catch me again if it means you’ll come to my rescue.”
“It’s not the same.” He wolfishly smirks at your wicked countenance, features glazed over in a dangerous desire. Dabi stalks over, circling around you to bury his chin into the crook of your neck with his excessively warm chest against your back. “Couldn’t you let me swoop in as your prince charming for once?”
You croon, “‘M not sure if prince charming would be very inclined to burn down a police station with dozens of people stuck inside.”
“Ah, it seems like I never fit into that role from the very beginning then.” His hot breath fans over your ear, a tingling sensation racing over the lengths of your arms as goosebumps follow in their wake.
One of his hands sneaks their way underneath your jaw, directing your head towards him to slot his plush, dry lips against yours. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth, resorting to firmly nibbling at the corners until you grant him access past your lips, which he immediately takes advantage of. You groan, pleased with the way his tongue meshes with your own.
“That’s enough of that, you sickos.” Mr. Compress pops back out of the empty station, a hand resting on his hip. “Go get a room, preferably somewhere far away from poor Toga.”
One idle glance to the girl wrapped in your arms, making a home in the space between your collarbones, and all three of you recognize the far-off look in her eyes, coupled with the light blush dusting her cheeks. Her mind is definitely filled with delight at the extensive rivulets of blood dripping off your wounds. You stroke her cheek affectionately. “Toga-chan’s pretty little brain isn’t able to come to the phone right now, please leave a message after the beep.”
Dabi scoffs, sliding off your shoulder to waltz up to Mr. Compress’ side. “Better hurry back before Twice eats all your ice cream for breakfast.”
headcanons:
ఇ when you’re enemies — sukuna, megumi, gojo, toge
ఇ when they’re not the fav parent — yuuji, megumi, toge, gojo
ఇ when they’re not the fav parent — yuuta, choso, nanami
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
stormborns
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
germansingergirl
jacobvanloon
