He's a top ten streamer who plays video games for a living. He's buff and handsome, but he's humble and nice, making him a hit with men and women alike. He's a decent gamer too, his streams funny and entertaining. He could have anyone he wants, there are plenty of people who want to be with him.
But he's already got a crush, and it's on you, chubby fem streamer who is new to Twitch.
He found your profile randomly one day, clicking on your stream right when it started.
"Okie dokie," you say with a smile. "I've got my favorite chips—" You hold up a bag of chips and shake them. "—and a little drink—" You hold up a large cup. "—and I'm ready to play some Meccha Chameleon for the first time!"
You're cute, and sweet, and ridiculously funny with your commentary. You play the game for about an hour before calling it a night.
"Thank you for joining me! I hope you had fun watching. Have a good day!"
He subscribes to your channel on his nonpublic account and turns on notifications.
He watches every stream he can, which is fairly easy since you two have different streaming schedules. He soon becomes infatuated with you, the way you talk and your jokes and your cute face and mannerisms. He thinks you'd be the perfect girlfriend, starts imagining the two of you being a streaming couple, having your respective streams and then coming together at the end of the day, enjoying each others' company.
His thoughts don't stay pure. He imagines what you'd feel like, he's seen you in your casual clothes, has seen the curves you have. He wants to touch you, hold you against him and feel how your body molds to his. He wants to feel the weight of your breasts in his big hands and squeeze them until you beg for his touch elsewhere, and he'll give it to you, everything you want and more, his sweet special woman...
Then one day, while he's streaming, he gets a notification that you've started a stream, and he gives a vague excuse to end his stream just to go over to yours. He rushes to exit his stream and goes to yours, giddy and excited to see you outside your normal streaming time. His notifications keep blowing up, so he silences them, focusing on you instead.
When he checks his notifications later, he sees that they're all from twitter. His name is trending, people complaining and speculating why he would've ended his stream so early. Oh, if only they knew...
love island bkg and just making out with him during the day on the day bed. bakugou on the outside is soooo anti pda. he’d never make out with anybody just in the open. but all his ideals disappear when he’s beside you half naked in the sticky heat and you’ve already spoke about everything there is in the world to speak about so his lips are just dragged to sit upon yours. everyone else is dotted around, walking past, on the other side, cooking in the kitchen.
it honestly looks like you’re about to fuck with how intense the kiss gets. bakugou’s a second into flipping you under him to start grinding into you and from the angle all your friends are standing at, they can see your tongue entering his mouth. it looks like you’re about to eat each other.
“wow, that’s hot.”
“do they realise we can see them?”
“i don’t think they care.”
his hand is holding your head in place, the cameras are zooming in like they’re about to film a porno instead of evening reality tv. you’ve even locked a leg around his waist and both your arms at his neck.
if they put this clip in the edit, they’re going to need subtitles for the viewers because of how low you’re talking.
“i want you so bad,” it sounds like you’re about to cry.
he growls into your mouth, your lips brushing against his. “imagine my fingers inside of you, stretchin’ out your lil pussy for my cock.”
“oh my god,” you blurt, you can feel your heartbeat throughout your body as if you’re one sensitive nerve. of fucking course this man can dirty talk. you haven’t been on the edge like this in your life. “no, get off me. i need to go into the pool or something. a cold shower.”
one light press of your palm in the centre of his chest and he falls onto his back. he flings his forearm over his eyes and grunts, “fuck. sorry, i got carried away.”
“i started it,” you breathe, both of you laying beside each other with heaving chests.
“i continued it.”
“i said i wanted to fuck you—,”
“guys, the hideaway is always through there. you don’t have to fuck in front of us!”
hi. i know i've been MIA and i wish i came back on a better note but shit really hit the fan. I am in an urgent need for 500$. i am so upset that i am shaking because i have to bear a loss for a mistake i did not make but i have to because i signed an agreement at the start of this job. i'll link my ko-fi and paypal. i hate to greet you like this asking for money and i know it sounds pathetic but i am hanging on by thread and i don't know what i will do or it will end up taking my life and sanity with it. that being said, you are not forced to donate or help but if you can please do and help me. reblogs are much more appreciated. thank you so much to everyone in this community.
kofi
paypal
i'll tell you the story below
so i am a freelancer and i was asked to order CK underwear for them but the model he wanted was no longer available on any website so informed him but then he got upset and said i wasn't looking carefully and sent me a link to a model and asked me to buy it. i arranged it and we had to buy that internationally and pay customs and all that. only for him to text me and say it is the wrong product. i checked with the CK team and it was what he linked to me. now i couldn't even return or replace because we had to dropship and have it shipped internationally so the return window was expired. he told me i had to bear the loss and i communicated that i ordered what he linked to me and he said it was the wrong fabric and that he explained to me. but the thing is me and his other assistant in bali reviewed the whole thing as well as sent him confirmation twice before the order and he approved it. i am aware this is some sort of power play and i feel horrible because i have to bear the cost of a mistake i did not make, at least not entirely. the underwear was 300$ for the set and the rest 200$ was for shipping, customs and taxes. you know the worst part is, he is a billionaire. like actual billionaire but it only further proves that money cannot buy compassion or empathy but only fuel that hollow ego inside because this is the same person that orders me to buy 1500$ bouquet for funsies for him. so yeah this is power play but unfortunately i cannot do anything for now except pay and be done and dusted. as you know i recently had a surgery and i can't pay upfront so i really need help right now. if you can, please do consider helping me
being a podcaster that constantly goes viral when people clip you getting passionate about something. going on a rant about how that basketball guy was a fucking idiot for cheating on your favourite rapper. another clip of you saying ingenium’s new suit just looks sooooo good on him. did anyone know he was that fine?
always talking about pop culture, the fun parts about hero news (usually just outfits and faces) and little tidbits about your life.
you end up on bakugou’s 10 minute instagram scroll. everything you said about that stupid loser basketball player is true. you cuss well, eloquent with it. he doesn’t agree with what you say about ingenium’s new suit. well, it’s only recently got better because he got in contact with bakugou’s suit designer. he thinks you’re cute when you go into detail about why the suits better. bakugou still disagrees though.
but what makes bakugou take a step further is when he gets a video of you, not crying but angry. you’re speaking into a mic from your bed, or maybe it’s a set? but a bed, nevertheless, white sheets pulled up under your chin with this low lamp lighting.
“also i think i’m swearing off dating. it was going perfect with one guy and then he breaks it off because he doesn’t want his business ending up on the podcast…. i haven’t even said anything about him!” you whine, “and now it just looks like i’m proving his point because i’m talking about it but i wouldn’t have if we were still dating.”
the text on the video screams, “YN SINGLE?!”
bakugou taps on your instagram. loads of clips from your podcast pops up. he finds the next video, the one after the last.
“well dms are open if any fine men are interested. when i say fine i mean fine. you also have to be able to keep up with me, handle a little joke,” you laugh.
and bakugou thinks about it for three days. watches more videos of you talking, your goofy opinions, your educated opinions, your real opinions. scrolls through your personal instagram too.
so he does it. he dms you on your instagram because he deems himself a fine man, he can handle a little joke and well, he likes you. a lot.
you’re funny and smart. articulate yourself well. very beautiful. hobbies on your instagram, full group of friends. well travelled and a homebody and social and he’s eager to know more.
@ dynamight: Are applications still open?
it’s fun, bakugou thinks. a good slide into your dms.
but you don’t reply for a week. he thinks he’s been completely ignored. clearly not interested in him and defo not your type. even though you’re both verified so you’ve definitely got the notification. bakugou takes it all on the chin. doesn’t mention it to anybody because it’s a little embarrassing. maybe it’s been buried from all the other dms you’ve received from men.
until he gets a video on his timeline. then the same video sent to him from three different friends.
the words are captioned loud and bold on the video. straight to the point and pure clickbait. well is it clickbait if it’s true? bakugou chokes on his spit, turning up the volume in his work bathroom.
“DYNAMIGHT IN THE DMS?”
“now guys… walk with me here. if you’re dynamight, thee bakugou katsuki, one of the sexiest men in the world, PLEASE don’t watch this clip. i can’t believe you’ve even seen clips of my pod. i swear this isn’t even me!” you ramble into your microphone, tucked up with your knees to your chest for a more casual episode. “okay guys, now that he’s gone, i’ve got to tell you… after last episode when i said can fine men send me dms, why the fuck did dynamight send me one? i was so shocked by it i still haven’t replied. i’ve avoided talking about him here because i do not want to be on that man’s radar. he’s way too gorgeous for me to comprehend.”
you giggle to yourself, “but he dmed me… something about are applications open? the boyfriend ones. now i can’t reply because ive just told everybody but there’s no way i pulled him.”
bakugou watches it leaning against the sink, three times. his smile gets bigger every second till he’s full on grinning at his phone.
you’re joking a little, entertainment for the podcast because you know you’re just as fine as him. though you don’t think your worlds would ever cross?
he decides to make another move.
@ dynamight: I think you’re gorgeous too
commented underneath the video.
an onslaught of likes and comments commence. mostly your fans giving a whole load of keyboard smashes and “yn is going to go insane”.
then he puts his phone down, washes up his hands and checks his appearance in the mirror. wipes his nose and what not.
but he gets lured to his phone again, picking it up and opening instagram to find you’ve replied to his comment.
@ ynpod: @ dynamight i swear i don’t share all my business online
@ dynamight : @ ynpod So applications are still open?
LOVE IS A DISEASE - CHAPTER 1 ✶ FT. BAKUGOU KATSUKI
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ between managing dynamight’s image and cleaning up his pr messes, you think you’re decent at keeping things under control. unless it comes to your feelings—you definitely can’t keep those under control
or: you are bakugou katsuki’s perpetually nagging publicist, and he’s your most troublesome client. for some odd reason, that’s exactly why you both work
꒰ chapter word count ꒱ ✶ 16.6k words
꒰ before you read ꒱ ✶ female + publicist + quirkless reader ; pro hero bakugou ; bakugou and kirishima run an agency together ; workplace romance ; building tension ; references to social media and pop culture ; alcohol + drinking ; drunk sex ; hook ups ; bakugou carries reader ; dry humping ; p in v ; creampie
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ chapter one is here early!! please give it a chance, and if u read and happen to enjoy, please consider leaving comments/tags of your thoughts!
[ SERIES MASTERLIST ] PREVIOUS PART : NEXT PART
The video starts as follows: Get outta my face, you damn idiot! I’m not here for your entertainment—get lost.
You stare at Bakugou with an unimpressed expression as his voice booms from your phone. The video you play of his most recent hero stunt has been surfacing everywhere—literally everywhere. He only glares at you in return, stubborn as ever with arms crossed tight over his chest. When the voice of the reporter behind the camera stammers out an apology, he scoffs and looks away as if this whole ordeal is beneath him.
“Do you mind explaining why you’re calling reporters idiots?” you ask, leveling him with a pointed look. “Right into their cameras, no less?”
“Because they’re fucking idiots, why else?” He snaps, like that should be the end of the discussion. You think for him, it would be, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re just as stubborn as he is.
“Oh, my god. This could have been a perfect opport—” you cut yourself off mid-sentence, pinching the bridge of your nose as a groan slips out in frustration. “See? This is exactly what I mean when I say you need to be more media-smart! This was the perfect opportunity to say, ‘Sir, please step away from the fire for your own safety—it’s dangerous. I’ll handle this. Everyone is safe now that I’m here.’And then you’d be praised for your save instead of scrutinized.”
“Why the fuck would I have to tell a grown-ass man to get away from a fire?” Bakugou shoots back immediately. “He’s grown as fuck. That idiot was in my way—and if he got himself hurt, then I’d have to waste my damn time saving his ass instead of focusing on the actual people in trouble.”
It’s exactly what you expected—for him to argue. Honestly, at this point, it would be more surprising if he didn’t argue. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that much.
With an exasperated groan, you hiss, “Bakugou, do you even bother checking what people say about you? Look at this,” you turn your phone to him, reading the top comment on the video. “‘Why is he always so aggressive?’” You quote flatly. “Next—‘I know he chooses to save people, but why does he act like he hates being there? Oh, this one’s popular too—‘He’s scary as hell, I’d be more afraid of him than the fire.’”
His jaw ticks. You keep going anyway, uninterested in his clearly worsening mood.
“‘We should start calling him the symbol of anger issues,’” you read, then snort. “That comment’s got, like, eighty thousand hearts, by the way.”
“The fuck do they know?” he mutters, irritation bleeding into his voice as he practically sulks. “They weren’t even there.”
“Exactly,” you shoot back, “they weren’t there. This—” you wave your phone for emphasis, “—is what they see. This is all they have to go off of.”
He only huffs, glaring at your phone’s screen like it’s the culprit behind his mess, not his own self or his god-awful attitude.
“Oh, and wait, my personal favorites aren’t even the comments,” you say dryly. “It’s the headlines.” You tap open another tab and clear your throat theatrically. “‘Dynamight’s Explosive Temper: Hero or Liability?’” You read, glancing up at him.
His eye twitches, but you don’t stop.
“‘Rising Hero Dynamight Under Fire for Hostile Behavior.’”
“That’s—” he starts, visibly bristling. But you cut him off with another headline.
“And this one—oh, this one’s great,” you continue, voice theatrically sarcastic. “‘Is Strength Enough? Concerns Grow Over Dynamight’s Public Conduct.’”
“Alright, I get it,” he snaps, irritation flaring as he runs a hand through his hair. “A bunch of idiots with too much time on their hands are writing bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit if it’s shaping how people see you,” you counter immediately. “This is your reputation, for crying out loud! This is what brands see, what reporters see, what civilians see when they think about who they trust to save them.”
“I did save them,” he shoots back, glaring. “No one fuckin’ died—no one even got hurt. That’s what matters.”
“It matters, yes,” you agree, tiredly rubbing your temple. “But it’s not the only thing that matters.”
He clicks his tongue, looking away again, shoulders tense. “I was fuckin’ nice to the fire victims,” he grumbles out, “S’not enough for these people?”
“No. It’s not. And being stubborn is only making it harder for yourself,” you say, quieter now but no less firm. “You know it’s not enough. Reporters are annoying and get in the way a lot, I know—but they also get your name out there. You should be using that to your advantage.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there, scowling, jaw tight—like he’s chewing on your words even if he hates the taste of them. Like they’re acrid and bitter on his tongue. But, even if they are, he should take your words more seriously, you think. You’re hired to give him advice that does him favors, after all.
