CW : WIP/not finished, fluff, a little angst, Kaminari x Fem!Reader, not proofread
Synopsis: Denki’s lucky to have someone like you.
note: I don’t see myself finishing this fic ever so i’m just going to post it.. it was originally inspired by the song Cannibal Queen by The Miniature Tigers. (also towards the end it’s a little rushed bc i was just putting my thoughts down)
It’s crazy how you let someone like him be around you, touch you, kiss you, love you. A guy who always fell too fast and too hard, always breathing it in like it’s the real thing. Like it’s love.
From Kaminari’s adolescence to his adult years, he’s always been a flirt, always grabbing a chance to be with a cute girl. Always trying to find love in the most obvious and subtle places.
He has even made it a habit to tear through a woman’s chest by tearing through their clothes first. Unsuccessfully, having heart to hearts by having their naked chest against his. Attempting to get into their minds by being in them. Maybe it was his way of subconsciously showing that he was afraid of dying first before finding true love, always rushing to find it, always tripping when he turns the wrong path because he assumed something more.
He was a pro hero, after all. A dead man walking—if you want to think like his brain at three in the morning. He doesn’t have time for those slow winded luxuries.
He had to live life in the fast lane.
When he meets you, he realizes that you were so.. unlike him: An average civilian with an average paying job whose feet ached as she took off her shoes to plop onto the couch after a hard day’s work of standing around. Who sleeps off the conbini bento—that you bought from the conbini a block away from the one that you work at because it “tasted better”—after chowing down on every bit of it until you wake up for work again. Only living it up on your days off by scrolling through your phone or getting some groceries to make a proper meal that you’ve been aching to do. Tired of feeling shitty after you eat microwaveable bentos for most of your week.
It was the kind of domesticity that Kaminari wishes for before he met you. It was one that his high school would’ve groaned about. Thinking it was boring and too routine, and maybe it was, but there’s rarely a familiarity in the days that pass him nowadays. There’s always something different. Always something wrong.
When his salary deemed him good enough to have a raise, he bought his ‘above average’ apartment filled with furniture since he lacked any— a fact he came to find out at the end of his second year at UA. His apartment looked over the glittering city that held the white diamond lights of the towering buildings and kept the critter of cars on the tar road where it lit in golds and rubies as they honked at each other. It was like his own personal treasure. Telling him the richness of life he’d been reaching for was right there in front of him. That he made it.
It’s crazy this magical shit grows old and adulterated. within a year.
He rarely has time to take in the sight at night. Always needing to run to the agency to start his patrol, then coming home to find the pale light of the morning sun blanch his apartment. His ‘above average’ apartment is now cold and clean. He’s thankful that if it weren’t for the maid, it would be a fucking pig sty. But as thankful as he is, he can’t help but feel uncomfortable with how spotless it is. It wasn’t sterile enough to be a hospital and not warm enough to seem like someone’s living in it.
Despite living in his own apartment, he usually spends his day off at his mom’s house. He itches for that familiar cacophony and warmth whenever he’s there. Enjoying the way his mom scolds him for not eating enough, telling him he looks so skinny before planting a plate of hamburger steak in front of him, before she scurries off to cut some fruit for him. In the background, there’s always that shitty speaker bleeding some old drama coming from a clunky, grey television that’s been around since he was a kid. He insisted on buying a new TV for her, but she waves it away, telling him to save his money for something better.
It was relieving to feel the warmth of a simple life when he was at his mom’s. He’d listen to his mother go on and on about the neighbors. It was always a little neighborly drama outside of her house even though there’s always one playing inside of her house. Sometimes he’d tell her he’s hungry, just so he can watch her cook and hear that dingy stove fan roar above her as it sucked out all the smoke, then he’d take the homemade meal to his apartment. Hoping to relive that feeling in his cold dining room in the city.
That warmth dissipates as soon as walks out of his home in the cold of night, reassuring his mom that the cold night wouldn’t make him sick— even if it did make him shiver a bit. He kisses her cheek goodbye, and makes his way home. He holds his tepid meal close to his chest as he travels down the dark street, feeling the glare of the bleach white streetlight on his back as he returns to the dreadful train like he always does.
Like the view of his city, it gets old. The warmth that he once felt has simmered into a painful reminder of what he didn’t have. All the sense of familiarity is still there, but it has worn down, feeling like he’s looking at a exhibit. The kind of exhibit that felt empty and hallow despite the many people meandering around, admiring the artifacts showcased.
He enjoyed the presence of his mom, enjoyed her meals, enjoyed her care, enjoyed the talks, but he realizes that it’s something that he’ll only have temporarily. That the cold morgue of an apartment awaits him in the city, and it’s something he’ll always see at the end of the day. It hurts that it had tainted the joy of his nostalgia in his childhood home. It hurts that it feels like he’s being punished for feeling good.
It’s funny how his mom was right. She had warned him multiple times to take a scarf or some gloves to keep himself warm, or else he’d get sick.. And he did. His face was flushed with a cold while his nose dropped pathetically when he had entered his home. His mother slaps the back of the head, scolding him for not taking care of himself before scurrying off to make some herbal soup that had some ginger and other assortments that would make his body hot.
After drinking up some soup and taking some medicine, she wrapped him up in the blanket before shoving his phone in his face instructing him to call his work before telling him that he’s going to stay home— not at the apartment. He reluctantly agrees with a sigh and a soft smile.
You were dining at the Seven-Eleven a block away from the one worked at when he met you for the first time. He had snuck out of the house-- like he had done a thousand times when he was in middle school--to go to the Seven-Eleven to aid his craving for junk food with a courteous medical mask intact.
“Welcome!” The feminine automated voice chimes as the huff of the automatic doors open for him as he stepped in. He notices that you were sitting at the table.. must be having a break he thinks. He scans the convenient store, searching for a particular junk food. He picks up the basket, and slings it around the crook of his arm. When he's done, he goes over to the counter,, he waits for you , but you don't move. so he moves over to you.
You don’t look up from your phone, still chewing one the sides that came with your meal, when you feel someone behind you.
Your scrolling stops.
“Um, excuse me..” You turn around. Your face fixed with confusion.
His heart stops when he looks at you.
Wow, You’re pretty.
Really pretty.
“I’d like to get ringed up, and if you want, I’d like to ring you up too.”
There’s a pause.
“Sorry, Sir. I don’t work here.”
He feels himself flush even more with embarrassment, stacking onto his cold ridden body. He feels shy under your confused gaze.