Hey guys! Welcome to my little corner of Tumblr, I’m Reneki – Nightwing’s forever (and totally official) wife. Here, you’ll find all my fics, ideas, and late-night ramblings, mostly about Nightwing and Solo Leveling (because I’m just a little obsessed). My Masterlist has everything neatly organized, so be sure to check it out! Also, my request box is always open, so don’t be shy send me your ideas, questions, or just drop by to scream about fictional characters with me. Whether you’re here for fluff, angst, or a bit of both, you’re in the right place. Let’s keep this chaotic, fun, and full of love for our favorite heroes!
instead of getting the girl, gojo just got her pregnant! how's he supposed to win you over when you only seem to see him as the baby daddy?
synopsis: when the frat president becomes the father of your daughter, the last thing you expected were his brothers to start bidding to be the step dad! can he prove that he's serious about starting a life together for the three of you - or will someone swoop in to steal both his girls?
pairing: frat!gojo x milf!reader x frat!geto (also starring frat!sukuna)
content: mdni!! fluff, angst, and smut, college au, unrealistic frat depictions, parties, drinking, accidental pregnancy, raising a baby, they all want to be the daddy, condoms breaking, one night stands and messy hookups, piv sex, pulling out, lots of pining, gojo being lovesick and stupid, denying feelings, jealousy, multiple povs, more tags will be found in individual chapters
based on this drabble
art cr: @zeilorene0 on x div cr: @/tsumiinum
chapter index
manchild ꕤ sugar talking ꕤ go go juice
taste ꕤ juno ꕤ don't smile
read your mind ꕤ already over ꕤ nonsense
COMMENT TO BE TAGGED!
series | latest oneshots | patreon
a/n: do i have like twenty other series to finish? yes. can i stop myself from starting new ones? no. apologies in advance :3 you guys just get what i have fun writing
content: contrary to popular belief, the fire lord can't have everything he wants. however, even he’d admit that what he wanted was troublesome in itself, which is why he forces himself to be okay with having you by his side as his advisor.
[tw: MDNI, longfic, angst/fluff/smut, slowburn apothecary diaries coded, so much yearning and longing, porn with plot, there is no power imbalance he’s afraid of your father, zuko’s a little shit tho, we’re already married in his head]
notes: this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance?? lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.
summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's LOVELY to reader exclusively, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!
chapter 1: temptations
chapter 2: exactly what he wants (coming soon!)
chapter 3: everything is romantic
chapter 4: bad at love
chapter 5: everybody scream
chapter 6: the rotten ones
chapter 7: innocence lost
chapter 8: ups and downs
chapter 9: it's nothing new
taglist open! comment on this post to be tagged! anyone on my perma taglists will automatically be tagged on this fic <3
Sukuna is reincarnated into the modern world, only to realize that being a villain is actually kind of a bore. Now a teacher at Jujutsu High by pure technicality, he’s decided being a “good guy” is way more entertaining, mostly because it still lets him do whatever he wants while everyone thanks him for it.
Unfortunately for you, that also means you get assigned to him as a specialist, since your technique is one of the very few things that can smooth out the jagged, overwhelming nature of his cursed energy after he uses it.
The problem is… you’re absolutely terrified of him. Every second in the same room feels like your body is trying to shut down, and the idea of having to touch him to do your job makes it even worse.
Sukuna, on the other hand, finds that fear hilarious and treats you like the funniest toy he’s ever been gifted.
pairing: sorcerer sukuna x sorcerer f!reader
content: mdni, slow burn, kinda enemies to lovers, objectification, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion, possessive sukuna, violence, murder, blood, gore, dubious consent vibes, true form sukuna, yuji's not his vessel (...and probably smut)
sukuna is reincarnated into jin’s twin (so yes, he’s technically yuji’s uncle), can freely switch between his human and true form, and is, in fact, a massive asshole
(minor changes to how cursed energy works)
main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ banner by @graphic0rn
chapter 1 out 27th or 28th April
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
Content: As a kid, all Sukuna ever really wanted was to be around you. He did just that for 10 years, only to spend the next 7 years wondering why you just stopped picking up the phone one day [tw: MDNI, angst/comfort/smuț, porņ with plot, friends to enemies(?) to lovers, uncle!sukuna, mentions of depression and low self esteem, sukuna's tongue is pierced, so is his 🍆, nıpple sucking, humpıng, óral (f receiving), fıngering, squırtıng, dacryphılia, matıng press] word count: 15k
Sukuna isn’t the type to hold on to promises, especially one made in elementary school. But, he never would’ve thought that you’d break it like that.
The promise? That you’d be each other's best friends until the day you died. Looking back, it might be a little dramatic, but you were eight years old— all eight year olds are dramatic.
Exactly how did you break said promise?
You ghosted him.
You fucking ghosted him.
You were friends for over a decade and the moment you went off to college, poof— gone! You stopped calling, stopped texting, deleted all your socials. It was as if you had never even existed and that you were just a figment of the man’s imagination.
Now that’s dramatic.
He’s texted and called you multiple times, no response. He’s asked mutual friends, they never got a response either. It got to a point where he had finally had it and texted your mother. You could only imagine how hurt he was when she told him you were doing just fine, and not that you were missing or in a coma.
He’d never admit it, though.
The years came and went. The hurt he once felt inevitably dulled. Yet, you always managed to linger around in the back of his mind, like a little ghost haunting him.
To this day, he still has no idea what he did wrong. You may have ghosted everybody, but he wasn’t just anybody. If anyone deserved an explanation, it was him.
He still cares for you, sorta, but it’s been so long, he’s not sure if he’d even want to reconnect with you. Not with how you just dropped him like that.
. . . . . .
“Are you excited?”
“No,” you respond a little too flatly for Ieiri, who shoots you the look right after. “Ugh, I’m sorry. It’s just been forever since I’ve seen everyone.”
She sighs, redirecting her attention back on the road— there’s not much to look at. Most people stay home on gloomy Sunday afternoons.
The GPS says you’re nine minutes away from your destination, making you remind yourself once more to relax. Though, you really wish you could be one of those people staying in right now. Cuddled up on the couch, watching a movie.
Ieiri taps her finger on the steering wheel. “It’s like what I said—”
What didn’t she say?
She held you hostage on the phone for over an hour last weekend, threatening and bribing, and then threatening you again if you didn’t go with her to Kento’s surprise birthday party.
You thought you had a good argument at the time.
“Do you realize how annoying that sounds? Kento doesn’t even like surprises, could you imagine how irritated he’d be if I just randomly popped up, too?”
“If you were Satoru? Yes. You? Doubt it. If anything, he’d probably like the distraction from it.”
“Yeah– probably,” you murmured.
“Can you please get out of your fucking head for once?” she scoffed. “Yeah, it’s been years since you’ve seen everyone, but it’s not like it’s because of a falling out. I don’t know where you got this weird idea that they hate you now because of it. It was them who told me to bring you!”
“Who’s them?” you stubbornly responded.
“Suguru, Satoru, Yuki, Choso— even Toji said something about bringing Megumi so you could see him.”
As much as you’d love to meet his kid, it would also be another reminder of all the years that’ve passed— how everyone moved on with their lives. Getting married, buying homes, having children, starting families.
The most you’ve done is get the job. You’d include the condo if you actually got to enjoy it, but it’s been a year since you bought it and you haven’t even bothered furnishing the place despite all the money you've saved up for it. The last thing you want to do after work is look at a screen and make more decisions. Deciding between color palettes and aesthetics, deciding on what decor and accents you want— it all sounded exhausting. Hiring an interior designer was an option. Except, you barely want to talk to a stranger, let alone work with one.
It’s too many decisions to be made for someone that didn’t want to make them. You often wonder if you’ve simply just become someone that couldn’t make them.
You’re well aware of the things that are wrong with you, but it didn’t make it any less surprising. You, paralyzed by choices and options?
The people who knew you professionally would laugh. Hard. Any sense of certainty that could be felt in the air almost always emanated from you. You were decisive. Sharp as hell— honed to perfection. Someone that was more than capable of a task as menial as filling a space full of items they liked.
You know what you like, don’t you?
No, not really.
You are sharp, there’s no doubt about it. It’s what your boss favors you for, and sure, one could say you’re valuable to the company, too. It’s a nice feeling for a while.
Then you realize there is quite literally nothing more subjective than the value of something.
Luckily, you are very useful. It was simply a fact, and every single one of your quarterly reviews solidified it. A coworker, or god forbid a client, could spend an entire hour talking shit about you, and they’d eventually reach the point where they’d have to backtrack with a little ‘well’ or ‘however’, before giving credit where it was due.
The devil works hard and you stole his pitchfork. Ripped it right out of his hands, because apparently, you needed it more than him to become the youngest portfolio manager the company’s ever seen.
Who cares about the value of something when you need it? Mr. Yaga claims to hate black tea, but leave him out in the desert long enough and he’d easily drink gallons of it.
Having you at the company isn’t a matter of life or death, there’s thousands of others out there that are more than qualified for your role. More than half probably had resumes twice as long as yours, too.
But for Yaga, there is no guarantee that day to day operations would run this smoothly, ever again.
You may be a little blunt. At times, impatient. But in a world full of sexual harassment allegations and sleezy managers abusing their power, not once has there ever been a formal complaint made against you. You’re not always like that either, you’re great with the clients and stakeholders.
It’s a talent, really— remembering all the personal details people tell you, like childhood stories, the places they’ve vacationed to, a spouse's birthday month that was briefly mentioned months ago. It makes people feel special.
It was very handy, too. Especially in the case where the company might deal with someone that isn’t likely to give them their hard-earned money or signature. Your job was to either sweet talk or gaslight. No arguing needed.
Yaga may have not preferred you at first. You were essentially a kid compared to the people that applied for the position.
The plan was to let you down easily, tell you to keep working hard and you’ll eventually get there. You were already lucky enough to have your foot in the door as an employee.
Yaga had a list of goals he wanted to reach before his retirement, though. Any of the other candidates would’ve helped with that, but none would've given him the opportunity to make a second list and cross that off as well.
The decision took months.
In that time, he realized a few things.
One, he spent his entire adult life playing it safe, which is an obvious sign of fearing growth. You’re not sure who taught him that, but at least he realized it was okay to start over and try something new. It was like a rebrand for him and he embraced that the “new” him craved more profit and welcomed different approaches.
The different approaches being, finding more aggressive people because they bring in the money quicker.
He never saw you as aggressive, though. He never saw you at all, actually. It wasn’t personal, those under 30 usually come and go, so he didn’t see much of a point in remembering names. What he did see, when he finally opened his eyes, was efficiency.
You were straight forward in a way that saved time, had an air about you that screamed “don’t ask me how my day’s going or what I have planned for after work”, yet approachable enough for work related questions. Stellar reports, received every quarterly and year-end bonus. Sharp.
Making you one of the managers meant he could wield you like a weapon, now you are the one he uses the most. You had the salary to prove it, yet no time or energy to enjoy it.
You’re respected. The young interns, the girls in particular, look up to you more often than not. Eyes bright and filled with ambition. Romanticizing everything, from how much coffee you drink, all the way to your style that they labeled as “effortless”. They’re not wrong, it is effortless— always some variant of trousers, a t-shirt, heels, and a long coat. They’re never planned, yet they somehow always manage to work thanks to the lack of color in your wardrobe.
You overheard your lack of jewelry and unpainted nails being appreciated once for how “clean” you look. All you could think of was the girl that used to do her hair and paint her own nails at one point. Except for the ones on her right hand. She saved that job for her best friend who surprisingly had a steady hand, despite complaints flying out of his mouth the entire time. Even on the days he gave in and painted his own nails black, he’d find something to be grumpy and complain about.
It was always you choosing whose house to hang out at, which movies to watch, what places to grab food from. He was a big brat whose favorite answer to most questions was an inaudible ‘I dunno’ from the way he’d mumble it. So, you always led the way.
Now it’s you mumbling that same exact ‘I dunno’ when you’re all alone.
You’re tired. Worn out. If you were a blade, you end each day dull and chipped. Nobody sees it, not even those young girls with all the time they’ve spent studying you, blinded by their own dreams and aspirations to be just as important, not knowing the difference between being valuable and useful.
Maybe it’s better off that way.
Who were you to try to burst their bubbles when you never had dreams or aspirations to begin with? Your eyes were never as bright as theirs— not as a student, not as an intern, and definitely not as a new hire.
You never had a spark to begin with, what makes you think they’d eventually lose theirs?
Maybe you were the unlucky one here.
You were the one whose head went under water after one bad semester, after all. Even now, years later, it still feels like you’re stuck in the deep end while everyone else has moved on.
Toji chose to get married and have a kid.
You can’t even choose yourself on most days.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
Fuck. You have a hard time believing the GPS was that loud when it was telling Ieiri which exit to take and where to turn.
Her lips thin into a reassuring smile as she makes the final turn into the apartment building’s parking garage, and you fail to return it as you take a deep breath. Ieiri doesn’t say anything this time, figuring you’ll probably just have to see everyone's excitement for yourself to realize this wasn’t a pity invite. It’ll settle half of your nerves.
The other half should settle itself with time and a drink. Several drinks, honestly. She did the best she could with telling everyone that what you pulled during your second year of college was 100% a you thing and to not talk about it unless you brought it up. Which you probably won’t— everyone will understand. No one wants to talk about being in a dark place when they haven’t fully left it.
One moment, you’re sitting in the passenger seat with your seat belt still buckled. Next, your chest is tightening as you watch her open the door to Satoru’s apartment. There’s already chattering, which stops once she announces your guys’ arrival.
You barely get the chance to look around before Suguru’s peaking his head out of the kitchen to see if you really did show up and lets out a laugh once he sees that you did. It was light and airy, the kind that’s accompanied by the warm feeling that you should get in your chest when seeing an old friend.
He’s obviously changed, it’s been 7 years. Yet, he never lost that quality that managed to make people a little more comfortable.
“Hey stranger.”
Your lips thin into a shy smile, “Hey.”
“Well?” Suguru asks, holding his arms out. “I know it’s been ages but there’s no need to be shy.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, stepping forward and accepting the hug.
He lets out another laugh. “Don’t be— it’s nice to see you.”
“Where’s mine?!”
You easily recognize the offended, slightly childish tone. You slowly turn your head around to see a slightly less lanky Satoru. Aside from getting some much needed meat on his bones, he doesn’t seem to have changed much. He’s still as unserious as ever, still wears sunglasses indoors like an asshole.
Ieiri stood back the entire time, sipping on a drink she had already managed to make, patting herself on the back as she watched her little plan run smoothly: Show up early and let you build some confidence from awkwardly greeting the old friends you shared together one by one.
It’s funny, you told her that they’d eventually move on to talking to the friends they made after you, but they all seemed more interested in circling back to you, whether it be handing you a shot or introducing you to a new face.
If there was one burden she wishes she could take from you, it’d be the burden that has you walking through the world as if you were everyone’s last choice.
Today should be enough to prove that.
“Yeah, no— at this point, fuck Nanami and his birthday. This is a better surprise.” Satoru throws an arm over you, slightly swaying from the shots he’s already taken. “Pfft– he doesn’t even like his birthday. I’m sure he’d be happier to see her, too—”
“He’s coming up the elevator,” Suguru cuts him off.
“SHIT! EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP AND HIDE,” Satoru suddenly yells, as if he weren’t just talking shit just seconds ago.
No one would be surprised if Kento heard him yelling at everyone like that, and given how hesitant of a knock there was at the door. The blonde probably already knows there’s something up.
Suguru goes to open the door, and the moment he opens his mouth to greet him, there’s a loud wave of people yelling ‘SURPRISE’ behind him, with Satoru saying it a split second sooner than anyone else did.
Kento’s eye slightly twitches. Half surprised, half irritated. He fucking hates surprises and knows that’s the only reason why Satoru decided to throw him one. Before a complaint can leave his mouth, Ieiri hands him an old fashion. He tries to speak again, but gets interrupted once more when she tells him who’s here.
At first he scoffs, already having enough of people of fucking with him today.
“No, I’m serious!” she swears, looking around trying to see where you were at, eventually catching a glimpse of your head in the kitchen. “There she is— come say hi.”
Ieiri grabs his wrist and pulls him through the living room and into the kitchen, where you, Yuki, and Choso were talking. She turns back to look at Kento, who’s already surprised by her rare display of excitement, as she gestures towards you.
“See? Surprise!”
“Yeah, surprise!!” Yuki says right after.
“Holy shit.” Kento rarely curses, but finds himself unable to come up with better words. “It’s been ages!”
“I know!” You try to sound more apologetic, but ultimately fail from the nice buzz you had going on. “Happy birthday!”
And for once, he’s a little less uptight about it when he gives you a hug and says his thanks. It was a nice surprise, he had to admit. If only Satoru didn’t have to ruin the moment with the way he barged into the kitchen with some stupid, frilly party hat in hand, begging Kento to put it on.
“I said no!”
“C’mon, Nanamin!” Satoru whines, taking a step forward each time the blonde takes a step back. “You’re not getting any younger.”
“I don’t want to get any younger— I’m a grown man, and so are you. Maybe you should start acting like one.”
“I do! I’m just fun,” he continues to pester him, ignoring everything Kento mumbles under his breath.
You end up excusing yourself to use the restroom, somewhat bummed you couldn’t stick around longer to watch them bicker some more. You’re sure it went on for a while, though, unaware of how it was cut short when Shoko grabs Satoru by the arm.
He hisses at how tight of a grip she has on him, fingers digging into his skin as she pulls him aside.
“What is your problem?!” he asks through a clenched jaw.
“Sukuna’s here?!”
“Yeah?” He tries and fails to free himself from her grip as he answers. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise!”
She looks at him like he’s stupid, nails continuing to dig into his flesh. “A nice surprise? He fucking hates her. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I knew he was coming!”
“Ow ow ow— No he doesn’t?! Do you actually believe that?!” he groans in between each sentence.
“Yes! He says it every time someone brings her up!”
“Ow ffuck! You know how dramatic he can be sometimes— fuck, Shoko, please, you’re breaking skin.”
“You deserve it!” she responds in a clipped tone, despite finally letting go.
“Jesus Christ— you can’t just assault people like that,” he pouts, rubbing his arm. “It’ll be fine! It’s been years, he can’t hold a grudge that long.”
. . . . . .
Sukuna can absolutely hold a grudge that long.
Except, he was staring at said grudge like some fucking loser, and had to remind himself that it was still alive and well.
At first he thought you were just one of Satoru’s new friends as you walked through the living room, shyly making your way around everyone, but then you just so conveniently looked up in his direction.
His eyes nearly widened.
And yours actually did, looking as guilty as you should be.
The longer you two stood there, looking at each other from across the room in shock, the guilt you had in your eyes started to fade. He was sure everyone else welcomed you back with open arms, and in turn got irritated because you probably thought he’d do the same. So before you could even think to take a step in his direction, he wiped the shock off his face and replaced it with a look that’s able to make even grown men turn around and walk the other way.
Which is exactly what you did, stomach slowly twisting into a tight knot as you immediately began to replay the death glare he gave you over and over in your head.
Sukuna didn’t stay long and left shortly after. Not without pretending like he didn’t know you when he said goodbye to everyone, including Kento, who he never even got the chance to say hi to in the first place.
Shoko didn’t think that was enough to have a complete 180 in your mood. She then realized you were already quiet before that. You also decided to stay in the kitchen, where there was a wall in between you and him.
So yeah, she blames Sukuna.
“Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you?” Ieiri asked one last time as she pulled up to your apartment building.
“Nah— my stomach just started to hurt. I don’t drink alcohol that much.”
She still didn’t believe you, not with how big of an asshole Sukuna can be, which is why a certain someone got an earful over the phone the moment you got out of the car. He barely got a word out while she threw nothing but insults and threats so specific his way, that he had begun to believe them.
Of course Satoru felt bad! He didn’t want you to disappear again for another seven years and have it be all of his fault. So, he gives Sukuna a call, continuing the cycle of abuse started by Shoko.
The phone rings three times. Sukuna never finishes saying hello before Satoru tries to grill him. “Alright, what did you say to her?”
“Who the fuck are you even talking about right now?”
Sukuna knows exactly who he’s talking about, Satoru can just see his face crinkling in fake disgust over the accusation because he’s just a bullshiter at the end of the day.
“Shoko thinks you said something to her— she said she was acting all weird and shit when she came back from the bathroom.”
“She’s already fuckin’ weird,” Sukuna scoffs.
“So you did see her before you walked into the kitchen to say bye?”
“Yeah, I saw her. Doesn’t mean I said anything to her though, you fuckin’ moron.”
Satoru sighs and rubs his temple, knowing he probably looked at you like he wanted to skin you alive.
“What? Is looking at her a crime now?”
“With the way you look at people? It should be.” It’s clearly not the first time Sukuna’s managed to simply offend someone his face with the way it comes out as a complaint on Satoru’s end.
“Why do you even care?”
“Don’t turn this back around on me?!”
“Then quit trying to grill me over the way I look at people. Seriously— she comes back and you all are fuckin’ babying her like she’s some victim. It’s not that serious.”
“Well Shoko—”
“Shoko can fuck off.” Sukuna cuts him off. “Don’t bother me about something stupid like this again. If she can’t handle someone looking at her in a way that she doesn’t like, maybe she should stay home and lock herself in her fuckin’ room.”
“I– she already did!” he tries to come to your defense. “Shoko won’t tell me much, but she was going through it for years. She probably still is! She doesn’t go out at all. I tried telling you before and you wouldn’t listen.”
There’s a long pause before a disappointed sigh could be heard. Satoru could tell it was directed towards himself instead of you. “She was going through it, so she locked herself in a room for years?”
“Not literally,” he scoffs. “Look, all I know is she was dealing with depression and now she’s all anti-social because of it.”
“She should’ve fuckin’ said something then.”
“Well, she fuckin’ didn’t.”
“That’s–”
“If that’s an opinion, it doesn’t matter,” he cuts the man off, starting to grow impatient. Satoru has adhd— the severe, annoying kind. There’s only so much he could handle before getting the violent urge to scream out random noises. “I’m just gonna give you her number so you can talk to her if you want. Who knows, she might even open up to you more since you were the one closest to her.”
“I don’t want her n—”
“YES YOU DO.” Satoru yells, leaving Sukuna more appalled than annoyed. “I just sent it. BYE.”
click.
Sukuna glares at his phone for a moment as if it were an extension of Satoru, convinced he was dropped as a child or something and just doesn’t know it. He knows he definitely wouldn’t tell his kid if he dropped them as a baby.
He relaxes his tensed brows and shakes his head as he pulls up the number Satoru sent. For some reason, he expected it to be your old number that he still somehow knew by heart.
He hates that he remembers it.
He also hates that the actual reason why you disappeared isn’t as dumb and selfish as he wanted it to be.
. . . . . .
In the three weeks he’s had your number, he hasn’t tried reaching out. He also hasn’t accepted any invitations to hang out with anyone as a group, despite being told that you were okay with him showing up. Part of it was spite, the rest being him genuinely tired from work.
His old man’s been taking more time off under the guise of letting him ‘take over for the day’. He acts so gracious with it, too, as if Sukuna should be thankful for the opportunity, when really, Wasuke should just fucking retire already so he can hire someone else to take his place as site manager. He’s essentially working two jobs now and when he asked for a raise, that old piece of shit laughed so hard that he damn near coughed up fifty years worth of cigarette tar.
You’d think watching his father nearly hack up an entire lung would be enough to make him quit smoking himself, but that shit pissed him off so bad that he smoked three cigarettes in a row just to calm down before going back to work. It still pisses him off. He doesn’t regret taking $50 out of that old man's wallet on his way out to cover his gas for the day. He honestly should’ve taken more.
It’s been months since he’s gotten home at a decent time. Tonight was probably the worst thus far.
He drags his feet into his apartment and kicks off his boots, heavy eyes landing on the clock that’s two minutes away from 10:00 pm.
The next ten minutes are spent shoveling leftovers into his mouth, followed by a hot shower that was mainly spent just standing there, zoning out as the hot water hit his back. It’s been days since he’s jacked off, realizing it doesn’t even give him the urge, his sex drives plummeted all the way down to hell. He just wants to sleep at this point.
Except when his head hits the pillow, he’s wide awake. It doesn’t help that he ends up scrolling through instagram— there was hardly a point for someone that barely followed anyone to begin with.
There’s not much to scroll through. The most interesting thing being a recent post of Suguru’s night. He absentmindedly looks through them, then pauses at the 4th photo of you and Shoko with your little drinks in hand.
You were barely smiling.
Your lips curved just enough for the camera— nothing like the photos of you from before, grinning and laughing. That’s how he’s always remembered you.
Would it have even made a difference if he told you not to move so far away for school? It’s not like he could’ve known, you never said anything. He thought you were doing just fine and you deleted everything one day and changed your number.
He taps the photo to see who’s tagged. Just Shoko. You still haven’t gotten back on social media, no profile to see what you’ve been up to. All he knows about you is that you moved back to the area after graduation and scored a cozy finance job without telling anyone. The only reason why you got in touch with Shoko again was because she ran into you at some bakery and made you give her your number.
It didn’t even matter if you did have a new phone with no contacts by the time you moved back. You didn’t need to text him or call him, you could’ve just shown up. Sure, he might’ve been annoyed at first, but he wouldn’t have turned you away.
You’ve known each other since 8 years old, you disappeared at 19. That’s his whole childhood right there. You played together, ate lunch together, walked to school together until he got a car, ditched school together. You had your own shampoo and toothbrush at his and would just use his clothes if you didn’t have a spare set with you.
It’s just dumb.
Still thinking about it, that is. It’s been years. It may have been fine to still be thinking about it at 21 or 22, but now it’s just ridiculous.
. . . . . .
You aren’t expecting Sukuna to warm up any time soon. At all, really. You couldn’t blame him for the reaction he had seeing you at Kento’s birthday. If there was one person that deserved an explanation, it was him, and you’re just about seven years too late for that.
He wasn’t the same person you knew. You couldn’t just go up to him expecting that you’d get to have a conversation. A civil one, at least.
It’s been years.
And honesty, it might not even be about being several years too late. He’s a grown man, why would he care about a childhood friend that just up and left?
All there’s left to do now is to stay out of his way. You’re sure his temper’s the same and the last thing you want is to bug him. Hopefully being at a kids birthday party shields you from it in the case that you accidentally do. From what you heard, he seems close enough with Toji to know not to fuck with his sons special day.
It’s not all bad. Toji couldn’t come to Kento’s birthday since his wife and son woke up sick that day, so you were more excited than nervous for today since you’d get to meet them.
This time it was you that picked up Ieiri. You felt a little guilty for being the one that constantly got rides, despite having a running car of your own. Once you two got to the little park in their neighborhood, everyone was already there, including Sukuna, who was stuck having to watch his nephew that you’ve heard about through Choso.
The biggest plot twist of all was probably learning that Jin is now technically Choso’s stepfather. You knew Choso had a teen mom, you didn’t know she was that young, though. You also had no idea how much of a milf hunter Jin was, either.
Jin apparently didn’t know that was Choso’s mother. No one believes him, especially not Sukuna, who still looks at two like they’re a couple of fucking sickos for making him Choso’s step-uncle.
The kid’s name is Yuji, and he looks just like Jin and Sukuna when they were kids. He’s the same age as Toji’s son, who’s turning 3 today. Yuji acts nothing like his father or his uncle. Jin was always quiet and sensitive. Sukuna was sensitive, too, but he was always very vocal about the things that annoyed him. The toddler was more like Gojo, hopped up on sugar and bouncing off the walls.