You never saw yourself getting this far into your career in your mid-twenties.
Here you are, sitting comfortably in your lush, meticulously kept office at Riot Grenade Agency (your own office!) You have your own printer, your own coffee machine, and a window that spans nearly the entire wall, offering a view of the city that still feels a little unreal if you stare at it for too long. The floors are tiled in something undoubtedly expensive, cleaned professionally every week, and you still catch yourself hesitating at the threshold some mornings, like you might track something in and dull the shine. The pay is as good as you’d imagined it would be for an agency that has the names Bakugou Katsuki and Kirishima Eijirou plastered on it, and the paid time off and vacation hours are even more generous than most companies.
Life is good.
Or, at least, it would be—if one half of your clients weren’t so complicated to work with.
You’re not really sure how you managed to land the role of publicist for two of Japan’s most impressively rising heroes—or, perhaps, that’s not entirely true.
Eraserhead—Bakugou’s former teacher and, apparently, a long-suffering advocate for his public image—had all but forced the development, insisting that Bakugou needed a publicist, and fast. The result was a job opening at Riot Grenade Agency that almost seemed too good to be true. No crazy levels of experience required, no thorough list of qualifications to meet. You see the job listing and apply on a whim. You figure you won’t even hear back, if anything.
But, evidently, working under the PR team of someone as synonymous with flawless press as Uwabami has earned you a shiny badge of showing promise, and you get a call back for an interview almost instantly. Sharing an alma mater with the very heroes you’re applying to work for certainly doesn’t hurt your chances, either. UA, outside of its hero course, has the best business track in the country, too.
Still, if you’re being honest, you think the real deciding factor comes down to something far less merit-based and far more circumstantial. You never expect your first senior-level role to be at an agency this large or this visible (one of the heroes running it is number four on the charts, for crying out loud). You always assume you’ll have to climb a little longer up the ladder, prove yourself a little more, before landing something like this.
But, luckily for you, most people don’t make it very far in the interview process once they meet one of your two bosses—specifically, Bakugou. In fact, most drop out of the process altogether and start looking elsewhere, even if putting Riot Grenade Agency on their résumé would be a shining addition. You’re one of the very few who actually stay long enough to receive an offer at all. At least, that’s what Kirishima tells you.
We’re honestly so lucky someone so capable accepted our job offer, he’d said while touring you around the agency, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Most people kinda ghost us once they meet Bakugou—or they ask for a salary that’s way out of our budget to make up for his…behavior. B-but he’s not so bad once you get to know him! Honest! He’s been my best friend for a long time, so please trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about.
As sweet and likable as Kirishima is, you almost wish you could tell him he’s a liar.
Because Bakugou is definitely just as bad a client to work with once you get to know him. A client that is not going to deter you, of course—but a bad client all the same. It’s month five of working here, and you don’t need to know him any better than you do right now to know that your job will never get any easier than it is. And that’s to say that it is seldom easy.
But, if there is one thing you’ve learned while working here, it’s that pushing back and fighting Bakugou only makes him take you more seriously. It’s…an odd dynamic, you think—bickering and arguing with your boss of all people all the time. He always pushes your buttons just right—but you push them right back. It’s the only way you find you can get him to cooperate. And you will get him to cooperate—you are most qualified to do your job well.
“Alright,” he groans, still pissy and irritated (like always) as he looks at you with a resigned look, “what, you want me to apologize on Twitter or some shit?”
“Nope,” you shake your head, “we’re doing something else.”
He eyes you warily, like he already knows he’s not going to like it. “The hell do you mean we?”
“Well, you,” you correct, not missing a beat. “Actually, you and Kirishima. You’re going to do an Instagram live for your fans.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. A third time. Then, “…What.”
“Instagram live,” you repeat, like you’re explaining something painfully obvious to a young child. “At the gym, today. You’ll work out, talk a little to the camera—just keep it casual. I think we need to let people see you as a regular person outside of this disaster that Dynamight—” you lift your phone slightly and gesture at the paused video “—has caused. And if all else fails, your fangirls will see your muscles and at least thirst over you, so either way, we win.”
“Fuck no,” he says immediately. “I don’t want to be thirsted over.”
You don’t even blink. “Well, that’s too bad. It’s already scheduled.”
His eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Like hell it is.”
“It is,” you retort calmly. “Kirishima’s already on board. He cleared his schedule for this, so you won’t be backing out.”
“Of course he did,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuckin’ Shitty-Hair would agree to anything.”
“Yes,” you nod in relief at the simple thought of Kirishima, “and thank god for that, because you are blessed to have him as your business partner. He’s going to do absolute wonders for your PR if you stop fighting me for five minutes and let me do my job.”
“I’m not doing some stupid shit on live so a bunch of extras can spam comments,” he snaps.
“You are,” you counter, just as agitated. He pauses at your own attitude. (Only Bakugou Katsuki would be a boss that you could speak to this way and get away with it—he needs it, if anything. It’s the only way things get through that thick skull of his.) “Because right now, those ‘extras’ are the ones deciding whether you’re a likable person or not. And at the moment…” You glance down at the paused screen of his angry face, “...It’s not looking great for you.”
He clicks his tongue, jaw tightening. “I don’t give a shit what they think.”
“You might not,” you say. “But your sponsors for your agency do. Your ranking does. And since it’s, like, quite literally my job to make sure you don’t tank all three of those things because you can’t stop calling people idiots on camera, you’re going live. And you’re going to give people a reason to find something likable in you on live. Unless you have a better idea, which then, I’d love to hear it—and no, a half-assed Twitter apology won’t cut it. An apology from you is hardly an apology at all, anyway.”
He glares at you as he opens his mouth to argue, but…for once, he can’t seem to come up with anything. You give him a semi-smug look for just a brief second.
“Just thirty minutes,” you reassure. “You don’t even have to be nice. Just…don’t be actively hostile, okay? Kirishima will handle the rest.”
“Fuck…fine,” he groans, then cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale. “This is so stupid.”
“Well,” you shrug. “You did this to yourself.”
He supplies you with a hard scowl, shoulders tense. “If this turns into some cringey shit, I’m gonna end it,” he rubs a hand over his face.
“No, you won’t,” you say firmly.
His head snaps back toward you as his hand drops. “Like hell I won’t—”
“You won’t,” you repeat, already turning back to your desk like the conversation is over, resuming reading through emails, “because I’ll be watching, and if you so much as hover your finger over the end button before the thirty minutes are up, I will personally make sure your next few brand deals and interviews are a living nightmare.”
“You’re the most annoying woman I’ve ever met,” he mutters. “A fuckin’ hellcat.”
“I know I am. And you’re going on live in two hours,” you respond instantly, not even looking at him as you start typing on your keyboard.
—
@ Dynamight is live.
When you get the notification that Bakugou is live, two hours later—exactly on time, to your surprise—you’re watching it from your office. Your phone is propped up against your computer in front of you, the live pulled up on your screen while you try to watch and do some work at the same time. The comments flood in fast enough that they blur if you look too long.
You’d expected to be greeted by a grumpy, agitated Bakugou on the screen, causing more chaos. Instead, the screen opens on Kirishima’s face, too close to the camera, with a bright, charming grin as his sharp canines flash you.
“Okay, okay, it’s on!” he beams, pushing the phone back so it stays in place steadily. The gym comes into view behind him, the weights, mats, all of their equipment—and then the phone falls forward with a thud, and the screen goes black. “Oops,” comes Kirishima’s soft mumble.
You giggle. If only Bakugou were naturally this easy to be fond of, it would make your life so much easier.
LMAOOOOO
omfg his little oops??? so adorable
HE IS SOOOO CUTIE
Oh my god I love him
MY MANNNNNN CANNOT BE THIS ADORABLE
You read the comments as fast as you can while Kirishima adjusts the phone back in place again. As soon as he’s back in frame, you look off to the side—and there is Bakugou. Arms crossed in a black tank top, shaking his head at Kirishima. He looks like he’d rather die than participate in this voluntarily, but you don’t care as long as he dies after he does it.
Your eyes flick to the viewer count. Climbing fast. Good, you think, fantastic.
“What’s up, guys!” Kirishima waves at the camera like it’s a FaceTime call with friends. “I know we’ve never done something like this before, but I think this could be a fun new thing to do from time to time. Katsuki and I are just training today—nothing crazy. Thought we’d hop on for a bit.”
The comments immediately explode.
IS THIS REAL?? THEY’RE REALLY LIVE???
did he just call him katsuki? that is SO cute
KIRISHIMA HIIIIIII I WANNA BE UR GF
WHY IS DYNAMIGHT JUST STANDING THERE LIKE THAT
IS THIS GONNA BE A REGULAR THING???? PLEASE LORD SAY YES
You snort as you read the comments and lean back slightly, watching carefully as Kirishima turns the phone a little toward Bakugou. “Say hi, man!”
Bakugou just huffs. “They can fucking see me, can’t they?”
You close your eyes for a second. Here we go, you think tiredly. Bakugou is going to ruin this before it even begins. You’re going to have to think of a plan B. You’re running out of plans. But Kirishima just laughs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world when faced with Bakugou’s temperament. “That’s his way of saying hi.”
You open your eyes, relieved as you read the incoming comments.
LMAO NOT HIM TRANSLATING FOR DYNAMIGHT
red riot is so done with him i bet lollll
Dear god someone get me in that room with them now
I can take both of them. And not in a fight
“Alright,” Kirishima says, clapping his hands once. “Let’s work out! You always start a workout with warm-ups! Nothing intense, just get your body ready.” He sets the phone down at an angle that catches both of them. “Start simple,” he continues, doing a few forward lunges, “like this. It’s just waking your joints up.”
Bakugou clicks his tongue immediately, rolling his eyes as he brings his knees to his chest while he does his own stretches. “You’re making it sound like a damn kindergarten class. Gonna talk them through nap time too?”
OHHHH HE CAN TALK ME THROUGH IT ALRIGHT
by the time we’re done, a nap is what we’re gonna need >:)
OH MY GOD THOSE CALVES
Kirishima laughs good-naturedly. “Well, some people skip this step and then complain they’re sore. So just in case.”
“Tch.” But Bakugou steps forward anyway, to your surprise, before he says, “You idiots skipping warm-ups are just asking for injuries.”
Kirishima smiles at the camera with a wink. “That’s his version of asking you not to get injured over a simple mistake. He’s worried about you all.”
Bakugou glares at him. “Am not! And don’t narrate me.”
“How else will they understand you?” Kirishima snorts.
they’re actually so funny together
HE’S WORRIED ABOUT ME GETTING INJURED <3
Yoooo why isn’t he yelling?? i was expecting yelling
Kirishima shifts them into something simple. “Okay, next—some push-ups. C’mon, show them how to do some push-ups, man.”
Bakugou stares at him for a short moment, sighing like he’s annoyed at the concept of doing push-ups—an exercise he does every single day, no less, you think with a scoff—before dropping down next to Kirishima to join him.
AHHH WE GET TO WATCH THEM DO PUSH UPSSSS
Those BICEPS
i bet those arms would look good holding our baby. let’s have a baby <3
“Don’t flare your elbows like an idiot,” Bakugou says flatly. “Keep them tight or your shoulders are gonna hate you later.”
Kirishima laughs mid-rep. “See? He cares.”
“I don’t care,” Bakugou snaps immediately.
“Aw, but you just gave them advice! So sweet!”
“I gave instructions, you moron.”
“Because you care!”
“Tch—would you shut up, you shitty-haired idiot?”
“C’mon, man, my hair is cool! Right, guys?”
It’s cute, you think—the bickering. You yourself don’t see this side of Bakugou, let alone his fans (that you’re still shocked even exist). In fact, you don’t see any side of him other than that grouchy one that hates to see you coming into his office with more news on what brand deals and photoshoots and interviews he needs to do for the week. The least irritated you’ve ever seen him is when he’s serious about something at the agency, and even then, he’s exactly that—serious and all business.
You’ve…never actually seen Bakugou be casual, never seen him do something simple like work out in a tank top as he bickers with his best friend. Nor have you seen him crack a small smile as he snorts at something stupid Kirishima says. Nor have you seen him grunt as he switches from doing push-ups to hip thrusts in a gym while he sweats a little—
Stop, you hiss to yourself in your mind. This is your boss. You’re no better than those shameless fangirls. But—you will admit, you’re more than a little thrilled as he decides to do them for the sake of PR. The comments are, as you expected, just as ecstatic to watch him.
CRUSH ME WITH THOSE THIGHS BABEEEE
oh my god look at the veins on his arms
FUCKKKKK SOMEONE TELL ME HOW MUCH WEIGHT HE’S DOING I NEED TO KNOW IF THAT’S HEAVIER THAN ME
Those weights should be ME bro
Before you know it, the thirty minutes are up, and Bakugou is grabbing the phone as his sweaty face comes into frame up close. You pretend not to notice the way his hair clings to his flushed face or the way he’s breathing a little labored as he says gruffly, “Kay. That’s it for now—we gotta finish up and get to patrol so—hey! Why the fuck are you weirdos talking about my veins?” he snaps.
From the side, Kirishima calls, “Girls like that, bro!”
“I don’t give a—” he luckily catches himself mid-sentence, cuts himself off, and sighs, giving the screen a tired look. “You people need to stop being weird. Goodbye.”
Live Video Ended.
Bakugou is no longer on the screen, but you still stare at it for a second longer, sitting there as you remember the way his arms flexed and his hips moved while he thrusted those barbells. The image is still fresh in your mind. Then, as if waking up from a trance, you blink and shake your head, inhaling sharply.
“Okay,” you murmur to yourself. “This was good. That went well—better than expected.”
Suddenly, your phone lights up with a message.
TODAY 5:34 PM
Bakugou: did you watch the whole thing
You: Sure did. Had to make sure you didn’t slack off
You: You did good though! I think you deserve to enjoy your weekend for this great work
Bakugou: wtv. i just did what u said
Bakugou: i’m not doing that again btw. they keep saying weird shit in the comments
You: Well…
You: They loved it so you’re gonna be doing more of this for your image I fear
You: I’m sure you’ll get used to it :)
Bakugou: u really are so annoying holy fuck
Bakugou: hellcat
You’re smiling at your phone.
