I really have no idea what came over me to draw these but I had to do it, and now you have to suffer the consequences
He heard Uraume unwrap food packages
ok wait but like how many places would true form sukuna have armpit hair... like coz hes got 4 arms so wld he have armpit hair in the area between his upper arm and the shoulder of his lower arm... 🧍 🧍 🧍
[𝜗℘] :: only you are worthy to kiss true form!sukuna & no one else :: tags. concubine!reader, fluff, suggestive.
you’re standing at the entrance of the estate, along with some other concubines. four of them. uraume is there with you as well. you’re all awaiting the one person you’re serving; ryomen sukuna.
it’s silent. the women don’t dare to speak up nor do they dare address you in a menacing manner because of uraume’s presence. you’re thankful for them. you really don’t want to have another petty fight with the concubines. not before your little trip to the village nearby.
you’re all accompanying sukuna to meet up with an infamous clan leader. it’s official business, but you’re needed as a sign of your lord’s high status. you’re basically his trophies that he likes to show off.
“interesting choice of clothing,” sukuna finally shows up. you all bow, showing respect. you look up and only then realise that he’s addressing you. his eyes wander over your figure, “who’s chosen that for you?”
you glance down at your kimono. it’s a beautiful red—suiting the color of sukuna’s eyes. your hair is put up in a neat bun, with a matching crimson hairpin that represented who you belong to.
him.
“my lady-in-waiting, my lord,” you say quietly. you cannot see it, yet can easily feel it; the jealous glares from the four women. they’re dressed in the exact same color red, yet their lord hasn’t paid them any mind. not even a glance.
sukuna just hums in response and makes a mental note of your answer. at least his human servants are good for something. he continues to shamelessly check you out.
“lord sukuna,” uraume interrupts carefully. they bow their head once the king of curses looks their way with a stoic expression, “we’ll have to leave now if we wish to make it there at dawn.”
it’s a gentle reminder, but there’s some urgency in their voice. sukuna rolls his eyes—he may have some official business, but he’s not attending that. not before taking care of other more important stuff first. “silence,” he comments to uraume, heavy steps heading your way afterwards.
your eyes meet his. you blink in confusion, eyelashes fluttering. the sight makes sukuna’s hands twitch at his sides. the way you stare up at him with such naïveté is making him want to destroy it.
you’re unsure what sukuna wants from you. as he orders, everyone stays quiet. you watch as his big hands wrap around your body—your waist engulfed by his warm palms. your eyes widen, but before you can question his actions, your lips are sealed by his.
it’s rare that he does this. kissing sukuna is a privilege. one that no one has ever gotten the honour of having, except for you.
you’ve tasted him. you’ve felt his tongue slither against yours. you’ve had his saliva mix with yours. you’ve had him grunting in your mouth.
you’ve had it all.
no one says a thing. even as your feet are lifted from the ground by the sheer strength of sukuna’s grip on your small body. to reach his lips properly, he has to pick you up and hold you against his chest. it’s his favorite thing to do.
“pretty thing,” sukuna coos with a grin. you can feel his lips curling up menacingly against your mouth. it makes you whine. you instantly shut up once you realise that you’re still outside and surrounded by others—who are basically waiting on you two to be done.
you’re embarrassed to the point that you want nothing more than to hide your face against sukuna’s chest. but he will not let you until he’s had his fill. your tongues swirl around each other passionately, followed by him sucking on your bottom lip and biting it with his sharp fangs.
“my lord,” you whine quietly. you know this’ll end up like that one time in the garden. where he shamelessly took you in front of his servants. you’re unsure if it’s a smart thing to do right now. sukuna has an appointment to go to after all.
his mouth doesn’t stop interlocking with yours. his thick fingers tug at the hairs on the back of your neck, causing you to part your lips in surprise. the king of curses takes his chance and explores your warm little mouth. the one that he’s claimed as his the moment you became his concubine.
you tug at his sleeve as a reminder. sukuna grumbles in annoyance, but he knows you’re right; he should let go. his bottom set of eyes dart over to uraume for a second and upon seeing their expressionless yet determined face, he sighs.
all that official business can suck his dick.
sukuna finally detaches his lips from your now wet and swollen ones. you’re breathing hard, trying to catch your breath. you’re flustered to the point you actually bury your face into sukuna’s chiseled chest. you’re sure this’ll be the only talk around the estate for the upcoming week. you’ll become the victim of some more. . . bullying.
the king of curses notices that you don’t let go of him at all. he grins at the sight of you so desperately clinging onto him. he tries to undo the little mess he made of your once neat hair in the meantime.
“what? want me to carry you all the way there, doll?” sukuna raises an eyebrow, teasing you as per usual. you don’t let go of him since you’re still cooling off. you’ve never really kissed outside of the bedroom. it always happens behind closed doors, so this one time took you by surprise.
you shake your head and plop down on your feet again. “no, my apologies, my lord,” you straighten the material of your kimono and don’t even dare to look at the others. uraume would understand, since they’re used to their lord’s antics, but the concubines will cause big trouble once you’re back home.
sukuna nods in acknowledgment. he still got that evil smirk on his face. his thumb brushes the smudged lipstick from the corner of your mouth, cleaning up his mess once again. he’s nice enough to do so today.
“heh.” sukuna lets out an amused chuckle before walking away and ahead of you—the others silently following, as do you. you’re right behind him, on his right side, as he turns his head to yours, “just so y’know, i’m not done with you.”
you know sukuna isn’t. you can easily tell by the way that he didn’t even bother to wipe the lipstick from his own lips. he’s wearing that stain like it’s a medal of sorts. evidence that you’re the only one he’s ever going to show such affection to.
either way; you’re in for one hell of a ride once you’re back from your little business trip.
AITA FOR POSING AS A RICH MAN TO PULL A RICH GIRL..?
sum. when toji falls for the hot lady that frequents his shifts at the local grocery store, can his frat brothers help him pose as a rich hot bachelor ? or will you discover his kid & true identity first ? [n]sfw
“brokie and a baby daddy but you wanna pull y/n? don’t even joke, lad.”
ΣΧ
toji zenin is pretending to stack boxes in the third aisle of the local loblaws.
well, not exactly. toji zenin has his biceps flexing under the weight of crates but his eyes don’t lift to the shelf he places them on. instead his pupils flit to the automatic entrance doors, thick & glass-heavy, before he glances at his watch & back to the door again. 12:30 PM sunday. toji knows you should be here by now.
but you’re not, so toji’s lip twitches as he stares at the box of freezies in his arms and sighs. it’s pathetic, really. he’s got five more boxes of who-knows-what to arrange before the end of his shift but he can’t fucking focus. his mind’s on your short skirt & pretty laugh & the way your voice goes sweet whenever he pretends to help you look for items while holding your hand between the aisles. toji grunts, shakes his head. focus focus focus.
“toji.. can you help me reach the olive oil? the cold-pressed one with the pretty label?”
toji’s head snaps up so fast he almost drops the box of freezies.
it’s you—oh god, it’s you, and you’re looking down at him with those pretty lashes & short skirt & your hands holding a basket behind your back. you’re in those cute kitten heels you had on the first time he saw you—did you get your nails done? so pretty. you’re so pretty, you’re always so pretty, and toji’s mouth dries.
he doesn’t say anything because he can’t, because your perfume smells like honey & has his lungs sticking to his throat—but he slowly stands up anyway. you’re humming to yourself as you pad closer, getting in his way, heel clicking against the tile as he traps you in the aisle.
he reaches up to the glass bottle, and he can see your lashes fluttering up at him. your chest presses against his, and his lip ticks upward.
“you want this, princess?” he mumbles.
you playfully swat his chest, but your palm doesn’t slide off. you’re caressing his pecs now, teasing. “toji, give it to me. i have a pasta to make tonight. i’m busy.”
toji chuckles, slipping the bottle into your basket and letting his palm sneak over your waist instead. your hands are still on his pecs, lightly squeezing as you laugh when he tugs you closer. he nuzzles your jaw, murmuring, “only if i get an invite, sweetheart.”
“we’ll see,” you tease as his tongue licks your earlobe. you’re running a thumb over the silver tag on his chest: TOJI. “if you’re good, maybe i’ll let you wash the dishes.”
he kisses your neck. “m’always good for you, baby.”
you’re giggling now, shoving him away with flushed cheeks & a laugh too bright. toji catches your hands, tugging you back with a smile on his face before squeezing your hips. your lips are so glossy. is that the new gloss you bought last week? can he kiss it off?
he’ll never know, because he’s holding your hips while you tug at his collar and whisper something he doesn’t care about in his ear. his manager calls his name.
fuck.
toji gives your hips one last squeeze. “go pay, princess. i’ll bag your stuff.”
“you better.” you huff, spoiled & sweet, and toji can only watch the sway of your hips as you make your way to the register.
you’re a pretty girl with a posh life who will never know lack. toji’s a 24-year-old who’s still in college, working odd jobs with a son waiting at home.
in the third aisle of the local loblaws, toji zenin has his hands on his hips and his eyes on the ground. toji zenin will never say it out loud, but he knows he will never, ever, get the girl.
ⵌ AT THE FRATHOUSE !
“you can’t pull someone like y/n, no offense.”
toji wishes suguru wouldn’t spell it out. he already knows, for christ’s sake.
in sigma chi’s living room, toji zenin is sprawled out on the center rug while suguru and sato eat on the floor beside him. sato is between geto’s legs with his back against geto’s chest & his toe tickling toji’s jaw through his socks. suguru is tilting his shawarma for sato to bite from before taking a bite of his own.
sato’s about to dish out an insult of his own when the door swings open. in comes ryomen sukuna, standing in the doorway with bags in his hands and his limbs stretched out like some sort of clown. he bellows, “therapy fucking sucked today. i still don’t think i need therapy, by the way. watching porn and jerking off is completely normal—fuck you, suguru.”
