a mess

i like a bit of everything | 27 | MDNI

[truenuisance]

about me: you can call me true, pronouns are she/her, I am 27, MDNI

I have a full time job and adhd so you’ll have to forgive all delays when it comes to writing

I also never learned how to use this site so I fear everything will look plain ❤️

[narumi-gens]

Signal Interference

Itadori Yuuji x f!Reader

summary: Your technique allows you to hear the thoughts of others, which you’ve spent years learning how to filter. Unfortunately, Itadori Yuuji has very loud thoughts.

warnings: 18+ minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, smut, aged up characters, mutual thirsting, idiots in lust, reader’s technique involves mind reading, poor reader is losing her mind, sooooo much fantasizing about sooo many things: fingering, oral, spit kink, dry humping, exhibitionism

notes: happy birthday, best boy! genuinely so shocked at how quickly I turned this around. literally dropped every other wip to get it up today, but anything for best boy! (btw, this will end where it ends. if you want a follow-up use your own imagination instead of asking for a second part.)

words: 2.9k

minors, ageless, and blank blogs do not like, reblog, or comment

They call you the Psychic Sorcerer. Well, not they. It’s really just Gojo — or at least it’s really just Gojo to your face. Everyone else knows how much you dislike the moniker because you’re not psychic.

Your cursed technique allows you to form a telepathic connection — whether it’s with people, animals, or cursed spirits — and manipulate your target. And as part of your technique, you can see the thoughts of others, which is what psychics do, but you’re not a psychic.

Psychics look into crystal balls and read tarot cards. They claim to tell the future, speak to the dead, and exorcise spirits. Yes, you also do that last one, but you’re not a psychic. You’re a sorcerer, which you’ll admit probably sounds just as spurious to non-sorcerers…

Your technique is strong, but it’s taken you years to hone. When you were younger, you used to unknowingly slip into the minds of your playmates and the neighborhood pets, leaving them in a trance and you overwhelmed. It’s only through training and your time at Jujutsu High that you learned how to focus your technique and form a link only when you mean to.

However, there’s a part of you that thinks you’ll never be able to fully master your technique. For all your skill with it now as an adult, and after all the trial, error, and embarrassing missteps you made as a teenager, there are times when you still can’t help but pick up a stray thought if it happens to be loud enough — like two radio waves crossing. 

And Itadori Yuuji’s thoughts are loud. 

To be fair, most jujutsu sorcerers have loud thoughts to match their loud personalities. You particularly remember when you first met Todo and you were on the receiving end of a mental barrage of images of some idol that you faintly recalled having seen in passing before and big ass after big ass. So you’ve long made your peace with the fact that loud thoughts come with the territory.

But when you first met Yuuji during your first year at Jujutsu High, it felt like you could hear everything he was thinking — even without accounting for the curse caged inside of him. It would get so bad that you ended your days during those first weeks of knowing him feeling dizzy. 

While Nobara has always been quick to project whatever irritation, excitement, or disgust she feels, her emotional flashes are quick to come but equally as quick to fade. Megumi’s unhealthy instinct to suppress everything he thinks and feels has always made him one of your favorite people to spend time with.

It’s Yuuji who thinks loudly and feels loudly around the clock. Before you learned how to filter out and block every stray thought you heard, it felt like you were constantly aware of Yuuji's status whenever he was within a few hundred meters. 

You knew when he was hungry, when he was enjoying something, when he was annoyed, when he was happy, when he was excited, when he was sad, when he thought something was funny, when he had to go to the bathroom, when he didn’t understand something, when he thought a girl was hot, when he was angry, when he was in pain, when he was winning at pachinko, when he was tired. 

But after so many years of training, and so many years of being his friend, his thoughts and emotions are still just as loud, but you only ever hear one if you need to in the midst of a fight — or if it’s strong enough. 

And for the past few months, his thoughts have been so strong that it feels like you’re 15 all over again. It’s not all his thoughts that are strong enough to reach you against your will, just…certain ones. 

The first time it happens, it’s so sudden that you feel like you’ve been hit over the head.

People assume that with your technique, you can hear every word going through someone’s mind. And while sometimes you do, people think both verbally and visually.

So, you’re not surprised when an image suddenly flashes in your head. After all, it’s a phenomenon that you’re more than used to. You are, however, surprised at the image. 

Because as you’re waiting in line at a bakery to order, leaning in slightly to look at the display case of pastries, you’re suddenly assaulted with the mental picture of yourself from behind, particularly the way your dress has slightly ridden up the backs of your thighs. It’s not high enough to be obscene, only enough to hint.

And to accompany the image is a deep desire — for you to bend over further, for your dress to ride up even higher, to know what’s beneath and for it to be a thong. 

You cut off the connection before you can see anymore and shoot back up to stand perfectly straight, your eyes as wide as saucers. Your heart is racing in your chest and you have to fight the urge to bury your face in your hands to hide your burning cheeks.

“Did you figure out what you want?” Yuuji’s curious voice is suddenly in your ear as he leans in over your shoulder to look at the pastry selection himself. “That ham and cheese one looks so good.”

He sounds so…unaffected, like he wasn’t just fantasizing about what your underwear looks like. You glance at him from the corner of your eye and none of it is on his face. 

“Th-the pistachio one,” you mumble, distractedly pointing at the croissant in the corner of the display case.

“Oh, you’ll have to let me try a bite!” he grins, moving in even closer to look at what else the bakery has to offer, entirely oblivious to the mental breakdown he’s caused. 

And that’s how it starts. 

You’ll be out with Yuuji and you’ll get a flash of him wondering how soft your lips are when you apply some chapstick, or of him appreciating how your neckline dips just low enough for him to see the edge of your bra when he looks down at you. 

It’s not every time you’re together, but it starts to happen often enough that you begin to prepare yourself whenever you know that you’re going to see him, just in case. And it does work. You accept that your friend seems to be attracted to you and assume that this new crush will probably go away. You’re able to shut out the thoughts as quickly as they come. 

But then they get louder — and filthier. You’re no longer seeing things that could barely be considered PG-13. 

You’re seeing your face coated in white streaks of Yuuji’s cum, your mouth open and your tongue sticking out to catch every last drop as he fists his cock. You’re seeing your ass in the air as he eats you out from behind, your own imagined whimpers and moans ringing in your ears as you grind back into his face. You’re seeing yourself from above, his hands on the backs of your knees pressing them towards your chest as your ankles dangle by his ears while you beg him to go “harder, Yuuji!” You’re seeing him yanking you into an alley to bend you over and fuck you against the concrete wall.

It’s only made worse by how casual he acts when you’re finally able to recover from whatever obscene display has been forced upon you and you can dare to look at him. He’s never flustered or lost in some fantasy. He’s never distracted. You never catch him staring at your tits or ass. You’ve never even been able to catch him with a tent in his pants. 

He behaves as if everything is normal, like he’s just your friend that you’ve known since high school. A friend who doesn’t fantasize when you’re laughing together over hotpot about spitting in your mouth or when you finally have a chance to go see Human Earthworm 6 about you swallowing his cock in a crowded theater. 

Your other friends seem to have noticed that something is off. Megumi has asked on more than one occasion if you’re coming down with something when he sees how you’ll suddenly start breaking out into a sweat. Nobara is more perceptive, immediately jumping to the conclusion that there must be a new man in your life with how flustered you’ve been lately.

There’s a sudden, sharp pang of someone else’s dismay you feel when she makes her deduction in front of your friends. 

But what you don’t know how to tell her is that this new man is Yuuji, and the reason you’re so flustered is because every time you see him, he’s been unknowingly projecting graphic pornography featuring both of you directly into your mind. And even worse, you don’t know how to tell her that you’ve started to look forward to it. 

At first, you thought the reason why you would get so wet was because Yuuji doesn’t just share what’s running through his mind, but also what he’s feeling. Your arousal is really just his arousal. 

But that doesn’t explain why you’ve found your eyes lingering over his broad shoulders when his back is to you or appreciating the sight of him shirtless and sweaty after training together or wondering what it would feel like to have two of his thick fingers buried knuckle deep in your slick cunt. 

And you’ve started to realize that he doesn’t even need to be around for you to end up yourself lost in a fantasy of your own making. 

You’ll be scrolling through your phone and your mind will drift to how it would feel to look down and see Yuuji beneath you as you ride him, your palms pushing down against his bare chest for leverage with every rock of your hips. You’ll be sitting on the couch and wish that Yuuji were with you so you could climb into his lap and desperately grind against him until you both come in your pants as you let out needy little whimpers against his lips. 

You’ll be in bed late at night with your hand buried between your legs, your fingers sliding in and out of your dripping pussy while you grind the heel of your palm against your clit, and mourn the absence of his cock. 

After months of this ongoing torture, your sanity is about to snap. It feels like every time you’re together, if it’s not his fantasies that you’re seeing, it’s your own.

But then you notice a change. Because where you’ve started to feel less flustered every time one of these images is playing in your mind — so desensitized to them by this point that they leave you turned on more than anything else — he appears to be growing more flustered in your presence. 

There are times when he can’t quite meet your eyes. You’ll look over at him and see that his cheeks are suddenly as pink as his hair. There’s one time where he starts to choke on the soda he’s in the middle of drinking for no apparent reason. You finally start to catch him staring longingly at your ass. 

You begin to wonder if he’s close to reaching his breaking point. 

It’s what you find yourself contemplating one night as you and Yuuji get caught in the rush hour crowd on the subway. He’s strong enough and thoughtful enough to have pushed a path through when you boarded, so that you can lean back against the set of doors on the opposite side. He rests his forearm above your head on the window, using his body to shield you from the rest of the crowd. 

It’s an awkward situation for two friends to be in. For as much room as he tries to leave between you, people continue to get on at each station, and eventually, there’s no space left — you can feel every firm inch of him pressed against you.

He seems to be more conscious of it than you, his eyes directed nervously up at the ceiling. You’re just relieved that it’s him invading your space and not some creep who’s ready to take advantage of the close quarters. 

Thankfully, most of the station platforms are on the same side as where you entered the train, so neither of you have to worry about moving or the doors you’re both leaning against opening. With Yuuji seemingly feeling too shy to talk while you’re in such an intimate position, your mind begins to wander.

What if you turn around? Yuuji would feel every one of your curves as you reposition yourself so that your tits were pressed against the window and your ass slots perfectly against his crotch. You could take his free hand in yours and slip it under your skirt and between your thighs so that he could feel the wet spot in your underwear.

Actually, in this fantasy, you’re wearing no underwear. God, the groan he’ll let out when you slide his fingers up your legs, only to find that there’s no barrier between his touch and your soaked pussy. 

His cock would be so hard against your ass as you give a slow grind into it, able to feel every solid inch even through the fabric of your skirt and his pants. But you can’t waste any time — the doors supporting you both could open at any of the next stops. 

So, while you flip up your skirt, he rushes to shove his pants and boxer briefs just far enough so he can pull out his cock with one hand. And that one hand is then quickly slapped over your mouth to muffle your cry when he slides his cock into your sopping cunt in one smooth stroke. 

He takes you so roughly that you can’t tell if it’s the train that’s so jerky or the punishing rhythm he sets, desperate to get you both off before someone either catches you in the middle of your illicit act or you enter a station where the platform is on your side of the car. 

It’s just as you slide your hand down between your legs to furiously rub at your clit that the fantasy comes to a screeching halt with all the force of someone hitting the emergency brake on the train. Because you’re suddenly incredibly aware of something hard between you. 

You look down, but it’s pointless with how close Yuuji is — pointless because you can’t see beyond his chest and yours, and pointless because what else could it be other than his cock? You then look up at him with hooded eyes to see how red his face is.

He looks pained, his features scrunched together, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and a bead of sweat running down his neck that you want nothing more than to catch with your tongue. You tilt your head to the side curiously, wondering why he’s so distressed. Obviously, he’s feeling embarrassed, you don’t need to be able to read his mind to know that. But this seems to be something beyond simple embarrassment. 