It takes you a second to realize it, but when you do, you notice in mortification that you’re fucking smiling at your phone like an idiot. Your boss is a few floors down, working out in the fancy little gym he’s made for himself in his fancy little building that he’s built off of his fancy little paychecks, and you’re smiling as you text him as if…as if what?
As if nothing, you tell yourself. You can smile at your phone when your boss is being pleasant. Pleasant people smile at each other when they talk—although you doubt Bakugou ever does any smiling ever when he texts you, but that’s more of a Bakugou-specific thing. He never smiles.
This is nothing. It will always be nothing. Bakugou is rough and harsh and uninterested in everyone around him, and he’s leagues beyond you in a world you could never hope to be a part of. You’re quirkless, for crying out loud. He’d never take you seriously past the media advice you give him for the sake of a paycheck and the sake of his public image, and that’s about it. A few hip thrusts and one nice, pleasant thirty minutes of watching him be himself outside of the hero world is not going to change the fact that he is your hellish client who signs your checks.
And then you pause—why are you thinking so heavily on this? Why are you even thinking about him like that? It’s not like one thirty-minute session of watching him be a little more carefree and a little less cranky could make you suddenly see him as anything other than that crabby blonde who can make things explode for a living—right?
Right, you decide. You are immune to petty crushes because of shallow things like thighs and muscles, and you are especially immune to crushes on your boss. Especially when your boss is fucking Bakugou Katsuki, who yells at things whether they breathe or they don’t.
You are immune, you tell yourself. Very, very immune.
────────────────────────
Despite your…conflicting feelings (that you’ve definitely shoved aside) about the workout live, it turns out to be one of your finer ideas.
Bakugou continues to show up trending in the media quite often after that—and, to your prideful pleasure, it’s instead for positive things. Well…if you consider thirsty edits of him on the internet a positive thing, that is. Which, when compared to the other option of him chewing a reporter out, you do. In fact, you like to think that you are, in your humble opinion, maybe even deserving of a hefty raise and perhaps, if you’re lucky, a thank you.
But you’re realistic. You take the positive attention he’s getting as a win, and don’t concern yourself with hoping for the thank you that you know is not coming. He’s definitely aware that your idea was fabulous, though, and that satisfaction is enough to keep you at peace (and rather smug, too).
You spend the better half of your weekend surfing the web after typing his name into the search bar of Twitter and TikTok, and then another portion of it going down an unexpected rabbit hole of Bakugou x Reader fanfiction that his stans on Reddit swear left and right are the AO3 must-reads. (You’re not entirely sure how you stumbled across this rabbit hole, but you are not above admitting you’ve discovered that some people evidently produce the most gut-wrenching and life-altering literature for free, and it almost feels unfair to read it without compensating them. Never mind that it’s literature about your boss and his cock and how he uses it—that’s unimportant.)
By Monday morning, he’s in your office bright and early, begrudgingly starting his day by going over the events you have planned for the week so he can work his schedule around them—or rather, his assistant can. If there’s one person who must have a harder job than you in this agency, it must be his personal assistant.
“Your following went up a great amount after that live, by the way,” you tell him once you’re done going over everything.
“Like I care,” he grunts, “just means more spam in my comments.”
“You know, I have to say. It’s a miracle your fangirls like you so much,” you respond with a snort. “You’d think that with your attitude, people would find you unfuckable. But there’s actually a very impressive selection of x-reader fanfics for you.”
“Hah?” He looks at you, bewildered as he pauses from walking out of your door. “What the fuck is that?”
“Fan-written fiction?” You explain to him with a straight face, lifting a brow. “But the kind where it’s immersive for the reader, you know? So all the women—and men, too, honestly—who want to fuck you can read creative literature that vividly sets the scene for them.”
He looks horrified—scratch that, he looks absolutely disgusted. Your composure cracks at his face, your lips wobbling as they strain not to tug into a smile, and Bakugou…well, Bakugou is not flattered that people like to fantasize about his stroke game. Not even a little.
“The fuck sort of…you call that shit literature? Huh? Who the fuck is spending their free time writing that sort of bullshit? And it’s about me?”
“Yup,” you nod. Then, like the headache that you strive to be, you pull out your phone and scroll a bit. “Here—this one in particular is very popular. I was skimming through it.”
He does a double-take. “Wait—you read that…that fuckery?”
“I skimmed it—pay attention, I just went over that. And, it’s because I got curious when I came across a Reddit thread after I searched your name. Searching your name online is part of my job,” you snicker. “They were recommending which ones were worth reading in there. This was my personal favorite scene.”
“I don’t need to hear your fuckass favorite—”
You interrupt him as you give him a sickeningly smug look before clearing your throat and starting to read aloud: “Bakugou was generously endowed, and you could feel it. Pressed against your thigh, you could feel the sheer size of him. ‘Oh, Katsuki,’ you gasped, ‘you’re so big, baby.’ He responded with a low chuckle as he said, ‘Yeah, you feel that, princess? Feel how hard my—’”
“Will you shut the fuck up?” he hisses, stomping over and snatching your wrist as he tugs it away so you can no longer read from your phone. His ears are crimson, his face painted with a shade of pure shame you didn’t think was possible on Bakugou Katsuki of all people. But it’s there, and you take great pleasure in it—especially when his voice comes out strained as he says, “Is this even legal? Writing fuckin’—fuck, I don’t know—erotic-ass shit like that about a real person?”
“I assure you, it is,” you nod. “We didn’t even get to the really juicy part. There’s a scene where you and y/n—”
“Who is y/n?” he squints, pure confusion written all over his face.
“It’s like the placeholder name,” you say, waving your hand with a shrug as if that should explain everything. “It stands for ’your name.’ So whoever’s reading can just mentally insert themselves. It’s supposed to make it more immersive.”
Bakugou stares at you like you’ve just personally offended him—maybe even his entire lineage, if anything, with the way he seems so beyond appalled.
“…That makes zero sense,” he scoffs. “They can’t just put in their fucking names? They type out dumb ass placeholders?”
“No, you’re missing the point,” you snort, not bothering to hide how much you’re enjoying yourself at his expense. “They’re writing it for others, not just themselves. You’re like…the fantasy. And everyone who reads it is the main character in their minds.”
“I’m not anybody’s fuckin’ fantasy,” he snaps immediately.
“Oh, you absolutely are,” you grin. “There are thousands of people online who would disagree with you. Passionately.”
“Yeah? Well, they’re all fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, crossing his arms. Then, after a beat, he straightens up as he narrows two accusatory eyes at you. “And you. Why the hell were you reading that in the first place?”
“I told you, I was curious,” you shrug innocently. “I couldn’t really envision anybody wanting to romance you—Kiri, I understand. But you…made no sense, so I wanted to see what people were writing. Or rather, I wanted to see the appeal, if you will.”
You say that simply to be annoying—and it clearly works more than you’d bargained for, because he absolutely bristles at your words, glaring at you like you’re two seconds away from being fired where you sit. You like your job, you do—but this…well, this would almost be worth losing said job. This momentary rush of pure euphoria as you watch his jaw clench and his eyes blaze with thinly veiled agitation, is all you care about right now.
“That’s not romance, you dumbass,” he shoots back. “That’s—” he gestures vaguely, clearly at a loss for words, “—that’s some purely deranged shit.”
You hum, pretending to consider that. “I don’t know…some of it was pretty well-written. The plotlines can get pretty complex and—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
“I’m just saying,” you continue anyway, your grin turning devious, “my only critique would be that your characterization is a bit off in a lot of them. They make you way more of a smooth talker than you actually are.”
His eye actually twitches. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you shoot him a cheeky, antagonizing look as you shrug innocently, “You would not be this much of a charmer in reality. I don’t even think you could say ’princess’ without sounding like you’re constipated.”
There’s a split second where he just stares at you, and you can see his thoughts written clearly on his face—first processing, then shocked, then offended, and then something else you can’t quite pin down. But you can’t take the time to dwell on it because it’s gone as fast as it came, and he’s giving you a challenging look that screams, you’re on.
“Keep talkin’ like that, Hellcat,” he mutters, grabbing your wrist and tugging you forward as he bends closer and looks you right in the eye, “and I’ll show you exactly how ’out of character’ I can be.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—he is so…attractive when he grins like that. You are going to die on the spot, you think.
To your absolute credit, you manage to blink up at him, your grin unfaltering. “Oh? Like a reenactment?”
He levels you with a small, determined smirk as he says, “If that’s what you wanna call it, princess.”
And oh, does he say that word so smoothly—like a low, sing-song purr that gut punches you for a fleeting moment. But you gather yourself impressively fast, just before he can really be sure his words had any effect on you as you hum, “Well, you’d better get to reading so you know the script.”
With that, he pulls away and strides out of your office, leaving you standing there as still as a statue while you will your heart rate to come down to a humanly normal speed. You try to ignore that weird, tingling feeling at your wrist where his fingertips dug in just a few moments ago, and that absolutely baffling lump in your throat as you swallow thickly.
You’re immune to him, you tell yourself—you are.
—
Twitter: Katsuki Bakugou just made a post
Katsuki Bakugou @ DynamightOfficial · 20m
who the hell is y/n and why are people writing weird ass stories about me. stop that shit immediately
🗨2.5K comments ⇄40K retweets ♡174K likes
top replies:
kacchan addict @ bakugouswife4ever · 10m
HELP??? WHO SNITCHED FESS UP 😭😭😭
🗨128 comments ⇄540 retweets ♡8.2K likes
Katsuki’s Lover @ explosionkink · 8m
“who the hell is y/n” IM CRYINGGGGGGG
🗨64 comments ⇄1.2K retweets ♡15.6K likes
Dynamight Daily @ greatexplosionmudergodupdates · 7m
Waiting for the day he learns about the yaoi too 💀
🗨32 comments ⇄890 retweets ♡12.1K likes
WRITING COMMS OPEN @ katsukisbabie · 6m
not you discovering x reader fanfiction im so frieddddd
🗨12 comments ⇄210 retweets ♡6.7K likes
STEPONMEDEKU @ izookoo · 5m
WAIT CAN SOMEONE SHOW HIM AO3 LMAOOOO
🗨9 comments ⇄480 retweets ♡9.8K likes
ANGRY BLONDE LUVR @ angryblondeconnoisseur · 4m
nah cuz he really said “stop that shit” like we were gonna listen to him 😭
🗨14 comments ⇄650 retweets ♡11.2K likes
Katsuki’s little lamb @ explosiondaddymight · 4m
katsuki can i be your irl y/n please daddy 😍😍😍
🗨6 comments ⇄390 retweets ♡7.5K likes
–
Messages: 1 new unread message
TODAY 7:52 PM
Bakugou: wtf is a yaoi
You: Google is free you know
Bakugou: ya as if i trust this shit to be in my search history
You: Ever heard of incognito mode ??
You: Also don’t forget you and Kiri have a photoshoot tomorrow morning
You: Please don’t be late. I’m serious
Bakugou: 👍
────────────────────────
Today is not the day for Bakugou’s nonsense, especially not so early into the day—so as soon as you find him, you’ll kill him.
Today is your birthday—which, Kirishima so kindly remembered, greeting you with a cup of your go-to coffee order and a bouquet of flowers as soon as he sees you. He’s so sweet, you almost cry on the spot—you’ve never had such a thoughtful boss before. It lifts your spirits about working on your birthday as soon as you walk into the building, where he and Bakugou will be modeling for their ad. Some expensive athletic wear brand you don’t really care for, but a good opportunity to get their names out there more, all the same. An angel like Kirishima, giving you a tight hug and an affectionate head pat as he wishes you happy birthday, is almost enough to keep you in a good mood that distracts you from the fact that Bakugou is apparently still not out and ready for his photos. Almost.
Unfortunately for you, you’re going to have to spend your birthday pissed and exhausted over Bakugou Katsuki. Which is like most other days, of course, but you wanted a break today of all days.
He’s been changing for twenty minutes now—and you think that’s just absurd because he has to take off more clothes than he actually has to put on. The photo shoot scheduled for today is of athletic wear, and he’ll be shirtless for these basketball shorts he’s doing his ad for. It’s pretty fucking simple to put on. But no—he’s taking forever and a year, and the cameraman is getting antsy, and he has his afternoon patrol right after this, and you have a list of emails to answer that’s longer than Bakugou’s history of internet scandals.
They task you to grab him. Kirishima gets too busy with his own shoot to go check, and Bakugou’s assistant stayed back to handle other matters in the office, so it’s just you. Fucking hell.
To fucking hell with this shoot and to fucking hell with your job and above all, to fucking hell with Bakugou. You’ll quit after this stupid photo session. You’ll stay just long enough for your next paycheck, and then you’ll dip—you’ll get a nice, cushy remote job as a social media manager or something and tweet promotional content for a living from your bedroom. Sure, the pay might be cut a bit, but you’re content with being just comfortable; it’s not as though you’re dead set on living like a wealthy, privileged person. Just enough to have a decent apartment on the safe side of town is good enough. Just that much is fine.
That’s right. This is all fine—you’ll make it through this shoot as soon as you find Bakugou (because where the fuck is he?) and then you’ll get yourself an easier job and life will be good.
As soon as you find Bakugou.
“Bakugou—” you go to jiggle the doorknob of his changing room—not with the intention to open it, but just to give it a quick shake and get his attention so he knows you’re on the other side. That’s all it was meant to be. Just a small twist, enough for the handle to rattle against the lock and announce your presence without you actually going in.
How were you supposed to know the door was unlocked? (Because, really, who the fuck goes to change and leaves the door unlocked?)
As soon as you twist the doorknob, expecting it to catch and stop after that tiny movement, it gives way completely instead—and the force of your unsuspecting twist sends it all the way down, the latch slipping free. The door swings open before you can stop it, and your own momentum propels you forward.
You stumble into the room where Bakugou is…half fucking naked.
Any part of him that’s…particularly explicit is covered, thank god—but he’s in nothing but skin-tight, black boxers. He’s shirtless, sockless, fucking everything-less apart from those boxers, bent forward as he’s pulling the basketball shorts he’s modeling over his ankles. He pauses, just as shocked as you, as you burst in.
He looks at you. You look at him. And then you’re looking at each other—and admittedly, your eyes are not really doing you any favors as they scan over his figure. Your eyes are working completely against you. Your eyes are autonomously going against your wishes and throwing you under the bus, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them.
