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Muzan vs No Nut November

Muzan x f!reader. Approx 500 words. NSFW.

“How utterly pathetic,” Muzan sighs, jotting down a note in his journal. “Every day my fondness toward you stills my hand from wiping your species from the face of the planet, yet every day you feed that urge with new information of human degeneracy.”

You can’t help but laugh despite the fact that he isn’t joking, not even one little bit. “It’s not that serious, love. It’s just for fun.”

“That people can’t even go a single month without giving into their primal urges—”

You try to hide your smirk by yawning as you recline on the chaise in his study. For a time you pretend to be interested in the architecture of the infinity fortress, watching the ceiling shift above you. And suddenly a wicked—and possibly stupid—idea comes to you. After all, you do love fucking the demon king, but you’re also curious… and a little sadistic. “Do you think you could do it then?”

Muzan’s eyes narrow. He’s intelligent beyond belief, but you know how to play him like a shamisen. “Of course I could do it. Do you really think yourself so tempting that I couldn’t abstain from you for a month?”

“Not just me,” you say. “It’s called No Nut November, not No Sex November. You can’t climax at all. No sex, no jerking off, not even wet dreams.”

A muscle in his cheek throbs as his jaw tightens. “I will do it, if only to prove to you how utterly foolish this tradition is. I will conquer No Nut November and laugh as you beg for me.”

He lasts four days.

Four days before he’s on his knees with his face buried in your pussy, furiously pumping his neglected cock in his fist. Muzan’s wanton cries and fractured moans fill the room as he circles your clit with his tongue.

“I will not be denied,” he growls, each syllable sending a puff of warm air over your slick flesh before he dives back in.

And when Muzan goes down on you he isn’t proper or composed about it. The demon king is a beast, his carmine eyes wild and feral, his tongue voracious, uncouth slurps and moans accompanying your panting breaths.

Your fingernails leave crescents in his shoulders as you hold on to him, legs trembling. The frantic rhythm of his fist jerking his cock matches beat of your heart.

When he climaxes he releases a choked cry against your pussy, spilling his cum into his palm before smearing it on your cunt so he can lick it back off. He simply loves his own taste. And he loves that he makes you come undone, moans when your thighs clamp around his head and you gasp his name.

When your eyes meet in the aftermath, his pupils are little more than narrow slits. “It’s a pathetic challenge,” he grumbles, pointedly stuffing his still-hard cock into his pants. “Utterly senseless.”

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socyy

9 months ago

satoru’s punishments 🎀🎶

gojo satoru who focuses his infinity around his already-meaty cock so you’re unable to sink that pretty pussy down on him.

satoru is naturally one to discipline, considering his profession as a teacher. he knows clearly what’s right from wrong, and won’t let you off the hook as if you’re one of his students. you think it’s unfair, but if you were to think that gojo satoru cares about what you thought, you’d be called dumb.

your soppy cunt prods against his protected hip, urging your body lower to sheath the fat girth inside, but to no avail.

“satoru,” you mewl, “i said ‘m sorry. really r-really sorry.”

“hm.” he shrugs, one hand cupping your soft butt, and the other around the edge of your waist. his fake efforts to help you when he’s the one preventing you from pleasure is ironic, and it makes you an unspoken amount of angry.

but your anger is overwhelmed by your carnal desires from the sight of him alone, and the only thing floating through your pretty little mind is to get this cock in you.

“please— let me—“

“no.”

he glides your slick cunt across the faux protection, grinding you down so harshly, spreading your sensitive lips and pressing against your clit so harshly it almost hurts. “y’don’t deserve it, you brat.”

“i d— i do, satoru. d-don’t say that !”

he can’t deny how your sweet little mewls and begs for cock get him uncomfortably hard, wanting nothing more than to feel your chubby walls flesh to flesh with his cock. but he knows you’ll never learn, knows that you’ll be just as bad if he lets you off. even if it’s just this once.

“satoru—“

his wet cock slips from under you, falling against his pelvis and plapping against his tummy. you take the chance to lower yourself, rubbing your sore cunt on the smooth length of his cock.

you rock your hips ever so gently, grinding down on visible, but untouchable veins decorating his gorgeous cock. you’re eager to get your cunt off, but ensure your boyfriend doesn’t grow any angrier.

gojo undeniably grinds up just as desperately against your cunt, listening to the tuneful melody your sweet pussy plays for him. short pants leave his dewy lips, holding your chubby hips down firmly and setting his own pace. “shit. brat.”

he loves the look of panic in your eyes when his hips come to a slow, and soon to a stop, as your crying clit tingles from everything that’s led up to this moment.

but—

“did i say you could do that ?”

your movements come to an abrupt stop when his hands splay across your hot thighs, holding you down tight against his pelvis.

“b-but, you were also grindin—“

“yeah, i was. did i say you could ?” he spits, voice laced with poisonous venom that silences you immediately. his eyes are intimidating, not an ounce of forgiveness or pity lays within them.

“not good. what to do with you ?”

he tugs you off his hip, switching your position so that you’re soon under him.

and for the first time, his bare cock slaps against your puffy lips, and nudges at your raw clit. you moan with inexpectance, the mere feel of his cock slapping against your raw cunt nearly has you cumming.

“s a shame y’don’t know how to act right. c’mere.” he motions, pressing down on your shivering shoulder, “come ‘n suck your cock rights back.”

4K notes View Post

socyy

2 months ago

sunflowers

pairing bakugou katuski x f! reader status: standalone, one-shot, completed wc: 17k

summary: there you stand at the beginning of the world, with you and your sunflowers; your lovely liar's smile. contains: childhood frenemies to lovers, fluff, mutual pining

author's note: canon-compliant but i bend it; early childhood and then up to season 3. also cross-posted to ao3, and a repost from a now deactivated account. please also check out this lovely art by @/jisokai. thank u endlessly beloved!

The first time you meet Bakugou Katsuki, you are six-turning-seven, and you remember it well. Not just because it’s the first day of school, or even that it’s your birthday. Rather, you remember it because of him , and though you think you would rather die than admit it, there is some part of you⏤ a more rational part⏤ that can temper itself down to acknowledge the fact.

You remember it well, because that morning, your mother makes sure to doll you up extra pretty. She dons you in a frilled dress like it is your armor, taking extra care with your hair, its bows, and she does: so much that there is an extra skip to your step as you walk. You don’t just feel pretty, you know you are; a work of art atop a work of art. But you still make sure to say your thank yous to all the unfamiliar faces that compliments you with gummy smiles and a not-so-quiet, conspiratorial grin. “It’s my birthday!”

You remember the way your cheeks hurt from forcing the wideness of it, the way you think it has started to sound like a mantra. You remember smiling, nonetheless, at his friend, as he wishes you a happy birthday! in return⏤ you are smiling at his friend, and not him.

You remember it well, because the first time you ever meet him, he looks you up and down, clad in your careful curls and prettiest dress⏤ and dares to call you ugly.

If you were anyone else, you might’ve taken the words like a physical blow. Already, your new friends are tensing for the inevitable confrontation. “You can’t just say that to her,” Sueko says, her eyes already narrowing in a glare.

“And who the hell are you, extra?” The crimson-eyed boy scowls right back.

The other girl wilts a bit, but her glare remains set.

You decide, right there and then, that she is your new best friend.

You smile. If you were anyone else, you might’ve taken the words like a physical blow. But you don’t just feel pretty, you know you are; a work of art atop a work of art. So you only give him your kindest smile, because your mother told you to play nice in the morning, as she brushed out your hair. You make sure to give him a once over, glancing down, and then up.

“It’s okay!” Your eyes curve, ingratiatingly polite; ingratiatingly sweet. “Some people are just born blind. And stupid.”