Feeling your gaze on him, he eventually opens his eyes and gathers the courage to look down at you. Your breath catches in your throat when you see how wide his pupils are, his warm brown irises merely a thin ring around them, and how you can see a mixture of deep hunger, desperation, and pleading. 

“I’m begging you,” he says. His voice is barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the train as it continues to run along its track, but it’s impossible to miss the rasp to it. “You have got to stop doing that. You’re killing me.”

Your forehead wrinkles as you frown in confusion, trying to understand what he’s talking about. But then he lifts his free hand, the one you had just been fantasizing about having between your legs, and taps his index finger meaningfully against his temple, and you gasp so loudly that you know other passengers have turned to see what’s happening. 

Because over the months where Yuuji has been projecting his thoughts, unaware that they’ve been loud enough that you can’t help but hear them, it never occurred to you that a longer-lasting connection was slowly forming with every image, every word, every emotion. Your mind became so open to receiving what he was unknowingly sharing that you hadn’t realized that you were slipping into his mind the way you used to do with others when you were younger and still learning the basics of your technique. 

And what you grew to understand as you developed it was that if you don’t form a barrier to protect what’s in your mind, then the connection becomes reciprocal and your target can see everything that you’re thinking, too. 

Which means that for the last few months, it’s not only him who’s been projecting graphic pornography featuring both of you directly into your mind, but also you who’s been projecting graphic pornography featuring both of you directly into his mind. 

All you can do is stare up at him, your mouth opening and closing as you struggle to find the words. Unfortunately, while you’ve lost your ability to speak, your mind refuses to quiet and all you can think of is how you want him to stick his fingers in your mouth.

From the way his head drops back with a deep groan, it seems you’ve accidentally projected that as well.

[sealriousbusiness-deactivated20]

deku being just . a little gross with you. like you're out on a walk with him and maybe bakugou and maybe todoroki and you offer everyone one of your little candies you have in your handbag. you get mint and immediately complain only for izuku to go ☺️ oh we can swap! i don't mind. and bakugou is gagginggggg assuming you're both gonna take the candies and out of your mouths and swap.

gross, but normal enough. kind of.

no. lol. what izuku does is squish your cheeks together and give you a big wet kiss only to fish Your candy out of your mouth with his tongue and deposit his in its place. and after he's like. wiping the corner of your mouth like ☺️☺️ there now you have a melon one, ill keep the yucky mint. anyway we should go get ice cream!

and bakugou is just having a fucking coronary the rest of the walk. (and also fighting off a boner but that's his own issue he's fine)

[sunee-syrup]

✿ spring fever || day 7 ✿ age gap || younger!suna rintarou x older!reader

✿ tags: age gap (suna is 25, reader is 35), sunas a fucking freak, sub!suna, pervert!suna, suna spends 1k words fantasizing about the game shop employee, masturbation (m) and wet dreams, mentions of: dacryphilia, slapping kink, spit kink, degradation, overstimulation, cunnilingus

✿ wc: 1055 ✿

✿ spring fever masterlist ✿

✿ MINORS DNI ✿

rintarou doesn't know your name. he's too scared to ask.

he remembers the day you started working at the game store down the street from his apartment. he remembers because he'd gotten used to seeing the middle-aged, greasy-haired owner who would chain-smoke in the corner and say 'i look like google to you, kid?' whenever someone asked about a certain game. he'd gotten used to stepping in, disgruntled, with better answers and better opinions. he'd gotten used to considering going to the other store — across town and more expensive, but overall better.

and then you'd appeared one day, cheeks warm and glowing and eyes twinkling every time someone asked you a question.

rintarou had listened carefully, ducking into aisles and wondering who you were. wondering where you'd come from, because your answers and your opinions are even better than his own. you have thoughts about game design, about dialogue, about animation style. good thoughts. great, even.

you're older. it's not the first thing he notices, but he does notice.

and only because noticing comes with a shiver that runs down his spine. noticing comes with a flush on his cheeks and a twitch in his jeans every time you so much as glance in his direction.

he looks for a ring on your finger. he looks carefully at any kids that come into the shop, because youre older but you cant be that much older. he thinks maybe five years older than him.

and then he hears you joke with some teenager, hears you utter the words 'playing the original before you were even born'. he's ashamed about how he acts after that, how he scrambles to catch a glimpse of the game in the kid's hand, how he frantically checks the year that the first game came out, because if he's right then that means you're-

he's right.

you're ten years older than him.

he doesn't come back for a few days, too humiliated about how his body had processed that information. about how he'd had to run home, how he'd had his jeans around his ankles and his hand shoved into his boxers the moment he'd slammed the door shut with his back.

he starts to stay out of your eyeline, starts to wander the aisles with his gaze cast to the floor. he's careful not to glance at you too much, because he knows he's a freak but that doesn't mean you have to feel uncomfortable. he doesn't want to make you uneasy.

especially since he can't help the things his brain does around you anymore. he can't help that every time he hears your voice he imagines you telling him what to do, your tone sharp and cutting when you make him get on his knees. he can't help that your laugh makes his bones jolt and his skin break out in goosebumps, because he's imagining the way you would laugh in his ear when he starts crying, when you start whispering about how pathetic he is, even though you're the one overstimulating him. even though it's your fault.

he can't help that he wants to fold for you every time you brush past him with a stack of games in tow, because you never fail to set a manicured hand on his back and mumble 'scuse me, handsome'. it's always in that tone that's so blatantly a joke that he can't twist your words no matter how hard he tries, but he always fails to respond with more than a cough and burning ears. he always wants to say something smooth, something like 'sorry, beautiful', but he chickens out every time, because fuck, that's so lame.

he buys his games with his head down and his palms sweating, his skin on fire any time you try to make conversation.

"oh, i've been meaning to get this game," as he's thinking about how nice it might be to bury his face between your thighs just to make you happy.

"i didn't realize they came out with a sequel! what'd you think of the first one?" as he's on the verge of asking you to spit in his mouth, just once, he promises.

"you feelin' okay, handsome? you look a little pale," as he's struggling not to pass out, because he's started dreaming about you riding him, about you smacking him across the face and telling him he's not doing enough.

and then one day, weeks later, when he's finally sick of his own perverted pining, he meets your eyes and gathers the courage to ask you out.

you don't let him get that far.

"there he is. finally, i get to see those pretty eyes."

he forgets what he's doing here. "uh-"

"you know," you start, smiling softly at him. "i was s'posed to ask a long time ago if you have an account with us, but i figured if i couldn't get you to look at me, i definitely wouldn't be able to get your name."

he blinks, stares. "yeah. uh-" he coughs. "n-no. no, i don't." he didn't even know that was something the old man offered.

"it's new," you say, like you've read his mind. "i'm trying to make some much needed changes around here."

and then you look at him expectantly, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

he imagines those fingers wrapped around his cock, two more shoved in his mout-

"suna," he says, voice wavering. "rintarou."

you smile up at him, whispering. "suna rintarou. pretty."

he can feel his erection pressing against his jeans. he's too nervous to hide it. he doesn't want you to notice.

"birthday?" you move on, ready for his answer.

he gives it.

your eyes flash to his, eyebrows twitching up in surprise.

you type the date in, thinking for a moment. he swears there's something in your gaze that wasn't there before.

"you're 25?" you finally say, and then he watches in real time as your eyes drop down his body.

the bulge in his jeans is impossible to hide. it's always been impossible to hide. he knows that now, because you don't look shocked to see it. your lips just twitch, like you're amused but not impressed.

the words fall out before he can stop them.

"yes, ma'am."

the look you give him teaches him quite a few things about you.

[nearlytrue]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ ── ❀ part one. university au!

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ is so mean. he makes you cry, spits out venomous insults when you try to get too close, but you're so in love with him that it doesn't even matter.

⋆ tw / cw (18+) note that if tags don't show up it will show up in the next part! ; dumbification, slight angst, hurt/comfort (??), smut, praise & degradation kink, slight angst, missionary, katsuki fucks reader in his lap, blowjob, cum-eating, pussy eating, size-kink (unedited).

ac; lapin (hegi)

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ was horrible to you. you knew that the day you made the grave mistake of loving him, confessing to him.

high school, late afternoon with golden rays spilling through tinted windows. your heart in your throat as you stumbled and blabbered through your well-prepared confession you'd rehearsed a hundred times in your tiny bedroom. you didn't even finish before he laughed.

a sharp, incredulous chuckle that echoed off the walls and rank through your ears.

"you serious?" katsuki scoffed, lips curled handsomely in disbelief. "that's pathetic."

you stood there, frozen, as he cocked his head and stared you up and down like he was reassessing something he'd already thrown away.

"get a grip," he added flatly, briefly scanning his phone for whatever was on his schedule. "you really thought you had a chance?"

when katsuki disappeared from your sight, you couldn't control the molten tears pouring down your face. 

from that moment on, you were no longer invisible in the eyes of katsuki bakugo.

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who was insufferable. you should have never confessed to him.

he was smarter than you. smarter than anyone for that matter. he was involved in many extracurriculars. he was good at drums, and you knew that he done boxing outside of school. 

and you to him? wouldn’t have made any sense, and that feeling became apparent even more with time. 

he singled you out in class when you tried impressing katsuki. 

"the answer's 147.19!" you called out eagerly, heart thumping wildly against your ribs.

a scoff was heard from the front corner of the room.

"wrong, dork." he shot you an amused look, as if you'd actually believe you'd done something right. "it's 150."

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ didn't need to utilize brute force to crack your heart. on the day university applications were sent out, katsuki caught sight of yours.

"yuuei university?" he repeated, brows lifting softly. "mechanical engineering?" then, he laughed. it was breathless, disbelieved, as if you'd just told him the joke of your life.

you stood beside him, fingers curling into the fabric on your sleeve, smile gentle on your face as he slung a bag over his shoulder.

"did you just pick the hardest major you could find to sound impressive?" he asked lazily, eyes racking over yours. "or are you actually that delusional?"

you went home crying that afternoon, snot dribbling down your nose as you stared at the low-scores on your practice exam. he was right. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ had a way of making doubt blossom where confidence once lived comfortably in your gentle, fragile heart.

even after you were accepted — after the acceptance email sat glowing on your screen like genuine proof he was wrong, that you'd fought through finals for this spot — it wasn't enough.

on orientation day, he'd spotted you sticking out like a thumb in the crowd, all pretty in the softest, ironed skirt you could find, paired with the glossiest shoes you could muster.

"tch," he muttered, eyes flickering back to the front, already surrounded by a group. "guess they're letting anyone in these days."

you told yourself it wouldn't matter — that high school was over. that maybe your relationship with him could blossom from what had already been wilted. a clean slate.

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ made sure university was worse.

he had the same sharp eyes, silver rimmed frames hanging handsomely on the slope of his nose bridge. same posture of ownership, like he belonged in every room he entered.

he laughed when you asked questions with solutions that already seemed to register to those around you. took over group discussions without acknowledging your presence. corrected you publicly, voice sharp and precise.

"don't touch that. do you even know how to use it?"

"no, that's not how it works."

"did you even pass high school physics?"

every insult landed heavier because you knew why, because he remembered your confession just as clearly as you did; with the only existing mystery being why he took it so personally?

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ nearly exploded, brows furrowing, lips curled into a menacing scowl when both of your names appeared side by side on the same group project list.

"you've gotta be kidding me," he snapped to himself, before turning to the tutor, eyes narrowed. "i'm not—"

denied.

for his excellent mid-semester results, his prevailing intelligence spreading like wild-fire across the cohort, the one known for increasing the threshold of the bell-curve, the one who always knew what he was doing. he had no authority.

by the end of the week, he was sitting across from you in the study room, laptop open begrudgingly, eyes lidded in disbelief as he skimmed your calculations.