At least, that’s what it feels like, because no amount of self-control seems to be enough to stop fucking staring at his abs.
“O-oh my…” You trail off before turning your head forcefully to the side and looking away as you stutter, “I-I’m sorry I didn’t…you were…I was…a-and…who on Earth doesn’t lock the door when they’re changing?”
“Who the fuck just barges into someone’s changing room is the better question,” he counters gruffly, pulling the shorts easily over his hips as he straightens up. You still refuse to look at him even as you know he’s decent—well, as decent as he can get. His bare chest alone practically feels like you’re seeing him nude, if you’re being honest.
And that should be enough—more than enough—to stop your spiraling mind. It should be.
Because this is your boss, and you should absolutely not have the hots for your boss simply because he’s semi-exposed. Your insufferable, foul-mouthed, temperamental boss who yells at reporters and snaps at fans and makes children cry and argues with you like it’s his full-time job to do all that instead of being a hero. This is not a situation where your brain should be short-circuiting over the fact that he looks—
Oh god. You feel nauseous as you realize he looks good.
You swallow hard, still staring resolutely at the wall like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. It’s not even like you haven’t thought he was an attractive man before. You have. Obviously. You’re a functioning adult with eyes, and you can understand when someone is objectively good-looking. And because the universe is fond of jokes, they made Bakugou unfairly attractive—objectively so—while coupling him with that shoddy attitude of his. You’ve certainly acknowledged in your head that he’s rather easy on the eyes; it’s not like this is the first time.
But this is…very different. Because now that you’ve seen him so…exposed, your brain refuses to unsee it. The broad cut of his shoulders. The way his muscles flexed when he straightened, shifting under his skin so tightly. The sharp lines of his torso, all lean strength and definition, like he was carved to be God’s favorite. Even just the brief glimpse of him bent forward, and the way everything moved…
You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, as if that’ll help keep your mind from getting creative. (It doesn’t.) Now your imagination is filling in the gaps you didn’t let yourself look at. And that’s worse.
You clear your throat, trying to forcibly drag your thoughts back into something normal, something professional, something that doesn’t involve you mentally cataloguing the exact shape of your boss’s abs like you’re committing it to memory for later.
This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.
He’s just…he’s just a guy. A rather annoying, loud, obnoxious, and infuriating guy who, unfortunately, happens to look—
You bite the inside of your cheek.
Don’t finish that thought.
Good—he looks very good.
No! Stop thinking! Think about other things! Other things! Anything!
He looks so fucking hot.
Quit it!
Damn, does he even have to work out? His abs must be genetic.
Your mind is battling back and forth with itself, and distantly, you realize if you don’t say anything soon, you’ll only make things worse for yourself, so you force yourself to turn to him and talk.
“That was an accident,” you say genuinely, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah?” He gives you a crooked grin, almost like he’s smug about the fact that you’re in this predicament. “You accidentally check people out often, Hellcat?”
Bakugou is not a dense person—that is the most irritating thing about him. You can’t fool him with anything, so you know that he’s caught on to the fact that you’ve stared at his body, and you know that he’s fully aware it’s had at least a small amount of influence on your current state of mind.
Still, you’re stubborn. And you don’t like the idea of him hearing firsthand from you that yes, you took a moment to eye him, and yes, it was quite a satisfying eyeful, so you scoff and give him your best glare. It’s far more weak that you’d prefer.
“I was n-not checking you out,” comes your rather clumsy retort, “I was literally just…shocked and unprepared, and I froze while I was processing what…I was looking at…and…”
“Processing my physique after barging into my changing room,” he snorts. “Surprised we’d see someone without clothes in a changin’ room? You’re even more of an idiot than I thought.”
“I wasn’t trying to barge in,” you snap, and you know you sound too flustered to be taken too seriously. But what can you do? “They sent me to get you. Which, by the way, what’s taking you so fucking long?”
That seems to break him from his momentary fit of amusement as he realizes you’re here to collect him, practically against his will, to do the very thing he has adamantly been against doing since you brought it up. You don’t understand why Bakugou has to insist on making every little thing a difficult matter—standing in front of a camera is the easiest way for him to be likable. He doesn’t even have to talk. And yet, there is always some sort of pushback, no matter what you suggest.
“I have real shit that requires my attention,” he grumbles, “you know—a real fuckin’ job? A job that I don’t know…demands I be a hero instead of standing under hot lights to pose like a half-baked idiot.”
You shoot him a withering glare at his sarcasm. “So you just, what? Sat here for twenty minutes keeping everyone waiting? Wasting their time so you could stand around and think about your real job?”
“No, you damn moron,” he snaps, “I had a phone call! It was fucking important.”
“Oh,” you blink, pausing. “About hero stuff?”
He doesn’t really give you anything apart from an incoherent grunt, but you’ve learned to read him well enough that you understand this is him confirming your hunch. And avoiding it, too. Which only makes you press.
“What happened?” you tilt your head.
Bakugou supplies you with an irritated scowl as he huffs, “As if it’s any of your business.”
“Well, it’s not like I don’t know almost everything about your hero stuff,” you argue, “I’m quite literally your publicist, so I have to make sure I know things so they get out there in a good light and—”
“This isn’t to do with my hero shit,” he groans. “Just keep your nose out of—”
“Did something happen to another hero?” you ask in concern. “Are they asking you for advice or something—oh my god, no. They, like…cannot go to you for advice,” you shake your head. “Is it a friend? What happened, a scandal? I’ll literally help them for free, just please don’t offer them a solution on what to do—you’re the last person anyone should ask for advice on—”
“Would you shut up?” he cuts you off, rubbing his forehead as though you give him a headache. (You think you probably do. And you’re fine with that.) He gives you a mildly betrayed look as he huffs, “And just because I have an attitude here and there doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know how to clean up messes—I just hate it when it’s me doing the cleaning shit.”
“Here and there? That’s quite an understatement,” you scoff. “So someone is in a mess? I’m serious, I’ll offer them a free solution this once. They must be in a real pickle if they’re coming to you, of all people.”
“No!” he groans, pinching his nose in agitation, “holy fuck, you are so persistent—no one is in a mess! Okay? I’m getting fucking Deku a fucking support suit with his old quirk so he can be a hero and shit. And people are pitching in to pay for it, so I have to keep track of who’s giving what, and it’s a whole fuckin’ thing.”
You pause.
You remember Deku—or rather, Midoriya is how you remember him. How could you not? It’s hard to think sometimes that Bakugou and his old classmates were in your year—that you roamed the same hallways at the same time as these war veterans before any of you could even so much as legally drink. It’s hard to think that a boy, so young and so promising, would so easily give up his powers for the sake of saving others. But then again, is it really? Is it really that hard to believe something like that? It’s not, is it?
These people—Bakugou, Midoriya, and their peers. They gave up their youth and their innocence so readily, didn’t they? It could have even been their lives and dreams, potentially. They went into it all knowing it was all on the line willingly, of course. You’re not sure why you still ponder on it, why you’re still shocked sometimes. It’s just who they are—why they are so good at their jobs and why things have changed to be the way they are now.
“That’s…” you trail off, voice soft as you look at him carefully, “that’s actually so sweet.”
He gives you a sharp, yet uncomfortable glare. “Why are you acting all shocked like I can’t do nice shit—and don’t look at me like that. I’m just trying to beat that damn nerd so we can settle once and for all that I’m a better hero than him—losing his damn stupid power isn’t stopping me from winning.”
You smile a little at his outburst, shaking your head. Deep down, Bakugou is thoughtful—of course, he is. He’s got to be a pretty fucking thoughtful guy to go rushing into burning buildings and collapsing rubble to save people, that’s a given—but he can be thoughtful in other ways, too. Ways like this that speak so loudly that he cares. That people matter, and they matter to him.
You wonder what it must be like to matter to him. And then you stop. No—you absolutely cannot think about things like that. They’re not for you to wonder.
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave, shoving that weird feeling in your chest down again, “why don’t you prove you’re not a loser some other time? A time where you’re preferably not on the clock and keeping people waiting, maybe?”
He sighs, rolling his eyes before walking past you and leaving his changing room. You follow behind him because you have no other option but to lead him to his awaiting photoshoot. Then, just before he reaches where the photography team is exasperatedly relieved to see him, he turns over his shoulder and says gruffly, “You can take the rest of the day off—you’ll still be paid and stuff. S’just a buncha pictures. Ei and I will be fine. And, uh…happy birthday.”
He walks off, and you stand there in shock at his words…and is that your heart…that’s beating like that?
No, you think resolutely, it’s not. Because you’re immune to him—you’re sure of it.
—
The photoshoot does well. Bakugou and Kirishima are on the cover of a rather popular sports magazine that makes fans go crazy on the internet. There are endless posts on Twitter and Instagram of the same screenshot over and over again, everyone lusting over pro heroes Dynamight and Red Riot.
Kirishima is as charming as ever, flustered in that cute, humble way that would of course be second nature to him as he says, “Wow, Uwabami was right! You really do know how to network your way into some crazy good opportunities! I’ve never had people go so crazy over any brand deal I’ve done! Or been on the cover of something that’s a big deal, either.”
It’s hard to imagine that, even despite having such big names for themselves so early before their careers even launched, Kirishima and Bakugou are still new enough that they are novices in the pro world. Still climbing their way to the same level as others, and still working through things like having big enough names of large-scale companies to advertise them.
“Don’t be fooled. She’s just tryna make us appealing to crazy fangirls who write weird shit about us erotically,” Bakugou snaps, glaring at his screen as he looks at himself.
Kirishima looks at you, rightfully confused. You give him a tired, exasperated look that begs him to just drop it, so he graciously does.
“Well, Bakugou,” you roll your eyes, “your social media engagement has gone up drastically, and you’ve gained a very good number of followers,” you finish, tapping your screen as you scroll through the analytics. “Engagement and brand inquiries are up—this is what I call a success.”
“Hah?” Bakugou scoffs, “A success ’cause a bunch of idiots won’t stop staring?”
“Yes,” you say flatly. “The staring they do is bringing your agency a nice hefty check.”
“That’s stupid.”
“It’s profitable,” you correct. “Most of Kirishima’s fan base are males who find appeal in the fact that his brand is manliness, so I figured we could use that brand to our advantage to appeal to more women, too—everyone loves a good, chivalrous, and handsome guy who will save them. And as for you…well, I guess if nothing else, a good body makes up for the lack of a stellar personality.”
Bakugou absolutely simmers in rage as you say that, about to open his mouth when his agency partner cuts in. Kirishima laughs, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances between the two of you. “I mean…look at the positives, man. People are talking about us everywhere.”
“They’re not talking about anything important like our fucking work,” Bakugou grumbles. “It’s all ‘oh my god look at his abs’—”
“—Which, for the record, are doing wonders for your brand,” you cut in smoothly.
He shoots you a look. “Don’t talk about my abs like they’re a damn marketing strategy.”
“They are a marketing strategy,” you deadpan. “A very effective one, apparently.”
“Oi!” comes his sharp reply, “You—”
“C’mon, Katsuki,” Kirishima grins, “the more good press we have, the more people might want to apply to be your sidekicks! You could really use a few, man. If you’re not going to stop yelling and scaring them off in the interviews, then this might be the only way.”
“I don’t think he understands the concept of good press being a benefit,” you cut in, “maybe we can draw him a diagram to explain it.”
Kirishima stifles a chuckle as Bakugou sends you a warning glare.
“I’m not stupid,” the blonde snaps.
“That’s debatable,” you mutter under your breath.
“Hah? I fuckin’ heard that.”
“Good.”
Kirishima lets out a laugh, stepping in before it escalates further. “Okay, okay—look at this way, we’re not losing anything, so we’re winning, right? That’s what matters. At this rate, we might jump a few places on the hero charts by the time second-semester rankings are out. As long as we stay in the lead ranks for a good while after our debuts and don’t fall too much, we can establish our agency better and get called for serious cases more often. That’s the end goal.” He turns and flashes you an easy grin before adding, “Which, if we reached it, would be thanks to you—you did great with this. You’re the best publicist we’ve ever had!”
“Hellcat is the only publicist we’ve ever had, hair-for-brains,” Bakugou grunts bluntly.
Kirishima asks dumbly, “Hellcat?”
You ignore Bakugou and wave Kirishima off lightly, though there’s a small flicker of satisfaction you don’t quite hide. “Just doing my job.”
“Yeah, but still,” Kirishima insists. “You made things improve for him.” He jerks a thumb toward Bakugou. “That’s not easy.”
Bakugou scowls. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
Kirishima snorts, giving Bakugou a look. “You know what it means.”
“Tch,” is all the angrier half of the two says.
You shake your head, glancing back down at your phone as more notifications roll in. “Well, regardless, we’re in a decent place right now with Bakugou’s image. I’ve already got a few follow-up ideas lined up—nothing that requires too much effort from you, don’t worry,” you add quickly, glancing at Bakugou before he can protest. With a little luck on your side (and his cooperation, maybe), you think he can stay in the top twenty for the hero chart’s second-semester rankings.
“So I’ll be doing more annoying shit,” he mutters.
“Yes. For job security,” you correct.
“Job security for you, maybe. I don’t need this shit to be good at my job and keep it.”
“Actually, it is for you,” you shoot back, “considering my job only becomes more necessary the more people collectively decide you’re unbearable.”
He scoffs. “I don’t care what they decide. As long as I always win and come out on top, I’m doing my job and savin’ everyone—that’s what they should fuckin’ focus on.”
“Whatever.” You only sigh, giving up on reasoning with someone like Bakugou. As long as he does what you tell him to in the public eye, you can handle his private meltdowns. It’s bearable enough so long as your damage control actually works. Before you can walk off to your office, Kirishima suddenly straightens, like he’s just remembered something.
“Oh—hey,” he says, looking at you. “We’re grabbing drinks tonight with some of our old classmates! You should come along.”
You blink, caught a little off guard. “Oh, um…me?”
“Yeah,” he nods, so easy and warm and charming. You sometimes wonder how it is you haven’t fallen for someone like Kirishima yet. “It’s nothing big, just some of us hanging out to take a breather. You’ve been working with us nonstop—you deserve a break too, y’know? Drinks are on us! Plus, I think Mina really wants to meet you—I tell her about you a lot!”