Sukuna calls out to him like an angry mother at a grocery store, gritting his teeth as he tells the kid to, “get your ass over here, NOW,” all while Yuji pretends not to hear or see him…. up until Sukuna gets up from the bench, which is when the little boy decides to run back to him, whining about how he’s sorry and how he didn’t know.
Megumi’s more quiet and follows Yuji around. He even ran back to Sukuna with the boy, worried that his friend's uncle was going to leave him at the park too, even though his father was at the grill just a few feet away.
Watching the two boys play is adorable, but you try not to look too much in an attempt to avoid making eye contact with the grumpy uncle, which ends up becoming more difficult than you’d imagined. The kid eventually wore him out to the point where he managed to slip out his view.
Yuji didn't go very far.
“...es’cuse me?”
You feel a little tug at your shorts and look down to find an incredibly worried Yuji, who should’ve gone to an adult he knew, but here he was after quickly deciding you were the trusted adult for whatever problem he had.
“What’s wrong?” You crouch down, getting at eye level. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he shakes his head, pointing to his feet. “I donno how to tie my shoes.”
“You don’t?” you ask, sounding just as concerned. “Do you want me to tie them for you?”
He pouts. “Yes, please.”
Your heart melts at his little voice. “Aw, okay.”
Like any other kid, Yuji’s amazed at how fast adults can tie shoelaces, unable to keep up with the strings crossing and looping around each other to create the little bow at the end.
“Yay!” He claps his hands, jumping in excitement. “We can play again, Gumi!”
Megumi thinks to celebrate with his friend, but closes his mouth right after opening it.
Then you’re startled by a scoff made directly behind you. “You make a stranger tie your shoes and you can’t even say thank you?”
The last to freeze is Yuji, who side-eyes him, rather than turning to face him. “Um.. ya I did..”
“No you didn’t?!” The toddler's ability to lie over something so simple amazes and offends the man at the same time. Does Yuji seriously think he’s that stupid? “I watched you lie about not knowing how to tie your shoes and then I watched you try to run off with even thanking her.”
“I donno how to tie my shoe!” Yuji stomps a foot on the ground to prove whatever point he thought he was making.
“Yes, you do— now thank her, before I take your shoes away.”
“Oh no, not my shoes!”
“Yeah. Bye bye, shoes.” Sukuna snorts, clearly enjoying this. “You’re a big boy now, remember? You don’t need them.”
“Yes, I do!” Yuji whines.
“Then have some manners and say thank you.” Sukuna continues to glare at the kid while pointing at you.
“Thank you for tying my shoe,” Yuji tightly grabs the bottom of his t-shirt with both hands and bows at you, then turns to his uncle and starts whimpering. “Don’t eat my shoes, Unkakuna! I need them!”
Sukuna’s even more annoyed now at how specific that was. “Who said I was gonna eat them?!”
“I dunno! You eat everything!” Yuji claims, bottom lip quivering and all, making his uncle's eye twitch in disbelief. “It’s all stuck in your big belly.”
Sukuna’s face drops, as if he didn’t see a 6-pack in the mirror this morning with his own eyes.
“I don't have a goddamn belly,” he scolds him through a clenched jaw, then lowers his tone as he begins to crouch down. “Do you want me to hit your Papa Jin?”
“No!!!”
“Then quit acting like I eat everything in sight, you little shit.”
Yuji scratches the back of his head as he continues to whine, trying to force a couple tears out. Eventually he turns to you. “He’s gonna hit my papa with his big belly.”
“Uh-oh. That's not nice,” you begin to laugh, all while Sukuna grumbles something about Jin being the one with love handles.
“Papa gonna cry,” he claims, continuing to act distraught over the news, trying to get all the sympathy he can from you. “My poor papa.”
You giggle. “I don’t think he’ll hit your papa, though.”
“He’s gonna EAT my papa!” Yuji stretches his arms out, emphasizing how big of a meal that would be for Sukuna. As if it couldn't get any worse, Yuji finds a random basketball and tries to stuff it under his shirt. “Then his belly will be big like THIS.”
“Stop it,” Sukuna snaps, pointing off into the distance behind the kid. “Get out of here before I barbecue you on that grill Mr. Toji’s using.”
“Hey!” Yuji gasps. “You can’t do that!”
“You can barbecue anything when you have barbecue sauce, Yuji.” he informs the kid, then notices a mortified Megumi standing off to the side. “You’re next.”
“DAAAADDDDYYYYYYYY.”
The boys run to Toji at full speed. Yuji thinks it’s a game, but Megumi’s genuinely scared, sobbing as his father picks him. His dad’s obviously confused as to why his son’s crying like someone threatened to kill him. Once Megumi’s able to actually get a full sentence out as he points right as Sukuna.
If Megumi thought he was going to receive any sort of comfort from his father, he was dead wrong. Toji bursts out laughing and doesn’t stop, even when Megumi starts screaming and hitting him for not being more concerned over something so dire.
“Megumi says you’re not allowed to have any cake,” Toji yells out.
“I’m taking Yuji home if I don’t get a slice.”
Sukuna’s response has the two boys whining in the distance.
“NO barbecue me.” Megumi glares as he tries to strike a deal with the most difficult person he’s encountered so far in his short, yet stressful life.
“Give me three slices and I won’t barbecue you.”
“But Unkukuna, you’re belly!” Yuji rounds his arms out in front of him, emphasizing how detrimental those extra calories would be for his physique.
Everyone grows quiet as Sukuna stares him down, wondering who the fuck even taught him that. Whoever it was better pray to god that he doesn’t find out.
“I’m not gonna be your uncle anymore if you keep talking about my belly.”
Yuji reaches out in despair as he screams, “NOOO.”
“No? You don’t want that?” he asks, fighting back a smile.
Yuji throws his back dramatically, shaking his head. “NO.”
“That’s what I thought,” he barks, not bothering to hide how proud breaking Yuji down with a singular sentence made him. “Now ZIP IT.”
“KAY’.”
Yuji looks away for a moment to take a deep breath, trying to calm down, all while sneaking little peeks at Sukuna.
He quickly looks away after seeing that his uncle’s staring at him, then peeks again. It happens several times, yet his uncle hasn’t moved a muscle once as he continues to just look at the boy like he’s better than him.
What kind of a sick game is this?
Naturally, he grows irritated knowing Sukuna is winning whatever game this is, which isn’t fair since he’s already going to have three slices of cake later. Even one slice was pushing it, to tell you the truth. He was too young to put into words why it pissed him off. All he knows is watching Sukuna enjoy good things, that are meant for good people, will never sit right with his spirit.
By the time Sukuna decided to stop staring at the kid as a form of psychological warfare, you had already been awkwardly standing there for quite some time, unsure if you should leave or not. It was either look rude or look too comfortable, neither of which you wanted to come off as.
Sukuna wasn’t mad at you anymore. At least not since Gojo called and told him you were and still are dealing with some mental health stuff.
He wasn’t planning on talking to you today, either, purely because he didn’t believe he should have to apologize for giving someone a harmless look. But then he caught Yuji trying to get your attention and figured it would’ve been fine since 2 minutes with him would make anyone want to choose peace for the next hour.
You couldn’t tell what he was thinking when your eyes finally met his, but at least he wasn’t giving you that same disgusted look you got at Nanami’s birthday.
You weren’t the best at starting conversations outside of work, though, and quickly embarrassed yourself with how bad you stuttered while trying to find something to say, which ended up being an apology for tying the kids' shoe.
In turn, Sukuna looked at you like you were a fucking weirdo.
“What? No, it’s— that’s fine,” he waves a hand, still thrown off by the apology. “He just goes around annoying anybody he can.”
“Oh– don’t worry, he didn’t annoy me. He's adorable.”
You suppress a laugh as he shoots you a look saying he’s anything but that.
“He’s a pain in the ass,” he grumbles, already rubbing his eyes from how tired he is. “We passed around a baseball for an hour before coming here and he’s still running around trying to convince people that I’m a fatass.”
He has to be at least 200 pounds of pure muscle and has the ass of a baseball player, so you neither confirm nor deny the words out of fear that you’d make yourself look stupid again. “He probably just likes your attention.”
“That’s the problem— he’s probably taken 10 years off my life already because of it,” he smiles a little, obviously more fond of the kid that he lets on.
You avert your gaze as you find yourself smiling as well. “His poor parents.”
“They have good life insurance, he’ll be set.”
“Oh, I'm sure,” you laugh with him until it dies down into another awkward silence. You’ve barely looked at him and try not to think too much about it after the realization. Having a conversation with him was surprising enough. Difficult on your end, too, but you pushed yourself. “How’ve your dad and Jin been?”
“Jin’s been good, he’s—” he huffs out a laugh, “you know he went and made Choso his fuckin’ stepson right?” He openly points at Choso, not very worried about getting caught.
“Yeah,” you nod, just as surprised by it, more so by the fact that Choso and Yuji and brothers.
“Well. He’s still going strong with Kaori. Just bought a house,” he struggles to list things worth sharing— aside from the mommy kink, his brother’s pretty boring. Sukuna quickly moves on to Wasuke, who he has no issue talking about. “Old man’s driving me nuts. Says he wants to retire, instead he just takes a bunch of days off and pretends he’s doing me a favor by letting me play boss while he’s gone, so now I’m doing my job and his.”
“You’re working for the company?”
He sighs deeply. “Yeah.”
It pains him to say, remembering all that talk about him wanting ‘something of his own’ when he was younger. Now here he is, set to take over daddy’s company.
“I mean… it’s already there,” you try to offer some words of reassurance, being the one that heard most of the said talk. “All you have to do is maintain it once it’s yours.”
“Exactly,” his tone changes, less ashamed of pulling the nepo baby card. “I’m not tryna work any harder than I should at this point.”
“Does he pay you extra on the days he’s off, at least?”
“Fuck no.” He laughs, even though there is nothing funny about being exploited at his grown age. “Yeah— nope— he works me like a fuckin’ dog.”
Hence why he’s been helping himself to whatever cash is in the old man’s wallet and whatever food he has in his pantry when he visits. He makes good money to begin with, so it’s not like he can’t afford any of it, it’s just the principal.
He’ll take Wasuke’s toilet paper, too.
That old man has one year to either give him a raise or retire completely before couches and T.V.s start to go missing.
“Old man’s been good, though… still kickin’,” he mutters, then stops himself before saying something really fucked up, “What’ve you been up to?”
You shrug as you let out an indecisive hum, knowing you didn’t have much to share. “Nothing really— work usually has me pretty busy.”
He’s well aware of how boring of a life you have, but still tries to push for more details. “Yeah? Suguru says you’re in finance now.”
“Mhm,” you nod, growing shy, “portfolio manager.”
“You spend the day telling people what to do now?” he asks as if he were almost impressed.
“Not really,” you laugh. “A lot of it’s research, reporting, meeting with clients, I— yeah, I mainly just take care of more of the sensitive stuff. If my manager hat’s on, it’s usually just collecting reports from the other managers or figuring out what’s going on with their teams if they’re not performing the way they need to.”
He nearly barks out a laugh.
You look at him with confusion. “What?”
“So instead of managing a bunch of people, you just terrorize their managers?”
“I don’t terrorize them,” you murmur, shifting in place. “It’s their job to make sure that their teams are performing well and if they aren’t—”
“You ask them why they aren’t doing their jobs,” he finishes your sentence with an amused grin. “Then they sit there for the next hour, trying to come up with an answer for that.”
You pause for a moment, wondering if he has to do the same. “Well— kind of.”
You don’t have time to sit there and listen for an hour, nor do you want to. The longest one went just over twenty minutes before you had to stop her.
“Listen, Linda— I,” you stopped to think twice about what you were going to say, “I’m just asking why there’s been a dip in the performance, I really don’t need an entire life story for that. Why don’t we take a few steps back— how has your team been?”
“Well… uhm… well… they…” You nodded, thinking it’d encourage her, and it did, but 5 minutes later she went off course to talk about her failing marriage, again. “And then Dave, he—”
“Is Dave a new hire?”
Her eyes dried right up. “No… Dave is my husband.”
You knew damn well who Dave was, but she was starting to get on your nerves.
“Okay, let’s talk about your team right now… this is about work— Dave doesn’t work here.” You tried your best to be patient with her, but it was like teaching a kindergartener how to self regulate. “I wanna know things like how everyone’s been mentally— are they eating, are they getting enough sleep, are they taking their breaks? Are they having to work through them?”
She didn’t know. She just wanted to give you a sob story so you’d let her off the hook. So, when she mentioned Dave a third time:
“This isn’t working,” you murmur to yourself as you turn to your computer and start typing. “I’m going to make a little worksheet for everyone, including you. Think of it as a peer review. You’ll have one for each team member and each team member will have one for you. I think that’ll be an easier way to get to the bottom of things.”
Instead of excusing herself, she stares at you like a deer in headlights.
“There’s no need to wait on me by the way, I’ll have them emailed out to everyone within the next hour.”
On the rare occasion that you do have to ask performance related questions, you send them the same exact worksheet so they have an idea of what you wanted to talk about— which is the only part you mention to Sukuna. He’d probably accuse you of terrorizing Linda when you know you could’ve been ten times worse.
You’re just glad he didn’t ask about any of the other stuff you had to do.
Sometimes you wished you spent your days in Linda’s professional shoes— god forbid you ever had to deal with a man like Dave. Her job was less demanding than yours. More human. Working with others and collaborating with them must be great in terms of keeping you grounded— normal people, that is.
You wouldn’t consider any of the people you answer to now as normal. The stakeholders, clients, the higher ups, Yaga— they’re all fucking crazy. You couldn’t just pretend like they were normal, you had to match their energy and in some cases, you had to be worse to finish whatever job you were tasked to do, which drove you closer to their territory with each day that passed.
“Do you like it there?” Sukuna looks at you and asks, tone fond and filled with warmth, as if he were proud of you.
In the same moment you realize that you were only fooling yourself earlier when you tried to believe that he hated you.
You wish you could turn back time by just a few seconds to change the subject. You didn’t want to answer a question that he clearly wanted a yes to— you’re sure it’d make him feel better about knowing you chose to spend all those years alone, when you had someone would’ve easily stayed by your side.
You grew stiff, eyes glossing at the question because you hated the real answer to it.
“Not really,” you murmur, almost ashamed to admit it. “That’s kinda how I feel about most things, though.”
It was true. You don’t even know why you’re wishing for a job like Linda’s, you always came off as cold and hardly spoke to others before the big promotion.
He didn’t know what to say to that, he wasn’t even sure if there were any words you could give to someone as apathetic as you sounded when answering. It’s not like he was the type to offer anything encouraging to begin with. Instead, he stayed quiet, comfortable in the silence as he let his own mind run free for a bit.
Just as you were starting to think you made him uncomfortable—
“Did anyone have to drag you here today?” he asks.
“No.”
“So you chose to come to soot sprites' birthday?” he asks, as judgmental as ever.
You smile. “I did.”
He gently rests his hand on top of your head, leaving you with a familiar sense of comfort as he leaned in. “You’re not doing too bad then.”
“Uncle-Kunaaaaaaa!” The man looks up to see his nephew sprinting towards him. “My tummy growling!!”
“This kid’s always coming up with the most extra ways to say things,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls away. “So you’re hungry?”
Yuji slows down the closer he gets, until he’s skipping towards the man. “Yeah. Mr. Toji says he make chicken sticks.”
Sukuna looks at Yuji the way he always does whenever the kid decides to rename something. “You mean skewers?”
“Yeah, chicken sticks,” Yuji nods, confidently repeating himself, because Sukuna was obviously wrong, even though Toji said skewers, too. Both men obviously don’t know what they’re talking about.
The man actually looked to you for help, and given how it’s an issue between a 3 year old rage baiter and a grown man that will make time to argue with a child, you decide to stay out of it.
“That sounds yummy,” you say to Yuji, and you could feel Sukuna glaring at you for not even bothering to call them skewers, too. “You guys should probably grab some before Suguru arrives, he loves chicken and leftovers.”
Sukuna lets out a mixture of a scoff and a laugh since it’s true, but if anyone’s taking those skewers home, it’s him.
Which is why he lets Yuji start to pull him away to get some.
. . .
Getting to talk to you more, after being pulled away from Yuji, hardly counted since it was with groups of other people.
Luckily for Sukuna, your car’s parked right next to his and you’re leaving at the same time he’s trying to get the little brat in his car seat. He’s half asleep and won’t let go— each time he physically tries to pry Yuji off of him, he does this weird muted scream.
He’s about 2.5 seconds away from wrestling this kid when he hears someone.
“Bye.”
It comes off as a little unnatural, but it’s in more of an awkward ‘I don’t know if I should say goodbye to you right now’ way.
Sukuna turns around. “Oh, wait—”
His hand slides into his pocket, only to find it empty, then realizes it’s in the pocket of his jacket. The side where Yuji’s on and won’t leave. You stay in the place the whole time, wondering if he’s aware of how funny he looks grumbling to himself as he checks all his other pockets.
He eventually finds his business card, then rolls his eyes after realizing he’s about to give you a business card, because he’d rather not tell you he already has your number. To add salt to injury, he didn’t even need to pull his phone out, because the goal was to give you his number.
“Here.” He hands the semi-decent card over for you to take, surprised it’s not more broken down since he’s always leaving them in his pockets, even when he’s throwing his clothes in the washer. “You don’t have to of course, but feel free to reach out if you’re interested in catching up sometime over lunch or something.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.” You look at the card, flipping it over a couple times. “Um… I don’t actually… need this, though.”
He stares at you for a moment, wondering if it was just some pathetic, last minute excuse to turn him down.
“I already have it,” you shyly admit, handing the card back to him as if it were better off going to someone else. “Satoru gave it to me a couple weeks ago. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugs, reluctant to say more— he might be down to catch up, but he’s still not apologizing for his face. “Shoot me a text sometime, then. I wouldn’t mind.”
“Yeah, I will.” You smile a little, trying to hide a bit of the excitement that was starting to bubble up. “Alright, well— it was nice seeing you.”
“Yeah, you too.”
. . . . . .
‘You’re not doing too bad.’
It took around 3 months after the words left Sukuna’s mouth to actually start believing them.
It’s not like your life was crazy interesting now. It just slowly started to fill up with things you looked forward to over time. Whether it be hanging out with others or simply sitting in your living room with a latte you took your time making. Your apartment started to feel more like a home with each new addition you added to it. You were nowhere near done, but you found yourself enjoying the process of casually looking through items and randomly falling in love with different ones.
The newest addition was a painting you saw a year ago and decided not to buy, despite how much you loved it. You stood in that gallery for over an hour, convincing yourself that it would never get that much attention from you again once you took it home. You were convinced that it’d find a way to collect dust in a space that felt as sterile as yours, and left it for someone that had a home where it wouldn’t.
You found it again in a consignment store with a big coffee stain on the side of the canvas. The person who ended up buying it probably got rid of the moment it spilled. They didn’t even bother hanging it up, and most likely had it on some counter before the accident happened. By the time you got to it, it was collecting dust with dozens of other paintings leaned against the wall since they weren’t good enough to be hung up.
You paid less than a quarter of it was originally worth, but a part of you thinks you would’ve purchased it for its original price if it meant you got to take it home. You’ve thought about it nearly everyday since you stepped out of that pristine gallery, after all.
Sukuna stared at it for a while before hanging it up. You can’t remember how the conversation started, but he came over and put it up for you after finding out you were going to do it yourself, claiming you didn’t have the right tools. You probably don’t.
It wasn’t until the canvas was up on the wall when he finally asked the question you had been expecting to get after you caught him looking at it funny.
“That brown stuff on the bottom corner is a part of the whole thing, right?”
“Nope.”
He just stood there and continued staring at the damn thing with you, waiting silently for an explanation that he soon realized he’d never get on his own.
“Are coffee stains some new trend I don’t know about?”
He was dead serious. It was almost funny how he couldn’t believe that you’d just buy something that was stained like that.
“Nope, not a trend.”
He continued to stare at you, so utterly confused as to why you want that thing hung up on your wall when you could just walk into one of those art shops and buy a new one. It’s not like you couldn’t afford it, he’s seen some of the shit you own and you’re clearly not bothered by commas on a price tag.
You eventually told him the story. He probably still didn’t get it, but that didn’t really matter.
“How cute,” he says rather boredly, wondering why you couldn’t just tell him that in the first place. “You didn’t buy it for more than 50% of its price, right?”
You shoot him an annoyed look. “I spent almost an entire year sulking over it, do you seriously think the price of it matters at this point? I wanted it.”
“You probably ended up cursing the damn thing so no one else could have it. People don’t usually spill coffee on paintings.” he says, starting to laugh the longer he thought about it.
You don’t laugh with him, but he does catch the proud look on your face as you walk away, just happy to have it. He walks after you with another question in mind, hoping now was an okay time since he always forgets.
“Mind me asking why you’re just now starting to furnish the place?”
You shrug. “I was just always too tired to get out of bed. If it wasn’t for work, I wasn’t getting up,” you remind him. “Too many choices to make, too. I’d get overwhelmed and stop looking for stuff.”
“Yeah, there’s a lotta shit out there,” he murmurs, helping himself to one of the white claws in your fridge.
The can cracks open and he takes a sip, looking over your living room that’s become a bit more filled in since the first time he came over to help you put your couch together. The place was so empty that he automatically assumed you had recently moved in.
He’s been helpful since Megumi’s birthday— at least he tries to be.
It never feels forced, most of the time it’s just him asking if you wanna come along to a place he was already going to, just to get you out of the house.
He also asks how you’re actually doing, a lot— figuring you were just someone that needed some extra support, given how one lonely, difficult semester made you isolate yourself to the point where you started to believe you weren’t worth missing.
Once, he almost asked how you could’ve ever put him into that category. He loved you, both platonically and not platonically. But he never asked, the past is the past and that’s probably just how it is when someone’s spirit’s in the dumps.
He’s far from a therapist and never has any advice to give, but he was surprisingly good at getting you out of your head— pull you back to reality, without the reality check. You’ve obviously had more than enough of them. It’s why he doesn’t bother being harsh with you, at all. Even during the times he’s come off as more straightforward, you don’t feel any judgement or malice behind his words. The last thing he wanted was to say or do something that made you think you couldn’t give him a call.
It’s probably why you’re so comfortable with having him come over and why you don’t mind telling him certain things, like the fact that you spent most of your free time sleeping at one point. He never bats an eye. He just wants to be around you, like he’s always had.
“Summers’ coming up. Getting anything for the balcony?” he asks, nodding in the direction of its doors.
You turn your head, looking over at the empty space. “What would I even get?”
He’s mid-sip when you ask, but hums in acknowledgment. “Some seating, a little table, maybe a fire pit if you’re feeling extra crazy.”
You fight back a smile, “Oh? Thanks, asshole.”
“You might be a grandma, but I never said there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I’m trying not to be, okay.” You give him the finger as you walk to the fridge, hoping he didn’t take the last seltzer. Seconds later you’re cracking one open yourself.
He chuckles at the little pout you get on your face when you’re offended. “I’m just fuckin’ with you— you’re fine.”
“I guess,” you murmur, leaving him in the kitchen to go take a seat on the couch.
He trails behind you, leaving enough space between the two of you as he takes a seat on the couch he nearly lost his mind trying to put together. The instructions were in a language so uncommon that most people go about their lives without knowing about it.
“What do you mean you guess?”
“I don’t know,” you murmur. “Kinda feel guilty for all the years I lost, I wish I could get them back.”
“I bet,” he leans back in his seat. “You ever considered making more time for yourself, now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Taking some time off. Could be a week, could be a couple months. You could even try working part time for a little. You have a savings, I’m sure you could get away with taking a break.”
“Oh— yeah, I have actually. The company has really good benefits, though. It’s kinda why I haven’t even tried to leave,” you turn towards him, leaning against the arm rest as you hug your knees. “I’ve been considering asking for a demotion, though.”
You’re not quite sure how Yaga would handle that. You’ve been coming up with different ideas all month— a hybrid schedule, switching to a 4 day work week, maybe leaving early some days, a demotion. You’re sure taking on another role would have its own difficulties, but it’d be easy to handle compared to all you do now. The workload you have really should be split between two people, maybe even three.
“That’d definitely be a lot less work,” he remarks, still shocked at all the shit he has you do.
“A lot less— I’m hoping Yaga agrees to one of them. If not, I might just find some place else. I could probably take a few months off then. Free time does sound nice.”
“Yeah you could sleep in, hang out with anyone who’s free, find a hobby, go on a date—“
His last suggestion gets shut down with a laugh. “Yeah, right.”
“What?” he smirks.
“I suck at dating,” you inform him. “I don’t even know how to anymore.”
He snorts. “That’s a little dramatic, no?”
“It’s true— last time I went on one was three years ago.”
He raises his brows, then flatly asks, “Three?”
“Don’t judge me,” you grumble.
“M’not. It’s just— 3 years of completely nothing?”
“God— obviously.” You hide your face in embarrassment. “You are judging me right now.”
“I’m not,” he laughs, taking another sip. “Just a long time to go without having someone take care of you.”
"Well I slept through most of it anyway so I'm fine,” you roll your eyes, annoyed at how he’d even make a joke like that when he knows you can support yourself just fine without anyone’s help.
“You’re awake right now, though.”
“So?” you scoff.
“I can take care of you, if you want,” he offers.
“Not funny,” you murmur, just about ready to kick his ass out.
At first, he’s confused as to why his little offer had you that offended. Then after a minute, it clicks. Since you refuse to look at him, you miss the amused grin on his face after realizing you two are thinking about two entirely separate things in terms of ‘being taken care of’.
You only finally look at him when he gets up from where he’s sitting and there’s a shit eating smirk on his face, making you think he’s just being a dick and leaving.
Then he takes a seat right next to you, leg just barely brushing against yours.
“What are you d—”
“I think you’re a little confused here,” he says a little too calmly, throwing his arm over the backrest and leaning in way too close.
“Listen, I looked forward to hanging up that painting of yours all day, same goes for all the other stuff I’ve helped you out with.” You feel your cheeks start to warm as a result of the low, honeyed tone he’s using on you. “I really like helping you. It makes you a little happier, and with all the assholes I have to deal with everyday, it makes my day a lot better. So, why not just let me do a little more?”
“I don’t— what are you even talking about right now?” Your words come out all nervous and jumbled, failing to stay calm from how close this guy is.
“I’m talking about all the times I’ve caught you looking at my dick print.”
Your eyes widen in horror and he laughs.
“Yeah, you’re not slick,” he tucks some hair behind your ear and leans in closer. “C’mon— you’re not even at work right now and your mind’s still all over the place trying to find stuff to be stressed about. Aren’t you tired?”
Your heart pounds against your chest as you hesitate to answer. “I mean— yeah.”
“Let me fuck you then,” he murmurs, tracing the backs of his fingers down your arm. “You won’t have to think about anything, won’t have to do anything— just gotta take it. Super easy. Sounds fun, huh?”
“I… I don’t know,” you just barely whisper, shifting in your seat from all the nerves, looking like a deer in headlights.
“I think you do know.” He continues to toy with you as he waits for you to say anything else. Surprise: you never do.
“I’ll stop if you tell me to.”
You look like you’re about to have a panic attack and it’s adorable. “Stop what?”
“This.” He smiles, pressing a soft kiss right under your ear, humming against your skin, not missing the way it makes your breath hitch. Then he presses another one on your jaw, then another, getting closer to your lips and pulling back right before he does, meeting your glazed over, half lidded eyes.