“HAH?” His reaction is exactly what you hoped for, and it’s almost too easy . “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING⏤”

The slight quirk of your mouth is amused, but you only turn, pointedly, to your new best friend. “Any chance you’re free this weekend? Let’s hang out.”

She stutters an answer, eyes darting between you, and the blond you know is seething behind you, if the glare he’s practically boring into the back of your head means anything.

You tilt your head to the side. A little inquiry, a little push. “So?”

Hands slam down on your desk, cutting out her squeaked yes . You jump a little at the sound, your eyes widening⏤ both a little bit at the sound, and how close his face suddenly is. All of a sudden, you’re glad you didn’t call him ugly right back⏤ it would have sounded petty, after all, and almost certainly would have bit you right in the foot, considering how this crimson-eyed boy is so clearly not.

“I’m talking to you.” Well. You think, he’d probably be a great deal prettier if wasn’t glaring down at you, face contorted in what seems like half snarl, half scowl.

His friend adds, a little bit placatingly. “Bakugou-san’s not stupid. He’s really smart, actually, always been top of the class. He’s really cool!”

You note the way the class eyes him, the way the blond’s eyeing the door. He grunts. “I also have twenty-twenty vision.” His chin raises, arrogance in the set of his features, a bit calmer at the praise, but also a touch quieter, almost a bit wary.

The door opens. He glances back, just as a man walks in, old enough that you assume that he is your teacher.

It takes effort to keep the shit-eating grin from spreading across your features. “Are you sure?” You ask instead, completely straight-faced. ( You should really consider acting, you think. You’re practically a genius! ) You simper, a hand covering your mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

It’s almost too easy, you think, the way he explodes, literally.

“YOU WANNA FIGHT, EXTRA?” Miniature blasts pepper the table, and you might have thought it intimidating, if it’s not for the way your sensei is stalking over, looking almost as murderous as the boy himself. “I’LL KILL YOU!”

You coo a little, fearless with the backing of your newfound supporter. “You’re really scary. That’s illegal , you know.”

He opens his mouth. But then⏤ “Bakugou. Seeing as it’s the first day, you won’t be getting detention.” His mouth closes mutely. You grin a little at the way he’s being pulled away from your desk, fingers still clutching at the edges of it⏤ by the scruff of his collar, and somewhat like a dog, you think.

His eyes flash, a little bit angry, a little bit dangerous. He points one grubby finger in your direction. “She started it!”

The sensei also pins you with a stern look. “The next time this happens, the both of you’ll be staying after class to clean, as detention. Am I clear?”

You gape at both of them. It’s half genuine, half not. You think this verdict is a little unfair. The boy grins, smug.

A complaint is on the tip of your tongue, then you see the sensei’s expression: deadpan, tired, and unsympathetic. You sober up, frowning a little.

“Okay. Sorry, sensei. I’ll try.”

The crimson-eyed boy is still glaring at you, a little victorious, a little smug, but with a gleam in his eyes. This is war, they seem to say, silent and from across the room.

Little does he know, it has been, ever since the moment he decides to look you up and own, clad in your careful curls and prettiest dress⏤ and calls you ugly .

You blow him a kiss.

He jolts. The face he makes is obviously a frown of disgust.

The sensei straightens. You smile ingratiatingly, turning away.

This is war , his eyes seem to promise, and really, you can’t help but agree.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your revenge is served not even three days later, on a Saturday evening, and you think it is the sweetest thing you have ever tasted.

You have your father to thank for it, actually. The boy, whose name you learn is Bakugou Katsuki, is something of a mini celebrity at your school.

This means that the surface level things are easy to find⏤ he has anger issues, an explosive Quirk, and is smart , consistently at the top of the class. ( You frown a little when they tell you. These are all things you already know, and the only new information⏤ he likes spicy food ⏤ isn’t helpful in the slightest. ) But this also means that, knowing his temper, there are very few willing to actively take your side, and much more openly against you. You are the new girl, the outlier, and though he can’t quite make you an outcast⏤ you and your horde of girl-followers ( bought with your mother’s fashion, your father’s wallet, and your pure, sunny disposition )⏤ he has enough friends, or rather sycophants , that will ignore you in the hallways, or mutter names at you.

The boy in question doesn’t, though.

He storms up to your desk the second day. You are chatting with your friends, as he slams his hands on the desk and snarls: “ Fight me. ”

Catching your pencil just before it falls, you frown up with him. “What ever happened to: hi, hello, how are you?”

“Hi, hello, how are you.” He sneers. “Scared?”

“No, and my answer is no.”

His scowl deepens. “So you are scared.”

“I’m a healer.” You lift your chin in outrage, affronted. “I’m not violent.”

“Nah. You’re just an extra.”

Internally, you seethe. First ugly, and now an extra. You have never been called such things in your life. You open your mouth, a retort on the tip of your tongue.

The sensei walks in.

It dies in your throat, Bakugou’s face splits into a shit-eating grin. He turns away, head held high; arrogant and condescending, having won this encounter by a mile.

Wrath boils in your ears, but you tamp it down, expressionless. Your pencils are carefully aligned, your notebook opened with just a little more force than necessary. Internally, you promise yourself, he’ll get what’s coming to him. You will make sure of it.

You get your chance soon enough on a Saturday evening, dolled up again in a dress your mother painstakingly picked out for you, your hair pressed into careful curls. Your father had told you: your family had been invited to dinner by a friend he’d met at work, and that they have a son in the same grade as you, in the same school.

You had shrugged. So long as there’s a chance their son would be willing to join your Anti-Bakugou Society ( consisting only of you at the moment ), you don’t particularly mind.

“Play nice,” Your mother reminds you now, as you stand before the door; your father knocking on it. There is a bouquet of sunflowers clutched in your hands, matching the color of your dress, and you only scrunch your nose up a little at her.

“I’m always nice.”

Your mother doesn’t get a chance to respond, because then there’s a⏤ Katsuki, get the door! ⏤ along with an answering⏤ “SHUT UP, OLD HAG! I’M GETTING IT!”⏤ and then, you blink.

The name sounds rather familiar. The voice, too.

The door opens. You stare, wide-eyed, as a head of blond hair enters your vision, familiar and crimson-eyed.

He’s just as stunned as you are, as you watch, with no small amount of delight, as he takes one look at you, and then the sunflowers you hold in your hands, and sneezes.

Christmas has come early, you think. “Katsuki! This is your house?” You step a little closer, a sickly sweet grin on your face.

He dodges the sweep of your bouquet. A pity, you think, but you are successful: he only sneezes all the harder.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you… by any chance allergic to sunflowers?”

Your mother gasps, tearing the bouquet from your hands. She had been the one to pick them out.

He doesn’t need to respond for you to know the answer: as soon as they’re taken away from his immediate vicinity, his sneezes lessen.

Your mother had been the one to pick them out, and you had disliked the way they looked. But you decide, there and in the moment, that they are your favorite flower.

He straightens. His nose is still red, and there is murder in his eyes. “Why the hell are you here?”

His mother sweeps in, pinching him by the ear. “You will not address our guests that way.” She hisses, before looking up at the three of you, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to teach him manners, I swear⏤”

“No worries at all, Bakugou-san.” Your mother says, correcting herself at the other woman’s oh, just call me Mitsuki! She pinches your ear in turn. “This one is much the same. A righteous demon, she is.” You narrow your eyes a little at her.

The blonde laughs, and the way she ruffles her son’s hair is terribly fond. “That’s just part of their charm, I suppose.”

He hisses up at her. She hisses right back.

You love her, you think.

“Oh, where are my manners!” She straightens, blinking. “Please come in. Masaru’s in the kitchen, just setting up⏤”

Your parents walk in first, complimenting the decor. Mitsuki beams at them, and down at you. “Masaru tells me the two of you go to the same school,” She says. “Have the two of you met before?”