“maybe it is,” suguru’s lips are sticky with shawarma sauce, “but having your dick out in the same room as other people is not.”
“a young man can’t be an exhibitionist? suck my dick, man.”
“oh, i’m not hungry..”
sukuna trudges over toji’s legs, then plops on the ground opposite sato and suguru. sato throws him the middle finger with a grin. sukuna throws it back. “i brought drinks. toji, why’re you on the floor? ya need therapy too?”
sato snickers. “toji’s fallen for a rich girl.”
sukuna snorts, “don’t even joke, lad.” but suguru and toji aren’t laughing. his brows scrunch. “wait—“ he turns to toji, “you’re serious?”
toji eyes him. “mind your own business.”
sukuna doesn’t believe in complex schools of thought like ‘minding your business.’ so instead of picking a shawarma for himself and eating in silence, he joins sato and nudges his foot against toji’s cheek. “does she know you’re poor?”
“hey, hey,” geto bites his cheek, “not too much on him.”
but sukuna continues. “what about the kid? does she know you have a son?”
toji’s jaw only tightens.
sukuna looks at toji in disbelief. then at sato, then suguru—then shakes his head, laughing. “jesus christ of jollof rice,” he cracks open a beer, “you’re fucking cooked, bro.”
toji drags his hands over his face. his eyes are hot, for some reason.
suguru sighs, resting his chin on sato’s head as sato munches happily underneath him. “i hate to suggest this, but there’s a way you can get her to give you a chance.”
sukuna and toji both perk up.
“if she doesn’t know about meg—or your, uh, economics,” suguru clears his throat, “then you keep it that way. she thinks you’re some hot older uni student who works at loblaws for beer money. lean into it.”
sato frowns. “this sounds like something i’d suggest. so not good, i think.”
suguru pokes his cheek, making sato’s pout grow deeper. “i’m just spit-balling here. it’s obvious you really like her, toji. and megumi needs a mommy.”
“i don’t like her because i want her to play housewife.”
“we know,” suguru’s smile is affectionate. “that’s why we’ll help you.”
sukuna grunts in agreement. “sounds scummy but it makes sense. if she finds out you’re a baby daddy with no money, she’ll just run back to her range rover.” he takes another swig of his beer. “we’ll help you hide your true identity. you just get her hooked enough that when she eventually does find out, she won’t leave.”
sato nods. “we’ll babysit. lend you money. heck—you can drive my porsche to your dates.”
on the floor, toji zenin is staring towards the ceiling. it’s a stupid plan, his frat brothers are even stupider, and there is no way in hell whoever is up there will actually let things work out in his favor.
but toji’s desperate. he has been for a long time. so before he can let himself think about it, his lips part to respond.
“alright,” he grunts. “let’s fucking do it.”
SIGMA CHI’S REMARK : DON’T WORRY BRO, WE GOTCHU !
BROKE BOY TACTICS #2: WHO’S YOUR DADDY ?
taught by: sato, sukuna, suguru
“babysitting a five year old brat. how hard could that be?”
ΣΧ
megumi zenin is tufts of black hair, sleepy blue eyes & a tiny fist in a jar full of gummy worms. he’s slumped against his dad’s thick leg, shoving fistfuls of gummies in his mouth with candy-smeared cheeks & a bored expression on his face.
sato, sukuna and suguru are side-by-side on a straight line.
hands tucked behind their backs & chests puffed out like soldiers. toji clears his throat. “listen up. i’m going to be gone for exactly two hours. if i come back and the kid has a single scratch on him, i’m throwing all of you into a pond.“
suguru shakes his head, stepping forward to crouch down to megumi’s height. he wipes megumi’s cheeks with a smile. “don't worry, toji. we've got him. right, little man?”
“hi, uncle sugu,” megumi’s voice is flat but he leans into geto’s palm on his cheek. “are we going to draw today?”
“of course, kiddo. i bought some new crayons just for you.”
toji scoops his son up in his arms, ignoring the way his tiny body writhes towards the gummy worms abandoned on the floor. suguru lifts the jar back to megumi with a smile. sukuna, however, is frowning. “why is his face like that.”
“sukuna, do not fight my kid.”
megumi points towards him. “my daddy calls you a pervert.”
sato bursts out in laughter. suguru’s snickering too, though he’s doing a better job of hiding it. toji drops his son to the ground and crouches to his height. megumi offers him a soggy, wet gummy worm. toji eats it off his palm & pokes his belly.
he rises to his feet. “suguru is in charge. rest of you, keep your hands off him. i’m leaving.”
megumi waves a sticky hand. “bye, daddy. bring me a cookie.”
“will do, brat.” and the door shuts with a thud.
——
“we should go to wonderland. you like amusement parks, ‘gumi?”
megumi zenin has a crayon in his hands, scribbling furiously with a focused expression on his face. he’s seated in geto’s lap, occasionally having suguru hand him a crayon as he perfects his artistic masterpiece. to his right, sato gojo is leaning over the table and talking a mile-a-minute.
megumi answers, scribbling a drawing of what looks like him and his father—DADDY AND ME. “i’ve never been to an amusement park.”
“what?” sato slams his palm on the table, distraught. “what kind of kid has never been to an amusement park?!”
“my father is poor.”
“oh,” sato shrinks. “fairs.”
suguru lets out a fond huff, burying his nose in megumi’s hair to hide the fact that he’s shaking from laughter. sato looks crushed by guilt. “i can’t take this anymore, suguru.” he clutches his chest. “we’re going to the apple store and getting him an ipad pro right now.”
suguru raises a brow. “toji said no screens. and either way, i won’t let you turn him into an ipad kid.”
megumi slumps against geto’s chest. “i want a blue gatorade.”
“i’ll get it for you, buddy,” suguru smiles before kissing his cheek, easing him off his lap. “don’t let sato teach you about investment and stocks while i’m gone, okay?”
sato has his chin on the table, defeated. and just as suguru’s back turns into the kitchen, sukuna saunters in, steps heavy, palm curled around a blue bottle of—is that the last gatorade?!
sukuna cracks the plastic seal, taking a slow, heavy swig of the drink while staring right at the five year old. megumi’s tiny brows furrow. “that’s mine. uncle sugu said i could have it.”
“well,” sukuna licks his lips, slow. “uncle sugu’s not the king of this house.” he takes another gulp, throwing his head back with a refreshed ahhhhhh. megumi frowns, lips tight.
and then he screams.
“uncle sugu! mister pervert’s being mean again!”
sukuna chokes on his gatorade. “who the hell are you calling mister pervert, you little brat—“
sato jumps over the table to hold back sukuna before he can strangle the five-year-old. suguru runs out of the kitchen in alarm, quickly scrambling to hold back sukuna’s wrath alongside sato.
megumi only blinks at the display. three grown men bickering and shoving over gatorade. hell, he’s not so sure he even wants it anymore.
he sighs, reaching across the table to pick up sato’s iphone. he dials his dad’s number, palm smushed into his cheek as he watches suguru smack sukuna for his bad behavior.
ⵌ AT THE DATE !
in the local coffee shop, your lashes are fluttering & the sunlight kisses your skin as you stare out the window.
toji zenin has his heart in his throat. his hands are in his pockets but his ribs are cracked against his chest, and the sight of you pouting out the window has his mouth drying with want. he strolls over regardless, posture lazy, steps cool, because toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.
“hi, princess,” he slides into the booth seat—next to you, not across, because he’s been thinking about the feel of your waist in his hands since last thursday—and his ankle hooks around yours on autopilot.
“hi,” you smile, leaning into his side as he kisses your hair. toji takes your palm in his. your fingers are so dainty. fuck.
“you look nice today,” you hum. “who are you trying to impress?”
your lashes are batting up at him, but toji manages to keep his cool. his smirk is lazy & gorgeous. “you, obviously.”
toji wonders how you can let him touch you so casually. even now he’s nibbling your ear as you talk about something from class—a lazy professor or something else, it’s hard to listen when your thumb brushes his jaw while you speak—and toji’s mind wanders. he’s kissing your neck now, thumbs rubbing circles on your thighs as your breath hitches between words, and toji wonders why you haven’t yet flinched in disgust.
he doesn’t dwell on it too long, though. he knows the topic will only get him down.
so he kisses your neck as you laugh and swat him away, telling him he’s distracting you from your story. you never push him off, though, and your thigh’s on his lap now.
but all good things must come to an end.
toji’s phone buzzes.
loud & obnoxious. SATO, his screen reads. he quickly swipes it away. “sorry…just spam.”
“spam?” you poke his bicep, grinning. “or is your little side piece getting impatient?”
“don’t have a side piece, baby,” he murmurs into your cheek. “only want you.”
1 NEW FACETIME AUDIO CALL : SATO 🤡
his phone has been buzzing for ages now. you sigh, crossing your arms & clearly annoyed. “toji, just answer it. what if it’s an emergency?”
you’re right, he should answer it, because if anything happened to megumi, he’d fucking flip. he bites his lip, “one second, princess.”
he presses his phone to his ear, but megumi’s voice greets him instead.
“daddy! uncle kuna’s trying to kill me because of blue gatorade!”
toji’s eyes widen. from the corner of his eye, he can see you inching closer, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to listen in.
in the background of the call he can hear sato shrieking. “suguru—! use the spatula! use the spatula! sukuna stop—“
you’re blinking at him, inching closer to his bicep on the table. “daddy? who’s calling you daddy?”
toji’s soul leaves his body.