He snakes a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you in, making your lips meet his. The first kiss is slow and gentle, letting you warm up to it. You put your legs down trying to get closer, not expecting for it to grow more heated, too.
An arm wraps around your waist and you're being pulled in to straddle his lap. His big hands roam around your hips and ass as you start to full on make out, grinding you down against something long and hard until you’re desperately panting against each other.
He gives your ass one last squeeze before finding the bottom of your shirt and pulling it up over your head, rushing to unclip your bra and tossing it in whichever direction the shirt went. A soft gasp slips through your lips once you feel the wet heat of his pierced tongue drag a slow stripe over your nipple, not thinking much about the way Sukuna smiled at you afterwards.
You should’ve braced yourself for the level of greed you were about to experience.
Many minutes later, your tits are covered in spit and you’re failing to bite back moans out of self preservation.
And it’s fucking hard.
Sukuna’s groaning and dragging a heavy tongue over each nipple 1, 2, 3, 4 times before wrapping his lips around them and starts sucking. He goes back and forth between each, pulling away with a wet, lewd pop before moving on to the next. At first, he’d replace his mouth with his fingers— rubbing, rolling, and pinching on the sensitive bud so it’s not completely neglected while he works on the other one.
They’re now firmly planted on your hips, because apparently he needs the extra friction. So now your shorts are soaked through and you’re trying not to cum as he continues to push you down back and forth against his cock.
Your fingers are digging into his shoulders, the moans you’re struggling to bite back come out as whines and the one thing that actually pulls one out of you is when Sukuna’s palm cracks down on your ass.
“Come here.”
He pulls you in by the back of your neck and swallows all the little sounds you try not to make with a kiss messier than the last.
The air's hot and heavy once he breaks it. A small string of saliva hangs on and then breaks as you pull away, already looking like a mess while trying to catch your breath.
“Bed?”
“Yeah,” you nod, sounding more desperate.
“Thought so,” he stifles out a laugh as he suddenly gets up, easily taking you with him as he makes the short walk to your bedroom.
He sets you down on the mattress before pulling his shirt over his head. The buckle of his belt lightly clinks as he undoes it to take his pants off, leaving just his boxers on that leave little room for imagination. He leans forward, hooking his fingers over the waistband of your soaked fucking shorts, taking them off along with your panties in one go.
You don’t even get the opportunity to be shy around Sukuna because he's immediately grabbing the backs of your thighs and letting out a low whistle while pulling them apart to get a good look at how wet you already are.
“Shit— look at you,” he groans.
Without warning, he dips his head down in between your thighs, and he licks a long, fat stripe up your slit, not missing the extra friction from the metal ball on his tongue. There’s a shit eating smirk on his face when his head comes up, teasing you as he pushes you back further up the bed to make more room for himself.
“Told you this was fun.”
“Shut up.” You giggle as you watch him get settled back in between your thighs, only for it to die out once he dips his head back down.
He draws a long sigh out of you once he starts to slowly lap at your sensitive clit. He goes at an unhurried pace, just barely using any pressure and you’re sure he’s just doing it to fuck with you. With the way you are right now, the lazily licks are fucking torture, making you squirm around while you clench around nothing.
The more you move, the tighter his grip around the back of your thighs gets, until you find yourself pinned in place as he finally starts to pick up the pace, adding more pressure until that metal ball starts swiping across your clit like you need it to. You focus on it, until it gets ripped away once you finally feel his tongue press flat against your hole and begins dragging heavy stripes up to your clit.
Your breathing grows sharp and uneven, hand moving down to his head, locking strands of hair in between your fingers as drawn out moans start spilling past your lips. He goes from pressing his tongue against your entrance to pushing past it, dipping further and further until deciding to just stay there and fuck you with it.
The shallow thrusts have you squeezing and clenching, back arching off the bed, desperate for more. You nearly let out a pathetic cry when he pulls away, but then he fills the empty space right back up with not one, but two of his fingers. They’re long and thick, and he’s curling them in. The pads of his fingers rub right up against that spot inside that has you seeing stars.
Through half-lidded eyes, you watch as he starts to pump them in and out faster, until a light squelch can be heard. “Oh fuuuck.”
“You like my fingers?” he asks with a low, amused hum.
You nod. “Feels so good— oh my god.”
“I bet— look at how fuckin’ soaked they are from you.” He pulls them all the way out for you to see, then stuffs them back in. He starts curling faster, thumb pressing your clit and rubbing little circles until you’re clenching and whining. “Yeahh— that’s it, show me how good that feels.”
He keeps hitting your sweet spot until something in you shifts, making you close your legs out of instinct, only for him to keep them open so he can keep going.
“Oh my god— fuck— wait!” you cry out.
“What’s wrong, baby? Gonna cum?” Instead of letting up, he goes faster, letting the room continue to fill up with the filthy sounds of his fingers scissoring into your cunt, pushing you over the edge until you give him what he wants.
And he gets it quick. You let out a sharp cry as you gush around him, finally cumming after holding it in from earlier.
“Fuuck yeah, there you go,” he rasps, fingers slowing down as he works you through it.
He waits for you to catch your breath before leaning forward and kissing you a couple times, humming with each one.
“Tired or you wanna keep goin’?” he asks.
You’re still trying to catch your breath as you answer. “Yeah, keep going.”
“Atta girl.”
He pushes himself off the bed to take the boxers off and your eyes widen at his cock that’s bigger than you originally thought it’d be. It springs out of his boxers with multiple piercings and precum smeared all over his darkened red tip.
And of course, you stare for longer than you should.
“You alright?” he asks, sounding cocky as hell, and actually having the right to be.
Taking your eyes off feels impossible— 3 rows of barbells on the underside of his shaft right below his tip, and another one on the underside of his tip. It almost feels wrong, he’s already long and thick.
“Yeah— I just— holy shit.”
“I know.” He says with full confidence as he gets back on the bed and situating himself in between your legs. “Gonna be fun watching you take it.”
He grabs the backs of your knees and spreads your legs further apart, getting a better look at how wet you still are, fighting back a smile knowing it’s from him.
He gives his cock a couple pumps, then looks at you, not sure whether you’re excited or nervous. “You ready?”
You look at him, then back down to the absolute monster he has in his hand, then back up at him.
“Mhm.”
He stares at you for a few seconds, then casually shrugs. “Alright.”
You’ll get used to it.
He runs the head of his cock through your slick folds, tapping it over your clit a couple times, making you a bit more nervous after feeling the cold metal ball from his piercing nudging at your entrance.
He pushes in, and you both have the same reaction to how easy it slides in despite how tight of a fit it was. You take in a sharp breath as he starts to sink in, inch by inch, with no resistance, all while feeling an immediate stretch and the added friction from each piercing.
Once he’s halfway through, he slowly starts to rock his hips back and forth and you find yourself having to bite back on a moan, realizing those piercings were also rubbing back and forth against your walls.
“You doin’ okay?” he raises a brow, clearly enjoying the sight.
“You’re so fucking big,” it almost sounds like a complaint.
“I am,” he hums, leaning down and caging you in with his arms. “I’m gonna push the rest in.”
“How much is there left?”
“You’ll be fine.”
He thrusts right in and you're letting out a shattered gasp. At the same time, he’s humming in satisfaction since he got to watch the whole thing.
“Fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, giving you a moment to get used to how stuffed you are, stealing a few kisses while he’s at it since he’s not entirely an asshole. “Remember what I said, all you gotta do is take it.”
You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s pulling out all the way and sliding back in, working up a pace as he stuffs you over and over again, dragging those small metal balls right over the spot that made your toes curl.
It still took you a little bit of time getting used to him though, all words dying at your throat once he started to actually fuck you like it was nothing. Feeling betrayed by your body for letting him stretch you so easily like this.
Each drive of his cock has you moaning and gasping, making you cover your mouth trying to hold them in— something he did not like since he pushed your hand away.
Then without warning, he shoves two fingers in your mouth.
“Mmmh— you look good with my fingers shoved in your mouth like this. Now suck.”
You do as he says, swirling your tongue around his digit a few times before he presses them down it, making you softly moan as you sucked on them. He pulls them out with a wet pop and starts muttering in your ear.
“Don’t cover that pretty little mouth again, alright?”
Thrust.
“Fuck— okay,” you whine back.
“Good girl.” He gives you another rough thrust, pulling another choked noise out of you. “Don’t try to hold out on me thinkin’ snot and tears are gonna turn me off, cry on it if you have to. I like it ugly.”
At first you wanted to cry from how fucking mean that was, only to realize that urge to cry may have just been from that one spot he wouldn’t stop hitting, which eventually stopped being overwhelming once you finally get used to him.
“See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” he asks, though it was more of a condescending remark rather than a question. “Bet this feels good now, huh?”
“It’s been a while,” you say in an attempt to defend yourself.
“Yeah, no kidding— pussy’s fuckin’ tight,” he says all smug, getting harder at just the thought. “Feels good like this.”
He brings your legs together and throws them over his broad shoulders. Moans start to spill out of your mouth the moment he starts hitting at an angle that manages to hit your clit too. His hips crack against your ass as he picks up the pace, slick spreading past your thighs as he pounds down deeper, bed steadily rocking from all the force behind each thrust.
“Shit— look at how much of a mess you made,” he groans once the wet squelch between you becomes unavoidably louder. “Did you squirt or somethin’? You’re fuckin’ soaked.”
“No. I don’t— nghh— who cares, just keep going.”
He looks at you in amusement, keeping the same pace as he pushes further back against your legs to go deeper, making you nearly squeal. “Is this what’s got you lying about squirting?”
“I didn’t squirt,” you say with an airy laugh. “Fuuck— just feels good.”
“Right,” he mutters slowly as he pushes back against you even more, slowing down until he’s just grinding against you. “What about this?”
It’s a full blown mating press at this point.
“Mhm— yeahh.” Your lips curl into a small smile. “Better, actually.”
“Good,” he hums.
He leans down to press his lips against yours while slowly picking up the pace again, soaking up all the sighs and soft moans he pulls out of you from the deep strokes of his cock, letting the base of it rub against your clit while his tip mushes against that special little spot inside.
The slow, lazy kisses go on for as long as they can, and for you, it’s when your teeth threaten to clash against each other each time his hips snap against you. By then, Sukuna’s going harder. He pulls all the way back, then drives back in— the force behind each thrust growing greater than the last.
“F-fuck— Kuna, that’s—”
“What? Too much?”
“No, no— keep going,” you damn near start pleading with him, feeling a little bit of pressure start build. “Don’t stop— please, I think I’m gonna—“
Your cunt stretches helplessly around him, feeling every inch and vein he stuffs into you over and over again as he fucks you with reckless abandon. The sight’s nothing but obscene as he fills the room with the sounds of him pounding you senseless.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, honeyed and condescending. “Can’t take it?”
“I don’t– fuck– I don’t know.” Your words are cut off by sharp sudden gasps, feeling something unfamiliar build up. It’s not until he gives you one particularly rough thrust when tears start streaming down your cheeks.
“You poor thing.” If you hadn’t known any better, he sounded quite pleased with himself. He leans down to lick a fresh tear streaming down your cheek before going back to business. “Look at you, getting fucked so good that it’s making you cry. You’re probably close, aren’t ya?”
You take in a sharp breath, wondering how bad it would be if you did. You already thought you came. Instead, Sukuna’s right and he’s letting one of your legs back down, leaning in close and cradling your head while he continues to absolutely ruin you.
“Cum for me,” he murmurs. His fingers trail down to your clit and starts rubbing over it with just the perfect amount of pressure, making clenching like fucking crazy. “Thaaat’s it— c’mon. Give it to me.”
He drags his heavy cock all the way out with a wet schlick, then slams back in— again and again and again— pushing you over the edge until your nails are digging into his back and you’re breaking out into a cry.
You’re gushing around his cock and he keeps drilling into you like he’s trying to work as much as he can out of you— just powering through it. This is the hardest you’ve ever cum in your life, you’re fucking sobbing and he’s just encouraging it with the way he licks a stripe up your cheek, groaning about how fucking hot you look crying on his cock.
“Oh my g-god— I-I can’t— ffuck it’s too much—” your nails start to claw down his back as he drives you into overstimulation.
“I know— I’m so fuckin’ close,” he husks out, and you can tell he’s not entirely all here anymore. “Shhiittt almost there— keep squeezing me like that, baby— yeahh just like that,” his hips desperately slam into you, deep groans start to rumble out of his chest as he chases his own relief. “Fuck— ffuuck.”
He lets out the most drawn out guttural groan once it hits him. He slams in, burying his cock deep inside of you and flooding your walls with so much cum that it starts to spill out while he grinds every last drop of it out.
He pulls out but keeps you caged in underneath you, pressing lazy kisses against your lips with short uneven breaths in between, skin damp and glistening from sweat. It takes a moment to come back to reality, and for someone that doesn’t even know where to start, you’re surprisingly comfortable with the silence between you.
It eventually ends, though. You’re the first to break it.
“Did you still want me to go out on those dates you were talking about?”
Immediately he lets out a breathy laugh. “If you don’t mind me trying to fight them, then sure.”
. . . . . .
Six Months Later
You walk step inside Sukuna’s office, giddier than usual with the small pink cake you bought after handing in your resignation letter to Yaga. His feet are kicked up on the cherry oak wood desk and you doubt he’s doing anything work related. But he’s the boss, who’s going to yell at him? He does sit up straight once he sees you, though, ready to hear the news.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to hear it right away since you just had to look at the wall shelves and catch sight of something that wiped the smile off your face.
“Why is Yuji’s face crossed off in that photo?”
He rolls his eyes, “don’t worry, it’s whiteboard marker.”
“But why would you do that?” you continue to interrogate Sukuna, because unlucky for him, you two are the best of friends now.
Jin visited him earlier today and brought Yuji along. He started off the visit strong by pointing to Sukuna and asking his father ‘Does Uncle have a reezding hairline, too?’ and eventually took a look at the protein snacks he had in the corner, which made him look Sukuna up and down, and go “you eat too much.”
Sukuna rubs his temple as he grows annoyed again. “He called me fat and bald, so I told him we weren’t family anymore and crossed his face out to prove it.”
Despite the words that come out of Yuji’s mouth, the kid loves him in all of his grumpiness.
“So you made him cry?”
Yuji cried so hard that started dry heaving and nearly threw up. “No,” he grimaces. “He just pouted and said sorry.”
You look at him rather suspiciously as you grab a couple forks from his little snack station in the corner, but let it go this time.
He takes your silence as an opportunity to change the subject completely. “How’d your boss take the news?”
“Oh my god, he was distraught,” you reveal, still surprised over how panicked he looked when you turned in your resignation letter.
He waves a dismissive hand, believing it’s the least he deserved for not trying to meet you halfway when trying to cut some of your hours down and refusing to demote you.
“You’ll forget all about it after sleeping in tomorrow,” he reassures you before taking his first bite of cake.
“Yeah— I,” you give a nervous laugh, “okay, so about that.”
He stops chewing and just stares at you.
“I’m gonna stay with them.”
“What?” he almost snaps. “We’re going on vacation in a few weeks. I— what the fuck? What did you get a fuckin’ cake for then?!”
“We’re still going! He’s giving me that time off.”
“How charitable of him.” He snorts out a bitter laugh, then goes back to be mad. “I thought you hated that fuckin’ place?!”
“I did! But he offered to shorten my hours and said I could work from home.”
That piece of information does nothing for Sukuna, who is grumbling profanities under his breath, acting like he’s the one being forced to stay there. His words start going in one ear and out the other after telling yourself he’ll get it eventually, and take a bite out of the victory cake since you also got a small raise, despite the decrease in hours.
“Are you listening?”
“What?” you look up and ask, still chewing on the food.
“Tch– nothing.” Sukuna takes his aggression out on the cake by stabbing the damn thing when getting more. “He shoulda’ given you all that before you tried to quit if you were that important. Hell— he shouldn’t have dumped all that work on you in the first place.”
“He’s a greedy old man that’s hungry for money,” you remind him. “What else would you expect from him?”
Sukuna’s delusional and does this thing where he just assumes the world sees you the same way he does, and then when it doesn’t, he gets offended. Last week at the grocery store, someone reached for the produce in front of you and he snapped at them for not saying excuse me. Then he snapped at them again for not having any patience, given how you would’ve eventually moved.
“Whatever,” he gets up from his seat to grab a water from the mini-fridge and takes a sip, but before sitting back down, he stops next to you and gets at eye level. “If Mr. Crabs calls you while we’re gone, I’m ripping that phone out of your hand and cussing him the fuck out, you hear me?”
You suppress a laugh. “Loud and clear.”
“Good,” he says, stealing a quick kiss from you. “Proud of you.”
The sincerity in his tone pulls a smile out of you. “Thanks.”
He glances at the door, notices it’s locked, then places a hand on your thigh when the sudden realization that there was no one that could fire him hits him.
He gives it a squeeze. You already know what he’s thinking.
pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (medieval fantasy au)
summary: It’s expected for a princess to have a personal guard, especially when you’re an only child and heir to the kingdom. The knight who has watched over you since childhood is retiring and, much to your dismay, your father decides to put his best soldier on the job as his replacement - Ryomen Sukuna, the Kingdom’s most vicious warrior and far from your biggest fan.
Little did you know that Sukuna would end up tangling himself in your life in ways you never could’ve anticipated.
word count: 144k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, princess!reader, enemies to lovers, slow-burn(ish), forbidden relationship, medieval fantasy setting, fluff, angst, protective sukuna, fingering, spanking, sex dreams, violence, parent death, grief, confusing emotions, reader is chaotic, graphic violence, combat, bullying, anxiety, arranged marriages, references to child loss/misscarriage (not by the reader!), parental neglect, jealousy, depression, suicidal ideation, kidnapping, attempted sexual assault, injury, piv sex
in which your heartbreak over Mikey pulls you into the dangerous and irresistible orbit of Bonten's Number Two, Haruchiyo Sanzu.
warnings. sanzu haruchiyo is his own warning, graphic violence, substance abuse, toxic & manipulative relationships, explicit sexual content, depression & self-destructive behaviour, strong language.
tags. female reader insert, bonten au, tsundere!sanzu, ex-boyfriend!mikey, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, heavy pining & yearning.
masterlist
PART III. 18.9k words
Haruchiyo Sanzu is a menace. A relentless, goddamn menace. You never thought your day would end like this: chest heaving, lungs burning, and the icy river clutching your limbs as you fight to outswim him.
The water is like knives against your skin, each stroke of your arms a battle against the current's merciless pull. Your muscles scream for relief, but you push forward, desperation outweighing exhaustion. The river churns around you, a cold, chaotic force, but it's nothing compared to the chaos pounding in your chest.
Behind you, Sanzu moves through the water like a shark, a deadly predator with no intention of letting you escape.
You don't feel bad about what you did. No, not in the slightest. If anything, there's a flicker of pride burning beneath your fear, a stubborn satisfaction at the thought of his precious katana now rotting at the bottom of a dumpster. That cursed blade—sleek and gleaming, a symbol of everything twisted about him—had haunted you for years. Its absence from his side feels like a small victory, even if it might cost you your life.
"You really think you can fucking outrun me?" Sanzu's voice tears through the air sharply, even over the roar of the river.
The sound chills you more than the water ever could. But you don't stop. You can't. Every ounce of strength left in your body is channeled into moving forward, even as water splashes into your mouth, making you choke. Your legs are heavy, your strokes weaker with every second, and deep down, you know he's gaining on you.
You feel it then.
Fingers tangle in your hair, wrenching your head back with brutal force. Pain explodes across your scalp, and your scream is cut short by the river's icy grip as you're dragged under for a moment. You thrash and kick, limbs flailing uselessly, but his hold is unyielding. Sanzu pulls you closer with the ease of someone completely at home in the water, his grip like iron and his strokes deliberate.
"You've got some nerve, I'll tell you that," he growls, his breath hot against your ear despite the freezing water. "But not enough brains."
"Stop it!" you gasp, twisting in his grasp, but it only makes him tighten his grip some more.
"Stop? Now you want to stop?" he echoes, mocking, each word laced with venom. "You started this. Don't tell me you're giving up already."
His fingers release your hair, but before you can lunge forward, his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His chest presses against your back, solid and immovable, and you feel the steady beat of his heart, infuriatingly calm.
"Fuck this! Let me go!" you shout, desperation in your voice, but Sanzu only laughs, the dark sound of his laughter reverberating through your body.
"Keep squirming," he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. "It's cute how you think that's going to help."
The chill of the river feels distant now, overshadowed by the heat of his body pressed against yours. His chest rises and falls with controlled, steady breaths, while you struggle just to keep yours from hitching in fear.
Sanzu drags you through the water effortlessly, like you're nothing more than a ragdoll. Even when your feet finally scrape against the muddy riverbank, you feel no relief. Only dread. He doesn't release you. Instead, he hauls you out of the water with a terrifying ease.
Before you can think to run, he's on top of you, pressing you down against the earth, his knees digging into the dirt on either side of your body. The ground is cold, but it's nothing compared to the heat radiating from him. Water drips from his pink hair, his soaked clothes clinging to his lean, muscled frame.
"Oh, you thought you could escape me, did you?" he mocks. "You underestimate me too much."
Your chest heaves as you glare up at him, defiance flickering in your eyes despite the ache in your limbs and the bruising grip of his hand.
"I could've—" you retort, "if you weren't such a lunatic."
Sanzu's lips curve into a smirk, a dangerous spark flickering in his teal eyes. His cold fingers, brush against your jaw, forcing your face upward. You flinch at his touch, but he holds you still, his thumb grazing the pulse beating rapidly beneath your skin.
"Careful now," he murmurs. "You've already pissed me off. Don't make this worse for yourself, sweetheart."
Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms to stave off the rising wave of panic. Every nerve in your body screams at you to shove him away, to fight, to do something. But his solid weight presses down on you, pinning you in place.
Deep down, you know there's no escaping Haruchiyo Sanzu today.
And judging by the wicked grin that spreads across his face, he knows it too.
"So what?" you snap, but the sharpness of your tone falters as his unrelenting gaze bears down on you. "You gonna strangle me? Threaten to kill me again?"
"Threaten?" His smile widens. "What makes you think I won't kill you for real this time?"
The threat hangs in the air like a blade poised to strike. Sanzu dips his head lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.
"I did warn you." His voice is low, almost a whisper. "I can end anyone—you're not an exception. A flick of my wrist, and you're gone. Don't ever forget that."
You flinch at his words, your breath hitching as the reality of them settles over you. You're painfully aware of how easy it would be for him to make good on his threat. This isn't bravado. It's the cold, unyielding truth. Sanzu doesn't bluff.
"—And to think I actually showed you pity," he continues. "Gave you comfort, even, while you were bawling over Mikey."
The mention of Mikey's name hits like a sucker punch, dragging air from your lungs. Sanzu watches you, his eyes glittering with that familiar sadistic delight, as though your pain is just another game for him to toy with.
But even as your chest tightens, anger starts to simmer beneath the surface. You snort, the sound bitter and jagged, tearing its way free despite the tremor in your body. It's involuntary, absurd, like every other moment with him.
"Comfort?" you echo, the word dripping with disbelief.
A flicker of confusion crosses Sanzu's face, but it's gone as quickly as it came. Irritation hardening his features. His eyes narrow, sharpening like twin daggers, locking onto yours.
"Yeah, comfort," he snaps, his tone defensive, like the very suggestion that he's in the wrong offends him. "What? Need me to spell it out for you?"
Your stomach churns, anger bubbling inside you. His twisted sense of comfort, the smugness in his tone—as if he'd done you some noble favor—it's enough to make your blood boil. You lean forward without thinking, every ounce of rage clawing its way up your throat, refusing to let him have the upper hand.
"You call that comfort?" you spit, the accusation landing between you like a grenade.
Sanzu doesn't flinch. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away.
"You gave me drugs, Sanzu," you continue, your voice rising with every word. "That's your idea of comfort? Dulling me down? Making me numb? How the hell is that comfort?"
At that said, you see his teasing smirk vanish entirely, wiped away like a smear of paint, and what's left is a man unhinged. Without warning, his hand shoots up, his fingers curling around your jaw with bruising force.
"Shut your mouth," he hisses, leaning closer until his face is inches from yours. "You were a fucking mess. Sobbing. Falling apart. I did you a fucking favor. You hear me? I fixed you."
Your heart pounds against your ribs, each beat echoing in your ears. The rushing sound of the river fades into the background, leaving nothing but his voice and the weight of his hand on your face.
But even as fear twists in your chest, rage burns hotter.
"You didn't fix me," you corrects. "You ruined me."
His eyes flash, a dangerous glint sparking in their depths. He doesn't let go, his fingers digging into your skin as though he's trying to imprint his version of the truth onto you.
"You were already broken. I just made it easier for you to handle. Don't act like you didn't need it."
You glare up at him, defiance flaring despite the way your pulse races beneath his hand. "I didn't need you," you snap, spitting the words like venom. "And I never will."
His grip continues to tighten painfully, making you wince. For a moment, you think he might snap entirely from the intense way his dark eyes bore into you, his expression a mask of barely suppressed violence. You can almost feel the heat radiating off him, a pure, unadulterated rage.
But then, from the shadows, a voice cut through the silence.
"Sanzu."
The single word carries no urgency, no anger, but it's laced with authority. Calm, controlled, and utterly commanding.
Sanzu's grip loosens just slightly, his head snapping toward the sound. His entire demeanor shifts in an instant, the manic edge in his eyes flickering and fading. You turn your head too, your breath catching as you catch sight of him stepping out of the darkness.
Mikey.
He stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes flicker between you and Sanzu, assessing the situation in a glance, the faint frown on his face betraying a sliver of displeasure.
The sight of him hit you like a physical blow, your chest tightening painfully. How long has it been since you'd last seen him? Since the day you'd walked away? Time blurs in the aftermath, but now, with him standing there, it feels as though no time has passed at all.
Sanzu's grip on your jaw loosens, but he doesn't release you immediately. His fingers linger, teal eyes flicking back to yours, scanning your face as though searching for something. You can't tell what—fear, defiance, or maybe something he doesn't even understand himself.
"Late, as always," Sanzu mutters. His tone sounds casual, but the tightness in his jaw betrays his unease.
Mikey doesn't waver. "Let her go."
Sanzu doesn't move at first. His fingers remain curled around your jaw, the pressure a subtle reminder of his power over you. Before slowly, he releases you, his hand falling away as he straightens.
You gasp for breath, your hand flying to your sore jaw as you scramble to sit up. Your limbs tremble, but you can't bring yourself to meet Mikey's eyes. Not yet. The weight of his presence is too overwhelming.
"She's lucky I didn't kill her," Sanzu says, shoving his hands into his pockets as he steps back.
Mikey's eyes linger on you for a moment longer before shifting back to Sanzu. His expression remains impassive, but the silence between them is heavy, crackling with unspoken tension.
"Leave us," Mikey says finally.
Sanzu raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint sneer, but he doesn't linger.
"As you wish, Boss." With a mocking salute, he turns and strides off into the shadows, leaving you alone with Mikey.
The silence that follows is deafening.
You stay on the ground, your breathing uneven as you try to steady yourself. The ache in your jaw is nothing compared to the storm raging inside you.
And for the first time in a long time, you realize you don't know who scares you more: Haruchiyo Sanzu, the unhinged and dangerous man who just walked away, or Manjiro Sano, the boy you once loved who now looms over you like a stranger cloaked in darkness.
Haruchiyo Sanzu's presence makes it impossible to focus. You're back at the café where, just hours ago, you'd seen Mikey with his wife. Now, Mikey sits in front of you, his familiar gaze fixed on your face, while Sanzu lingers in the periphery, leaning casually against the wall. You can feel his teal eyes on you even when you're not looking.