You say: “Yes!” at the same time he gives a flat, but resounding, “No.”

He glares daggers into the side of your head. You grin. “We’re in the same class, and he’s my best friend!” You exclaim, the lie rolling easily off your tongue.

“No the fuck I’m not.”

“Language, Katsuki!” Mitsuki reaches for his ear again, her face the picture of delight. “I’m so happy you’re finally making friends!”

“WE’RE NOT FRIENDS!”

She gasps, affronted, looking like she wants to tear him a new one. You smile. Your parents look on, utterly lost. “It’s okay, Mitsuki-san. That’s just how Katsuki-kun shows his love. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, you angel. ” And from the look on her face, one might have thought she truly believed it. She whips around to glare at her son. He glares back. “I don’t know how she puts up with you, but you’d better treat her well.” You grin at him from behind, terribly smug, and terribly victorious.

She turns around, and your smile is pretty again, pleasant and soft.

Mitsuki coos at you. You think the dichotomy between the way she talks to the both of you is like heaven and earth. “Come over to our house more often. I’d love to have you over anytime!”

“HAH? WHAT⏤”

“We wouldn’t want to trouble you, Mitsuki-san.” Your mother says, assertively. She is shooting you the look , the one that means she knows what you’re up to.

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all!” She dismisses the statement with a wave of her hand. “Katsuki has few enough friends as it is.”

Your father laughs, ever the mediator. “We’ll have to invite you over next time as well. We live just down the street.” He brightens. “Actually, seeing as they’re classmates, they could maybe walk together in the mornings?”

Your mother’s grip tightens around his arm.

There is a wicked grin on your face. “I’d love that!”

The boy in question doesn’t even get the chance to protest, because Mitsuki’s already chirping. “It’s settled, then!”

You think: it doesn’t even matter if he emerges victorious in all the encounters you have after this, because when the adults turn, you get to stick your tongue out at him.

The look on his face is so quietly violent, so blatantly murderous, as you wave your still sunflower-smeared hands in his face, that you think you will remember the sweetness of this victory for the rest of your life.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your relationship does not change in the slightest after that.

Mitsuki invites you over to her house once a week, and your parents do the same. The adults do their own thing, and you do yours: trying your best to annoy the daylights out of your newfound nemesis, and he only does the same to you. You’ll make fun of his All Might merchandise, the ones displayed proudly in his room, and he’ll make fun of your Recovery Girl ones, the ones you have so painstakingly collected⏤ she’s not nearly as popular of a Hero. He’ll sneer: “So that’s why you used to kiss everyone you healed?”

You’ll sneer right back, cringing internally at the reminder of that phase, though you are still Recovery Girl’s number one fan. “My Quirk’s literally activated through touch. You’d be lucky if I poked you with a ten-foot pole, let alone heal you with a kiss.”

He’ll make a face. “Eugh. You wish, idiot. I’d never want to kiss an extra like you.”

The two of you have learned to act relatively civil with adults in the house. You smile up at him, sickly sweet. “Yeah. This extra is an idiot, and she definitely didn’t score higher than you on the last history test.”

By one point, but still.

He snorts, though you can tell the reminder irks him. “That’s only ‘cause you sucked up to sensei like, three classes in a row.”

You sniff in derision. “I did not.” Sure, it’s true: you’d definitely been a little more active in class, and answered more questions than usual, but you’d studied for it! You’d studied a lot!

He sneers back. “Did too.”

You have learned to imitate the murderous glare he likes to level you with, and the first time you mimic it, you grin a little as his eyes widen, stunned.

The two of you are civil for the most part, though, at each other’s houses. His mother would tear him a new one if she heard him acting anything but⏤ ( she has )⏤ and you think you like his parents too much to ruin your relationship over something as trivial as this.

School is a different story, however, as are your walks in the mornings. “Shut the fuck up,” He’ll snarl at you.

“But Katsuki-kun!” You’ll coo right back, using the tone you know he hates. “I haven’t even started talking yet!”

He’ll scowl at you. You’ll simper right back. He’ll speed up, and you do not slow, nor do you attempt to match his pace, because you know: if you slow, he will too. Always keeping that same distance, and if you speed up⏤ well, you’d tried that once. And you’d kept pace with him for all of two seconds, before he’d sped up in turn, until the both of you were practically sprinting to school.

You lose, of course. You have never run a day in your life.

( You start training right after. )

You make fun of the things he likes, and he of yours. You flop on his bed, making sure to crinkle his carefully-pressed sheets, forcing him to his desk during one of your so-called ‘hangouts’ and ‘study sessions’⏤ Mitsuki’s words, not either of yours, but there are textbooks in front of the both of you, so that is good enough. You study harder than you ever have before, and rub every one of your small victories in his face, and he studies like a demon in return⏤ ( even though he’s never needed to study in his life )⏤ until the both of you are neck and neck, with perfect grades in every subject. You buy everything sunflower-colored, sunflower-shaped, and tack sunflower stickers onto every surface you can see, pinning some cute ones to your backpack.

( Your mother picked out the flowers, but you are the one that held them, and you were also the one to decide, there and then, that these were your favorite flowers in the world. )

You make fun of the things he likes, and he of yours. You see his face more often than anything else, and he calls you an idiot when you tell him about the fictional boys you think are cute. Well, you don’t care. You tell him about them anyways, because you are bored and Kuroo-kun looked particularly stunning in the episode the other day⏤ only because you are bored and there is nothing else to do, or so you tell yourself. You find: you do not regret lying the first day and calling him your best friend, because even if you are not even friends⏤ you don’t think you are, at least, because he has never confirmed it, even if he does seem somewhat tolerant of you; punches your pseudo-stalker in the face for you, and carries you piggyback on the way home, crying all the while.

“You’re ruining my shirt,” He grouses. “Stop crying. I’m literally more injured than you are.”

You sniff. “I’m not kissing you better.”

He snarls. “Come anywhere near me with your mouth and I’ll blow your face off.”

“You want it so bad it makes you look stupid.” You tell him, and he tenses beneath you, but you only press your cheek to his neck, and think, heal.

The pain of the bruises lances through you, and you feel the way he relaxes.

You droop. “Onwards, steed.”

“I will literally drop you.”

“I just healed you. I’m tired.”

“No one fucking asked you to.”

He doesn’t, though, and eventually, you sigh a little into his neck.

“What.”

“Nothing.”

“ What, dumbass.”

You hum, a little absentminded. “You’re going to UA, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Oh, I was thinking of applying for the healer understudy openings.” You shrug. “Dunno if I can get in, though.”

“You will.” His certainty surprises you.

You smile. “Didn’t know you believed in me so much, Katsuki-kun.” Your head flops back onto his shoulder. “Will you still walk with me in the mornings, then?”

“After school, too. Even if you don’t get in.”

You shift to blink up at him in surprise.

He clicks his tongue. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look this uncomfortable. “Who the fuck else’s gonna punch shitty stalkers for you?”

You don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before, like the sun cresting upon the horizon, lighting up like a dawn inside your chest. You laugh at the feel of it. “Are you sure you woke up on the right side of the bed today? Besides, you don’t even know where I’d be going.” You reach up to pinch him on the cheek.

He jerks away, the look on his face disgusted. “Then I’ll teach you to fight.”