"...wow," he said quietly. "you're still this bad?"

you swallowed, shaking your head with a soft curl to your lips, cheeks flushing. "no— well, this stuff's just new and hard... i'll get used to it."

he leaned back, legs spreading in those black-washed baggy jeans, lips curling into that familiar grin of annoyance.

"better not fuck up my grade, yeah?"

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who absolutely loathed dusty afternoons spent at his cafe – the one he ran to when libraries felt too loud, the one he resided in when quiet rooms retched of sweaty underarms on sizzling hot days. 

he fucking hated it, seeing you across from him in that leather cushioned chair, legs crossed politely as you stared at him with those gentle, understanding eyes. he hated how you raised your head everytime he spoke, or when your eyes would shrink into kind crescents when he had an idea that was so ordinary to him, but to you, sounded like the most intriguing thing ever. 

“...that’s a really good idea, katsuki,” you beamed, fingers moving rapidly across your keyboard to note the idea down. “i can do that for you– yeah! that’s looking great.”

“bakugo,” he corrected coldly, eyes locked in on the way your face flushed cherry plum red. 

with a scowl, he had no other choice but to cooperate. atleast you weren’t slacking off. god, that might’ve been the bare minimum of the task, but there was nothing else he could do. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ really hated that the cafe became routine. 

he hated that it started feeling inevitable – the sun slipping low and staining the windows with warm amber while the air inside stayed cool and dim. he hated that the barista stopped asking for his name – because he never used to order drinks – and he hated it even more that they already knew yours. 

he sat across from you for the nth time that week, wondering why such a group project required this much contact time. his shoulders were tense with irritation, fingers wrapped tight around a paper cup he’d already forgotten to drink from. 

and the way you leaned slightly forward in that leather chair, posture performatively neat and attentive. it made his skin itch. 

because you always listened, brows lifted in consideration of every syllable that dripped from his tongue. 

and the way you nodded before he even finished, fingers already moving, typing things out with a quiet diligence. it pissed him off.

did you think that just because you followed him like a puppy, obeyed every single call he made, listened to every idea he had, that it’d be enough? 

“you don’t have to write everything down,” he muttered once, gruff, irritation slipping into his tone. “i’m not gonna forget what i just said.”

you looked up at him then, blinking once with wide eyes, a little smile tugging at your lips once more. “i know. it just helps me think, too.”

he clicked his tongue, gaze flickering away. there were only thirty minutes left and he’d be free. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ noticed when you started getting too comfortable. 

you didn’t feel the need to look at him for validation anymore before adding your share of ideas to the shared document. you didn’t hesitate before suggesting alternatives, and sometimes you’d speak first – softly, still, but with a steadiness as if you’ve finally made your mark into his life.

“what if we approach it from this perspective instead?” you suggest one afternoon, voice a little wavery, but bright. 

he glanced over your logic, the calculations, your assumptions. it actually made sense. 

“hm,” he grunted after a moment, genuinely considering your perspective before leaning back. “fine. do it your way.”

and that pathetic, stupid smile of triumph? 

something ugly spread thick across his chest, invasive. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ absolutely couldn’t stand that you still treated him the same. 

still with that soft greeting, still following him like a lost puppy to shared destinations. still glanced at him with hopeful eyes when something amused you, like his reaction was validation to whatever soft and mushy feeling you keep safe in your chest. 

one evening, as the cafe began to filter out, he caught you staring at him without realizing it – eyes warm, thoughtful, full with admiration. 

“what?” he groaned out, elbows perched defensively across his chest. 

you startled, cheeks blossoming, you shook your head quickly. “oh– nothing, sorry.”

katsuki hated how he could practically feel your affection oozing into him, untarnished and full of life. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ went home angry that night. angry at the way your competence crept up on him. fuming at the way your kindness hadn’t soured, but instead sweetened into something contagious. he hated that you’d actually grown into someone worthy of his time and effort without shedding the parts of yourself he’d once mocked.

he was angry because it was actually fucking getting to him. you in his routine. 

everything cruel he’d said to you was no longer about superiority, and it was now becoming something laced with fear and inner insecurity. 

once he found himself at his desk, papers laid clean in front of him with precision, thoughts filled with your soft smile and your polite hands, he glanced down uncomfortably, noticing the strain in his sweats. unexpected.

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who gave in eventually to his erection, fingers wrapped tight around his cock, tip raging a warm pink as he pumped himself from tip to brim. 

with his head thrown back, jaw slack, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. every time he tried thinking of something else to get off to – the image would swirl to you instead. all pretty across from him, soft lips caught between your teeth in concentration, that low cut top you wore one time, sunlight pooling on your skin. 

with a reluctant vacant hand, he swirled a palm over his tip, panting softly and fogging his glasses up. he couldn’t fucking believe he was jerking off to you. getting off to you. fucking fisting his cock to you and cumming everywhere.

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who was more snappy than usual. 

this time, it was in that low, condescending, venomous tone. laced with hatred and everything on that spectrum. 

it happened on a night at the cafe that felt too quiet – just the two of you, warm auburn lights of the city stretching across the glossy tabletop, your notebooks and laptops open and untouched. 

you were smiling pathetically again, practically sneaking into something far from strictly educational. you were genuinely trying to talk about something other than the group project, absentmindedly tracing circles in the margin of your page, glancing at him like the world had finally softened. 

he hated it so much. he hated how easy it was for you. hated how you got too comfortable that you genuinely thought he cared what you had to blabber about.

“stop staring at me,” he said suddenly, annoyed. 

you paused, fingers still around your cup. “i wasn’t–”

“yeah, you were.” his voice was flat, sharp and intentionally crude. “you always do.”

your smile faltered for the first time in a while, just a little. “i’m sorry, i didn’t realize–”

katsuki, with cold movements, closed his notebook. “that’s the problem,” he grimaced. “you never realize anything.”

the words landed wrong, awfully wrong. but he didn’t care in that moment, because of how uncomfortable he was emotionally. 

at his words, you straightened slowly, fingers curling into themselves. “uh… what do you mean?”

he scoffed, sinking back into his chair, arms crossing. “you follow me around. you nod along. you look at me like i’m” he stopped himself, jaw tightening, consciously selecting the most harmful combination of words. “like i’m something i’m not. like i’m just a figure in that delusional head of yours.”

your throat bobbed, face warm, eyes still present despite his words. “i just… like being around you.”

that softness, that consistent prying into his chest, his mind. that, was what pushed him over. 

“that’s stupid,” he said coldly. “fucking stand up for yourself for once. you should know better by now.”

this time, you didn’t know how to respond. just plain, cold, silence. 

the cafe noise faded into a deafening dull hum, and all you could do was stare at him, eyes wide, like you’d been slapped. 

“...just thought things would play out different, is all,” you whispered, lips tilting to a frown. 

he laughed once, bitter. “don’t flatter yourself.”

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ watched your face crumble in real time. 

your eyes glossed over first, lashes fluttering as you tried – tried so hard – to keep it together. your lips parted like you wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came out. 

it didn’t take long for the tears to fall. 

“i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” you said, voice wobbly, syllables messy. “okay– i’m sorry. i’ll try to stop, i promise.”

you were already standing, gathering your things with trembling hands, wiping at your cheeks like you were embarrassed to be seen like this – and not like the other times you were embarrassed to display your admiration and affection. 

“i’m sorry,” you choked out again, indefinitely softer this time. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ didn’t go after you. 

he watched you leave – watched the door swing shut behind you, watched the space you’d occupied stay empty – and then he sat back down like nothing had happened. like he hadn’t just made you cry. again. 

it was better this way, he told himself. distance was what you needed, what he needed. the feeling in his chest would die down on its own. it’d rot into something forgettable. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ he avoided you like the plague from then on.

he left quickly before you could reconcile, opting to take different exits from buildings, sat a few seats away instead of beside you. when group work forced you into the same space, he kept things curt and professional. 

no venomous insults, no malicious teasing laced with condescension. 

you noticed. of course you did. you always did. 

katsuki realized something scary and unsettling. nothing was going to change when it came to you, and how you felt about him. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ hated the way you still showed up. 

you still smiled at him when you spoke to him, but this time, it was careful now. practiced and methodical. you were measuring every word before letting it leave your mouth. 

you lived true to your words. 

you didn’t hover annoyingly around him, didn’t look at him like you used to. and things were finally settling back into natural order. katsuki never felt more relieved. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who caught you wiping your eyes in the engineering hallway one afternoon – quick, discreet, like you didn’t want anyone to see. 

and of course, he didn’t turn around to comfort you. if he didn’t, he knew exactly what would happen. 

you’d shove your face into his chest, all mushy and fragile. then, he’d have to say something. he’d have to push you away, or even worse, pull you closer. and you’d look up at him regardless with hope, trust, and that quiet, delusional belief that he cared.

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ noticed you at the cafe before you noticed him.

you were already seated when he arrived — same leather chair, same corner with that practiced straightened posture — but you looked off. your shoulders held stiff like you were bracing for something, almost too hinged. your eyes were dull around the edges, spark forced as you stared at the screen in front of you with an intensity that didn’t quite land.

your fingers flew across the keyboard, typing and deleting, typing again. you nodded to yourself every few seconds like you were convincing yourself to even stay awake. 

katsuki recognized it instantly. fake concentration, performative.

“…great,” he muttered, dropping into the chair across from you. “you gonna actually look at me or keep pretending you’re busy.”

you startled slightly, then smiled, the motion not quite reaching your eyes. 

“sorry,” you said, laughing softly. “yeah. i’m here.”

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ watched you struggle through the session.

you answered when spoken to, contributed when needed, but your responses lagged by just a second too long. you rubbed at your wrists absentmindedly, nails pressing into your skin. 

you laughed when he made a sharp comment. laughed when he mumbled to himself about something. it was still you, all attentive, but something about it was uncanny. 

“…what’s up with you.” he asked eventually, irritation threaded with his workload.

you nodded immediately. “yeah, i’m sorry. just tired, long day.”

he scoffed, but his eyes narrowed.

liar.

he didn’t see you again that night.

you packed up quickly when the work ended, mumbled something about needing to go, and disappeared before he could say anything else. the chair you left behind stayed empty long after he finished packing his own things.

something twisted unpleasantly in his gut.

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ wasn’t prepared for the next day that you came in, practically bawling your eyes.

you were late, and you were never late.

he was already seated when you stumbled into the cafe, breathless, eyes rimmed red like you’d been crying for hours. your hands shook as you clutched your bag, knuckles pale, movements uncoordinated.

“…you’re late,” he snapped automatically.

you opened your mouth, closed it, then your face crumpled, brows knitted together devastatingly.

“shit—” he started.

you were crying before you even sat down. your shoulders shook as you pressed a hand to your mouth, trying—and failing—to keep it together.

“hey,” he said sharply, standing up. “what the hell—”

you dropped into the chair like your legs had given out, tears spilling freely now, breath stuttering, words coming out in messy blabbles. 

“i– i think i did something really bad,” you choked out, fingers shaking. “i really messed up.”

“what?”

your hands trembled as you wiped at your cheeks, smearing tears uselessly. “i— i got scammed.”

the words tumbled out broken, ugly, cracking on each vowel.

“the tutor,” you continued, voice cracking. “he took the money and— and he said i wasn’t improving fast enough and then he just— he ended it. and i thought i was doing okay but i’m not and—” you sucked in a sharp breath, glancing up at him beneath your clumped lashes. “i’m failing,” you whispered.

“…failing what,” he asked, dangerously calm.

you shook your head, sobbing. “the math. i tried so hard to catch up but i didn’t realize how bad it was until i checked my grades and i don’t–- know what to do.”

your hands clenched into fists in your lap.

“i didn’t want you to know,” you said softly. “i didn’t want you to think i was useless– so– so...”

something cold snapped into place behind his eyes, something green swirling in his gut.