“daddy, are you coming home soon? uncle sugu’s spanking him now. it’s very loud—“
he ends the call before you can hear any more.
“do you have a son?”
toji’s breathing stutters. you’ve inched away from him now, lips bent in a frown, brows furrowed, expression curious—or cautious, toji can’t really tell. and it pains him to lie to you, but what else can he say when you’ve already shifted your thigh off his lap?
“nah,” he answers too fast. “it’s my nephew.”
toji reaches out to thumb your cheek, but you don’t relax into his palm. “think he meant to call my brother, not me.”
he tugs your bottom lip as you speak. “i didn’t know you had a brother…”
“there’s a lot you don’t know about me, princess,” he leans in to kiss the corner of your lips, because he knows he doesn’t deserve any more than that. your pout deepens.
“we can change that though,” he lies, smiling. “wanna get dessert?”
SATO’S REMARK : NICE SAVE, TOJI ! AND MY BAD—HAHA !
BROKE BOY TACTICS #3: BLEACH !
taught by: geto suguru, toru gojo
“inviting her over already? we’ve gotta scrub this place clean, then.“
ΣΧ
toji zenin has one hour to make it seem like megumi doesn’t exist.
geto suguru is scrubbing the bathrooms. toru gojo has somehow been roped into this predicament and is scrubbing away in the kitchen. in the living room, toji zenin is picking up cheerios from the rug, phone in his ear with sukuna on the line.
“hi daddy,”megumi’s voice is flat through the speaker. “uncle kuna’s being nice to me today.”
“that’s great, kiddo. can you put him back on the phone?”
“yo,” sukuna’s voice crackles through.
“if anything happens to my son, i will spread your ass cheeks and sprinkle paprika in the hole.”
“oh.”
“yeah,” toji shifts the phone in his neck. “make sure he has a good time at that amusement park. and don’t let sato spoil him too much.”
“heyyy toji!” sato’s voice crackles through the speaker. toji sighs before grunting back a hello. “keep megumi safe, got it?”
“yes, sir!” / “we got it, boss.” / “bye, daddy!”
toji says his goodbyes. just as he clicks the end button, toru gojo pads into the living room, glasses tilting off his face & slipping rubber gloves off his hands. “all done in the kitchen. remind me why we’re deceiving this poor lady again?”
toji picks up a gummy worm tucked under the rug and cringes. “because she wouldn’t look twice at a broke guy with a kid.”
toru softens, adjusting his glasses. “you don’t know that. have you tried telling her?”
“no.”
“why not?”
"because,” he picks up another gummy worm hidden under the couch, glaring at it before throwing it away. "because every time someone finds out about megumi, they look at me different. like i'm a burden. like he's a burden."
toru purses his lip. he’s watching as toji ducks under the couch, picking out stray bits of cereal and snacks and other things that make toji’s nose scrunch up in disgust.
toru shakes his head, taking off his glasses to set them on the counter. “but you don’t know if she’s like that.”
“i know i can’t lose her before i even have her.”
toru purses his lip. toji’s voice came out too tight.
ⵌ SHOW TIME !
when toji opens his front door, you’re in a too-short dress and there’s moët & chandon in your hands.
god, you’re gorgeous. and toji really needs to stop thinking that. needs to stop saying it in his head before he slips up and says it out loud with a tone he can’t take back.
“hi,” you tilt your head, batting your lashes in that way that makes him stupid. “you gonna keep standing there? or are you gonna take this bottle off my hands?”
ah, right. toji reaches for the bottle but you pull it back. he raises a brow.
“say ‘please pretty girl, may i have the wine?’”
you’re still peering up at him, hugging the bottle of wine to your chest, teasing smile on your glossy lips. toji leans against the doorframe. arms crossed, dark eyes raking over your hips, plush thighs, pretty waist. fuck.
his lips twitch, “i’m not saying that.”
“aww,” you pout, glossy and spoiled. “guess i have to turn back home and drink this expensive wine all by myself.” you turn, and toji bites his cheek because your dress has ridden up to give him the perfect view of your ass. so soft. he can’t wait to squeeze it.
“i’m gonna be so lonely…” your back is still turned to him, voice wistful. “and i came all the way over here, too. i’m so upset.”
toji doesn’t let you take another step.
you squeal as he scoops you up with a grunt, arms snaking over your waist & under your thighs to lift you bridal style. you squeeze the bottle of wine in your arms, eyes shut tight as you giggle while he kicks the door shut. “toji! put me down!”
careful what you wish for.
toji drops you to his couch with a thud. you land with a breathless laugh, dress bunched up to your hips & he can see the print of your panties. your hair is fanned out, and the bottle of wine is pressed to your stomach. you’re giggling, eyes bright, and god. you look so fucking gorgeous all laid out for him. toji’s jaw ticks.
he climbs over you, pressing his warm body down until the wine digs into your stomach. his eyes are dark. hungry.
“please, pretty girl,” he murmurs, breath hot, lips teasing your neck. “may i have the wine?”
oh.
your breath hitches. you stare up at him, cheeks hot, eyes wide, thighs squeezing together in anticipation. but you’re a bad girl, so you don’t give toji zenin what he wants just yet.
your smile falters, but you tilt your head. “thought you weren’t gonna say it?”
he grins, pressing a hot kiss underneath your ear. “and i thought you were leavin’.”
you let out a shaky gasp as toji licks a hot stripe up your neck. he’s filthy—big hands gripping your hips to keep you pinned to the couch, squeezing you hard each time you moan and buck yourself into him. his breath is hot against your neck, sucking and kissing and teasing, the occasional nip when you whimper just the way he likes.
his weight presses the wine harder into your stomach. you gasp, “toji, the wine—“
“hold it, baby.”
your eyes squeeze shut as his kisses trail further down your neck, tummy fluttering as heat pools between your thighs. his thumb on your hip sinks under the silk of your panties, and you whine his name before he shushes you with a sweet kiss to your cheek.
toji doesn’t kiss you on the lips. the lips are too honest, and toji is not.
you’re still clutching the bottle, chest heaving as toji presses your hips deeper, deeper—
“ow!”
toji freezes.
in truth, toji zenin has never been a gentle man. his body is too big and his hands are too rough, and life itself has never treated him gently, nor given him much reason to be gentle towards others. but as toji hovers over you, limbs frozen in alarm, his stomach can’t help but twist with disgust. said body and rough hands have crushed something soft yet again.
“did i hurt you?” his voice comes out weird. “doll—look at me. you okay?”
“i’m fine,” you wince, cheeks flushed as you try to steady your breathing. you twist your leg slightly, sliding your fingers down into the sofa cushion where something sharp poked at you. “something... something poked my leg.”
you pull out a tiny, red brick.
you blink. “a lego?”
for the second time this evening, toji freezes.
he takes it from your hand, flicking it away. he lifts your arms to wrap them around his neck, and lowers himself back to your chest. “that what you stopped me for, princess?” he mutters coolly, like his heart isn’t beating in his throat. “had me so worried, baby.”
“toji, why do you have a lego?”
he kisses your jaw, “my nephew’s.”
ah, that makes sense. you hug his neck tighter, giggling as he slips the wine off your belly & onto the floor. he presses yet another kiss to your neck, warm & sweet, and you let your chin rest on his shoulder as he loves you with gentler hands.
but then you see it.
on the metal door of the kitchen fridge, past a jar of gummy worms and a poorly placed broom, a banana-shaped magnet is there.
and right under it, a scribbled drawing. the messy figure of a man with spiky hair, and a smaller, more spiky-haired boy.
DADDY AND ME.
your body goes still.
toji’s hands are on your hips, thighs, waist—but his touch suddenly itches. the warmth has gone cold.
“toji,” you whisper. “who drew that?”
toji doesn't move. his eyes slowly follow your gaze to the fridge, and the panic in his eyes is unmistakable. the lie slips out of his mouth before his brain can even catch up to it.
“sociology project,” he breathes. “developmental regression. drew it with my left hand.”
“your left hand…”
your voice trails off as toji sinks his lips back to your neck.
toji zenin does not study sociology.
TORU’S REMARK : YOU CAN’T FOOL HER FOREVER.
BROKE BOY TACTICS #4: LEAN INTO THE LARP !
taught by: sato gojo
“you can’t pull up to a date in an uber. take my porsche—you’re a rich guy now.”
ΣΧ
it’s late, and three floors down, toji zenin has his hands on his hips, staring at sato’s sleek black porsche in disbelief while his tie itches at his neck. three floors up, in toji’s crappy apartment, the gang’s all there.
megumi has a blanket pulled up to his chin, seated on the couch next to suguru. sukuna is lounging on the floor with his back against said couch. sato is flipping through TV stations. the light in the room is dim, and sato snickers at something sukuna says before tossing him the remote.
“why does everyone always leave me?”
the trio freeze.
megumi’s expression is flat. he’s staring into the tv’s glow, but his eyes are soulless and empty. suguru hesitates—but then he rests a hand on megumi’s hair. “what do you mean, kiddo?”
“daddy’s always leaving now,” megumi closes his eyes, rigid against the couch cushions. “he never spends time with me anymore. he’s acting like my mommy did.”
the three boys’ hearts crack right down the middle.
they’re staring at each other now, the weight of megumi’s words on their shoulders. how do they tell a little boy that the reason his father has been less present—and is also not present tonight—is because he’s currently trying to hide his child’s existence to impress a woman? and that they’re all helping him?
sato speaks first. too quick, too fast.
“he’s just been busy,” he croaks out. “he’s been picking up new shifts. he’s working really hard.”
“yeah,” sukuna agrees. “he’s working hard. to take care of you, meg.”
megumi stares into the tv screen. geto’s hand is still heavy on his head, and his body is limp and his eyes are heavy.