You make fun of the things he likes, and he of yours. You find: you do not regret lying the first day and calling him your best friend, because even if you are not even friends⏤ he is tolerant of you, he punches your pseudo-stalker for you, he walks with you before school, and he walks with you after. He lets you flop on his bed, lets you push him to the desk, wrinkles his nose at you when you tell him about a boy that was cute, and calls your friends dumb when you tell him about something they said that was funny. You weasel his birthday out of Mitsuki, and get him that All Might merch you know he’ll like. There’s some Recovery Girl merch left on your windowsill the day of yours. He laughs when you try a bite of his food for the first time and cough instantly after, your face aflame. What the hell is this? You hiss, and he grins, telling you it’s real food , and that you’re just weak. He never calls you his friend, but he believes in you and your dream, and promises to walk you to and from school anyways, even if you do not attend the same one.

( That’s just how Katsuki-kun shows his love , you tell Mitsuki-san, once upon a time, and though you are not sure if it is love, you think: you do not mind it. )

This is how your relationship is, and how it remains, until the end of the second last year of middle school, right before the both of you enter UA.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You are asleep at your desk when you are jumpscared awake.

“UA? That national school? Isn’t their acceptance rate really low?” Someone in your class is asking.

“That’s exactly why you guys are just extras!” You roll your eyes as the ash-blond jumps straight atop his desk. “I aced the mock test! I’m the only one at this school who could possibly get into UA. I’ll definitely surpass All Might and become the top hero!”

This is not the first time you’ve heard this tirade. Sueko nudges you, quietly. “Hey. Didn’t you say you were applying for one of their healer slots?”

“Oh, yeah.” The sensei glances down at his list. “Midoriya wanted to go to UA as well, right? And someone else…” You tense.

The class bursts into uproarious laughter, and it seems you are temporarily saved.

“Huh? Midoriya? No way! You can’t get into the Hero course by just studying!”

The green-haired boy stammers. “Th-they got rid of the rule! There’s just no precedent…”

You roll your eyes at the sound of familiar explosions. “Huh? Deku! You’re below the rejects! You’re quirkless! How can you even stand in the same ring as me?”

“No, wait! Kacchan! It’s not like I’m trying to compete with you or anything! Believe me!” He falters “It’s just that it’s been my goal ever since I was little! I won’t know unless I try…”

“What do you mean, unless you try? You’re Quirkless!”

You slam your textbook down with a little more force than usual, and the whole class turns to you in surprise. “He has a dream that he dares to try for,” you say, coolly. “Isn’t that enough?”

“And what the hell would you know about that?”

Disbelief rushes through you, and you turn to look him squarely in the eye. The class tenses, and his own eyes widen. It has been a while since you’ve challenged him like this directly, whether in school or otherwise.

Sueko pipes up, unhelpfully, from beside you, as if he wouldn’t know. “She’s also applying for UA.”

You don’t get the chance to glare at her, because your sensei continues the thought. “Oh, yes, that’s right! You were the last student applying to UA! How’s the process coming along? The healer routes are notoriously difficult⏤ how’s that coming along?”

“Ah, I applied to some hospitals for volunteering, but I don’t know if they accept middle-schoolers,” You laugh.

Your sensei nods, in support, but also a little condescendingly. “Well, it’s also a very difficult path, so don’t beat yourself up about it too much, yeah?”

The smile on your face feels a little bit painful, a little bit stretched.

You are distracted for the rest of that day. So out of it, in fact, that when the sensei calls upon you, his favorite student, you take all of five seconds to respond⏤ blinking, first, then glancing up, with a: “ Sorry , what was the question?” You are so out of it that you bump your hip into your own desk as you move past for lunch, wincing at the twinge of it, and you are so out of it that you forget your pencil case when you leave after class, and have to go back to get it.

“Believe that you’ll be born with a Quirk in your next life, and take a last chance dive off the roof!”

You know that voice. You pause. But then, the blast of familiar explosions.

Before your hands, the door slams open.

You don’t know what you were expecting. Bakugou and Midoriya both, obviously, and you suppose you should have known his two lackeys would have been there, too. They turn from their face-off, and your glare is sharp and terrible. “So what if he’s Quirkless?” You snap, storming over to grab the green-haired boy by the wrist. “At least he has a dream. At least he dares to try . That’s more than I can say for the two of you.”

“Stay out of this,” The blond snarls, a warning.

You are not entirely a good person. You lie as you please, wielding the power of your mother’s fashion, your father’s wallet, and do things entirely for your own amusement, uncaring of the aftermath. You know Midoriya, or rather, you know of him, and how he is a frequent target of Bakugou’s scathing remarks. At first, you had assumed he’d just been one of the people that disliked you, but it had become increasingly evident that he was just one of the people that didn’t dare to brave the blond’s wrath. And you are not entirely a good person, because you just didn’t care . Not to talk to him, not to stand up for him, not if he hadn’t even tried to for you.

You are not entirely a good person yourself, but even so, you know that there are lines that should not be crossed.

You lift your chin, and say, quietly. “Apologize.”

“Hah?” He tilts his head. “And why the hell should I? Why the hell are you defending him?”

You feel incredulous. “What does that have anything to do with it?” You don’t see the way his eyes flicker down to where you are holding the green-haired boy, by his wrist. “There are things that you should never, ever , say to a person.” His eyes narrow, but there’s an irrational anger within you, a disbelief. “You’re literally trying to become a Hero. How can you, an applicant of UA, who hopes to become one of the best heroes in the world, tell someone to kill themselves, and not think there’s anything wrong with it?”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Little explosions are escaping his hands, in the uncontrolled way they do when he’s furious and unaware of them.

You think Midoriya makes a pained sound, what with the way your hands are clenching, angry and white. Heal. A sting pulses through you, and you drop his wrist, but your eyes are flashing. “You’re being an ass. Apologize. ”

“ You don’t tell me what to do. ”

You lift your chin. “If you value our friendship in the slightest, then yes, I do. ” The vehemence of your words stuns you a bit, and the blond recoils, as if he has been physically struck.

You think you have won, for all of a moment, and then he scoffs.

“Yeah, right. What friendship? The one you lied to my mom about and said that we had? That friendship? The one that doesn’t exist? Won’t exist?”

His sneer is not harsh, but the breath that leaves you is shaky.

You do not hear his next words.

( You make fun of the things he likes, and he of yours. You flop on his bed, making sure to crinkle his carefully-pressed sheets, forcing him to his desk during one of your so-called ‘hangouts’ and ‘study sessions’⏤ Mitsuki’s words, not either of yours, but there are textbooks in front of the both of you, so that is good enough. You study harder than you ever have before, and rub every one of your small victories in his face, and he studies like a demon in return⏤ ( even though he’s never needed to study in his life )⏤ until the both of you are neck and neck, with perfect grades in every subject. You buy everything sunflower-colored, sunflower-shaped, and tack sunflower stickers onto every surface you can see, pinning some cute ones to your backpack. You make fun of the things he likes, and he of yours. You see his face more often than anything else, and he calls you an idiot when you tell him about the fictional boys you think are cute. Well, you don’t care. You tell him about them anyways, because you are bored and Kuroo-kun looked particularly nice in the episode the other day⏤ only because you are bored and there is nothing else to do, or so you tell yourself. You find: you do not regret lying the first day and calling him your best friend, because even if you are not even friends⏤ you don’t think you are, at least, because he has never confirmed it, even if he does seem somewhat tolerant of you; punches your pseudo-stalker in the face for you, and carries you piggyback on the way home, crying all the while. You make fun of the things he likes, and he of yours. You find: you do not regret lying the first day and calling him your best friend, because even if you are not even friends⏤ he is tolerant of you, he punches your pseudo-stalker for you, he walks with you before school, and he walks with you after. He lets you flop on his bed, lets you push him to the desk, wrinkles his nose at you when you tell him about a boy that was cute, and calls your friends dumb when you tell him about something they said that was funny. You weasel his birthday out of Mitsuki, and get him that All Might merch you know he’ll like, and there’s some Recovery Girl merch left on your windowsill the day of yours. He laughs when you try a bite of his food for the first time and cough instantly after, your face aflame. What the hell is this? You hiss, and he grins, telling you it’s real food , and that you’re just weak. He never calls you his friend, but he believes in you and your dream, and promises to walk you to and from school anyways, even if you do not attend the same one. )

This is how Katsuki-kun shows his love , you say to Mitsuki-san once upon a time, but now, you know, because you have learned to read between the lines of his words; to understand him: that this is just how he treats liars who worm their way into his world, and how he tolerates them.