You hesitate, glancing instinctively toward Bakugou like you might need his permission. You don’t know why. For some reason, it feels like it’s only not intruding if he doesn’t seem to think so. He’s already looking at you as soon as your eyes wander over to him.
“Don’t look at me,” he mutters immediately. “Do whatever the hell you want.”
Kirishima laughs. “Don’t worry about him! Katsuki doesn’t mind. You should come,” he insists with a grin. “It’ll be fun.”
You huff a quiet breath, shaking your head just slightly—but there’s a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “…Okay,” you nod. “But if this turns into me managing your behavior off the clock—”
“It won’t!” Kirishima promises quickly.
Bakugou snorts. “No promises, Hellcat,” he says, almost like a challenge. And for the first time today, he looks just the slightest bit enthused, as if making your life hard is the one thing he has to look forward to.
You sigh. “Fantastic.”
And yet, despite it all, you’re already a little excited. But not because of him, or because you’ll get to see him off the clock. You’re immune to being excited about silly things like that. Very much so.
────────────────────────
Drinks with Bakugou and Kirishima and some of Class A from the Hero Course is…well, it’s something.
These people were in your year. They attended the same school as you and roamed the same halls that you did. You’ve seen them in passing between classes, or during lunch, or at school events. Yet somehow, it still doesn’t feel quite right sitting at a table with them. You’re sitting with Hero Course alumni, after all—and not just any Hero Course alumni, either. Alumni who fought in a war and survived it. And you, despite attending the same institution, despite being the same age, are merely a quirkless woman who graduated from Class I of the Department of Management.
A simple business student who twiddled her thumbs while these people trained to become the next generation of heroes.
It’s pathetic, in a way—they laugh and exchange absurd, outlandish stories about their jobs and the rescues they carry out, brushing them off with so much ease, it makes your head spin. And you listen, swallowing down your shock behind sips of alcohol and trying to hide your awe.
It’s normal to them, you tell yourself. It’s normal in the world they live in, one entirely different from yours.
Even being a publicist for heroes and witnessing aspects of what they deal with firsthand is not enough to prepare you for the sheer casualness with which they discuss their experiences. You listen as they reduce things that sound life-altering to you into mere small talk.
To you, the things you hear from Bakugou and Kirishima are extraordinary—they are unique aspects of your job that feel surreal no matter how many times you hear them. To them, it’s just simply their everyday reality. Another day. Another incident. Another thing to move on from once it’s over. They don’t sit and dwell on the magnitude of these events the way that you do. They don’t linger on the weight of them. They simply live through it all and continue forward as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
And here you are, sitting across from these people, sharing a drink as though you have a place among them at this table.
“Oh my god, by the way,” Pinky—or rather, Mina, as she’s reminded you many times to call her instead—turns to you as she exclaims, “I totally saw that magazine ad you had the boys do. You’re, like, a total networking babe, aren’t you? Ugh, it’s seriously so hard getting big brands to do deals with newer heroes like us. Even if we debut high, we’re just not popular enough yet to pull the numbers and sales they want.”
“Oh, well,” you smile bashfully, “it’s not really much credit I can take, honestly. I worked with Uwabami, and she’s really big in the media sphere, so…I just had a few contacts willing to work with me again because they knew me through her. B-but I really didn’t do much. I think they mostly did it to stay in her good graces more than anything else—”
“Oh, hush,” Mina waves her hand dismissively. “That’s exactly what I mean—you’ve got all the good connections. You should come work for me instead of those two lame little no-goods.”
“Hah?” Bakugou glares. “No-goods? Shut your trap, Raccoon-Eyes, ’cause the only no-good little—”
“C’mon now,” Kirishima laughs, placing a hand on the blonde’s stiff shoulder. “Mina can’t afford our darling publicist anyway. Miss Number Thirty surely can’t match the pay grade of Number Four and Number Sixteen,” he says with a charming sort of smugness. You wonder how he does it—how he manages to sound so proud while still being such a good sport about it. There’s no real bite behind the taunt, and Mina clearly takes it for exactly what it is: friendly banter.
She only giggles, looking just as smug as she counters, “Well, let’s see how high those rankings stay with Blasty over here being a huge grump everywhere he goes. He’s gonna explode his career before he explodes any more villains.”
“I’ll kill you, you pink-faced freak,” Bakugou snaps.
“Well, anyway,” she turns to you earnestly, “if you ever expand into managing multiple clients, you should totally take me in. I might not pay exactly the same as these two losers, but I’m way less damage control and a way better time. Give it some thought, m’kay?”
“Sure,” you nod shyly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“You can’t have Hellcat,” Bakugou hisses. “You think I’m gonna let you get your slimy fingers on my agency’s employees? I’m not losin’ to you, Pink-Face.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Mina huffs dramatically, looking at you with playful concern. “He must already work you right to the bone, but he calls you insults, too? A sweet little babe like you deserves way better than our angry little Blasty-Boy calling you a hellcat,” she sings with a grin thrown in Bakugou’s direction.
Bakugou practically simmers with irritation—and for the first time that night, you let out a genuinely carefree laugh.
“Well,” you chuckle, “he definitely doesn’t give me any free hours of downtime at the office, that’s for sure.”
He flashes you a bright, toothy grin. Kirishima is so charming. You can’t help but think the same thing over and over and over every time you talk to him. And you talk to him a lot. Every day, for that matter. Sometimes, you wonder if you try to convince yourself that he’s perfect and sweet and exactly the sort of man you should want so that…
…Your eyes drift naturally toward Bakugou.
They always seem to do that. Whenever you think about Kirishima, your mind somehow circles right back to Bakugou instead. You can’t pinpoint why. Why it almost feels subconscious, instinctive—as though thinking about Kirishima is some traitorous act that must immediately be corrected by redirecting your attention back to Bakugou.
And he’s already looking at you. Almost as if he’d been waiting for you to turn toward him. Almost as if he’d been staring the entire time and never looked anywhere else. His dark red eyes narrow slightly, expectant as he waits for your answer to Kirishima’s question.
“Yes,” you breathe, looking directly at Bakugou. Look away, your mind screams. Your body remains perfectly still as you murmur, “I love the agency. It’s not always easy, but…it’s worth the effort.”
Bakugou downs the rest of his drink in one smooth motion, the second the words leave your mouth. And by the time you finally manage to tear your gaze away from him, forcing yourself to focus on anything—anyone—else, you’re met with an even more dangerous look.
Mina is staring at you with something predatory. Devious. Almost too knowing, as if she knows something not even you do.
“Fine, fine,” she exhales theatrically, throwing her hands up. “Have it your way. Your little…partnership is safe from me—but only for now.” Her grin sharpens as she points between Kirishima and Bakugou. “But make sure you treat her right…or you never know. Someone else might come along and show her a good time.”
—
By the time drinks are over, most of the Class A heroes you spent the night with are at least somewhat tipsy.
Kirishima, ever the good-natured guy, is still sober enough to herd Mina and Kaminari into the back of the Uber he called, taking on the (quite difficult-looking, if you’re honest) task of escorting them both home. Sero is particularly wasted, but his assistant is already waiting outside in a car to pick him up.
Which leaves only you and Bakugou.
It’s awkward standing there alone with one of the two men you work under, the cool night’s breeze brushing against your face as you fumble through your purse for your phone. And then—
“Oi,” he huffs, the slightest slur clinging to his words. “You gettin’ an Uber?”
“Y-yeah,” you mumble, looking up at him in mild surprise the moment he speaks.
“We can share one,” he grunts, already pulling his phone out and typing something into it.
“B-but—”
“Jus’ be fuckin’ quiet,” he mutters.
Bakugou’s apartment building isn’t far from yours. You only know that because, in the past, you’ve had to have original copies of contracts mailed directly to his address over weekends so he could physically sign them and send them to sponsors. And admittedly…you’re nosy. You searched up the building afterward out of curiosity. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of place a hero who debuted at number four almost immediately, and became successful enough to open his own agency with his best friend so early into his career, even lives in.
If that makes you a creep, then so be it.
Your curiosity had won out, and well…you come to find that he lives in a very nice building. Exactly the sort of building you’d expect someone like him to live in. It’s on the way to yours, too. And although your own apartment building is far from unimpressive, it certainly doesn’t compare to his, so somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re quietly grateful that his stop will come first.
The Uber arrives shortly, and despite Bakugou always being a seemingly violent and abrasive man, he is, as you have always undeniably known, a good person. His parents have instilled in him the ethics of chivalry because he holds the door open for you, and helps you in with surprisingly gentle hands on your wrist and the small of your back as you struggle to climb into the back of the car. He is still himself, of course, so he doesn’t do it without scoffing a little at your drunken hobbling about, but it hardly holds any real bite.
The car ride is painfully quiet at first.
Not peaceful—never peaceful because the universe would never grant you peace when you are with Bakugou, so the entirety of the beginning of the car ride is charged. Charged with some weird, invisible force that never existed before, but it’s undeniably there. It makes the air feel suffocating for you, almost like you’ll choke on the tension. You try to distract yourself with the city lights that smear across the windows in long streaks of gold and white, but Bakugou sits beside you in the back of this cramped, ridiculously tiny two-back-seater car, and he almost takes up more space than he physically should.
Even slouched slightly back, even half-drunk, he is a presence that is impossible to ignore.
You keep your hands folded in your lap. He keeps one elbow resting near the window, phone in his other hand, as his screen dimly lights his face while he scrolls. The driver hums softly to the radio up in the front. Neither of you says anything, and the car ride is painfully, agonizingly silent.
It could be normal. It could feel like just a regular ride home after a long night out with a coworker. These things happen—these things are normal, everyday occurrences for people. You shouldn’t be an exception.
But you are.
It feels not even the slightest bit normal every time the car takes a turn, and your shoulder brushes his. It feels not even the slightest bit normal when he shifts around and tries to get comfortable with his long legs in the cramped back seat, and his knee grazes yours. It feels not even the slightest bit normal when heat is radiating off of him, and you can smell the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with a distinctly sweet smell that’s uniquely his.
You dare to sneak a glance at him eventually—and he’s already looking at you. Your eyes widen in shock when you see him, equal parts because he’s undoubtedly caught you sneaking a look over at him, and equal parts because he’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s looking at you.
“You’re breathin’ too loud,” he mutters finally. A rather weak excuse.
“I am not breathing loud,” you whisper back automatically, giving him a small glare.
He’s quiet for a moment—something he never is when you’re bickering with him. Then, almost softly, almost fondly, “Yeah, you are.”
Your breath catches a little at that. You’ve never heard his voice like that and…fuck. It’s doing something odd and beyond your control in your head. The chemistry of your brain feels like it’s being altered, and suddenly all you can think about is him, him, him. His voice. His arm brushing yours. His knee bumping into you. His smell. His warmth radiating off his body.
Him, him, him—Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.
The car hits a red light abruptly—one that the driver seems to be wholly unprepared for, and stops at rather sharply as he hits his brakes a little too late. Your face moves to smash into the seat in front of you, and your reflexes are too dulled by the lingering buzz of alcohol in your system to keep yourself from rushing forward. Bakugou exhales sharply through his nose, and his hands are already reaching forward to you so he can gently cradle your face and keep it from slamming forward. Even drunk, his reflexes seem as sharp as ever, and your brain chemistry seems to alter more.
Him, him, him—Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.
“Oi,” he slurs, “watch it. You’ll break y’re nose, Hellcat.”
Your face turns to look at him, still in his hold. You see him. Him and his dark, hazy eyes. Him and his pink, flushed cheeks. Him and his slightly damp, sweaty hair. And your brain chemistry is altering as you take in the sight of him. All this time, he’s been haunting you with that brash, hardness that is somehow, to you, more charming than the sweet, caring gentleness of someone like Kirishima. All this time, when you see him be this way and that, you’ve shoved down that festering sense of attraction because you were immune.
But your brain has rewired, and your body is no longer the same. You’re not immune anymore. You’re fully out of your mind and body, yet fully in control when you lean forward—and he willingly meets you halfway as soon as he realizes your movement, his senses as lightning fast as ever.
Your lips touch his, and then he kisses you. He’s kissing you, and you’re kissing him back. For a second, you don’t even move—then your hand is on his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling it toward you with a force that isn’t familiar to your body. You never exert this sort of force for anything, but he somehow rewires your body.
The city outside keeps moving as if nothing has changed at all, but your body has been altered by the very fabric of its being, only registering one thing—him, him, him. Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.
When you finally break apart, it’s only barely, and only because the car has slowed slightly, turning and shifting routes. Your eyes dart to the rear view mirror for a millisecond, meeting the gaze of the driver who is staring at you as you kiss the man beside you, and you fluster as soon as you do, moving to inch apart from Bakugou. But he growls quietly under his breath, hand moving to cup the back of your head and pull you back in, and your senses return to that weird, unfamiliar state that only registers him.
He kisses you, and you kiss him back. And it’s just him, him, him.
You only part a second time because you need to for air. He clicks his tongue, but he complies, watching you as you catch your breath. “Fuck,” he mutters.
Your heart drops for a moment as you wonder if he regrets it—but it doesn’t sound like regret, and you relax just as quickly. As soon as you do, the car slows again. You realize all too fast that this is his stop.
And just like that, it’s over. Him and his lips and his hands and his body against yours. It’s over as Bakugou opens his door before you can even properly process it, getting out of the car to leave and go home and leave you…and then he turns. To you. Looks back at you as he stares expectantly.
There’s a beat where everything stills. The driver doesn’t move, not saying anything. Bakugou doesn’t move, not leaving. The car doesn’t move, not creating distance between you and this man. And then—
“You comin’ or what?” he asks, impatient.
And your answer—lightning fast in a way you never knew was possible for your reflexes, especially so in this hazed form—never fully makes it into the form words. Instead, you’re easily stepping out of the car after him, like it’s that simple. He shuts the car door, barely glances back at the Uber as the car pulls away, and then starts walking without checking if you follow.
And you follow him, of course, you do. You follow him into his fancy building and into the fancy elevator, and the elevator doors barely even have time to close before it starts again almost immediately. Bakugou’s hand is on you first, roughly pulling you in like he hated that there was never any distance in the first place.
You go back to kissing him just as fast as he returns to kissing you.