“i know.” megumi mutters. “he’s my hero.”
suguru bites his lip. “you know what, meg? why don’t we draw something? a new picture for your dad?”
megumi’s eyes flit to the kitchen fridge. DADDY AND ME. the picture is still there, but the paper is crinkled and damp now. as if someone threw it away with heavy eyes, then somehow thought better of it.
megumi nods, “yeah.”
“okay, buddy. i’ll go get the crayons.”
“i’ll get the paper!”
“and i’ll… uh. you want a gatorade, kid?”
the three adults go after the various items. megumi takes one last look at his drawing on the fridge, and then he slips off the couch and pads away.
ⵌ SHOW TIME !
toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.
so today, he pretends the sleek black porsche parked outside your house is his. he pretends he’s not wearing sato’s luxury cologne, that his tie isn’t secondhand, that the cuff of his suit isn’t too tight on his wrist and that the guilt in his mouth doesn’t taste like his blood.
he’s gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.
when you open the car door, you look like a dream.
your lips are glossy, always glossy, but it’s a different shade of shimmer tonight. your hair is loose all over your shoulders, heels clicky, dress black and matching the shade of sato’s car. toji stares, jaw slack as you slide into the passenger’s seat. the words in his throat have turned into bile.
“Hi.” you blink at him.
“Hi.”
he can’t say much else, and he really ought to but he can’t, so instead he only watches as you huff and click your seatbelt in place. toji licks his lips, turns back to the wheel. says a quick prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in. “you look gorgeous.”
you don’t respond.
the car starts with an expensive growl. it makes toji wince, and he hopes you don’t notice. he’s practiced starting the car three times so he can pretend he’s used to it. he isn’t, and he’ll never be.
he pulls onto the streets, eyes frantically scanning the road as his pulse drums in his teeth.
“toji?” you say, eyes trained ahead of you, voice flat.
“yeah, baby?”
“where are we going?”
toji’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. he turns right at the fork. “somewhere nice,” his voice is strained. “somewhere you deserve to be.”
he lets his right hand shift to the center console, trying to bridge the gap. his hand is sweating, maybe. you glance at it. glance away.
you peer out the window, head against the edge, watching the lights blur through the glass. “i feel like i’m sitting in a museum,” you murmur, quiet. “everything feels curated. including you.”
he swallows. “i’m trying to make tonight special.”
“special…” you trail off, lashes fluttering as you stare out the window.
“i don’t know who you are, zenin.”
toji’s head aches. and so does his chest, violent and sharp and stabbing. he’s a liar, a con artist, a selfish man with rough hands and a son waiting at home. oh—megumi. his phone’s been buzzing in his pocket for a while now. how’s megumi?
“i’m just a guy,” he chooses to say. “a guy who likes you.”
“do you? or is that just part of the exhibit?”
maybe there really is a god watching, because before toji can respond something makes a sound.
he’s not sure what, honestly, but he’s quick to capitalize on it. he needs the air. toji turns into an empty street to park. he unbuckles his seat belt, leans over a bit. “stay in the car, okay?”
you only nod, and toji’s throat curls with guilt.
the night air is cool on his skin. he opens the car bonnet—careful, as careful as a man like him can be—pretending to scan the engines for a possible source of the noise. he doesn’t find anything wrong, and he knew he wouldn’t, but he holds up the bonnet and pretends to check anyways.
three minutes pass before he returns to the car.
three minutes of toji zenin teaching himself how to breathe. the same way he does when megumi shuts down even though he thinks the steps are corny. having a kid really changes you, doesn’t it?
megumi. he looks at his watch, 9PM. his boy should be in bed by now.
the buzzing from his phone has stopped. he should check it now, but you’re still waiting. still beautiful. still hurt.
so toji slams the hood shut. sucks in a breath and slides back into the driver’s seat. you’re staring at him as he buckles his seatbelt.
“toji,” your voice is careful. “do you have anything you want to tell me?”
yes. i work three jobs and i’m drowning in student loans. i got a girl pregnant when i was eighteen, and she left me when i turned twenty-one. i have a boy who’s five-and-a-half and he’s the only good thing i have left. and i’m sorry i lied, but i didn’t want you to leave me before i could love you and i’m sorry, and i’m sorry again, and you deserve better, and i’m sorry.
“no,” toji lies.
you purse your lips. “okay.”
the engine roars back to life. and toji is sweating, and the date feels over before it’s even started, and his pulse is too loud and—
“daddy?”
toji’s blood runs cold.
in the backseat of sato’s porsche, megumi zenin is there, body tucked under a blanket and rubbing his eyes. he slips off the seat and stumbles towards the console, still rubbing at his face. “hi, daddy.”
toji zenin can only stay frozen as megumi wraps his smaller arms around his neck.
he tries to speak, fingers twitching as they hover over his son’s back. “megumi—hey, buddy—what’re you doing here?”
megumi buries his nose into his father’s neck. “i didn’t want to be alone again.”
toji bites his lip. he can feel your eyes boring into him, and he nervously scrambles. “hey—you’re never alone, buddy. where are your uncles? come here.”
he lifts megumi into his lap, avoiding your gaze.
“is this your son?”
toji’s mouth dries.
he could say it’s his nephew, make up some lie about him referring to both him and his ‘brother’ as dad, but god. you’re already looking at him with something he doesn’t have the vocabulary to name, and toji’s jaw aches.
“yes,” he sucks in a breath. “this is my son, megumi.”
he brushes megumi’s hair back, taking his little fist away from his face so he stops rubbing at his eyes. “meg, say hi to the pretty lady.”
“hi, pretty lady.”
megumi waves a small hand, then collapses against his father’s stomach.
you force a smile and flick your eyes back up to toji.
“i think you should take me home.”
???’s REMARK : YOU CAN’T LARP YOUR WAY INTO BEING LOVED !
BROKE BOY TACTICS #5: EMBRACE YOUR ECONOMICS !
taught by: nanami kento, megumi zenin.
“maybe she doesn’t hate you. maybe she hates that you thought so little of her you felt the need to live a lie.”
ΣΧ
it’s a new day, and toji zenin is laden with old burdens.
he’s slumped against his bedroom wall, phone pressed to his ear with megumi on his stretched out legs. megumi has a red & green colored hand in another jar full of gummy worms. toji makes a mental note to hide it better next time.
“you didn’t just lose the date,” nanami’s voice cuts through the speaker, flat and professional as always. “you insulted her intelligence. made her out to be a shallow woman who’d only care about you if you had money in your bank account.”
toji stares at the ceiling. then at megumi, who’s about to eat a gummy worm off the floor. he flicks it away. “she looked at me like i was trash, nanami.”
“she looked at you like you were a liar,” nanami corrects. “which you are.”
nanami sighs, breath sending a crackle through the speaker. all he wanted to do was spend his afternoon reading his new favorite BL, doukyuusei, but once again the shenanigans of his friends have interrupted his peace.
“toji, you’re a smart man. and she sounds like a smart woman. i doubt she’d lose interest because you have a son—i believe she hates that you lied to her.”
megumi takes a worm and makes it crawl through toji’s lips. it’s cold, but toji chews and swallows anyways. “i need to apologize.”
“yes,” toji can hear a page flip. “and quickly. i have to attend to other matters now, but say hi to megumi for me.”
the line goes dead, and toji drops his hand to the floor.
megumi chews a gummy worm. then he takes it out of his mouth, frowns at it, then eats it again. “daddy, are you mad at me?”
toji frowns. “for what?”
“i ruined your date,” megumi looks into the jar of worms, frowning, then back at his dad. “with auntie.”
toji looks at his son. at his candy smeared cheeks, sticky hands, black spikes of hair and sugar in his teeth. megumi looks just like him. he’s always known it, but he’s growing to look more and more like his father every day.
“you didn’t ruin anything,” he murmurs, pulling his son into his chest. “you’ve never ruined anything in your life.”
he pats megumi’s hair, head thrown back. “i’m sorry, meg.”
five-year-old megumi zenin has already lost interest. he’s more focused on getting the red and blue gummy in the sea of yellow-green ones, small hand grabbing fistfuls of worms before dropping them back. he doesn’t know his father is sorry, sorry for everything, for trying to erase his existence to impress a woman and for bringing him into this world knowing he will never be able to give him the future he deserves.
megumi retrieves the red and blue gummy worm. his favorite flavor. he blinks at it once, twice.
then he turns to his dad. lifts the gummy worm on his palm to his face.
toji zenin eats it right off.
ⵌ SHOW TIME !
megumi zenin is in his best clothes: baby blue button-up from suguru. a white top with a red race car that sukuna had got him for his birthday. light up skechers from uncle sato. toji had tried to get him to wear normal shoes, but megumi shut that down quickly. he wanted to be seen.
you no longer frequent the local loblaws.
and it breaks toji’s heart, actually. you haven’t blocked him just yet, thank god, so toji thinks you might not yet hate him completely. that he might still have a chance.
call him a weirdo, but he’s been to almost every grocery store nearby.
no frills, sobeys, you name it. and now, at 12:30PM sunday, toji zenin is in his car with his son, watching you load groceries into the backseat with a pout on your lips. like you’re above this. like you need a big, strong man to offer his help. and toji’s chest aches. because he could be that man, you know. if you’d let him.
toji slips out of the car. megumi hops out too.
he stops just a few feet behind you, watching you mutter curses as you haul a carton of juice. toji’s lip twitches. then he pulls megumi along.