Your lip wobbles. There is a lump in your throat. But you will not cry for him, nor will you plead. Play nice , your mother chastises you once upon a time, because you are a willful child, vindictive in both your action and your speech, and petty enough to hold onto your grudges. She chastises you once upon a time, because you do not particularly care to cater to the feelings of those around you unless you feel like it; do not care to stand up for a boy who has done nothing to you, just because he has done nothing for you.

You are petty, yes. Vindictive, too. You may not be that much of a good person, and you are not without your own feelings, hypocritical as that may be. But you are trying , and you are genuine, or at least as much as you can be, as much as you ever have, and he⏤ he has just thrown all of that in your face.

“Fine, then.” You smile, and you are unfeeling as you lie. “I’ve never thought of you as a friend, either. Don’t talk to me again.”

The door slams behind you.

You do not hear his next words, so you do not hear him mean: not while you choose him, and not me.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Katsuki is six-turning seven the first time he meets you.

It is the first day of school. You are seated at your desk, a crowd of adoring sycophants around you. “Happy birthday! You look really pretty today,” His friend says from beside him, and he looks you up and down. You are wearing a sky-blue dress, with your hair pressed into careful curls.

His cheeks warm. He thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, but he only grunts, looking away to the side. “Dunno. She looks pretty ugly to me.”

“You can’t just say that to her,” Your friend hisses. He doesn’t know her face.

He scowls at her. “And who the heck are you, extra?”

She wilts under the force of his glare, and he feels a little better, as if satisfied.

“It’s okay!” You smile. He blinks. Maybe he should call you ugly more often.

And then you call him stupid. And blind.

And the rest is history.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The results of your hospital volunteer application are sent back the next week, and the first thing you think of, somewhat bitterly, is that at least now, you have a proper excuse for skipping out on your weekly dinners.

You have already skipped out on the first, pretending you feel sick.

Your phone is still silent. You have not talked to him since that day, not even to check up on him when you see the news, though your fingers itch to. You think of sunflowers: how you didn’t even like them, until him. You think of how your bag now feels empty without its signature pins, how you have thrown every scrap of yellow clothing into a pile in your closet, your sunflower-themed charms and notebooks tucked away.

Proof of life comes from your mother, and you do not turn on your phone.

You break your silence two days later, pushing your vegetables somewhat morosely around your plate. “My volunteer application was accepted. They’re letting me intern at the hospital.”

Your father beams. “That’s great news! You should’ve told us earlier! Honey, we have to eat out to celebrate! Oh, I need to tell Masaru⏤”

“I won’t be going to weekly dinners for the rest of the summer,” You cut in. Your mother’s chopsticks pause midair.

Your father blinks at you. “Surely the hospital isn’t making its interns work that much.”

“Well, I’m applying to UA.” You shrug. That much is true, but it’s also just so you can fill in your hours, work yourself down to the bone. “I’d like as much experience as possible.”

Your mother is watching you carefully.

Your father clears his throat. “Well, don’t work yourself too hard.” He says, jokingly, as he dishes another helping of food upon your plate. “You tell us if they’re giving you any trouble, alright?”

You force yourself to smile back. “‘Course, dad.”

( Your mother asks you, a week later, when you arrive home from your internship. “Are you still friends with him?” She has asked you a similar question once, years ago and late in the evening, at the end of the dinner party, your father drunken and half-leaning on her shoulder.

You give her the same answer you did then, and in the same way. Cheery, and without a hint of hesitation. “Nope!”

She is watching you carefully.

You excuse yourself, and she does not ask you about it again. )

It feels like the days never end, and yet summer passes by before you can blink. You banish all thoughts of blond hair and crimson eyes entirely from your mind, and truthfully, you do not have the mind to think of him much, anyways. You steal the pain of your patients and make it your own, smiling at the brightness of your faces as you heal one, then two, then several more. It tires you terribly so, and between your time at the hospital and pre-studying for the UA exams, you’re so fatigued each night that you fall asleep before your head even hits the pillow. You don’t even have the time to meet up with your friends. And before you know it, the last year of middle school is upon you, as are the start of your applications.

It is a whirlwind of things to do, so much that you feel you do not have the time to breathe, or even think. Katsuki’s been placed in a different class from yours, which comes as a relief in more ways than one⏤ firstly, that you don’t have to see him, and secondly, because you can let your grades fall just a little, and still come out as top of your class. Between your intern shifts, your mindless studying, the applications, the tests and quizzes and preparing endlessly for interviews, the thoughts of anything else vanish entirely from your mind. You do not feel the emptiness of your afternoons, nor much of your mornings.

About two months in, Midoriya Izuku is the one to seek you out.

There is a spoonful of rice halfway to your mouth, a textbook in your other hand. You notice him when a shadow falls over it, blotting the light out. You glance up, drawling. “Yes?”

“Can I… talk to you for a moment?” He ventures, nervously, a tray gripped in his hands.

You eye him a little strangely.

You haven’t seen him since four months ago⏤ you haven’t really been paying much attention, and even the reminder sets your walls of iron slamming up. He’d been shorter then, you think, and significantly more hesitant. The boy from back then would never have even dared think about approaching you like this.

He flusters. “I-I just! Another time is also okay, or if you don’t want to, that’s also okay⏤”

There he is , you think, a touch amused. “Can it be said here?”

Beside you, Sueko’s jaw drops. You can feel the stares of your friends boring into the side of your face.

“Y-yes?”

“Then make it quick.” You flip the page of your textbook.

He hesitates. “Is it really okay…? For me to sit here?”

Your eyebrow arches, high. “Since when have you been unable to sit where you like?”

Mutely, he sets his tray down, and sits.

You only flip another page. “You can either eat or talk.” You say, conversationally. “Lunch won’t last all day.”

Obediently, he takes a spoonful of rice, and swallows. “I just… wanted to thank you.” He begins.

You know exactly what he is talking about, and your throat tightens. ( You think of your backpack, how empty it feels, but your refusal to tack on your sunflower pins anyway. ) You shrug. “No need to thank me. I didn’t do it for you.”

“Even so,” Midoriya perks up a bit. “N-no one’s ever stood up for me like that before, and especially not to Kacchan… I-I’m really grateful, either way!”

You snort a little. Never would you have thought Midoriya Izuku , of all people, would stand here one day, thanking you.

“I think you’re a really good person,” He says to you, a little bit hesitant. It jolts you a bit, the genuine honesty of his tone, but what you are not prepared for is what comes after. “And I know Kacchan does, too.”

Your spoon stops halfway to your mouth.

“He still cares about you,” Midoriya says, a touch softer. Your friends are not looking at you, but you can still feel the weight of their gazes, their ears.

You say as you set your spoon down. “If you want to be friends with me, then you will never speak of him again.”

Midoriya watches you carefully, notes the finality in your tone. His gaze rises to a point above your shoulder.

He flinches.

He does not speak of what he sees, or of this conversation, ever again.

You do not turn, and you do not ask.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The week of UA acceptances arrive, and you await your own with bated breath.

Your father laughs as you run out exactly at eight every morning to check, before he finally deigns to tell you that the postman usually delivers to your house around twelve. “I knew that!” You say, and he laughs at the obvious lie.