"You're okay?" Mikey's voice cuts through your train of thought, snapping your attention back to him.
The truth hovers just below the surface. Of course, you're not okay. How could you be? His concern, once something you found so grounding, now feels like salt in an open wound. It's like he's still trying to play the role of your savior when he was the one who let you fall.
"Never better," you reply sharply, the sarcasm laced so thick it almost chokes you.
It's not a lie. Not entirely. Never better because you've finally been forced to stand on your own, but never worse because Mikey—because he's Mikey—makes it impossible to forget what you lost.
Mikey sighs quietly, the sound so familiar yet so infuriating. It's the same sigh he always gave when he thought you were being unreasonable, and it only stirs your anger further.
"Look, I still care," he begins but then pauses, swallowing back the rest of the sentence. His jaw tightens, and he adjusts his words like he's afraid of what he might say next, "I've always had your back, even now. That hasn't changed."
You almost laugh, the bitterness rising in your throat. Had my back? If that were true, would you even be here, unraveling piece by piece? His words are like a knife, and he doesn't even know he's holding it.
"I heard you moved out of your old apartment," he adds, as if that's what matters right now.
Our old apartment, you correct silently, the words bitter on your tongue. The place where Mikey used to hold you through restless nights, where laughter once filled the air, and where you'd built your life together. But now, it's just a place you couldn't bear to stay in, a graveyard for everything you thought would last.
"If there's anything I can do to help—"
"Like what?" you snap, your words cutting through his sentence. "You think I can't survive without you?"
Mikey doesn't answer right away, and the silence that follows only worsens the sting. His hesitation is maddening, but worse is the look that settles on his face. Soft, almost pitying. It makes your blood boil.
You know you're digging your own grave. You've relied on Mikey since you were sixteen, leaning on him for support in every way that mattered. It's obvious you've survived this long because of him, but that doesn't mean you can't start now. That doesn't mean you need him anymore.
Still, his silence gnaws at you, and when he finally speaks, his voice is measured, like he's walking on eggshells.
"I know you can," he says gently. "You're strong, capable, and I admire that. But if you ever need someone to lean on, I'm here for you. You can depend on me."
His words should feel like a lifeline, but instead, they feel like chains. Because you know what he's really saying. He's offering help, but it's the kind that comes with the knowledge that you'll always be just a little weaker than him.
That you'll always need him.
"Depend on you?" you repeat incredulously. "That's rich coming from someone who left. You're the one who fucked me up, Mikey!"
Your words hang in the air. Heads turn toward you, curious eyes flicking your way, but you don't care. Let them stare. Let them hear every word, every ounce of pain he left behind. It's either your voice rises, or your dam breaks. And you'd rather be seen as crazy than weak.
Especially in front of him.
Mikey's face tightens, his hands curling into fists on the table, but he doesn't interrupt. His silence only fuels your rage, pushing you closer to the edge.
"I don't need your help," you continue, your voice rising. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone! I've been fine these past months—"
Lies. All lies.
You haven't been fine. You've been living in survival mode, barely holding yourself together. Nights spent staring at the ceiling, choking on the weight of your own heartbreak. The fragile pieces of your heart held together by sheer will.
"—And honestly, I'd rather trust a lunatic like Sanzu than you. At least he'd be honest about being a monster."
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you know Sanzu's eyes are on you, boring into the side of your head. You can feel the weight of his gaze even as you refuse to look his way. He's going to kill you for that, for calling him a monster, but you're too angry to care.
Across the table, Mikey lowers his gaze to his hands, his expression shadowed. He has the audacity to look ashamed, whether it's of himself or of you, you don't know. And you don't care anymore.
The weight in your chest feels unbearable now, pressing down on you like it's trying to crush the air from your lungs. You rise to your feet abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Without a second glance at Mikey, or anyone else for that matter, you storm out of the café.
Sanzu is standing by the door, but you don't even look at him as you pass by. You can still feel his gaze on you, following your every step.
Outside, the chill bites at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the storm inside you. The world feels too bright, too loud, and too indifferent to your pain. The tears that blur your vision now are hot, a stark contrast to the cold air brushing against your cheeks. You wipe them away furiously, but they keep coming, spilling over like water from a broken dam.
And then you see her.
You freeze.
It's her. Mikey's wife.
The source of your pain, your heartbreak, your sleepless nights.
She's standing across the street, radiant and serene, as if she belongs to another world entirely. A world without heartbreak, without sleepless nights, without you. The sight of her punches the air from your lungs. You can't look away, even though every fiber of your being screams at you to turn around, to run.
Her beauty is effortless, the kind of beauty that doesn't try but still outshines everything. She moves with the grace of someone who knows exactly where they belong, her confidence unshaken by the storm she's left in her wake. You feel the cracks in your resolve widening with every step she takes, every smile she offers to her bodyguard as he opens the car door for her.
She steps into the sleek black car with the kind of ease that feels like mockery. It's just another perfect day for her, another moment where her life glides forward without a hitch. And here you are, standing on the sidewalk with your heart shattered into pieces so small they might never come back together.
Your knees feel weak, your vision swimming as the tears threaten to consume you entirely. The world spins, a dizzying blur of faces and voices, and for a moment, you think you might collapse right here. Let the concrete catch you, let the city swallow you whole. Anything. Just to escape this unbearable weight.
Then all of a sudden, you hear that familiar deep, gravelly voice.
"Get in the car. I'm sending you home."
You don't need to turn around to know who it is. The voice and the aura, it's unmistakably him. He's followed you out of the café, his presence as persistent as the evening's chill.
You slowly turn, and there he is. Sanzu.
The car near you beeps as he unlocks it, slipping his keys back into his pocket with a flick of his wrist. His movements are smooth, controlled, and yet there's an underlying tension that makes the air between you feel heavy. He steps closer, his smirk sharp, but his eyes—those teal eyes—are watching you too closely, betraying something deeper beneath his casual façade.
"You're a mess," he says. "But I guess that's not exactly breaking news, is it?"
You glare at him, the tears still hot on your cheeks. "And why the hell do you care?"
Sanzu's smirk twitches and almost falters, but he catches himself. He leans in slightly, close enough that you can see the fading scar near his lips, the faint gleam of sharpness in his eyes.
"Care? Oh, sweetheart, don't flatter yourself," he drawls, his voice dripping with condescension.
"I'm only here because Mikey asked. Said you were gonna embarrass yourself if I didn't get you off the street. And, well..." He tilts his head, his grin widening just enough to make your blood boil some more. "He's probably right."
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Go to hell," you say, turning to walk away. "I don't need a babysitter, least of all, you."
But you don't make it far before his voice cuts through the air again.
"You really think I'd let you walk around like that?" he says, the implication stopping you in your tracks.
You turn back to face him, and this time, his expression has shifted. The smirk is still there, but it's quieter now, his eyes narrowing as they study you.
"You've got tear stains on your face, your hands are shaking, and you just screamed at my boss loud enough to wake half the city," he continues. "So tell me, princess, what's your grand plan? Walk until you fucking collapse? Or maybe you're hoping someone worse than me will pick you up?"
You swallow hard, his words cutting deeper than you want to admit. But you refuse to let him see how much they affect you.
"I'll be fine," you bite out, lifting your chin defiantly. "I don't need anyone."
Sanzu laughs, a deep, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Yeah, that's cute. Real cute. But here's the thing: I don't give a damn what you think you need right now. You're getting in the car."
You shake your head, your anger rising again. "You don't get to decide—"
His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to make you freeze. His gaze locks onto yours, and for the first time, the mask he wears cracks just slightly.
"Listen," he says quietly, his voice losing its usual edge. "You're not fine. And I'm not about to let you spiral because you're too damn stubborn to admit it."
The unexpected hint of concern catches you off guard. You stare at him, searching his face for any form of an explanation, but all you find is that same unreadable look he always gives you.
He lets go of your wrist, stepping back. "Do us both a favor," he mutters. "Quit wasting my time and get in. Or do you want Mikey to think you're this pathetic?"
The mention of Mikey's name is enough to make your blood boil all over again, and you storm past Sanzu, sliding into the passenger seat with a huff. You slam the door shut, refusing to look at him as he rounds the car and slips into the driver's seat.
The engine roars to life, and as the car pulls away from the curb, you can feel his gaze flicker toward you. He doesn't say anything else, but the silence between you feels heavier than words.
You glance out the window, your chest still tight, your mind racing. You don't know what's more unsettling: the fact that Sanzu came for you, or the fact that, for all his mockery and death threats, a part of you believes he might actually care.
Haruchiyo Sanzu confuses you. He always has.
The memory of your first meeting lingers in your mind, a thorn that never dulls. His hair was its natural pale blonde back then, the soft strands a stark contrast to the sharpness of his features. Most of his face was hidden behind that ever-present black mask, as if he wanted to stay hidden even in plain sight. But his eyes—the way they raked over you, cold and unwelcoming—made it clear enough that you were an outsider.
"Can't believe Mikey's letting some chick walk all over him like that," he had said the first time he saw you. "The bitch got him wrapped around her little finger. It's pathetic."
He didn't bother lowering his voice, didn't care that you were within earshot. To him, you weren't someone worth sparing. You were an anomaly in Mikey's meticulously crafted world. A fragile thing, bound to break and take Mikey down with you.
It hadn't hurt back then, not the way it might now. At the time, Haruchiyo Sanzu had been nothing more than an arrogant, brooding boy. He was a shadow that simply clung too closely to Mikey. A boy with a fervent, almost fanatical loyalty that bordered on obsession.
Even then, though, there had been an unshakable truth about him: Sanzu would do anything for Mikey.
You hadn't realized how much weight that truth carried until the day you were forced to rely on him. Mikey had been surrounded. Dozens of enemies closing in, their shouts echoing in the air like a war drum. You'd known Mikey could handle himself. He always could. But something primal, something terrifying, had clawed its way into your chest, leaving you breathless and desperate.
And so, against your better judgment, you'd turned to Sanzu. You still remembered the way he had looked at you like you were dirt on his shoes, something insignificant and beneath him.
"Scram, you little brat!" he'd snapped, his tone laced with warning. "You're out of your league here, so fucking get lost!"
But despite his words, he went. Without hesitation, without question. You'd stood frozen, watching as he moved, his katana gleaming like liquid silver, cutting through the chaos with terrifying precision. Blood sprayed, painting the air with crimson streaks, and the sound of steel meeting flesh rang in your ears.
Sanzu had been merciless. Efficient. Unstoppable.
Mikey was the same, you knew that. But Mikey never let you see that part of him. He was careful with you, always holding something back, as if he didn't want to shatter the image of the boy you thought he was.
But Sanzu? He never cared about sparing you.
You'd always been an outsider in his eyes.
And yet, now, years later, after everything—after all the threats, the hatred, after your messy, heartbreaking breakup with Mikey—you find yourself sitting in Sanzu's car, the hum of the engine the only sound between you.
It feels wrong.
Haruchiyo Sanzu isn't the type to care, to go out of his way to help someone. Especially not you. And yet, here you are, gripping the edge of your seat as he drives you home.
The streets blur past the window, streaks of gold and crimson from the setting sun spilling across the world outside. You catch his reflection in the glass. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips press into a faint scowl even when he's relaxed.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't glance at you. But his presence fills the car like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable.
Your gaze drifts to his hands, one on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His long fingers tap a slow, absent rhythm, betraying a restless energy he won't let show anywhere else. The tendons shift under his skin, his movements deceptively delicate for someone who wields death so easily.
The light hits his face just right as you glance at him. The gold of the sunset softens the hard lines of his features, catches in his pink hair, and makes it glow like a firelight. For a fleeting moment, he doesn't look like the Haruchiyo Sanzu you know.
Not the lunatic you've always known. Not the monster who once strangled you while high, forcing your first pill down your throat under the pretense of "comfort." Not the Haruchiyo Sanzu who swings his katana without a second thought, who laughs at the chaos he creates.
No, this version of him—silent, calm, almost serene—feels like someone else entirely.
The thought unsettles you.
You shake your head, trying to banish it. This is Sanzu, you remind yourself. The lunatic. The monster. The man you have every reason to hate.
But even as the words repeat in your mind, they sound weaker than they should.
The car rolls to a stop outside your apartment, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The silence stretches, heavy and taut, until it feels like the weight of unspoken words might crush you. But he doesn't speak. He never does when it matters.
You step out of the car, the door closing with a soft click behind you. The evening air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it as you turn back to watch him. His face is unreadable, eyes fixed straight ahead, his fingers still tapping that absent rhythm on his thigh.
The car pulls away, his taillights vanishing into the distance, leaving you standing there, alone and more confused than ever.
Haruchiyo Sanzu confuses you.
And tonight, as the memory of his quiet presence lingers, you hate that he does.
Actually, scratch that.
Haruchiyo Sanzu is a damn petty bastard.
For a brief, fleeting moment, you'd thought the two of you might've reached some unspoken understanding. Sure, no words were exchanged, and yes, all he did was drive you home. But still, there had been a quiet truce in the air. A rare moment of something that almost resembled civility.
Clearly, you were wrong.
The realization hits you the second you step into your apartment.
Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you're frozen in place. The space you've spent months trying to make your own sanctuary is now unrecognizable. Empty.
Gone is the couch where you spent lazy afternoons staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Gone are the shelves, once filled with books and little trinkets that held pieces of you. Your bed, your safe haven after long grueling days, is nothing but an empty outline on the floor now. Even the faint scent of lavender, your ever-present diffuser, has vanished, replaced by the sterile smell of nothingness.
Your footsteps echo as you take a cautious step forward, the sound bouncing off bare walls, mocking you. The knot in your stomach tightens, your mind scrambling for explanations that don't exist. For a brief, desperate second, you think maybe there's been some mistake.
But the truth—the infuriating, maddening truth—is instant and undeniable.
The only person who knows your new address is Haruchiyo Sanzu.
Your chest tightens as fury ignites in you, searing hot and fast. Of course it's him. Who else would have the audacity? The lunacy?
You think back to last week, to the moment you thought, stupidly, that he might've been capable of a shred of decency. The way he'd driven you home without a single cruel jab. The way he'd let you leave his car without some biting remark to twist the knife. You'd wanted to believe there was some humanity lurking beneath the madness.
How naive.
This empty apartment, this gutted wreckage of your life, is his grand fucking statement.
He'd sent you home just so he could rip it all away again.
You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as fury courses through you. It's not hard to figure out why he did it. Beyond the fact that he's a complete lunatic, this has revenge written all over it. He's still pissed about you dumping his precious katana into the dumpster like the trash it was. This is payback. The emptiness surrounding you is proof of that.
How fucking petty.
Your gaze sweeps over the barren apartment, landing on the empty space where your coffee table used to be. Fury roils in your chest, spilling out in waves, hotter with every passing second. If you'd known it would come to this, you wouldn't have stopped at tossing his katana.
No, you'd have gone for the jugular.
You'd have stolen his entire stash of pills, the ones he guards like a feral dog. The ones he pops like candy, always chasing some chemical peace he'll never find. Or better yet, burned down his condominium entirely.
No. You'd evacuate everyone first, of course. You're not a monster.
But Sanzu? You'd leave him there. Trapped. Let the fire consume everything he holds dear. His overpriced furniture, his meticulously curated wardrobe, his godforsaken colorful pills. You can almost picture it: flames licking at his skin, his screams swallowed by the roaring inferno.
The image is so vivid, so satisfying, it almost makes you smile. Almost.
You shake your head, trying to push the thought away. No. You're not a murderer.
You're not him.
But standing here in this gutted shell of your home, your hands trembling with barely restrained rage, it's hard to hold onto that truth.
Sanzu has this way of dragging you down to his level, of twisting your emotions until the unthinkable feels reasonable. He pushes and prods and poisons until there's nothing left but anger and the quiet hum of violence that he wears like a second skin.
And right now? Right now, you've never wanted to kill someone more in your entire life.
Sanzu.
That goddamn petty bastard.
"Haruchiyo Sanzu! Go to hell!"
Your scream tears through the bustling city noise, sharp and furious, loud enough to make heads turn. People stop mid-step, startled by the force of it, but you don't care. You're standing at the edge of the footbridge, your fists clenched so tightly that your nails dig into your palms. And there he is, walking casually along the road below you like he hasn't turned your entire life upside down.
Sanzu stops in his tracks, turning slightly to glance up at you. For a moment, his teal eyes widen in genuine shock, as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing.
Good. Let him be shocked. Let him know exactly what's coming.
The fire inside you burns hotter as you storm down the bridge. It's been raging ever since you stepped into your empty apartment and realized he was behind it. You hadn't even stopped to think before running to his condominium.
For thirty minutes, you'd pounded on his door like a lunatic yourself, your voice hoarse from shouting his name. Your rage was loud enough to bring out one of his neighbors, a sour-faced old man who only stepped outside to inform you, with no small amount of irritation, that Sanzu had left ten minutes ago.
You'd muttered an apology to the neighbor before taking off again, your rage fueling every step. You'd searched the streets near his condo like a woman possessed, the thought of spending the night on a cold, hard floor making you see red.
If anyone's sleeping uncomfortably tonight, it'll be Sanzu. Preferably on his deathbed.
And now, after all that, you've found him. Walking casually toward his sleek black car. He looks calm. Relaxed. Like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like he hasn't just uprooted your life for the sake of some petty, calculated revenge.
Your shout stops him, but only for a second.
He blinks, his momentary surprise melting into something unreadable. Then, without a word, he turns away and keeps walking, as if nothing happened.
The audacity.
Your feet move before your brain catches up, propelling you forward with reckless speed. The world around you blurs. Faces, voices, none of it registers. Passersby step aside, startled by the sheer force of your determination, their wide-eyed stares sliding off you like water off glass.
All you can focus on is Sanzu.
He's climbing into the back seat of a sleek black car now, his movements calm, unbothered. Pretending he doesn't see you, pretending he didn't just hear you scream his name moments ago.
He doesn't even look at you as he settles in the back seat, his long fingers gripping the edge of the door. His lack of acknowledgment feels like a slap to the face, stoking the fire in your chest until it threatens to consume you.
Not today.
You slam your palm against the car door just as he begins to close it, the force of it rattling the frame. The sound echoes through the air, startling even you with its sharpness.
"What?" you demand, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. "Running away now?"
Sanzu looks up at you with maddening calm, his teal eyes catching the glow of the streetlights. For a split second, you think he might actually take you seriously. But then it happens, that smirk. That insufferable, smug curve of his lips that makes your anger spike higher. It's the kind of smirk that tells you he's been expecting this, that he's been waiting for you to find him.
And worse? He's enjoying it.
"Oh, no, sweetheart," he says smoothly, leaning back against the seat with an air of infuriating nonchalance. "I never run away from a fight."
The deliberate ease of his tone feels like gasoline on the fire. His teal eyes glint with amusement, and that smirk of his widens just enough to make your fists itch.
"But," he continues smoothly, as if he has all the time in the world, "as much as I'd love to finish this and remind you of your place, I've got a meeting in ten."
He taps his watch, feigning impatience. "So, unfortunately, I'm not exactly in the mood to entertain your whining."
Whining.
The sheer arrogance in his tone makes your vision blur for a moment, your nails digging into your palms as you clench your fists. He's doing this on purpose, you realize. Poking at your anger, stoking the flames, and loving every second of it.
"Don't fucking test me, Sanzu!" you snap, your voice sharp with barely restrained fury. The effort it takes to keep yourself from grabbing him by the collar is monumental. "Return all my things now!"
Sanzu tilts his head slightly. "Your things? You're gonna have to be more specific than that."
You take a step closer, narrowing your eyes at him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about," you growl. "My apartment. My furniture. Everything's gone because you took it. All of it."
"Oh, that." His smirk deepens, and he shrugs like it's the most inconsequential thing in the world. "Yeah, that stuff's gone."
"Gone?" Your voice rises, your frustration boiling over. "What the hell does that mean? Gone where?"
Sanzu chuckles. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee as he looks at you with the arrogance of someone who knows exactly how much power they hold.
"That," he says smoothly as if he's savoring every moment of your frustration, "is for me to know and for you to find out."
The smug satisfaction in his tone makes your skin prickle, and for a moment, the entire world narrows to just the two of you. The bustling city, the distant car horns, the faint hum of streetlights. All of it fades away under the weight of his words.
"You think this is funny?" you hiss, your voice trembling with barely restrained rage.
He leans back again, stretching out like a king on his throne, his smirk never faltering.
"Hilarious, actually," he replies, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "The look on your face right now? Worth every second."
You want to scream, to claw that smirk off his face, to make him understand just how far he's pushed you. But deep down, you know that's exactly what he wants. Sanzu thrives on chaos and control. And right now, he has both in the palm of his hand.
So you force yourself to take a deep breath, though it does little to calm the storm raging inside you. Losing your temper won't get you anywhere. The only way to deal with someone like Sanzu is to stay rational, no matter how impossible that feels.
With that thought, you grab the front of his shirt and yank him toward you, your fingers curling into the expensive fabric. You lean against the car door, bending slightly so you're face-to-face with him.
For the first time, his smirk falters.
It's subtle, but it's there. A flicker of irritation in his eyes. He doesn't like to be handled this way, that much is obvious. But you're too angry to care.
"Fine," you hiss. "Since you're incapable of being civilized, I'll be civilized enough for both of us."
Your glare sharpens, and you tighten your grip on his shirt, tugging him closer. "That stupid katana. I'll pay you back. Name a price, and stop with this bullshit."
The silence that follows is heavy, crackling like static between you. He doesn't smirk, doesn't quip. For once, he seems caught off guard, or maybe he's just letting the moment stretch to keep you guessing. His teal eyes pierce into yours, unreadable, and you wonder if you've finally managed to throw him off his game.
But that fleeting moment vanishes as quickly as it came. His hand moves—a blur—and clamps around your wrist.
"Sanzu—"
You barely manage to gasp his name before he yanks you forward with an aggressive tug. The force of it throws you off balance, and you stumble, landing unceremoniously on his lap.
The sharp sound of the car door slamming shut beside you snaps like a gunshot in your ears, reverberating through the tense air. You freeze, your breath catching as the suffocating closeness of the car settles over you like a vice.
Panic surges in your chest, but Sanzu doesn't give you a chance to react. He shifts slightly, leaning forward to address the driver, someone you hadn't even noticed until now.
"Drive," Sanzu orders.
The car lurches into motion, and you instinctively reach for the door handle, your heart racing. "What the hell—"
Your fingers barely graze the metal before Sanzu's hand catches yours in an iron grip.
You whip your head toward him, fully intending to glare, to demand answers, to fight. But whatever words you had prepared dissolve the moment you meet his gaze.
He's too close.
Your face is mere inches from his, so close you can make out every detail: the pale green of his eyes flecked with grey, the sharp arch of his blond eyebrows, the jagged skin at the corners of his mouth. His cologne envelops you, spicy, woodsy, intoxicating in a way that makes your pulse stutter.
Your hand, trembling with adrenaline, presses against his chest, and you curse inwardly as you feel the steady, unnervingly calm beat of his heart beneath your palm. He's not rattled, not even a little. Meanwhile, your own heart feels like it's trying to break free from your ribcage.
His body is solid and lean beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. Every subtle shift of his frame feels deliberate and controlled, as if, even in this chaos, he's still the one pulling the strings.
Sanzu tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest trace of a smirk. Not the full, insufferable grin you're used to, but a softer and sharper smirk, and infinitely more dangerous.
"You said you'd pay me back," he murmurs. "So why don't you sit back like the good girl you are, and we'll have that civilized conversation you wanted so badly."
Your cheeks burn with a mix of anger and something else you refuse to name.
With a sharp exhale, you tear yourself away from his intense gaze, shoving off his lap and planting yourself on the seat beside him. The car's leather feels cold against your palms as you adjust your clothes, every movement sharp and jerky, as if regaining control over your body could somehow rein in the storm inside you.
"Great," you bite out, refusing to meet his eyes. "How much?"
Sanzu doesn't answer right away. Instead, he stretches leisurely, his arms draping over the backrest, like he's savoring the moment. His smirk widens, and you know instantly he's about to say something outrageous.
"¥100 billion."
The numbers hit you like a slap.
You turn to him so quickly that your neck protests. "What?"
"You heard me," he says smoothly, as if the absurdity of his statement is nothing out of the ordinary.
For a moment, all you can do is stare, disbelief crashing over you in waves. Your mouth falls open, but no words come out.
"Is that a joke?" you finally manage, shaking your head. "Because there's no way—"
"Oh, yes fucking way," Sanzu interrupts mockingly, as if your protest is the funniest thing he's heard all day.
He leans back further, his teal eyes gleaming as he continues, like a professor lecturing a particularly slow student. "That sword wasn't just some hunk of metal. It was art. History forged in steel. Do you have any idea what you actually threw away?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. Of course he doesn't. Sanzu loves the sound of his own voice too much.
"It was forged by master smiths. Wielded by legendary warriors. Passed down through generations. And you—" His gaze sharpens as he lazily points a finger at you, his smirk turning razor-sharp. "You tossed it into a fucking dumpster."
Your teeth grind together as his words sink in, and your fists curl against the leather seat.
"And that's not all," he continues, his tone suddenly turning wistful as he places a hand over his chest, like he's recounting a personal tragedy.
"The emotional distress I went through when I found out? Priceless. The cost of my time? Immense. The sentimental value?" He exhales theatrically, shaking his head. "Incalculable."
You know he's mocking you, but that doesn't stop your stomach from twisting in frustration.
"That sword was a part of me," he finishes. "A piece of my soul, if you will. So, yeah. ¥100 billion. Generous, considering you ripped out a piece of me."
"You're insane!" you shout, your voice trembling as anger begins to creep into the edges of your panic.
You can feel the weight of the number crushing you, impossible to comprehend, let alone repay. It's absurd, and you know he's doing this on purpose.
Sanzu's smirk deepens. "Oh, sweetheart, I am insane."
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "But don't worry, I'm not that heartless."
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flickering alongside your disbelief.
"I've taken the liberty of assessing your belongings," he continues, gesturing vaguely with one hand like he's discussing the weather. "To offset the cost of your little stunt, of course. Let's say those furniture pieces are worth, oh, I'll be generous again, ¥10 million."
You gape at him, your stomach sinking as he raises a finger, feigning thought.
"So, that leaves you with a cool ¥99,990,000,000 to pay back."
The number hangs in the air, a death sentence delivered with the kind of smug satisfaction that makes your stomach churn.
You blink at him, your chest tightening as your mind races, trying and failing to find a way out of this nightmare. The number is still incomprehensible. Impossible.
"Better start saving, sweetheart," Sanzu says, his grin stretching wider as he watches the horror bloom across your face.
"Go to hell," you snarl, the words tearing from your throat as your voice trembles with suppressed fury.
Sanzu doesn't even flinch. Instead, his smile widens, a flash of teeth that feels more like a wolf baring its fangs.
He leans back casually, his sharp gaze flicking over you with infuriating nonchalance. It feels like he's dissecting you, stripping you down to your most vulnerable parts just for fun.
"Considering your lame little job, I guess you'll have no choice but to work your ass off for me for the rest of your life."
You swallow hard, fighting against the rising tide of frustration and helplessness that threatens to pull you under. You feel the familiar sting in your eyes, the burning ache of tears you refuse to let fall. Not again.
Your fists tighten in your lap, nails digging into your palms as you bite down hard on your lip, grounding yourself in the sharp sting of pain. Anything to keep from breaking down in front of him.