Your back hits the elevator wall with a soft thud, and you barely register the cool presence of it through your shirt, or the way his warm mouth doesn’t leave yours. It’s messy. Kissing him is messy in a way that makes your head spin—breathless, slightly impatient, all hot breath and the occasional clack of teeth on teeth as you kiss each other with clumsy, drunken fervor. It’s as if neither of you can quite slow down enough to care about anything else, not when your minds are influenced by nothing but alcohol and want.
The elevator moves. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think that you should stop.
You don’t, though. You don’t want to, not even a little.
When the elevator slows, he doesn’t pull away. When the doors open, neither do you. You should separate, but you don’t. Not fast enough, anyway, because the doors are shutting and Bakugou is cursing under his breath as his hand fumbles quickly and just barely manages to hit the button to open them again. He looks exasperated as he hastily walks towards his floor, grabbing your wrist and tugging you along. As soon as you step onto the floor, he has you pressed against the wall—you have just the quickest second to see that his door is the only door on this level.
Go figure, you think. (What are the chances, you have to wonder, that you would be about to drunkenly fuck your boss in his literal penthouse? You might just consider buying yourself lottery tickets after tonight’s odd stroke of luck.)
But it’s a good thing, in any case—if anyone were to see you like this, there would be no pretending this wasn’t a shameful sight to be caught in. You’re kissing him roughly like you’re two desperate teenagers and not grown adults as you inch toward his door, still stumbling as every few steps turn into another collision, another continuation of stealing breath and swallowing spit and breaking whatever sense of professionalism used to exist between you.
Bakugou doesn’t let go of you once. His hands are roaming over your hips and your waist and gliding up your spine before settling for cupping your face, pressing you into the door at his entrance. You’re laughing against his mouth at one point after you bump into the doorknob and it digs into your back, earning an amused hum from him when you hiss in pain and smack his chest.
Finally, he fishes his pockets for his keys and opens the door with clumsy, impatient movements. He gets the door unlocked without fully parting from your mouth, and even when it opens, neither of you properly stops. You stumble inside together, the door clicking shut behind you, and you are still kissing him when your back meets the wall of his apartment.
You’re finally able to find your voice when his lips pull away from yours to attach to your neck as you whisper, “B-bakugou—”
“Tch,” he scoffs as soon as you say his surname. “Jus’ fuckin’ say Katsuki. S’weird when you use my last name.”
“But—”
“Do it,” he huffs.
Then his mouth is latching to your neck, sucking against a particularly sensitive spot that, of course, he finds easily, and you have no choice but to whimper, “Katsuki,” as your legs wobble.
He likes the sound of that. You can tell as soon as he stills at the sound of his given name on your tongue that it drives him insane, and when he bites down on your neck a little harder in response to it, you think you’ll use his liking to your advantage.
Kissing people and hooking up on occasion aren’t new experiences for you. What is a new experience for you, however, is doing them with your boss, who also happens to be a well-known public figure—an important, well-known public figure, in fact. Part of your mind is chanting over and over that this is not a good idea. That smart, wise people who value their self-preservation and their livelihood don’t do things like this. That if you had an ounce of sanity, you would realize that you’re setting your future, your stability, and possibly your heart, all up for failure.
But the alcohol in your bloodstream is not listening to your brain. It’s picking and choosing the things it wants to listen to—it hears the racing thoughts of, he’s attractive, and chooses to focus on that, rather than the more reasonable thoughts of, he’s also your employer.
When Bakugou moves his lips to slot against yours again, and his hands creep down to your ass to pull you closer, your mind doesn’t think to put a stop to this before it’s too late. Instead, it thinks to send signals to every muscle in your body so that you jump and hook your legs around his waist.
He catches your weight easily. You’d expect nothing less from Japan’s current number four hero. When he quickly strides over to his bedroom, tossing you onto his bed, all you can think about for a moment is the way people would kill to be where you are right now. That the people leaving those thirsty, desperate comments under his posts that you manage would do anything to swap places with you, but they can’t. They can’t because you are here, in his arms, under his body, and lying on his bed.
Sober you would be crippled by the anxiety of trying to decipher whether or not you deserve to be where you are instead of someone else. Drunk you is deeply thrilled to be here, so your hands trail over to his hair, and in a fit of bravery, they tug on his messy, blonde strands. They are softer than they look—you’ve always wondered how they felt. You’re happy to satiate your curiosity. The feeling of you pulling at his hair earns a low, satisfied groan from him as soon as you do.
“Fuck, do that again, Hellcat,” he mutters against your lips, words still a little slurred.
You mumble back, “M’starting to think you’re a masochist. S’this why you always make problems for yourself in public?”
“Maybe I jus’ like makin’ problems for you,” he grins.
And then you tug at his hair again, and his eyes flutter shut as he lets out a quiet grunt, burying his head in the crook of your neck. His lips continue pressing small kisses to your skin—anywhere they can find purchase along your neck and the juncture where it meets your shoulder. You can feel the outline of his cock through his pants—hard, and heavy, and hot. Even through the fabric, you can feel the heat of him as he presses against your core.
Your mind is still a blurry haze, so you don’t know who starts moving first. Somewhere between your wandering fingers in his hair and the slow trail of his lips across your skin, your clothed cunt grinds against the erection in his pants, and suddenly you’re both moving in tandem against each other. The outline of his length drags against your clit, and the friction of him gliding that heat along your core over and over and over again makes your thoughts even less coherent.
All you can think is good, good, good—he feels so fucking good against you, rubbing his cock against you even while you’re both fully clothed.
“Fuck, that’s nice,” he breathes, the words broken apart by labored pants as he rolls his hips against you.
You whine. “M-more, Katsuki,” as you buck your own hips upward, trying to match his pace and feel him against you harder.
It’s a sloppy, desperate mess—him grinding against you while you do your best to move with him, chasing better friction, more pressure, more of everything. He’s big—you can tell even without seeing him. Just from the drag of his cock alone, you can tell the bulge in his pants is impressive. Just like everything else about him. Of course, you think. Of course, everything about him, right down to what’s in his pants, is impressive. You wonder if there’s anything about him that isn’t. But you can’t bring yourself to be too annoyed by it—not when your clit aches for him to press harder against you, to slide faster along your pussy as it drenches your panties and, likely, your dress pants along with them.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet,” he chuckles. “Can tell without even takin’ anything off. Want me that bad?”
“And you’re so fucking hard,” you shoot back, trying to fight the heat rising in your face as you huff, “I can feel that, too. You’re the one who wants me.”
“Yeah,” he hums, leaning in to press hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. He doesn’t even try to deny it, just says, “I do.” Then, his lips brush your skin once more. “Feel that?” He rolls his hips harder against you as he says it, and the heavy, thick heat of him presses into you. You clench around nothing, aching for something to fill the emptiness inside you. “Feel what you do to me?”
“Katsuki, please,” you breathe, panting as your bodies move with increasing desperation, both of you chasing the building pressure between your legs and the tightening coil in your stomachs. “N-need you. Please.”
“Damn it,” he hisses, closing his eyes at the sheer desperation in your voice.
And it’s because you’re so desperate that you fall apart before he does. The pleasure has been building and building and building, and all it takes is one final roll of his hips—one last drag of his cock over your clit—to send you over the edge.
No—to send you plummeting.
Your walls spasm around nothing, fluttering uselessly with nothing to clench around, no matter how badly they need it. The pressure snaps, and pleasure floods through every nerve in your body. You go still beneath it, overcome by the force of it as a broken whine of his name falls from your lips, entirely incoherent.
“That’s it,” he breathes shakily, slowing the rock of his hips so that it still works you through your pleasure, but slows down the orgasm that is creeping up on him, too. “That’s it—you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cum. Say my name like that again, Hellcat.”
You breathe his name just like that. Katsuki, Katsuki—fuck, Katsuki.
Every ragged cry of it makes his pupils dilate, his gaze fixed on you with pure hunger as he drinks in the sight of your parted lips and glassy eyes while you come undone because of him. When you finally come down from your high, he stills his hips, breathing hard through a clenched jaw as he fights the urge to keep moving. His cock twitches in his pants, and you know—you can tell he was close.
“Why didn’t you—”
“I need to be in you. To fuck you,” he cuts you off, one hand hooking into the waistband of your pants as he looks at you almost pleadingly.
His eyes are wide—a darker shade of crimson than you’ve ever seen them, and yet, somehow filled with awe all at once. As though the sight of your blissed-out face has turned his world upside down in the span of a few fleeting moments.
You nod immediately, whispering, “Yes—please, fuck me.”
That’s all he needs to hear.
He’s stripping you bare before you can think twice—your pants and underwear first, then your shirt tugged over your arms. When only your bra remains, his hands shake ever so slightly as he cups your breasts through the fabric.
“So perfect,” he breathes.
Are you? Is that a line he says easily when he’s bedding someone? Something that slips off his tongue without a second thought? You might have dwelled on it longer if you were sober, but your mind is hopelessly scattered. Instead, it fixates on the fact that Bakugou has just called your tits perfect, and now he’s unclasping your bra to free them.
The second your breasts spill free, your bra is tossed somewhere onto the floor, forgotten.
One breast is instantly in his mouth. His lips latch onto it greedily, tongue circling your pebbled nipple while his teeth graze it just enough to make something tighten low in your stomach. His other hand—large and warm and rough, yet impossibly gentle all the same—cups your other breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple between them until a whimper slips from your throat.
“Oh,” you breathe, a sharp moan spilling from your lips.
He hums in satisfaction at the sound.
“That...do that again,” you plead.
A low chuckle rumbles out of him as he switches sides, leaving nothing neglected. From where he’s buried against your chest, he watches you with hungry, satisfied eyes, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face.
“So fuckin’ pretty,” he grunts as he finally pulls away—but not before pressing a lingering kiss between your breasts. “You’re beautiful, y’know that?”
“And you’re still wearing too many clothes,” you deflect, cheeks burning as you reach for the hem of his shirt and tug.
His grin turns instantly smug. “Yeah? Then do somethin’ about it. Aren’t you always bossin’ me around anyway?” He raises a brow. “What? Too shy now?”
You shoot him the kind of glare you keep reserved exclusively for him before yanking the shirt over his head.
Despite running a large agency that only seems to grow in reputation and prestige with every passing month, Bakugou often shows up to the office in nothing more than a t-shirt and black pants if he’s not wearing his usual hero suit. In his casual attire, if his face weren’t instantly recognizable, you’re fairly certain most people wouldn’t even realize he’s one of the owners on any given day.
He lets you peel the shirt away, revealing the broad expanse of his torso. And those abs.
The sight drags you right back to that day of the magazine shoot—to the embarrassment and thrill that had twisted together in your chest when you’d first seen him so bare. Miles and miles of skin stretched taut over thick, sculpted muscle. That’s what he is: smooth, pale skin wrapped tightly around hard-earned muscle.
Only this time, you can touch him, and you wonder if this is the universe’s belated birthday present to you. As though being denied the chance to touch him on your birthday is somehow being made up for now.
You decide to savor it.
Even through your haze, your fingertips trail slowly and deliberately over his abdomen, watching the muscles flex beneath your touch as his breath catches. A shiver runs through him. For a moment, those dark, lust-heavy eyes follow the path of your fingers across his skin.
Then he decides he wants more than this. More than your hands. More than a few fleeting touches. He wants all of you, and when his tip lines up with your entrance, you know he intends to take it.
Your eyes flutter shut as he slowly inches past your folds, the blunt head of his cock stretching your soaking entrance open to accommodate the sheer girth of him. It’s a tight fit—you feel the faint burn of him splitting you open, but you take him easily enough, your walls slick and welcoming around him. He’s gracious enough to give you a moment to breathe once he’s fully bottomed out, panting above you with his jaw clenched tight as he waits for some sign that you’re ready.
“S’fuckin’ tight,” he rasps. “S’like this pussy was made just for me—fit right in, huh?” You flutter around him at the words, and he lets out a low, gravelly chuckle.
“Stop,” you protest weakly.
He grins, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead as he murmurs in a husky voice, “Guess you’re not all that great at bossin’ me around, huh? Where’d all that feistiness go, huh, Hellcat?”
“Just move already, Baku—”
“Katsuki,” he corrects immediately.
You grab his cheeks and pull him into a long, messy kiss. He returns it instantly, melting into your mouth with a groan that vibrates against your lips. When you finally pull away, he huffs his displeasure, but you cut him off before he can complain.
“Katsuki,” you murmur, breathless. “Please move. I want you to fuck me already.”
And he’s gone.
The second the words leave your mouth, he’s cursing under his breath and grabbing your hands, pinning them above your head as he laces his fingers through yours. His hips draw back from where your bodies meet, his cock nearly pulling free of your heat before he snaps forward again, slamming his hips down and sinking deep into your walls.
The tip presses against a spot inside you that makes your vision go white. A sharp gasp tears from your throat, your back arching beneath him as pleasure crackles through your body. Above you, Katsuki groans—a rough, broken sound—and you can tell the sensation affects him just as much as it does you.
He sets a good pace, roughly rolling his hips and thrusting into you with precision—you’re painfully reminded how athletic he is just by watching the twitch and flex of his muscles as he exerts himself to bully his hard, aching length into your cunt without so much as stuttering his tempo. And you’re so full—so filled to the brim with him and his thick cock and the way the heat of him drags along every inch of your folds. He carves into you, molding your pussy into the shape of him, and you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to make anyone else fit like this.
(You realize that the thought of anyone else in his position now makes you sour—a scary realization, too, so you shove the thought out of your head entirely.)
“God, you take me so well, Hellcat,” he groans, “m’gonna make this pretty cunt cum for me all over again—you can do that, right?”
“Yes,” you slur, “yes, fuck—wanna do it again.”
“That’s a good girl,” he hums, kissing your jaw. “See? You can be so sweet when you’re not tellin’ me what to do. Want you like this all the time.”
“You get off on being yelled at,” you say in between whines as the head of his cock brushes against your sensitive spot over and over, drilling into you and fitting right into the spot you need him to fit. “You like it when I tell you what to do, liar.”
He grins—lets out a dazed, amused little smirk that looks better than any smile you’ve ever seen from him. Something about the flush on his cheeks and the sweat clinging to his forehead when he’s sunken into your cunt makes him all the more ethereal to look at.