You stick your tongue out at him, but you still sneak out the next day at the same time, just in case .

But as it turns out, the postman is late. You know this, because Midoriya texts you late in the evening, after dinnertime, with his signature All Might emoji and a brief: check your mailbox!!!!!

You stop, your heart in your throat. You don’t think you are breathing.

He’s still typing, spamming your text messages with a thousand All Might emojis, each of them more despairing than the last. You do not know what this means. And then, you see his next message: I got in!!!!!

It turns out that you are not, in fact, breathing.

You feel like you are holding the whole time you’re fumbling through your mailbox, dropping random letters haphazardly onto your doorstep. That one looks like it’s important , you think, distantly, and it gets dropped somewhere onto the growing pile at your right, scanning them all for a familiar logo, and⏤ you see it at the very bottom of the pile.

You thumb it open with shaking hands. Congratulations , it reads, and you scream.

( You think for one moment of sunflowers, how you can imagine exactly how he’d react, hear exactly what he’d say. )

Your father pokes his head around the corner. “I heard screaming. Everything alright?”

Your mother is smiling. “Mitsuki just called. Katsuki’s in.”

Your father is looking at you with wide eyes. You are grinning, there are tears in your eyes, and you are wordless in your delight.

Your mother laughs, soft. “I suppose two congratulations are in order.”

“Midoriya also made it, so make that three.” You correct, grinning.

Your father whoops. “THAT’S MY GIRL!”⏤ and for the first time in almost a year, you feel light as a feather, like the world is spread wide before you, and you are a young god before it, your wings wide and at the ready.

For the first time in almost a year, you think, for one moment of sunflowers, how you can imagine exactly how he’d react, hear exactly what he’d say. You think of reaching for your phone⏤ ( and if you did, you’d see his icon that you’d purposefully wiped blank bubbling )⏤ but you don’t. You think of a boy with blond hair and crimson eyes that you have not looked at in almost a year, how you’ll brush past him in the halls, surrounded by your gaggle of friends, your uniform and makeup, your armor, and try not to note how he’s grown taller. For the first time in over a year, you think of him, and your heart does not feel like an empty cavity in your chest; you do not feel so hollow, nor do you ache.

Your heart only squeezes, a little tight, but.

You think you will be fine.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You are delusional. You are not, in fact, fine.

You are standing in front of the classroom door. It spells the code of your class: 1A , in bold lettering, proportions inhumanly large. You are three minutes late, but it’s really not your fault⏤ you’d simply fangirled so hard over the fact that you’re finally getting to meet your idol in person last night that you’d barely gotten any sleep, and your mother had had to haul you practically out of bed and out the door, throughout the whole of your alarm.

You slide open the door. Instantly, you’re met with a sea of faces, and you steel yourself⏤ but then.

For the first time in over a year, you see him, and all of a sudden, you are painfully aware of the lack of yellow on your figure; your backpack entirely empty of its signature sunflower pins.

The smile is frozen on your face, and he looks just as shocked as you feel.

A voice drawls at your side. “You must be the healer,” You are glad for the distraction; the source a scraggly-haired man halfway through removing himself from a sleeping bag. Your sensei, you deduce. “You’re late.”

“Sorry, sensei!” You bow. “I overslept because I was fangirling too hard over meeting Recovery Girl today! I promise it won’t happen again!”

A wave of soft laughter ripples through the class, and over the din, you hear a⏤ she’s kinda cute! ⏤ at the same time as a⏤ oh, I love her already.

“If I get hurt, will I get to see you?” A voice calls, and you turn to see a boy⏤ blond, and your heart stutters for a moment, but his shade isn’t ash, it’s golden. He’s grinning cheekily up at you.

“No flirting in my class.” Your sensei warns. “But yes, seeing as she’s 1A’s healer understudy.” He turns to you. “Recovery Girl’s waiting for you in her office. You know where it is?”

You nod cheerily. “Sir, yes, sir!”

“Good.” You turn at the obvious dismissal, shooting a wave at your green-haired friend as you do.

You leave the classroom with your shoulders set, your chin tilted high, your outfit your armor, and your makeup your helm.

You pretend like you do not feel the crimson glare that seems like it’s trying to pierce through the back of your neck.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Recovery Girl likes you, and you feel as if you are floating for the whole of a day. Not even meeting Bakugou’s gaze the next morning can knock you from it, nor can the grape-haired boy’s leering from across the room. You can’t really dwell on them for long, either, not with the crowd of people aggregating by your desk. You blink up a little, surprised.

It’s not like you’ve made an effort to dress up especially pretty today, and you don’t think you’ve come off as incessantly nice. You are not the you from first grade anymore⏤ you don’t just think yourself pretty, you know you are⏤ but are confident enough in your own skin that you have stopped putting on airs; have allowed yourself to be as cold and sarcastic and dry as you want. Most of your girl-followers⏤ ( the ones you buy with your mother’s fashion, your father’s wallet, and your pure, sunny disposition )⏤ have only seen glimpses of you like this, and you can count on one hand the people outside of your parents who know you as you are.

Sueko, Midoriya, and of course, him.

You do not dwell on it for long. You are confident in your own skin, and though you would like some more friends, you do not wish to temper yourself to gain them.

You smile a little at the question the purple-haired boy asks, disliking the way his eyes are lingering at your chest. “You’re all welcome to drop by the clinic anytime you like. It’s what we’re here for, after all. Though, if you want a kiss to make you feel better,”

You pause a little bit for dramatic effect watching the eyes of several boys brighten just a bit.

“You’ll have to go to Recovery Girl.”

Your straight face is very well-practiced, but you do not hide the small quirk of your mouth as you watch their souls die.

An arm slings around your shoulder, its pink-skinned, pink-haired owner grinning at you. “I think we’re going to be best friends, you and I.”

You remember thinking the same thing about a different girl, when you are six-turning seven, and you hear the same genuinity behind it.

( You are clad in your outfit like armor, your makeup a helm. Today, you are exactly as cold and sarcastic and dry as you like, because you are confident in your own skin, and you do not temper yourself in the slightest. )

You smile up at her. “I think I’d like that!”

Her grin widens, but then, an older Hero walks in⏤ Cementoss, you think. You have made an effort to memorize the roster. “To your seats, everyone.” He calls.

You take out your notebook, neatly arranging your pens. New year, new you. You don’t have as many shifts at the hospital anymore⏤ you don’t need the experience exactly, as you’re sure UA will look good enough on your resume, but it can’t hurt. Besides, you enjoy working there anyways; the older nurses who help you out with a kind smile, the doctors who are almost always willing to answer a question. But the lessened shifts allow you to breathe, just a little, to settle back into a healthier routine; one no longer so bogged down by your thoughts.

Math transitions quickly into English. You think you prefer Cementoss’s teaching style just a little, even if Present Mic is more energetic⏤ a little bit too loud for your tastes, you think. The material is basic, seeing as it’s the unofficial first day of class, and though you’ve already pre-studied most of the content, you end up writing most of it down, anyways.

Lunchtime arrives. You balance your tray on your hands, walking side-by-side with Mina. Midoriya waves at you from his table, surrounded by an assortment of friends, and you nod back. “Let’s sit there!” The pink-haired girl points excitedly at a particular table.

You see several boys from your class, some more familiar than the rest. A head of ash blonde, crimson eyes that glance up to meet your own.

“Midoriya wanted me to sit with him today,” You say, a touch apologetic. “You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like?”

Her eyes widen a bit, and you note the glance, the observance. Her own smile is your mirror, just as apologetic, and just as assertive. “Maybe another time,” She says.

She knows what she wants, and she’s not afraid to say it. You like that about her.