“you got a tutor.” he said flatly.

you flinched, nodding. “yeah—”

“you let some asshole take your money,” he continued, voice low. “when you could’ve just– nevermind..”

you nodded, tears dripping onto the table. “i was scared– not of you, but of failing...”

he dragged a hand down his face, breathing slow and controlled. of course, why would you come to him? a day ago he wouldn’t have offered you help if you even asked. 

but with your pretty lips jutting out, tears bubbling in those soft, sad rounded eyes. cheeks blotchy and puffy. 

he wouldn’t go as far to call the feeling inside him pity, but maybe something else… adjacent.  

“…how much were you scammed.”

“like around… sixty per session.”

his jaw clenched. “fucking sixty? and you’re still failing?”

you nodded again, miserable, shoulders curling inwards.

“…right,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, completely aware of the situation he was about to put himself in.

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ took it upon himself after that.

not with an apology, god no. he didn’t ask if you wanted help — he told you, blunt, final, like it was already decided, that he’d take over. free of charge. your notes migrated back into his hands, hidden scrutiny behind his gaze as he mulled over your handwriting. 

before you knew it, your schedule quietly rearranged itself around late nights and earlier mornings. he started bringing printed past papers without explanation, circling questions with a pen and shoving them toward you like it was obvious you’d need them.

he was still rough around the edges, that was to be said without a doubt.

he still snapped when you took too long. still scoffed when you made careless mistakes, annoyance simmering beneath his skin as you asked the nth stupid question of the night. but the insults dulled — caught behind clenched teeth, swallowed down with sharp exhales. he learned when to pause, when to bite down his venomous words. when to start again slower, how to navigate your mind. when to grit through explanations instead of cutting you down.

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ found himself in your room more nights than he’d planned instead of the cafe.

sitting on the edge of your bed, papers spread messily between you, his shoulder brushing yours every time he leaned in to point something out. it wasn’t intentional at all.

the room was quiet except for the scratch of pen on paper, the hum of your cheap, rip-off lamp, your soft voice reading questions aloud.

sometimes it was past midnight before he noticed. and he hadn’t known why he bothered staying.

but, somewhere in between those late nights, he noticed the way your confidence rebuilt itself. the way your questions sharpened, the way your eyes lit up when you got something right. the way your hands stopped shaking when you wrote, all bubbly and enthusiastic whenever he spoke.

in a way, it was really getting to him, but this time, it seeped. bleeded through the stubbornness in his heart. because at night once he returned back home, he found himself once more, hand wrapped firm around his cock, fisting himself to the thought of your pretty face. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ watched you after the exam. he’d finished early and expected to leave immediately. 

you burst out of the building breathless, faster than he’d expect, eyes bright, searching the crowd until you spotted him. the moment you did, you didn’t hesitate — you ran straight into him, arms around his middle, laughter spilling out as you told him how good that exam felt. 

he froze for half a second, arms catching you without thinking. uncomfortably and disgustingly invasive, your joy hit him harder than any achievement ever could. he couldn’t help but push down that pride he felt knowing it was him – not the other pathetic tutor. not anyone else – who helped you. 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ didn’t plan to be in your room that afternoon.

it was supposed to be quick, final edits, finishing touches on the group project then everything would be over. nothing more, just a quick drop by to save you the hassle of getting home so late.

but the air felt different, closer. and it seemed like you noticed it too, or maybe it was you making it that way.

you lingered near him longer than necessary. your touches were ‘accidental’ until they weren’t. a soft peck to his cheek — hesitant, testing, appreciative and slow — that made his breath hitch and his patience finally snap. 

“thanks for… dealing with me.”

it just happened…

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ never said when the line blurred, nor in that moment did he care. only that somewhere between tutoring sessions, late nights, and watching you believe in yourself again — he stopped pushing you away, because in that moment – with your breasts spilling through your top, eyes staring up at him like you fucking wanted him inside – he had no restraint. 

it felt inevitable, like it had always been heading there, and soon enough…

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who was so fucking easy.

he has you bouncing like a rabid bunny all over his cock, up and down, slamming your hips right down onto his pelvic bone, pants fogging up his crooked rims.

grip tight on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh like he's claiming every inch of you as his personal fucktoy. each upward thrust met with your frantic bounces has you mewling into his mouth, ass slapping against his thighs as he took you on your bed. 

he didn’t know where the degradation came from, and where it stemmed from, but the way you looked on his lap so fucking slutty and desperate like you’d finally won had him seething whimpered through parted lips.

“fucking look at you,” he sighed out, his voice mocking and pitched a little higher than he’d intended, eyes locked on the way your tits pressed against his chest. “always wanted this, huh? my cock inside of you?”

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who embarrassingly swells inside of you, his thick shaft spreading you wide, pounding deep into your gummy walls with every slam of your hips.

it doesn’t take long for his balls to tighten. 

you felt so good– too good. his vision blurred, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he let you bounce all over him. he was getting close, so fucking close. 

the friction felt incredible, warmth engulfing him whole as you let out a needy whine, whispering affection into his ear. 

“s–so close, suki! i can’t…!”

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who senses your rhythm faltering, thighs aching as you struggled to maintain your bounces. 

pulling back, katsuki’s eyes scanned over your expression. parted lips, teary eyes, flushed warm cheeks. 

“need…need to cum!” you cried out, your bounces turning into lazy, tired grinds.

the sight pitiful, his expression softened just a fraction, hips moving deliberately to compensate. with two beefy arms, he wraps them around you, lifting you up, then slamming you down to the hilt. 

“aah! f–fuck! ‘m close, i’m–”

your whining into his neck, blabbering and completely drunk on his cock. so soft in his arms, pliable and needy. with a free hand, he strokes your back almost tenderly, mind swirling with lust as he inches closer and closer to his own climax. 

“i’m close to… fuck, you feel so good–”

and with that, you cum instantly, thighs shaking around his side. you twitch in his hold, a loud cry escaping your lips as you clench impossibly around him. 

“holy shit, y-you’re so fucking tight– did you just?”

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who absolutely registers you’ve got a praise kink. 

should’ve been obvious by the way your eyes sparkled every time he validated your working out, or that one time he caught your thighs pressing together when he said ‘good’ to some mediocre, bare minimum, correct solution you conjured together. 

he hated how much power he had over it, but at the same time…

“that’s right,” he muttered, glancing over your working, leaned over your shoulder. “you did that part clean.”

you froze, then smiled. that faint, soft glimmer in your eyes. 

“...yeah?” you asked. 

he frowned, seeing the way your cheeks heated up, body tense. “yeah. don’t make me repeat myself.” 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ who realizes he’s just as filthy are you are.

he doesn’t remember, or know how the line blurred, but somewhere along the way his usual degradation faded into sweeter, honeyed words. 

without meaning to, his words turned into frequent physical touches. a hand on your shoulder. a hand moving up your thigh. and before he knew it, he was craving what you’ve been wanting for a long time. 

nights dedicated to study turned into quiet, muffled whimpers, legs intertwined, cum spilling everywhere. 

he should feel ashamed that the measly girl who had a crush on him since high school had finally gotten her way. 

“you fucking like that?” katsuki groaned out, thumb pressed against your clit as he hammered into you in missionary. “like having my cock inside of you? taking care of you like this?”

“mmhmm! i–i like it so much!” you cried out, nibble hands moving to his jaw, pulling him into a kiss. “i like you so much…”

worse of all? katsuki would selfishly sink in it. indulge in it, feed into your soft affection. 

“you do?” he smirked, hands moving to press your knees to your ears. “i can tell…doing so good for me, aren’t you?”

expectantly, and intentionally on katsuki’s end, he’d feel you clench around him, walls fluttering on his cock as he kissed that soft gummy spot inside of you.

“ngh mhm! just for you…” 

♡ ɴᴇʀᴅꜱᴜᴋɪ realized he liked threading sweetness into your ears.

it came as habit, and something he genuinely wanted to do. he was growing fearful that he was truly basking in your presence, and that one day, he’d actually want something more. 

he wasn’t too sure if he had the time or effort to invest in you fully like this.

but for some reason, fucking you senseless in his arms and keeping you well–lit under the cafe lights felt easier than chucking a label on top. 

꒰taglist! ♡ ꒱; @mariinktg @solozxo @rednicotine @dotalicious @peachiezz @gotaradiobutmightneedahead @sia7666 @solarquartzz @txntcleswhxreuwu, @dotalicious @rosesforblues @mochiiks @lonelyfooryouonly @mooncherrix @poptxrts @katscherry @r1qka @girlyglues @vynn01 @mrsicon @thearcaneenthusiast @katscherry

꒰ note: typed on my phone. so sad to go back to uni tomorrow. so tired from working. so tired at the thought at going to uni, and everything lol

[sugarwarachan]

imagine rival museum coworker tsukki eating you out down in collections storage and he’s a condescending prick the entire time, murmuring into your cunt like you’re not there, talking about how much nicer you are to him when he’s three fingers deep and spitting on your clit. the last thing you see before you cum is how wrecked he looks, his glasses pushed up in his hair, cheeks flushed and chin shining with your arousal

[treasuredplanet]

I think that when you're overstimulated you should appear kind of grayed out and no one should be able to interact with you like a locked character in a video game

[sunee-syrup]

the knot. [ushijima wakatoshi x reader]

» There's a knot under your throat that you can't seem to get rid of when he's around. It turns out he's the only one who knows how to untie it. «

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TAGS: childhood friends to lovers, one-sided enemies (?) to lovers, stoic ushijima x constantly confused reader, Alders!Ushijima x PR!reader, penetrative sex, semi-public sex, side friendship yachi x kageyama is my favorite thing ever

a/n: when i tell you guys that before writing this i was not an ushijima girl,,,, and now i have my eyes WIDE OPEN,,,,, everyone please thank @sweetberrypies for this commission!!!!

[commission honee here!]

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Ushijima Wakatoshi is the embodiment of confusion.

He's three, and you're three, too. At that age, he shouldn't confuse you, but he does. He should just be the boy next door with the ball that he keeps rolling around and picking up and setting down, but he's not. He frowns at it, like he's very upset — you don't know it yet, but you'll come to understand over the years that that's what he looks like when he's concentrating on something that matters to him — and when you try to join him, crawling through the hole in the fence to play with him, he frowns at you, too.

In twenty years, he'll confuse you just the same. Frown just the same, stare just the same.

But you don't know that, either. For now, he's just the little boy who always seems upset, and you're just the little girl who wonders if he's mad at you.

Confused.

—

"Y/n… that boy is staring again…"

You turn over your shoulder, following your friend's concerned gaze to the school gates. He's there, just like he always is, eyes trained on you.

He's ten, and you're ten, too.

"Ah," you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulders. "I should go."

Your pig-tailed friend tugs on your sleeve. "Aren't you weirded out by him?"

Yes.

"No," you sigh. "That's just how he is."

When you approach him at the gates, it's with raised eyebrows. "What is it, Toshi?"

He's stern as ever, brows furrowed. "School ended seven minutes ago."

You frown. "I was talking to my friends…" When he doesn't seem to understand, you look away. "You can leave on your own, y'know. You don't have to wait for me every day."

He shakes his head. "Mom says we're too young to be walking home alone. I'm supposed to stay with you."

You turn away so he doesn't see how you roll your eyes. "Okay, fine." You start to walk away, but he sticks his hand out in front of you.

"We're supposed to hold hands."

Your face burns, because there's a group of boys walking past laughing at you. Their teasing 'ooh's are impossible to miss, and one of them even says 'yeah, Y/n, hold Toshi's hand'. You grit your teeth, eyes flying up to Ushijima's.

"That was just something our moms said. We don't actually have to."

He shakes his head again. He loves doing that to you. "I have to keep you safe. You could get taken when I'm not looking." When you only glare at him, he tilts his head. "What's the problem? We did it yesterday."

"I thought that-"

"And the day before-"

"No, I know. I thought-"

"And the day before-"

"I know. I'm just sayi-"

"And the day before-"

"Stop!" You stomp your foot, snatching his hand out of mid-air and dragging him through the gates. "Let's just go!"