“Maybe I do,” he mumbles, “s’not like you’re ever gonna stop bein’ the fucking hellcat that you are. Might as well get used to your shit.”
Like this, when he is fucking into you, desperately chasing the friction of your tight walls clamping around him, you feel like it is possible to belong where he is. Like this, when he kisses you hard and presses his tongue against yours, you feel like it is possible to give him what he deserves, even despite your shortcomings. Like this, when you are under him, and he is looking at you like you are unearthly beautiful, you dare to let yourself believe that you, in this body, as you are, is enough.
You are enough despite the blood in your veins and the codes in your DNA telling you that you have nothing to bring to the table. No flashy quirk, and no useful power that will make you an equal. You are enough just by the eyes that meet his and make the tips of his ears hot, and you are enough just by the fingers that glide along his back and bring goosebumps to his skin. You are enough because you are what he wants, and he does not weigh your worth by the power that does not exist in your bones.
“Shit,” he curses, moaning low and breathy, pulling you out of your scattered thoughts, “shit, m’so fuckin’ close.”
“Me too—m’gonna cum. Cum with me, Katsuki, please.”
One thrust, then two, and then his thumb moves to roll over your clit in harsh circles, and you’re falling apart again. Your first orgasm, you toppled over the edge, falling and falling in a slow descent until you hit the ground. This one, you are crushed by the weight of force instead, feeling your body sink heavily into the mattress as your bones turn to lead. The feeling of euphoria fills every vein and makes your body still, unable to move as you do nothing but lie there and take it.
And when you feel him twitch in your cunt as it flutters around him, you whisper, “N-no, inside—please, inside,” as you feel him about to pull out and leave you empty.
“You sure?” he croaks. “Safe?”
“Yes,” you nod, barely able to move your head. It’s still heavy and incoherent. “Yes, yes—please.”
One more thrust—a sloppy and unrhythmic thrust, at that—and Bakugou is spilling into you. His seed is thick and hot and fills you up in short ropes that paint you white as he twitches inside of you.
He breathes out your name. Not Hellcat. Not some insult he doesn’t mean when he’s annoyed like idiot, or moron. No, he sighs out your name as his body is lost to pleasure, and fuck—it is the most delicate you’ve ever heard your own name sound. He says it like it is a fragile, precious word, saying it like he ought to worship it.
When he comes down from the height of his pleasure, he slumps over your body, sweaty and heavy and yet, so comforting. Skin meets skin, and your heartbeat is pounding in rhythm to his own erratically pumping heart.
“Fuck,” he whispers, kissing your collarbone, “you…you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me dead.”
“I think it’s the other way around,” you wrinkle your nose. “You’re heavy. M’gonna get crushed to death.”
“Shut up,” he snorts.
He rolls off of you, though, and your mind can focus on little else besides the fact that he is warm. So, so warm, and he smells so, so sweet when sweat clings to his skin. You can’t help but drift closer to him the second he settles onto the empty side of the bed, curling against his chest and chasing that familiar warmth, that faint scent of burnt sugar, as you bury your face against his skin.
An arm wraps around you immediately, caging you in the heat that radiates off him. Somewhere between slow, heavy blinks and the fleeting moments before sleep finally claims you, you register sheets being pulled up around you. Soft lips press against your forehead.
“Don’ hog the blanket,” you mumble tiredly.
“Go the fuck to sleep,” he yawns.
You think you roll your eyes. You’re not entirely sure. The only thing you know is that you are sinking into sleep and into him, and you could not claw your way out even if you wanted to.
Chapter 2 will be uploaded on Friday next week!! If you’d like me to tag you please comment and let me know!! Just make sure you indicate you are over 18 somewhere on your account though
okay you sent this during my gym phase, i was literally on the way to the gym and in my gym class i kept getting distracted thinking about this…..
i’m gonna give a bunch on random thoughts. IM THINKING gym instructor bakugou who has expensive ass rates because EVERYONE sees results with him. also he’s FINE AS HELL so people want to work with him, just his face and thighs are extra motivation. he’s got his business card and his go to phrase is something like “if you want someone who says it how it is.” “short term pain for long term results.”
and his emails are full with people who wanna work with him. saying how they wanna get an ass, wanna get their dream body, wanna get stronger. a few hookup messages… he gets so many offers he picks and chooses who he wants to work with and defo says no to a few people after the first session. women that are clearly there to flirt and not work out. men who don’t have their heart in it.
i like to imagine you only started going to the gym because it’s a company perk. free membership with your work so you end up going and SINCE it’s free, you could maybe pay for a gym instructor. scanning the wall with the faces of all instructors and bakugou’s got his gorgeous little profile picture of him frowning with his arms crossed, it’s his tag line that get you. “tough love.” you need that. sure you like a little bit of yoga maybe some walking or jogging. but you’re not about to push yourself on your own.
so your email to bakugou is short and sweet. something about needing real life motivation and help on technique. also you want to get stronger. then lastly you wouldn’t mind building your ass.
bakugou likes the honesty, reads the email with an upside down lipped impressed look.
(also it’s a big thing where i live anyway that men don’t trust women with personal trainers because they’re known to have affairs with them??) anyway bakugou is sooo professional, hence the cutting it off when there’s a hint of flirtation.
but meeting you in your big tshirt, trainers and leggings. hand out to shake his hand. ooooweeeee. he’s already thinking about what he’s going to say in the email that he won’t be continuing with you any longer because this time he’s attracted to you. he’s not working with a hard on while you do some basic squats or listening to you groan when he forces you to lift a heavy weight.
you find him attractive too. the picture is nothing on him irl. the frown imprinted on his features. his arms crossed with these bulging biceps and thick veins on his forearms. he’s tall, over six foot and in a tight black tee and black shorts. black socks and black trainers. even his hair is pretty, blonde and fluffy, thick dark eyelashes. you think about how he’d hug you… not that he would. maybe how he’d touch your back when putting you in place… in the gym!
anyway you basically recite your email to him. you mention how you wanna get stronger, feel better physically in your body, he nods, tells you in a deep growl that he can do that. then you mention how you don’t mind having a fatter ass, a thing he’s heard before, bare in mind, but he bites down on his bottom lip. your pretty little face, chatting, swinging your water bottle by your side. he wants to flick his eyes down to your ass. see what he’s working with here. luckily your tshirt is big enough that he can’t see it.
but he does say, “it’s better if you wear tighter clothes. then we can see what muscles you’re workin and any gains….,” then he frowns to himself, he’d say this to a guy right… he would!! “if you’re comfortable.”
and you’re smiling up at him, excited, funny that you’re not going to be so excited a few weeks in bakugou’s little boot camp.
“yes sure!”
“then i can make anythin’ happen.”
you mention how you don’t want to get shouted at. he adapts to make his language FIRM!!! still swears though. “you have somewhere to be after? go slower! feel the burn in your calves.”
“three more!” “you said ten!” “and i know you can do three more reps. now.”
- quick fire. bakugou shares no personal information about himself. you defo ask him a few questions. if he grew up around here, if he lives far, what got him into training people. and you either get one word or “stop fuckin’ around. you’re not gonna get a fat ass askin’ about my childhood.”
that makes you pout.
he’s lowkey a little nicer to you than his other clients but still harsh LOL making you do pull ups on one of the machines and you can’t move because the weight is too heavy.
“cmon. pull.”
and the thing about working with an attractive man (especially in the early days) is you don’t want to look ugly in front of him. something you have to get over quickly. causes him to slip up sometimes too.
“i can’t! it’s too heavy!”
“you lifted less than this yesterday. you can pull it up. go on.”
you know your face is gonna scrunch up, evil frown, sweaty forehead, scrunch of your nose, maybe a squeak.
“fuck.” from you, makes bakugou have to blink twice. standing next to the machine and you on it with his arms folded.
“the quicker you do it, the quicker we both can go the fuck home.” he learns very quickly with you that he can’t say anything about himself because now you’re distracted. looking over him.
“what’s your plans after?”
he rolls his eyes, “grab the fuckin bar and pull. wastin both of our time.”
then you start trying.
- few weeks in, you guys get to texting. mostly just you saying whether you’re running late due to traffic. once you sent him a video of you working out at home, asking him to correct you on your form. another time you sent him a before and after photos. has bakugou staring at this whatsapp message for a while. fuck…. not professional. he’s got friends that’s got with clients, he never has though. he knows you would with him, he’s seen the way you’re curious and how you look at him through the mirror when you think he’s not looking.
short grammatically correct texts is all he does.
- he gives you a meal plan and he HATES how his body gets softer when you start whining that he’s cut out all your favourite foods.
loves when you’re a little stubborn and standing your ground. “i’m sorry but i need some joy in my life. i’d be happier eating what i want and seeing no physical changes.”
bakugou raises his eyebrows at you. usually he’d cuss a little, say what’s the point of hiring him if you’re not willing to change. you’re not gonna be better than your yesterday if your future is the same. he’s got all his quotes stored.
instead he kisses his teeth. tuts under his breath. he could put more fruit in, add in protein powder. less kale. okay a chicken nugget caesar salad isn’t too bad.
“you’re too fuckin’ picky. i’ll see what i can do.”
also cute that when he does start crushing on you properly, he brings you these colourful electrolyte drinks to try. says he got a load at this convention he went to, which is true but he’s not giving any of his other clients a bottle. continues to buy you your favourite flavour even afterwards before every session.
- him putting you in position but hovers his hand over your body. never touches you. has you mention one time “you can touch me. just put me into place.” has you going home thinking about his hands on your body. how big his palm was on the back of your thigh. the heat of his chest against yours. wants you to practice your balance and he’s got a hand on your thigh and your arm. wants you to stretch your pelvic muscles because you’re complaining you feel too much tension in your legs.
has you on your knees, face down, arms out, legs spread and ass up.
regrets it as soon as he puts you in the position. “ohhhh,” a satsified burn, “this feels good.”
since your eyes are closed he does gaze at your ass. to this day he doesn’t understand how you were saying you want it bigger when it’s already a lovely size. it’s not about him though. he can also see your pussy lips from this angle and he’s grateful he’s got his tight compression shorts on under his shorts.
“yeah, yeah. we get it.”
he knows you’d sound like this during sex. fuck, even louder if he was in bed with you.
- you bother him asking if he uses steroids. ragebaiting. he gives in every time.
“shut the hell up. you think i look like this from ‘roids?” jabs his thumb in the centre of his chest.
then you stay giggling.
- you knowing he talks his partners through it in bed. has you on the bench lifting weights, something you were intimidated by because that area is concentrated with MEN. feels better walking into that area behind him.
“gonna start light and go up from there. 12 reps. 30 second break. 3 sets.”
“that sounds like a lot katsuki.”
“don’t be a baby.”
and he’s behind you the entire time, hands under the bar even though you don’t need it.
“two more. push through it. imagine how you’ll feel after.”
“slower… another. fuckin’ lift it. cmon now.”
and it’s always you sweaty and tired smiling up at him. “wow that’s my pb!!!!
gets bakugou like JELLY.
- ends up saying all iterations of “good girl.” “you’re a star.” “attagirl.” when you do a clean set of reps he says “gorgeous.” and you feel your panties soak.
- also you start ditching the baggy t-shirts and start getting matching co ord gym sets. pink ones, cream ones, black ones, blue ones, any colour under the sun. all your favourites. bakugou’s favourite colour is changing daily. you see him checking you out for the first minute of every session. you appear out of the fitting room or you rush into the building with your laptop still in your bag and he’s looking at you up and down. he loves them. they’re tight and lift everything. has him pointing at your tight arm cardigan things like “what’s the point of that?” you shrug, “it’s cute.” and you do… you look so cute.
- defo you asking for an example and he’s laying back on the bench to show you how to lift a weight. he shows you using the bar, “it’s gotta go down to the top of your chest, then you bounce it off. easy shit.” the weight isn’t heavy for him but you’re still staring at his biceps in his tight vest. he only wears black white and navy. “how much can you lift?” and he sits up. “it’s not about me. how much can you lift?” and you frown, “you can tell me that! gives me something to aim for!” and you nudge his shoulder playfully. he likes you a lot. he’s also so stupidly pretty laying back on the bench and he’s blushing now because he’s looking up at you hovering over him. “like 200kg?” he knows exactly how much he can weigh. you’re gasping, nobody around you is lifting that much. “can i see? please?”
and he does show you, even though it’s cutting into your workout time. at the end of the day, he’s not against showing off around you.“you just wanna get out of liftin’. i’m doing one rep and it’s your turn.” “yeah whatever.”
you watch as he piles weight after weight on the bar. the he lays back and lifts. it’s arouses you to the point you’re lightheaded. his groans, his frown. the muscles that bulge in his arms and thighs. the vein in his neck and forehead. he lifts the bar with slight ease, once it’s up, he’s got it moving up and down with quick precise movements.
“oh wow… you’re so strong, katsuki.”
he cannot pay attention for shit. especially because you’re all he sees when he looks up. he does one less rep than he said.
“hey you didn’t do you last one! better than yesterday you or something!”
he drops it in the placeholder, sits up on the bench slouched. “it’s not my gym session, it’s yours. get your ass on the bench.”
just big and fine.
- you text him complaining that your body aches and if he’s got any recommendations to help. he says his friend has a membership at a gym that’s got a sauna so he takes you there. lowkey feels like a date.
he gets to see you all relaxed and sweaty with just a towel on and you see him shiny and golden and bare chested. this idea could be a whole fic so i’m holding off for now.
- he’s got you doing a whole session with the purpose to grow your glutes and ass and the whole time you’re grumbling. “i could just get a bbl. this is hard.” it’s a joke! but he sighs, “one more rep ‘cause of that stupid comment.”
- when his crush is too big to contain, one time you’re saying how you’re starving hungry and he says there’s a good ramen place nearby. says you should go. you take that to assume you solo. so when you come out of the changing room either your bag and jacket, he’s still standing there, phone in hand.
“did you forget something?”