But Sanzu notices. Of course, he notices. He always does.
"Oh, don't look so down now," he says, his voice lilting with faux encouragement. "There are plenty of jobs that can make you quick money. I'm sure we can think of something."
You turn to him sharply, hope flickering despite yourself.
He looks at you mischievously, like a cat about to pounce on a cornered mouse. "Let's see. We've got human trafficking, prostitution..."
Your glare is immediate, your hope snuffed out as quickly as it came. You clench your teeth, realizing with a sinking heart that he's doing this on purpose, pouring salt into the wound, twisting the knife, reveling in your frustration.
"Fine," you bite out, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you refuse to let him win. "I'll become a prostitute then—"
The smirk vanishes from his face instantly. His eyes narrow into slits, and his jaw tightens as a sudden wave of cold fury washes over his features.
"Don't be fucking absurd," he snaps. The words crack like a whip, laced with something you can't quite name. "You wouldn't last a day sucking off dicks."
The abrupt shift in his demeanor leaves you momentarily stunned. He was the one who suggested it, yet now he looks furious, his glare sharp enough to pierce steel.
"What the hell am I supposed to do then?" you demand, your voice laced with frustration and desperation. "You know I don't have that kind of money. I'll never be able to pay you back."
Sanzu's gaze flickers toward you, and for the briefest moment, his expression softens, barely, but enough to make your heart stutter.
"Then stay indebted to me."
Your breath catches at the quiet finality of his statement, but he isn't done.
"Work with me," he continues, leaning closer, his gaze piercing through you with unnerving precision. "Work for me. For the rest of your life."
The words settle over you like a shroud, suffocating and inescapable. You search his face desperately, clinging to the hope that this is another one of his twisted jokes. But there's no laughter in his eyes now, no trace of the smug expression you've come to expect. Instead, he is calm. Too calm, even. Serious in a way that leaves no room for doubt.
Realization sinks its claws into you, unrelenting.
This was never about the blade. It was about control. About binding you to him, inch by inch, until there's nothing left of you to call your own. You feel like a mouse cornered by a cat, every escape route meticulously cut off.
Disbelief turns to anger, burning hot in your chest as the truth becomes clear.
"You must be out of your mind," you say, your voice trembling with equal parts of fury and defiance, "if you think for a second that you can enslave me with a ridiculous debt."
His eyes narrow slightly, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his features, but he remains silent, watching you with that unsettling calm.
"You're pathetic. Is this what you've been reduced to? Tricking people into staying by your side because you're too useless to stand on your own?"
That gets a reaction. His jaw tightens, and his smirk falters, his composure cracking ever so slightly.
But you don't stop.
"You think you're all that," you continue, your tone laced with venom. "Always playing these stupid little games, acting like you're untouchable. But here's the truth, Sanzu—you're nothing but a coward. You're a joke. You hear me? A sad, pathetic joke."
The words hit their mark.
The air in the car grows heavy, oppressive, as silence stretches taut between you. Sanzu doesn't move, doesn't speak, but you can feel the shift in him. His hands tremble faintly where they rest on his lap, curling into fists so tight his knuckles turn white. His breathing is measured, deliberate, like a man trying to hold himself together by sheer willpower.
But his teal eyes burn with a fury so intense it makes your stomach churn.
"Stop the fucking car," he says finally, his voice low, quieter than you've ever heard it. It carries with it a promise of violence, and you can feel the driver tense at the words.
The car slows, and your heart races, dread pooling in your stomach as you realize you've pushed him too far. But you don't regret it. Not yet.
As the vehicle comes to a halt, the door on your side unlocks with a soft click. You glance out the window in confusion, your surroundings barren and unfamiliar. The road stretches endlessly into the dark, illuminated only by the pale glow of distant streetlights. Shadows dance across the pavement, eerie and unfamiliar.
"Get out."
You whip your head toward him, confusion and disbelief flashing across your face.
"What?" you stammer, your voice trembling as the situation sinks in. "Here? In the middle of nowhere?"
He doesn't look at you. He doesn't need to. His teal eyes are fixed somewhere in the distance, his body unnaturally still except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. The controlled rhythm of his breathing is the only indication that he's holding himself back. Barely.
"I said get lost," he growls, like the rumble of a storm building on the horizon. "Before you make me do something I'll regret."
The threat isn't loud, but it's deafening all the same, hanging heavy in the air between you. A thin, frayed thread of control keeps his rage tethered, but you can see it unraveling, piece by piece.
For the first time, fear creeps into your resolve. You glance out the window again, the cold night air creeping in through the slight crack. The barren road offers no solace, no comfort. Just endless darkness and isolation.
But you refuse to let him see your fear. Not like this.
"Fine," you say. "I'll get lost."
You reach for the purple suit jacket he'd carelessly tossed onto the seat between you earlier, the luxurious fabric soft beneath your fingertips. "If you're dumping me out here in the middle of nowhere, I'm taking this."
You grip the jacket tightly, your knuckles turning white. The familiar scent of his cologne clings to it, invasive and suffocating as you clutch it to your chest.
"It's the least you can do, right? Since you're so generous."
His jaw twitches at your words, a faint movement that betrays the storm brewing beneath his stoic exterior.
"You think that's going to bother me?" he says, his voice flat, but the edge is unmistakable. His eyes finally meet yours, pinning you in place like a predator sizing up prey. "Hell, burn it for all I care. It won't make a difference."
His dismissive words hit like a slap, but it's the look in his eyes that burns. You've seen him cruel before, smug and taunting, but this is different. This is detachment, a wall slamming down between the two of you as if he's willing himself not to feel anything at all.
The silence stretches, a battlefield with no clear victor. You push the door open and step out, the gravel crunching beneath your heels as you clutch the jacket tighter.
The door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing in the empty stretch of road. You turn, half-expecting him to say something. Anything.
But Sanzu doesn't even look at you.
His gaze remains fixed ahead, and within seconds, the car lurches forward, speeding off into the darkness.
You stand there, frozen in place, the silence deafening as the taillights vanish into the night.
For a moment, all you feel is rage coursing through you like wildfire. Your grip tightens on the stupid jacket, the fabric crumpling in your fists. Then, with a scream of frustration, you hurl it to the ground.
The jacket lands in the dirt, and without thinking, you stomp on it with your heels, over and over, as if punishing it might somehow lessen the weight in your chest. Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as your fury runs its course.
Then, slowly, reality sets in.
Your chest heaves, the cold air biting against your skin as you glance down at the crumpled jacket beneath your feet. Its once-pristine fabric is now smeared with dirt, but it still carries the faint, lingering scent of Sanzu.
You crouch down, your fingers trembling as you pick it up.
You throw it over your shoulders, the warmth of the material doing little to comfort you. The anger in your chest simmers, but now, something else creeps in.
Regret.
You're furious at Sanzu, but a part of you is furious at yourself too.
You shouldn't have said those things. You shouldn't have let your words cut so deep, shouldn't have hit him where you knew it would hurt the most.
It wasn't your place to say those things.
But it was your anger that drives you to lash out in the only way you knew how. You wanted him to feel it too, to understand the sting of your own hurt. And for a fleeting moment, you'd seen it in his eyes: the crack in his armor, the way your words had struck him.
But instead of satisfaction, all you feel now is emptiness.
You wrap the jacket tighter around yourself, its weight heavy on your shoulders as you start walking down the deserted road, the cold night air biting at your skin.
Alone.
With nothing but his stupid jacket and the lingering ache of words you can't take back.
Haruchiyo Sanzu feels like a distant, sour memory now, something that lingers unwelcome at the edges of your mind, like a taste you can't quite wash away.
Weeks have passed since he left you stranded in the middle of nowhere. You still remember the icy sting of that night, the wind gnawing at your skin as you trudged along desolate roads, his suit jacket wrapped tightly around you. Its scent, unmistakably his, had clung to you like a curse, as if mocking your every step. You'd made it to the bus stop just in time for the last ride home, your legs aching, your spirit raw and splintered.
But that was then.
Your days now have grown quieter. The chaos of Bonten, once an ever-present storm on the horizon, has retreated. No Sanzu. No Mikey. Just silence.
It's a fragile kind of peace, tenuous and uneasy, like walking on a tightrope suspended over the void. The ache of it all—Sanzu's threats, Mikey's betrayal, the hollowing-out of your life—still lingers, but it's beginning to heal. Slowly, piece by piece. You've started finding solace in small things: the warmth of sunlight spilling through your window, the steady rhythm of your breath at night.
Still, there's no denying the shadow that lingers. The specter of Bonten hangs over your life like a storm cloud, distant but menacing. You've learned not to let yourself get too comfortable, knowing full well how easily your peace can be ripped away.
Your apartment reflects that unease. You've stopped trying to rebuild the life Sanzu tore apart. The furniture he took has gone unreplaced, leaving the space sparse and functional, like a temporary refuge rather than a home. A futon rests on the floor instead of a bedframe. Your fridge is nearly empty, your meals taken outside to avoid the suffocating stillness of your own walls.
You live like someone waiting to run. As if, at any moment, you might pack up the few belongings you have left and disappear without a trace.
Some days, you consider leaving Japan entirely.
But today, it's not Sanzu or Mikey who disrupts your fragile peace. It's her.
Mikey's wife.
You see her before she sees you.
You're in the convenience store near your apartment, standing in the narrow aisle of instant ramen. Your hand hovers over a cup of miso-flavored noodles when your gaze shifts, and lands on her.
At first, you think your eyes are deceiving you.
Her long, dark hair frames her face delicately, though there's her expression is tired, worn at the edges. Her features are familiar, painfully so, but it's the swell of her belly that catches your breath.
She's pregnant.
A cold wave crashes over you, bringing with it all the pain and bitterness you've been trying so hard to forget. The heartbreak, the betrayal, the way Mikey had slipped through your fingers and into her world, it all rushes back with a vengeance, leaving you reeling.
What is she doing here? Why is she here?
You don't stick around to find out. Gripping your bag tightly, you turn on your heel and walk away, hoping to slip out unnoticed. You tell yourself she doesn't know you, that she won't recognize you. That you can pretend this never happened.
But then she calls your name.
Your heart stops.
Her voice is soft, lilting, and utterly devoid of malice. But it hits you like a punch all the same. Slowly, reluctantly, you turn to see her walking toward you, her smile bright and warm. One hand rests lightly on her swollen belly, while the other lifts in a friendly wave.
"I've been looking forward to meeting you!" she says, her voice sweet and full of enthusiasm.
You blink, caught completely off guard. "W-what?"
She stops a few steps away, her eyes shining with a sincerity that twists the knife even deeper. "You're a friend of Mikey's, right?"
Friend?
The word rings hollow in your ears, absurd and suffocating. You blink at her, unable to mask your disbelief.
"No," you manage to say, though your voice sounds far weaker than you intended. "I wouldn't really call us friends. It's... a bit more complicated than that."
"Oh, I know." Her voice is soft, breezy, as though she's speaking about something mundane. "You two were a thing back then, right? But don't worry. I'm not holding it against you."
Were a thing?
At her casual remark, you feel the air shift around you, your stomach twisting uncomfortably. She looks so bright, so radiant. Her presence glowing with an effortless kind of beauty that feels impossible to touch.
And then there's you.
Rusted, dark, barely held together by fraying threads.
She's standing there in a designer dress you recognize instantly, the kind you'd once dreamed of wearing when your life still had a semblance of stability. Everything about her exudes grace, her polished demeanor so far removed from the vulnerable edges you've been living with.
And you? You're standing in sweatpants and a tank top, fresh from the gym, your hair tied up messily, your skin still faintly damp. You feel the faint sting of sweat clinging to you, the sharp contrast between her pristine elegance and your disheveled state making your insecurities roar to life.
If you'd known you'd run into her, you would've worn something else. Anything else. Something that could at least mask the gnawing inadequacy rising like bile in your chest.
"So," she continues, her voice light, unbothered, as if she hasn't just turned your world upside down. "You live around here?"
"Yeah," you reply hesitantly, shifting on your feet. "Sort of."
"Ah, I see." She smiles warmly, like she's genuinely happy to see you. "I'm actually up in the hills with Mikey. We just moved in. You should swing by sometime."
The bile in your throat sharpens. She says it so casually, so invitingly, like she's unaware to the wound her words inflict. Doesn't she know? Doesn't she understand what's happened between you and Mikey; that you're not exactly on speaking terms?
Or is she playing dumb?
Your thoughts spiral downward, dark and tangled. Maybe she's doing this on purpose, flaunting her position, rubbing it in your face. Maybe this is all part of her plan to remind you exactly where you stand—or don't stand—in Mikey's life.
You hate that your mind goes there, hate the negativity clawing at your insides. But how could it not? After everything you've been through, every betrayal and heartbreak, how could you expect anything else?
"There's a lot I've wanted to say to you." Her voice pulls you from the storm in your head.
"I've been meaning to thank you, honestly," she says warmly, as if her words hold some unspoken sincerity you can't begin to understand.
"Thank me? For what?"
"For letting him go," she replies, with no malice or spite, just a matter-of-fact honesty.
The bile rises higher, threatening to choke you, as she adds quickly, "Look, I'm not trying to be rude, but..."
She glances down, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the gesture so natural yet so deliberate it feels like another blow to your already fragile composure.
"I didn't have a 'responsible father' growing up. My family basically sold me to the Sano when I was a teenager just to cover my father's debt. Shin—Mikey's brother—was the one who took me in. He promised I'd marry Mikey someday, even though we weren't exactly close back then," she says, her gaze distant now, fixed somewhere beyond you.
"So when I realized I was pregnant, I was terrified. I thought, what if Mikey can't love this child? What if he just... doesn't care? But then you left. I couldn't believe it, but... it made everything so much easier, you know?" She pauses, looking back at you with a faint, tentative smile.
"Mikey is going to be a great dad to this child. So... thank you. Really."
You feel like the ground has crumbled beneath you.
Your mind is a whirlpool of emotions, dragging you down deeper and deeper as her words replay in your head. Thank you for letting him go. The phrase loops endlessly, echoing louder each time until it drowns out every other thought.
What are you supposed to feel? Regret? Jealousy? Relief?
Instead, all you feel is guilt.
It sits heavy in your chest, acidic and biting, as you force yourself to meet her gaze again. She's glowing, radiant, full of life and hope. Her hand rests protectively over her belly, her smile soft and warm, as though she hasn't just gutted you with her words.
You wonder if she can see it, the way your heart is breaking all over again, piece by piece.
Because as much as you hate to admit it, she's right.
You feel like a villain in your own story, selfish and blind. If you hadn't let go, if you'd kept clinging to Mikey, what would you have done to her? To that child? How much pain would you have caused, all for the sake of holding onto something you knew deep down was already gone?
The realization sits heavy in your chest, twisting your insides with guilt and self-loathing.
You force a polite smile, the corners of your mouth trembling as you nod numbly. She's still talking, but her words fade into the background, drowned out by the roaring in your ears.
When the encounter finally ends, when she walks away with her glowing smile and radiant presence, you remain frozen in place, staring blankly at the rows of snacks and drinks in front of you.
The world around you feels dimmer now, the air heavier, as if everything has shifted just slightly out of focus.
You don't even notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until you taste the salt on your lips.
Haruchiyo Sanzu always made it clear where you stood.
"You don't belong here," he'd sneer, his voice dripping with disdain, "not in Mikey's world, and definitely not in Bonten."
He was never wrong. You didn't belong in their world. You were the outsider, the one thread that never quite wove into the fabric of their lives. You knew it, and he made sure you never forgot it. His words stung more than you'd admit. Not because they were untrue, but because of the way he said them. Dismissive. Like you weren't worth the air you breathed in his presence.
But you stayed. Out of loyalty to Mikey. Out of defiance. Maybe you wanted to prove Sanzu wrong, or maybe you just wanted to prove something to yourself.
Still, deep down, you hated that world.
The violence. The chaos. The constant, suffocating tension. You didn't understand it, and you didn't want to.
The thing about violence is how loud it is. How it drowns everything else out. It used to make you tremble, used to keep you up at night. Over time, you thought you'd grown numb to it. Spending years with Mikey and his friends, and later meeting the men of Bonten, you believed you'd built up a tolerance.
You were wrong.
Now, standing in the dim light of your apartment, you feel that old dread creeping up your spine. The sound of fists pounding on the door reverberates through the space, loud and relentless.
"Open up!" a voice slurs, rough and angry. It's followed by another harsher, louder voice yelling something you can't quite make out.
You press your back against the wall, clutching your phone in trembling hands. The door shudders under the force of the blows, the wood groaning as if it might splinter any second. Through the peephole, you catch flashes of them. Three, maybe four men. Their faces are rough, unshaven, their clothes stained and worn. Not like Bonten's polished soldiers. These men are desperate, frayed at the edges, their anger wild and unrestrained.
Your breath comes in short gasps, panic clouding your thoughts. Your first instinct is to call the police, to beg for help. Your thumb hovers over the screen, but you hesitate.
Don't call the cops.
The rule rings in your head like a mantra, drilled into you after years of being with Mikey. Police attention meant danger, not safety. Danger for him. Danger for Bonten. Calling them now feels like a betrayal of everything you promised to leave behind.
But this isn't Bonten. This isn't their problem. This is you, alone in an apartment that feels smaller with every second, trapped with no escape.
Your mind flickers to Mikey. You can almost see him now, stoic and composed, walking through that door with the kind of calm that could silence a storm. Whenever things got bad, you called him, and he always came. No questions. No hesitation.
But that Mikey doesn't exist for you anymore.
The memory of his wife slices through your thoughts like a blade. Her glowing face, her soft laugh, the way she spoke of him like he was hers, and hers alone. He isn't yours to call. Not anymore.
The pounding grows louder, the door rattling violently on its hinges. A voice yells, "We know you're in there! Open the damn door!"
Your legs buckle, and you slide down the wall, your knees drawn up to your chest. You grip your phone tightly, every instinct screaming at you to do something. But you don't know what.
The fear is suffocating. It wraps around your throat like a noose, tighter with every second. You've spent so long trying to convince yourself you're stronger now, that you could stand on your own two feet, that you've learned how to survive without anyone's help.
But here you are, knees to your chest, tears streaming down your face, and the truth is like a knife twisting in your gut.
You can't.
The pounding on the door grows louder, the wood splintering under the relentless force of fists. Angry voices bleed into one another, demanding, mocking, hungry. You flinch with every thud, the sound rattling through your bones. A muffled sob escapes you, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, biting back the noise.
This isn't the first time you've felt this kind of fear, but it's the first time you've been truly alone. There's no Mikey to call, no Bonten soldiers to sweep in and erase the threat with brutal efficiency. There's only you.
A shudder wracks your body, and your trembling hand brushes against the edge of the clothing rack beside you. The soft rustle of fabric draws your attention, and your eyes fall to the floor.
The purple suit jacket.
It lies crumpled and forgotten, a remnant of a night you've tried desperately to push from your memory. It doesn't belong here, much like the man who owned it.
Your gaze lingers, and then you see it. A small white card slipping from the pocket. It flutters to the floor, landing face up, the bold logo of Bonten catching the dim light.
You don't think. You don't breathe. You just move, reaching for it with trembling fingers.
The card feels heavier than it should as you turn it over, your eyes scanning the crisp lettering.
Haruchiyo Sanzu.
Beneath his name is a series of numbers, printed in sharp black ink. A phone number.
Your heart stutters.
The voices outside grow louder, their words blending into a cacophony of threats and anger. The door creaks ominously under the next blow, and your grip tightens on the card.
This is insane. Calling him is insane. You haven't spoken to him since that night. Since the night he left you stranded, drenched in rage and despair, clutching this very jacket like it was some kind of armor.
But the desperation burns hotter than the fear now, a frantic, clawing need for survival.
Your fingers fumble as you pick up your phone, the screen shaking in your grasp. The numbers blur as tears spill over your lashes, and it takes three tries before you can type them in correctly.
The first ring feels endless, each second dragging you deeper into doubt.
The second ring is faster, sharper, and the sound cuts through the fog of your panic.
For a moment, you think he won't answer. You think this was a mistake, that you're as alone as you feared—
But then his voice crackles through the line.
"Who is this?"
It's deeper than you remember, edged with a steel-cold annoyance that sends a shiver down your spine. Your lips tremble, and you purse them tightly to hold back the sob threatening to escape. You don't understand why hearing his voice makes you feel like crying even harder, but it does.
"Speak up," Sanzu snaps, his tone edged with irritation.
"S-Sanzu," you finally manage, barely able to get the words out. "It's me."
The heavy silence that follows feels like an eternity, like he's holding back a storm on the other end of the line. You brace yourself for his anger, his mockery, but it doesn't come. Instead, the pause stretches, his silence daring you to say more.
Before either of you can speak again, a loud bang on your door startles you, and you jump violently. Your sobs break free, audible now as you stare helplessly at the door. It rattles in its frame as another fist slams against it, followed by more shouting from the men outside.
Sanzu's voice turns sharp on the other end of the line. "The hell's going on there?"
You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke in your throat, tangled with fear. All you can do is breathe raggedly, as the chaos outside intensifies.
"Oi!" he barks, louder this time, his tone laced with urgency. "Answer me! Where are—"
Another deafening bang.
This one is so forceful it feels like the door might splinter. The phone slips from your grasp, tumbling to the floor with a hollow clatter. You scramble to pick it up, but the noise outside grows louder, drowning out his voice on the other end.
The pounding at the door is relentless now, each blow reverberating through the room like the ticking of a doomsday clock. Panic grips you in its iron claws, your movements clumsy and frantic as your survival instincts take over.
You abandon the phone.
Your body moves on its own, propelling you away from the front door and down the narrow hallway. Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps, your vision blurring with tears as you throw yourself into your bedroom.
The door slams behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the room. Your hands shake as you fumble to turn the lock, your fingers slipping over the cold metal. When it finally clicks into place, you collapse against the door, your back pressed to the wood as if your weight alone could keep the intruders out.
It feels like the walls are closing in, the air too thin and heavy. You clutch at your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but the panic has its claws in you now, dragging you deeper into its suffocating grip. You don't know how long you stay rooted like that. Minutes passed. Maybe even hours, you're not so sure anymore.
Then, suddenly, silence.
The world feels like it's holding its breath, the oppressive silence louder than the chaos that preceded it. The pounding has stopped, the shouting gone, leaving behind a void so deafening it presses against your ears.
It's almost worse than the noise.
Time stretches and warps, each second dragging by as your mind claws for clarity. Summoning strength you don't think you have, you push yourself up on trembling legs. Every step feels heavy, your movements jerky and uncoordinated as if your body doesn't quite belong to you anymore.
You unlock the door with a faint click.
The hallway beyond is eerily still, the dim light from your living room casting long, distorted shadows. You step out, and your breath catches in your throat.
The door to your apartment is wide open.
Your eyes widen as you take in the scene. Blood mars the pristine white of the door, streaked across the floor in grotesque smears.
Then you see him.
Sanzu stands there, framed by the dim glow of the streetlight outside, his silhouette sharp and unnerving. You notice the blood on his clothes, streaked across his shirt and jacket in violent, haphazard smears. It stains his hands, dripping from his fingertips onto the floor.
Your gaze shifts downward.
A body lies crumpled at his feet, its face obscured by shadow. The man's arms are bent at unnatural angles, his chest motionless. The viscous pool of blood spreading beneath him glints faintly in the light.
Sanzu's face is calm, almost eerily so, as he stares down at the lifeless figure. His expression is unreadable, his teal eyes cold and devoid of emotion. Slowly, he wipes the blood from his cheek using the back of his hand, smearing it across his pale skin like war paint.
You should feel fear. Any normal person would. The violent scene before you, the lifeless body, the blood painting your once-pristine apartment, it should terrify you.
But all you feel is relief.
It crashes over you in a tidal wave, drowning out every other thought or emotion. Relief that it's him standing there. That he's here. That the nightmare outside your door is over.
He came. For you.
The realization is enough to blur the edges of the world around you, your vision swimming with unshed tears. Your breathing hitches as you take a hesitant, shaky step forward. Then another.
The space between you feels unbearable, suffocating, as if every step is a battle against an invisible force pulling you back.
Before you even realize what you're doing, you're running.
"Hey—"
Sanzu's voice breaks the silence, startled, but it barely registers.
You throw yourself at him with all the force you can muster, not caring about the blood, the chaos, or the consequences. His arms come up instinctively to catch you, but the sudden impact knocks him off balance. The two of you stumble, falling to the floor in a tangled heap.
The world around you fades to nothing.
Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, clinging to him as if letting go would mean being swallowed whole by the darkness again. You bury your face into the curve of his shoulder, breathing him in despite the metallic tang of blood that clings to him. Beneath it, faint but familiar, is his scent—spicy, woodsy, unmistakably him.
It grounds you. Anchors you.
The fear, the helplessness, the bone-deep panic that had consumed you moments ago. All of it begins to dissipate, replaced by a sense of warmth and security. You sob against his neck, your tears soaking into his skin, clinging to him as though he's the only thing holding you together.
The way his body stiffens beneath you is unmistakable, his muscles rigid and tense, as though your touch burns. His arms hang awkwardly at his sides, like he's never held someone like this before, or never wanted to.
But you don't care.
Your world is too fragile and broken, for that to matter now. You're too overwhelmed by the fact that he came, that he's here, standing in your wrecked apartment, blood on his hands and violence in his wake, for you.
Despite the tension that always seemed to push you further apart. Despite the fights, the sharp words you've thrown at each other like knives. Despite the threats and the violence that define him, the very things that have always made you hate him.
He came.
When you thought no one else would.
You'd told yourself you could survive on your own, that you didn't need anyone. You'd convinced yourself that being alone was easier, that it hurt less. But the truth is, the loneliness had been unbearable, suffocating. You'd felt like you were drowning in it, your chest caving in under the weight of your isolation.
And now, his presence makes it easier to breathe. The sting of everything eases, just slightly. Just enough for you to feel something other than despair.
Sanzu doesn't hug you back, doesn't move to comfort you in any way. He doesn't need to.
Because for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel comforted. Safe.
And for now, that alone is enough.
Haruchiyo Sanzu had promised you those men were still alive.
But as you replay the scene in your mind—their broken bodies crumpled on the floor after they dared to put up a fight with him—you can't help but question how true that promise really was. The way they had groaned, barely conscious, with limbs bent at unnatural angles... it seemed more like Sanzu had spared them out of boredom rather than mercy.
"Those punks are from a rival gang, always stirring shit with Bonten," Sanzu had said indifferently, as if this was nothing more than routine. "They're probably after you 'cause of your history with Mikey."
The words sting, cutting deeper than you'd care to admit. Your connection to Mikey has always been both shield and curse, dragging you into a world you never wanted to belong to.
You'd braced yourself for the mockery, the sharp smirk, the inevitable I told you so. Sanzu had always taken a perverse pleasure in throwing your choices back in your face, a constant reminder of your naivety.
But this time, the mockery never came.
Instead, he brought you to his condominium. No biting remarks, no sneering comments, just quiet efficiency as he led you through the sleek space with its minimalist decor and faint scent of antiseptic, like he'd tried to scrub something clean but couldn't quite erase the stains of who he was.
Now, lying on his impossibly soft bed, you stare up at the ceiling. The faint sound of the shower hums in the background, a stark contrast to the chaos you've just escaped.
You shouldn't feel safe here. You know this, deep down, because Sanzu is the embodiment of destruction. He's everything you've spent years trying to avoid, a warning etched into flesh and bone. But here you are again, wrapped in the cocoon of his world, and worse, you aren't afraid.