He doesn't say anything else, quiet as you lead him down the familiar neighborhood streets. At an intersection, you start to cross, still angry, and then you're yanked back to the sidewalk.

A car speeds past right at the moment that you would have been in the road.

"See?" Ushijima says. "This is why we hold hands, too. I have to keep you safe."

You throw his hand down roughly. "Stop mocking me! I was only about to cross because I was distracted by how angry I was-"

He just takes your hand again. "I know. More reason to hold hands."

You're silent, letting him lead the way as you try to process how someone can be so stubborn.

"You don't have to take everything so seriously," you finally say, quiet and contemplative. "The kids at school are teasing us because you're always so serious about me."

He turns his head slightly but doesn't fully look at you. "What's wrong with being serious about you?"

You try not to let your blush show. "Nothing. Nevermind."

The rest of the walk home is silent, your head rattled with thoughts of confusion and the inability to understand him.

When you get to your neighboring homes, he lets you go. But before you enter your gates, he clears his throat.

"Y/n."

You stop, turning back to him. Tired, because this feeling of frustration is common around him.

He's staring right at you. "I have practice tomorrow. Wait for me."

You scoff. "I'm not waiting two extra hours, Toshi. I'll just-"

"Wait for me. Please."

You frown, your mouth twisting up and your pout emerging. Because you know you will, no matter how much you gripe about it.

He takes your silence exactly as it is, nodding and starting to walk away.

"Wakatoshi."

It stresses you out when he stares at you like that. It always feels like he's mad at you, even if you know he's not.

You swallow. "Thank you. For earlier."

He just blinks. "I told you. I have to keep you safe."

"You don't, Toshi-"

"I do." He holds out. "I do."

You stare at each other. There's a feeling in your chest that you always get with him. A knot that you can't untie, no matter how hard you try.

You get the feeling that only he can.

—

High school isn't any better.

He becomes something of a legend in the world of high-school volleyball, and you become something of an Ushijima Whisperer to anyone who wishes to understand him. Despite how many times you say that he's a lost cause even to you.

Your time in middle school spent waiting around for his practices to be over carries on to high school, your disgruntled presence lingering on the sidelines until Washijo finally points a wrinkled finger in your face and declares you manager.

You tend to just fall into roles whenever it concerns Ushijima Wakatoshi. Tend to fall into place, wherever he makes room for you.

The dating rumors are both expected and baffling, because you can't possibly fathom how someone could see your dynamic with him and assume it's anything but hopeless.

He's already grown into a boy of few words, his teammates learning his limited communication like a mystical code. But with you, he's worse.

Where Semi will comfortably offer help setting up the nets, easy conversation flowing between you, Ushijima prefers taking the poles from you wordlessly, barely a glance spared in your direction while he talks to someone else. You always end up snatching them back, ignoring the single, dark brow he raises in response.

Where Goshiki will bow deep and thank you repeatedly for things that are objectively your job, Ushijima tends to take the towel and water bottle from your hand with only an examining stare, one that feels far too much like a glare. You're quick to glare back.

Where Satori is playful and teasing when he begs for help with his finger wraps, Ushijima only barks your name from across the room, the request unsaid. He only holds out his hand and the tape when you stomp up to him, and you feel when he just stares down at the top of your head while you wrap his fingers, grumbling the whole time. He always manages to find something to silently critique when it happens, his free hand tugging on strands of your hair and fixing them, as though there was anything wrong to begin with.

There is no world in which you can understand how people think you're dating him.

Except for the instances, more common than you're comfortable admitting, when he says or does something that leaves you confused without fail.

Where Semi can get a bit heated, kicking things over when he messes up and not realizing that it's you who has to pick it up, Ushijima is almost always the one to do it, his sharp eyes finding Semi's so fast that you barely have time to be upset about the mess before the boy is at your side with an apology.

Where Goshiki can be a bit zealous, overshooting his spikes and sending the ball spinning right at your head, Ushijima always appears at the very last moment, his hand or back in your face as he takes the full force of the hit with no more than a quiet grunt. It's always over before you even register that you should've been afraid, and he's always gone before you can think to thank him.

Where Satori can overstep your boundaries — a joke taken too far, a playful squeeze of your cheeks or ruffle of your hair on a day that you're really not in the mood — Ushijima is a towering shadow, an unseen glare sending Satori away whistling or a hand wrapped tight around the boy's wrist, dislodging it without a word. You're never able to figure out how Ushijima had noticed your mood before anyone else.

Unsurprisingly, he drops one last confusing moment in your hands the night that you graduate — the night before he leaves the country for college in America.

—

The walk home is silent, just like almost every walk home before it. You turn your diploma over and over in your hands, not really examining it at all. Just listening to the silence, his footsteps matching the rhythm of yours.

You feel strange. You've been feeling it for months, ever since he'd announced he'd be leaving. It's exactly the same now as it had been then. Satori had joked at the time that you must be excited to have your shadow gone, but that excitement had never come. You'd only felt the tug of that knot, the one that had sat in your chest from the moment you'd realized Ushijima Wakatoshi was permanent.

The knot hurts now. It hurts a lot, so much that you can't find your voice. Silenced, same as the part of your brain that wants to celebrate the freedom.

Your gate looms ahead, and you realize that this is it. He leaves at three in the morning, so this really is it. You're not sure where you'll be — who you'll be — when he comes home in four years. If he comes home.

You stop in front of your gate, staring down at the metal and feeling the creak of the neighboring gate as he pushes it open. Feel the creak in your throat, right under that knot.

But then it stops.

When you look up, he's looking back at you. Waiting. He doesn't ask what's wrong, but you hear the question deep in the pit of your stomach — in the way he blinks down at you, in the way his hand slides off of his own gate. In the way he says your name, only ever that. Nothing else.

"Y/n."

Your eyes burn. It's too late to be realizing that you might feel lost without him, after so long of wishing for exactly that.

"Wakatoshi."

He tilts his head. You only say his name like that —

"Cut it out, Toshi!"

"Jesus, you scared the fuck out of me, Toshi."

"I'm serious, Toshi, you're pissin' me off!"

"Thank you, Wakatoshi. For earlier."

— when something doesn't feel right. When you don't feel right.

"Will you come back?"

He doesn't know where the question comes from. You know that, because you're unsure, too.

"Yes," he says plainly. "I have to."

You lift your brows. "You have to? I'm sure any country would kill to have you-"

"But you won't be in 'any country'," he cuts you off. "You'll be here."

You have no idea what that means. "So?"

He doesn't answer you, asking his own question instead. "What will you do at Tokyo? Communications?"

You'd certainly considered it. "I think so. They have a strong department."

"What will you do with it?"

You warm, not wanting to answer. You'd had the feeling for a while, but you hadn't said it aloud.

As usual, he waits you out. Eventually, you sigh.

"I was thinking about PR."

The only signal he gives that he's surprised is the shift of his weight, the slight widening of his eyes before they fall flat again. "For volleyball."

It's not a question.

"For volleyball," you echo anyway. "But, you never answered-"

"I go where you go," he says. Like it's a fact. Not a possibility, a fact.

"What-" you laugh. "What're you saying? That you'll be back just to work with me?" When he only nods, you laugh again. "How are you going to make that happen, Toshi? You don't know what team I'll be working for. What if they're not the right fit-"

"I go where you go." He puts his hand back on the gate. This conversation is over. "Always."

You furrow your brow, frustration growing when you realize that this is really it. He pushes the gate open, and you stumble forward, suddenly upset beyond comprehension.

He's eighteen, and you're eighteen, too. You might never see him again.

"Wakatoshi."

He turns, surprise flying across his face and a grunt leaving him, because you're throwing your weight against his, arms tight around his neck.

There's something you want to say — but it's trapped under the knot. You can't get it out.

He's unmoving for a moment, and you think that's it, so you start to pull away.

His palms press against your back, pulling you back to him. They drop to your waist, his diploma clattering to the ground as he hoists you up and belts his arms tight around you. You wrap your legs around his waist, and he keeps you there. Keeps you safe.

The knot loosens slightly.

You suck in a breath, taking the chance.

"You don't have to come back. You shouldn't, if it's not what's right for you," you choke out. "But if you do, I'll be-"

The knot tightens.

-here.

-waiting.

You swallow around it, eyes pricking with tears.

Your shadow's hard to get rid of, it seems.

"Okay."

He lowers you to the ground gently, arms sliding away from you as he steps back. There's a look in his eye that you can't place, but that frown is familiar. You cling to it, remembering yourself.

"Okay," you whisper. "Be safe."

He watches you a moment and then nods, turning on his heel and disappearing into his house.

Something taps against your foot. His diploma. You pick it up, examining the tube that matches yours, his name etched along the side.

You carry it inside, laying it on your desk beside yours.

—

You don't speak to him for four years.

When your PR classes use examples of news coverage from volleyball, professors gravitate to Ushijima Wakatoshi. You keep tabs on him through a screen. Learn about him, through the eyes of someone who doesn't know him the way you know him.

The boy next door. Your shadow, up until the day he left.

You graduate, twenty-two now. His diploma still sits next to yours in a box, remembering when he was eighteen.

You interview for and are hired by the Schweiden Adlers as a general PR agent. You train with them for six months, awaiting the day that comes at the end of it when they assign you to a specific player as their personal representative.

—

"Are you excited?" Yachi asks, chewing on the end of a pocky stick. She'd been hired at the same time as you and had quickly become a close friend, but she'd been assigned to Kageyama Tobio the moment he'd been signed on, because he'd requested her. It apparently had been their plan, their friendship strong from high school and the trust between them quite high.

You nod, a warm grin flashing across your face as you take one of the snacks from the box on her desk. "I've been waiting for this day for forever. I'm nervous, though."

"Why?" she whines dramatically. "This is a momentous day!"

"I know," you whine back, her energy infectious as ever. "But what if I don't get along with him?"

"Of course you will!" she argues. "I have the best time ever!"

You roll your eyes. "That's because it's Kageyama. He's, like, your closest friend."

She leans forward, her eyes sparkling. "Exactly. It's Kageyama. I know you know what a pain in the ass he is with public matters." She's not wrong, you think. "If I can do it, then you can, too."

Your computer lets out a soft ding, your email refreshing and reloading with a new message. You both lean forward, seeing the words 'player assignment' and 'conference room' in the preview.

Yachi smacks your arm. "It's go time!"

You stand, straightening your pencil skirt and blouse wih a nervous sigh. "Wish me luck," you say, squeezing her arm as you pass.

"You got this!" she calls. "You can do anything!"

"You can do anything, you can do anything, you can do anything," you mumble, repeating it the entire walk to the conference room.

When you push the door open, you plaster a PR-approved smile on your face.

It falls.

He's twenty-two now, too. It's the first thing you notice.

Bigger, taller, broader. Older.

His frown is the same, though.

"Y/n!" your manager says, standing from the table, where he'd been sitting beside Ushijima. The man beams down at you, grabbing you by the shoulders and leading you to where Wakatoshi's sitting. "Say hello to our newest recruit, the one and only Ushijima Wakatoshi! Isn't this amazing?"

Ushijima's got his eyes trained on the spot where your manager grabs you. You know he'll figure out soon that the man is too touchy, too close to the female PR agents all the time. But he doesn't need to know it now, especially because you can see his jaw shifting.

He's annoyed.

You can still read him.

"H-Hi."

His eyes fly up to yours, his expression relaxing. He stands from his seat, and you feel your head tip back as he towers over you. It's been so long that you'd forgotten.

He's twenty-two now, too.

"Y/n."

Your name, nothing else.

Your eyes water. His smile is almost unnoticeable, in his eyes more than anything else.

"Hi," you whisper back, just as dumb as before.

Your manager glances between you. "Oh, you know each other!" The man examines you closer, in a way he never has before. "I didn't realize that." He examines Ushijima now. "I see why you requested her."