“let me help.”
you blink as toji comes out of seemingly nowhere to save the day. he lifts everything out of your cart and into your car, never breaking a sweat. truthfully, your groceries aren’t even that heavy. he’s not sure why you were struggling, but he thinks it’s so fucking cute.
he lets you click your remote to close the boot shut. then he turns to you: “i owe you an apology.”
you tilt your head. “do you?”
he squeezes megumi’s hand in his own to ground himself. “i lied because i was scared,” he admits, and you never thought you’d hear toji and ‘scared’ in the same sentence. “you’re a pretty girl from a nice family who spends my rent money on groceries,” he breathes. “and i want you, bad. and i thought if you saw me—the me who lived paycheck to paycheck and has nothing except this little brat,” he raises megumi’s hand, “you’d leave before i even got a chance.”
he shifts his hand to megumi’s head. “it’s fucking stupid, i know. but this is my son,” he ruffles megumi’s hair. “say hi, kid.”
“hi, auntie.”
your gaze shifts away from toji, and drops to the little boy beside him. megumi is apple cheeks, dark, messy hair and nervous feet shifting on the pavement. he looks like his dad, and the sight makes your heart melt.
“hi, baby boy.” you crouch down to his height. “i love your shirt. do you wanna come here?”
megumi nods. he abandons his father’s side to let you scoop him up in your arms.
toji frowns.
megumi’s a shy kid. or not shy—awkward. he can’t make eye contact with kids his age, his tone is too flat, and his eyes are always bored. he doesn’t like to be touched by people he isn’t familiar with, and he’s very quick to say no to what he doesn’t like or want. so toji can only watch, brows knit in confusion, as megumi’s fist curls over your necklace and he lets you press a kiss to his cheek.
“hi, auntie,” megumi collapses into your shoulder, fist still gripping your necklace. “i did a very good job.”
“so good, baby,” you kiss his hair, grinning. “i’m gonna buy you all the gummies in the world.”
megumi blushes from the affection. he shifts his head over your shoulder so all you can see is his pink chubby cheek.
“what the hell is happening?”
“daddy’s a big dummy,” megumi mutters into your shoulder. “the biggest,” you agree.
toji’s frown deepens, and you laugh. “i’ve already met megumi, silly.”
toji blinks. he’s about to ask how, but you beat him to it: “remember when you got out of the car? megumi woke up in the backseat,” you kiss his ear softly, and megumi’s blush deepens. “we had a long chat about you, toji. and i asked him to pretend we’ve never met, and go back to sleep in the car.”
you watch megumi, fond. his fingers curling deeper into your necklace, his eyes shy and staring behind you. “i can’t believe you’ve been keeping this little angel from me. you’re a monster, toji.”
“dummy monster…” megumi mutters. you kiss his cheek again and he hides.
toji thinks about it. to megumi referring to you as auntie back in the apartment. fuck. he didn’t think too much of it, but perhaps he should’ve.
“so? you two were testing me, or some shit?”
you shift a hand from megumi’s back to your hip. “no attitude, mister. i’m still mad at you,” your frown, and then your shoulders drop. “did you really think you had to fake having money to impress me? picking me up in a porsche when i’ve already seen your crappy apartment?”
you stroke megumi’s hair. “and lying about meg,” your expression goes soft, sad. “have you apologized to him?”
“yeah,” megumi tugs your necklace. “he told me sorry.”
you smile at him, then kiss his little fist. “that’s great, baby. you deserve an apology. and i’m sorry as well, for taking away your time with your father.”
megumi pats your face, voice flat. “i forgive you.”
you giggle, pinching his cheek, and toji can only stare in disbelief.
megumi’s cheeks are pink from your kisses, little fingers curled tight around your necklace while you sway him absentmindedly against your chest. his light-up skechers blink every time his feet kick against your thighs. you’re smiling at him like he’s heaven as a boy, and megumi—quiet, awkward, megumi—is hiding his face in your shoulder because he’s shy.
how greedy.
how greedy of toji zenin to pick out cheerios from between couch cushions like trying to erase evidence of a crime scene. how greedy of him to scrub crayon off his walls, peel gummies off his floors and hide away his son with other people he can’t truly call family. how greedy of him to rip his son’s drawing off the fridge, only to put it back again later because he can’t even be greedy right.
how greedy of toji zenin to hide the only good thing in his life away; all because he wanted yet another good thing: you.
he wanted your pretty laugh in his apartment. wanted your heels by the front door, wanted your perfume in his sheets and your voice mixed with megumi’s cartoons on saturday mornings. toji zenin wanted everything.
now his everything was shoving his chubby hand in the face of his other everything to keep from getting attacked by kisses. but he was smiling. megumi zenin was smiling, and blushing, and laughing—and toji thinks about how he hasn’t seen megumi this childish in a while.
his heart aches.
“i’m sorry.”
sorry for what? he knows what he’s sorry for, but the words have failed him again, so he can only watch. watch as you tilt your head the way you always do, before megumi glances at you and tilts his head back at him the same way. oh god.
“‘gumi, do we forgive daddy?”
“yeah,” megumi’s feet kick. his shoes light up, red and blue. “if he stops hiding my gummies.”
toji won’t hide his gummies anymore. hell, he’ll never hide anything again in his life.
and maybe megumi senses the guilt on his father’s shoulders, because he squirms his tiny body for you to set him down and dashes so hard into his father’s legs that he knocks his forehead against his knee. “ow…”
toji snorts, crouching. “what are you doing, kid.” but he’s scooping megumi into his arms anyways. you pad closer, grin cheeky, and poke megumi on his side.
“how about we go shop for some gummy worms?”
BONUS — Y/N AND MEG’S FIRST MEET !
“who are you?”
the voice makes you jolt. you’re staring at your hands in the passenger’s seat of toji’s rented—no, probably borrowed—porsche, blinking away tears in your eyes when a tiny voice speaks behind you.
you whip your head around so fast your neck aches.
and standing there is a little boy, tiny, maybe four or five, rubbing away sleep from his eyes. his hair comes in tufts of black, and his eyes are blue, and oh my god he looks just like his father.
toji.
megumi is rubbing his eyes harder now. your heart melts.
“hi, baby,” you coo, patting away your own tears on your lashes. “i’m friends with your daddy. what’s your name?”
“i’m megumi,” he sniffles, yawns. “my friends call me meg. but i don’t have any friends.”
oh. “hi, meg. what’re you doing here? did your dad leave you home alone?”
you hope he says no, because you know toji’s been hiding something—someone from you, but he wouldn’t go that far. at least, you hope he wouldn’t.
“no, my uncles are at home,” he says sleepily. and you hover your hands over his face in silent permission. he blinks at your hands, sniffles again, before nodding to let you brush his hair back from his face. “i wanted to see daddy. he left for work.”
work? no he didn’t. toji zenin is outside, lifting the bonnet of a car he knows is too good to call his. “did he tell you he was going to work, meg?”
“no, but i know he is. he works for us. he wears the tie and he goes away.”
“oh, baby…”
toji zenin is a liar. a liar with a handsome face, and warm touch, and words that make your head dizzy. and you should be mad, really. you are, but the sight of this little boy with a face like his father’s only makes your heart ache.
you want to ask questions: who are your uncles? where were you when i came over? is your mother still in the picture?
but megumi zenin is blinking sleepily as you caress his cheek, leaning into your touch with a sigh.
“megumi, do you wanna make a deal?”
“what kind of deal?” megumi tries to rub his eyes, but you ease his fist away.
“a super simple one. your daddy’s been acting really strange, right? to you and me,” you pat his cheek. “all you have to do is act like we’ve never met, and i’ll give you anything you want.”
megumi thinks very hard. then he asks, “are you the lady daddy wants to impress?”
you blink. “what do you mean?”
“i heard him on the phone with uncle sugu,” megumi rests his head against your leather car seat. “he said he likes a nice lady. said he wants to be a better man for her.” he rubs his eye. “then he started leaving me. where’s daddy? i wanna talk to daddy.”
“oh, meg,” your heart breaks. “come here, baby.”
megumi hesitates, but then he lets you pull him into a hug. his hands are limp by his sides, but he pats your back once before his tiny hand slips away. “auntie, why are you crying?”
your shoulders shake over him. you sniffle, “don’t worry about it, meg. and your daddy’s gonna come back soon, okay? and he won’t leave you alone anymore. i’ll make sure of it.”
megumi pulls back. “you promise?”
you cup his cheeks. “i promise. go back to sleep, okay?”
EPILOGUE !
on the couch of toji’s crappy apartment, megumi zenin is curled into his father’s side, gummy worms in his mouth as he presses his sticky hands to the screen of his brand new ipad pro. a shiny gift from his loving uncle sato, who bought him the device despite suguru and toji’s wishes.
megumi offers his father a gummy worm. “when is auntie coming?”
toji eats it off his palm. “soon, kid,” he clicks his tongue. “swear you like her more than me now.”
megumi picks out five gummy worms from the jar, then lines them up on his ipad screen for convenience. “nah, i like daddy the most.”
toji softens.
all toji can see right now is the top of his little boy’s head, his tiny nose poking out and his chubby little cheeks. the ipad screen is sticky and candy smeared—much like megumi’s hands—and on the screen is a video of a teacup in a ballet dress—ballerina cappucina?—getting married to a little espresso man wearing a ninja bandana. toji frowns. the video gives him flashbacks to his days of working as skai jackson’s personal AI prompt writer. he shivers.
toji shakes his head. “meg, you know i’m never leaving, right?”
“i know,” megumi groans. “you told me a billion times yesterday!”
“quit whining,” toji murmurs, pulling his son into his lap. megumi reaches for his jar of gummy worms, and toji tugs it closer. “just wanted to remind you.” he mumbles.
megumi slumps against his father’s chest. soft, distracted, satisfied. “you don’t need to say sorry anymore. i forgive you.”
toji kisses his hair, burying his face in the dark strands. he sighs, “thanks, kiddo.”
———
when the doorbell rings, toji zenin is already half-asleep.
the sound—and megumi’s accidental jab of his elbow against his stomach—wakes him right up. toji smooths his hair, rubs the sleep from his eyes. then he turns to tell megumi to go wash his sticky hands, then decides not to.
he sucks in a breath and opens the door.
“hi, pretty.”
“move. i’m not here for you.”
you shove at his chest and push your way into the apartment, and on the couch to the right megumi zenin is there, ipad in hands and cheeks sticky and looking up at you with big, blue eyes.
“auntie?”
“oh, my baby!”
you scoop him off the couch and into your arms, and megumi clutches your shoulders tight as you attack him with kisses on his forehead, cheeks, everywhere. toji’s eye twitches in disbelief. “are we serious?”
“oh, you’re still here,” you glance over at him, bored. “meg and i are gonna make cookies today. mind being a doll and fetching the ingredients from the car?” you toss him your car keys.
toji looks at the keys in his hands. then you, who is cooing silly things that make megumi blush and bury his head in your neck.
toji pads over to you, slow. “i wanted to see you.”
you ignore his hands snaking around your hips. you turn your nose up at him, “and now, you have.”
“you still mad at me?”
of course you’re still mad. maybe not as mad as you were a week ago, but still upset. that he lied. that he thought so little of you that he went out of his way to sculpt a whole other life and hide away the little angel in your arms. but toji’s hands are still heavy on your hips. his voice is warm in your ear. and he apologized, you know. in the parking lot that day. at your house on monday, holding a bouquet of half-dead flowers and wearing a rented suit that went to waste because you refused to go out with him anyway. he sent you an hour long voicemail apologizing. you listened to it all on the way here.
toji zenin is such a sap.
he acts like he isn’t, though. but he is, and you feel it in how he presses his lips to your neck, over and over and over again. i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry.
megumi shoves his father’s lips away. “daddy stop.”
you laugh, nuzzling megumi’s cheek. “he’s such a dummy, isn’t he meg? do you think i should forgive him?”
“yeah,” megumi mutters, collapsing into your neck. “he said sorry a billion times to me yesterday. daddy’s really sorry for everything.”
“aww. daddy’s so cute when he’s sorry, isn’t he?”
toji is glaring at you. you can only giggle and press a kiss to his jaw, and his eyes widen a bit in surprise. you cup his jaw and press another one to his cheek. just one more, because you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed him as well.
“i forgive you, mister. now go get those groceries—shoo!”
toji nuzzles your neck before leaving the apartment.
megumi is still on your hip, clutching your shoulders for balance as you pick out pans and trays from the cupboard. he grips your hair in a tiny fist. “auntie?”
“hm, gummy?”
megumi hides in your neck—shy, nervous. “are you gonna be my new mommy?”
you freeze.
megumi clutches you tighter. his face is buried in your throat, and he’s gripping so tightly his little nails bite into your skin, but you soften. toji had already confessed everything in his voicemail. his mom isn’t in the picture anymore. how a mother can let go of a little angel like meg, you don’t know, but who are you to judge and conclude?
“i don’t know, meg, it’s too soon,” you hum softly, setting a pan on the tabletop. “but i know i’ll be here, baby. for you.”
“will you be at my school, too?” he peers up at you, big eyes glimmering with hope. “all the other kids have mommies except for me.”
“oh, megumi—of course i’ll be there!”
it’s taking everything in you not to carry this boy and run! you attack his face with kisses, and megumi squirms in your arms but he’s giggling. his hands are sticky on your face, neck, everywhere, but you kiss him over and over again, because you’ve only known him for a little over a week but you’re already ready to give him the world. “auntie, stop!” but he’s laughing. “there’s lip gloss all over me!”
when toji walks in, he can’t believe his eyes.
there are too many shopping bags in his hands, because everything about you is too much, even down to your shopping, and toji is staring in disbelief. the woman of his dreams in his kitchen, holding his son, and his son is laughing. laughing the way he used to before his mother left him two years ago.
and he doesn’t really deserve the warmth curling in his chest, or the strange feeling coursing through his veins, but who is toji zenin if not greedy?
so he drops the bags to his feet (gently, because you’d curse him if the eggs broke), and pads over to the kitchen where you’re showering megumi with affection, and he snakes his arms around your waist and drops his head into your neck. you turn, grinning, and you don’t push him away when he presses a quick kiss to your lips. the lips are honest, and now toji is too.
“aww, look at you getting all sappy.”
“auntie made my face all sticky..”
toji squeezes you both tight. a little greed never killed a man.
My Hero Academia, Chapter 120 + Motion Sickness, Phoebe Bridgers + My Hero Academia, volume extra || My Hero Academia, Chapter 10 title + My Hero Academia, Chapter 11 || My Hero Academia, Chapter 284 || All These Things That I’ve Done, The Killers || My Hero Academia, Chapter 362 || King and Lionheart, Of Monsters and Men || The Beginning, Animorphs #54, K.A. Applegate || Goodnight, Travel Well, The Killers
i know this isn’t a terribly popular opinion to have in this day and age but i really do believe that people you disagree with still deserve to be approached with a base level of empathy bc people only know what they know and rushing to finger point and sneer only affirms beliefs they already hold (especially bad ones) and like idk i think even if you change nothing about how they think or what they feel ultimately they’ll remember how you treated them for longer than they remember what you said and that can be more transformative than anything you say either way
But you don't want me to see nobody else. And I don't want you to see nobody.
𝄞 pre-relationship texts with KATSUKI BAKUGOU
𝄞 contains: a whole lotta swearing, reader is in the bakusquad friendgroup, fem!reader, setting is as UA students, slowburn, subtle cues, yes hes ur annoying homeboy, mentions of denki, kirishima, mina, sero, and mitsuki, kirimina and kamijirou mentions, denkis STAYS catching strays
𝄞 A/N: this is my first mha post! ik ive js been writing blue lock but i decided to expand my horizons since i recently started watching MHA and im in LOVE. this is very much inspired by @zmbkats's pre-rls texts w bakugou! your post has changed lives.
hello luna ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ i hope you’re having a good day :) just popping in to check up on you + also offer you this: bakugou getting drunk at his birthday party and just cuddling up to you, PDA and everything with zero hesitation and everyone’s like (.) (.) bug-eyed
THEDA !!!!!! i was not gonna do a bakugou birthday fic because everyday is his birthday here but im writing this one !
bakugou told you vehemently that he did not want a birthday party.
you mentioned it a month before, march twentieth, just a simple suggestion that it would be fun if he had one. mostly for you because pro hero party budget would include a decked out airbnb completely paid for, a hot tub at the back, a bar that’s tended to, a proper dj and catered food. also it would be cute to see your boyfriend celebrated, everyone who loves him, coming together to show him how much they cared.
bakugou didn’t have the same sentiments. in fact, he couldn’t care less.
“i wanna have the day off work, have a walk around the park with you and go back to bed,” then he sniffs, looks you up and down, “eat you out for a bit too. a happy fuckin’ birthday to me.”
you roll your eyes and stuff your hand in this face to silence him. a grin slides up when he kisses your palm, licks it for good measure.
despite this, you know there’s a big chunk of your boyfriend that loves attention. he’s a show off through and through. loves when the hero talk shows boast about his stats for the month. he loves when the commission awards him a bonus for the extra work he put in for the year. he loves when you drool over the new heroes weekly issue that he’s the cover of. bakugou katsuki loves attention.
so as much as you know he’d love a quiet day in, he’d get offended if all his friends didn’t text him happy birthday. if you didn’t say the two words to him as soon as he woke up. if his mother didn’t send him a card.
he pretends he hates the fuss, new year, same shit, but the truth is bakugou katsuki survived another year.
he survived almost dying twice, getting beat down by a villain with five quirks, had to save a cruise ship full of passengers and survived teaching you how to drive. the last one being the hardest because it caused you both to get into four arguments and you to (half heartedly) threaten to break up with him if he wouldn’t stop shouting at you when you were at roundabouts. (he didn’t shout, he very softly and slowly suggested you turn left. you panicked and blamed him when you turned right.)
so all in all, despite his holier than thou attitude about having a party, you know he’d love one and most of all, needs one.
he pretended to hate when everyone popped out from underneath the table and behind the chairs of this random gorgeous airbnb you drove him to on the outskirts of town. you told him you booked something just for you two, so after your walk around the park, instead of going back to his, you can go to a hot tub surrounded by the wilderness.
instead he’s got that with you and all his bestest friends and you even managed to squeeze in a few of your friends too. he rolled his eyes but his smile never let up. he shoved his friends away when they came at him with bear hugs but gave in anyway and patted their backs. he let all the girls hug him too, circling an arm around their waists and letting them kiss his cheek.
most of all, what meant the most to you, was his proud smile when everyone told him how you planned this weeks in advance. made sure everyone had the day off and demanded they give him a present. when nobody was looking, he pushed you into a spare bedroom and smothered you in kisses. never one for pda, but knows when you need appreciating.
which now leads to bakugou katsuki, 26, full of cake, finger foods and surprisingly, alcohol. the six foot five, blonde man, rarely ever drinks. heck, he’s been drunk less times than he can count on a hand and all for the fact he hates being out of control. he wants to know what he’s doing, he likes thinking straight and not be at the whim of something that’s altering all his bodily chemicals as he’s trying to get through a sentence.
but with all of his favourite people, mentions of everything he managed to get through this year, he took every shot, every cocktail, every glass of whiskey. he threw them all back as you laughed with deku and danced with your friends.
when you plop down into the leather sofa, a little out of breath, your boyfriend is quick to follow right beside you, like he was waiting for you to take respite.
“i love you,” he slurs, music still booming in the background. kirishima and kaminari drag your friends over to play beer pong.
“ooo, someone’s been drinking,” you laugh, but it gets louder when he picks you up to sit along his lap.
you gasp like he’s acting scandalous, which he is compared to your usual level of pda. he does this at home sure, but not in public, “katsuki!”
“‘m not drunk. just a few shots,” his hand sneaks onto your bare thigh, thumb brushing along the hem of your mini skirt. then in a whisper, right into your ear, “y’just been so far from the birthday boy.”
that makes you look at him, meeting his blushed cheeks and drowsy eyes. he’s slouching deep in the sofa, pulling your body to lean against him and his hand sneaks up your side under your top. it all makes your body tremble, your heartbeat pulse between your legs.
“mhm, didn’t mean to be. wanted to dance,” you whisper because despite the noise, now you’re trapped in your little love bubble where you can only see him and him, you.
“looked sexy as hell. wanted to drag you into one of the rooms,” he runs the tip of his nose down your neck, “thanks for the party, princess.”
you giggle softly, arousal heightening. you slide your hand onto his cheek and he leans into it, “knew you’d like it, silly. you’re so dramatic.”
katsuki’s ruby eyes sparkle at you, “gimme kiss.”
despite him being the one telling you, he leans into you, presses his lips against yours. it’s drunken, it’s sloppy, it’s so familiar to you. you’ve had a drunk katsuki at home before. you’ve also had a sleepy katsuki in your arms before. you’ve had him all over you, horny and desperate.
he sneaks his hand under your skirt to grip at your ass, breathes heavy when he clutches your breast over your bra. you open your mouth and he slides his tongue in, grunting when you moan.
to you, katsuki like this is the regular.
you both are so locked into each other in your bubble, you forget it’s very much see-through. everyone can see everything.
you pushing your chest into his, elbows on his shoulders are you drag him in without a sliver of air in between. if anyone’s standing at the wrong angle, they can see his fingers sneaking under your underwear to feel your ass.
“fuck, baby,” he mumbles against your lips, “didn’t even getta taste this mornin’—,”
“oi guys!”
you pull of bakugou with a yelp, yanking his hand out from under your skirt and top. you’re immediately fixing your little top and wiping your mouth. you’re sure your lip gloss is everywhere.
bakugou, with your foundation on his nose and a little on his cheeks, blinks dumbly at the audience of his friends that has formed. all of them with eyes bulging out of their heads, a few gossiping amongst each other.
“what?” he drags his head to face them, like it’s painful to get dragged away from you and they’re very clearly interrupting him from something.
“you, err, you’ve got yn on your nose kacchan!” deku says, slowly smiling, his arm slung around your friends shoulders.
you whip over to your boyfriend, licking your thumb and rubbing his nose.
“hah?”
“got my makeup on you,” you mumble.
only you, who’s drank less than him but still tipsy, can register the situation. kaminari gapes when bakugou yanks you back into his chest.
“like i know you guys had sex ‘cause some days he’d come in happy as hell but shit!” he takes a swig of his beer.
“shut up denki,” you whine, covering your face.
“shut the hell up idiot.” katsuki blinks, not caring as much as he would if he was sober.
“no but seriously. we’ve only ever seen him peck you and he was about to finger you on the sofa!” mina pipes up and all the guys agree with nodding heads. “zero to a hundred real quick.”
“i’ll say it, it was hot,” kirishima shrugs, resuming back to play beer pong. “just find a room, birthday boy.”
kaminari throws his head back in annoyance, “fuck, i’m sharing a wall with them.”
“it’s my fuckin’ birthday,” bakugou drawls, “get out of my ass. sorry you don’t have girlfriends that love you like yn loves me.”
that makes you roll your eyes, leaving him with your foundation on his cheeks. you stand up straightening out your skirt, “that’s cute, babe.”
his friends chuckle lightheartedly with you and bakugou’s cheeks flush pink. a little pout on his lip, “‘s not.”
then you feel bad, placing your hands on the back of the sofa behind him and bakugou inches his head up to yours, “i love you. they’re just jealous.”
your kiss gets him grinning, while the stares start up all over again.
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ it’s been a rough night. your heart is still recovering from being broken, you need an uber home, your phone is dead, and everyone else has already left the class 1-a yearly reunion. well—everyone except bakugou. he gives you not just a ride home, but a solution to your lonely predicament
── ✶ WORD COUNT. 12.0k words ; give it a chance plssss
── ✶ BEFORE YOU READ. female reader ; pro hero bakugou + pro hero reader ; reader was in class 1-a ; reader has a quirk (she's stretchy - think like elastigirl from the incredibles LOL) ; reader gets her heart broken by an unnamed random guy + has insecurities ; bakugou is silently pining (and quite good at hiding it tbh) ; friends (sort of) to lovers ; cunnilingus ; p in v ; creampie ; morning after ; confessions (sort of. its bakugou ok) ; getting together ; the class 1-a girls are gossips ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ hi my name is riv and i am going thru mental breakdown after mental breakdown about my life but it wont stop me from writing about letting bkg hit
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing.
Sure, years pass. Adulthood kicks in. Lives become busier, more hectic, more demanding. Time is a funny thing—nine years ago, you were sitting in a classroom with these people, learning how to be a hero. Nine years later, you’re sitting in a rented-out bar, sharing a drink with them as they trade hero stories like it’s part of the average day.
Then again, you suppose it is the average day for pros. Wake up, go to work, save people, crack cases, go on patrol, and go to sleep. Repeat.
Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.
And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class 1-A routine meet-up.
If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?
That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.
You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.
You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.
“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.
You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.
“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”
“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”
Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else.
If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”
“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”
You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.
“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.
You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.
Huh.
You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.
As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.
First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.
And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”
“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”
He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”
Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.
At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”
You pause.
“What?” you blink.
He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”
You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”
You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.
“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”
“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.
Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”
“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.
You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.
“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.
His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.
The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.
He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.
“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.
”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.
”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.
His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.
”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.
”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”
You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”
You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?
You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”
”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.
”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”
Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.
Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.
The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.
Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.
It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.
The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.
Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.
But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.
That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.
And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.
You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.
The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.
(If anything, you hope it will.)
You clear your throat. “So.”
He doesn’t look at you. “So?”
“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.
He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”
“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”
Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.
Holy fuck.
“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?
“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”
“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”
He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”
“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”
“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”
You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”
“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”
“He said you don’t take breaks.”
“I don’t need breaks.”
You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”
That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”
You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”
“You know what I mean,” he mutters.
Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.
For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.
The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.
He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”
You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”
“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.
“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.
Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”
You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”
“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”
“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”
He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”
You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”
If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.
He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.
So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.
“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”
“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”
You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”
“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”
“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”
You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”
“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”
“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”
“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”
“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”
“So then what’s the big deal?”
You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”
Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”
“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”
“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.
It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“W-what?” you stutter.
“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”
It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.
Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little.
But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.
If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares.
Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you.
—
When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”
You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally.
Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember.
He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is.
“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”
“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”
“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”
“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”
“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”
He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive.
“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.
He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”
“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly.
“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”
“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”
He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”
“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”
“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”
“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”
“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”
You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.
“Hah?” he grunts.
It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple.
“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”
Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”
You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”
“That’s bullshit.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”
You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”
“Then what is?” he shoots back.
You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”
Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.
You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.
“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”
“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”
He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”
“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”
Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)
But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”
And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.
But then he takes you by surprise.
“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”
You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”
Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.
“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”
All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.
“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile.
He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.
“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.
You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.
“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.
“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”
You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You literally were.”
“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.
He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too.
You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.
“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.
What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same.
So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.
“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here.
“You’re still staring,” you whisper.
His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.
“Then stop staring.”
“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”
“I think you were staring.”
“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”
“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”
“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”
You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”
“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”
You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”
“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.
You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”
It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded.
He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was?
You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.
“Bakugou—”
“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.
You blink. “What?”
“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it.
And then he leans in.
He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you.
You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so.
And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.
Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”
“You just kissed—”
You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”
You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.
And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly.
It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.
It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do.
“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”
“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.
He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”
He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.
“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.”
He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance.
“Hey—”
“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”
Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple.
“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored.
Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.
He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts.
You nod quickly as you breathe heavily.
He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”
“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”
That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles.
“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”
“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”
He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.
“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—
“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”
“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”
He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.
It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.
Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”
“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”
“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”
“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.
And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.
Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.
Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.
You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.
“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”
“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.
You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.
“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.
“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”
“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”
“Then do it, baby.”
You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.
You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”
When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.
“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”
He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.
“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”
He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”
“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”
“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.
“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.
“Eat you out?”
“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.
He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.
Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”
“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”
“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”
“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff.
To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”
You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”
In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.
It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely.
And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him.
And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”
“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts.
It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him.
It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything.
At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy.
You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks.
You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over.
“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.
“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back.
Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive.
You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him.
“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused.
“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”
You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit.
“Be quiet,” you warn.
“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”
“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”
That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you.
“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”
He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient.
For him—just for him, you’ll be patient.
“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”
“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving.
It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good.
“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”
“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”
Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips.
Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily.
“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”
“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”
“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”
“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”
“Only me, huh?”
“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you.
Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more.
Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to.
You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for.
“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it.
“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”
“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”
“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”
He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.
It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.
It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him.
“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”
“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say.
“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”
And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it.
“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”
“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble.
He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more.
You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.
—
When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.
Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).
One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”
You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him.
“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”
“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”
“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”
“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.
He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”
“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”
“Nope,” you answer easily.
You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question.
“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”
You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” you mumble.
“Great. Go out with me, then.”
You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”
“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”
“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”
“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”
“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”
“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”
Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.”
“That was a demand, not a question.”
“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”
“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki.
—
One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡
Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready
Ochaco: absolutely!
Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap
Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys.
You: holy fuck. guys…
You: i slept with bakugou last night
Mina: WHAT?
Toru: WHAT?
Tsu: WHAT?
Kyoka: WHAT?
Momo: WHAT?
Ochako: WHAT?
Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT
Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW
You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN
Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too
Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P
You: [ one attachment ]
Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK
Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!
Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO
Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him
Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?
Toru: never lol let’s be real
You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him
Mina: oh god it begins
Toru: she’s already making excuses for him
Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??
Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?
yeah i wrote this in one day. this asshole has taken over my life yet again 6 years later i feel like history always repeats itself
sukuna when he runs into a classmate at the bus stop
the fluorescent hum of the bus stop was the only thing keeping the silence from swallowing you whole. you sat on the edge of the damp wooden bench, your thumb hovering over a screen filled with lies.
mom: i wish you were here
mom: can i video call you? grandma wants to say hi
mom: i'm sure sure you're alone again
you: i can't now
mom: why? at work again?
you: no, i’m just at a party too. hanging out with friends. it's just loud here, the music is too loud and there's a lot of people so i can't call.
mom: how nice! have fun!
your mother’s messages felt like tiny lead weights. she wanted to see your face, to hear the noise of a life you weren't actually living. behind you, the city was dark, and the "party" was just the sound of a distant siren and the cold wind biting at your ankles. you felt small, curled into your oversized blue hoodie, trying to blink away the sting in your eyes before it could turn into something more permanent.
the truth was that you're embarrassingly homesick. you miss your mom's cooking, you miss your childhood friends, you miss taking late night drives and sitting in the park, talking about nothing in particular. but you're the one who chose to pick the furthest university that accepted you so you're not about to admit it.
then, he walked into the light of the terminal, a flash of ink, coral and tan.
it was sukuna.
you recognized him immediately—the star athlete, the guy who usually had a trail of teammates behind him and a jersey that seemed three sizes too small for his frame. on campus, he was the guy everyone gave a wide berth to, not just because of his size, but because of that permanent, unfriendly scowl he wore like a warning to stay away.
but as he got closer, the scowl wasn't there.
you blinked, watching him stumble into the light. he looked different without the jock-squad. he looked human.
and then, he saw you.
he froze for a second, his hand flying up to cover his face, but he wasn't fast enough. “what the fuck is she doing here?”
in the harsh glare of the streetlamp, you saw it: his eyes were red, puffy and raw, the tell-tale sign of a long, heavy cry.
huffing, he pulled his jacket tight, his tough-guy persona struggling to click back into place. he let out a sharp, wet sniff and wiped his nose with the back of a cold hand.
"hey!" he called out, his voice cracking slightly before he lowered it into his usual tone. he walked over, trying to loom, though the effect was ruined by the way his shoulders slumped. "why are you sitting here alone? it's late."
he peered down at you, his intimidating height usually enough to make anyone nervous, but your eyes were fixed on the tears he was desperately trying to stem. his flushed face made the tattoos framing his face pop.
“are you okay?” he questioned, strong brows lowered as he stared at you down the line of his crooked nose.
his hair was a mess of salmon tufts, flames licking the tips and melting them into a burnt orange now that he's backlit by the warm glow of a streetlight that crowns his head like a halo.
"are you okay?" you countered, your voice soft. "your eyes... they're really red and puffy."
sukuna stiffened, snapping his head away as if he’d been slapped. he let out a sharp, defensive huff, his hand scrubbing at his face again.
"oh, um, yeah," he muttered, his voice thick. "i'm fine. it's just allergies. this damn city air, you know?"
he tried to laugh, but it came out as a wet, miserable sound. he sat down on the far end of the bench, looking everywhere but at you. despite his reputation for being mean and scary, he looked incredibly small right now.
"okay," you said gently, not pushing it. "i'm fine too."
he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, the tough facade slipping back into place, though it looked more like a mask than a reality.
"you shouldn't be out here," he grumbled, looking at your small frame and then back at the dark street. "a girl like you shouldn't be sitting at a bus stop alone this late. it’s not safe. where are your friends?"
you looked down at your phone, the screen still showing the lie you'd sent to your mom about being at a party. you didn't have the heart to tell him you were just as lonely as he clearly was.
"sorry," he added after a moment of silence, his voice dropping to a whisper as he swatted a fresh stray tear away. "i've just got some really bad allergies tonight."
you sat together in the silence of the rain, two people from the same campus who didn't know each other at all, both holding onto lies just to get through the night.
reaching into your grocery bag, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet night, you pulled out two small cartons of apple juice. you nudged his arm, offering one.
"here," you said softly. "sorry i don’t have a beer. we can pretend though," you sang, wiggling the box at him.
sukuna looked at the tiny straw and the bright packaging, a sudden, genuine bark of laughter escaping him. his hand dwarfed the juice box comically.
"apple juice? really?" he took it anyway, his large fingers clumsy with the small straw. "thanks. it’s actually better than a beer right now."
when the bus finally arrived, neither of you got on.
instead, he stood up and adjusted his bag. "look, it’s late. i’ll walk you home. i don't want to hear about some girl from my psych elective getting mugged because i was too busy suffering from allergies to be a gentleman."
the walk was surprisingly easy. you talked about the grueling professors you both shared and the way the campus dining hall always smelled like burnt onions. the scary aura he projected in the hallways melted away, revealing someone who was just tired.
as you turned down your street, you stopped and looked up at him. "are you sure you’re okay, sukuna?"
the wall went back up instantly. he shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at the pavement.
"well, even if i'm not, so what? what would you do about it?" he shrugged with a bitter, self-deprecating huff. "i'm too big for anyone to hug me the way i’d want. like, i couldn't even rest my head on your chest. it’d just look dumb."
“would you want to feel small when you're hugged?” you tilt your head to the side, curious rather than judgemental as you nibble on your lips, your hair fluffy and ruffled by the breeze.
honestly that made it worse as he rubbed a hand down his face again, dragging his eyelids and cheeks, embarrassed, groaning into his hands, the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes.
“when you say it like that it sounds even more embarrassing,” he grumbles, hands dropping as he glances up at the starry sky to avoid your gaze.
you looked around the dimly lit sidewalk. near a pile of construction debris sat an old, sturdy plastic bucket. without a word, you dragged it over and stepped up.
now, for the first time, you were looking down at him. you opened your arms wide. thinking better of his size, you spread them a bit more, expression expectant.
"what are you..." he trailed off, eyes squinted in confusion and incredulity.
eyes narrowing in suspicion, he frowned. “not funny if that's your joke.”
"it's not a joke," you assured him firmly. “come on, i'm not gonna stand like this forever.”
"whatever," he muttered, but his feet moved forward anyway. he leaned in, burying his face against your shoulder, his large frame finally relaxing as he let you hold him.
heat enveloped you. you stayed like that for a long time, the only sound was the distant hum of the city.
eventually, he started to chuckle against your hoodie that smells like fabric softener and perfume. "this is ridiculous. you’re standing on a bucket."
"shut up," you laughed, pulling back just enough to look at him.
the laughter died out. the air between you changed, turning thick and charged. you found yourselves staring deeply into each other's eyes, the streetlamp casting long shadows across his face.
tentatively, he leaned in, lips pressing to yours in. the kiss was soft at first, a hesitant question, but it deepened quickly when you moved yours too. as he began to tilt his head, his tongue flicking out against the seam of your lips to slip in, you let out a small, sharp intake of breath—a tiny, surprised noise.
he practically jumped back. "fuck, i’m sorry! shit, i... i shouldn't have—"
"it's okay," you interrupted, your face flushed. "i've just... never kissed anyone before."
sukuna’s face went from pale to a deep, panicked crimson. "what? like, ever? your first kiss? what was i thinking?" he started pacing the small patch of sidewalk. “what were you thinking?! you’re supposed to give that to someone important, not some random guy from uni you met at a bus stop!”
maybe those texts he got from his father earlier were right. maybe sukuna is a fucking disappointment. he kept fucking screwing up.
"no, no! i wanted to give it to you," you cut his rant off, stepping off the bucket. "i don't regret it."
chewing on the words, you peer at your sneakers, rocking on your heels, gaze dragging back up to him, eyes shimmering with sincerity. “besides, who said you're not important?”
that seemed to break his brain. for the rest of the walk to your apartment, the confident athlete was gone. he responded to everything in bashful grunts and short nods, his ears glowing red in the dark.
at your front door, you fished your keys out of your pocket. you looked up at him one last time, a playful smile on your lips. "so has your allergy gotten better?"
he blinked, looking confused for a split second before remembering his cover story. he cleared his throat, looking away shyly. "uh, yeah. it’s better now."
"good," you whispered, turning the key, a devastatingly sweet smile on your lips. "see you in class, sukuna."
“ryomen,” he offers, hands shoved deep in his pockets, mouth tingling and stomach fluttering as your brows raise, eyes doe-eyed and so fucking cute, he wants to smother you in his arms and kiss you silly again. “call me ryomen.”
“ah,” you nod slowly, suppressing a giddy grin. “goodnight, ryo,” your mouth rounds at the last letter, his skin prickling in delight.
leaving that encounter, you realise that maybe this city isn't that different from home after all and sukuna accepts that he isn't as disappointing as his old man thinks.
a pretty, kind girl like you shared your juice with him, hugged him like he always wanted and gave him your first kiss, after all.
gummygunk
titsay
baratheonpilled
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner
snowghoul
romaincrisis