You incline your head, eyelid pulling down in a wink. “Do let me know which one you like,”

She only laughs at you, her answering grin somewhat sly.

All Might steps into the room after lunch, and though you’ve never been one of his particularly die-hard fans⏤ you think of your sunflowers, how you make fun of the things he likes, and he of yours⏤ you can admit that in person, he stands a legend in real life. You are just a little starstruck, you think, as he smiles at you, and says⏤ “Do try to keep your injuries to a minimum, though not to worry! Our healer team will be here to assist you!”

You find yourself grinning a little as you respond, “Nothing fatal, though. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything about anyone bringing a dead person back to life.”

He booms a laugh. “Naturally! You are all Heroes! You should refrain from using lethal power whenever possible!”

He speaks too soon. The first teams are called up, and the matchup is almost comical.

Bakugou will be fine. You know this. You are not worried for him in the slightest⏤ not that you would , you tell yourself, a touch sardonically.

No. What you worry for is the state of your Quirkless friend, and you are right to worry. Bakugou seems almost angrier than you’ve ever seen him, and that’s saying a lot, considering how good you are⏤ how good you used to be, you correct yourself⏤ at getting on his nerves, though Midoriya seems to be holding up very well.

Your friend has grown, you think. He is not at all the same person he was over a year ago in that classroom.

But you are right to worry, because All Might is shouting into his microphone. “Young Bakugou, stop! Are you trying to kill him?”

No , you think, immediately, instinctively. You know Bakugou is many things, but he is not that. Never that.

You feel the force of that explosion from here. “This is supposed to be a class!” One of your classmates, red-haired and red-eyed, is saying. “You have to stop him!”

“He knows what he’s doing.” You find yourself saying. Somewhat cold, somewhat callous. There are eyes on you, surprised.

You shrug.

You don’t really know why you say it, either.

“Young Bakugou, the next time you use that, I’ll stop the fight, and your team will lose. To attack on such a large scale inside is inviting the destruction of the very stronghold you are supposed to be protecting. That is a foolish plan for both heroes and villains, and you will lose a lot of points!”

You don’t need to look at him to feel his teeth gnash in anger, but you still watch the screen, anyways.

Their clash is violent. You remember saying, once, that you dislike violence because you are a healer. But that is not entirely true, you think: you see the passion in their every movement, even as your green-haired friend receives the brunt of the beating, the callous elegance of it. The careful calculations, the years of training that you have walked alongside to witness.

“This looks bad!” One of the classmates from before seems to shout. “Sensei!”

You don’t dislike violence just because you are a healer. What you have always disliked is the senseless brutality of it, the cruelty of its aftermath. Not because you have to deal with it, but because sometimes, you can’t.

You look to All Might. He seems to be struggling with something.

“So long as it is not fatal,” Your voice is soft, but no less firm. “I can heal it.”

His mouth tightens, but you see his decision made in that moment.

You turn your attention back to the screen just in time to see Midoriya’s Quirk. Your eyes widen. It’s so sudden, so powerful, that you almost miss it; the blast entirely different from Bakugou’s own. So he was not Quirkless after all , you think, but all thought of that vanishes when you see the aftermath.

All Might is turning for you, but you are already running.

You see the two you are unfamiliar with first. “How is she?” You ask the blue-haired boy who stands upright.

“I’m fine!” She gasps out. “Just nauseous! But Deku⏤”

You hear the nickname, and you think you look a little strangely at her for it. You don’t dwell on it very long, though, because you’re already slipping past.

Then, you see him, and though your heart stutters a little in your chest⏤ ( your bag, empty of its sunflowers )⏤ you still look him in the eye. You are professional. “Are you hurt?” You ask, because he is standing there, still gaping, a little open-mouthed.

He turns that look upon you, and his eyes widen.

The eye contact feels slightly unsettling. You look away first. “Well. If you are, you can let me know.”

You kneel at the green-haired boy’s side.

A hand stops you, just as you reach out. They’re a little bit bigger than what you’re used to, a little bit more callused. “Wait,” He says, voice raspy, and you tense a little: both at the familiar and unfamiliar touch, and because it’s been so long since you’ve heard his voice. “You don’t have to⏤” He scowls, cursing. “Recovery Girl.”

You blink up at him, a little confused.

But then you see his eyes dart towards your arm, and then the green-haired boy’s, lying prone on the ground.

“I am a healer. It’s what I do.”

“That’s not what I⏤” He curses again under his breath. “The damn nerd will be fine. Does he even know about your Quirk?”

“Why would that even matter?” You are confused, and you shove his arm away. Your friend is still hurt , and he is keeping you from your job. Why do you even care? You want to say.

You bite your tongue, and think: heal.

Midoriya blinks awake halfway through. Your arm is covered in purple contusions, and he gasps, jerking away. “You⏤ your arm!”

They fade within seconds. You only reach again for it, feeling the crimson gaze burning into the side of your face, as you’re sure the rest of the class is too, from their camera screens hundreds of meters away. You stare straight ahead, and think, heal , even as your arm ripples in agony again, painted and purple.

You steal your patient’s pain, and you feel all of it, but you don’t show a thing. Because you are a healer, and that’s what you do.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You are a healer, and that’s what you do, but the next day, Aizawa-sensei still admonishes you for it.

“Your records are very impressive,” He tells you first, and you straighten. You figure: he is likely a man notorious for his lack of praise, so you might as well lap it up while you can. “However, just because you have a very high pain tolerance, does not mean you do not feel pain. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sensei.” You dip your head.

“The lot of you hear that, right?” He addresses the rest of the class. “She’s a healer, and she can heal almost anything, save those who are already dead. That’s very impressive, and it’s very rare. Don’t let her become your crutch. She will not always be there, and though she might say she doesn’t mind your burden, others will. Whether it’s yourself, your fellow Pro Heroes, or the civilians you are trying to save.”

There is murmured assent from the class.

He turns back to you. “Heroism is also about knowing when to step back and let others handle the situation. It is okay to share your burdens,” He tells you.

You blink a little, surprised at the comments that are not really criticism at all. “I am a healer,” You state. “It’s what I do.”

He sighs. “You’re just as stubborn as your mentor,” He says.

You smile at this, chirping. “Thank you!”

“That was not a compliment.”

You sink into your chair a little sheepishly, but it’s like a sun has been lit in your chest, because you take it as one anyways, and you are grinning.

Lunchtime is a little strange today, for more reasons than one. Mina invites you again, but she doesn’t protest your decision, a knowing glint in her eye. But she doesn’t mention a thing, and you are grateful for it.

Midoriya is sitting with the same people as yesterday, and he beams, delighted, as you slide into the seat beside him. Iida and Uraraka nod at you from across the table, and you nod back.

Surprisingly, it’s the red-and-white haired boy across from you⏤ Todoroki, who breaks the silence. “My father says he would like to meet you.”

You blink. That’s certainly not what you were expecting. “Endeavour, right?”

He nods, his face deadpan. “Please decline.”

You choke a little bit on the bite of food that has just entered your mouth. Midoriya slides you a napkin.

You cough around it. “Wow, Todoroki-san. You really dislike me that much?”

He shoots you a strange look. “Not at all. Why do you ask?”

You’re a little confused. “Oh, that was a joke.”

“Apologies. I have never been very good with jokes.”

“Nothing to apologize for, and I was planning on declining, anyways. I’m going to intern under Recovery Girl for the rest of my life!”

“I will communicate that to him, then.”

Midoriya coughs lightly from your other side. You elbow him.

Uraraka giggles, but whatever she is going to say is cut off by the sound of the alarm. There has been a level three security breach , you hear.

“Trespassing,” You hear someone clarify.