You don't say what he's actually thinking.

I see why you chose us, even though you had six other teams fighting for you.

"Well," your manager says, clapping his hands together. "Shall we get to the details of the assignment?"

You sit beside Ushijima, flustered by every movement he makes. Flustered by the way he sips his water, listening plainly while your manager explains your role in his career. Flustered by the way his body heat radiates off of him and washes over you. Flustered by the way he shifts in his seat every so often, his knee bumping against yours.

"Y/n, you are expected to remain available for Ushijima 24/7. This means leaving your phone on at all times and answering calls and texts in a timely manner." The list of responsibilities is being read to you off a script, but you know exactly what this assignment entails.

Be with Ushijima at all times, except when he's at practice.

Answer all of Ushijima's calls, even in the middle of the night.

Making Ushijima look as good as possible, tracking fan opinions online and negotiating with news outlets on his behalf.

Maintain a professional relationship with Ushijima, at all costs.

For some reason, that last part doesn't feel possible.

"Any questions?"

You blink, meeting your manager's eyes and then Ushijima's. He's shaking his head, and you know that's all you'll get from him.

"No," you say quietly. "I understand."

"Okay, then," your manager says, standing and shaking Ushijima's hand. You stay seated, staring at the table like an idiot. "Welcome to the team. I'll leave you two to get acquainte-er… re-acquainted."

The moment he's gone, you're being yanked out of your seat by a hand wrapped around your bicep.

He feels the same, arms belting around your waist and hoisting you up.

You don't wrap your legs around his waist this time, but you refuse to admit it's only because your pencil skirt won't let you.

You bury your face against his throat, breathing him in.

He feels the same.

"Hi," he says, his voice bass-y and echoing through your bones.

The knot hasn't felt this tight since that night.

"Put me down," you croak. "This is unprofessional."

"I don't care." He talks a little differently now.

You don't. "I do. Put me down."

He sets you on your feet gently, hands on your waist gentler.

"I wasn't expecting you," you admit. "I thought you'd choose a different team."

He tilts his head. You miss reading him like this.

"I thought I was clear that night."

He was. You just hadn't let yourself hold onto it.

"Was this the right fit for you?"

His eyes flick between yours. "Yes." He nods. "Yes."

You don't know if you believe him, but you don't ask again.

"When did you get back?"

"Two days ago."

You laugh and shake your head. Of course he did. "Where are you living?" When he tells you the address, you stare up into his face, deadpan. "Are you stalking me?" He blinks, confused. You sigh. "That's next door to me."

He stares. And then he laughs, a scoff pressed against his fist as he turns away.

You've never heard him laugh before.

"That was an accident. I promise."

You just sigh, trying not to laugh yourself. "Are you all moved in? Do you need anything?"

"… Lunch?"

"We can't," you say, pursing your lips. "We can't be seen together like that. It's too casual."

He frowns. "Kageyama and his PR agent get lunch together all the time."

You don't know how to tell him it's different. This is different. "I dunno, Toshi…"

"You have to accommodate all of my requests, right?"

The roll of your eyes makes him smile, almost unnoticeable again. "Whatever," you grumble. "Let's just go."

—

It's easy to fall back into line with him, wherever he makes room for you.

You help him finish moving into his place, providing paparrazzi with the professional answers you'd concocted so that you're allowed to be this close to him. This close to him, even though players and their agents typically aren't.

"Ushijima has just returned to Japan from the United States. He is adjusting to home life, and as his agent, I am assisting in that process."

"No, we did not plan to live next door to one another. Yes, it is indeed a happy coincidence — I believe this will allow me to perform efficiently in this role, as I will be able to better assist him in his transition to the Adlers."

"Yes, we have known each other since childhood. No, it did not in any way impact his decision to join us, nor did it influence my employment with the Schweiden Adlers. Life is funny like that, wouldn't you agree?"

Ushijima always watches, eyes trained on the side of your face while you talk to the press that lingers outside his house.

His apartment is a carbon copy of yours, and you find yourself accidentally arranging furniture and decorations the same way. He simply lets you, adding his own touches in the spaces you leave — where you make room for him.

He trains incessantly, just as he had in high school, so you find yourself at the office a lot, your phone propped up so you can see the moment he texts or calls.

[1:07 PM]

Toshi: PT at 2

You: okay. need me?

Toshi: no.

[10:27 AM]

Toshi: scrimmage at 4

You: where?

Toshi: [location attached]

You: okay. need me?

Toshi: no.

[4:49 PM]

Toshi: paparazzi wont let me get to my car

You: omw

Toshi: no.

You: ????

Toshi: handled it. just lyk.

You: why am i getting back to back calls from different magazines, wakatoshi.

Toshi: handled it.

You: you broke a camera???

Toshi: yes.

You: dont do it again.

Toshi: okay.

[5:19 AM]

Toshi: why didn't you pick up my call.

You: IM SLEEPING YOU FREAK.

You: WHAT DO YOU WANT.

Toshi: going to the corner store. out of protein powder.

You: OKAY. DO YOU NEED ME.

Toshi: no.

You: im gonna kill u.

There's a large part of you that wants to hate it. Hate him. Because your days consist of this, of the constant messaging and the constant calling and the constant contact, despite never needing anything from you. But there's another part of you — three, and then ten, and then eighteen — that knows this back and forth very well. Missed it, even. And it grows as the weeks go on, the chaos evening out and your days melting into something akin to normal.

And then he ruins it, about six weeks into this new routine.

—

You groan, rolling over in your bed and reaching for the bedside table. Your phone is ringing — not just vibrating, because you have to keep your phone on at all times — and you know exactly who it is.

"What?" you grumble, eyes still closed.

"Were you sleeping?"

You pull your phone from your ear, checking the time. "It's three in the morning, Toshi." When he doesn't respond, you bite out an answer to his question. "Yes. I was sleeping."

"Oh. Okay. Goodnight."

"Wh-"

He hangs up.

You stare at the ceiling, wondering if the world would know it was you if he happens to be dead in the morning.

You call him back. He picks up after two rings.

"Hello?"

"What do you want?"

"Oh. Nothing."

You take a deep breath. "Then why did you call me?"

"You called me."

You could kill him. They wouldn't know. You'd find a way. "Wakatoshi."

It's silent on the other end for a moment. "I can't sleep."

He doesn't say anything else. You know what he's asking, but it feels strange, because he's never asked this particular question before.

You don't know what to do about the nervous flip of your stomach, the shiver that flies down your spine.

You swallow around the knot. "If I get caught coming over there, there's going to be a scandal."

"… Okay. That's okay." He hangs up.

That should be it. That should be the end of it.

So then why are you already out of bed and shoving on a pair of slippers? Why are you wrapping a robe around yourself and grabbing your keys?

It's easy to avoid the streetlights, easy to snake around the side and approach the back door instead of the front. Too easy, in fact. Easy to do, easy to repeat.

He's already at the door when you arrive, almost like he'd known you would come anyway, despite the risk.

You want to hate him. You used to.

For now, you just push past him and pad silently to his bedroom, your shoes and robe left at the door. You sit at the edge of his bed, bouncing your knee anxiously, and look around, making sure the curtains are closed and there's no way to see into the room. Ushijima presses the door closed quietly with his back, leaning against it and peering down at you.

You should ask why he's requesting this of you. You've never been this way — never done this kind of thing together. You wonder if anyone else could have read what he needed, the way that you did. If anyone else could be in this situation, locked in a lifelong game of confusion and understanding, silent all the way to the end.

You're not sure anyone else could do the things you're willing to do for Ushijima Wakatoshi.

He watches you carefully, eyes tracing your face and examining your expression. You stare back, knee bouncing and ears ringing and nerves flipping over and over in the pit of your stomach, because you know you should ask but you don't want to. You know you should question this, question him about why he thinks he's allowed to ask this of you.

You know you should hate him. You used to.

But you don't question it. And he doesn't explain.

He just crosses the room in two steps and then pulls you to your feet. Hoists you up. Belts his arms around your waist. Says nothing of the fact that you're trembling in his arms, that your legs are trembling when they wrap around him.

He lowers you to the mattress carefully, laying you down and laying himself over you. Adjusting so he doesn't crush you, but laying himself over you nonetheless.

The sigh he lets out when he finds a spot that works for him is audible, but only because of the spot he'd chosen — body half-covering yours, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding up your spine and palm pressing between your shoulder blades. Face buried in your neck, breath grazing the shell of your ear, hair fanning out over your cheek and lips. Heart racing, felt through his chest and against yours.

He doesn't ask if this is okay, but the twitch of his fingers on your body tells you he's nervous.

You hate being able to read him this well. Part of you wishes you could go back to not understanding. To confusion.

But you do. You do understand him. And maybe that's because you've spent so long around him. Or maybe it's because you feel the same way.

Maybe that's why you finally wrap your arms around him, too. One hand pressed between his shoulder blades, admitting silently that it's okay to hold each other like this. The other curled into the hair at the base of his neck, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. Admitting that it's okay for him to shiver and sigh against your throat, because you say nothing when he does exactly that.

He falls asleep within minutes. Part of you wonders if he ever had any sleeping issues at all, but the rest of you knows that he wouldn't lie, not to you. That there's something happening here that he can't name and that you choose not to.

His alarm goes off at 5am.

You groan quietly but let your hands fall away from him, because you know it's time for him to go on his morning run. When he rolls over to turn the alarm off, you start to rise, disheveled and exhausted but ready to go back to your apartment.

You're not ready for the hand, large and sleep-warm, to flatten against your chest and press you back into the mattress gently. You blink once, twice, and then turn to look at him. He's already wrapping himself around you again, the rest of him just as sleep-warm.

"Toshi?" you mumble, confused but your arms circling him again, anyway.

He just grunts, pulling you close. Your nerves jump, because his lips are skimming your throat when he whispers "comfortable" in response.

"Don't you have to go?" When he shakes his head, you swallow. "Why?"

"You won't be here when I get back."

You wonder if he can feel the way your heart races.

He nudges his nose against your pulse point.

He can definitely feel it.

You turn your head away, trying to put some distance between you, but he just slides his palm against your jaw and brings you back to him.

You feel like you're suffocating. The knot is too tight again.

"Just one more hour," he mumbles. "Just one."

You blink rapidly up at the ceiling, streaks of sunlight bleeding across your vision. You don't understand. You never understand. And yet, you're still here.

It hurts to realize that life with Ushijima will continue to be this. Confusion and understanding, an endless cycle.

It hurts to realize that you want it this badly.

—

"I don't know," you groan, walking beside Yachi at a snail's pace. She grabs you by the arm, dragging you along the hall of the Adlers' gym. You're on your way to a press meeting, where you and the other agents will stand along the side of the room and step in if necessary.

"I know you don't know," she giggles, lowering her voice and making sure none of your co-workers can hear. "But he asked you to sleep in his bed and then broke his own discipline to stay in bed." She grips you tighter. "And you let him." When your face warms, she beams at you. "He likes you. And you're not innocent, either."

"I thoroughly reject that idea," you argue. "I can't afford to have that thought floating around in my head. That's the fastest way to get fired. I need my job-"

"Oh, fuck the job," she whispers fervently. "You can figure out how to sneak around." When you glare at her, she grows more excited. "You've been friends for twenty years. Your relationship comes first."

You don't answer her, just letting yourself be dragged into the press room and against the wall.

When the Adlers enter the room, their coach leading, your eyes scan for him. He's next to Kageyama, who's equally stoic and disinterested as they take their seats. The younger man glances at the line of agents, and you watch him find Yachi. She drags her thumb across her throat in an obvious threat, and he has to cover his mouth with a hand to hide his grin. When you give her a wild look, she shrugs.

"He's been running into trouble with etiquette and tact recently. I told him to be nice today or he'd catch a knife when he's not looking."

You huff out a laugh, turning back to the players.

Ushijima's eyes are already on you.

The memory of his body heat isn't even a week old.

You don't have time to wonder if you have feelings for him. You don't have time to think about this at all. So you turn away, keeping your attention on the introduction that the coach is making.

The press conference lasts an hour, the team's overall strategy discussed and then different players asked about their private marketing and sponsorship responsibilities.

A reporter from a small paper stands when he's called on. "For Ushijima Wakatoshi, please." You straighten, your PR mode locked onto the interaction. Ushijima's eyes flick to you and then back, and he nods once. "We hear that you've been selected for the next cover of Japan's Hottest."

You're both familiar with it. His photoshoot for next month's issue is in two hours. Ushijima leans into the mic.

"That's correct." He glances at you, so you gesture that he should say more. "It's an honor."

You bite back a laugh. You highly doubt he cares about any of it.

The reporter nods. "Are you excited about what doors it could open for you?"

Doors? It's a thirst trap magazine to showcase Japan's sexiest athletes, and no one's exactly surprised that Ushijima's next on the list, especially given his recent return.

You meet his eyes again. It's clear he's thinking the same thing. Still, you nod encouragingly, and he echoes the nod in the reporter's direction.

"Yes."

You sigh and write 'work on media presence' on your ipad, in the margin next to his schedule for the day.

The reporter glances back at you, as do several others, because he hasn't been subtle in any way about needing your help.

"Er, one last question," the reporter says. Ushijima just nods. "How has adjusting to life with the Adlers been? Are you and your PR agent getting on alright?"

Your eyes widen, and you're suddenly panicking about what he could possibly say.

He leans into the mic, blinking emptily. "Y/n is my best friend. Always has been. Life with the Adlers is good."

You stare at him, frozen in place and only able to recover before the cameras start flashing because Yachi's elbowing you hard.

The reporters all try to ask follow-up questions, but you're shaking your head aggressively at Ushijima, so he just leans back in his seat and looks to his coach. The older man manages to corral them after a few moments, and the conference continues without incident.

Only when you get in the back of a car with Ushijima does he finally speak to you.

"Did I say something wrong?"

You just stare straight ahead, your own reflection clear in the divider between the driver and yourselves. "No, Toshi. That was fine."

"The reporters reacted strongly."

"The rumors will start," you say, sighing. "That's all."

"What rumors?"

When you turn to him, you find that he's actually confused, looking to you for answers because he's never been good at this. At people.

"The dating rumors, Toshi."

You watch in real time as he understands, dissociates, and then flushes — his face starts to burn, heat flooding his cheeks and ears, and all he does is stare right through you.

"Oh," he finally says, turning away.

The drive to his photoshoot is completely silent.

—

The stylists at Japan's Hottest have gotten wind of how things went at the press conference. You'd known it would get out quickly, but you're unprepared for the playful side glances from the hair stylist and the meaningful lift of the makeup artist's eyebrows.

You sit in the corner while Ushijima is dragged through the ringer — outfit changes, photoshoot, hair and makeup changes, photoshoot, more outfit changes, more photoshoot.

You're in the corner for three hours, working silently on your laptop and watching him get pulled this way and that.

Until, in what can only be an intentional maneuver, the shoot director enters the makeup room and claps his hands a few times.

"Okay, everyone," he says. "Great work so far — only one more concept!"

You frown at your ipad. There's still time left for one concept shoot, but you only have four shoots on the schedule, not five.

He doesn't look at you, but you feel that this is targeted. "Ushijima, let's get you in something a little more revealing. I'd like to do a lipstick montage."

You stare at the director, putting his words together slowly. A what?

Ushijima just looks at you, almost like he's checking if this is right. You clear your throat, standing and smoothing out your slacks while you approach. "Excuse me. How revealing are we talking here? I'm not sure Ushijima would be comfortable with anything below the belt."

The director looks you over, a smile spreading across your face. "Did Ushijima tell you that?"

You don't know how to tell him that speaking isn't necessary between the two of you. "I know my player well."

If Ushijima didn't want you to see how he shifts in his seat when you say 'my player', he fails.

The director only beams down at you. "Okay, then. Nothing below the belt. But since you know him so well…"

Uh, oh.

"Why don't you do the lipstick stains for him?"

"What?" you say right away, blinking and looking around. "Why me? Can't the makeup artis-"

That woman is conveniently needed in another room at precisely this moment, just smiling at you in a way that is way too guilty.

In fact, everyone is conveniently needed elsewhere, the room emptying suspiciously fast.

The director's the last one left. He smiles down at you, far too pleased for your liking. "That's that, then! Choose a nice, deep red, okay?" He starts to leave, turning on his heel at the door. "Don't forget the lips!"

The slam of the door echoes off the walls.

You stare at it, barely noticing when Ushijima gets up and crosses the room.

"I think these are the clothes."

You turn, ears ringing and face burning. He's holding a white button-down and a pair of jeans.

"Okay," you say hollowly. "Get changed, I guess."

You try not to focus on the sound of him stripping behind the privacy screen, staring down at the many tubes of lipstick on the vanity. You stare so long that you don't even notice when he finishes, only rebooting your brain when his arm reaches past you.

"I like this one," he says quietly, the bass of his voice shaking your nerves. He plucks a dark red lipstick from the set, placing it gently in your palm.

You take a shaky breath. "Okay." Then you turn.

He's too close.

You jump, bumping against the vanity in your unconscious scramble to put space between you. He takes a step back, examining you.

His shirt is buttoned to the top and his jeans are high on his hips. You lament the fact that you're going to have to fix this.

"You have to leave it open," you say, gesturing for him to unbutton his shirt while you turn to the mirror and start to smooth the red tint over your lips. You watch him undo it, forcing your eyes not to linger on the broad expanse of his chest and the lines of his abdomen, the ones that speak of discipline and a very serious excercise regimen.

You try especially hard not to stare at the two lines that converge under the band of his jeans — the lines that are shaped like a V and accented by the strip of dark hair that runs between them.

You press your lips together to spread the lipstick around, refusing to admit that your mouth is watering.

When you straighten, breathing shakily, he's already watching you in the mirror. You turn, trying to look as aloof as possible when you examine him.

Unfortunately, you know what the director wants. What people will want to see when next month's cover drops.

You sigh, stepping toward him. "These need to be lower," you mumble, hooking your fingers through his belt loops and ignoring when the muscles of his abdomen jump in surprise. You tug on his jeans, tug until the band of his underwear sits just under his hip bones and the jeans sit even lower.

When you glance at his face, there's a light blush sitting comfortably there.

"Now what?" he asks, his voice huskier than before.

You try your damn hardest to seem completely normal when you say—

"Now I kiss you."

Ushijima says nothing, just swallowing hard and looking away, his nod almost shy.

"Uhm," you start, looking around. "Okay. Sit here." You guide him to the vanity, forcing him to lean down onto it. "You're too tall."

He's still tall when he sits like this, and his legs are spread wide enough for you to step between them in a way that makes you feel funny.

"Okay," you breathe, more to yourself than to him. "Ready?"

He just nods again.

You place your hands on his chest and lean in, pressing your lips to his cheek.

He inhales hard, body shifting.

The next goes to his nose, and the next to his jaw.

When you press your lips to his throat, right over his pulse, he huffs out weakly. You feel a tug, realizing with a racing heart that he's hooked his fingers into the loops of your slacks, anchoring himself to you.

You keep going, mouth on each of his collarbones, over his heart, and down the planes of his chest. He's starting to breathe hard, his muscles twitching sporadically and his fingers holding tight to you.

When you drop to your knees to be able to get to his torso, his body jerks suddenly, and a sound falls past his lips.

Your brain goes blank, because Ushijima Wakatoshi's just moaned under his breath at the sight of you on your knees.

You stare at his stomach for a moment, watching it rise and fall sharply, and then your eyes flick up.

His face is burning red, and his eyes are glazed over, and he's looking down his nose at you like he's never looked at you before.

"Toshi?" you whisper. He curls his hands into tight fists, nails scratching on his jeans, and shuts his eyes.

"'m okay."

You can't catch your breath. "I don't think you are-"

"Keep going," he bites out, voice tense and strained. "Please."

Your hands find his thighs and you're sitting high on your knees before you even realize it's happening.

When your lips touch his abs, his fingers find your head, curling into your hair tight. Your heart pounds in your chest, your ears, your throat — everywhere.

The knot urges you to keep going. Tugs you down, down, down.

Your fingers curl into the band of his underwear, pulling it just low enough that a lipstick mark would peek out, right about—

You press your lips under his navel, just next to that patch of dark hair that's been on your mind this whole time.

"Ah, fuck-" He grips your hair tighter and keeps your mouth against his skin.

A shock of electricity washes over the crown of your head, turning your brain to static before flying down your spine. He's never sworn like that before. He's never sworn at all, actually.

When you pull away — when he lets you pull away — your face is burning and your ears are ringing and you can't feel your feet or your hands. And he looks exactly the same.

His chest heaves while he catches his breath, and he can only look down at you for a few seconds before his eyes are closing again and his head is leaning back against the mirror.

You stand, limbs numb and skin tingling.

"I-I have to-" You can't get it out. You can't say it.

He cracks his eyes open, gazing at you with a glazed-over expression, cheeks burning the most beautiful shade of pink.

He drops his eyes to your lips. "Okay."

The sound of his voice makes you shiver.

You step a little closer, tugging him by the open flaps of his shirt until he sits up, face right in front of yours.

"Stay still," you whisper. He just nods, eyelashes fluttering.

You cup his cheeks and lean in.

His lips are softer than you'd expected.

He listens to direction, staying perfectly still while you press the lipstick to his mouth. But he's breathing hard and his nails are scratching on his jeans again, and you're becoming lightheaded by the realization that this is happening.

This is happening.

You pull back, refusing to meet his eyes and just staring down at his mouth. A perfect imprint of your lips is plastered there, right on his.

It affects you more than you thought it would.

You take a single step back, panting. "Okay. I think you're-"

He wraps a hand around your wrist, yanking you back in.

The knot loosens.

Falls.

You melt into him, letting him do as he pleases. He tangles his fingers in your hair, holding you steady and pressing his lips hard against yours. His other hand finds your waist, dragging you close until you're draped over him.

You cling uselessly to him, tilting your head however he wants and pressing your body to his like he wants and opening your mouth when his tongue swipes along your lips, just like he wants. When his tongue slides across yours, you whimper his name and dig your nails into his thighs, overcome with desire.

With the need for more of him, because nothing has ever been enough for you. Not once in twenty years.

He grunts when your nails hurt, and suddenly you're being lifted and turned, your butt dropped on the vanity and your legs pried open by his. He towers over you, hands on the table on either side of you, and you can do nothing but wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer.

He grabs your thighs, his hands big and warm and strong, and pulls them around his waist, stepping right up to you and lining his hips up flush with yours.

He's hard. You moan into his mouth, and he knows why.

The roll of his hips into yours makes you tremble, your breath choked out into his mouth when you whimper his name.

"Toshi," you try, nerves flipping over and over in your stomach. "We have to stop-" He jerks his hips forward, and you're embarrassed at the moan that falls out. "Please, Toshi. We can't do this here-"

"Need you," he breathes, and you're reminded of all the times, over all these weeks, that you've asked if he needed you and he's said no. He's said no, even though you know sometimes he really could have used your help.

He says it now. It scares you, because he must really mean it this time.

"Not-nngh-" He's pulling you closer, the bulge of jeans hitting that special spot you've been trying to avoid. "Not here, Toshi. Please."

There's a knock at the door.

Your blood freezes in your body.

You shove him back, watching as he barely moves, just staring down at you with heated eyes.

"Everything okay in there?" the director calls, and you can hear the smug edge in his voice.

Ushijima Wakatoshi has lipstick smeared all over his mouth.

You scramble off the vanity, searching for the tube of lipstick. "Y-Yes! He's almost done!" You snatch it off of the ground and turn to him, scrubbing your thumb across his mouth until the smudges are gone. And then you rush to put more lipstick on, your fingers trembling.

He stares down at you the entire time, eyes trained on your lips.

You pinch his arm, whispering "get it together" when he just lifts his brows, still distracted. And then you rise onto your tiptoes, pressing your lips hard against his.

It's still just as hard to pull away, even with someone waiting outside.

"Go," you urge, untangling yourself from the tight grip he has on you. "Go, Wakatoshi."

He listens this time, if only because you'd used his full name, and turns to leave.

You slump into the nearest chair once he's gone, staring down at nothing.

—

You avoid him.

You're not ashamed to admit that.

You avoid him, even though he calls and texts and knocks on your door at two in the morning. When the paparazzi ask if you've fought, he says no and that you're just not feeling well and he's worried. You feel relief, because he understands. Despite how confusing he is, he understands that this is important.

That this is between you and him and no one else.

Still, you avoid him.

For a week, you avoid him.

And then the Adlers win a game, and the coach calls for celebration and invites everyone to a new club that's just opened in town.

You have to go. It's your job.

—

"You can't stick by me the whole time!" Yachi yells in your ear.

"Yes, I can!" you yell back.

"I agree with Yachi!"

You turn, glaring up at Kageyama. He sips on his fruity cocktail, pleased with himself.

"Go away!"

"No!"

You bare your teeth at him, growling like a trapped animal. He just laughs in your face.

Yachi groans, tugging you close. "You have to talk to him! You guys humped in a dressing room like teenagers with ten years of pent up sexual energy. You can't avoid him!"

Your face burns, and you glance up at Kageyama. He looks just as embarrassed as you.

"Shut up, Kageyama."

His eyes are wide, offended. "I didn't even say anything!"

Yachi pushes his arm. "Go away, it's girl time!"

He narrows a glare at her, leaning down to match her height. "Fine," he says, his tone evil. "But I'm going to stand with Ushijima."

He's gone before you can pounce on him in a rage.

"Oh, my god," you whine, face buried in your hands. "I'm so done for. The world is gonna find out, and I'm gonna lose my job, and all his fans are going to send me death threats and egg my car-"

"Stop," Yachi says, shaking you. "You need to stop worrying about what the world has to say. None of them matter."

"I need a job! I need a career, and no one is going to hire me when they find out what I've done!"

"What have you done, Y/n?" she argues, lifting a single brow. "Fallen in love with the boy next door? Who just happens to be a celebrity athlete?"

You stare. "I'm not in love."

"Yes, you are."

You know you are. You know.

"Y/n, listen to me," she starts, grabbing you by the arms and holding you steady. "You can worry about the press and the fans and your job. But you're going to lose him." She turns you in the direction Kageyama's just gone.

He's standing with Ushijima, their heads bent together as they talk. Ushijima is saying something with a stoic face, but you can tell. You can see it in ways that no one else in this room can. You can tell by how fast his mouth is moving and how he's shifting his weight and how he keeps crossing and uncrossing his arms.

He's stressed. He's stressed and worried and anxious and everything you are, too.

"You're going to lose that boy next door," Yachi says in your ear. "And I don't care how much you complain about him. I know you won't be able to survive that."

Kageyama says something back.

Ushijima's face floods with heat, visible to you even from here. And then his eyes flick across the room, right to yours.

Only you can see how much he doesn't want to lose you, too.

Fuck.

"Okay," you mumble. "Okay."

She squeezes you. "Go get him." And then she giggles. "And try not to get caught."

You get the feeling she's not talking about holding hands.

Things haven't been that simple since you were ten.

Your feet carry you across the room, but you don't move toward him. You drift off to the side, toward a long hallway that can only lead somewhere more private than this crowded club.

When you meet his eyes, halfway there, you can see he understands. Nothing about his face changes, but you just know.

You should have figured this out years ago.

You shut yourself inside a single-user bathroom, pacing the small room and shaking your hands out. The club music pounds all around you, and you can barely hear yourself think.

He doesn't knock. He just pushes the door open with his shoulder and shoves it closed, leaning back against it and staring down at you, like that night in his bedroom.

The space between you is completely silent. Just muted club music and your breathing, harsh and sharp.

You cross the room in two steps, like he had that night. Push up onto your toes and wrap your hands around his neck, yank him close. Just like he'd done to you less than a week ago.

He tastes like Kageyama's fruity cocktail.

Your back hits the opposite wall, and you're lifted right off your feet, Ushijima's hips pinning you in place.

"I'm sorry," you pant. He just shakes his head. "I shouldn't have avoided you." His hands are everywhere, on your waist and your thighs and the skirt of your dress, shoving it up and out of his way. "Toshi, please-"

"I know," he bites, strained and hoarse. "I know. Just-" He groans when you arch your chest into him and spread your legs wider so he can fit better. "Please."

You shiver, nodding. "Okay," you breathe. "Okay."

When he slips his hand between your legs and tugs your panties to the side, your heart slams against your chest and throat.

Your throat, which hasn't felt the knot tighten in a week.

The press of his tip past your entrance empties you of everything but him and makes you realize you might never feel the knot again.

He'd untied it.

The stretch of your walls around him makes him moan, low and deep into your mouth, and you can only pant out ragged breaths. Your eyes roll back in your head, and your brain fills with static, and the sound of your name falling past his lips yanks you close to the edge, all too fast. When he throbs inside of you, you realize he's right there with you.

All too fast, because this moment is twenty years in the making.

"I'm sorry," he grunts. "I'm close, I'm sorry."

"Me, too," you pant. "Please, Toshi."

He seems embarrassed, because it hasn't even been a minute. It hasn't even been a minute.

He drives his hips up against yours, frantically trying to hold you closer and last longer and show you that this means something to him. But you can't lie, the fact that he's like this is only yanking you closer to the edge, because it means he's desperate, and you've never seen Ushijima Wakatoshi feel desperate about a single thing in his life.

The pieces fall into place.

"What's wrong with being serious about you?"

"I go where you go."

"I thought I was clear that night."

"I can't sleep."

"You won't be here when I get back."

"Y/n is my best friend. Always has been."

"Keep going. Please."

Oh.

Oh.

"I love you, Toshi," you whimper, burying your face in his neck. A sob falls out, and you cling tighter. "I love you."

He shudders, gripping you tighter. "What?"

"I love you," you cry, lifting up to grab him by the face and press your mouth. "Wakatoshi."

He gasps, and his hips still, and you feel warm.

Warm around him, warm with him.

The edge feels warm when you fall.

"Y/n."

Your name, nothing more.

You know what he means.

[truenuisance]

best friend bakugou who is more in tune with your emotions than you are

You’re not sure what to credit it to, it could be having died and come back to life or maybe having a father who actually cares about his wife. Perhaps it’s the fact that you’ve known each other for a little over a decade, because you’re pretty good at knowing how he feels too. But Katsuki is a master of your emotions and sometimes it feels like he knows how you feel before you do.

If you’re out in a crowded area with friends, a slight twitch of your hand has him putting his hand against the small of your back to guide you to a quieter area. He doesn’t say anything until you’re away from the crowd.

“You good?” He’ll ask and the tension crawling up your spine relaxes as you remember to breathe again.

“Yeah just a little overstimulated I guess,” you’d respond, and he’d give you the moment of silence you’d been quietly craving.

It can be the slightest change in the way you text. Either your texts are less frequent or less you than usual.

So, he’s showing up at your door immediately after work. He knows you’re feeling lonely but you’re too afraid to say it. He knows you’re afraid of coming off as needy, but he’d rather you tell him than become the quiet unsure version of yourself that makes him feel a little anxious in return.

You didn’t know what the dark feeling creeping into your heart was until Katsuki was using the key you’d given him to make his way into your apartment. When you ask him why he’s there he shrugs.

“Just wanted to see you,” he’ll say, and suddenly the world is bright again. The looming presence of loneliness that had heavily blanketed itself over you is yanked away as you settle onto your couch to yap the night away with him.

If something is bothering you, whether that be work, your other friendships or literally anything else, Katsuki knows you’re hesitating despite wanting to talk about it. Your eyes seem distant as you quietly ruminate at his side.

Katsuki gives you an opening to talk about it. He knows you think it’s annoying to bring up the same topic after you’ve already discussed it with him or your other friends. Still, he’ll ask you how you’re feeling about the situation, or he’ll be more straightforward and just ask if you want to beat the dead horse. And he isn’t just there to listen, he’ll analyze the situation with you if it takes the weight off of your mind, even if it’s just for the moment and he has to do it all over again in a week.

Whatever it is, Katsuki knows, and he makes sure he’s there in any way that you need him, because that’s what friends do.

———————

a/n: sorry for any typos, did not proof read, writing this in bed with my glasses off and my eyes crossed

[truenuisance]

telling yandere!tamsy your nipples are sore is like a guaranteed way to spend the afternoon with your tits in his mouth

you’re whining about how they’re going to be more sore now and he just sucks harder, hoping he leaves you bruised

[theragethatisdesire]

on that note….thinking about izuku’s girlfriend who just haaaates bakugou and is happy to let him know. thinking about bakugou who can’t fucking stand deku’s snippy brat of a girlfriend. thinking about poor izuku, stuck in the middle of their constant bickering, until he gets an idea one day…that maybe they’d be better if they just. yk. fucked it out.

[truenuisance]

if I post this suna enemies to lovers + enemies with benefits fic will you guys still be nice to me even if the smut kinda sucks but the dialogue is really good

[truenuisance]

this is the reader with bakugou in my previous post

[truenuisance]

best friend bakugou hates that you don’t eat enough vegetables

you’ll text the group chat asking if you should get wingstop or chipotle bc you’re too lazy to cook after a full day of work and he just responds “eat a fucking vegetable” and when you tell him that you’d planned on getting veggie sticks from wingstop and that chipotle has lettuce and fajita veggies he calls you to curse you out and tells you that you’re an idiot who treats their body like trash, but ends the call telling you to not order any food and to give him an hour

he hangs up before you can respond and you’re left dumbfounded and hungry

It’s not like your eating habits were a surprise to him, but as work became busier for you, texts to the group chat asking what you should order for dinner became more frequent and the rest of your friends were a bunch of enablers

he’s opening your door an hour later with bags of groceries grumbling about how all his friends are idiots

you tell him you have groceries and when he turns his head to side eye you from where he stands in front of your fridge he asks where the vegetables are and you shut your mouth

he stocks your fridge and you moan and groan about how everything is going to go bad bc you don’t cook with vegetables and it’s so hard to be intentional about adding them to your dishes

He’s rolling his eyes and not responding bc he’s already begun preparing a full meal for the two of you that’s loaded with vegetables

And it’s fucking delicious, you tell him this as you’re scarfing down whatever it is that he cooked, it’s a soup dish with meat and rice, and he tells you all the vegetables in the meal but you’re not really listening bc you know that even if you replicate it, if you’re making it for yourself you’re not going to eat it and it won’t taste as good as his

He leaves you with enough leftovers to last you at least three days

When he thinks you’ve run out, he goes to text you to ask what you’re having for dinner that night but you’re already in his messages and he’s rolling his eyes so hard but a part of him feels prideful when he reads the text

you: katsukiiiiii can you come make me something with this

[img]

you: I hate eggplant but ik if you make it I’ll like it

even tho he responds with a thumbs down and says no he’s already getting his keys and heading out the door, a fond smile has unknowingly made its way onto his face, and you see his location getting closer on the map so you do your best to do the prep work to his liking before he gets there

[amethystsoda]

PSA: if you're watching the new Knives Out mystery (Wake Up Dead Man), please be aware that around 1 hr 34 minutes in, there's a series of flashing/strobing lights. the sequence lasts about a minute.

[truenuisance]

this would be tamsy

[truenuisance]

have to reach optimal goonery to write better smut that will still be bad but better than what I currently have