The last time you came here to treat his wounds flashes through your mind. Mikey had been furious with Sanzu for hurting you while he was high, and the fallout had been brutal. You'd bandaged him, your hands trembling with a mix of sadness and pity as he winced under your touch. That same night, you'd drifted into a haze of his pills, craving escape, and woke up tangled in these sheets.
Back then, you hadn't noticed the subtle scent that clung to the fabric, hadn't let yourself linger on the details of him.
But now, as you curl into the comforter, pulling it closer to your face, it's unmistakable. It's a scent you've grown used to over the years, on his clothes, lingering in the air whenever he was near. You've never stopped to think about it before, but now, it feels oddly significant.
You bury your face in the soft material, inhaling deeply as a strange feeling stirs in you. You don't know when it started, this unusual awareness of Sanzu, or why it feels so heavy now.
You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated with yourself. Why are you even thinking about this? About him?
But no matter how hard you try to push it down, you can't ignore the quiet realization blooming inside you: Haruchiyo Sanzu is starting to feel... different.
Your gaze wanders aimlessly around the room, searching for a distraction. It lands on a bottle of white pills sitting on the nightstand. They're different from the ones you've seen him take before, or the ones he'd offered you.
You wonder what they're for. Did he take one recently? Are they for sleeping? For calming his mind? Or are they for something darker, something that's keeping him tethered to the edge he so often seems to teeter on?
The curiosity gnaws at you until you can't resist. You reach out, your fingers hovering just above the bottle—
"Keep your hands off things that aren't yours."
His sudden voice startles you, and you insctinctively pull your hand away from the bottle. Your head snaps around, and there he is, standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
Steam billows faintly behind him, curling around his silhouette like a ghostly aura. He's clad in a loosely tied bathrobe, the fabric hanging open enough to reveal his bare chest and the faint scars that mar the otherwise smooth skin. His damp pink hair clings to his forehead, water droplets trailing down his temple, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing into the hollow of his collarbone.
The sight of him, raw and unguarded like this, hits you harder than it should. He looks so effortlessly attractive, his usual sharp-edged chaos softened by the intimacy of the moment. You feel the heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
You force yourself to look away, to focus on anything else. The steam in the air, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan. But it's no use. His presence fills the room, leaving no space for anything else.
"What're they for?" you ask.
Sanzu's lips quirk up into a knowing smirk. "You really wanna know?"
The way he says it, low and teasing, sends a shiver up your spine. He strides toward you slowly, like a predator closing in on its prey. Your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but you remain frozen, your breath caught somewhere between anticipation and dread.
You nod, your throat dry, unable to look away as he closes the distance between you. You watch as he reaches for the bottle on the nightstand, his long fingers curl around it with practiced ease. He shakes it lightly, the sound of pills rattling against plastic breaking the tense silence.
Sanzu slides one pill into his palm, holding it delicately between his fingers. His gaze then flickers to yours, and there's a challenge, a dare, a twisted sense of amusement in his eyes.
"Since you're so interested... go ahead. See for yourself." he says as the smirk on his lips widens, daring you to take the bait.
Your gaze fixes on the pill, a small and harmless-looking thing, yet charged with so much temptation.
You don't stop to think.
As if in a daze, your hand reaches out toward it.
You're not entirely sure why you're doing this. Maybe it's the strange comfort you've started to feel in Sanzu's presence, the way he makes you forget how to think rationally. Or maybe it's the recklessness he brings out in you, the way he makes you want to let go of the rigid control you've always tried to hold onto.
But just as your fingers are about to touch the pill, Sanzu pulls his hand back, holding it out of reach.
"Look at you, so eager," he drawls. "Someone offers you a little something, and you're all over it."
You glance up at him, startled by his words.
"Can't resist a little escape, can you?" he continues, his teal eyes gleaming with malicious glee. "Just want to float away and forget everything. But when it all blows up in your face, I'll be the first to blame, right?"
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.
His voice, laced with scorn, dredges up memories you've tried to bury, of the riverbank, when you snapped at him, accusing him of ruining you. You'd been furious at him then, seething at the way he had introduced you to the blissful oblivion of drugs, at the way he seemed to revel in watching you fall apart.
But now, that same temptation claws at you, an unbearable ache. The pill in his fingers feels like a lifeline, a reprieve from the pain and fear that have consumed you for weeks. You want it. You hate that you want it.
And Sanzu knows.
When you don't answer, he steps closer. His hand rises, his fingers cool against your skin as they tilt your chin upward, forcing your eyes to meet his.
"Be honest. You want it."
His eyes bore into yours, a teasing light dancing in their depths as though he's savoring every second of your internal struggle. "Admit it. I won't blame you. After all, I'm the one who showed you how good it feels, aren't I?"
The words are a taunt, a challenge, and yet there's a flicker of something else beneath his teasing tone. An edge of bitterness? Of longing?
You can't tell, and it only makes the weight of his gaze all the more unbearable.
After weeks of living like a hollow shell, aimless and haunted, the thought of surrendering to the haze again feels like relief. Sweet, blissful relief. And the man standing before you—dangerous, unpredictable, impossible Sanzu—is the only one offering it to you.
He saved you.
You can't shake that truth. The same hand that gripped a gun mere hours ago, ensuring your safety with a ferocity that left no room for doubt, is the same hand holding your chin now. The same man who once inflicted pain is offering you solace, even if it's in his own twisted way.
Your mind screams that this is wrong, that Sanzu is wrong, but your body betrays you. You don't want to fight anymore. You're so tired of fighting.
The thought of letting go, of releasing the crushing weight you've been carrying, feels like salvation.
"Sanzu," you whisper finally, his name tumbling from your lips in a voice that's barely audible, deliberately weak.
The sound of it pulls a reaction from him. His smirk falters, if only for a fraction of a second. It's fleeting, almost imperceptible, but you catch it.
"I want it. Please."
His smirk deepens at your admission. Slowly, Sanzu raises the pill, holding it between his fingers like an offering, but instead of giving it to you, his teal eyes glint with a wicked promise that this moment won't be as simple as you think. Without breaking eye contact, he raises the pill to his lips, sliding it between them in one fluid motion.
Your breath catches.
The small gesture feels electrifying, almost obscene. You can't look away. Not from the pill nestled between his lips, not from the curve of his mouth as it closes around it.
Before you know what you're doing, you lean forward, closing the small distance between you until your lips meet his.
Sanzu stiffens, his body going rigid as your lips brush his.
Your tongue grazes his lips, catching the pill and pulling it away. It should end there. That's all you meant to do. But your lips linger, longer than they should.
His lips are soft, impossibly soft, a jarring contrast to everything else about him. The sharp edges of his jaw, the cold steel in his eyes, the danger that clings to him like a second skin.
A part of you doesn't want to pull away. That part wants to stay here, to push further, to find out if there's anything else about him that could be soft, gentle, human.
But the logical part of your mind, faint as it is, reminds you of who this is. It reminds you to move, to inch back.
Or at least, you try to.
Before you can move far, Sanzu's hands shoot up, gripping your shoulders with a force that borders on bruising. Your eyes widen, surprise flashing through you. You open your mouth to speak, to ask him what he's doing, but the words die in your throat when his lips crash into yours.
The kiss isn't soft. His lips move against yours with a hunger that leaves you frozen, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of it. His hand slides to your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, leaving no room for hesitation.
The pill lies forgotten on your tongue, its bitterness seeping into your mouth. The taste should ruin the moment, but it doesn't.
Instead, it sharpens everything.
His lips, his touch, the way his tongue slips into your mouth, claiming every inch of you, it's overwhelming in the best possible way.
You remember feeling his lips on yours before, when he forced the first pill down your throat. Back then, the kiss had meant nothing to you, just another cruel moment in a long string of chaos that defined your relationship with him.
But now?
Now it feels different.
Your hands, hesitant at first, clutch at the fabric of his bathrobe, shyly curling around it as his hands move through your hair. His fingers rake gently against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine.
How can someone like Sanzu, so violent and chaotic, feel this soft, this gentle?
And the kiss, it doesn't just feel good.
It feels perfect. He feels perfect.
His hand slides to your back, pulling your body closer until there's no space left between you. You're flush against him now, every inch of you pressed to his, but it still doesn't seem to be enough for him.
He keeps pulling you closer, as though he needs more, as though he needs all of you, to consume you completely, to make you a part of him.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel held.
Until suddenly, he pulls away.
The cold rushes in unforgivingly, knocking the breath from your lungs. You feel the loss acutely, the absence of his lips on yours, his warmth, his touch. It leaves you empty, aching, a hollow space where he'd just been.
Then you notice it. The pill is gone from your tongue.
Confusion flickers across your face as you look up at him, and your gaze catches on the pill now nestled between his teeth. Before you can process what's happening, he tilts his head and spits it out. It hits the floor with a faint tap, rolling once before disappearing under the edge of the bed.
You blink, stunned, your thoughts scrambling to make sense of what you've just seen. Did he really just do that? Did he really just spit out the drug? His drug?
Sanzu's pills have always been his obsession, his crutch. You know how much possessive he's always been about them. And yet here he is, spitting it out like it doesn't matter at all.
"What—" you start, your voice faltering as you struggle to piece together your thoughts. "Why did you—"
Your words are cut off as he suddenly shoves you backward. You lose your balance, falling unceremoniously onto the mattress. The world shifts around you, and when you blink, he's already straddling your hips.
Your breath hitches as his weight presses you into the bed. The dim light plays tricks on his face, casting shadows that make him look darker, more menacing, and yet impossibly alluring. His teal eyes pierce through the gloom, burning with an intensity that sends your pulse racing, and you're certain he can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest.
"Why'd you do that?" you demand despite the tremor in your voice. "I said I want it."
Sanzu's eyes sweep over you with a clinical appreciation, as if he's taking in the rise and fall of your chest, the way your body fits beneath his.
"Later," he murmurs. "You can have all the drugs you want later. But right now... I need you to stay sober."
The rasp in his voice, the quiet command behind his words, leaves you momentarily speechless.
You blink up at him, confusion creasing your brow. Sober? Now? From the man who thrives on chaos and indulgence, the demand feels out of place. But before the words to question him can form, he's on you again, his lips crashing into yours with a force that makes your thoughts scatter.
His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming you with the same hunger that leaves you trembling all over again.
This time, your hands move instinctively, wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer. Your lips grow swollen under the intensity of the kiss, but the need between you only builds.
His hands roam down your sides, exploring every curve of your body. When they finally brush against the bare skin of your stomach, a shiver runs through you. The warmth of his touch is stark against the cool air, making your body arch involuntarily.
You know what he's doing.
He's testing you. Teasing you. Giving you every chance to stop this, to pull away, to say no. But you don't.
You can't.
Instead, your back arches further into his touch, your body betraying you, seeking him out. His smirk curves against your lips, and you can feel the triumph in it, the silent acknowledgment that you've given him exactly what he wanted.
This is why he wants you sober, you realize then.
He wants you to feel everything. To be aware of every touch, every sensation. If you were high, you'd miss it, you'd drift into oblivion, the sensations dulled, the memory blurred. But not like this.
Sanzu wants you here. Present.
This isn't just about him taking from you; it's about you choosing to give.
The realization swells in your chest, unexpected and overwhelming.
Your fingers tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer, as though the connection between you isn't close enough. Your hands slide up into his damp hair, threading through the soft pink strands. The texture surprises you, softer than you expected, almost delicate against your fingertips.
His breath catches in his throat at the contact, and you feel it. The subtle tremor in his body, the slight hitch in his movements.
It sends a jolt of heat rushing through you.
You push further, emboldened by his reaction. Your other hand slips beneath the loose folds of his robe, brushing against the heated skin of his back. His muscles tense under your touch, but he doesn't pull away.
Instead, he groans softly, the sound low and rough, vibrating against your lips.
It's intoxicating.
The sound he makes, the way his breath stutters under your touch, it sends a sharp spike of desire straight through you, pooling low in your belly.
He likes it.
And God help you, it's turning you on.
You feel the thick haze of desire wrapping around you, pulling you deeper into him. Every touch, every kiss, every sound between you feels amplified, like the rest of the world has melted away, leaving just the two of you.
You want more.
Your hand trails lower along his back, exploring the warmth of his skin, the tension in his body, the way he seems to hold himself back just slightly, like he's afraid to lose control.
But then, a sharp, piercing sound cuts through the moment. The shrill ring of a phone.
Reality crashes back into you like a tidal wave.
You freeze, your lips still against his, your hands still tangled in his hair and pressed against his back. For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the lingering heat of the kiss, as though the sound doesn't belong to this moment, to this room.
You pull back just slightly, gasping for air, your chest heaving as your eyes meet his. The sight of him leaves you momentarily speechless. His teal eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide with desire. His cheeks are flushed, his lips red and swollen, glistening from your kiss.
He looks... undone.
You wonder in that instant if you've ever seen him like this before. If anyone has ever seen him like this before.
You bite your lip, hesitating, your heart hammering in your chest as a question rises to the surface of your mind. You don't know why you need to ask. Maybe it's the intensity of the moment, the vulnerability you see in his eyes. Or maybe it's your own vulnerability, the way you're letting yourself fall deeper into him than you ever thought you could.
"Sanzu," you whisper. "Do you have feelings for me?"
The question hangs in the air, threatening to break under the weight of what it means.
But Sanzu doesn't flinch.
"Feelings, huh..." he murmurs quietly, as though he's tasting the word for the first time.
His gaze dips lower, lingering on your lips. You watch as his tongue darts out, wetting his own lips, the movement slow, calculated, and maddeningly hypnotic.
"Even if I tell you my answer, would it change anything?"
Your eyes widen in confusion, your mind scrambling to make sense of what he means. You part your lips to respond, to ask, to demand clarity, but before the words can leave you, the sharp trill of the phone cuts through the air again.
The sound is jarring, slicing clean through the tension between you, leaving it to collapse into nothing.
Sanzu's expression hardens, the vulnerability you thought you saw fading in an instant. He pulls away from you with a harsh sigh, his body shifting as if to distance himself. The absence of his warmth hits you immediately, a sharp ache settling in your chest. The space between you grows colder, as though he's taken all the heat with him, leaving you with nothing.
Without meeting your gaze, he reaches for the phone on the nightstand, his fingers brushing against it almost angrily. You watch him, eyes scanning his face, desperate for any sign that might explain the shift, the sudden barrier now standing between you.
When his gaze flickers to the screen, you catch it. The briefest reaction. His eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second, but it's enough.
Whatever he sees there, it rattles him.
He clears his throat, his voice sharper now as he answers the call.
"Yes?" His tone is clipped, professional, a far cry from the low, intimate murmur he'd just been using.
You sit up slowly, watching him closely.
The shift in his demeanor is jarring. Whatever softness you'd glimpsed in him just moments ago—the tenderness in his touch, the vulnerability in his kiss—vanishes as if it had never been there. In its place is the Sanzu you're more familiar with, the one who wears his toughness like armor, his emotions locked tightly behind a smirk or a sharp edge.
Your mind drifts back to his words. Would it change anything?
What had he meant by that?
It was a simple question, wasn't it? One he could have answered easily, yes or no. But the weight of his response, or lack thereof, lingers heavily in the air, making you doubt its simplicity.
Unless...
Unless it's not as simple as you want it to be.
Sanzu's teal eyes snap to yours suddenly, cutting through your spiraling thoughts, and you jump, startled by the intensity of them. Without a word, he holds the phone out to you, his expression unreadable.
"It's Mikey. He wants to talk."
Your heart sinks.
Of course.
How could you forget who Sanzu is in your life?
He's not just Sanzu, the man who saved you, the man whose touch made your heart race. He's Haruchiyo Sanzu, Mikey's loyal second-in-command, his soldier, his shadow.
And you?
You're the ex-girlfriend, the woman who once held Mikey's heart but shattered her own in the process.
You reach for the phone hesitantly, your movements slow and cautious, as if taking it will solidify something you don't want to confront. Your fingers brush against Sanzu's as you grasp it, a fleeting touch that feels like an entire conversation.
For a moment, neither of you moves. You can feel the heat of his skin against yours, a whisper of the intimacy you just shared. But when you meet his gaze again, it's like looking into a storm that's already moved on, leaving only destruction in its wake.
You press the phone to your ear, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.
"...Hello?" you manage, your voice barely more than a whisper.
Your name comes through the line in that voice you once knew so well, and the sound of it knocks the air from your lungs.
Mikey.
It's been so long since you last heard him say your name, and yet it feels like no time has passed at all. The sound of it sends a shiver down your spine, a reminder of all the things you've tried, and failed, to bury.
You don't answer him right away. Your eyes remain locked on Sanzu as he climbs out of the bed.
His movements are slow, unhurried, but there's tension in every step he takes. The way his shoulders set, the subtle clench of his jaw, it's as if he's forcing himself to leave.
You feel the loss of his presence like a wound reopening. The further away he gets, the tighter your chest feels, until it's almost unbearable.
You want to call out to him.
To tell him to stop. To stay.
But how can you?
Mikey's voice is still in your ear, grounding you to a past you thought you'd left behind, pulling you back into a world that no longer feels like yours.
Sanzu reaches the door, his hand hovering over the handle for a fraction of a second. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but you see the hesitation. For the briefest second, you think he might turn around.
He doesn't.
The door clicks softly as it closes behind him, and the sound feels deafening in the silence that follows.
You're alone now.
Alone with Mikey on the other end of the line, his voice saying your name again, softer this time, as though coaxing you back into a conversation you're not ready to have.
And yet, your heart continues to ache. Not for the man on the phone, but for the one who just left.
< part III ends >
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SUMMARY: sanzu was your first love and your last, after a difficult breakup you leave for college, five years later you find yourself faced with him once again
GENRE: bonten modern au, childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, gangs affiliated throughout
WARNINGS: fem!reader, heavy cursing, mature content throughout, mentions of violence, tobacco use, alcohol use, sexual themes, more warnings added as story progresses
DISCLAIMER: i do not own these characters, or condone any of the activities listed, this is a story of fiction created from my over active imagination 
Why is the class princess always a mess around Bakugo ⋆˚꩜｡
MINORS DNI 18+ .ᐟ.ᐟ
Artwork: scenes from the manga, I just edited a pink filter on top and the middle photo is from Minmotion Syndrome special cover !!
If U.A. ever handed out unofficial titles, yours would’ve been embroidered on a satin banner by now: Class 1-A’s princess.
Not literally, though with the way Mina decorated your side of the dorm hallway in pink fairy lights, it wasn’t hard to imagine, but socially? Totally. Completely. Irrefutably.
Sparkles followed you like loyal sidekicks. Your quirk, Glimmer Bloom, produced tiny bursts of colourful light that sparkled around you when you got excited, which was often.
You didn’t have the brute force of Kirishima, or Todoroki’s icy cool control, or Midoriya’s endless strategy spirals, but you had style, charm, and a hero costume so cute Aoyama nearly cried when he saw it.
You always knew everyone’s birthdays, kept backup lip gloss in your desk for emergencies, and brought pastel cupcakes to study sessions “because morale is important.”
Even Aizawa, tired, eye-bagged, living embodiment of a sigh, softened a millimetre when you cheerfully handed him herbal tea on late training nights. You were sunshine. Glitter. Kisses in human form.
And then there was Bakugo Katsuki.
The reason your sunshine occasionally short-circuited.
He wasn’t new, you’d been in Class 1-A together from the start, but your crush on him? Oh, that was very new. Very unwelcome. And very obvious to literally everyone except him.
Because Bakugo Katsuki existed in his own orbit. Explosive. Sharpened. Always ten seconds from blowing something up, and somehow that only made your heart do embarrassing, fluttery gymnastics.
He walked into homeroom, muscles tense, jaw set, eyes sharp and burning, and your brain just went poof.
Like your quirk misfired from inside your skull.
The first time it really hit you was during sparring drills last month. He’d pinned you, not on purpose, your brain insisted, though who could say with Bakugo, one arm braced beside your head, breath hot against your cheek, growling, “If you hesitate like that in the field you’re dead, princess.”
Princess.
He said it like it was an insult.
You heard it like a prophecy.
And obviously, you squeaked. Out loud. An actual squeak. In front of the entire class. Mina had to physically drag you off the ground after.
Ever since then, well. Things had not improved.
When Bakugo walked by your desk? Pens dropped. Papers fluttered. Your quirk fizzled little heart-shaped sparks that you had to smack away with both hands before anyone saw. When he spoke to you? Your sentences got tangled like ribbon. When he looked at you even a little too long?
Glitter. Everywhere.
“Girl, you’re hopeless,” Kaminari whispered one morning as Bakugo passed your row, shoulders broad beneath his hero course jacket, scowl somehow angelic on him.
“I’m fine,” you lied, smoothing your skirt, heart hammering so loud you swore Sero could hear it from across the room.
“You’re sparkling,” Jirou added dryly without looking up from her notebook.
You slapped your hands against your cheeks to stop the glow. “It's a quirk glitch, okay!”
Bakugo didn’t even turn around, just tossed a low, bored, “Tch. Cut the noise,” over his shoulder, which only made your stomach flip harder.
Bakugo usually sat in the back row, prime territory for brooding, scowling, and muttering insults under his breath, but today, for some cosmic reason you were certain the universe did on purpose, he took the seat directly behind you.
Directly. Behind. You.
You could feel the heat of his presence before he even sat down. Like your body had become some kind of Bakugo proximity sensor. Mina shot you a look from across the aisle like, oh this is gonna be good, and you tried very, very hard to act normal while your heart did full Olympic gymnastics.
Aizawa droned something about rescue strategies and topographical reasoning, and you scribbled perfect colour-coded notes like the good little class princess you were, pink pen, sparkly highlighter, tiny little hearts dotting your i’s.
Anything to ignore the boy-sized furnace breathing a foot behind you. You were so focused you didn’t register the sound at first.
Tap.
You froze.
Tap. Tap.
Your heart jumped sideways. That was a shoulder tap. A Bakugo tap. Bakugo Katsuki was tapping you on the shoulder. You turned around slowly, like if you moved too fast you’d explode.
Bakugo was leaning forward in his seat, arms folded on his desk, expression flat but eyes sharp , like he was annoyed and bored and confused all at once.
“Oi.” His voice was low, rough, rumbling right under your skin. “Lemme see your notes. He’s going too damn fast.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
Instead of simply handing him the notebook like a normal functioning human being, you panicked. And tossed the entire spiral-bound thing backward over your shoulder.
Like a bouquet at a wedding.
Like a sacrifice to the Bakugo god.
It smacked his chest. You slapped both hands over your glossy lips, mortified heat flooding your cheeks. “Ohmygod I'm sorry—” Aizawa didn’t even look up. He’d grown immune to your brand of chaos.
Bakugo caught the notebook in one hand like it weighed nothing, blinking once, twice, slow and perplexed.
“…The hell was that?” he muttered.
But not angry. Not even close.
When you whipped back around in your seat, spine straight as a ruler, staring at the front like your life depended on it, Bakugo just watched you. Not glaring. Not smirking.
Just… watching. You could feel his eyes on the back of your head, hot and questioning, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
Why you always sparkled when he got near. Why you squeaked when he spoke. Why the loudest, chattiest, glitteriest girl in all of U.A. became a speechless mess around him and only him.
And he leaned back in his seat with a deep, irritated sigh that didn’t quite hide the confusion underneath.
“Did I do something?” he whispered under his breath.
Like he genuinely couldn’t understand why Class 1-A’s princess, the girl who practically twirled through the dorm halls, beloved by everyone, effortless sunshine, endless chatter, shut down completely the second Katsuki Bakugo gave her a single shred of attention.
He flipped open your notebook anyway.
The second Aizawa dismissed class, you bolted. Not gracefully. Not regally. Not like a princess.
More like a startled glittery rabbit in platform heels.
You scooped your notebooks and pens into your bag and you squeaked like a chew toy, which made your quirk flicker tiny pink sparks all down the hallway as you fled.
“Oi—” Bakugo tried, voice low behind you, but nope. No thank you. Absolutely not. You were running for your life. You didn’t stop until you were inside your dorm, door shut, back pressed against it, cheeks practically glowing from embarrassment and leftover Bakugo proximity.
Your room, your sanctuary, greeted you in full princess glory.
Pink fairy lights. Scented candles. Fluffy rugs. Heart-shaped pillows. And your huge white bed draped in a cloud of soft blankets that looked like they were crafted from baby unicorn fur.
You threw yourself face-first into the mattress with a dramatic whine.
“Why am I like this,” you groaned into a pillow shaped like a strawberry. You made the world’s most high-pitched noise and buried yourself under your comforter like a glittery mole.
Eventually, you changed into your comfort clothes, a tiny pair of bubblegum-pink satin shorts and a matching cami, silky and soft and very you. And reapplied your lip gloss, because even in panic you had standards, you flopped back onto your pile of pillows and scrolled on your phone to distract yourself.
You were mid-scroll through a video of baby bunnies wearing flower crowns when—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You froze.
No one knocked like that.
Firm. Impatient. Like the person on the other side of the door didn’t knock so much as declare open up. Your stomach dropped. Your sparkles fizzled.
Oh no.
Oh no no no!
You cracked the door open the smallest, tiniest, most microscopic amount and, it was him.
Bakugo Katsuki.
In the dorm hallway. Outside your room. Holding your pink notebook like it offended him.
He looked annoyed. But also weirdly tense? Like he’d been pacing before knocking. His gaze flicked down your body, from your bare shoulders, to your tiny pink satin shorts, and he jerked his eyes away immediately, jaw clenching so hard you could hear it.
“…Why’re you dressed like that,” he muttered.
You squeaked. Again. “It’s bedtime!”
“It’s four in the damn afternoon.”
“Nap time!”
A beat.
He breathed out through his nose like someone fighting God Himself. “Whatever.” He shoved the notebook toward you. “You left too fast. I wasn’t done with your notes.”
Your face went nuclear-level hot. “I’m sorry! I just, you were— I was— brain malfunction— you know—”
He stared.
You wanted to evaporate.
“Do I make you nervous or something?” he asked finally, voice low, rough, strangely gentle under all the gravel.
Your quirk betrayed you instantly. A tiny pink spark popped into existence right beside your cheek. You slapped it away with a mortified gasp.
Bakugo’s eyes widened the slightest bit. Not mocking. Just startled.
And then, God help you, something like a faint, smug smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he’d finally solved the puzzle he’d been chewing on all day. He leaned an elbow braced against your doorframe, stepping just a little closer.
“So that’s it,” he murmured. “That why you bolted? Can’t think straight around me, princess?”
Your breath hitched. Your sparkles flickered like a fireworks factory. Bakugo watched every single one. And he didn’t look confused anymore. He looked dangerous.
In a way that made your heart feel like spun sugar.
Before you could even squeak a protest, Bakugo nudged the door just enough with his shoulder, then stepped inside. One foot. Then the other. And suddenly, he was there, in your room, the scent of him, warm, sharp, faintly explosive, wrapping around you like a slow, impossible fire.
His eyes flickered over your fairy-lit lair, taking in the strawberry-shaped pillows, the pastel chaos, the sheer, unapologetic feminity of it all. His smirk deepened. "Figures," he muttered, but it didn't sound like mockery, more like he was filing this away in some private Bakugo catalogue titled You, Explained.
You backed up until your knees hit the bedframe, gripping the edge to stop your hands from shaking. "You—you can't just walk in here!"
Bakugo shrugged, tossing your notebook onto your vanity where it landed with a soft thud. "Too late." His gaze roamed over you again, lingering on the way your cami strap had slipped down your shoulder, the nervous flutter of your pulse at your throat.
When his fingers twitched at his sides, just once, you swore the air between you crackled.
Silence stretched, thick and sweet and unbearable. Then he stepped closer, boots scuffing against your fluffy rug, nostrils flaring slightly like he was breathing you in. "You know," he said, voice dropping to a rumble that curled your toes, "your sparkles get brighter when I piss you off."
They did.
Right now, they were practically strobing.
"You're imagining things," you lied, but your voice wobbled.
Bakugo scoffed. "Bullshit." He reached out, slow, deliberate, and caught one of your runaway sparkles between his thumb and forefinger.
It fizzled against his calloused skin, leaving behind a faint pink smudge. His grin turned wolfish. "Gotcha."
Your breath stuttered. He was close enough now that you could see the flecks of gold in his crimson eyes, feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Some primal part of your brain screamed Danger!, but the rest of you? The rest of you was leaning in.
Bakugo noticed. Of course he did. His smirk softened, just a fraction, as his gaze dropped to your mouth. "What, no comeback? No glittery speech?" He tilted his head, and oh god, was he, was he enjoying this?
You swallowed hard. "Shut up."
He barked a laugh, rough and surprised. "There she is." One hand came up, hovering near your cheek like he couldn't decide whether to touch you or throttle you. His fingers flexed. "You're fucking ridiculous, you know that?"
The words should've stung.
Instead, they settled warm in your chest. Because Bakugo wasn't walking away. He wasn't even scowling. He was standing in your glitter bomb of a bedroom, looking at you like you were the most fascinating problem he'd ever encountered, and Katsuki Bakugo loved solving problems.
Your quirk betrayed you again, showering the space between you in gold and pink. Bakugo's nose twitched at the sudden brightness, but he didn't back off.
If anything, he leaned in closer, eyes tracking the way the sparks reflected in your wide pupils. "Annoying," he muttered. Then, quieter, "Kinda pretty, though."
The confession hit like one of his explosions, sudden, violent, leaving you breathless. Your knees buckled. Bakugo's hand shot out instinctively, catching your elbow before you could collapse onto your pink comforter.
The contact sent a jolt through you, his fingers branding your skin through the thin satin. You could feel every callous, every ridge from years of detonating his quirk.
"Oi," he growled, voice lower than you'd ever heard it. "Nodding ain't answering. Use your words." He leaned in, close enough that his breath mingled with yours, smelling faintly of caramel and gunpowder.
Somewhere between a threat and a plea, he bit out, "Do you like me or not?"
Your sparkles went supernova.
Pink. Gold. Silver.
They erupted around you in a cascading halo, illuminating the sharp planes of his face in flickering pastel. You opened your mouth, nothing came out but a tiny, mortified whimper.
Bakugo's smirk curled slow like smoke. "That's what I thought." His thumb brushed your inner wrist, just once, rough enough to make you shiver. "Fuckin' ridiculous," he muttered, but his grip gentled.
Before you could process, he spun you both, your back hit the mattress, his knees bracketing your hips, palms planted on either side of your head. The fairy lights caught the molten gold in his irises as they dragged down your body.
"You're really wearing this shit just to sleep?" His voice scraped raw over the satin clinging to your thighs.
You arched up instinctively, bad idea. His knee slid between yours, heat searing through the thin fabric. His breath hitched when your sparkles rained onto his shoulders.
"Still not talking?" Bakugo's fingers traced the strap slipping down your arm. "Fine." His palm smacked the mattress beside your head. "Up. Now."
You scrambled upright, pulse hammering where his touch lingered. Bakugo sank onto the edge of your bed like he owned it, legs spread, arms crossed. That look, half challenge, half hunger, sent your quirk into overdrive.
Pink motes swirled between you like fireflies trapped in syrup.
One eyebrow arched. "Straddle me."
Your mouth dried. "W-what?"
"You heard me." His boot hooked around your ankle, dragging you forward until your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his thighs. "Unless you wanna keep being a coward."
The first brush of denim against your inner thighs nearly short-circuited your brain. Bakugo's hands clamped on your hips before you could bolt, fingers digging in just shy of painful. His smirk turned feral when your sparkles burst against his collarbones.
"Look at you," he rumbled, "all glitter and no guts." His thumbs stroked the dips of your hips through the satin. "Gonna run again?"
You shook your head frantically, curls bouncing, then froze when his gaze dropped lower.
Bakugo smirked. "Bet you're pink everywhere, huh?" The words scraped out like gravel and honey. His grip tightened. "Bet your fucking cum sparkles too—"
Your hands flew up to slap over his mouth, face burning hotter than his nitroglycerin sweat. "Shut up!"
Glitter erupted from your skin in panicked bursts, peach, blush, rose, illuminating the way his irises dilated behind your fingers.
He laughed against your palms, the vibration traveling up your arms like livewire electricity. His tongue darted out, wet, scorching, licking a stripe across your fingertips before you could yank away. "Tastes like sugar," he rasped, watching your breath hitch with predatory satisfaction. "Knew it."
You scrambled , thighs clamping around his waist in the process, horrifyingly intimate. Bakugo's nostrils flared. His palm slid up your spine, fingers tangling in the fine hairs at your nape.
"Deny it," he challenged, breath hot against your ear. "Say your slick isn't glowing right now."
Traitorous warmth pooled low in your belly. Your quirk betrayed you again, shimmering pulses radiating from beneath the satin shorts pressed against his abs. Bakugo's grin turned downright carnivorous.
One calloused thumb hooked under the waistband. "Prove me wrong," he dared, dragging the fabric down an inch, just enough to reveal the first hint of pearlescent wetness catching the fairy lights. His exhale punched out ragged. "Fuck. It is pink."
You whined, thighs shaking, sparkles refracting in the sweat beading along his throat. Bakugo groaned, a rough, punched-out sound, and hauled you flush against him. His teeth grazed your pulse point. "Gonna ruin me, princess."
The first tear of fabric echoed obscenely loud as his claws shredded through your camisole.
Pastel ribbons fluttered to the bedspread like cherry blossom petals, too soft, too feminine for the way his hips canted up against yours.
Your back arched when his mouth closed over one peaked nipple, tongue swirling the glitter beading there. Bakugo grunted, the sound reverent and filthy, when luminescent streaks smeared across his cheekbones.
"Told you," he panted against your sternum, fingers working your shorts past trembling hips. "Fucking sparkly everywhere."
The last coherent thought you had, before his teeth sank into you again, was that Mina owed you new pyjamas.
Bakugo flipped you onto your back with a single rough shove, your thighs spreading instinctively beneath his hips as he loomed over you, pupils blown wide.
His smirk sharpened when your sparkles erupted again, golden, frantic, illuminating the predatory hunger in his expression. "Pathetic," he growled, but his fingers trembled where they gripped your waist.
"Coulda had Deku fawning over you like some damn prince." His knee pressed higher between your legs, dragging a whimper from your throat. "Instead you're here—" his palm slid up your ribs, "wrapped around my fingers—" his thumb brushed your nipple, "glowing like a fucking firework."
You arched into his touch, tremors wracking your spine when his free hand yanked your ruined cami straps down your arms.
The sound of fabric tearing filled the room, too loud, too obscene, but Bakugo didn't hesitate. He leaned in close, lips grazing your ear as his knee pressed harder. "Say it," he demanded, voice guttural. "Say you picked me."
Your hips jerked involuntarily when his teeth scraped your collarbone. "I—" A spark burst against his eyelid, making him blink. "I picked you!"
Bakugo exhaled sharply through his nose, half triumphant snarl, half shuddering groan, before surging forward to capture your mouth in a kiss that tasted like victory and nitroglycerin.
His tongue mapped every inch of you with single-minded focus, as if cataloging the way your breath hitched when he bit your lower lip just shy of painful.
When he pulled back, your sparkles had formed a perfect halo around his disheveled spikes. His chest heaved as he dragged a thumb through the glitter smeared across your cheekbone, then licked it clean with a low hum.
"Mine," he declared, fingers tightening possessively on your hips. "Every fucking shimmer."
Somewhere beyond your glitter-clouded haze, you registered the dorm hallway outside, the distant laughter of your classmates, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
The complete antithesis of the boy currently pinning you to silken sheets with his weight and the molten promise in his gaze.
Bakugo noticed your distraction immediately. His palm cracked against the headboard beside your ear, making you jump. "Eyes here, princess."
When you obeyed, trembling, he smirked, all sharp canines and wicked intent. "Good girl." His free hand slid between your thighs, callouses catching on sensitive skin. "Now let's see how loud you sparkle."
The first press of his fingers drew a whine from your throat, high and broken. Your quirk responded instantly, pearl-pink luminescence spilling over his knuckles, dripping onto the rumpled satin sheets beneath you.
Bakugo's breath stuttered. "Holy shit," he rasped, watching the glow spread between your legs with something akin to reverence. His thumb circled once, twice, drawing out another pulse of light that clung to his skin like liquid glitter. "Fuckin' perfect."
You arched off the bed when he crooked his fingers, nails scraping down his biceps as your sparkles rained across his chest. Bakugo growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you where your bodies pressed together, and increased the pace, his rhythm merciless.
"That's it," he goaded, lips brushing your temple. "C'mon, light up for me."
The pressure built dizzyingly fast, your thighs clamping around his wrist as the room flickered gold and rose. Bakugo's breath hitched when your back bowed off the mattress, his name tumbling from your lips in a desperate plea.
Right before you shattered, his mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing your moans as your quirk detonated, a supernova of color refracting through the fairy lights, painting his skin in shimmering streaks.
Panting, you went boneless against the sheets. Bakugo pulled back just enough to examine his glitter-coated forearm with a satisfied smirk.
"Told you," he muttered, licking a stripe up his palm where your glow lingered. His eyes darkened at the taste. "Fuckin' addicting."
Then, before you could recover, he flipped you onto your stomach with a single rough shove. "Round two," he announced, kneading the back of your thighs. "And this time—" his teeth grazed your shoulder blade, "I'm gonna make you sparkle loud enough to wake up the whole damn dorm."
Your whimper dissolved into the pillows as his hands spanned your waist, the promise in his touch searing brighter than any quirk.
Bakugo exhaled sharply through his nose when your sparkles flickered against the dark fabric of his belt, already half-undone, the leather slack against his hips.
His fingers trembled, just once, before he yanked it free with a sharp metallic rasp that made your thighs clench. You turned your face into the strawberry pillow just as his palm smoothed down the curve of your ass, possessive and rough.
"Look at me," he growled, thumb hooking in the ruined satin clinging to your hips. When you hesitated, his teeth grazed the nape of your neck. "Now."
The first stroke of his cock against your thigh sent a jolt through you.
Hot, heavy, glistening with the same iridescent slick your quirk left on his fingers. He hissed through clenched teeth, muscles taut as he pumped himself twice, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet of your room.
Your name tore from his throat when your sparkles burst against his knuckles, pearlescent streaks painting his forearm. "Fuck," he rasped, thumb smearing the glow across your hipbone. "Gonna ruin you."
The initial stretch burned, blissful, aching, as he pressed in with a groan that rattled your ribs. Your moan fractured against the pillow when he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, every ridge and vein slotting into place like you were made for it.
Bakugo's breath came ragged against your shoulder blades, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he adjusted to the vice-like heat.
"Move," you gasped, arching back against him. His answering snarl sent sparks skittering across the sheets.
He set a punishing pace immediately, each thrust punching little glittering whines from your throat. The headboard rattled against the wall in time with the wet slap of skin, Bakugo's palm splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned.
His other hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to see the way your sparkles clung to his sweat-slicked collarbones. His teeth found the shell of your ear as the first real pulse of your orgasm lit up the room, gold, pink, incandescent, his groan reverberating through you like a detonation. "Fuck, there it is—"
Your muffled scream dissolved into the strawberry pillow as he fucked you through it, his rhythm turning erratic, brutal. Bakugo's hips snapped forward once, twice, before his grip on your hair yanked your head back entirely.
His lips crashed against yours just as he spilled deep inside you, hot, pulsing, his broken moan swallowed by your mouth. Your quirk responded in kind, pearlescent streaks erupting between your joined bodies, painting his abs in liquid starlight where they pressed flush against your ass.
He didn't pull out.
Just collapsed atop you with his full weight, his rapid-fire heartbeat thudding between your shoulder blades. His fingers traced idle patterns through the glow smeared across your thighs, sticky-sweet and still faintly luminescent.
When you shifted, his arm banded tighter around your waist. "Stay," he grunted against your nape, an order softened by the way his lips lingered on your sweat-damp skin.
Outside, someone's laughter echoed down the hallway, oblivious to the way Bakugo's teeth grazed your pulse point, marking, claiming, as his hips gave one last lazy roll.
Your fingers tangled with his where they rested on your stomach, sparking tiny pink flares at the contact. Bakugo huffed, annoyed, fond, before biting your shoulder hard enough to make you yelp.
"Quit it," he muttered, but his thumb stroked over your knuckles anyway. The fairy lights cast shifting shadows across the walls as your breathing evened out, his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath warming the spot between your wings where his palm rested.
Heavy. Present.
"You're staring," you mumbled into the pillow, skin prickling beneath his gaze. Bakugo scoffed but didn't deny it, calloused fingers trailing down your spine in a slow, proprietary sweep that left glitter in their wake.
His lips followed, hot, insistent, branding each vertebra as he moved lower, pausing to nip at the dimples above your ass with a sound suspiciously close to a growl.
You squirmed, thighs pressing together reflexively, but he wedged his knee between them with effortless dominance. "Bakugo—"
"Katsuki," he corrected against the small of your back, the vibration skating down to where your bodies were still joined. His tongue swiped over a particularly bright sparkle clinging to your hip.
"Say it." When you hesitated, his teeth dug in, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to make your breath hitch. "Now."
"K-Katsuki," you stammered, flushing when he hummed approval against your skin. His lips curved into a smirk you could feel as he kissed lower, the swell of your ass, the crease of your thigh, each touch deliberate, lingering.
He exhaled sharply through his nose when your quirk reacted instinctively, dusting his cheekbones in gold. "You're—mmph—gonna be insufferable in class tomorrow, aren't you?"
Bakugo paused mid-bite, lifting his head just enough to pin you with a look that simmered with wicked promise. "Gonna sit way the fuck closer behind you now," he admitted, voice rough with satisfaction.
His fingers kneaded the supple flesh of your thighs, leaving faint pink smudges where your glow clung to his fingerprints. "Watch you squirm every time I breathe on your neck."
You whined, pressing your burning face into the mattress. "No—that's too embarrassing!"
His laugh was dark, thrilled, vibrating through your ribcage as he licked a stripe up your spine. "Don't care." His palm smacked your ass, once, sharp, drawing out another burst of sparkles. "Shoulda thought of that before you let me in your bed, princess."
The nickname shouldn't have sent heat pooling low in your belly again. Bakugo seemed to sense it anyway, his groan was half exasperation, half arousal as he rolled his hips lazily, still buried inside you.
Your choked moan disappeared into the pillows when his teeth found your earlobe. "Round three," he decided, voice dripping with sinful intent. "And this time," his hand slid around to your front, fingers pressing lightly against your clit, "I'm making damn sure every extra in this school knows who you sparkle for."
Your protest dissolved into a broken gasp as his touch reignited the embers of your pleasure, Bakugo's name tumbling from your lips in a litany that only spurred him on.
Outside, the dorm settled into evening quiet, completely unaware of the way the blond menace behind you was rewriting every rule of engagement between you with each possessive thrust, each glimmering kiss.
Nah but your bully reader x izuku holy fuck its so good just thinking about how one day the reader just gets so fucking out of line that izuku drags her to his room and just goes to town putting her in her place. just absolutely railing her as the headboard smacks against the wall and saying such dirty things like "I'll teach you to stop being so mean to me "I'll show you how much of a man I can be" or my favorite "cmon scream my name let everyone know this lowlife dork is making you cream on his cock" awooga anyways finally as shes about to reach her climax he just stops completely only to look her dead in the eyes and say "tell me you love me cmon say it and ill keep going" but shes so stubborn that she just pouts with a red face panting heavily as she looks away unable to meet his gaze. however this only fuels izuku causing him to lift her chin up to meet his green eyes that seem to boar into her very soul shaking her to the core. he chuckles at her doey eyed expression before speaking once again "funny you spend all that time looking down on me and now you cant even look me in the eye" he begins teasing her by rubbing his angry red tip between her slick folds causing her to gasp as he slams back into her over and over again until her brain turns to mush and its not long before he claims his reward. all that can be heard over the slapping of skins and moans are "i love you izuku" and "please cum inside i need it" and who is izuku to deny this request ?
No bc this punched me in the actual gut :((
Its after awhile in your little secret relationship and izuku is frankly tired of being treated like he doesn’t matter to you when it’s so glaringly obvious you’re in love with him. He’s not your dirty secret, and he’s a soft, romantic boy. He wants to fucking hold your hand in the hall and buy you flowers and be able to kiss you whenever he wants, he love language is quality time and acts of service okay, he’s dying on the inside slowly because the only time you’re soft for him is on his cock, but it’s not enough.
So when a pretty, sweet girl smiles at him, and he know’s you’re watching he doesn’t try and bashfully reject her. He looks at you and makes sure you’re watching when he smiles and takes the slip of paper with her number on, slipping it in his back pocket. He expects the way your lip curls, the way your fists clench and the way you shove yourself out of your seat and stomp out of the common room. He’s already following you the second you’re out the door.
He catches you around the waist from behind, presses your back against his chest when you struggle and leans forward, lips at your ear. “Tell me why i shouldn’t go” he’s pleading, squeezing you tight. “Give me a reason”
You grit your teeth, actually feeling tears build because you’re so frustrated. With your feelings, with him, with all of it. “Fuck off. If you want some other bitch that’s on you. Hope she’s ready to be disappointed in bed”
He doesn’t even react to your jabs, his lips stay close to the back of your neck. “M’gonna have a big family one day, y’know?” he says softly. “I wanna be a dad,___. I want to be in love and have a woman who i can kiss and hold and share a life with. Who lets me make love to her”
The last part is whispered right against the shell of your ear. You squirm. “I want that woman to be you” he finishes, and you close your eyes, feeling the way your heart caves in your chest.
You don’t know why you can’t just be easy to love. Its what izuku deserves, and the picture he’s painted….it’s what you want. You want to be the reason izuku smiles and gets dimples, you want to be the person he reaches out to and loves so hard. But you’re scared of the overwhelming way that giving yourself over to your love for him would make you powerless. You’d never recover if he left you, never.
“I don’t wanna be your stupid housewife..” You mumble. Yes, you do. You feel his sigh against your hair, his breath moving it.
“You do.” Izuku turns you around to face him. He traces a thumb over your cheek. “I know you wanna be my girl, yeah? You don’t need to shout it from the rooftops or wear it like a badge but...i need to know you- i need to hear you say it”
You want to. You want to say it but - “im-” You look down, mumble, “im scared”
Izuku smiles down at you, his eyes softening as his thumb brushes over your lip, slides down your neck and then drops down to grab your hand. “I know you are. Won’t make you say it how i wanna hear it yet. We’ll take it slow, okay? But im gonna hear you say it. By the end of tonight” He grins. “Even if i have to drag it out of you with orgasms”
And later he does make you say it. Its not loud, or public, how he wants yet. But its a little give, to all your pushing. Even if he has to bully it out of you a little, has to drag the plush head of his dick through the soaked folds of your cunny and tease your little clit until you’re begging.
Its a little cruel, honestly. The way he makes you so vulnerable, gasping and weeping as he fucks you so, so slow, dragging his cock along your walls in a painfully tender glide, making you feel every inch, knowing you’re dying, gasping, needing it harder, deeper, faster. “Say it, baby” he groans against your mouth, working his hips in tiny barely there increments, barely feeding you his cock how you want it. Licking your upper lip as you cry and whimper. “Tell the little nerd you like to tease so much how much you love him, go on”
Your dig your nails into his freckled, flexing back as your eyes roll back, his pelvis grinding into your clit in sweet torture as you give in. “i-i love you, izuku. Please”
“Mm, i know” he says, and you’re to far gone to catch the smugness behind it. He rewards you by gripping you under your thighs and pulling your legs up, sliding into you in a heavy and deep thrust that has his balls clapping against the underside of your pussy as he fills it deep. “Love you too. So much. Gonna make you wanna be my girlfriend one day, and then my pretty little wife, and then” He grunts, grinding. “The mother of my children”
ꉂ ᵎᵎ cw/tw: 18+, virgin!softdom!brattamer!izuku, sub!virgin!bratty!childhood bully!fem!afab!reader, i am serious when i say reader is a Brat and annoying and stubborn, pinv, blowjob (turns into face fucking), domination loss, virginity loss, vaginismus (in other words, losing virginity is not without some complications), talk about hymen, crush confessions, boob sucking, nipple play (fem receiving), make out scene (yay), first kisses, izuku starts to lose himself at the end of the sex scene, praise & compliments, a sprinkle of breeding kink (however it is safe sex (condom), fingering, pussy eating, canon divergent, college!au, izuku is mean :( mention of harry potter (FUCK TERFS)
ꉂ ᵎᵎ a/n: the fic is titled after a sabrina carpenter song— i actually don’t like her music too much, but i thought it was fitting (i do think she is pretty quintessential pop music though) uumm any typos or poor grammar format are 5am dot’s fault
ꉂ ᵎᵎ synopsis: after learning at a party that izuku is still a virgin, you attempt to make fun of him, falling into your childhood bully habits. however, instead of being embarrassed or getting mad he confronts your feelings for him, and offers you his virginity. double however, you’re not as experienced as you’ve claimed— or at all for that matter!
ꉂ ᵎᵎ w/c: ~7.1k words
“no, dude— because the first time i did it,” hanta laughs, a warm blush spreading across his face at the memory, “she was legit screaming her head off, so i stopped and i was like, ‘oh shit, are you okay?’ and she tells me that was part of her ‘method.’ i got soft so fast…”
the group sitting in the living room — hanta, eijirou, mina, kyoka, denki, izuku, and you — erupts into yet another wave of cackles, some of you wheezing silently, others doubled over, but even then, the music thundering through the party still manages to swallow it all up.
“holy shit— no way,” denki snickers, “like— that’s what she did when she was alone?”
“yeah,” hanta chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “said that it made it more 'intense.”
“sounds scary,” izuku comments, smiling, and everyone is quick to shift their attention towards the number one collegiate hero. well, almost everyone— your gaze had already been glued to him all night, occasionally darting away whenever he’d looked up, as if to convince yourself you weren’t completely staring… which, of course, you were.
a sigh leaves denki’s lips, leaning on izuku in a playful manner. “of course ‘mr. perfect’ wouldn’t have any sex horror stories. probably just touches a girl once and she cums.”
“no way,” mina interjects, “he was so nerdy in high school! no offense midoriya— but he’s gotta have one.”
as all eyes look expectantly towards izuku, waiting for him to deny or confirm, he just shrugs.
“i actually haven’t even gotten around to it yet.”
while you remain quiet, the group devolves into a mixture of shock and chaos at his response, bombarding him with a flurry of questions.
“what?! i’d believe that back then, but now? midoriya, you gotta be kidding! you’re telling me you don’t have girls lining up to get a piece?” mina asks, sitting up right.
“eh… none that i’m really interested in…” he replies.
“are you able to get it up?” ejiriou questions, an eyebrow arched.
izuku chuckles heartedly at that. “i can get it up.”
“i thought you had girlfriends before— how is this possible?” kyoka leans forward, incredulous.
“maybe he’s just waiting until marriage,” theorizes hanta.
izuku shrugs again and he leans back against the couch, considering his next words carefully. for a moment, it seems like his eyes flick to yours — lingering just long enough to seem thoughtful — before settling on the rim of his red solo cup.
“not really,” he murmurs, letting the words roll off casually, “i’m more so just waiting for the right girl that does it for me.”
“ooh!” eijirou laughs, “high standards then, i see! what even is your type, midoriya?”
“i wanna know too! we could set him up!” mina chimes in.
“i think he likes those bubbly nice girls,” denki assumes.
izuku shakes his head lightly, playfully scrunching his nose before taking a sip of his drink. “ah, no. i think i like mean girls, if anything.”
“whaat? so you’re saying you like girls who take control or something?”
“hah, not really— i mean like…” he clicks his tongue as the words escape him. “like… i don’t know. the ones that huff and pout.”
“feisty, huh? i don’t think i know any girls like that…” eijirou ponders, a finger tapping his chin.
“you don’t want a girl like that, midoriya,” hanta advises, “my ex was like that. total headache.”
“more than the girl screaming her head off?” kyoka giggles.
“it’s a close competition,” hanta laughs.
“yeah… but even then, girls at our school are all… goody-two-shoe sweethearts that are on the fast track to being in the pro-hero hall of fame. like this one,” mina says, draping an arm around you as if to prove her point.
as you get roped into the conversation, your hands fly up, waving as you laugh. “wh— hey? what’s that supposed to mean?”
“goody two shoes' is not the word i’d use for her,” denki teases with a smirk, catching your hand by the wrist when you playfully try to swat him. “i feel like you lose that title once your virginity is gone.”
“well, whose to say she isn’t a virgin?” hanta suggests, “if someone like midoriya hasn’t gotten any, then how do we know leaderboard darling over here isn’t in the same boat as him?”
you scoff, coyly biting the inside of your cheek, and rolling your eyes. “i don’t kiss and tell, guys.”
“oh she fucks,” mina cackles.
as the conversation moves on from you, you breathe a sigh of relief. the truth of the matter was that hanta had suspected correctly— you actually were in the same situation as izuku. to makes matters worse, you hadn’t even had your first kiss!
listening to the group continue to swap embarrassing or funny sex stories, your eyes inevitably drift back to izuku. this time, his gaze was already on you, studying and waiting .
a heat creeps up your neck. you stand up — not too fast to give yourself away— excusing yourself to go to the bathroom. once there, you take the time to settle with your thoughts.
midoriya izuku was a virgin.
the thought made you happier than you cared to admit. was it because you hated him and therefore didn’t want anything good to happen to him? maybe. after all, you had made his life hell in high school. sure, you cleaned up your act once you got to university — mostly because you didn’t see him as often — but that didn’t mean you got along when you did.
or was it something else…? something you had been trying to deny for years? that maybe, just maybe, you had a crush on stupid-ass dek—
the cold water from the running sink snaps you out of your thoughts. after drying your hands, you return to the living room, only to find most of the group had dispersed. you scan the room, looking for someone to mingle with, and your eyes land on a towering back, topped with an unmistakable wild mess of green hair at the drinks table.
before you realize it, your feet are carrying you to izuku's side, hands trembling slightly as you pour yourself a refill of whatever you were drinking, and your lips move on their own.
“y’know— couple more years and you’ll be a wizard.”
he smirks, not looking at you just yet. “sounds fun. i’ve always loved harry potter.”
your jaw tenses at his nonchalance. “however,” you add, “i think by forty it falls off.”
“ah,” he says, clicking his tongue. “is that so? that’s a shame.”
“or a blessing. like we need a mini you running around.”
“well, at least i still got time.”
“i doubt it,” you scoff. “like there’d be anyone desperate enough to sleep with you.”
lazily, his gaze drifts to you now. noticing the way you can’t meet his eye but can spit out all these sorts of negative things, he tilts his head. “do you really want it that bad?”
“want what?” you ask back, caught off guard.
“my virginity,” he says plainly, angling his body towards you. “you seem like you want it pretty damn bad.”
“wh— i… that’s not what i am saying at all, deku, i don’t know what those gooner ass pornos you watch teach you, but— just because a girl talks to you, doesn’t mean she wants to sleep with you.” the familiar venom in your voice seems to amuse him.
he shrugs, a smirk subtly tugging at his lips as he takes an easy sip of his drink. “ah, that’s too bad. i would’ve gave it to you.”
a rush of heat makes your head spin at the offer, ears ringing as you struggle to maintain your composure. you clear your throat, nose sneering like it’d hide the blush creeping up your cheeks. “um— ew, no. you’re not even my type.”
“well, what’s your type then?”
“like…” your words stall as you try to think of how to put it— careful not to give too much away, and not sure if you even want to. “guys with experience, obviously. i don’t want to teach a guy how to do it properly.”
his lips jut out as he considers your words. “well, i’m a fast learner. i’m sure i can do a good job once i’m showed the ropes.”
“what makes you think i even want to show you ‘the ropes,’ idiot?” you scowl.
he sighs, playfully looking down, almost hopelessly. “oh, you’re right... i just thought a pretty and nice girl like you with so much experience might feel bad for me. y’know, because you’re a hero…”
your lips purse as he provides you this plausible deniability. teeth clenched and leg ever so slightly bouncing with deliberation, the gears in your head start turning.
“well… hmph…” you mutter at last, glancing to the side as if something more interesting had caught your attention. “i guess… i could do some charity work… but you can’t tell anybody about this, okay?”
a small smile plays along izuku’s lips. before you can protest, he leans down and reaches out to hook your pinkie with his, and presses a gentle kiss to his fist— eyes flicking up to yours. “promise.”
you pull away, the blush spreading across your face growing hotter by the second. “ugh, you’re so fucking weird…”
he straightens, laughing as he sets his cup down on the table. “when can we do it?”
“when?” you repeat back, hesitating, your words caught between thought and impulse. “i mean, i guess, now, because i’m not doing anything but—”
“great,” he cuts you off, taking your hand in his again, and leads you through the crowd of partygoers, heading towards the way out. “my place is pretty close by— we can walk there, is that okay?”
it takes you a moment to register that your hand is wrapped in his— large, warm, and rough. you clear your throat, trying not to let your nerves show. “wait, wait— do you even have a condom or anything? lube?”
izuku slows his pace, matching yours as he looks you over. “condoms…” he repeats slowly. “well, i have a bunch of free ones i got from planned parenthood… the booths that pop up, i mean. lube, now, i don’t have that. but, i heard that if you get a girl wet enough, you won’t need it.”
you scoff, rolling your eyes. “so you think you’re going to get me wet enough to not need it?”
he shrugs, guiding you across a crosswalk, a hand resting lightly on the small of your back when he does. “beginners luck?”
“you’re going to need a lot more than luck.”
“it’s a good thing i have you to teach me then, hm?”
you say nothing, feeling a heavy weight on your chest as you trek up the stairs to his apartment. once inside, your eyes sweep over the living room, noting how clean everything was as you set your shoes on his shoe rack.
“you live alone?” you ask, forcing your voice to stay steady, as if asking about anything else could distract you from why you were really here.
“yep. it’s great for hosting.”
you roll your eyes as you follow him to his bedroom. “of course you love hosting,” you mutter, your gaze narrowing at how nerdy his room was— all might posters plastered on the walls, expensive figurines lined up neatly on shelves, a stack of manga spilling over his desk. you perch on the edge of his bed, quietly taking it all in as he goes to hang up his jacket.
“ah, i forgot— you never were much of a people person, huh?” izuku asks, chuckling at some sort of memory. he sits down right next to you, his knee brushing against yours.
“i’m a people person. i love people,” you say defensively, not very convincing in your tone.
he laughs again, leaning back leisurely, hands splayed on the bed beside him. “that’s what you want people to think. that sparkly and naive sweetheart thing you got going on? i think it’s you for a moment, but it also makes it so you can’t wait for when you’re alone. am i right?”
he was. but you’d never admit that. “you’re projecting,” you mumble.
he simply shrugs in response. “maybe.”
a quiet falls between you two, his pinkie tentatively reaching out to yours on the bed.
“so,” he starts, breaking the silence. “what are we supposed to do first?”
there’s a strange churning in your stomach as the thought claws through you— not only would you be taking his virginity, but you’d be losing yours too. “well,” you sigh, trying to play off your nerves. “you have to get me in the mood. do you think you can do that or is that too hard for someone like you?”
“hm… it might be. do you think you could walk me through how to do that?”
a sigh escapes you, your annoyance masking your real feelings. “useless. okay, come here,” you say, beckoning him to shorten your height gap. he obliges, leaning in a bit closer than you anticipated, and his hands graze your sides.
“like this?” izuku asks, tilting his head.
“yeah,” you mumble, your pulse quickening slightly as you took in his features. ever since his growth spurt back in the third year of high school, you hadn’t really gotten a proper look at his face since then. his eyes were still the same striking green, though the freckles that once dotted his cheeks had faded from too much time in the sun. as your gaze traced the curvature of his cheekbones down to his lips — soft, full, and tempting — your tongue darts out to wet your own. “have you… ever kissed someone before?”
“nope,” he answers honestly, grinning like an idiot. “i’m assuming you have though, right?”
“of course,” you huff, bringing your hands up to the sides of his face, hoping he wouldn't notice how they trembled. you try to recall that wikihow article you read on french kissing one random tuesday night, steeling yourself to the best of your abilities. out of all the collegiate heroes on that damn leaderboard, if anyone deserved to be crowned the best performer— it'd be you. and by god, that’s what you were gonna do.
perform.
slowly, you closed the space between you two and brushed your lips against his, a shaky gasp escaping you at the contact. quickly swallowing it, your eyes closed naturally, letting yourself focus on the sensation of his lips on yours. it was surprisingly wetter than you imagined. awkward too, especially when his nose bumped into yours, which you let out a noise of annoyance at. he only laughed breathlessly in response, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. after a while, almost procedurally, your tongue went out to touch his, which he eagerly chased after— sending a dizzying thrill throughout your body.
soon enough, your back met the mattress of izuku’s bed, and he hovered over you, his fingers sliding down to lace with yours, effectively caging you beneath him. he gave an experimental lick along the roof of your mouth — brief, testing — then repeated it the moment he felt your positive reaction. he worked it into the rhythm of the kiss, his upper lip catching on your lower one in a way that made your breath hitch.
eventually, you pulled away, turning your head to the side to catch your breath, and the back of your hand came up to cover your face. “o-okay,” you manage, clearing your throat, trying to cover up your panting, “that’s good enough.”
with a deep exhale, you turned back to face him.
god, he was so pretty.
face flushed, eyes half-lidded, and running his tongue over a canine as he smiled faintly, you couldn’t help but feel butterflies in your stomach at the sight of him. your eyes drifted lower, taking note of how his leg had wedged itself between your thighs, and was threateningly close to grinding against your crotch. you suddenly felt very small and vulnerable under him, and felt the urge to regain control.
“move back,” you sighed, as if he was doing everything wrong, swallowing your pooling saliva, and lightly tapping his chest. he does as you say, and shifts back to sit on his heels, allowing you to sit up.
after stalling by letting your gaze wander around the room, you finally speak again— unable to meet his eyes as you work up the nerve to voice your next demand. “okay, um, i guess…” — you sigh — “you can take off your pants. because you’re probably already hard just from that so... let’s see it.”
he laughs softly at your dismissive tone, fiddling with the buckle of his belt, and slipping it off. your thoughts drifted all over the place as you wrestled with the notion that this was the first time you’d see a dick in person… and to be honest, you felt a bit scared. however, before you knew it, his pants were off and his briefs were gone, and a pretty, thick, and long cock greeted you with it’s presence, and there was no time to be.
you could feel the blood rush to your ears as it twitched against his lower abdomen, and resisted the urge to ask if that was normal. while you didn’t think he’d be small or anything, (though if anyone asked, you’d probably claim he was, just to mess with him) his length was on the verge of being too much. the tip was pink and flared, a vein ran down it’s left leaning curve, and patches of dark green, almost black hair framed the base.
“is everything okay?” he asks, seeing your drawn-out silence, suspiciously knowing.
“yes,” you scoff defensively, sliding off the bed, and lowering yourself onto your knees in front of him. face to face with his crotch, his cock was probably even more nerve-wracking now, as it seemed almost impossible you could get anything done with it. maybe a more experienced girl could handle it just fine but you were anything but that.
tentatively, you reached a hand out to him, the room feeling a bit surreal as you wrapped your fingers around his dick, and you could feel the blood pulsate underneath your grip. after giving him a few experimental strokes, you then took him into your mouth, remembering to cover your teeth with your lips based off a tiktok comment you read once.
after a few more minutes of attempting to bob your head up and down, it was pretty clear that you were fumbling. he could see it and so could you, but your pride wouldn’t let you admit it. the taste of a dick wasn’t anything like those smut fics you read back in high school had described. it wasn’t really salty or sweet— it just tasted like skin. although, the trickling beads of pre-cum had a taste to them, one that you liked a little. but other than that, your jaw was beginning to ache already from widening it more than you were used to.
his hand reaches out to your head, petting your hair almost like he would a dog. “hey… um,” izuku says, trying not to laugh at the sight of you, “are you sure you’ve done this before? it’s totally fine if you haven’t…”
your eyes flick up to his, hot embarrassment settling in your chest. “of course i have,” you snap, swatting his hand away from you. “it’s not going to look as sexy as your fucking — your little fucking hentais you goon to — but that’s because i’m a real girl, not your 2d waifu or whatever, fucking idiot. you should feel lucky you’re with someone who knows what they’re doing.”
his brows furrow slightly at your wording, weighing them in his mind, and finding you ridiculously cute. “ah. right, i forgot. you’re a pro. can i just—?”
without warning, his hands interlace with your hair and he bucks up into your mouth, hitting the back of it with his cockhead. at the sensation, you sputter and gag, and he lets out a throaty groan. as he makes you take him to the base, and holds you there, you felt like you were going to throw up.
“h-hah, sorry…” he grunts, his dick throbbing against your tongue. “saw this in those ‘little hentais i always goon to.’ it’s okay, right? since you’re so experienced?”
you shake your head, slobber dripping down his length as you try to say something, only for him to continue. you both know if you weren’t, you’d bite his dick off— and your quirk was capable enough to go toe to toe with him, meaning that if you really wanted to, you could fight him off… right?
eyes fluttering and tongue lolling, your mind goes blank as he stands up, fucking into your mouth. in a way, you feel a bit relieved— not having to think so hard on what to do or how to act. your shoulders relax, and you let him have his way, already pocketing the excuse that he ‘overpowered’ you or whatever.
as fast as it started, his thrusts begin to stutter, balls plapping against your chin erratically. “fuck, damn— i think i’m gonna, fuck— ” he cusses, and a hot warmth gushes down your throat, coating your tongue. finally, he lets go of you, and sits back on the bed, winded, watching as you cough and gasp for air, with some semen you didn’t swallow splattering onto the carpet. you don’t have it in you to say something snarky and mean to him just yet, allowing yourself the time to rest the curve of your face against his thigh, trying to catch your breath.
however, a few taps against your cheek interrupt your rest. “you’re tired already?” he asks with an “innocent” tilt of his head. “don’t we have more stuff to do?”
the lack of oxygen to your brain makes it hard for you to come up with anything snarky. “whuh…?” you babble out, looking up at him, clearly a bit out of it.
izuku just chuckles, helping you back onto the bed. you sit next to him, leaning onto his arm as you regain yourself. as you do that, he takes off his shirt, and your eyes take in his muscular form. his hand then slithers around your back, resting itself on your hip.
“hey,” he whispers, voice low against the shell of your ear, beckoning for your attention. “are you going to take off your shirt now?”
you brow furrows at his teasing as you snap back into reality. “ugh, yes, deku— i am. don’t fucking rush me,” you huff, hands shaky as you lift up your shirt over your head.
“ha— i’m still ‘deku,’ even though we’re here?” he asks, glancing down at your breasts when you undo your bra’s clasp, freeing them. yet, they’re quickly hidden away from his leering as you cover your chest with your arms.
“are you supposed to be something else?” you question.
he shrugs, his other hand creeping up your thigh, resting just under the space where your skirt covered. “maybe, ‘izuku,” he suggests, “since you’re going to be moaning that later?”
“i’m not going to be moaning anything,” you fume, the words not even convincing yourself.
“hm, maybe,” he chuckles, tracing circles into your skin with his thumbs, watching you twitch underneath his touch. “maybe it all be gibberish by that point, on the account of being fucked dumb.”
“you have a lot of confidence for someone whose never done this before.”
“well, neither have you, but you’re pretending you have, for some reason.”
“i have, dumbass. it’s just… been a while,” you mumble, not really believing your new excuse.
he just shrugs again, smiling as you delude yourself. “ah, yeah, okay. my bad.”
a pause falls between you two for a moment.
“well… can i see your chest?”
you sigh, as if his request was an impossible task. you lie back on the bed, your head resting on a pillow, and covering your face with your arms as he looked curiously.
“they’re very pretty,” he murmurs, the compliment going straight to the blush across your face. “can i touch them?”
“… yeah.”
subsequently, his hands reach out to grope and squish your tits, watching how they fall against your chest when he lets them go. then, in his curiosity, he begins to tease your nipples, holding you down by your hips with his elbow when your back arches.
“i— ah, wait…!” you say, letting out a noise in between a whimper and a laugh as he begins to roll a peak in between his fingers, watching it harden.
“that’s an interesting noise,” izuku cooes, laughing at your following huff. “what will you make if i…”
a squeal leaves your throat when his mouth latches onto one of your breasts, his hand continuing to play with the other. as he sucks and licks, teethes and pulls— your nipples are soon left puffy and swollen under his ministrations.
“deku— that’s enough,” you whine, bringing a hand to the back of his hair, attempting to peel him off you.
he resists, holding a nipple in between his teeth as he corrects you. “izuku.”
your brow furrow as he continues. “izuku,” you hiss, the first name sounding strange to say. “quit it…”
luckily, he relents, but not before giving both of your sore boobs a kiss. he sits back on his haunches, waiting for you to catch your breath, and hoping you won’t mind the hickies he left on your skin by accident.
“ugh,” you say at last, glaring at him. “you’re like a dog.”
“woof.”
“funny,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.
the grin plastered on his face goes unappreciated by you. “are you going to take your skirt off now?”
“is there some sort of schedule or timeline i’m not aware of?”
izuku chuckles, his nimble fingers moving to your waistband. “no, it’s just because you’re soaking wet, and i’m wondering when you’re gonna let me eat your pussy.”
your blush intensifies at his crude language. “i’m not wet,” you grumble, both of you not believing that. “that’s also… not necessary.”
“can i at least see it?” he asks, oh so sweetly.
you sigh, already knowing that one way or another, he would get his way, and you cover your face with an arm. “yeah, whatever.”
with a twinkle in his eye, izuku pulls down your skirt, along with your underwear in one swift movement. he moves to go lay in between your legs, holding them down with his muscular forearms, and savors the sight of your glistening folds.
the intensity of his stare makes you squirm, body truly trembling as his warm breath ghosts your puffy lips. “nervous?” he asks, eyes flicking up to yours.
“n-no,” you lie.
he smiles, giving the inside of your thigh a kiss, laughing when you instinctively clench. “it’s really pretty,” he comments. then a thumb reaches out, spreading your labia. “warm. not to mention, wet.”
“it’s not because of you,” you shiver, shutting your eyes tight.
“sure. self-lubricating organ that produces an arousal fluid just happens to be dripping so much it’s staining my bedsheets.”
before you can respond, he takes a long lick up the slit, the flat of his tongue rubbing against your clit, making you whimper.
“fuck,” he groans. “that tastes so good…”
it’s obvious, based on how you gasp and writhe, you’ve never felt like this before, not even knowing what to do with your hands as he eats you out, especially when he wraps his lips around your clit, swirling his tongue around the bead. eventually, your fingers interlace with his hair, and he moans involuntarily, the sound reverberating against your core.
after a few more slurps, laps, and flicks of the tongue, he pulls away, and you let out a humiliating whine. he laughs at the noise, giving your thighs a pat. “hold on. i need to stretch you out for later.”
at the mention of the idea of his monster of a dick entering you, you tense up. as his thick middle finger circles around your entrance, before slowly sinking inside you, you’re left clenching and on the verge of tears.
“i… ow— wait,” you cry out, trying not to panic. “i think something is really wrong…”
“vaginismus,” izuku explains gently, deciding to note the enveloping hotness of your heat later. “you need to relax. it happens for a number of reasons, but i think it’s because you never had anything in here and you’re stressed out about it.”
you don’t deny it this time, trying to focus on your breathing, and not on the almost stinging sensation below. when he notices the strain on your face, he moves to lean over you, his free hand taking yours.
“hey,” he murmurs, continuing to pump his finger in and out of you. “it’s going to be okay. we’re taking it slow.”
it’s not until he wipes away one of your tears that you realize you’ve been crying, and you hide your face into his shoulder.
“i’m sorry for lying,” you sniffle, overwhelmed with emotion, feeling ashamed that your first time isn’t going as easily as you imagined it would. “i’m ruining everything.”
he laughs softly. “if there’s anything you need to be sorry for, this is the last thing. i’d probably pick bullying me since we were kids first.”
“i’m sorry…”
“it’s okay. just means i get to bully you here,” izuku whispers, a smile tugging at his lips before he continues. “i’m really lucky that a girl like you is giving me her first time and that i get to have my first time with you. there’s nothing you’re ruining. relax, okay? don’t think anymore. you don't have to prove anything to me.”
you nod, quiet for a moment. “your finger is really thick,” you complain at last and a snort escapes him.
“maybe compared to yours.”
“compared to anyone normal…”
he shrugs, his thumb moving to rub your clit as he fingers you. “does that help?”
“a little…”
“let me...” he mumbles, his finger curling to stroke the roof of your sex, looking for something. he knows he's found it when you gasp and gush around him. “there.”
your hips buck as you start to feel the pain ease, replaced by a sensation of pleasure. “wh— mm, what is that?” you pant, reflexively moving to get away.
izuku keeps you still, continuing to massage that spongy part. “g-spot, i’m pretty sure.”
“pretty sure?”
he laughs, dipping his head near your neck. “girl, it’s my first time too. i’m figuring out at the same time you are.”
as he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, you feel your mind start to cloud over, yet your daze becomes interrupted when you feel izuku take a big long lick up your neck.
“what are you doing?” you murmur, your brow furrowing.
“i heard the neck is an erogenous zone for women. is it doing anything?”
“not if you’re slobbering all over me,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “just go back to what you were doing.”
“alright,” he complies, snickering at your tone, before mixing in sucks and bites this time.
soon after, he slips another finger into your heat, holding your hand tight as you adjust to the stretch. thanks to his prep, there wasn’t any pain. it felt… actually, good. almost addicting.
“damn, do you hear that?” he asks you, letting a silence fall between you.
you strain your ears as you try to listen for something. however, once you realize he was referencing the sloppy sounds your pussy was making, you let out a whine of embarrassment, which he laughs at. once a beat has passed, izuku asks another question, the tone contrastingly soft. “do you think you’re ready for me?”
glancing down, you notice his dick thick and hard once more, with the excessive amount of pre-cum dripping down from the tip an indicator that he’d been like so for a good while.
“i… i don’t know…” you whisper.
“let’s just try, okay? if it’s too much, i’ll stop and we can go back to stretching you out some more.”
when you finally nod, he takes his fingers out of you, and sucks off the arousal clinging to them as he slides off the bed to go grab a condom from his closet shelf. once he returns, and he climbs back onto the bed to sit in front of you, life feels like it’s moving in slow motion. spreading your legs and keeping them open, he positions himself at your entrance, and your body shivers as the tip of his shaft rests along your folds, with only a thin layer of latex dividing you.
discipline, midoriya izuku, he reminds himself. the dizzying sensation of your pussy fluttering around his cockhead — peppering it in kisses in hopes to pull him in — was making it hard from resisting the urge to shove his dick inside you in one go. grounding himself, his hands find purchase on your hips. “ready?” he asks, swallowing when his voice cracks.
“go slow,” you remind him, as if you were nervous he’d forget. he almost feels bad when it makes his dick twitch.
both of you watch as his tip disappears within your folds and your chest trembles as you stretch around his girth. he makes sure to check in with you with every inch that enters. by the time he’s half way in, you’re panting, with runaway tears rolling down your cheeks.
“jesus,” he groans, shutting his eyes tight as your walls squeeze and convulse around him. “i-it doesn’t hurt, right?”
you shake your head, only managing to say the one thing on your mind: “i-it’s big…”
a throaty laugh escapes izuku at your astute observation, a hiss following the sound as he swears your pussy was trying to squeeze his dick off. “does it feel good?”
“i think,” you mumble, watching as he moves back and forth, slowly going deeper with each thrust. “there’s no blood, right?”
“from your hymen?” he asks, an eyebrow arched as he’s caught off guard. “you can’t really break that— only tear it. and not everyone bleeds.”
you scoff, feeling annoyed that he was mansplaining to you (even if he was right). “i know that. i was just ask…ghh—!”
it feels like the wind is knocked out of you as he tunnels his dick all the way to nestle against your cervix, stilling there for a moment while he wipes some drool dribbling down his chin with his arm. “fuck, i could stay here forever,” he mutters, grinding his cockhead deeper.
whatever you were saying — or going to say— is forgotten, quickly replaced by the thought of how you could feel every twitch of his dick inside you, even with the condom on. “y-you’re too deep,” you whine.
he just laughs at your response, pulling back and trying to find a rhythm. “sorry,” he says, yet you doubt he was.
“stupid…”
at your insult, izuku's lips curl into an amused smile, before testing out a roll of his hips against yours, and letting out an affectionate sigh. “you’re so cute.”
caught off guard, you press your face into the crook of your arm, trying to hide your flusteredness away from him. he just laughs at your embarrassment, before leaning down to tease you some more.
“but, don’t you think you could lighten up and say something nice for once? don’t you get tired of acting like that?”
you let out a huff, bringing a hand up to gently push his face out of yours. “i’m not acting like anything. you’re just annoying.”
“you don’t think that,” he replies, palms covering yours in a casual, easy grip, before pinning them above you. “you like me. you like me so much it’s making your pussy squeeze tight around me— wishing i wasn’t wearing a condom so i could get you pregnant.”
as if on cue, it does exactly that, making you bite your lower lip, to stifle a moan. noticing this, izuku brings his lips towards yours, giving you a gentle nibble, not wanting you to keep in your sounds. “don’t hold it in, come on… if you can’t say anything nice, make some noise for me then,” he pouts, mockingly.
“izuku—” you mewl, brows furrowing, only to be silenced by his tongue meeting yours.
“oh, i like when you say my name like that,” he chuckles lowly against your lips, before continuing to kiss you.
eventually, your face gets away from him, but not without some drool dripping down your chin, and your eyes glazing over. “i-i don’t like you, by the way,” you struggle to huff, feeling your climax building up as he finds the angle to hit against that sweet spot.
a breathless laugh escapes him as you’re still on that. “yeah? that’s a shame, because i like you.”
you squirm hearing his confession, but having no place to go pinned under him, a helpless whine escapes your lips. “man, shut the, — fuh — fuck up!”
“i saved myself for you,” he confesses further, his hand reaching down to rub at your clit, relishing in the whimper you make when he does. “wanted to see how long it was going to take you to make a move, but i got a bit impatient tonight. you just looked so fucking cute.”
your eyes shut tight as you can’t bring yourself to look at him, your brain beginning to melt out of your ears, overwhelmed by his words. at your lack of response, he continues to speak.
“hey. can’t you tell me that you like me too? please?”
when you keep on being silent, he clicks his tongue, before letting out a disappointed sigh. “aw, come on” — he playfully pouts — “isn’t, ah, aren’t i doing a good job? fucking you so deep? you really gonna be mean to me even when i’m taking care of you?”
for the third time you don’t respond, he laughs softly. bringing his lips to whisper into your ear, giving the lobe a nibble, he warns, “if you keep quiet… i’m gonna stop.”
this time, you actually decide to listen, but not without some internal deliberation. after a few passing moments, you eventually muster up the courage to say what you’ve buried under a lifetime of childish attempts to be noticed.
“i… like you too…”
“what was that?” he asks, a giddy grin tugging at the corners of his lips.
your brows furrow as he kept on teasing you, despite giving him what he wanted. “izuku,” you whine again, now begging him not to make you repeat yourself.
“i didn’t hear you,” he chides, his pace threatening to get slower. “come on, just let me hear you properly.”
you fuss, desperate not to lose your approaching high, thus speaking louder. “i like you…”
“oh, good girl,” izuku says, the praise coming out as a moan, watching as your face gets even more red. sweat pills down his forehead as he speed up again, beginning to get lost in ecstasy, and you can feel the heavy swollen balls slapping against your ass tensing up. “you like my dick inside you? like the way i — fuck — say dirty things to you?”
“stop,” you whimper, not able to handle his teasing as pleasure threatened to also push you over the edge.
“you gonna cum? gonna,” — he hides his face in your neck, his pace sputtering — “gonna, fuck, cream on my cock?”
you nod fervently, toes curling as your orgasm crashes down on you, a moan ripped out of your throat when it does. with one last final thrust, he soon joins you in your euphoria, hilting himself as he cums, only to quickly pull out, and making sure to grip the filled condom by the ring to keep any semen from spilling out.
throwing the used rubber into a trashcan, he finally collapses besides you, and the two of you lay there next to each other, limbs splayed, chests heaving to catch their breaths, letting your minds quietly grasp the idea of what you’ve just done.
thighs quivering from the aftershocks, a warm floaty sensation spreads throughout your body as you truly comprehend the fact that you just lost your virginity to the boy you've liked all throughout your life— and that you took his too. however, a pang of guilt for your past behavior as well as a fear of opening up soon overwhelm you, cutting through the sweetness of the moment, making words tumble out before you’ve thought them through.
as you turn your head to look at him, you see that he was already looking at you, a pattern that feels all too familiar tonight. keeping your eyes downcast, you mumble, “i didn’t mean whatever i said, by the way. i was just…” but the words trail off as you don’t have a good excuse ready.
seeing right through your self-sabotage, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close to him, offering you a soft smile. “i did. meant every word,” he whispers tenderly, before pausing momentarily to study your demeanor before speaking again. “if you ever want to talk about what you said… just know i’ll be waiting. and i’m okay with waiting.”
another moment of silence falls between you two. too tired to move away from him, you rest your head on his chest, listening to the rise and fall of his lungs. then, eventually, you break through the quiet, your voice timid and vulnerable in a way he hasn’t heard it in a long time.
“did you mean what you said? at the party?”
“what do you mean?” he asks, swiping away a stray hair out of your face.
“about…” you sigh, wishing he could just read your mind, “the sort of girl you like. or was that just to… mess with me?”
as he recalls what you are talking about, his smile deepens to a grin, his hand playing with the ends of you hair as he speaks. “you got worried?”
“can you just answer the damn question?” you whine, your hand swatting his chest— but not enough to hurt him.
he laughs, taking your assaulting hand into his. “i don’t have a specific type, no. it’s more like, i have a specific person on my mind all the time and i was just describing her. does that make sense?”
you go silent hearing his answer, taking a moment to truly wrap your head around what he was saying.
with no smart remark awaiting him, he speaks again.
“are you free friday? would you want to go get lunch or something? i’ll pay.”
your face turns up to look at his, gauging the seriousness of his proposition. but, then, you look back down, letting out a huff.
“well, if you fall in love with me or whatever, just know it’s your fault.”
“i’ll take full responsibility,” he says, chuckling.