“we’re gettin’ food? aren’t we?”
your smile fills your whole face, “oh! yes! yes we are.”
on my break rn and i literally cannot stop thinking abt dry humping w bsf!bakugou like. normal roughhousing play fighting that is integral to your relationship goes slightly too far and you make a Noise when his knee slots between your legs and he's red in the face asking you what the fuck was that? then suddenly you're kissing all tongue and teeth and spit and he's grinding his hips into yours and his hands are grabbing your chest and yours are grabbing his hair and dragging him closer. he comes in his pants and you both stop dead staring at each other panting while you try to come up with something to say.
you end up sitting on opposite ends of the couch for the entire rest of your movie night and when you're leaving you shake fucking hands like business men cause the normal shove and hug is too intimate now.
texting him later that night to say "hi u gave me a hickey" and he just responds "ok". (he is fucking his fist thinking about the noise you made and how soft you were under him and how he wants to kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss you again).
hanging out with all your friends maybe a week after this and the normal clingy shit you both do is nowhere to be seen. you don't sit together, don't lean into his chest to show him something on your phone, he doesn't have his arm hooked around your neck in a halfhearted headlock. you two don't even look at each other.
everyone thinks you're fighting— it's happened before, you're both stubborn and annoying and don't communicate well at the best of times— and when mina asks "what's your problem? are you arguing again?" you both say yes way too fast and way too in sync. clearly you had the same idea to cover up whatever the fuck happened even if no one knows.
not even ten minutes later you're holed up in kirishimas bathroom kissing like your life depends on it. but still not talking about it.
oh now that i think abt it i have something to add:
you do eventually, after dancing around it for actual months (cause bsf!bkg is annoying as fuck and stubborn as a mule but so are you) and pretending like nothing happened, fall into bed with each other for some subpar at best sex. but it's him and it's you so it doesn't really matter how bad your first time (!!!) was because you got to experience it together.
laying in his bed afterwards staring at the ceiling with warm faces and rabbit-paced hearts, you listen to each other breathing to see who'll break the silence first.
you do, eventually, but only to be a shit.
you shift onto your side, katsuki turns his head to look at you with an expression you can't quite place and before he even gets the huffed little "what?" out, you're sticking your hand out at his chest. he stares at it, red cheeks growing even redder when he realises what the fuck you're doing.
you're trying to shake his fucking hand after you just had sex for the first time.
you're then tackled down into his sheets and you're laughing so brightly and his ears are so red even as he swears at you and growls out "the fuck is your problem, huh? think you're so fucking funny?"
you do think you're funny. you also think you're in love with your best friend, and hope he's in love with you too.
he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first. ryomen sukuna—king of the frat, two-time campus menace, unofficial titleholder of “most likely to break your heart and not care”—starts showing up differently around you.
less noise. less bravado. less of the smirk that usually means trouble. you show up to a party once, wearing something cute, and his friends elbow him like always. “bro, go get your girl.”
but he doesn’t go over to flirt. he goes over to take your cup, sniff it, and grumble, “who gave you this? you don’t drink this shit.” then you watch him pour it out and hand you water like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
he stops hosting ragers on thursday nights because you have an 8am friday lab and he “doesn’t want people stomping around and keeping you up.” he says it casually—shrugging, avoiding eye contact—but not a single person in the frat dares call him out because the look in his eyes is dead serious.
and the girls he used to flirt with? laugh with? entertain when he was bored? he doesn't even dare to glance at them now. one of them touches his arm during a mixer and he physically steps back, muttering, “nah. don’t.”
everyone stares. you pretend not to notice, but sukuna notices you—every damn time. the night it finally hits you is when you’re studying on the couch in the frat house, legs tucked under you, hair messy from hours of focusing. sukuna comes in from practice, sweaty, exhausted, probably starving.
old him would’ve grabbed a beer, teased you, maybe tried to drag you upstairs. but instead he stops in the doorway, eyebrows pulling together. “you eat yet?”
you shake your head without thinking. he groans under his breath like you’ve personally wounded him, then disappears into the kitchen. ten minutes later he returns with a plate of food, a bottle of water, and your favorite candy bar he steals from one of his brothers’ stashes.
“eat,” he says, sitting next to you.
“i’m not hungry.”
he glares. “don’t care.”
you laugh and lean into his shoulder without thinking. he freezes for half a second, then melts just a little, tilting his head so it rests against yours. “you’re different lately,” you whisper, teasing.
he scoffs, looking away. “no i’m not.”
“you are.”
he shifts, face serious now, eyes warm in ways you’ve never seen on him. “…maybe i just wanted to stop being someone you couldn’t take seriously.”
he huffs, rubbing the back of his neck like the confession annoys him. “i’m trying here, okay? don’t make it weird.”
you grin, reaching for his hand. “it’s not weird.”
he squeezes your fingers like he’s afraid he’ll spook you. “good,” he murmurs. “because i’m not going back to who i was.”
and you believe him. because men don’t change for no reason. but sukuna? he’s changing for you. slowly, stubbornly.
your voice is barely above a whisper, thin as mist in the quiet of your shared chamber.
there’s no answer—only the faint rustle of silk and the distant hum of the night. you wait a moment longer, listening for the familiar rumble of his voice, but it never comes.
assuming he’s fallen asleep, you push yourself up on your elbows, careful—painfully careful—not to disturb him. the moonlight seeps in through the paper screens, bathing his form in silver.
he looks… beautiful.
it’s strange, almost laughable, how peaceful he seems like this. his hair spills loosely over the pillow, his breathing steady, chest rising and falling in a rhythm you could almost time your heart to. you wonder how the same man the world calls a demon could ever look so serene. so human.
you study him a moment longer, eyes tracing the lines of his face, the faint scar that marks his mouth, the soft curve of his lashes against his cheek. there’s a warmth in your chest—quiet, dangerous warmth—and you think maybe you could stay like this forever.
you don’t notice the shift until it’s too late.
one blink, and you’re no longer hovering above him—you’re pressed flush against his chest, strong arms caging you in with effortless strength. his heartbeat thuds against your ear, deep and slow.
“did i wake you? i’m sorry—”
he cuts you off before you can finish, voice smooth and low. “no need to be sorry.”
his words rumble through you, calm but commanding, and your breath catches.
while part of you mourns losing that perfect view of him—that rare softness only sleep grants— it’s hard to complain when he holds you like this. his skin radiates heat like a living hearth, the scent of his robes mingling with your own.
you relax against him, feeling small, safe, and impossibly loved in a way he’d never admit aloud.
“i thought you were asleep,” you murmur.
a low hum vibrates against your temple. “i was,” he replies, the edge of amusement curling at the end of his words. “until my wife decided to stare holes into me.”
your cheeks burn. “i wasn’t—”
he huffs a quiet laugh, fingers tracing lazy circles at the small of your back. “you were.”
you can hear the smile in his voice even if you can’t see it. his hand stills, then pulls you closer until you’re tucked completely beneath his chin.
“go back to sleep,” he says, softer now.
wrapped in his arms, you drift off to the steady sound of his heartbeat, thinking that even if the world called him a monster, he would always be your warmth in the dark.
There is a faint mark on your back, fading traces that resemble tight grip of fingers.
It isn't rare for you to be littered in bruises and bites, Bakugou took pride in marking you up any way possible, but this wasn't his mark.
"So, you let your side piece to mark you up too?" He huffed, arms crossed as he leaned against the door frame, grey sweats loose on his waist, cum-gutters peeking through the elastic, whore.
"Which one are you talking about?" You move around sluggishly, trying to find whatever mark he was taking about, twisting your torso in an awkward angle before giving up and going back to getting ready.
"So, multiple side pieces, un-fucking-believable!" He groaned, arm raising up to run a hand through his hairs, "at least tell me, I am your favourite." He pleaded, tilting his head, sighing dramatically.
You scowled, "You are like 4th favourite." The pair of pants you had chosen today, refused to co-operate, stuck at your thighs despite your constant struggles to pull them up.
"Huh?! 4th?!!" He exclaimed, in utter disbelief, watching you hop around, "You better tell what he is doing so I can up my rank." He walked over, yanking you close, by your arm, before gently pulling your pants up, hands circling your waist to make sure it didn't get stuck at the back of your thighs.
You let him manhandle your body, hands coming to rest on his shoulders as you lightly kiss his cheek, "He helps me dress up." Another kiss on his forehead. "Pulls my pants up for me." Another one on the tip of his nose. "Stares lovingly as I talk about my side pieces."
He grunted, zipping up your pants and pulling you closer, "Yeah." He mumbled against your lips, "Something tells me I might know this guy." He pressed his lips against your jaw, hands tracing your body as he grabbed your shirt.
"Maybe." You slide your hands into the sleeves, letting him button up your shirt, "He is tall, blonde, and so utterly handsome." You moaned obnoxiously. "And he has a huge coc—"
"We can't have a cute moment, can we?" He sighed, letting go of your shirt buttons as he leaned his forehead against yours, "Your pant isn't too tight, is it?" He asked, eyes meeting your dumbfounded ones, "Ma can design you a perfect pai—"
You cut his words off, pressing your lips against his, swarm of butterflies erupting in your belly as you take in his words, "You considerate, caring asshole," You huffed pulling away from his lips, "you'll kill me someday."
He let out a breathy chuckle, cradling your jaw, pressing a kiss against your forehead, "Just trying to improve my rank, you know." He hummed, swaying slightly despite no music playing in the background, "Can't let your side pieces steal you away from me."
"It's a bruise by the way."
Bakugou hummed in question pulling away from you slightly.
"The mark you were looking at, bruise from sparring with Mina."
phainon is always changing. he’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. and he’s changing. but he’s still your phainon and you still love him
word count. ❤︎ 10.4k words — girl (gn) what ze hell
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; childhood friends to lovers ; modern/non canon au ; reader saves him from a bully when they’re young ; reader has a bad date (with someone else) ; very tame violence (phainon fights some assholes for her) ; love confessions ; loss of virginity ; awkward first times ; car sex/semi public sex (it’s dark) ; use of condoms (be safe!) ; finger sucking ; vaginal fingering ; slight hand jobs ; vaginal sex ; proposals (you say yes!) ; phainon is a bit of a crybaby (affectionate) ; not proof read pls tell me if there’s errors
commentary. ❤︎ THAT ART IN THE HEADER SENT ME INTO A SPIRAL BRO . so here’s the result ig
You meet Phainon when he’s twelve.
You’re new to the neighborhood, and so is he, starting over at school at the same time and learning the halls and classrooms in the same way—he seems to take being the new kid well. The teachers like him, and he’s friendly and easy to get along with, and most other boys like having him on their teams for sports because he’s agile and decent at catching a ball. You? Well…you don’t adjust as well.
You move not far from your old home, but far enough that everything feels different. He moves from some small town that no one has ever heard of, and all in the matter of a few weeks, he worms his way into your life and doesn’t let you know a single ounce of peace. You’re still eleven at the time, but he’s only two months, one week, and four days older than you, and you’ll be the same age soon enough.
But it doesn’t really matter that he’s older, anyway, because he cries like a god damn baby.
The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older.
It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”
The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”
Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air.
You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.
This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself.
Except…nothing happens.
The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”
And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you.
And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea.
“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.
“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe.
“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”
He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind.
“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”
“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”
“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust.
“And I’m going home,” you say flatly.
You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)
But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”
“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.
“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”
“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”
He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”
“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.
(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)
— — — — — — — — — —
Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore.
(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore.
Still, he always does in front of you.
Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)
It happens on a Friday night.
You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited.
Until you’re not.
You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do.
It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there.
It guts you.
You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)
In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )
You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon.
“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”
“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”
He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text.
But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”
“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”
“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”
“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”
“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”
He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that.
“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”
“Then don’t,” he offers.
You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.
“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”
“Are you buying?” you perk up.
He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”
You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.
He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his.
“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.
“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”
“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.
He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”
“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”
“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”
“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)
“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”
“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”
“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.
You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh.
Your eyes widen as you realize.
Oh.
Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over.
There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.
“Yo, what the fuck—”
“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)
“Who the hell are you—”
“What’s your fucking problem man—”
“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)
Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means.
But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily.
Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange.
Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face.
“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”
“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”
He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”
“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”
“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)
“You’re still a crybaby!”
“Am not!”
“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)
He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”
“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.
“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore.
But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature.
But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away.
“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”
He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”
You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”
(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)
— — — — — — — — — —
You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it.
You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)
It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon.
“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)
“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.
“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”
“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”
“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.
“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.
“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share.
He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes.
Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different.
“What?” you ask.
Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”
You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.
His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his.
“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.
You don’t ask what he means. You already know.
It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now.
You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him.
“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”
“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”
It won’t.
It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.
“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”
“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.
And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on.
He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders.
“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”
“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.
“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly.
“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”
You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)
“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”
“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease.
“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”
“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”
He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)
“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”
“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”
He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”
“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.
Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever.
His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him.
“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”
“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”
“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.
“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”
“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”
He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”
“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”
With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give.
He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears.
“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.
He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”
You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”
“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”
You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound.
It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that.
Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.
“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.
“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you.
He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm.
“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.
“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”
“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”
It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of.
“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.
“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers.
He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”
“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you.
“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”
“Good,” he hums.
His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.
“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”
“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”
“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”
He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.)
“When did they change for you?”
“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”
“On your first date that broke your heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swinging things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”
“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin.
He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.
You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”
His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe.
“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”
And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it.
“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”
“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”
He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp.
He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily.
“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it.
He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”
You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady.
“Is this okay?” you whisper.
“More than okay,” he says, voice strained.
“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again.
It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion.
“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…”
He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”
“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one.
(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before.
Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you.
The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.)
It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.
“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.
“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this.
This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him.
“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”
With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon.
“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”
Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need.
“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”
“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls.
“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.
“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace.
It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly.
“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”
“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”
“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit.
Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.
He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak.
When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.
“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.
“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”
“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”
You snort. “Is that why you cried?”
He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”
“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.
“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”
“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”
“Yeah?” he beams.
“Yeah,” you grin.
(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)
— — — — — — — — — —
You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants.
He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.
And then it rains.
It rains hard.
You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it.
You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water.
He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.
“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”
He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder.
This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you.
And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life.
“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”
“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out.
“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.
But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.
So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching.
You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand.
“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks.
You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed.
Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you.
Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.
It’s that simple. It always was.
He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”
“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”
He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently.
“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”
You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you.
You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three.
“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”
“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little.
“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy.
And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you.
“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”
You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”
“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”
“Still you,” you snort.
He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.
“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”
“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”
(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)
well . i don’t rly wanna talk about it so there you have it folks. do not look at me
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
amandla
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
gracieabrams
pixelskylines
gamechangershow
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner
