⊹ ࣪ ˖ ୨ৎ ─ ✦ 𝑱𝑢𝑛𝑜

𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 . . . !

[junovae]

ERROR! ERROR!

your computer requires an update, do you wish to proceed?

PROCEEDING . . . DO NOT EXIT

UPDATE vers 05.4.12 COMPLETED

MEOW — juno, 19, dollface, she / her, lauver, let them eat cunt !

🤍: mha, jjk, tvd, laufey, conan gray (18+ blog)

requests info - taglist

masterlist ‧ latest post ‧ tiktok ‧ latest tiktok

[sirenleche]

𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐡 - 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠.

part five of make you mine | previous

wc: ~13k | cw: fratjo! angst again ofc, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, substance abuse references, substance/alcohol use, drug relapse, frat culture, mentions of blood/bleeding, post-abortion grief, explicit sexual language, dark romance vibes, gojo highkey going thru it, music references, dual povs

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

IT’S BEEN DAYS since Thanksgiving break. 

Boston had been a much needed pause despite being surrounded by those who are arguably even more suffocating than Gojo ever was, but at least it had muffled the pain for a week.

California, unfortunately, doesn’t do that. 

However, you’ve gotten better at functioning through it, though. Or at least you’ve improved upon performing as functional, which is basically the same thing in college. 

Thankfully, the bleeding has mostly subsided. It’s nowhere near as horrific as it was in Boston or the kind of blood that made you sit on a disgusting communal bathroom floor and stare at your own thighs like your body was separating from you. Now, it’s just spotting; manageable, insignificant enough to ignore if you change your underwear quickly and don’t look too closely. That sad fact alone almost makes you feel normal again. 

So, you begrudgingly go to class, answer when professors call on you for the sake of being a nuisance, laugh when Blair says something she thinks is funny, eat enough that she stops looking at you like she may have to force feed you. 

From the outside, you probably look okay, good even—nothing like the girl who had to end her pregnancy and relationship. 

But on the inside? You still feel as broken as can be. 

And then there’s Gojo. Or, more accurately, the absence of him. 

At first, right after the breakup, he wouldn’t let you breathe. There were endless calls, texts, voicemails you refused to listen to, and apologies that came in waves so frantic they were borderline frightening. 

i’m sorry

please answer

please

can we talk ?

i love you

i’m sorry

i’m sorry

i’m so fucking sorry

Then, eventually…He just stopped. 

He had given up once you turned your phone off before you left. Well, not given up per se, but gave you the distance you wanted. 

And though you wanted it, the silence hurts in a way you didn’t expect. It’s not that you wanted him to keep begging, that would be evil of you, but the fact that he understood what your silence meant and for once in his life, actually decided to listen. 

That should be relieving, right? He’s starting to respect your wants and needs. Yet, it leaves you with this awful, hollow ache, like the world has gone too still in the wake of where he used to be. Then you make the terrible mistake of checking Instagram three nights after getting back; you had sworn off of it for a temporary period during break, but for some reason accidentally clicked on the app, possibly due to boredom, muscle memory, pure masochism, or some terrible blend of the three. 

You go to your profile first—everything looks the same as you left it. 30K+ followers, a few aesthetic posts with pictures taken off a digital camera, a plethora of highlight reels of travels, food, yourself, friends and family and missing throughout all of it, is him. The one post, a single photo of the two of you is gone, though not fully. It’s tucked away safely in your archived posts just in case that maybe does ring true. 

But then, you type in Gojo’s user and click on his profile too. Your breath catches in your throat when you realize that you’re also missing. 

All his posts with you in them are gone. The little glimpses of you he made sure to include in photo dumps vanished. Even the highlight reel with your initials has disappeared. He cleaned it all out. Archived, hopefully. Deleted, hopefully not. You don’t know, but either way the effect is the same. 

It hurts more than you thought it would and more than it should. You stare at his profile for far too long, chest tight, because seeing yourself erased from his feed feels strangely worse than removing him from yours ever did. You had to because you needed distance; you were trying to survive. 

But him? The sight of it makes ugly thoughts whisper through you. 

Oh…So he really let it go. 

Which is irrational, hypocritical even. 

You’re the one who ended it, who left, who wished for distance. Yet knowing that he looked at every trace of you and hid it anyway makes your throat burn. Fuck this. You don’t check his profile again after that, you can’t bear to…At least, not until tonight. 

Tonight, you’re sitting cross-legged on your twin XL while Blair straightens her hair in the mirror, and your eyes drift toward your phone where the date glows at the top of the screen like a warning. 

December 6th. Tomorrow is his birthday. 

Then, against your own better judgment, your gaze slides to the small white box sitting on your desk; Blair, watching it all from the reflection, notices immediately, “Don’t start that shit.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked at the box.”

You exhale and lean back on your hands, “It’s not…that serious.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” She turns around, flat iron still in hand, eyebrows raised, “You bought that asshole birthday mochi.”

Your eyes flick back to it. Yeah, she’s right. You did. 

Two days ago, without really planning to, you found yourself at that quaint Asian market off campus he once dragged you into because he swore the imported snacks there were better than anything Erewhon could ever pretend to sell. That was the first time he bought you kikufuku—the zunda and cream flavor because he was adamant about it being the best. 

You remember rolling your eyes and saying there was no way cream and edamame could ever taste good together. Then you remember the way he looked at you after, unbearably smug, when you took a bite and reluctantly confessed it was actually really good. 

So when you saw the same box in the refrigerated case a few days ago, you bought it. Zunda and cream flavor, of course, because some part of you, buried deep enough that you can still lie to yourself about it, has apparently been carrying the possibility all along. 

Maybe you’ll see him on his birthday. Maybe he might ask. You might say yes if he does. 

Blair sees your face do all of this reminiscing in real time and groans, “Oh my God. You do wanna see him.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Liar.”

You scowl, “I bought him mochi. That’s…harmless.”

“No,” She presses, “That’s fucking worse.”

You grab a pillow and throw it at her, she catches it one-handed, snorting, “You know what your problem is?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You keep acting like feelings don’t count if you don’t say them out loud.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s totally true,” She sets the flat iron down and points at the box, “That’s literally a dessert full of unresolved emotional bullshit.”

Despite yourself, a laugh almost escapes, but your eyes catch the time on your phone and it stops that from happening. 

11:47 P.M.

Blair follows your line of sight and narrows her eyes, “Do not.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You reach for the phone anyway and tell yourself you won’t text him, you’re just looking; just holding it in your hand to stare at the date and time and let the heaviness of it settle in your palm. Somewhere on this campus Satoru Gojo is about to turn twenty-one and despite everything—the blood, grief, damage, and silence, you still know his favorite mochi flavor by heart and maybe want to see him more than you’re willing to admit.

Blair sits beside you on the bed, careful now, like any sudden movement might spook a decision out of you, “You don’t owe him a happy birthday.”

“I know.”

“You don’t owe him softness just because you still have some.”

You know that too, but it doesn’t stop you from hovering your thumb over the empty message bar, glaring at the blinking cursor that’s practically waiting for you to make a mistake. Maybe this is one. Definitely, actually.

Though the thing about grief is that it doesn’t always listen to dignity. Sometimes it’s shameful and weak and aggravatingly sentimental. Other times it makes you remember a boy standing in an Asian market aisle holding up a little box of zunda and cream mochi like it was something sacred, telling you with complete seriousness that if you didn’t like it, he’d have to reconsider everything. 

You had laughed then. 

God, you hate remembering yourself happy.

Blair’s knee presses against yours, “What are you gonna say?”

You swallow, eyes burning for no reason and every reason at once, “Nothing crazy.”

“Good.”

“Just happy birthday.”

“Good,” She repeats, yet she sounds like she knows there’s no such thing as just anything when it comes to him.

The clock changes. 

11:58. 

Your pulse starts to tick harder. You think of locking the phone, putting it facedown, and letting midnight pass without acknowledging him at all because that would be much smarter, healthier—whatever damn word people use when they’re pretending not to be haunted. 

But then you think him alone somewhere, or maybe not alone; most likely surrounded by idiot frat brothers and music and girls, his whole curated college universe of bullshit. And somehow that image hurts too. Because even if he’s surrounded, you know him well enough now to understand that none of it means he isn’t lonely. 

11:59.

Blair looks at the phone, then at you, and you type before you can talk yourself out of it. 

happy birthday, satoru 

Lowercase, simple. No I miss you tucked between the letters, though it’s there anyway; bleeding invisibly through the screen. Your thumb trembles once, Blair inhales, and then the clock flips. 

12:00 A.M. 

December 7th. 

You hit send. 

Nothing happens right away; the little blue text bubble sits there delivered, but your stomach drops, “Okay,” Blair says gently, as if she’s talking you down from a ledge, “Phone down.”

So naturally, you don’t put the phone down. You stare at the message until your eyes begin to blur, waiting for the typing bubble on his end, dreading it, wanting it, hating yourself for wanting it. 

Then it appears, almost instantly. Blair sees it and mutters, “Oh, that man was deadass sitting on the text thread.”

You ignore her, unable to answer because after days of silence and utter absence, Satoru Gojo is typing back too fast. 

Across campus, Sigma Chi is losing its fucking mind. 

The clock hits midnight and the house erupts like the ball just dropped in Times Square instead of it being some rich frat boy douchebag’s twenty-first birthday. Music is blasting so loud the windows in the living room shake as beer cans lift into the air, liquor sloshing over knuckles and onto the floor that the pledges will be bitched at to clean come tomorrow. 

“Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!” The chant starts somewhere near the kitchen and spreads fast, stupid, and affectionate in the way frat guys get when they’re drunk enough to mistake yelling for love. 

Gojo stands in the center of it all with a red solo cup in his hand, wearing a loose black button-up half undone at the throat, silver chain glinting beneath the collar, but not the one he gave you, of course. No, that one is still sitting on his dresser after you took it off, waiting for the day you’ll wear it again. 

He looks perfect, but then again, that’s his job, right?

Inside, though, he feels nothing. Actually, no, he feels too much. Which is arguably worse. 

Every cheer hits his skin wrong, every clap on his back makes him want to step out of his own body. There are girls pressed too close, their perfume burns his nostrils because it’s not yours, voices pitched high as they wish him happy birthday like they’re offering themselves up with it. 

One of his brothers shoves a shooter into his hand. Another tries to fix his collar. Someone yells something about a “two night bender” and “being twenty-one, baby.”

Baby. 

The word makes his jaw flex. He downs the Fireball shooter because it gives his mouth something to do besides wanting to say your name. 

“Birthday boy!” Ryan shouts, appearing through the chaos with conviction, “Center. Now.”

Gojo’s brows furrow, “Why?”

“Because we love you.”

“That sounds like a threat, not gonna lie.”

“It is,” He replies with a sly smile. 

The room parts almost theatrically, which is typically how it does for him, and then he sees it. One of the pledges is on one knee in front of him like he’s about to propose, except instead of a ring box, he’s holding up a Smirnoff Ice, and the house explodes. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Gojo says immediately, but there’s a laugh built into it because that’s what he’s supposed to do here. Laugh, play along, be the guy everyone wants him to be. 

“Kneel!”

“Don’t be a fuckin’ pussy!”

Ryan claps him hard on the shoulder, “Tradition, bro. Everyone gets iced on their day.”

Gojo glares at the bottle; cold glass, sticky condensation dripping over the pledge’s fingers. The whole room is watching him, waiting for him to make it fun. Usually, he would. The Gojo they know would drop to one knee with some obscene joke, chug the whole thing, and come up grinning already asking for another. He’d make the moment appear effortless, because that’s what Gojo does. He takes whatever spectacle is handed to him and makes himself the greatest part of it.

But tonight his body feels slow, “Come on!” Someone yells.

He reaches for the bottle and right as he does, his phone buzzes. Once, small, barely anything beneath the roar of the room, yet it stops him in his tracks. Ryan notices first, “Bro?”

Gojo pulls his phone from his pocket, pissed at himself for checking because there are very few names in the world capable of making him look away from an entire room screaming for him. And, the name on his screen just so happens to be one of the very few. It’s yours. 

The house disappears after that. The music, the cheers, the alcohol, the girls watching him from the stairs, Ryan’s hand on his shoulder; the whole stupid fucking birthday celebration evaporates. 

There is only your name and your message. 

happy birthday, satoru

Satoru. Not the name everyone is yelling like they own a piece of him. Just…Satoru. Always Satoru. Never Gojo.

Something moves through his chest so sharply it hurts; his fingers tighten around the phone, screen blurring for half a second and…fuck, no. Hell fucking no. He is not about to get emotional in the middle of Sig Chi with a Smirnoff Ice being held up to him like some cursed object. 

Your message is the only thing that matters now anyway. Proof that at exactly midnight, you still thought of him. Ryan leans closer, trying to see, “Who is it?”

Gojo turns the screen away on instinct and that alone says enough. Yeah, everyone is aware of the breakup. It’s impossible to date a girl like you, lose her, and expect the whole university not to notice the crater she left behind. Especially when you’re you—football royalty, too pretty and too wanted for people not to keep tabs on. And especially when he’s him. Sig Chi’s golden boy who is suddenly meaner, quieter, harder to get drunk in a fun way, moping around like someone skinned him and sewn him back together wrong. 

They know it was bad. Bad enough that you stopped showing up at the house and that you’ve both disappeared from each other’s Instagram profiles. So of course, people whisper rumors. 

He cheated. You cheated. He got bored. Your dad forbade the relationship. He got too possessive and jealous. You were too smart to put up with him. 

Yet, nobody knows the real story. They know nothing about the pregnancy and the abortion and the ultrasound folded behind his ID as a means to torture himself. They don’t know that you bled through the end of him, that he begged in an In-N-Out parking lot like a pathetic little boy and still watched you leave.  

The only thing people do know is that the breakup was nasty, not that it was a death. 

Ryan’s expression changes, “Oh.”

The chants start dying unevenly, “Gojo?”

The pledge is still kneeling, the ice is still waiting, yet Gojo sees none of it. He types back before he loses the moment. 

thank you

No. Too simple. He adds more. 

thank you. i didn’t think you’d text me

Ugh. No. That’s shit too. He deletes it entirely, and sends the only thing he actually wants to say. 

can i see you?

His lungs feel tight as Ryan mumbles under his breath, “Oh, you’re cooked, bro.”

Gojo shoots him a look, but then the typing bubble appears and takes his attention away. Across the room, someone shouts, “Is he seriously texting right now?”

“Yo, chug the shit!”

Gojo doesn’t bother to peer up, your reply coming in.

idk if that’s a good idea

His chest aches so badly he huffs out a laugh. Of course you’d say that, still careful and keeping the knife between you and him where it belongs. He types back. 

probably not

Then, after one, whole second. 

but i still want to see you

He stares at the thread; the typing bubble appears, vanishes, appears again, and finally—

just for a little 

Gojo’s eyes shut for half a second. Just for a little. God, he would take ten seconds if that was all you gave him. 

He pockets his phone and steps back. Ryan grabs his arm, “Where the hell you going?”

“Out.”

A few brothers erupt on instinct, “No fucking way.”

“Dude, it’s your birthday.”

“What about the Ice?”

Gojo looks at the pledge still kneeling there, “Give it to Ryan.”

Ryan’s face drops, “The fuck?”

“You heard me.”

The room boos, a brother yells that he’s dead to the brotherhood, but truly, he doesn’t give a damn at this point. His body has already turned toward the front door. Ryan follows him a few steps, voice lower only for him to hear, “You sure about this?”

Gojo pauses with his hand near his keys. No. No, he’s not sure. This is absolutely a terrible idea. Seeing you might rip him open worse. It may give him just enough hope to ruin him all over again. It’ll probably end with him sitting in his Porsche alone afterward, tasting your name in his mouth like the blood that’s been spilled. 

Still, he says, “Yeah.”

Ryan studies him for a second, then sighs like he knows there’s no point trying to stop a car already wrapped around a tree, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Gojo bites back a laugh, “Bit late for that,” Then he leaves. 

Behind him, the house keeps yelling, music stays pounding, and the birthday nonsense rolls on without him. But for the first time in days, Satoru Gojo feels alive. All because you texted him, remembered, and are willing to give him just a little. 

Although, you almost change your mind four separate times on the way downstairs. Once in the hallway, when the elevator takes too long and gives your brain too much space to start thinking rationally. Then in the lobby, when a group of girls stumble in from some party, maybe even Sig Chi, laughing loudly, the smell of perfume and vodka trailing after them, and all it does is make you feel bizarrely exposed. As if somehow everyone can look at you and know exactly where it is you’re going. 

You almost change your mind when you push through the front doors of the dorm and the December air pinches your cheeks and lastly, when you spot the Porsche. Parked at the curb, sleek and glowing white in the darkness. The same car that has held various versions of you—angry you, drunk you, happy you, crying you. The you who let him touch and fuck you in ways that made your whole body feel owned and the worst you of all, the one who sat in the passenger seat with an ultrasound who told him it was done. 

Your feet refuse to move for a second, the small paper bag in your hand crinkles when your fingers clench around it. Fuck, this is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.

You should go back upstairs, text him that you changed your mind, crawl into bed beside Blair and let his birthday pass by without his voice, without his blue eyes, and without whatever damage seeing him will do to the place inside you that has started learning how to scab over. 

But then the driver’s side door opens and Gojo steps out. 

Damn, he looks tired. 

Not in that pretty, careless way he sometimes does after partying too hard with his hair mussed and eyes bright and mouth curved like the exhaustion is part of the image. No, this is different and you could think of a few reasons why. He’s solemn underneath the streetlight, white hair falling softer than usual over his forehead, black button-up slightly wrinkled, hands slotted in his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. 

He sees you and goes completely still, which is honestly worse than if he had smiled. Neither of you says a word as you stand there on the sidewalk with his gift in hand and he stands beside the car looking at you like he’s afraid if he moves, you’ll vanish. Eventually, he swallows the lump in his throat and walks around to open the passenger door. A tiny, stupid ache pulls at your heartstrings. You hate that even now he still does that and hate it more that you still notice. 

“Thanks,” You murmur, slipping past him into the seat and the moment you’re inside, the scent of leather and his cologne engulfs you; familiar enough to make your stomach churn. 

Armani, a hint of weed clings to the upholstery, and beneath it, just barely, there’s another smell; something sweet. Your perfume. 

It’s faint, almost hidden under everything else, but it’s there, sticking to the air in a way that does not belong inside his car unless…unless—you don’t let yourself finish the thought. 

Satoru shuts your door gently, acting as if loud noises are suddenly a threat, then walks back around and gets in. The Porsche dips narrowly with his weight and once he closes his door, the heavenly scent of Killian Angels’ Share wafting off you hits him. 

Warm on your skin and sweet at your neck; that boozy apple-cinnamon softness tucked into your pulse, real and moving in the seat beside him instead of the fabricated version he bought as a replacement for your absence. His hand tightens around the steering wheel and you catch it. A flex of his fingers followed by a bob of his throat. His gaze stays forward for a second too long because seeing you while smelling you might actually kill him. 

Your heart gives one miserable, small kick, “Happy birthday.”

He turns his head then, eyes finding yours, until they drop automatically. He doesn’t mean for them to, or maybe he does. There may just be some sick, hopeful piece of him that still expects to see silver resting against your collarbone—his chain, his claim sitting pretty at the base of your neck like proof you were his. But it isn’t there of course. That chain is back in his lonely frat bedroom that reeks of a piss poor imitation of you.

Instead, a smaller necklace glints against your skin, delicate and simple, your own initial hanging where he used to be. Something in his chest folds in on itself. You didn’t let the hollow spot sit there like a wound he could pretend might still belong to him again someday. No, you filled it with yourself; you’ve reclaimed yourself again. He peers back up before you notice him staring. Too late, perhaps. You shift slightly in the passenger seat as you wait for him to say something—anything.

He can’t even find his voice, fixated on the sight of your initial catching in the night, but soon enough, he responds with, “Thank you.” 

Your grip tightens around the bag in your lap and the paper crinkles. You can’t hold onto it anymore. The longer it stays there, the more obvious it becomes; the more it says, I thought of you without you even asking me to. So you raise it, refusing to look directly at him, “...I got you something.”

His gaze falls upon the bag and your face warms instantly, embarrassingly so, “It’s small,” You add, “...And don’t make it weird.”

That almost pulls a smile from him; you shove the bag toward him before you lose your nerve, “It just felt wrong getting you nothing.”

Satoru takes it from you slowly as if the paper hurts to touch. His fingers brush yours for less than a second, but the contact hits both of you hard enough that you pull back quickly. He looks down into the bag, reaches inside, and pulls out the box. Kikufuku mochi. His favorite flavor. Zunda and cream. 

The exact one he had been passionate about in that little Asian market weeks ago, carrying the box like it was some national treasure while lecturing you about how most American mochi should be criminalized. His mouth parts, thumb shifting over the edge of the box. His eyes lower, then lift to you again, softer and more devastated than your heart can handle, “You…remembered?”

You look out the windshield rather than looking at him, “You were very dramatic about it.”

His breath leaves him shakily, something too broken to be a laugh, “I was not dramatic.”

“You said American mochi is shit.”

“Cause it is,” The reply comes so fast, so naturally, that for one brief moment the air between you loosens; a tiny flash of normal. 

You almost smile. So does he. Then the almost-normalcy passes by just as quickly as it came, and the silence afterward is painful. A painful reminder of what it used to be. 

Satoru peers down at the box once more, setting it carefully in the center console, adjusting it twice so it won’t slide when he drives, but as he does so, he can’t help but recall what sat there in that center console the last time you were here with him. Uneaten In-N-Out and an ultrasound picture that’s since been stuffed safely in his wallet. 

He snaps himself out of it and puts the car in drive without asking where you want to go, not that you planned on asking anyway. The Porsche pulls away from the curb, smooth and rumbling, USC slipping past in fragments through the tinted glass. A pair of students walk close under one jacket, a guy bikes one-handed with a bag filled with food swinging from his wrist; the campus looks strange at night in December, emptier than usual, as if everyone who belongs somewhere has already gone there, unlike you and Satoru.

For a while, the only sound in the car is the low hum of the engine and the repeated click of the turn signal, neither of you speak once. That’s probably for the best. If either of you open your mouth too soon, the wrong thing will come out. 

When the silence grows so thick it is palpable, he reaches for his phone and plugs it into the charger. Apple CarPlay connects and a song starts playing automatically. The opening notes are so faint you almost miss them, but then you hear the voice. It’s…The Neighbourhood?

Your head turns toward the dash, title glowing back at you. 

Reflections. 

Satoru doesn’t even react, which somehow makes it worse. He knows you love The Neighbourhood. So the question on your mind now is did he put this on because of me? Or has he been listening to it alone?

The second possibility unsettles you more. The idea of your music becoming part of his loneliness feels too intimate, like he took something of yours after you left in order to keep him company. You look out the window before he can clock your expression. 

He drives to a quiet overlook tucked just far enough from campus to feel private without being romantic in any deliberate way. There’s no sweeping stars, especially not with this light pollution, and no city lights sparkling either. Just a half-empty lot with a row of dim streetlights, a few parked cars, and Los Angeles stretching dull and enormous beneath the night. 

Putting the car in park, The Neighbourhood continues to play softly in the background, and then his eyes drop to the mochi, “Can I open it?”

You hate how cautious his voice is; if you hadn’t known better you would think he was asking for more than dessert. You nod, speaking feels too risky, and he reaches for the box. His fingers are gentle with it, absurdly so. Satoru Gojo, who has never handled anything in his life like it could break unless it was you. 

He peels the packaging open and holds the tray between you. The mochi is still cold from sitting in the fridge for the past two days, pale and lightly dusted, “Have one with me?”

“Satoru…”

“Just one,” He presses quietly, “Please.”

Please used to sound different in his mouth—dirtier, needier, hot enough to make you stupid, but tonight it only sounds small. Like he knows that even asking you to have one piece of mochi with him may be asking for too much. 

So you take just one and the two of you sit in his Porsche at some lonely little overlook, sharing cold zunda and cream mochi from a plastic tray at midnight on his twenty-first birthday. It would’ve been funny if anything about this still knew how to be funny without hurting afterward. 

You take a bite and the soft chew of it, the sweet cream, the hint of nutty-earthiness, all of it makes the moment feel horribly normal. As if you could be any two people—he could be just a boy on his birthday and you could be just a girl who remembered something he loves. It feels nothing like the truth of what you are. 

“You were right,” You say after a prolonged silence and he glances over, “This is way better than any American mochi.”

His mouth twitches, “Obviously.”

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m being incredibly humble, actually.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m grieving and still correct. Let me have this.”

The line slips out too naturally, the air loosening in its wake. A tiny smile threatens your mouth, yet the moment he sees it, something in his face breaks. His half-grin disappears first, then yours does too. 

There it is again. That awful glimpse of what this used to be. The two of you in his car, teasing over bullshit, your body remembering what happiness is before your brain kills it. The silence that follows after that is worse than the one in the beginning. Satoru looks down at the open box between you, thumb brushing along the plastic edge.

“The day didn’t feel real until you texted,” He says, eyes lowered, “Everyone was yelling and shoving drinks at me. Ryan was trying to make me chug some dumb shit. People kept saying happy birthday and I just…” His jaw works once, “I didn’t feel anything…but then your name showed up.”

Your heart knocks painfully against your ribs, “Satoru—”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” He swallows hard, hating the fact that he has to clarify at all because he’s given you every reason to doubt each soft thing rolling off his tongue, “I’m not trying to turn it into something,” You look at him then, though he still isn’t looking at you, “I just wanted you to know that it mattered.”

You fix your eyes on the mochi box instead before responding, looking at him is far too dangerous, “I didn’t text you because I wanted to start something.”

“I know.”

“It’s just that…it would’ve been wrong if I hadn’t.”

He nods, taking that in, not pouncing on the words or turning them into proof. Part of him wants to ask then what does that mean? Or you still care, don’t you? But he doesn’t. No, old him would’ve done this. The Gojo that made you scared and ruined what you had would have known exactly how to weaponize some shit to say. This new, heartbroken Gojo just accepts the little you give him without trying to steal the rest.

“Thank you.”

The two words gut you somehow anyway, and you take another bite of your mochi piece in order to keep your mouth occupied. Satoru watches the city through the windshield, one hand loose on his thigh, the other resting too close to the center console. Your hands are close enough that if either of you shifted, your fingers would touch. So neither of you do.

Instead, he awkwardly asks, “How was your break?”

You peek down at the mochi in your hand, thumb brushing over the soft powder on your fingertips, “It was okay.”

Carefully, he says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Your eyes sting despite yourself, “Boston was cold as hell.”

His mouth almost moves into a smile, “Sounds right.”

“And Sam was annoying.”

“That also sounds right.”

“He called me a bitch at the airport.”

His brows lift faintly, “Nice.”

“Lovingly.”

“Of course.”

A tiny breath crawls up your throat, kind of a laugh but not really. Satoru’s whole face changes for a split second, the sound doing something terrible to him, “My family was…” You trail off, “My family.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, staring at the dash now instead of him, “They could tell something was off,” Satoru goes still, “They didn’t know,” You add quickly, the shift in him too immediate to go unnoticed, “Not everything…but they knew something.”

His fingers flex once against his thigh, the car feeling smaller after that. You keep going after a harsh swallow, “It’s hard being around people who love you when you’re trying to hide the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Satoru looks down, unable to speak right away. You don’t know what expression he makes because you refuse to even look, only hearing the faint scrape of his breath when he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

You close your eyes, “Don’t.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it,” Your voice comes out softer than you wanted, “I didn’t say that so you’d apologize.”

“I know,” He says again, but this time it sounds worse, “I just am.”

You glare at the open mochi box. All you can think about is your old bedroom, Nick staying when everyone else left, the way you cried so hard your ribs ached. You keep that detail to yourself; that part is yours, or maybe Nick’s. Either way, Satoru doesn’t need to know. 

“I wasn’t alone,” You say finally, his head lifting slightly, “Blair was there. And Nick was…” Your throat swells, so you stop before you reveal too much, “He was good.”

Satoru’s face changes in the corner of your vision; relief first, then grief right after it, “I’m glad.”

You glance at him, “Are you?”

“Yeah,” It lacks bitterness, that old possessive flare that used to live there, no wounded male pride over someone else getting to be near when he couldn’t, “I’m glad somebody was good to you.”

Your chest constricts as he drags his thumb over his knee, needing to do something with his hand because it might reach for you by mistake, “I hate that you needed it because of me.”

The car turns painfully quiet besides the faint music obliviously humming along, “Satoru…”

“Don’t comfort me,” He says, pleading almost, “Please. I’m not saying it for that,” He stares at his hands like there’s blood on them, “I’m glad Blair was there. I’m glad Nick was there. I’m glad you had people…”

A broken little breath leaves him, “...I just can’t stop thinking that you had to go home and be taken care of cause of what I did to you,” Your eyes burn immediately, he laughs once, but it’s wet and pitiful, “Happy fucking birthday, right?”

“It’s not funny.”

“No,” He agrees, eyes still lowered, “It’s not.”

Another silence settles, this one feeling different than the last. You look at the mochi once more, the sight of his face becoming too much to bear, “How was yours? Your break?”

His mouth twitches lightly. You think he might make up some stupid lie both of you could pretend to believe, but he opts for the ugly truth, “Bad.”

You nod slowly, “Because of me?”

He looks at you then, the answer in his face before he can even say it.

Yes.

Yes, of course. 

Yes, every fucking second was terrible because of you.

But, the answer he says is much more honest, “Because of what I did,” Feeling ashamed, he turns away, “You were part of it. Obviously. But it wasn’t just missing you. It was missing you and knowing exactly why you were gone.”

Aware that this was the case, it doesn’t make your heart hurt any less. Unfortunately Satoru can’t stop speaking either. The floodgates have opened and he’s letting it all out, “I kept wanting to call you. Then I’d remember I already did. A fucking million times like some dumbass loser,” His mouth twists, “I kept wanting to apologize, and then I’d think…for what? What apology could you possibly give that can make up for this?”

Your fingers tangle in your lap as you remain silent. He glances at the mochi box, then the windshield, “My room felt wrong. The house felt wrong. Everything fucking smelled wrong.”

You remember the faint sweetness in his car when you got in—your perfume, hiding beneath leather, Armani cologne, and weed. Your body freezes and Satoru notices; his eyes flick to yours for half a second, then away, embarrassment cutting across his countenance so fast you mistake it for anger.

“I know…I know how pathetic that is,” He mutters and shakes his head once, disgusted with himself, “I missed you so fucking badly I started doing shit I can’t even say out loud.”

The confession lies there between you. He won’t specify, no, he’d rather die than admit he bought your exact perfume and sprayed it everywhere, then proceeded to jerk off to old videos of you. When that didn’t help he took it out on those around him and started drawing again, desperate to keep you alive in his room in any way, shape, or form. 

Your voice wavers, “Satoru…”

“I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me…I don’t deserve that.”

“I know.”

He looks at you, the honesty in your words catching him off guard. You hold his gaze for a heartbeat, then force yourself to look elsewhere. He breathes out slowly, “Yeah…”

More unbearable silence ensues, but you ask another question, needing somewhere else to put all this hurt, “Are you going home for winter break?”

“Yeah.”

“Japan?”

“Tokyo.”

The reply comes easily, but his face tells a whole different story. You know he loves Tokyo, you know that. He talks about the food like it’s holy, whereas he complains about LA 7-Elevens as if they’re a disgrace to society. He has his best friend Geto there, twenty-one years of history overseas, a whole language that changes the shape of him when he speaks it. So why does he look like that?

“You don’t…seem excited.”

His mouth curves, small and tired, “I like Tokyo…” The curve fades as a few seconds pass, “...I don’t like being home. It’s—” He looks down at the steering wheel, “It’s different there.”

“With your family?” You ask, and he nods, “How?”

For a minute, he doesn't answer, “At USC, everybody wants me loud. At home, everybody wants me quiet,” His thumb grazes over his knee, “Same shit. Different volume.”

You realize it then. The performance of Satoru Gojo. The characters he portrays. 

Gojo as noise. Satoru as silence. Both versions wanted for their usefulness, watched under a microscope. And neither of them are free. 

“You make it sound like nobody wants you as you are.”

His face changes, barely. He looks into your eyes and in that moment, he appears so young it almost makes you angry. Angry at him, his family, yourself—at the fact that you can still want to reach for him after everything. 

“Maybe they don’t know what that is,” His eyes flick away before the sentence can grow too vulnerable, “I didn’t either…not until you,” But he seems to regret it instantly, jaw clenching, “Fuck. I didn’t mean—”

“What did you mean?”

“I don’t know,” He admits, sighing deeply, and for some reason that hurts more than if he had given you some perfect response, “I just know it was different with you. And I handled it like shit.”

Not yet wise enough to understand himself, he sits here on his twenty-first birthday, trying to name a wound with tools he doesn’t have.

“I really fucking missed you,” He says suddenly, so sudden your heart stops, “I missed you all the time,” The words scrape out of him, humiliating but honest, “All the time. In class. At the gym. Driving. Standing in my room doing nothing. I’d hear something and think I had to tell you. But then I’d reach for my phone and remember—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, there’s no need to. You can fill in the blank. He’d remember that he couldn’t do that anymore. 

“I kept thinking it would fade,” He says, “Like after a few days, my body would remember you were gone, but it never did,” He laughs once under his breath, “Do you know how fucking stupid that feels? To miss somebody and not even be able to miss them cleanly?”

“...What does that mean?”

“It means every time I want you, I remember what wanting you cost.”

Oh. That one stings.

His eyes flick toward you, wet and furious with himself, “And I still want you,” Then looks away immediately, like he has no right to look at you after saying it, “I still want you. I still love you. I still fucking miss you. And none of that makes me less guilty.”

Your eyes burn so sharply you have to blink rapidly. God, this is worse. This is so much worse than him begging. You could reject begging in all its pitifulness, but this? This just hangs in the air, true and useless. And you do the idiotic thing by saying it back, “I missed you too.”

His body draws taut, so you keep going before he can turn the words into hope, “But I’m still angry.”

“I know.”

“And I still don’t know what to do with you.”

“I know.”

“And I can’t let missing you make decisions for me.”

He flinches, a small one that he tries to bury too late, and nods, “Okay.”

For some reason, him sitting there and letting the boundary stay intact breaks you more. You half-expected him to be the version of himself you knew how to leave, the one you could shove back. Maybe you even wanted that, honestly. But no. He’s being the person you wished he was weeks ago. 

You blink again, but this time the tears come anyway. Satoru sees them and looks away, feeling undeserving to witness it. A miserable chuckle catches in your throat, “This is so stupid.”

His mouth twists sadly, “Yeah.”

“It’s your birthday.”

“Yep.”

“And we’re sitting in your car eating mochi and crying.”

“You’re crying,” He corrects gently. 

You shoot him a look through blurred vision, “Don’t start.”

“I’m not.”

“You looked like you were about to.”

“That’s…a lie.”

There it is again—a breath of something normal. So little, yet painful you could hate him for giving it to you. Your lip trembles, stuck somewhere between a laugh and another sob, and his face softens in a way that makes the whole car feel dangerous. Because throughout it all, he’s the boy who can still make you almost laugh while you’re crying in the passenger seat of the car where you broke each other’s hearts. He’s the boy you still love. 

Fuck.

The boy you still love. 

Which is exactly why you wipe your cheeks and turn away, “I should go back soon.”

His expression falters for a breath, but then he nods, “Yeah,” He says quietly, “Okay.”

Again, all he can answer with is okay and again, it hurts. 

The drive back to your dorm is quieter than the drive there. Though, the silence has weight now, packed full of everything neither of you knows how to say without making the night worse. The Neighbourhood keeps playing low through the speakers, A Little Death. You shrink in your seat slightly, knowing that the song has nothing to do with dying. 

Satoru keeps both hands on the wheel, it’s the only way he can keep himself from trying to reach for you. He knows better—if his hand moves even an inch, yours might move too, and then this whole fragile little near-peace will become something neither of you can survive. 

The mochi box sits closed in the center console, safer now, and when Satoru pulls up outside your dorm, he doesn't kill the engine right away. The Porsche idles at the curb, streetlamp cutting across his face. 

Right away, you know you should unbuckle; thank him for the drive, take this puny victory of leaving before either of you ruins this, and go back upstairs to Blair, who is absolutely awake and waiting to interrogate you. 

But, like the foolish person you are, you sit there, and so does he. Neither of you looks at each other first, “Thank you for coming.”

You stare blankly at your hands, “Well, it’s your birthday…”

It sounds like an excuse more than an answer. Hell, it probably is one. A flimsy thing to hide behind because saying I wanted to see you would be too honest, and honesty has already done enough damage tonight. 

Satoru turns his head, looking at you now, and you can feel it before you even see it. The weight of his gaze—softened, tired, and wanting in a way that doesn’t feel like the old hunger or maybe it does. That’s the problem, really. With him, tenderness and hunger have always come intertwined. 

You finally look back and…big mistake. His eyes are too blue in the dark, glassy around the edges, pale lashes lowered like he’s trying to hold himself in place through sheer will alone. His mouth parts as if he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out. 

Thank fucking God. 

If he says one more sad thing, you might actually crawl out of your own skin.

“I should go,” You whisper. 

“Yeah.”

But you still don’t move and that’s when his gaze drops to your lips, only for a second, maybe less, yet it’s long enough to ruin you, “Satoru,” You warn, though it lacks strength.

“I know,” He murmurs, eyes flicking back up to yours, “I’m not doing anything.”

Yeah. He isn’t. He’s just sitting there, hands glued to the wheel, letting you leave if you want to leave. Which, inexplicably, makes you want him more. You hate that so badly your chest aches with it.

Your seatbeat clicks before you remember deciding to unbuckle it. Satoru’s eyes drop to the belt, then back up to your face. This is when you know you really should open the door and go, but you still don’t. Your hand moves seemingly on its own, across the center console, and your fingers find the front of his shirt, curling lightly into the fabric near his chest. His breath catches so quietly you almost miss it. 

Then, his hand leaves the steering wheel, slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. His fingers come up to your face, thumb brushing beneath your jaw with a gentleness so careful it makes your insides twist. You close your eyes before his mouth touches yours. 

The kiss is soft at first, a wary press of his lips against yours, warm and trembling, like he’s afraid of scaring the moment away—one wrong move and you’ll disappear into your dorm and leave him with nothing but the mochi box and a mouth full of things he didn’t have the balls to say. 

You make another big mistake. The mistake of kissing him back…really kissing him back.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt and that cracks the rest of his restraint. You feel his body shift, his breath leaves through his nose and his hand slides from beneath your jaw to the side of your neck. His thumb rests under your chin, tilting you just enough for the kiss to deepen, and God, the second it does, everything comes rushing back. 

His mouth opens against yours and the sound he makes is barely there, broken and swallowed, but it sends heat straight through your core. Your free hand comes up without permission, fingers slipping into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and he shivers like the touch burned him. 

The kiss turns ravenous for one precarious second. Deep, aching, familiar in a way that makes your blood run like fire in your veins. His lips move over yours like he remembers everything and is trying not to remember too much at the same time. His hand stays at your neck, thumb stroking once beneath your jaw and it’s so gentle it almost feels worse than if he had been reckless. 

Reckless is what you know. You can survive reckless. This is so much harder. This is Satoru holding you like he knows he’s already lost the right to. 

You hesitantly pull back first, forehead touching his; his breath is uneven against your mouth, though he follows you without even thinking. His lips chase yours, instinctive, starved for more, and your heart stutters because you know if he kisses you again, you’ll let him. 

But he stops himself. His brilliant blue eyes open and he sees your face, noticing the line you’re trying to hold with both hands, and stops. The restraint is visible, painful even. His fingers flex once against your neck before he lets it fall away slowly, like it physically hurts him. 

“I’m sorry,” He breathes. 

You shake your head, still too close to him, “Don’t be.”

He swallows, now the car feels warmer, smaller. Your mouth is tingling and your hand is twisted in his shirt, so you force yourself to let go. The fabric slips from your fingers and rests back against his chest. That tiny loss hurts too. 

You look away first, blinking hard, “They’re making you go out later, aren’t they?”

His mouth curves as he sighs, “Unfortunately.”

“Bars?”

“Pregame first,” He says, “Then a club. Apparently they reserved a few sections.”

Your stomach twists in an ugly way that makes your skin prickle beneath your clothes. Club. Sections. Of fucking course. 

He’s going to be surrounded by bottle girls and frat brothers who are bad influences. Bottles of booze with stupid sparklers and cocaine in the dirty bathrooms. Music will be blaring so loud you can’t even think. Girls in tiny dresses leaning over him to say happy birthday, hands on his shoulder, lips too close to his ear because the bass gives them an excuse. 

Girls who don’t know any of it. They don’t know that he was almost a father and that he keeps that grief folded behind his ID.

No, they will look at him and see exactly what everyone sees when they look at him. Pretty, rich, wanted Gojo. 

The boy with the hair white like snow and the Porsche to match and the captivating cerulean colored eyes and the kind of mouth girls dream about before they know what it feels like. 

Your mouth still knows. Yet tomorrow he’s going to walk into some club with your kiss still lingering on his lips while other girls orbit close enough to smell his cologne. 

The thought makes you sick, which is ridiculous, hypocritical again too. You were the one who ended this. So why does some awful, possessive little part of you still want to put your hand over his chest and say no, don’t go?

You hate that the thought makes you sound so much like how he used to. 

“Oh,” You say, barely a word. 

Satoru glances over as you keep your eyes on your lap, afraid that your face has already betrayed you and that he can see the whole rottenness buried within your body—jealousy, concern, mourning, want, the miserable tiny claim you still carry like a bruise. 

He exhales quietly, “I don’t even want to go.”

Hearing that makes you feel better, albeit slightly. But then it makes you feel like shit because relief has no business blooming inside you over that. You don’t get to be relieved that your ex-boyfriend doesn’t want to spend his twenty-first birthday surrounded by girls and liquor and people who aren’t you. 

You don’t get to care, you know that, yet you do anyway, “Then don’t.”

The words slip out accidentally, or maybe not accidentally at all. Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth again, briefly, almost like he can’t help himself, “You know I wouldn’t go if you asked me not to.”

Your heart thumps once, a frantic kick. The sad part is that you believe him. He would absolutely throw away the whole stupid night if you gave him the smallest reason to. He’d let the brothers call him whipped, pathetic, pussy or whatever insult they could conjure after six shots and a fuck ton of bumps. Gojo would sit in this car until sunrise if it meant one hour of you looking at him like this. 

Which is exactly why you can’t ask. You already told him missing him can’t make decisions for you, “I’m not asking.”

He bows his head, “Okay.”

Again, that fucking word. Okay. You despise how much restraint sounds like loss when it comes from him. 

He looks forward, jaw tight, “I’ll go for a bit. Show my face. Then leave.”

You almost laugh. Yeah, you’ve heard that one before. Plenty of times while you were up sick, pregnant, and scared, “You say that now.”

“I know.”

Well, at least he’s honest. The both of you are no stranger of what this world does to him. The drinks, the noise, the bathroom counters, the lines. Your jealousy folds into fear so quickly it makes you dizzy.

“Satoru,” He turns to you, “Be careful.”

Be careful means too many things. The girls. The drinking. And of course, the worst of them all, the drugs. Mainly you mean, be careful with the version of you that comes out when everyone wants Gojo and nobody cares what happens to Satoru afterward. 

He understands every meaning. You can tell by the guilt that crosses his face, brief and unmistakable. And for one second, you think he might promise.

Old Gojo would have. He would have looked you dead in the eye and lied beautifully because he was good at that. He would have said I will, baby with enough conviction to make you want to believe him.

But this version of him gives the cowardly, truthful answer, “I’ll try.”

Your throat tightens and you force a grin like it doesn’t hurt, “Okay.”

And then you open the door before the possessive, grieving thing inside you can ask him to stay or before you forget, for one weak second, that you’re not his girlfriend anymore and he isn’t yours. Even if some ruined part of you still feels like he is. 

Cool air rushes into the car as you step out, Satoru watches you from the driver’s seat, but doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t make this harder than it already is. You shut the door gently and stand on the curb, looking at him through the tinted window. You can’t see him clearly, only the pale shape of his hair and the outline of his face turned toward you. 

You spin on your heel and walk to the dorm, every step feels like tearing open a scabbed wound. Behind you, Satoru doesn’t drive away until you’re safely inside, you know that without looking back. 

Once you are, he breathes out a deep breath and reluctantly drives off. The drive back to Sig Chi takes less than five minutes, but it feels longer. Even with The Neighbourhood still playing low through the speakers, the car is too quiet. Your perfume lingers in the passenger seat, tangled with the ghost of your mouth on his. The mochi sits in the center console, yet the only thing he tastes is you. 

Pulling up to the curb outside the house, he isn’t surprised to see that the party is still going. People are on the porch, two brothers pass around a bottle of whiskey back and forth like the entire world isn’t actively rotting. At least, for Gojo it is. 

He sits in the driver seat for a few minutes, contemplating even going inside, though he knows he should. He should drink, smile, let Ryan shove another stupid beer can into his hand, have the night become loud enough to make him forget your mouth from his memory. Yeah right, like he ever could.

Eventually, he works up the courage to move, grabbing the mochi box as he does so. The second he steps inside, three different voices shout for him. 

“There he is!”

“Birthday boy’s back!”

“Where the fuck did you go?”

Someone jeers from the living room, loud and stupid, “Nah, bro definitely went to see her.”

A few brothers erupt instantly, drunk off the idea of it before he even says anything.

“Ohh, he went to see the ex.”

“Birthday pussy, let’s fucking go.”

“Fuckin’ dog,” One of them laughs, clapping him too hard on the shoulder as he passes, “Left his own party and still got laid.”

Gojo bites his tongue; this is the only version of events that they can understand. He left for you, so he must have fucked you. You must have missed him so much and oh it’s his birthday so you let him talk his way back in between your legs. And now he’s returned, triumphant and smug, body loose with satisfaction, another dirty frat house story for the boys to cheer over. 

And yeah, some selfish, greedy part of him would be lying if he pretended the thought didn’t make his body ache. Of course he wanted to fuck you. He always wants you. One kiss had been enough to remind him of that in the cruelest way possible. Your fingers tugging his hair, your mouth opening under his, the soft pull of your hand in his shirt like you still know where to hold him. 

His body had reacted immediately, stupidly, like no time passed at all and nothing bad had happened.

But of course, wanting to fuck you isn’t as simple as it used to be. Now, you’re recovering from an abortion, from him, from the damage he had wrapped around you and called love. 

So no, it’s nothing like what they think. He didn’t get to fuck you just because you missed him. He didn’t get to crawl back inside you like forgiveness lives there. Honestly, he barely even deserved a kiss at all. 

That’s what makes the frat laughter feel so grotesque. They’re cheering for a conquest that never happened, for a version of him that would’ve taken the joke and worn it. Gojo would’ve normally smirked, let them believe it, maybe even add some filthy comment to make himself look better than what he is. 

Instead, it makes him sick because nothing about seeing you tonight felt like a win.

Ryan appears from the living room, flushed and drunk, eyes narrowing when he clocks Gojo’s face, “You alright, bro?”

Gojo doesn’t stop walking, “Yeah.”

“That sounded fake as shit.”

“Then why ask?”

Someone behind him calls, “Don’t let him go upstairs, he might start writing love letters.”

Another voice yells, “Nah, let him rest. Man just put in work.”

More laughter ensues and Gojo keeps moving. The words follow him up the stairs, crude and wrong in every possible way. He stands in the middle of his room with the mochi in one hand, your kiss still burning on his mouth like an injury, and shuts his eyes. 

Fuck. 

He almost wishes you hadn’t kissed him at all. 

Before tonight, missing you had become horrible in a way he could recognize. It had a routine, actually. Wake up. Think of you. Hate himself. Go to class. Think of you. Resist the urge to call and text. Hate himself some more. Survive another hour. Another day. Another night. Repeat. Sure, it hurt, but at least it had started to scab. Now, you have torn it open with your mouth. 

When Gojo finally moves again, it's to set the mochi all the way back in his mini fridge, behind two bottles of water and a lonely, forgotten Red Bull. Hiding it because if one of his drunk frat brother fucks eats it later, he genuinely may kill them.

Then he sits on the edge of his bed and bows his head, alone on the first hour of his twenty-first birthday, glaring at the floor like it might miraculously split open and swallow him whole. Shit, I wish it would, he thinks. 

And by the time he sleeps, it could barely be defined as such. He drifts in and out, caught in miserable scraps of memory. Rain taps against the window before he even opens his eyes, soft at first, then harder. A steady December downpour, rare for Los Angeles but fitting for what day it is. 

Gojo lies there in his bed, listening to the soothing sound of rainfall, staring at the ceiling. His phone is already full of messages. Girls he hardly remembers, a couple of guys from class, frat brothers. He scrolls past all of them and opens yours. 

happy birthday, satoru 

That’s the only one that feels real. He rereads it until the words start to blur, then locks his phone and throws an arm over his eyes. He should probably get up. Shower. Go to class. Be normal in some capacity. Skipping class would feel too obviously pathetic and Gojo has always hated being pathetic in public more than he hates almost anything. So he goes. 

Mentally though, he is nowhere near the USC campus. He sits in his Microeconomics lecture with his phone facedown on the desk, laptop untouched, rain ticking against the tall windows in the back of the room. Someone beside him wishes him happy birthday and he smiles automatically; beautiful, yet empty.

“Thanks.”

A girl two rows down turns around before the class starts, “Happy birthday, Gojo.”

“Appreciate it.”

The professor starts talking soon after and Gojo hears none of it. The only thing he can think about is your mouth and your necklace—your initial where his chain used to be. That should make him proud of you, there’s definitely a part of him that is, but another part of him feels like he’s choking on glass. 

When he leaves class, the rain has gotten worse. Harsher, colder, bouncing off pavement and turning every walkway into a slick, ugly mirror. People speedwalk under jackets and umbrellas, shrieking as cars splash through puddles. LA students are dramatic about rain in a way that would’ve been funny if Gojo had any humor left in him.

Everywhere he goes, someone says happy birthday, and every single one feels hollow after yours. 

At nine o’clock that same night, Sig Chi is alive again. The rain pounds against the windows while the house overheats from too many bodies packed inside. Music shakes the walls, bottles crowd every flat surface. Gojo dresses for his role, understanding the assignment. Black designer jeans, grey button-up open slightly at the throat, silver chain sitting on his collarbone.

His white hair is styled messily, he’s sprayed Tom Ford cologne on every pulse point instead of Armani, wears his AP watch with the diamond bezel that catches the light every time he moves his wrist. Everything loud, bright, and expensive enough to remind everyone who he is supposed to be. 

He looks perfect, but he feels nowhere near it. 

“Bro,” Ryan says when he sees him, already holding a bottle by the neck, “There he is.”

Someone whistles, “AP is mad tuff, bro.”

“Section’s about to go fucking crazy.”

“Hella bad bitches too,” Another brother adds, grinning as he throws an arm around Gojo’s shoulders, “You’re gonna be swimming in pussy tonight, birthday boy.”

The room laughs and Gojo flashes a faux smile, “Yeah.”

It’s convincing enough for drunk people, but Ryan’s eyes narrow anyway because for all of his flaws, he’s not completely stupid. He notices that the laugh doesn’t reach Gojo’s eyes, “You okay?”

“Fantastic.”

“Lie better.”

Gojo takes the vodka bottle from his hand, drinking straight from it, “That better?”

“No.”

But then a brother yells for both of them and the moment vanishes into the noise. They’re led upstairs into a room, where lines of coke are being cut on a glass coffee table. Gojo sees them before anyone even offers.

No, he thinks immediately, do not fucking do it. 

His fingers tighten at his sides, reminiscing the moment he flushed all his shit down the toilet—pills and powder, feeling lonely and furious and half-sick with shame, staring back at the drugs like they could stare back, because he knew. He knew what that shit made him. What it cost him. And he told himself he’d sworn off of it. 

“Birthday boy,” A brother drawls, already drunk and slurring. His smile is too wide as he holds a rolled bill toward him, “First line of the night is for you.”

The room turns to watch him now, which is always how it goes. He looks at the white line and thinks of your face when you told him to “be careful”. The taste of your mouth on his. Your initial where he used to be. The mochi you got him because you still thought of him when he didn’t deserve it. 

Fuck, it makes him sick. Not the thing that made you lose her. 

He almost steps back when he recognizes it. Coke never did bring him any good. So, say no. Push the bill back. Laugh it off like you usually do. Drink more instead. Leave this goddamn room.

One night. It’s only been one night since you warned him to be careful. And he answered with a bullshit, I’ll try. 

Yeah. Sure. Try. 

His mouth goes dry, someone chuckles again and says, “Bro, don’t pussy out on us.”

And something ugly inside Gojo folds as if it’s tired of standing. He takes the bill and the rational part of him makes one last futile attempt—don’t.

He bends anyway, closes one nostril, and the line disappears. Nothing happens at first, but then the burn hits bitterly through his nose and down the back of his throat, familiar and shameful.

His eyes begin to water, his heart kicks quicker, the room around him snaps brighter at the edges. Every sound too close, his skin too tight over his bones underneath it. 

And instantly, before the high can even pretend to be relief, the thought comes. 

Really, Satoru? His hand braces on the table as he glares at the empty space where the cocaine used to be. You couldn’t listen to her?

The shame crashes so fast it almost knocks the breath out of him. Because for one stupid, humiliating second in the car, with your lips close and your voice telling him those words, he had wanted to be careful for you. Wanted it badly enough to believe that wanting might count, but of course it doesn’t. Wanting means shit if you have zero discipline. 

And Gojo still stands there, in a room full of people who don't know what he lost, choosing the thing that helped make him lose it. 

“Another?” His brother asks.

No. The voice in his head pleads. Stop.

You already did it. Don’t make it worse.

Don’t become this again.

He hates that voice, hates it because it sounds like you. The version of you he invented in his conscience. The one that used to look at him with disappointed eyes and never screamed because she was too tired. The girl who already knows he failed before he even tells her. 

His throat swells as he heaves out a breath. Fuck that. I can’t listen to it all night. 

“Yeah,” He murmurs, “Another.”

And he snorts a second line, then a third; they do nothing to help him feel better, but at least they get the voice in his head to shut the fuck up.

By eleven, he is drunk and high like everyone wants him to be; drunk and high enough to fake their idea of Gojo that no longer exists in reality. 

They Uber to the club in West Hollywood and the ride is pure chaos that never fully registers to him. Rain hammers the roof, people chant his name; Ryan is half-laughing, half-yelling at a brother to not spill tequila in the car and fuck up his Uber rating. 

Gojo just smiles out the window, his reflection staring back at him from the dark glass, handsome and vacant. He barely recognizes himself. 

At the club entrance, the sidewalk is crowded with bodies and slick with rainwater. Music spills from inside every time the door opens, bass thudding into the wet street. Then the bouncer asks to see his ID. 

Behind him, his brothers erupt like this is the pinnacle of human achievement. Ryan grabs both his shoulders and shakes him once, laughing too loudly. People start chanting again.

“Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!”

The name feels like it belongs to everyone except him, yet he laughs because that’s what Gojo is supposed to do. He opens his wallet and immediately freezes at what he sees. 

The folded edge of the ultrasound tucked safely behind his ID. A small, thin sliver of gray and white. And the noise around him doesn’t fade, no, it grows louder. 

Ryan laughing, cars hissing through rain, girls squealing, the bouncer saying something he misses, and in the middle of all that life, stuffed behind the proof that he is finally old enough to drink legally, is the closest thing he has to a grave. 

His thumb stills against the leather. The ultrasound also brings up the memory of you. Your shaking hands, your face turned away in the passenger seat, your body carrying something both of you were too young and wrecked and terrified to love properly before it was gone. 

Mine, he had thought then. Out of possession, but wonder too. Terror. A future nipping at his heels. 

Maybe the baby would have had your eyes. The maybe hurts worse than certainty ever could. 

Maybe your eyes. Maybe his hair. Maybe your smile. Maybe his nose. Maybe some tiny, impossible combination of both of you that never got to become a person. 

No face. No laugh. No first birthday. No teeny hand wrapped around his finger. No you in his passenger seat, annoyed and beautiful, telling him to stop driving like a jackass because there’s a baby in the backseat. No appointment where he pretended not to cry. No anything.

Only this. A folded gray edge in his wallet. A dead future pressed behind his license while everyone screams for him to start living. 

“Bro,” Ryan calls, snapping him out of it, “ID.”

Gojo blinks and the sidewalk comes back wrong. Bright, loud, too full of people who have no clue of what he’s holding. Carefully, so carefully, he pulls the license free. 

Because touching the ultrasound feels dangerous; like if his finger grazes against the paper long enough, he might take it out right there. He might unfold it in front of the bouncer, under the neon, with all of Sigma Chi watching, and say—look.

Look at what I lost. 

Look at what I fucking did.

Look at who should still be here. 

But of course he doesn’t. He just hands over the ID; the bouncer checks it, glances at him, and gives it back, “Happy birthday, man.”

Satoru grins, but there is not an ounce of happiness in it, “Thanks.”

The guys cheer again as he steps inside; the night ruined before it even started. Seeing the ultrasound didn’t sober him up. Instead, it makes him want to be worse. 

Unfortunately, or maybe mercifully, the section is perfect. Tons of bottles, tons of girls, sparklers with the dumbass signs, phones recording, brothers yelling. Someone shoves a drink into his hand before he even sits down. A girl touches his bicep and says, “Happy birthday, Gojo,” like she has any right to the name.

He drinks more since everyone is watching and he doesn’t want to feel any of it. The club swallows him whole because the alternative is standing still long enough to feel the full weight of the folded paper in his wallet. 

But the ultrasound follows him anyway. So do you. So does the baby. So does the quiet, private thought that keeps surfacing beneath every beat of the music.

I’m sorry.

Not to one person, but to both. 

To the baby who should still be here and the girl who should have been beside him tonight. 

The life that was gone before he ever learned how to love anything gently. 

A girl in a silver dress sits beside Gojo too close, her thigh touches his and her perfume disgusts him because it isn’t yours. He shifts away on instinct, she giggles like she thinks he’s teasing, but he’s not. 

Another girl leans over him to pour champagne into his mouth while his brothers cheer. The bottle tips, gold liquor spilling cold over his tongue, down his chin, onto the open collar of his shirt. Club lights catch on his AP watch when he lifts a hand to wipe it away. 

The whole section fucking loves it. Though, Gojo wants to crawl out of his fucking body. 

Every hand feels wrong. Every girl feels wrong. Every yell makes him lonelier. The section isn’t a celebration. It’s a parody of a life he can’t get back into. 

At some point in the night, he ends up in the bathroom or maybe a side hallway, he’s too fucked up to really know. All he processes is a brother holding a baggie between two fingers and saying something he can’t hear. 

He does more coke. Bumps off keys. Then drinks again. 

His heart starts racing too fast, frenzied thumps against his ribs. His skin feels scorching hot beneath the cotton of his shirt. The club tips slightly when he moves, not enough to scare him, no, he’d need a lot more than that, but just enough to make everything feel less real.

Good. Less real is the goal.

He doesn’t want to feel the birthday or your mouth or the baby folded behind his ID. 

Yet, despite the drugs and alcohol, he fails at not feeling all three. 

Sometime after 1 A.M., he steps outside for air, telling no one. Ryan is turned away, arguing with someone about the bill or fetching more bottles, and Gojo slips out like he has been waiting for this chance. 

Outside the club, West Hollywood is still pouring. At first, he stands under the awning with the smokers and the girls waiting for Ubers, rain splashing against the curb hard enough to mist his sneakers. 

He inhales once, but it isn’t enough. So he steps past the awning, letting the rain hit him. It soaks through his hair first, collapsing the careful styling until white strands cling to his forehead and lashes. Then his shirt, cotton sticking to his chest. His jeans become heavy, his sneakers darken after dampening. The AP watch on his wrist catches streetlight through rainwater, absurdly expensive and useless. 

For the first time all night, he feels something real. Basking in it until he’s been standing there for too long. His phone buzzes.

ryan: where tf did yo go

ryan: brooo

ryan: dont be doing sum weird shit rn

Another text, another brother. More noise trying to follow him outside. Gojo ignores all of it and orders an Uber, waiting in the rain instead of going back in. 

He’s completely drenched by the time the car arrives and the driver glances at him in the rearview mirror, wondering if he should cancel the ride, but Gojo slides into the backseat before he can even decide. 

The drive is dead silent save for the rain and the squeaky windshield wipers. His clothes cling cold to his hot skin, wet hair dripping onto his collar. And in all of that, he feels the folded ultrasound in his wallet like a bruise. The performance is finally fucking over. 

When he gets back to Sig Chi, the house is still partying downstairs, but Gojo avoids all of it. He heads straight upstairs, shuts his bedroom door, and stands there in soaked designer clothes, shivering once. 

He should probably change. The shirt is stuck to his skin, his jeans are disgustingly heavy, his socks are drenched. Water drips from his hair onto the floor and his watch is still on, glittering faintly against his wrist like the most ridiculous proof in the world that money can’t save you from being miserable. 

Shower, maybe. Sleep after. But no, what does he do? 

He opens the mini fridge. The mochi is still there, hidden in the back where no drunk asshole could find it. Gojo takes the box out and sits on the edge of his bed. The dampness from his clothes sinks into the sheets, yet he doesn’t care. Discomfort feels appropriate—rightfully earned, even.

The mochi box opens with a soft plastic sound, zunda and cream, your gift; and eats one slowly. Then he thinks of how he imagined his twenty-first a month ago. 

A month ago, he imagined ending the night with you in his bed. Under him and around him. His hands in your hair, your thighs locked around his waist, his mouth against your neck while he fucked you so deep you couldn’t think about anything else except his name. 

He imagined getting greedy with it, too. Starting his birthday with you, ending his birthday with you. Keeping you on his cock until the sun came up because turning twenty-one meant nothing in comparison to you.

And maybe, if he’s being honest in the ugliest, most deranged part of his own mind, he imagined his hand spread across your belly too. 

Right where the baby should’ve been.

Right where, a month ago, the baby was. 

That horrible fact guts him so brutally he stops chewing. 

God, he was so fucking stupid. 

He had confused love with permanence. He wanted something that was his and real, reaching for it with both hands closed around its throat, only to lose it anyway. 

His hand trembles as he reaches for his wallet. The ultrasound slides free and he holds it in one hand while the mochi sits open beside him. 

Downstairs, a brother shouts his name again, muffled through the floor. 

Gojo.

Gojo.

Gojo.

Upstairs, Satoru cries quietly in wet clothes. 

Tears roll hot down his face while his heart beats too fast from the coke and the alcohol and everything he is too ruined to define. His phone lies open beside him, still on your thread.

happy birthday, satoru 

He stares at it until the letters all jumble together. Then he types.

come over

Deletes it. 

i need you

Deletes that too.

please

He deletes that one so fast his thumb almost slips, and looks back down at the mochi, then the ultrasound, then your message. His own reflection is faint in the black edge of the phone screen; wet hair, red eyes, shirt soaked by the rain, the world’s prettiest fucking disaster sitting alone on his bed while the party below celebrates a man who doesn’t exist.

Finally, he types the only thing he feels about this shitty night.

none of this meant anything without you

He sends it and is immediately regretful. For a second, he thinks he might genuinely be sick. He glances at the ultrasound shaking in his hand, tears flowing.

Satoru Gojo gets twenty-one birthdays.

The baby never even got one.

He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, but the sound comes out anyway. Soft, broken, pathetic, and barely human.

“I’m sorry.”

tags: @hdudz @litchiberry @anothergojostan @dawgd4wg @sin-tax-errotic @anonymous123sm @flwr0r4 @hauntedbyink @sabbrriiinnaa @kazukuro @cvpidcvlture @mxtenten @kimorauo @yanagisprettygf @jungkookswifeeeeeee @chickennn-soupp @valberryboos @seonaw @luvleyliaxx @kitty-yaps @the-fandom-menace-1221 @heartyhe4rt @abigaiili @existingishardd @cupidslie @d1onysusdevotee227 @dvarlinggg @secretsofchance @angieunknown @superstaargirl @14pxa @pnkoo @fangirlingbookworm1 @modifiedmonster @lilac-witch @breskvq @painfullyicywitness @kingjuliancypher @emonaculate @outpostsworld @mauritianbaddie @s0ngofthebaddest @throatgoatgojo @champagnesunshinee @mindspolluted @r3m1nd3dd @voidst4r @fudogh @oyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoya @ihateexistence

[junovae]

I’m being so fr I’m not okay I’m genuinely in shambles

[bfbkg]

LOVE HAS NO EGO (2.3k)

— prohero!bakugou x phd student!reader

you haven’t heard from your situationship for a month after he ended it with you. you decide to drunk call him one evening.

NOTES: part of my GREYSCALE series. this can work as a standalone but would make more sense if you read the other parts. if you’re here after the last part, thank u so much the messages and theories and responses. they have been so thrilling to read. see this part as a FILLER CHAPTER!! i just wanted to write them.

TAGS: situationship. angst. after the breakup. jealousy. class dynamics. insecurity. cigarettes. alcohol.

a positive reason for dating apps is that you get to cross paths with people you would have never come in contact with outside of it. you didn’t grow up in the same area, don’t work in the same field or have mutual friends. you’re not similar with the details you’d write on your resume but similar in all the ways that matter. like humour, music, morals, kinks and love languages.

though this tends to mean that after you stop seeing each other, there is no way for you to cross paths again. you don’t go to the same supermarkets, nor the same library since he isn’t a student, you definitely don’t attend the same sunday morning flea market or farmer’s market on mondays. 

this is how it would go if you dated a normal man. it’s definitely how it’s going for the man who rushed out of your apartment roughly… fifteen days from now, if you’re definitely not counting. 

new tomato soup from that brand you kind of like, the local glasses shop has a deal on, the band your roommate loves is going on tour and a luxury underwear brand with number four hero bakugou katsuki as the face. sprawled out in only his undies on white sheets, tyra banks smizing at the camera.

you have half the mind to smash the glass and pull out that poster because how dare he break your heart and show up at your nearest bus stop every forty one seconds. not only that but he flickers on your television in his full hero gear whenever you go onto the news channel, helping out another children’s hospital. and your fucking phone is either listening to you or eating those cookies wisely because every other post and advert on social media is about dynamight. also known as bakugou katsuki. also known as your ex something. your could have been. your so close but not quite.

you think you hate him. his gorgeous gold tooth smile as he laughs on television, how you suddenly become unsure how to use the remote when they interview him. his grumpy resting face, furrowed brows and deep raspy voice appearing as he describes working with the kids is “better than any hero work he’s ever done.” you roll your eyes. swallow the lump in your throat.

you groan aloud when the youtube adverts in your phd lecture includes pro hero dynamight shrugging with a breakfast bar in hand. “d’you wanna eat a bar that goes boom?” then he laughs, his fake one. not like the one he’d do when he’d lay in your arms at night as you tell him a story about your childhood. you get your whole class staring at you but all you can do is clench your fists under the table. you last about twenty minutes before rushing to the bathroom to have a cry, a short one with no traces you ever did it.

if it’s not through a screen or a poster. bakugou katsuki is the guest star in all your dreams. you have three common themes. one where he’s having sex with you. usually in your bed, his head between your legs or when he’s thrusting from behind. both times you never see his face but you know it’s him. every time it’s a cruel joke, expecting to finally see his pretty ruby eyes beside you when you wake up. 

there’s another where you go down to the bus stop advertisement by your house and every advert is a picture of him with a different woman. every single one looking nothing like you. you’re stuck to the ground unable to leave, forced to watch him laugh, sling his arms around and kiss someone else. but then you turn around and he’s always there to tell you it’s not real. he wants you.

and lastly, one where the argument was worse. he swears at you. tells you you’re incapable of love. ruined by the last guy. how you don’t deserve him after knowing how much he wanted you and  you ignored it. whenever you get that dream, you’re grateful to wake up.

you sit in the pub garden alone, your phone shining up at you, full phone number filled in. you haven’t drank enough to be making drunken mistakes but every exhale, still after four weeks feels like fingers are clutching on your heart. 

you thought he’d text you the day after. maybe even two days after. he’d ask when he could collect his three hoodies he left at your apartment and his tool box that he forgot to drop back into his car after he fixed your wardrobe hinge in the summer.

two days drifted into a week so with a face full of tears and throat full of hiccups from your cocoon hut on your bed, you blocked his number. if he doesn’t want to text you, well fine, now he can’t even if he wanted to. you know it’s a stupid move as soon as you do it. your roommate says a quote she read off tumblr about how love has no ego, translated into maybe you should text him first. 

but all the walls you had built up before seem to be plated over with titanium. he left you. but he’s waited so long for you. you fucked up big time. but how did he leave after you bared your heart out to him? you still aren’t ready.

the harsh wind slaps across your face and you tug your jacket tighter around your body. a shiver shakes through you but it only reminds you to relight your cigarette, tapping off the ash on the glass dish on the table. your tights coated leg bobs, rereading his number over and over again. if you press green, you could talk to him. how fucking good would it be to hear his voice again towards you, instead of talking to a reporter, trying to sell your something or educate you on road safety. for bakugou katsuki to just say your name again.

you take a swig of your cider and punctuate it with a drag of your cigarette. this isn’t you, but somehow it feels like you have been cut into before katsuki and after katsuki. after katsuki you would call him. before katsuki you would tell him to fuck himself.

you exhale the smoke through your teeth. 

love has no ego. 

you press that green button and the cold screen presses against your cheek. fuck. fuck. fuck. you haven’t yet considered the possibility of him not answering, what if he doesn’t want to talk to you. what if he blocked your number too? but it rings. it rings long enough for you to create trillions of possibilities of why katsuki wouldn’t answer your phone call. maybe he’s…

your dynamight obsessed algorithm did show you a paparazzi photo of bakugou with a woman in the back of a cab. whispering something in her ear, lips pressed to her lobe as she blushes. that image made you gag, rush to your bathroom to dry heave.

three beeps. you tap your cigarette. a dull tone. he didn’t pick up. 

“oh you fucking—,”

his number flashes on screen… he’s calling you. shit you see in your dreams, here right now. you swing back another gulp of cider, glancing back at the bustling pub behind you. katsuki’s calling you.

you look back to the phone, heart rattling against your chest like it’s magnetised to the one on the other side of the line. 

you press the green button again, phone to your cheek.

“h—hello?”

“yn.”

you could sob. you swear you were fine, you haven’t cried in three days, you’ve thought about him about ten percent less than this time last week and— fuck, nothing has changed.

“hi katsuki,” you breathe and it’s as if all the neurons in your brain have been set alight. serotonin and dopamine and all the happiest chemicals shooting down your body at once. the nicotine makes your skin buzz, everything mixed together soothing you like a fluffy blanket or a pacifier.

“are you okay? are you safe?”

you stub out your cigarette. 

you can’t decipher his tone. a mixture of irritated, panicked and beneath it all, you think you can recognise the relief somewhere mixed in. you’re not drunk enough for this, at all. 

“what? yeah, i’m fine—,” somewhat. mostly heartbroken.

“good. i’m gonna hang up now. i couldn’t have fuckin’…,” he sighs deeply and you can imagine him running his hand down his face, “anyway, bye yn.” 

“wait!” you screech. you could apologise, beg for him to come back, that you’ll do better, be better. that you’ll let him in completely. it feels as if you’ve run a marathon, heaving at the finishing line, “you couldn’t have what?”

there’s a pause. 

katsuki curses. he sounds deeper, like he’s aged in almost two months apart, “if you were callin’ me for help and i ignored it. wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

“oh,” you exhale, fiddling with the loose string on your skirt. you don’t exactly know what to do with that. “i’m at the pub… i probably would call emergency services if i had trouble.”

the pauses between every sentence are too long, no natural flow like there used to be. it’s like everything is glaringly obvious. maybe breaking up was a good idea. you miss him terribly. you wonder where he is, usually he’d be at yours at nine thirty pm during the week. 

“that’s smart. a hero closer could help you.” you think he’s awkwardly rubbing his nose or his eyes. you hear a scratch of his stubble against the mic. “yn… i’m gonna go now yn—,”

you’ve never heard him say your name so much.

“are you dating anyone? i saw…  i was wondering if you…” perhaps you were drunker than you thought.

bakugou grunts, pained as if someone jabbed him right in the stomach. “i’m not answerin’ that.” and tacked on at the end, you hear it, muttered under his breath, “jumpin’ to conclusions.”

embarrassment becomes energy that bursts through you like you ate one of his stupid sponsored bars.

“of course, i am! all i see is you saving children, trying to shove another product in my face and a picture of you with a woman! why won’t you tell me?” you’re on the edge of tears, shaky breaths to stabilise yourself as you pull a loose thread right out of your skirt. “i… i….”

i hate you. you can’t even say the words.

you imagine him leaning back on his office chair, phone to his ear as he looks up to the ceiling. it’s a split second where bakugou wonders whether he should make you wonder like he does every night, if you’re laying in bed with another, if you’ve moved on. it’s a thrill to know you’ve been thinking the exact same as him.

“fuck,” he grits his teeth. he cannot bare the pain in your voice.  “i’m not datin’ anyone. that’s my publicist.”

you want to ask more. you thought he fired her? why’d he keep her?  did he take her to a fancy ass restaurant and did she like it? she probably fit right in. he doesn’t need a publicist. or to be working with a woman that pretty.

you chew on your bottom lip, it’s probably red raw at this point. you wipe under your eyes swiftly.

“i still have your hoodies and your t-tool box.”

he hums sharply. he knows. “you can keep them.”

your heart feels as if it’s leaking. “katsuki.”

pleading for more. for something.

“i miss you,” you try, whispering the words like they’re a secret the wind might carry. the problem was you didn’t give, you didn’t give him anything before. you can change. “i want to see you again.”

he’s probably looking at his palm, as if the future is written in his prints. 

“i need…,” he sighs, “yn, we need—,”

but he gets cut off when a familiar voice calls you. panic runs through your veins, like a kid getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“yn, you better not be on the phone to that man,” your roommate stomps over to you, “how many drinks have you—,”

“i’m not!” you wave your hand at her before she can get too close, you need more time. you’re not sure when you’ll be able to talk to him again. another month? “i’m talking to that guy from my module, we have a project together.”

“what guy?” bakugou butts in, then another annoyed sigh but this time at himself, “don’t answer that. for fucks sake.”

you blink, unsure to focus on the literal man of your dreams over the phone or your roommate now taking a hands on the hips power pose. she holds out her hand for you to drop your phone on.

“gimme.”

“it’s just for the project. it’s forty percent of the final—,” you say to bakugou but your roommate gasps.

“aha! give it to me or say bye to katsuki,” she pushes, “you shouldn’t be talking to him after weeks drunk.”

“i’m not even—, hey! i’m not even d-drunk!”

bakugou wishes he was in a different life, where you guys never went sour and you were his girlfriend drunk calling to say how much you miss him. not whatever this is, even if it is slightly amusing.

“i’m gonna hang up now. get home safe yn.”

“w-what wait—,” the last syllable is forgotten as a new voice takes over the phone.

“bye katsuki. i’ll make sure she gets home safe.”

“thank you.”

comments and reblogs are appreciated! i delete comments asking for the next part.

GREYSCALE MASTERLIST

[junovae]

｡𖦹 °‧₊⊹ — steady callin’ my phone

synopsis: one drink too many leads to you receiving drunk texts

starring: Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Shoto Todoroki, Eijiro Kirishima, Denki Kaminari, Hitoshi Shinso, Tamaki Amajiki, Keigo Takami, Touya Todoroki

content warning: smau, suggestive 18+, unestablished relationship, straight crack, fluff-ish?

a/n: a reupload from my TikTok, go follow it!

IZUKU MIDORIYA

KATSUKI BAKUGO

SHOTO TODOROKI

EIJIRO KIRISHIMA

DENKI KAMINARI

HITOSHI SHINSO

TAMAKI AMAJIKI

KEIGO “HAWKS” TAKAMI

TOUYA “DABI” TODOROKI

a/n: reposting vids from my TikTok bc I don’t want to write and I’m genuinely exhausted from taking exams all week and I’m STILL not done?? pls kill me sos

2026 © junovae, do not plagiarize!

[bfbkg]

greyscale next part is being written …

[junovae]

YES YES BARK ABRK WOOFO WOFO

[bfbkg]

DORMANT, NOT DEAD (5.9k)

— prohero!bkg x phd!reader

since you and bakugou have been going so well, he plans a luxurious date to properly ask you to be his. it turns out to be the worst date of your life.

NOTES: part of my GREYSCALE series. this part could work as a standalone but would make more sense if you read the other parts.

TAGS: situationship. angst. jealousy. class dynamics. insecurity. terrible ex boyfriends mention.

bakugou cannot believe it. 

things are going right between you and him. little by little he’s peeling back the walls you have up, finding out they’re just styrofoam, blocking him from entering your mind. your giggles are louder around him, when he’s out with you, you point at things you like and explain why. this last week, you’ve called him whilst he’s at work just for a chat and once one evening when you were feeling down about a recent grade you got. you even texted him a photo of this massive dog you saw on your walk to your part time job. 

you said the caramel chow chow looked like him. bakugou agrees the dog did, just a little but refused to agree with you. 

it’s practically perfect, even introducing him to your best friend he’s never met before. bakugou was in the area while you were out for drinks with her and you asked him if he wanted to join. you asked him.

so, after confirming with deku, he’s going to ask you again tonight. properly, no kindas or assumptions or maybes, straight up just ask if he can be your boyfriend. 

one evening, when he’s kissing you goodbye at your front door at two in the morning because he does have work in five hours, he tells you, “i’m gonna take you out this weekend. a proper date in the city.” he kisses your lips softly, “i’ll send you where, okay? and i’ll pick you up.”

you’re enamoured. bakugou katsuki has dug a hole in your heart and made it home. that little voice in your head, the one that was always weary, telling you to be careful has been quiet. laid to rest and you think it’s a sign. he’s probably going to ask you to be his girlfriend again and you think you’re going to say yes.

very quickly you find out that voice was only dormant, not dead. you google the restaurant he sent and you panic. it’s a fancy one, one for people that are nowhere close to your tax bracket. you know katsuki isn’t but he’s normal, he’s not flashy aside from his coffee machine and maybe his porsche but you spend so much time at your apartment that you don’t think about the difference in your pockets.

expensive fine dining, michelin star restaurant definitely means you need a dress to play the part. and playing the part it is because since you don’t own anything that suits that trust fund vibe. you have to buy something.

you feel like an idiot in this tight purple dress and you feel like a fraud when katsuki loves it on you.

your katsuki stands at the front door to your apartment in a black suit with these shiny gold cufflinks and you don’t have to be rich to know that it’s expensive. it makes him look imposing, the way the fabric sits on his shoulders, how his white shirt doesn’t carry a single crease like he steamed himself down when he got out of his car. his belt is a subtle branded one, a ‘if you know you know’ brand and you don’t. but your body warms when you peek up at his face, the creases by his eyes and the glint of his gold tooth when he grins at you.

his hand reaches for your face, chunky watch at his wrist before he backs off, grabbing your hand instead.

“fuck, sorry just wanna touch you. don’t wanna mess up your face,” his kiss on your lips is light. you love a hello kiss. “you look gorgeous, doll. don’t deserve you on my arm tonight.”

you don’t feel like yourself in this dress but it fits standing beside him looking like that. you won’t mention you got it from the charity shop across the street.

“shut up,” you swat at him but he just grins, unable to look away from you, “thanks, katsuki. let’s go, don’t wanna miss the reservation.”

you think you look like a woman dynamight should be on a date with. nobody has given you odd looks when you stepped through the doors of the restaurant. the doorman didn’t frown at you when he asked for your jacket. you’re used to tap water for the table and excusing yourself to wash your hands in the bathroom. not a bottle of sealed mountain water being poured into your glass or a bowl of lemon water with a damp towel that katsuki had to tell you it’s for cleaning your hands.

you’re a fish out of water. blinking to take in the place but your eyes are still dry. 

once you’re settled in your seat, wondering who would get crushed first if the impressive diamond glass chandelier falls, your sweet katsuki nudges his knee with yours under the table. “what d’you think? i know it’s not what you’re used to but i thought it could be somethin’ different f’us?”

you hope your smile doesn’t look forced, you’re trying here, you really are. “it’s beautiful. i’m a little overwhelmed honestly.”

you laugh, awkwardly and bakugou grabs your hand. kisses your knuckles and his ruby eyes snatch your breath, “don’t be. after this we can get ice cream from that place near yours. wanna show you how fuckin’ good food can get, aside from the frozen shit you eat.”

you don’t like that comment. your throat constricts and you’re unsure if you’re overreacting. usually you’d laugh it off, he’s always telling you about healthier options but when you’re on the go and on a budget, it’s not always the easiest. it’s worse when you can’t say anything because a waitress hops over.

a pretty girl, around the same age as you and she knows exactly who katsuki is.

“hi i’m your waitress for tonight—,” she looks at you first then bakugou, then again at bakugou. she gasps, covering her mouth and then fixing her hair. her whole face blushes red and you swear you can see the cogs turning in her head, “dynamight, wow you’re my favourite hero! i’ve always wanted to meet you.”

bakugou pulls his hands out of yours, opting to rest them in his lap and lean back in his chair. you’re not thinking rationally here, it feels like he’s pulling away from you, situating himself like the bachelor pro hero he is.

he nods at her, solemn and appreciative, “thanks for the love. i’m always tryin’ my best for the country.”

she’s staring at his face, his plush pink lips that are usually found on your neck and then down his body. does he not fucking see that?

“yes, dynamight. wow! i can’t… sorry, let me take your order!”

she says only to him, body and the tablet she’s holding only facing him. 

bakugou recalls his order with finesse, not even having to look down at the menu and when the waitress remembers you’re still at the table, it’s as if you do too. limbs jump starting as you flip the menu back open and run your finger down each option to find what you originally wanted.

“i can’t find which one…,” you mumble and katsuki sits forward.

“i can come back later if you still need some time, miss. i can get dynamight’s ready.”

you feel like cursing. how the fuck would that make sense, both eating at different times?

“no, here it is!” you read it from the menu, pretty sure you’re butchering the pronunciation, “could i have the sauce on the side?”

she frowns at you, looks at your dress and your hair before meeting your eyes. “the point of that meal is that the sauce is all over.”

bakugou nods but turns to the waitress, “if it’s possible to get it on the side, we’d appreciate it.”

the waitress’s smile blooms across her face, “of course dynamight! anything for you. i’ll get those ready and be back with your drinks.”

once she grabs your menus and is off, you have to mention it.

“i don’t like her.”

bakugou gapes at you, that confused boyish stare that makes you feel like you’re being irrational.

“hah? why?” you’re grateful he puts his elbows on the table. you know that’s a thing rich people say is impolite.

you scoff, crossing your arms across your chest, “she was only facing you, forgot i was even at the table… she looked at me weirdly and was all over you. only listened to you when i asked for a change to my food.”

bakugou laughs softly, like you’re a baby doing something that’s cute but would be embarrassing if they were an adult. yanking off their sock or burping in public. “she was just a fan, baby. i’m sure you just misread her look.”

you do what you swear you wouldn’t do with men, you let it go and believe what he’s saying. that voice at the back of your head is louder than ever before. you don’t belong here. you’re an idiot to think somehow you match the people surrounding you. with their wrists full of bracelets that cost your undergraduate degree, masters and phd combined. he loves the attention from women, he’s just a man after all.

you sit up straight in your chair, “yeah, maybe.”

then he grins at you, “so tell me what else you found in my office that day?”

the food is amazing, so good you find it irritating. probably would have been better if the sauce was poured over like the waitress said. a woman with massive emerald earrings walks by the table, compliments your dress and your first thought is that she’s laughing at you, an elaborate story builds in your head that she was the one that donated it to the charity shop you bought it from.

“sorry ladies, we’re tryna eat here so i’m not takin’ photos right now.”

you haven’t been able to get through a conversation without getting interrupted by the waitress refilling your drinks the second it’s half empty or a child nervously walking over asking bakugou to sign his napkin. you turn around and see the boy’s parents egging him on, waving at katsuki. as cute as it is, you just want to talk to him. 

but these two women, probably born with a silver spoon in their mouths and four forks on the table, are giving your boy— katsuki, bedroom eyes. a—fucking—gain.

they pout at him, “dynamight! oh well. you’re much bigger in person,” one says.

“is this your girlfriend?” she waves at you and you smile, trying to eat your meal like you’ve been here before.

“no but—,” you feel like he’s just stabbed you in the chest and twisted it. there’s a few more words exchanged after that but you can barely focus. obviously he said no, he’s not your boyfriend, you both have confirmed that all the time. but it’s always felt like a thing you say, not him. 

you feel like crying and you can’t justify why. everything has just been too much, the zipper of your dress is poking you in the back and you don’t like the wine bakugou chose for the table. you prefer your mixers, juice and liquor or the cheap wine your friends buy for the purpose of getting drunk. not to pair the fruity tones to your specific meal.

when bakugou asks if you still want to get ice cream, once you’re buckled in his car, you say you don’t feel too good.

“shit, d’you think it’s the food?” he asks you, squeezing your thigh before pulling out of the parking space.

“no i’ve got a headache, not sure where it’s come from,” you lie, facing the window. “would be best if i go home.”

bakugou notices the lack of we there. his plan was to ask you to be his girlfriend whilst you’re eating ice cream. the little local family owned shop near your apartment that you always drag him to because for some reason it closes late into the early morning. you’ve had many sugary kisses outside that shop, in the rickety blue seats as you force him to try a new flavour every time. 

“okay, baby,” he knows there’s something up with you, “we can watch a movie in bed, if you wanna? order in dessert.”

you hum, barely a response and bakugou racks his mind to find where this all started. he could tell you were nervous at the beginning which makes sense considering you’re not used to restaurants like that. you’re more mini skirt and little top than fancy long designer dresses, he knows this, but he thought the change would be fun. 

“you sure you’re okay? just the headache?” 

you force yourself to meet his eyes. you give a small smile, not linking your fingers with his like you usually do, “yes, katsuki. that’s all.”

bakugou’s completely sure he’s absolutely fucked it. the car ride home was practically silent, only replying back in short sentences, no witty comments from you like usual and you didn’t even make a joke about how hard he tried tonight. no usual comment about rich people have no taste or a laugh at the couple across from you who ordered everything on the menu for the sake of it.

he’s out of his suit now, in one of his t-shirts and basketball shorts in your bedroom as you wipe off your makeup. your hair is out of the style you had it in earlier and he knows it’s cheesy to say but he prefers you like this. even out of the tight dress and just in an oversized tee like usual.

he still wants to ask you to be his but currently, he feels exactly like the last time he mentioned it to you. outside of your world, here but not exactly welcomed. at least visibly, there’s signs of him around the room. his heroes weekly cover is on display on your magazine rack, the first one, in front of all the ones he purposely left in your apartment. it’s the one you took from his office and put there yourself. he had to travel back home to japan a few weeks ago and he brought you back a load of things but you keep the postcards he got you out on display. one is a drawing of a cat that you have framed and another is a line up of traditional japanese houses that you have standing up on your bookshelf. his favourite addition to your room is the photo booth strip of you both on your desk. you haven’t decided where to put it and he’s waiting.

there’s visible differences, which is exactly what he wanted but still, he’s not let inside your head.

you’re quieter since your roommate is sleeping next door, “i’m going to change in the bathroom. brush my teeth and wash up.”

bakugou fucking hates this.

he yanks you to him as he sits on your bed, grabbing your hand so you fall into his chest. 

“katsuki! my clothes—,”

your expensive second hand dress is pressed against his clean white t-shirt and bakugou tucks his chin in your breasts to look up at you.

“talk to me, baby,” he whines at you, “let me in. tell me you hated the place. too many fuckin’ forks on the table. it was a shit date. i’m sorry for the people that came to the table. explain why you didn’t like the waitress. somethin’.”

you look familiar, his yn with your bare face and your jewellery all taken off. once this dress is off, maybe he’ll get you back completely.

you sigh, you don’t know where to start but you register the pain and frustration in his ruby pupils. you would much rather roll in bed with him, have him kiss your thighs to sleep and wake up beside him in the morning.

but you’re partly annoyed at him and you hate to say it but for the first time ever, bakugou reminded you of your ex.

the dismissing your feelings, the comment about the food, choosing somewhere he likes instead of considering you and the women. allowing the flirting, the comments, him saying that you weren’t his girlfriend. which you’re not but…

“i’ll wash up and we can talk.”

bakugou grunts to himself, smacks his lips against each other in disappointment, “didn’t even say it wasn’t a shit date.”

you pull away from him, sighing, “hold on, i’ll be five minutes.”

if tonight couldn’t get any worse, your phone buzzes on the sink as you brush your teeth. you’ve shimmied out of your dress, even kicked it for good measure once it landed on the floor and pulled on your pjs. cotton shorts and one of katsuki’s t-shirts he’s left at yours.

you assume it’s a funny relatable video your friend has sent but the caption beside the notification feels as if you’re being strangled.

@/friend: Post from @/heronewsnow

@/friend: girl wtf is ur man doing

@/friend: i’m gonna murder him for you

you spit out the toothpaste, wiping your face of anything left over and take a breath. you’ve been in this situation before with your last boyfriend. you swore you would never be in it again but how the universe loves to laugh in your face. 

you tap the notification, your phone going straight to the post that your friend sent.

DYNAMIGHT SEEN WITH PINKY ON HIS TRIP HOME. TWO HEROES TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT?

the loud bold text from this hero news page is paired with a photo of them at a restaurant, much like the one he took you to today but across the world. bakugou is in his gorgeous black suit, while this hero, pinky, looks beautiful. she doesn’t look like she’s playing a part in her teal dress, she looks as if she belongs. she’s got her hand over his on the table as he laughs and her smile looks like it’s worth thousands.

you gulp, turning off your phone and placing it face down on the sink. you refuse to look at yourself in the mirror, you can already imagine the word idiot painted on your forehead.

you’ve been cheated on twice. go figure. if it even counts considering he’s not yours.

you walk back into your bedroom exhausted, finding katsuki under your covers reading the blurb of a book you left on your bedside table.

“you took ages in there,” he opens the duvet so you can slip in, “c’mon i wanna cuddle.”

you want to cry. you want to scream into your pillow and write off dating for the end of time. this is why you shouldn’t have let yourself get close to this man. tomorrow you’re throwing out his magazine covers, the new hand painted bowls he got you and you’re going to get your tool kit to take apart the advertisement at your nearest bus stop where dynamight is pictured half naked telling you to buy new underwear.

you really want to wrap yourself in his arms and have the night you were supposed to have together.

“you have to leave.”

“hah?” he blurts, though he doesn’t move, “the date wasn’t that fuckin’ bad was it?”

“i’m serious, katsuki. leave!” you screech, clenching your fists. the tears that have been dying to fall all evening finally do.

you spin away from him, taking deep breaths and wiping your eyes. you can’t let him see you cry. bakugou pounces up from your bed and he risks it all by placing his hands on your waist, your back to his chest.

“what the fuck is goin’ on with you?” he mumbles, leaning his cheek against your head. “why’re you cryin’? the date was shit, yeah? then talk to me.”

he went back to japan on a work trip, he told you he was on a work trip but he was on a date with a woman. another pro hero who looks perfect with him and fits his life, the girlfriend he’s supposed to have. 

the warmth of his chest is a comfort you need to learn to hate.

you step away from him, taking a deep breath. you decide to face him once you’re sure no tears will fall and his face breaks your heart. his fingers are twitching to touch you, but since you won’t let him, he anxiously rakes them through his hair.

your voice is scratching your throat, dry and raw, “i didn’t like the restaurant, i felt uncomfortable. the waitress was flirting with you, so were those women that wanted photos with you. i never got to finish a sentence we had so many distractions. i felt like an idiot, a child playing dress up in a world that wasn’t made for me. y-you told those girls i wasn’t your girlfriend and… and i know i’m not but it felt like shit.”

then you half laugh, it’s an awkward one, “the food was good though. better than my shitty frozen food.”

you sigh, rubbing your eyes and you’re not even finished.

“baby, yn, i just wanted to try somethin’ new for us, that was my bad. shoulda kept it to what we know,” he tries, “and i guess they were flirtin’ but i didn't do i back?”

you shake your head, “that’s not the point. i don’t want to be on a date and witness that. you should have shut them down from the beginning.”

“they’re fans, i can’t shut down every fan—,”

“but you can.”

“yn, c’mon now.” bakugou grits his teeth, “i’m sorry about that and i didn’t mean to sound like a dick when i was talkin’ about food.”

“you think i’m being sensitive? dramatic?” you offer because you rather just have the words out before he can throw them at you later.

“fuck no, today was a lot. everythin’ combined, it makes sense that what i said sounded like that.” he frowns, so understanding it annoys you more. 

you sigh obnoxiously and bakugou feels his blood boil. he knows when he’s fucked up but what was wrong with what he said? “what?! is that the wrong thing to say?”

“no it’s not!” you throw your hands up in the air.

“then what?” he presses and bakugou has to because he never presses you. “you never talk to me. i’m always walkin’ on fuckin’ eggshells tryin’ to figure out if i’m comin’ or goin’ with you. you decide you like me one day and the next you want me to fuck off. i’m sorry i wanted to impress you with an expensive restaurant. yes, i should have dealt with all the fans differently. i should have been more aware of how you’re feelin’ but you don’t tell me shit.”

his chest heaves, out of breath and now he’s started he can’t stop. “you’re… you’re willin’ to drag me along knowing how much you have me wrapped around your finger. i’ve been down from the first week i met you but i was careful not to be too much so i don’t scare you. it’s been months, fuckin’ months and you still won’t tell me why you won’t let me in. why you don’t want me the same way i want you.”

he’s careful not to shout, so his words keep wobbling in pitch. “i haven’t done anythin’ wrong but i’m payin’ for your exes goddamn mistakes!”

you don’t want to see where he’s coming from, face your own mistakes in your relationship with him. you know he’s right but today proved you guys wouldn’t even work together. it feels like oxygen is slowly leaving the room, your chest heaves while bakugou grits his teeth at you. you handle accusations the only way you know how, you throw one back to him.

“well i guess you don’t have to deal with me anymore.”

“what?”

he didn’t rant for you to walk away from him, he doesn’t want to leave you. 

“your trip back home, going on dates with heroes. you both look good together,” you scoff, “even when you take precautions, even though you’re not my boyfriend, it still feels like being cheated on.”

you step away from him, wiping your eyes before tears can fall. your heart beats against your chest like a drum and you just want him out of your space. you want to be curled up in his arms. you wish that you were a clean slate meeting him for the first time, perhaps the version of you that didn’t get your heartbroken but now you come to any lover after with precaution and warning.

“the fuck are you on about? what date?” bakugou spits, not bothering to keep his voice down for your roommate.

he towers over you and despite his burning annoyance at how terrible the day has become, he can’t help but feel bad. especially at how you’re unable to meet his eyes, how you hug around your body and clutch your phone tightly.

you’re tapping your foot like you’re too busy for this conversation but it’s just a nervous tick, “the hero accounts are talking about you going on a date with another hero back in japan. i’m not mad, we aren’t together.”

it’s true, you’re not mad. you’re devastated. your tiny whisper, “please leave, katsuki.” is a physical punch in his stomach.

“i didn’t go on a date. i met up with a friend, mina right? that’s who you’re talkin’ about?”

your breaths come out as little hiccups and he knows for a fact you hate that he’s perceiving you like this. you’re distraught, refusing to let him see a tear slip and whilst telling him to leave, you still want to hear what he has to say.

“pinky. that pink hero,” you reply quietly.

“baby, yn, listen,” he notices your jaw clench at the name but you glance up at him. your eyes are blood shot, sending him daggers.

“she’s my friend from school. we grew up together. we had a hero event, the one i texted you about and then we went out to eat after. it wasn’t no fuckin’ date,” bakugou keeps his voice levelled, risking it all by lifting his palm to your cheek.

you lean into it like a kitten, “then why is her hand over yours in the picture?”

you’re embarrassingly wailing at him, lips in a sad pout and you swore to yourself months ago you wouldn’t end up like this again in front of a man. how the mighty have fallen.

bakugou coos you gently, so tender when he brushes a tear from you cheek, “what picture, baby?”

he’s shocked when you unlock your phone and the picture you’re talking about is the first one on the screen. along with the stupid headline and yes, her hand over his.

bakugou grunts, then sighs.

you’re a firecracker, quick to pull his hand off your cheek but he’s faster yanking you into his chest so you can’t escape.

“let me go, you dick,” but you barely fight, resting your face between his pectorals as he sits his hand on your waist.

“i was talkin’ to her about you. how you don’t want me back and i’m obsessed. she laughed and felt bad for me so she was just comfortin’ me.” he says it slowly, speaking at your bookshelf. 

your room is coated in silence. about five seconds worth, before you look up at him from where he’s got you squashed.

“how am i supposed to believe you?”

bakugou rolls his eyes, running his pointer finger in circles on your lower back, “that’s all up to you, babe. have i ever lied to you? i’ve only ever been honest with you.”

the words fall out of your mouth before you can even register them.

with your cheek pressed against his chest, your arms wrapped around his waist and your eyes closed, you say it so fast it’s barely coherent. “my last boyfriend cheated on me while i was dating him. the whole time. i liked him for about a year before we made it official and he cheated. practically everyday.”

finally, an explanation, bakugou thinks. but it’s not as satisfying as he hoped it would be. he demands the burning rage to simmer, he’s not here to be angry for you, you’ve done enough of that over the years. he kisses your temple and sits down in your bed. he pulls you onto his lap and you’re grateful that you don’t have to maintain eye contact. 

“how’d you find out?”

you sigh, wiping your nose with his t-shirt, “i knew for a fact for two weeks but still continued seeing him. i saw texts on his phone, then i got dms from girls asking if i was his girlfriend because he was with them last night.”

he can’t help it, “i wanna murder him.”

“same,” you laugh wetly, running your finger down a vein in his forearm, “i still haven’t let it go, i still hate him.”

“so that’s why you’re so careful with me gettin’ close to you.”

“that’s why you’re paying for my exes mistakes,” you try to joke and bakugou throws his head back in a huff.

“i didn’t mean that, i was just—,”

“i’m sorry.” you blurt, pressing your thumb into the thick muscle in bakugou’s arm, “i know i’ve been difficult and you’ve always come back.”

bakugou doesn’t know how to accept your apology, without the niggling knowledge that you’ve been aware of how much pain you’ve caused him. he holds you tight against him, hand holding your thighs to him and his other around your back.

he takes a shaky breath. when he looks up, directly forward he notices a photo booth strip of you and him, the same one on your table. he forgot that you picked up two while he took just one. turns out you did find a home for the photo. the solo photo booth strip you had attached to your fairy lights above your wardrobe now is replaced with you and him.

the first includes his grumpy face frowning at the camera while you grin with a peace sign.

the second he’s somewhat happier, his arm around your shoulders, smirking at the camera while you knock your head with his.

the third is when you put your hand on his jaw so he faces you and you kissed him. your eyes are closed while he looks at you surprised for initiating.

the fourth and last is just you both smiling at each other, his hand over yours on his cheek.

bakugou knows now, finally featured all over your room, a part of your life, what he must do.

“i was going to ask you to be my girlfriend again today,” he sniffs, staring at the strip, “while we ate ice cream at the little place ‘round the corner.”

you half laugh, wiping your face with the bottom of your tshirt, “i thought as much.”

“would you have said yes?” he tests and he doesn’t mean for his grip on you to get tighter but he’s preparing for the slow burn through his body at the rejection.

“i…,” you breathe softly, “i think so? i want you to be my boyfriend but today was all over the place and it made me question things.”

bakugou’s already nodding before you finish your sentence. he picks you off his lap and stands up, running a large palm over his face.

“what? what’s wrong?” you blubber and for someone who was just begging him to leave, the pendulum has swung on the opposite side. telling him your demons, why you’re so hard to love is supposed to make him stay, kiss you to sleep and live happily ever after.

“i’m gonna go home,” bakugou says and you’ve never seen the pro hero defeated. not in his career, on those clips on the news or when he comes to you after a villain brawl. but now, you can tell. he’s reached his limit with you.

his eyes droop with tiredness, physically and mentally. there’s a crease between his eyebrows because of his constant frown tonight and he’s no longer fidgeting with his hands. once they’re off his face, he stuffs them in his pockets and looks away from you.

“but… but i want you to stay now,” and you don’t want to cry again but you can feel it, fuck you can feel the burn of your throat with every word.

“you’re still not sure about me. one date couldn’t have been enough to completely change your mind about me. i’ve been sure for months about you, with every-fuckin’-thing you’ve thrown at me,” he grunts, chewing his bottom lip. forcefully rubbing his forehead like his mind will soften after. nothing works, “i’m gonna go.”

he opens your wardrobe, pulling out the suit he wore earlier, perfectly hung up with a black cloak over it. then he grabs his phone off your bedside table.

panic takes over you, your breathing stuttering, your thoughts jumping to the extremes, your hands clutching anything for purchase. you sit up on your knees. “are we over? are you breaking up with me?”

that makes him pause. he feels like punching himself in the throat for making you sound how he imagined your ex boyfriend made you. katsuki doesn’t want to lose you, that’s the last thing he wants to do here but it might be necessary now.

“we’re over,” he mutters yet loud enough for you both to hear.

you freeze, slumping down onto your ass, “no… but i don’t want to be over.”

“you don’t know what you want yn. some days you want me, others you don’t. some days you’re okay with pretending i don’t exist and others you’re all over me,” bakugou looks at you, sunken into your mattress, tears pouring down your cheeks. “it’s not fuckin’ fair.”

“please don’t go,” you tremble. pleading for a man, you’d rather die than admit you’ve ever done this but bakugou katsuki is different. he’s always been different. that’s what scared you.

“i’ll come back to pick up my other stuff. but i’m leavin’ for now.” he nods at you. he’s surprised at how calm he feels, as if he’s finally making a decision with his best interests in mind. he’s taking the wheel here, for the first time he’s in control of where your relationship is heading. even if it’s in the burning fire. “goodbye, yn.”

“i’m not saying bye to you,” you wipe your eyes with the back of your hands. “i don’t want you to go.”

katsuki knows he shouldn’t, but he does anyway. he steps over to you, cups the back of your head with his hand and kisses the top. 

“bye,” he mumbles into your scalp, “you’ll always know where i am.”

back in his greyscale apartment. lacking life, lacking you.

with that bakugou leaves you alone in your bed and only when your front door clicks shut do you fall back onto your pillows. loud wails unleash out of your body and like you always do for each other, your roommate knocks on your door.

comments and reblogs are appreciated. I delete comments asking for the next part.

GREYSCALE MASTERLIST

[junovae]

oh I’m sick

[junovae]

｡𖦹 °‧₊⊹ — steady callin’ my phone

synopsis: one drink too many leads to you receiving drunk texts

starring: Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Shoto Todoroki, Eijiro Kirishima, Denki Kaminari, Hitoshi Shinso, Tamaki Amajiki, Keigo Takami, Touya Todoroki

content warning: smau, suggestive 18+, unestablished relationship, straight crack, fluff-ish?

a/n: a reupload from my TikTok, go follow it!

IZUKU MIDORIYA

KATSUKI BAKUGO

SHOTO TODOROKI

EIJIRO KIRISHIMA

DENKI KAMINARI

HITOSHI SHINSO

TAMAKI AMAJIKI

KEIGO “HAWKS” TAKAMI

TOUYA “DABI” TODOROKI

a/n: reposting vids from my TikTok bc I don’t want to write and I’m genuinely exhausted from taking exams all week and I’m STILL not done?? pls kill me sos

2026 © junovae, do not plagiarize!

[junovae]

bark bark bark woof woof 🤤🤤

[junovae]

are you gonna make a actual masterlist with all your posts? x❤️

I’ve been working on my masterlist recently but I’m currently just trying to build a good list to add :pp

[junovae]

｡𖦹 °‧₊⊹ — steady callin’ my phone

synopsis: one drink too many leads to you receiving drunk texts

starring: Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Shoto Todoroki, Eijiro Kirishima, Denki Kaminari, Hitoshi Shinso, Tamaki Amajiki, Keigo Takami, Touya Todoroki

content warning: smau, suggestive 18+, unestablished relationship, straight crack, fluff-ish?

a/n: a reupload from my TikTok, go follow it!

IZUKU MIDORIYA

KATSUKI BAKUGO

SHOTO TODOROKI

EIJIRO KIRISHIMA

DENKI KAMINARI

HITOSHI SHINSO

TAMAKI AMAJIKI

KEIGO “HAWKS” TAKAMI

TOUYA “DABI” TODOROKI

a/n: reposting vids from my TikTok bc I don’t want to write and I’m genuinely exhausted from taking exams all week and I’m STILL not done?? pls kill me sos

2026 © junovae, do not plagiarize!

[junovae]

no bc I’m going to lose it I accidentally deleted the post I was trying to upload.

good fucking night catch me tomorrow

[celinelikecelinedior]

me when i see fic about ME the READER getting CHEATED ON. why would i fantasies about that ❓ like fck outta heya w that bs 😭💥

[simplybakugou]

I am loving your Second Time Around shorts! Could you make one of the Bakugo family out and about where Suki and Katsuo walk away for a moment with their dad, leaving Y/N alone for a moment and some newbie hero sees her and starts to flirt with her, Bakugo going berserk as he witnesses it from a few feet away??

⋆ PAIRING: dad!/divorced!/prohero!bakugou x mom!/divorced! /teacher!reader ⋆ WARNINGS/TAGS: kids; marriage; freaky ass annoying ass man harasses y/n; kind of angst? not really; fluff ⋆ WORD COUNT: 1.7K

A/N:  i live for jealous bakugou/protective bakugou so this took two seconds to write lol

NOTE: if you'd like to be tagged in these mini/extra fics, please join the taglist here

Second Time Around Masterlist

“I’m so full,” Suki groaned, leaning back in her chair as she patted her stomach.

“Nobody told you to stuff your face,” Katsuo said, placing his tablecloth on his empty plate.

Suki glared at him as she dusted off any crumbs from her dress. “Shut up, idiot.”

“Don’t start fightin’ now,” Bakugou interjected without even looking up as he paid for the meal before Katsuo could open his mouth and retort something back to his little sister. You just chuckled as Katsuo crossed his arms over his chest and grumbled under his breath.

Last week Katsuo had graduated from junior high and was going to attend U.A. for the next academic school year. You decided to take the family out to celebrate, going with a restaurant that was a little more high-end than you usually would’ve gone with since the kids never really cared where they ate as long as they were fed.

Even Bakugou dressed up, wearing a button up and slacks, unbuttoning the top few buttons so his collarbone peeked out. He refused to gel his hair back despite your efforts and pleas on wanting to do his hair but you were content with the fact that he even dressed up. Suki was excited since she never really had a reason to wear a dress or have her hair done. You even did her makeup which she was careful to not smudge the whole night during your meal. Then there was Katsuo, who like his father had no desire to dress differently than he usually did, but you only needed to ask him once and he obliged. He was dressed similarly to Bakugou and with the two of them sitting beside each other, if it wasn’t for the fact that Katsuo was a teenager, they looked exactly the same. 

“You look so pretty, Mom,” Suki said, smiling at you. 

“Thank you, sweetie,” you said. And of course you also decided to dress more fancy that you usually would, wearing a dress and heels with your hair pinned back. 

“Alright, bill’s paid,” Bakugou said, shoving his wallet in his pocket. “Let’s go home.”

The kids eagerly got up from their seats and when you grabbed your purse, you checked inside to make sure everything was there. “Shit, I forgot my phone in the bathroom,” you groaned. “You guys go ahead, I’ll just grab it and come back.”

The kids nodded and Bakugou gave you a glance before turning around and exiting the restaurant with the kids. You headed over to the bathroom, your heels clicking against the floor. You nervously smiled and waved at some people who recognized you. You’d never get used to the attention that came with being married to the number one hero. 

Shortly after, you were able to spot your phone in the bathroom and as you exited the bathroom, in your hurry, you ran into another person and your phone clattered to the floor. 

“Sorry!” You exclaimed, looking up at the man you accidentally ran into.

He looked familiar and you recognized him as one of the new heroes that had entered the top 50 of the Hero Charts. You always watched when the rankings would be announced so you could support Bakugou as he came out on top year after year. Even Bakugou was impressed with the new hero, saying how he had just graduated from a hero academy and had managed to do so well so fast.

“No worries,” the man mumbled as he grabbed your phone from the floor. “Here’s your–” 

He stopped as he looked at you for the first time. You gave him a confused look and you watched as his blue eyes went from your face and trailed down your body. 

“Could I get my phone–”

“I’ve never seen you around,” the man said, his lips curling up into a smile as he held your phone in his hand, away from your reach.

You blinked back at him. “It’s a big city…”

“Yes, but weird enough, you look very familiar,” he said, his voice trailing off. His eyes continued to search your figure. “Where have I seen you?”

“I don’t know,” you said curtly, already getting fed up. Clearly this newbie hero was trying to waste your time. “Can I just get my phone back?”

You attempted to reach out and take your phone from him but he pulled his hand back at the last second, causing you to lose your balance. He caught you, wrapping an around your waist and pressing your body against his.

“Whoa, sweetheart. Almost dropped ya,” he said with a sleazy wink.

You scowled, planting your hands against his chest as you tried to push away from him. “Let go of me. You’re way too young to be hitting on me. And I’m married.”

“Aw, c’mon don’t be like that–” His words were cut short and suddenly he was pulled away from you. You gasped when you realized Bakugou had grabbed him by the back of his collar and threw him back and away from you. Your phone slid across the floor and you were quick to grab it, letting out a sigh of relief when you finally got it back.

“Did he grab you?” Bakugou asked you, his eyes wide and blown out. You could tell he was beyond furious.

“Yes, but–” Bakugou didn’t wait for you to finish as he picked the man up by his collar and slammed him against the wall adjacent to the men’s bathroom. The newbie hero looked terrified. If he didn’t recognize you before, he definitely did now and he was absolutely regretting hitting on the number one hero’s wife.

You saw other patrons of the restaurant had started staring in your direction. “Kats, I think he gets it,” you said gently, placing a hand to his back.

“Fucker doesn’t get shit,” Bakugou said to you before looking back at the hero. “She was pushin’ you away and you think it’s okay to put your hands on her?!”

“Kats, please, the kids,” you said, and he glanced over at you and then over his shoulder by the restaurant’s entrance where the kids looked over to you with concern.

Bakugou tutted and tossed the hero to the floor like he was a scrap of garbage. He grabbed your hand and pushed past the onlookers as he led you back to the kids. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!” The hero called out to Bakugou.

“You and your lawyer can go suck a dick,” Bakugou yelled back, causing some people around you to gasp. 

“Slow down, Katsuki,” you said as you struggled to keep up with his pace in your heels. “You should’ve been more careful back there–”

He whipped around and looked back at you in disbelief. “I should’ve been more careful?! So this is my fuckin’ fault and not that asshole’s?”

“Dad,” Katsuo said as he nervously looked between you and his father.

Bakugou glanced at him, and dug his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Katsuo. “Get in the car. We’ll be there.”

Suki nodded slowly and turned around and left the restaurant, clearly not wanting to stay there for a second longer. Katsuo only looked at you and you gave him a reassuring smile. “We’ll be right there, baby.”

Only after hearing your words did Katsuo nod and follow his sister out the door. You took Bakugou’s hand and you both stood outside, not wanting people to continue to stare at you both.

“Thank you for cutting in and saving me but… there were so many people and the kids were watching,” you said as calmly as you could. 

Bakugou scoffed. “So what, was I s’posed to let that asshole feel you up and touch you when you didn’t want him to? Was I s’posed to sit back and let my wife get fuckin’ harassed?”

“No, I didn’t say that.” You sighed. You could tell he was getting more and more frustrated by the second despite how hard he was trying to calm himself down. He didn’t like getting riled up like this, especially in front of the kids so you always did your best to calm him down. 

You held his face in your hands and watched as his eyes softened when you touched him. You smiled up at him. “Thank you for saving me. I’m not saying you can’t get angry and protect me; I’m just saying I don’t want your rank to drop because of someone that doesn’t deserve your time of day.”

Bakugou exhaled through his nose and brought his hands to your hips. “Sorry for gettin’ mad… shouldn’t’ve yelled at you.”

Your thumb caressed his cheek, brushing over his scar under his eye. “It’s okay, Kats.”

“And I don’t give a fuck about my ranking right now,” Bakugou huffed. “If I’ve gotta let my ranking die so I can protect you, then fuck the ranking. I know I’m the best, I don’t need that shit to know that.”

You laughed and leaned up and kissed him. “Well, I don’t want you to not care about your ranking for me so saving and protecting me is enough.”

Bakugou smiled. “Feel okay now?” You asked.

Bakugou nodded and let out a small sigh. “Let’s get back to the kids so I don’t freak ‘em out more than I already have.”

You agreed and held his hand as you both walked back to the car. Bakugou moved his hand around your waist. “Y’know I’m not surprised that fucker would hit on you. I would, too, if I were him.” Then his hand traveled down and squeezed your ass.

You rolled your eyes and nudged him away from you. When you both got inside the car, Suki immediately leaned forward, looking right at you. “Mom, are you okay?”

You smiled back at her as Bakugou started the car. “I’m okay, sweetie.”

“What the hell was that dude doing? Did he touch you?” Katsuo asked angrily as Bakugou started to exit the lot.

“Don’t worry about it, okay? Dad took care of it,” you reassured them.

“Good job, Dad!” Suki exclaimed, patting Bakugou’s shoulder. “That asshole deserved it.”

You gave her a look and she raised her hands in front of her defensively. “What? He is an asshole!”

“For once Suki’s right,” Katsuo added and Suki punched his arm, which broke out an argument between the two of them.

You shook your head and turned back around, looking out the window at all of the passing houses. Bakugou reached a hand out and squeezed your thigh. You looked over to him and smiled, putting your hand on top of his as he drove you all home.

[lonelyfooryouonly]

crush | katsuki b.

art by @/gsony24

summary: working for pro-hero dynamight gets a lot more complicated when feelings get involved — feelings you definitely shouldn’t have for your boss.

warnings: power imbalance (kinda), unrequited feelings (?), reader is delulu, angsty but not really, cursing, teasing, a lil bit of banter;

wc: 1,7k

Having a crush on Pro-Hero Dynamight is really hard.

You don’t really know if he’s just oblivious, or if he genuinely doesn’t care about your feelings. But why would he even care anyway? You weren’t entitled to anything from him. His rare smiles, his laugh, his precious attention… none of it belonged to you, and you knew that very well. Yet it still hurt every single time you saw him paying attention to someone else instead of you.

And the hardest part of it all?

He was also your boss.

You couldn’t just avoid him. Couldn’t simply stop seeing him anymore. He was part of your workplace — the main part of it, actually. Everything in that building revolved around him and his mood swings.

You came to the conclusion that he shows you a completely different kind of disregard this very morning when you brought some paperwork to his office. The second you placed the documents down on his desk, you tried to leave as quickly as possible since he was already yelling at someone through his phone.

But then—

“Hey, you.”

You froze at the sound of his low, gruff voice behind you.

Slowly, you turned around, heart thumping hard against your ribs while preparing yourself for literally anything.

“Call droppy eyes and mop-head here,” he muttered.

You paused awkwardly for a second, not fully understanding who exactly he meant, until you noticed him lazily pointing somewhere behind you, through the glass door of his office. Following the direction of his finger, you spotted two guys standing near the coffee machine while talking to each other.

You nodded quickly.

Not wanting to bother him anymore, you immediately excused yourself and stepped out of the office.

A frown slowly appeared on your face while walking towards your colleagues.

It was weird.

Now that you thought about it, Bakugou used insulting nicknames for basically every employee in his agency, yet whenever he referred to you, he always used pronouns instead. Never anything else.

Why didn’t he even bother coming up with an insult for you?

Were you not even worth that much?

At least insulting someone meant he spent a few seconds thinking about them, givng his attention to them. Even if it was only to make fun of them—

You shook your head quickly.

You were genuinely upset because your boss, the guy you had a crush on, didn’t insult you like he did with everyone else?

Maybe that was actually a good thing. Maybe he found you useful somehow.

Hell, maybe he even liked—

No. Absolutely not.

You were genuinely losing your mind.

Shaking the thoughts away, you continued walking towards your coworkers like Bakugou requested. The two men seemed too invested in their conversation to notice you approaching.

“And then he told me to—”

“Guys,” your voice cut through awkwardly.

Both of them looked towards you immediately. You still felt nervous around most employees since you had only worked there for a few weeks. Everything still felt new.

“Oh— sorry! Yeah?” one of them asked while setting his coffee cup down with a friendly smile.

Wow.

His eyes really were droopy. Bakugou was weirdly good at giving people mean names.

“Dynamight called both of you,” you informed them, trying not to stare too much at his face.

“Damn,” the other one muttered. “Was he angry?”

“He’s always angry,” you replied with an apologetic smile.

They both laughed instantly.

“Fair enough,” droopy eyes snorted before nudging his coworker. “C’mon.”

The two waved goodbye before walking past you towards Bakugou’s office, leaving you standing there alone.

As you turned your head back to the glass office doors, your stomach nearly dropped. Bakugou was already staring directly at you through the glass. Phone still pressed against his ear. His sharp crimson eyes locked onto yours immediately.

And then—

You blinked once, and he was already looking away like nothing happened.

You stared for another second before finally shaking your head again.

Going crazy was an understatement at this point.

***

By the time your shift finally ended, you gathered your things slowly and walked out of the office. You always ended up being one of the last people to leave since you liked making sure everything was perfect before going home.

Your heels clicked softly against the hallway floor as you made your way towards the elevator. The building had gone mostly quiet by now, almost nobody left around this late.

You pressed the button for the first floor and waited quietly until the elevator dinged open again. After stepping out, you waved politely at the security man before pushing open the glass doors of the building and walking outside.

The night air was chilly and windy enough to make you immediately hug your arms around yourself.

As you carefully started walking down the stairs, your eyes lifted automatically…. and immediately landed on him.

Bakugou.

He was dressed in a casual attire this time, black pants, military boots and a leather jacket that clung perfectly to his muscles. He didn't notice you, as he walked unknowinglly towards his car.

Ah… yes. The black Porsche.

His newest acquisition.

Fans had completely lost their minds when they found out he bought it. News outlets treated it like some huge event, constantly trying to catch pictures of him driving it around even though it was honestly something pretty normal. Just a guy buying a car.

A very expensive car, sure, but still something mundane. Something boring.

Well… until it was Pro-Hero Dynamight doing it. Then suddenly it became headline worthy.

By the looks of it, he was probably about to leave too.

You bit the inside of your cheek while quietly stepping farther down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible since he stood only a few feet away from you.

You were absolutely not ready to have a conversation with him right now. Seeing him outside the office felt strangely different somehow. More personal. And now it was just you and him alone in the parking lot.

Yeah. No. Absolutely not doing this.

Unfortunately, luck clearly hated you.

Your heel landed wrong against the next stair and suddenly your balance slipped. You nearly fell forward, barely catching yourself on the railing in time before crashing face first into the concrete.

“Shit—”

The curse slipped from your lips before you could stop it. And judging by the way Bakugou immediately turned towards you, he definitely heard it.

Within seconds, his brows pulled together while his eyes slowly dragged over your awkward position on the stairs. Your cheeks burned hot with embarrassment as you straightened yourself as fast as possible.

Unfortunately, not fast enough to miss the smirk slowly spreading across his lips.

“You good?” he asked, voice rough with poorly hidden amusement.

You tried not to roll your eyes while stepping down the last stair carefully this time.

“Yes, don’t worry about me,” you assured him with a strained smile, still slightly out of breath.

He gave a small nod.

You hoped that would be the end of it.

But the second he shoved his car keys back into his pocket instead of turning around, you immediately realized you weren’t escaping this conversation.

“It’s kinda rude, y’know?” he continued casually. “Seeing your boss and not even saying hi first.”

His lips twitched slightly.

“I could sanction you for bad conduct.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I was a little too busy trying not to break my neck,” you replied with a tight smile. “But I’ll keep that in mind. Wouldn’t wanna inconvenience you by any means.”

The smile on your face looked sweet enough, but the sarcasm underneath it was obvious.

Bakugou tried repressing his grin, forcing his expression back into something more serious.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Silence settled between you two for a moment.

Then—

“Ya like workin’ at my company?” he suddenly asked.

You blinked once in confusion.

“I’ve had complaints about it bein’ a toxic workplace or whatever,” he explained briefly with a shrug.

“Oh… well… it’s honestly better than some places I’ve worked at before,” you admitted truthfully.

He hummed quietly at that.

“Anyone givin’ you a hard time?”

“Besides you?”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them. Your eyes widened instantly.

Oh no.

Your lips parted again, already trying to think of some excuse or way to fix what just came out of your mouth—

But then you heard him snort.

“Hah.”

A rough chuckle left him, genuinely amused.

“That’s why I hired you,” he muttered more to himself than to you, almost like a reminder.

You stared at him blankly for a second. You didn’t even know how to react.

The idea that he might’ve actually liked your comebacks or attitude during the interview completely caught you off guard. You genuinely thought the interview went horribly. You thought he hired you just to make your life harder — not because he was actually entertained by you.

“Need a ride home?” he suddenly asked.

Then realization hit you.

“Yes,” you answered immediately.

“I mean— I probably missed the train by now anyway, so… that would actually help.”

A complete lie.

“Course,” he nodded simply before finally moving towards the car, but this time with you trailing behind him.

He pressed the the unlock button as you walked around the car just in time to see the passenger door open automatically. Quietly, you climbed inside before the door shut behind you again.

A second later, Bakugou got in too, immediately putting on his seatbelt before starting the engine. You quickly copied him, fumbling slightly with your own belt while giving him your address.

He typed the coordinates into the GPS before finally turning his head towards you.

“You good with a bumpy ride?” he asked, voice lower now, a smirk already tugging at his lips.

You frowned slightly, confused for half a second as you looked at him.

“Oh— yeah. Totally fine,” you nodded quickly, knowing that your home wasn’t in the easiest place to get to.

“Good,” he replied while resting one hand against the steering wheel. “’Cause I’m not takin’ complaints.”

tags: @kamislop

[junovae]

˖᯽ ݁˖ — wanna get high and nasty?

synopsis: after you called up your plug, it seems like he has a few ideas in mind on how you can pay him back!

content warning: explicit, smoking, kissing, unestablished relationship, piercings, pet names, fwb, whimpering, smut w/ little to no plot, drooling, praise kink, breeding kink, mdom, hair pulling, oral f. rec, fingering, püssy drunk, switchy, p in v, riding, tummy bulges, overstimulation, dacryphilia?, multiple rounds, creämpies, aftercare yippee

wc: 4.1k

a/n: ugh this has been sitting in my drafts since forever thank god it finally gets to see the light

based on these poll results. enjoy!

You pulled up to his apartment, the rain pattering onto the windshield of your car. It was dark and cloudy outside, the thunder rumblings in the background. You took a hit of your vape as you debated whether or not if you wanted to knock on his door. The sweet smoke seeped from your lips, before you ultimately opened your car door and stepped out.

You looked down at the wet concrete, trying to protect your face from the rain. Finally making it to his complex, the bottom of your sweatpants wet from walking in the rain. You hesitated as you lifted your arm to knock on the door, biting your lip slightly before your knuckles finally reached the door.

He opened the door shortly after you knocked, his messy bangs covering his eyes. His lip piercing shining in the dim moonlight.

“Took you long enough,” he murmured quietly before retreating back into his apartment, leaving you standing by the door, “know what you’re looking for?” he asked from inside the apartment.

You stood awkwardly at the front, shifting your weight onto your other leg. “Um, yeah. Same thing as always.” you replied as you nervously took a hit of your vape, exhaling the smoke from your mouth.

“Cool.” he replied as he walked back to the open door, the pouch of weed in hand. His eyes briefly gazing over your face before shortly looking away.

“How much?” You asked as you went grab your wallet from your tote-bag.

“250, same as always.” he replied, watching as you dug through your bag. You pulled out the cash from your wallet, counting it quickly before handing it to him.

“Here, that should cover it.” You responded as you handed him the cash. He nodded, counting it regardless of the fact you just counted it in front of him.

“Yeah, thanks. Appreciate doin’ business. Same time next week?” he asked.

You hummed in agreement, turning your head before noticing that the rain had started getting harder. You gulped nervously , the thought of having to drive in it practically eating at you.

Choso seemed to notice the color in your face fading, he raised a curious, pierced eyebrow at you. “I just rolled a fresh blunt if you wanna come in.” he stepped aside just enough for you walk in

His offer weighed heavily on you, you hesitated before ultimately agreeing. “Oh. uhm, sure if it’s not much trouble.” you replied.

“Nah, not at all,” he chuckled before you stepped into his apartment, closing the door behind you, “consider it a little bonus for my best client.”

Your eyes dawned over his living room, the room filled with a hazy, smoky atmosphere. You sat on an empty spot on the couch, before he decided to plop beside you.

He grabbed the lighter that was sitting on the coffee table, flicking it a few times before it finally formed a flame. He brought the flame to the end of the blunt, lighting it then pressing it to his lips.

He inhaled sharply, then exhaling with a cough. Passing over the blunt to you. “Thanks.” you hummed quietly as you brought the blunt to your lips. The smoke instantly filling your senses, and escaping with a cough following after.

“Shit, how do you smoke these so often?” You cough out, clearing your throat afterwards.

“You get used to it,” He snorts, taking another hit for himself. “could say the same thing about those vapes.” he chuckles, eyeing you as you held the vape to your mouth.

“It’s cotton candy flavored though, it doesn’t taste like burnt grass.” you exhaled, the scent escaping your lips.

“Burnt grass?” he glanced at you amused.

“That’s what weed tastes like to me,” You shrug, “I prefer my dessert flavored vapes.”

A small smile grew on his face, “So why do you buy it?” He asks, passing the blunt over to you.

You fiddle with it for a second before finally taking a big puff, “I dunno, I guess I like the taste of burnt grass.” You giggled as you contradicted yourself.

“You’re very complex.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Mhm.” He nodded, his eyes now a red-pinkish tint. He glared at you hungrily; you, him, and a blunt? Never a good idea and never had a good outcome.

It seemed the weed had been hitting you too, your brain was foggy and your thoughts were clouded. Your eyelids drooped heavily as you passed the blunt back and forth. “You got any edibles?” you asked, blowing the smoke out from your lips.

“Yeah, just made a fresh batch. Wanna take one together?” he asks.

“Together?”

“Like old time sakes.” his eyes flickered between your lips and your eyes.

You bit your lip, subconsciously you know how this would end. But did you care? Not really. “We both know that’s not a good idea.” you responded.

“Yeah, well when has anything we’ve done together been a good idea?” he lounges back in the couch, throwing his head back and his shaggy bangs fall from his face. You shouldn’t listen to him, you really shouldn’t. But your body betrays you before your mind could answer.

“Sure, fuck it.” You shrugged. His lips curled into a smile as he lifted his head back up. He arose from his spot on the couch, disappearing for a minute or two before coming back with a clear ziploc back. A couple of gummies in the packaging. He grabbed two, handing one to you.

A grin grew on your face as you both simultaneously popped the edible into your mouths. It was only a matter of time till it would kick in.

You leaned back, your mind now relaxed with the cannabis slowly flowing into your system. “Isn’t it funny that the only time we ever actually hangout is either to get high, or fuck?”

“Strange world, isn’t it?” Choso hummed.

“Indeed.”

You could already feel the dampness growing in between your thighs. Maybe it was the edible you just took, or maybe you were just really fucking horny. You bit your lip as the lustful thoughts filled your head. You weren’t in the headspace alone, Choso was in the same boat. His head filled with lewd thoughts of your body underneath his. Your sticky skin colliding with his. It overtook his brain in ways he couldn’t explain.

It wouldn’t be the first time you two have gotten high and done perverted things together, it was a sort of symbiotic relationship. Choso got you high and good deals, and in return you let him fuck your brains out. It was a win-win situation.

He was already practically undressing you with his eyes. The heat and sexual tension growing between you too.

Your thighs were tightly clamped together, his meaty thighs spread wide on the couch cushions, there was nothing you wanted more in that moment than to mount him like a horse and hump him like a bunny in heat. But you were a woman of class, of course you wouldn’t yet.

“Wanna get high and nasty?” He blurts out, his voice low and gravely.

“I thought you’d never ask.” you smiled as he immediately grabbed your hips and pulled you onto his lap. Your mouths instantly crashing onto one another. He tasted like smoke with a hint of metal from his piercing.

His hands gripped your hips harshly, pulling your body tightly against his and forcing you to grind against his groin. His sweatpants were low on his hips, your fingers occasionally slipping underneath the waistband. Your fingers were cold against his warm skin, causing a small shudder to escape from his lips.

“Fuck, you can’t do that. S’not fair…” he whined as his grip on your hips tightened. Your fingers traveling from his waist to his hair, entangling themselves freely in his messy, black locks.

His hands went to the back of your thighs, like he was trying to hold onto the dignity he had left. His lips left momentarily to leave bites and kisses among your neck and jawline.

“Cho, I need you,” you whined out as Chosos hands roamed the sides of your body, occasionally sliding over the “please?”

Your pleading must’ve sent him into overdrive, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he pressed his bulge against you. “S’okay, I’ll make you feel real good soon.” he whispered in your ear before connecting your lips again. Your teeth now nibbling on his lower lip and your tongue fiddling with his lip piercing.

His kisses were hot, wet and open mouthed, your teeth constantly colliding. You could feel the heat pooling below your belly, the dampness growing in between your thighs. Your hips grinding against his growing bulge needy.

“Can’t anymore, need to taste you right now.” He groaned as he pushed you onto your back. His hands ripping off your sweatpants. Leaving you in only your lace camisole and your sweet, cotton panties. His fingers traced the wet spot that had formed, teasing the sensitive skin underneath.

“So wet f’me and I haven’t even touched you yet.” Choso chuckled to himself as he toyed with your delicate state.

“Choooo, stop being mean!” you whined out as you writhed underneath him. Your back arched as you felt his hot breath linger over the wet spot. Before his fingers eventually hooked your panties to the side and admiring the view of your slick glistening on your folds.

He began with small kitten-like licks, savoring your sweet taste. “You taste so good, pretty.” he murmured amongst your puffy clit. The vibration of his voice sending shrills down your spine.

“More, you whimpered as his tongue glided against your slit. “please, cho.” How could he ever say no to such a pretty thing like you?

“I’m getting there, angel. Be patient.” he responded while slurping your sweet juices. He was practically nose deep and still didn’t have enough of you. He pulled off your clit to slide in his middle finger into your slit, slowly curling it against your pulsating walls.

Your hands got lost in his hair as his fingers curled in and out of your hole, his tongue slowly lapping over your sensitive clit. “Yes! Ohmygod, right— hick! there!” you cried out in pleasure.

“Close— m’sooo close.” your moans sounded like music to his ears.

Choso took the sounds of your pleasure as a sign to go further, his fingers still pumping in and out of your needy cunt. His tongue now letting your clit rest from the stimulation.

He brought his face up to yours, his pace with his fingers slowly faltering. “Taste yourself on my lips, angel.” he whispered as he smashed his lips onto your. Your hips jutted against his hand, desperate for any friction and change in pace.

“Need to cum, please.” you whined, trying to convince him to pump his long digits in you once again.

“I know, I know, sweet girl. I’ll get you there. I promise.” He kissed the inside of your thigh sweetly before indulging on your swollen cunt again. He slurped and sucked like a man dying of hunger, his fingers now knuckles deep and pressing against your G-spot.

Your walls tightened against his fingers, on the verge of falling off the ledge of ecstasy. No coherent words could form on your tongue, only a variety of gasps and moans. Tears swelled in your eyes from the pleasure, his tongue relentlessly lapping at your sensitive hole.

Seeing the way your face twisted from the immense stimulation had Choso groaning into your pussy. His fingers curling so perfectly inside of you.

“C’mon pretty, I can feel you squeezing my fingers,” he cooed, his free hand clenching the back of your thigh. “be a good girl and cum f’me, yeah?” he groaned as he flicked his tongue up and down, relentless with the pleasure he was giving you.

“Mhm!” you cried out as your hands tangled into his hair, “m’cumming, hiccup! m’cumming” you moaned as the wave of ecstasy hit you hard. Your thighs clenched around Choso’s head, trembling from the sudden high. His free hand moved from your thigh to your lower stomach to push you down from squirming.

Choso groaned into your pussy as you finished, slurping your juices and lapping at your fluttering hole. “Look how pretty that mess you made is.” He praised you, his hips rutting against the couch cushion.

He sits up from being between your thighs, pressing small kisses as he exists. “C’mon baby, you can take more f’me.” he smiles as he pulled your limp body onto his lap. “You wanna make me feel good, don’t you?”

You nodded, your thighs tense and sore but nonetheless, you wanted to show your appreciation and make him feel good to.

You bit your lip as your hands fiddled with the drawstrings of his sweats, untying them and pulling down the waistband of his sweats just enough to free his cock. It sprung against his stomach, pre-cum beading at the tip.

“F-fuck,” he whined as you stroked it slightly before lining the tip with your entrance, rubbing the tip against your hole. “can’t believe it’s gonna—haah, fit in you.” he threw his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

You began slowly descending onto his lap, the stretch burning in the most addictive way. You held onto his shoulders as support, small whimpers escaping your swollen lips.

He feared if he looked in your eyes as you slid down on his length, he would bust at that very moment. The pleasure of your walls tightening as you took each inch at a painfully slow rate was extremely overwhelming. You squealed once you felt him bottom out in you, his tip prodding at your cervix.

“Soo— hck! So full, Cho.” you whimpered, he finally split an eye ope to look at you on his lap. His cock twitching at the sight.

Choso’s hands tightly gripped your hips to help you maintain your rhythm, your thighs plopping onto his lap with every bounce. The sounds of wet, sticky, skin against skin echoed throughout the room. “Harder, you can do better than that, baby.”

He grit his teeth as you obeyed his directions, your pace slightly hitching up in speed. His long, veiny cock slipping in and out your folds, occasionally slipping out when you rose back to the top.

“I’m— trying! It’s just t’much..!” you whined as the burn in your legs began to rush throughout your body.

“Look at you, you’re taking every inch of me.” He groaned, his praise sounding like music to your ears. He so badly wanted to grab you by your hips and rut into you relentlessly, but he preferred to make you feel good first.

“Feels s’good.. s’full.” You moaned as his dick filled you to the brink.

He let out a guttural groan as his tip prodded at your spongy G-spot, your legs slowly getting tired but you maintained your speed. Choso’s hands guided your hips and pulled you up and down on his cock. Your brain began getting fuzzy and empty. The only thought lingering was to make yourself feel good.

Choso’s nails dug small crescents into your skin as you rode his brains out. Your clit grinding onto his pelvic bone.

His cock twitched inside of you as you let out a high pitched moan. Your thighs now clenching around his waist. “So— ngh, tight. You feel so good, baby.” he groaned from underneath you.

You nodded brainlessly, your silk walls tightening around his cock. Choso looked at you with half-lidded eyes, his eyelashes soaked from his tears of pleasure.

“Go faster for me, pretty.” He grunted as he thrusted up into the roll of your hips. Your cunt greedily sucked in every inch he gave you, your cervix now practically bruised from his lengthy cock. Your legs were tired, sore and worn out. You tried to pick up the pace but your body couldn’t keep up with Choso’s stamina. His eyebrows furrowed with a bead of sweat between them, his hands guiding you to make you go faster.

“y’re not going fast enough— ngh,” he began getting frustrated

You were trying. Really, you were.

Eventually, it wasn’t enough for him. Within seconds, Choso flipped you over onto your hands and knees; the air remaining in your lungs escaping from the sudden change in movement.

“M’sorry baby,” he whined before aligning his flaring pink tip with your entrance, “s-soooo sorry.”

He slammed into your with a forceful thrust. Your legs trembling and hardly keeping you up. “M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry—“ he repeated over and over again. Tears welling in both of your eyes. Your face was shoved into the couch cushions, a small patch of drool starting to form from where you lips laid.

“F-feels too good to— hck! stop.” he babbled, your syrupy cunt reeling him in more with each roll of his hips. His fingers were practically leaving bruises on your hips from how tight he was holding them, you couldn’t speak. Every ounce of strength you had left was fucked out of your body.

Your limp, sore, body.

“C-Cho, s’too much—“ you were cut off by him shoving your face further into the couch. He couldn’t help it, your pussy was practically singing to him. And it was definitely speaking more than you could at the moment.

“No, y’re taking it soo good f’me,” his thrusts became more frantic and sloppier. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head as another orgasm crashed over you. “S-see? You can take it.” he grunted, the pulsing from your orgasm sent him over the edge; his cocked twitched inside of you as he buried himself to a hilt.

“F-fuck!” He yelped as he grabbed a handful of your hair. “M’cumming, haah— fuck!” he whimpered as hot, sticky, long, ropes spurt inside of you; filling you to the absolute brink.

A frothy mixture of your liquids dripped from between your thighs, spilling onto the couch beneath your legs. A ring now formed around his cock. He didn’t pull out, just kept you both connected.

“Need to see y’re face this time,” he murmured as he flipped you over to your back. Your eyes widening as he hovered over you.

“What? N-no, I can’t!” You cried out, but it was too late. He was too far gone. Your mascara now streaming down your face as your sticky bodies collided once more.

“Yes you can, baby. And you will—“ he babbled breathlessly. His pelvic bone snapping against your ass. “for me, you can.” his hand lingered on your lower stomach, a evident bulge lying beneath his palm. “Heh, l-look. Y’re so full of me already.” The room absolutely reeked of sweat and sex, with the slightest hint of your cotton candy vape.

Your hand was placed on his lower abdomen, squirming beneath his violent yet desperate thrust. Trying to push away from the immense pleasure. “S-slow down!” You testified from underneath him.

“Where are ya’ running off to?” He asked as he realized you were scooting away from his cock. He slammed into you hard, forcing a sweet whine to escape your lips. “stop— ngh, running from me.” He folded you in half like a pretzel to prevent you from scooting away from it again.

He held you in the meanest mating press. His balls slapping against your clit as he held your legs to your chest. Your hands clawed at his back and sides, leaving the evidence of raw, red lines on his skin.

He aggressively grabbed your jaw, pulling your face to his own. The kiss was no longer sweet, but full of hunger and want. His teeth pressed into your lower lip before his tongue explored your mouth. His other hand traveling down to your clit, his thumb rubbing over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“One more,” he gasped out as he devoured your lips raw, “c’mon, I know you can do it f’me, pretty.”

It seemed your body listened to him more than yourself, because shortly after, your cunt seized around him for the umpteenth time this night. The suction caused him to groan as he picked up his pace; chasing his own climax. Your cunt gushed with juices as you reached your orgasm.

His seed was still dribbling down your ass, he was practically using it as lube to fuck back into your greedy hole easier.

“Wan’ fill you up more— No, need to fill you up more.” His cock twitched inside of you as you neared the end of your orgasm. The nasty squelches filling the room as you let out borderline pornographic moans. Your cunt squeezed around him at the sound of his words. “Ya’ want that don’t you? Need me to fill this pretty cunt nice and full?”

“Mhm— please, Cho.” You clenched down on him harder. “Need to feel you more.” Your tears mixing with your sweat.

“S’okay baby, I know what’s best for her.” your body flailed against his rough pounding. “Don’t need to talk more, she’s doin’ allll the talking for you.”

He pressed down harder on the bump in your tummy, feeling the outline of his cock inside of you. Just the sensation alone had him stretching you in was deemed to be nearly impossible. His throbbing tip prodding at spots you didn’t even know existed.

“Haah— fuck. M’gonna cum again soon.” he warmed as his thrust continued getting sloppier and heavier. “Gon’ fill her nicely for you.” You shook your head profusely, your thighs trembling underneath him.

“M-maybe even get you pregnant, have you round and leaking of me.” He rambled on. He shuddered at the thought. “Would keep you full fuck, would treat you soooo good.

Choso’s cock abused your poor, leaking hole. The only thing keeping him alive in this moment was how beautifully you were taking him in. “Gotta— ngh, give this cunt what she wants.”

It only took a few more greedy thrust before he painted your insides white, your now white silken walls being stuffed full of him.

He laid ontop of you, nearly just as limp as you were. His cum stayed in for the meantime as he stayed plugged inside of you. Just where he wanted to be.

His face stayed buried in the crook of your neck, his mouth was close enough that you could hear his ruined whimpers. His tip leaked hot spurts inside of you more and more with each passing second, before he ultimately pulled out of you. You whined at the sudden emptiness, his seed seeping out of your raw and sloppy pussy.

“Look at that.” he mumbled under his breath as he watched your juices ooze once he pulled out. The admiration in his voice very evident.

His eyes widened once he realized your ruined state. “M’sorry— did I… was it too much?” he rambled over his words as he immediately felt the guilt of going over your limit.

“No— no, Cho. I’m fine.” you responded with a weak smile. You felt so used but it was the most pleasurable feeling.

“A-are you sure?” He asked against, his ears perking up from your confirmation. “Let me clean you up.” he disappeared for a moment, but came back with a slightly damp towel to wipe you down with. Afterwords, he helped you change into more suitable clothes for your own comfortability.

Choso’s sudden change in affection was refreshing, he caressed your body so carefully. Rubbing any part that might’ve been sore. He gently kissed the marks he left on your skin with sweet praises.

“You did so good for me, angel.”

“Just hold me close, Cho.” you replied weakly.

He pressed a few kisses to the top of your forehead as you laid on his chest. The sound of his heartbeat soothing you to sleep.

a/n: okeh so like this took way longer to edit than expected cause daddy has exam season now 😞 but don’t fret my kittens I still have plenty of short posts for u to feast on mwahahahah

© junovae, do not plagiarize!

[junovae]

⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆. — BABY, ITS YOUR BIRTHDAY

synopsis: the one day of the year that Katsuki lets you spoil him is his birthday, and the best thing to spoil him is with kisses!

pairing: prohero!katsuki x fem!reader

content warning: timeskip!au, established relationship, kissing, fluff, crackish, tooth rotting fluff gaaah, cutie patooties just in love!

wc: 512

a/n: meow I’m aware I’m very late but it’s my world and everyone else just lives in it.

The morning glow of the sun was heavy on your skins you had been tossing and turning all night, simply excited for all the surprises you had in store for Katsuki.

From the moment he woke up, you couldn’t stop with the affection. You started off the morning by peppering his face with 26 kisses, each kiss symbolizing every 26 years he’s lived.

“This shit make you happy?” he grumbled underneath your affection.

“Very.” You murmured, pressing more kisses all over his face. Then placing your lips ontop of his. A content hum escaping from between the two of you.

A strong arm was wrapped tightly around your waist. Pulling your body on top of his. The musky scent of burnt caramel and smoke instantly overwhelming your senses. “Stay still, I need to give you your birthday kisses.”

“I am being still.” he frowned as you placed the last of the 26 kisses. Your hands placed flat on his chest.

“Clearly not still enough.” You rolled your eyes, your caressing his chest slightly. Your thighs placed on each side of his waist as you mounted him. “So, birthday boy. What’ya got in mind for the big twenty-six?”

“Eh? Same shit I do every year,” he snorted, “being one year older ain’t gonna change anything.” he retorted, his palms now resting on the backs of your thighs.

“You’re no fun!” You shoved at his chest, “seriously, you have no goals at all? Like nothing you want to do before you hit thirty?” you asked, still trying to pry an answer out of him.

“Nah, I’m already amazing at twenty-five.” a sly, smug smile grew on his face.

“Twenty-six.” you corrected.

“Right, twenty-six.” He rolled his eyes. Katsuki didn’t care much about his birthday, much less celebrating it. But if it made you happy, he was willing to put his pride aside for one day.

“I have such a great day planned for you,” you smiled, twirling your finger in his face, “you are all mine today.” You booped his nose.

“Can’t wait.” he replied unenthusiastically.

“You could have a little more enthusiasm, y’know.” you frowned at his expression. “How can someone not like their birthday?”

“Cause’ that boring shit is for extras.” he leaned back on the bed. His hands now resting by his head.

“You’re gonna have to suck it up for today then.” You poked at his chest before he pulled your face closer to his. His lips moving smoothly against yours. He cuts the kiss short, his eyes glinting up to stare at yours.

“So, can I get my birthday gift a little early?” he tilted his head, his palms now spreading on the small of your back.

You took a moment to think about your response. “Hmm, I dunno,” you paused, “you’ve been grumpy all morning.” you crossed your arms.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m the birthday boy, I’m allowed to be grumpy.” his eyes gazed up lazily. “C’mon, like you said. It’s my birthday.”

a/n: I’m crying you the birthday son ahahahahhahah so funny ik. I found this while scrolling through my drafts and idk it felt right to post it :p great timing btw cause my birthday was a few days ago

© junovae, do not plagiarize!

[junovae]

⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆. — BABY, ITS YOUR BIRTHDAY

synopsis: the one day of the year that Katsuki lets you spoil him is his birthday, and the best thing to spoil him is with kisses!

pairing: prohero!katsuki x fem!reader

content warning: timeskip!au, established relationship, kissing, fluff, crackish, tooth rotting fluff gaaah, cutie patooties just in love!

wc: 512

a/n: meow I’m aware I’m very late but it’s my world and everyone else just lives in it.

The morning glow of the sun was heavy on your skins you had been tossing and turning all night, simply excited for all the surprises you had in store for Katsuki.

From the moment he woke up, you couldn’t stop with the affection. You started off the morning by peppering his face with 26 kisses, each kiss symbolizing every 26 years he’s lived.

“This shit make you happy?” he grumbled underneath your affection.

“Very.” You murmured, pressing more kisses all over his face. Then placing your lips ontop of his. A content hum escaping from between the two of you.

A strong arm was wrapped tightly around your waist. Pulling your body on top of his. The musky scent of burnt caramel and smoke instantly overwhelming your senses. “Stay still, I need to give you your birthday kisses.”

“I am being still.” he frowned as you placed the last of the 26 kisses. Your hands placed flat on his chest.

“Clearly not still enough.” You rolled your eyes, your caressing his chest slightly. Your thighs placed on each side of his waist as you mounted him. “So, birthday boy. What’ya got in mind for the big twenty-six?”

“Eh? Same shit I do every year,” he snorted, “being one year older ain’t gonna change anything.” he retorted, his palms now resting on the backs of your thighs.

“You’re no fun!” You shoved at his chest, “seriously, you have no goals at all? Like nothing you want to do before you hit thirty?” you asked, still trying to pry an answer out of him.

“Nah, I’m already amazing at twenty-five.” a sly, smug smile grew on his face.

“Twenty-six.” you corrected.

“Right, twenty-six.” He rolled his eyes. Katsuki didn’t care much about his birthday, much less celebrating it. But if it made you happy, he was willing to put his pride aside for one day.

“I have such a great day planned for you,” you smiled, twirling your finger in his face, “you are all mine today.” You booped his nose.

“Can’t wait.” he replied unenthusiastically.

“You could have a little more enthusiasm, y’know.” you frowned at his expression. “How can someone not like their birthday?”

“Cause’ that boring shit is for extras.” he leaned back on the bed. His hands now resting by his head.

“You’re gonna have to suck it up for today then.” You poked at his chest before he pulled your face closer to his. His lips moving smoothly against yours. He cuts the kiss short, his eyes glinting up to stare at yours.

“So, can I get my birthday gift a little early?” he tilted his head, his palms now spreading on the small of your back.

You took a moment to think about your response. “Hmm, I dunno,” you paused, “you’ve been grumpy all morning.” you crossed your arms.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m the birthday boy, I’m allowed to be grumpy.” his eyes gazed up lazily. “C’mon, like you said. It’s my birthday.”

a/n: I’m crying you the birthday son ahahahahhahah so funny ik. I found this while scrolling through my drafts and idk it felt right to post it :p great timing btw cause my birthday was a few days ago

© junovae, do not plagiarize!

[junovae]

˖᯽ ݁˖ — wanna get high and nasty?

synopsis: after you called up your plug, it seems like he has a few ideas in mind on how you can pay him back!

content warning: explicit, smoking, kissing, unestablished relationship, piercings, pet names, fwb, whimpering, smut w/ little to no plot, drooling, praise kink, breeding kink, mdom, hair pulling, oral f. rec, fingering, püssy drunk, switchy, p in v, riding, tummy bulges, overstimulation, dacryphilia?, multiple rounds, creämpies, aftercare yippee

wc: 4.1k

a/n: ugh this has been sitting in my drafts since forever thank god it finally gets to see the light

based on these poll results. enjoy!

You pulled up to his apartment, the rain pattering onto the windshield of your car. It was dark and cloudy outside, the thunder rumblings in the background. You took a hit of your vape as you debated whether or not if you wanted to knock on his door. The sweet smoke seeped from your lips, before you ultimately opened your car door and stepped out.

You looked down at the wet concrete, trying to protect your face from the rain. Finally making it to his complex, the bottom of your sweatpants wet from walking in the rain. You hesitated as you lifted your arm to knock on the door, biting your lip slightly before your knuckles finally reached the door.

He opened the door shortly after you knocked, his messy bangs covering his eyes. His lip piercing shining in the dim moonlight.

“Took you long enough,” he murmured quietly before retreating back into his apartment, leaving you standing by the door, “know what you’re looking for?” he asked from inside the apartment.

You stood awkwardly at the front, shifting your weight onto your other leg. “Um, yeah. Same thing as always.” you replied as you nervously took a hit of your vape, exhaling the smoke from your mouth.

“Cool.” he replied as he walked back to the open door, the pouch of weed in hand. His eyes briefly gazing over your face before shortly looking away.

“How much?” You asked as you went grab your wallet from your tote-bag.

“250, same as always.” he replied, watching as you dug through your bag. You pulled out the cash from your wallet, counting it quickly before handing it to him.

“Here, that should cover it.” You responded as you handed him the cash. He nodded, counting it regardless of the fact you just counted it in front of him.

“Yeah, thanks. Appreciate doin’ business. Same time next week?” he asked.

You hummed in agreement, turning your head before noticing that the rain had started getting harder. You gulped nervously , the thought of having to drive in it practically eating at you.

Choso seemed to notice the color in your face fading, he raised a curious, pierced eyebrow at you. “I just rolled a fresh blunt if you wanna come in.” he stepped aside just enough for you walk in

His offer weighed heavily on you, you hesitated before ultimately agreeing. “Oh. uhm, sure if it’s not much trouble.” you replied.

“Nah, not at all,” he chuckled before you stepped into his apartment, closing the door behind you, “consider it a little bonus for my best client.”

Your eyes dawned over his living room, the room filled with a hazy, smoky atmosphere. You sat on an empty spot on the couch, before he decided to plop beside you.

He grabbed the lighter that was sitting on the coffee table, flicking it a few times before it finally formed a flame. He brought the flame to the end of the blunt, lighting it then pressing it to his lips.

He inhaled sharply, then exhaling with a cough. Passing over the blunt to you. “Thanks.” you hummed quietly as you brought the blunt to your lips. The smoke instantly filling your senses, and escaping with a cough following after.

“Shit, how do you smoke these so often?” You cough out, clearing your throat afterwards.

“You get used to it,” He snorts, taking another hit for himself. “could say the same thing about those vapes.” he chuckles, eyeing you as you held the vape to your mouth.

“It’s cotton candy flavored though, it doesn’t taste like burnt grass.” you exhaled, the scent escaping your lips.

“Burnt grass?” he glanced at you amused.

“That’s what weed tastes like to me,” You shrug, “I prefer my dessert flavored vapes.”

A small smile grew on his face, “So why do you buy it?” He asks, passing the blunt over to you.

You fiddle with it for a second before finally taking a big puff, “I dunno, I guess I like the taste of burnt grass.” You giggled as you contradicted yourself.

“You’re very complex.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Mhm.” He nodded, his eyes now a red-pinkish tint. He glared at you hungrily; you, him, and a blunt? Never a good idea and never had a good outcome.

It seemed the weed had been hitting you too, your brain was foggy and your thoughts were clouded. Your eyelids drooped heavily as you passed the blunt back and forth. “You got any edibles?” you asked, blowing the smoke out from your lips.

“Yeah, just made a fresh batch. Wanna take one together?” he asks.

“Together?”

“Like old time sakes.” his eyes flickered between your lips and your eyes.

You bit your lip, subconsciously you know how this would end. But did you care? Not really. “We both know that’s not a good idea.” you responded.

“Yeah, well when has anything we’ve done together been a good idea?” he lounges back in the couch, throwing his head back and his shaggy bangs fall from his face. You shouldn’t listen to him, you really shouldn’t. But your body betrays you before your mind could answer.

“Sure, fuck it.” You shrugged. His lips curled into a smile as he lifted his head back up. He arose from his spot on the couch, disappearing for a minute or two before coming back with a clear ziploc back. A couple of gummies in the packaging. He grabbed two, handing one to you.

A grin grew on your face as you both simultaneously popped the edible into your mouths. It was only a matter of time till it would kick in.

You leaned back, your mind now relaxed with the cannabis slowly flowing into your system. “Isn’t it funny that the only time we ever actually hangout is either to get high, or fuck?”

“Strange world, isn’t it?” Choso hummed.

“Indeed.”

You could already feel the dampness growing in between your thighs. Maybe it was the edible you just took, or maybe you were just really fucking horny. You bit your lip as the lustful thoughts filled your head. You weren’t in the headspace alone, Choso was in the same boat. His head filled with lewd thoughts of your body underneath his. Your sticky skin colliding with his. It overtook his brain in ways he couldn’t explain.

It wouldn’t be the first time you two have gotten high and done perverted things together, it was a sort of symbiotic relationship. Choso got you high and good deals, and in return you let him fuck your brains out. It was a win-win situation.

He was already practically undressing you with his eyes. The heat and sexual tension growing between you too.

Your thighs were tightly clamped together, his meaty thighs spread wide on the couch cushions, there was nothing you wanted more in that moment than to mount him like a horse and hump him like a bunny in heat. But you were a woman of class, of course you wouldn’t yet.

“Wanna get high and nasty?” He blurts out, his voice low and gravely.

“I thought you’d never ask.” you smiled as he immediately grabbed your hips and pulled you onto his lap. Your mouths instantly crashing onto one another. He tasted like smoke with a hint of metal from his piercing.

His hands gripped your hips harshly, pulling your body tightly against his and forcing you to grind against his groin. His sweatpants were low on his hips, your fingers occasionally slipping underneath the waistband. Your fingers were cold against his warm skin, causing a small shudder to escape from his lips.

“Fuck, you can’t do that. S’not fair…” he whined as his grip on your hips tightened. Your fingers traveling from his waist to his hair, entangling themselves freely in his messy, black locks.

His hands went to the back of your thighs, like he was trying to hold onto the dignity he had left. His lips left momentarily to leave bites and kisses among your neck and jawline.

“Cho, I need you,” you whined out as Chosos hands roamed the sides of your body, occasionally sliding over the “please?”

Your pleading must’ve sent him into overdrive, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he pressed his bulge against you. “S’okay, I’ll make you feel real good soon.” he whispered in your ear before connecting your lips again. Your teeth now nibbling on his lower lip and your tongue fiddling with his lip piercing.

His kisses were hot, wet and open mouthed, your teeth constantly colliding. You could feel the heat pooling below your belly, the dampness growing in between your thighs. Your hips grinding against his growing bulge needy.

“Can’t anymore, need to taste you right now.” He groaned as he pushed you onto your back. His hands ripping off your sweatpants. Leaving you in only your lace camisole and your sweet, cotton panties. His fingers traced the wet spot that had formed, teasing the sensitive skin underneath.

“So wet f’me and I haven’t even touched you yet.” Choso chuckled to himself as he toyed with your delicate state.

“Choooo, stop being mean!” you whined out as you writhed underneath him. Your back arched as you felt his hot breath linger over the wet spot. Before his fingers eventually hooked your panties to the side and admiring the view of your slick glistening on your folds.

He began with small kitten-like licks, savoring your sweet taste. “You taste so good, pretty.” he murmured amongst your puffy clit. The vibration of his voice sending shrills down your spine.

“More, you whimpered as his tongue glided against your slit. “please, cho.” How could he ever say no to such a pretty thing like you?

“I’m getting there, angel. Be patient.” he responded while slurping your sweet juices. He was practically nose deep and still didn’t have enough of you. He pulled off your clit to slide in his middle finger into your slit, slowly curling it against your pulsating walls.

Your hands got lost in his hair as his fingers curled in and out of your hole, his tongue slowly lapping over your sensitive clit. “Yes! Ohmygod, right— hick! there!” you cried out in pleasure.

“Close— m’sooo close.” your moans sounded like music to his ears.

Choso took the sounds of your pleasure as a sign to go further, his fingers still pumping in and out of your needy cunt. His tongue now letting your clit rest from the stimulation.

He brought his face up to yours, his pace with his fingers slowly faltering. “Taste yourself on my lips, angel.” he whispered as he smashed his lips onto your. Your hips jutted against his hand, desperate for any friction and change in pace.

“Need to cum, please.” you whined, trying to convince him to pump his long digits in you once again.

“I know, I know, sweet girl. I’ll get you there. I promise.” He kissed the inside of your thigh sweetly before indulging on your swollen cunt again. He slurped and sucked like a man dying of hunger, his fingers now knuckles deep and pressing against your G-spot.

Your walls tightened against his fingers, on the verge of falling off the ledge of ecstasy. No coherent words could form on your tongue, only a variety of gasps and moans. Tears swelled in your eyes from the pleasure, his tongue relentlessly lapping at your sensitive hole.

Seeing the way your face twisted from the immense stimulation had Choso groaning into your pussy. His fingers curling so perfectly inside of you.

“C’mon pretty, I can feel you squeezing my fingers,” he cooed, his free hand clenching the back of your thigh. “be a good girl and cum f’me, yeah?” he groaned as he flicked his tongue up and down, relentless with the pleasure he was giving you.

“Mhm!” you cried out as your hands tangled into his hair, “m’cumming, hiccup! m’cumming” you moaned as the wave of ecstasy hit you hard. Your thighs clenched around Choso’s head, trembling from the sudden high. His free hand moved from your thigh to your lower stomach to push you down from squirming.

Choso groaned into your pussy as you finished, slurping your juices and lapping at your fluttering hole. “Look how pretty that mess you made is.” He praised you, his hips rutting against the couch cushion.

He sits up from being between your thighs, pressing small kisses as he exists. “C’mon baby, you can take more f’me.” he smiles as he pulled your limp body onto his lap. “You wanna make me feel good, don’t you?”

You nodded, your thighs tense and sore but nonetheless, you wanted to show your appreciation and make him feel good to.

You bit your lip as your hands fiddled with the drawstrings of his sweats, untying them and pulling down the waistband of his sweats just enough to free his cock. It sprung against his stomach, pre-cum beading at the tip.

“F-fuck,” he whined as you stroked it slightly before lining the tip with your entrance, rubbing the tip against your hole. “can’t believe it’s gonna—haah, fit in you.” he threw his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

You began slowly descending onto his lap, the stretch burning in the most addictive way. You held onto his shoulders as support, small whimpers escaping your swollen lips.

He feared if he looked in your eyes as you slid down on his length, he would bust at that very moment. The pleasure of your walls tightening as you took each inch at a painfully slow rate was extremely overwhelming. You squealed once you felt him bottom out in you, his tip prodding at your cervix.

“Soo— hck! So full, Cho.” you whimpered, he finally split an eye ope to look at you on his lap. His cock twitching at the sight.

Choso’s hands tightly gripped your hips to help you maintain your rhythm, your thighs plopping onto his lap with every bounce. The sounds of wet, sticky, skin against skin echoed throughout the room. “Harder, you can do better than that, baby.”

He grit his teeth as you obeyed his directions, your pace slightly hitching up in speed. His long, veiny cock slipping in and out your folds, occasionally slipping out when you rose back to the top.

“I’m— trying! It’s just t’much..!” you whined as the burn in your legs began to rush throughout your body.

“Look at you, you’re taking every inch of me.” He groaned, his praise sounding like music to your ears. He so badly wanted to grab you by your hips and rut into you relentlessly, but he preferred to make you feel good first.

“Feels s’good.. s’full.” You moaned as his dick filled you to the brink.

He let out a guttural groan as his tip prodded at your spongy G-spot, your legs slowly getting tired but you maintained your speed. Choso’s hands guided your hips and pulled you up and down on his cock. Your brain began getting fuzzy and empty. The only thought lingering was to make yourself feel good.

Choso’s nails dug small crescents into your skin as you rode his brains out. Your clit grinding onto his pelvic bone.

His cock twitched inside of you as you let out a high pitched moan. Your thighs now clenching around his waist. “So— ngh, tight. You feel so good, baby.” he groaned from underneath you.

You nodded brainlessly, your silk walls tightening around his cock. Choso looked at you with half-lidded eyes, his eyelashes soaked from his tears of pleasure.

“Go faster for me, pretty.” He grunted as he thrusted up into the roll of your hips. Your cunt greedily sucked in every inch he gave you, your cervix now practically bruised from his lengthy cock. Your legs were tired, sore and worn out. You tried to pick up the pace but your body couldn’t keep up with Choso’s stamina. His eyebrows furrowed with a bead of sweat between them, his hands guiding you to make you go faster.

“y’re not going fast enough— ngh,” he began getting frustrated

You were trying. Really, you were.

Eventually, it wasn’t enough for him. Within seconds, Choso flipped you over onto your hands and knees; the air remaining in your lungs escaping from the sudden change in movement.

“M’sorry baby,” he whined before aligning his flaring pink tip with your entrance, “s-soooo sorry.”

He slammed into your with a forceful thrust. Your legs trembling and hardly keeping you up. “M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry—“ he repeated over and over again. Tears welling in both of your eyes. Your face was shoved into the couch cushions, a small patch of drool starting to form from where you lips laid.

“F-feels too good to— hck! stop.” he babbled, your syrupy cunt reeling him in more with each roll of his hips. His fingers were practically leaving bruises on your hips from how tight he was holding them, you couldn’t speak. Every ounce of strength you had left was fucked out of your body.

Your limp, sore, body.

“C-Cho, s’too much—“ you were cut off by him shoving your face further into the couch. He couldn’t help it, your pussy was practically singing to him. And it was definitely speaking more than you could at the moment.

“No, y’re taking it soo good f’me,” his thrusts became more frantic and sloppier. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head as another orgasm crashed over you. “S-see? You can take it.” he grunted, the pulsing from your orgasm sent him over the edge; his cocked twitched inside of you as he buried himself to a hilt.

“F-fuck!” He yelped as he grabbed a handful of your hair. “M’cumming, haah— fuck!” he whimpered as hot, sticky, long, ropes spurt inside of you; filling you to the absolute brink.

A frothy mixture of your liquids dripped from between your thighs, spilling onto the couch beneath your legs. A ring now formed around his cock. He didn’t pull out, just kept you both connected.

“Need to see y’re face this time,” he murmured as he flipped you over to your back. Your eyes widening as he hovered over you.

“What? N-no, I can’t!” You cried out, but it was too late. He was too far gone. Your mascara now streaming down your face as your sticky bodies collided once more.

“Yes you can, baby. And you will—“ he babbled breathlessly. His pelvic bone snapping against your ass. “for me, you can.” his hand lingered on your lower stomach, a evident bulge lying beneath his palm. “Heh, l-look. Y’re so full of me already.” The room absolutely reeked of sweat and sex, with the slightest hint of your cotton candy vape.

Your hand was placed on his lower abdomen, squirming beneath his violent yet desperate thrust. Trying to push away from the immense pleasure. “S-slow down!” You testified from underneath him.

“Where are ya’ running off to?” He asked as he realized you were scooting away from his cock. He slammed into you hard, forcing a sweet whine to escape your lips. “stop— ngh, running from me.” He folded you in half like a pretzel to prevent you from scooting away from it again.

He held you in the meanest mating press. His balls slapping against your clit as he held your legs to your chest. Your hands clawed at his back and sides, leaving the evidence of raw, red lines on his skin.

He aggressively grabbed your jaw, pulling your face to his own. The kiss was no longer sweet, but full of hunger and want. His teeth pressed into your lower lip before his tongue explored your mouth. His other hand traveling down to your clit, his thumb rubbing over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“One more,” he gasped out as he devoured your lips raw, “c’mon, I know you can do it f’me, pretty.”

It seemed your body listened to him more than yourself, because shortly after, your cunt seized around him for the umpteenth time this night. The suction caused him to groan as he picked up his pace; chasing his own climax. Your cunt gushed with juices as you reached your orgasm.

His seed was still dribbling down your ass, he was practically using it as lube to fuck back into your greedy hole easier.

“Wan’ fill you up more— No, need to fill you up more.” His cock twitched inside of you as you neared the end of your orgasm. The nasty squelches filling the room as you let out borderline pornographic moans. Your cunt squeezed around him at the sound of his words. “Ya’ want that don’t you? Need me to fill this pretty cunt nice and full?”

“Mhm— please, Cho.” You clenched down on him harder. “Need to feel you more.” Your tears mixing with your sweat.

“S’okay baby, I know what’s best for her.” your body flailed against his rough pounding. “Don’t need to talk more, she’s doin’ allll the talking for you.”

He pressed down harder on the bump in your tummy, feeling the outline of his cock inside of you. Just the sensation alone had him stretching you in was deemed to be nearly impossible. His throbbing tip prodding at spots you didn’t even know existed.

“Haah— fuck. M’gonna cum again soon.” he warmed as his thrust continued getting sloppier and heavier. “Gon’ fill her nicely for you.” You shook your head profusely, your thighs trembling underneath him.

“M-maybe even get you pregnant, have you round and leaking of me.” He rambled on. He shuddered at the thought. “Would keep you full fuck, would treat you soooo good.

Choso’s cock abused your poor, leaking hole. The only thing keeping him alive in this moment was how beautifully you were taking him in. “Gotta— ngh, give this cunt what she wants.”

It only took a few more greedy thrust before he painted your insides white, your now white silken walls being stuffed full of him.

He laid ontop of you, nearly just as limp as you were. His cum stayed in for the meantime as he stayed plugged inside of you. Just where he wanted to be.

His face stayed buried in the crook of your neck, his mouth was close enough that you could hear his ruined whimpers. His tip leaked hot spurts inside of you more and more with each passing second, before he ultimately pulled out of you. You whined at the sudden emptiness, his seed seeping out of your raw and sloppy pussy.

“Look at that.” he mumbled under his breath as he watched your juices ooze once he pulled out. The admiration in his voice very evident.

His eyes widened once he realized your ruined state. “M’sorry— did I… was it too much?” he rambled over his words as he immediately felt the guilt of going over your limit.

“No— no, Cho. I’m fine.” you responded with a weak smile. You felt so used but it was the most pleasurable feeling.

“A-are you sure?” He asked against, his ears perking up from your confirmation. “Let me clean you up.” he disappeared for a moment, but came back with a slightly damp towel to wipe you down with. Afterwords, he helped you change into more suitable clothes for your own comfortability.

Choso’s sudden change in affection was refreshing, he caressed your body so carefully. Rubbing any part that might’ve been sore. He gently kissed the marks he left on your skin with sweet praises.

“You did so good for me, angel.”

“Just hold me close, Cho.” you replied weakly.

He pressed a few kisses to the top of your forehead as you laid on his chest. The sound of his heartbeat soothing you to sleep.

a/n: okeh so like this took way longer to edit than expected cause daddy has exam season now 😞 but don’t fret my kittens I still have plenty of short posts for u to feast on mwahahahah

© junovae, do not plagiarize!