You stare at the horde of gray-uniformed students crowding the hallway. You have never been a huge fan of crowds, especially ones as tightly-packed as this. Besides, you think, a touch dryly, that if there were an intruder, walking headfirst into a mosh pit like this would probably be the best way to get yourself caught up in a mass murder.

But you don’t get to voice any of these concerns, because then Uraraka is tugging at your wrist. “If we don’t get ourselves in there now, we’re never going to get our way out! Come on!”

You fall, weightless, and are carried away upon the sea.

It’s horrible. Internally, you curse the girl, but almost don’t even feel bad about it because yes, she’s like the sweetest person you’ve ever known, but she’s also reason you’re in the midst of a thousand wayward bodies right now, wrinkling your nose at the reek, and practically fighting for your life to keep your head above the throng. You are a healer, you think, a little despairingly, as you elbow someone so harshly that your own limb twinges. You are fighting a desperate battle, but nonetheless a losing one⏤ at least you are, until hands lift you by the waist and carry you forth; your savior cutting his way through the crowd with ease.

Your back hits the wall, and gratitude is on the tip of your tongue as you look up, but then you see him: ash-blond, and glaring at you with crimson eyes. “The hell were you thinking?” He hisses. “You don’t even like crowds.”

You hate the familiarity in the way he says it, as if he still knows you, and you hate the way he cages you in against the wall, his body larger than you have known, but how it still feels the same, pressed up against yours.

( You think of your sunflowers, how your bag feels strangely empty without them. )

It is the nearest he has been to you in well over a year. You hate the way he smells, like burnt caramel, and you hate the way your cheeks warm.

You want to say: neither do you , and you want to ask him why he even bothered to try and save you. You know he doesn't like you, not even in the slightest, not this liar who has wormed their way into his world; this liar that he tolerates. You think of a thousand witty remarks, ones that used to make his eyes light, the curl of his scowl somewhat harsh, but no less familiar, of giving voice to your outrage, to your feelings, and simply storming past.

You choose none of the above.

You still your features, the picture of calm, set the steel of your shoulders, and stare straight at a point above his shoulder. “Why do you even care?”

You do not look at him, so you don’t see the way he recoils, ever-slightly. The expression he levels you, half-bewildered, half-disbelieving, the rest a complicated mix of emotions even he could not decipher himself.

You don't see the way he opens his mouth, because then Iida is there and shouting.

You see your chance, and you don’t wait for his answer. You weren’t expecting one, anyways.

He doesn’t even have the time to reach for you, before you slip past, and are gone.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You stand before the mouth of USJ, your heart in your throat.

You barely notice the weight of the device upon your wrist; a monitor that connects you to all the ones distributed amongst the class, because there are villains down there, you think, a little dumbfoundedly. Real villains, like the type you see in movies, and you feel almost ridiculous, out of place, as if someone will smack you upside the head and tell you: wake up! and that you are not in a story . And you are not, because you pinch yourself, and yes, this is real life.

You have never seen a villain yourself before, because you are a healer, and have only ever dealt with the aftermath of what they have done. You know the damage, the pain, the torture it can inflict upon a soul; the way sometimes, no one can ever fully heal them afterwards, not even you. So though you are a little wide-eyed, your thoughts blank, when the mist wraps around you, you don’t even think.

You lunge.

Crimson eyes widen, and he catches you, just one second before you fall into darkness as one.

You try not to think about the way his body feels against yours, how he is cradling you, the way his hand automatically wraps around the back of your head. You feel the impact in your bones, though he bears the brunt of it. Automatically, you reach up, and think, heal , but you don’t have the time to do much else, because then his eyes widen, and he’s shoving you away.

“STAY THERE!” Distantly, you think he is roaring at you, and another time, you might have protested that you could defend yourself. But the shock of it all is still settling in⏤ ( these are real villains, you think dazedly, and this is real life )⏤ and you are a healer, right now, you are nothing more than a civilian.

In the aftermath, you still stand, dazed. Bakugou and another red-haired guy from your class are panting, smoke curling from your familiar ash-blond’s figure, and you register, like the world is separated from you by a film: it’s over.

“Oi.” There are palms cupping your face, and you blink a little, startled, as crimson eyes boring into yours. “You hurt anywhere?”

No , you think, a little too stunned to speak; the harshness of his tone at odds with the gentle manner of his touch. But then you see a hint of blood trickling down the side of his cheek.

As if on instinct, you reach out for him. He jerks away.

Wow , you think, the lump rising to your throat instantly. You had not known he hated you this much, to the point that he is unwilling of even your touch.

“I am a healer,” You say, your throat somewhat tight. ( You think of sunflowers, your bag that is empty, your closet and its piled-up yellow. ) “You are hurt, and I am simply repaying a favor.”

You sense that he is watching you carefully, but your eyes do not rise to meet his gaze. You simply steal his pain, and you barely feel a thing⏤ even if his injuries were not so light, you think you are too numb to, anyways.

You move past, and he does not reach for you. The red-haired classmate⏤ Kirishima , you recognize, grins at you, saying that he is unharmed. He offers to escort you back to the front, but then, your wristband is beeping, a location upon it.

You straighten. You are still afraid, you recognize, but there is someone out there that needs help, and this is simply another obstacle you must overcome. You will not always be in your hospital, tending to those that manage to get themselves wheeled in⏤ and though there is fear in you, there is also an equal determination.

“There are people who need healing,” You say, and that is all you need to.

You are a healer, but that does not mean you are any less brave.

You are a healer, and this is what you do.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You ask Aizawa, two days later, if he would be willing to teach you self defense.

( You remember a boy, back from what feels like eons ago. You, on his back, the sun in your chest as he offers to walk you both to and from school. You don’t even know where I’m going , you tease, and he only scoffs at you. Then I’ll teach you how to fight .

You think of your sunflowers, and your bag, empty of them.

Your throat tightens, and you make your decision. )

He looks a little surprised, and asks you if you are sure. He warns you that he will not be a lenient teacher, but you have seen how this man dove headfirst into danger to save his students; seen his kindnesses that are masked in the form of tough love.

You also know he likes you, at least a little bit. If he hadn’t, he would not have complimented you like that on the third day, would not have had the hint of fondness in his tone as he drawled, that wasn’t a compliment.

And even if he doesn’t, you know he will be at least a little lenient.

You had been the one to heal him, after all.

You are wrong.

You hate running. Always have. You started training, years ago, but that had been entirely out of spite, and in the wake of it⏤ ( your bag, empty of sunflowers )⏤ you had stopped. You hate running, always have, and you have no time, you’d told yourself, nor the energy⏤ but really, you hate it because it reminds you of him.

Now, you hate it for a different reason. You hate it because Aizawa pushes you, hard , until your lungs are gasping for air, your knees and legs trembling⏤ you think, somewhat sourly, that none of your healings had ever prepared you for this. You have healed all manner of wounds, cured a variety of diseases, but that does not change the fact even back when you were running, you had not put everything you had into it, and that now, you are trembling, bones soft, muscles even more so, somewhat like a deer.

You heal fast, though, you always have. You would not have been able to heal without it⏤ Aizawa knows this, which is why he pushes you hard . “If you hadn’t been so dedicated to medicine,” He tells you, “I would’ve told you to go the Hero route instead.”

You shrug. The thought has never occurred to you. Your mother is a doctor, and as soon as your Quirk had developed, you had never thought about anything else. But you don’t get a chance to voice it, or even to thank him, because then he’s hauling you up by the arm.

“Break’s over,” He informs you, a signature shit-eating grin on his face. You think you’re beginning to hate the sight of it. “Back to running.”

You sigh, before dutifully acquiescing.

Schoolwork is easier, at least, though between your sparse shifts at the hospital and Aizawa’s daily after-school training, you are pretty much spent. You don’t even register Mina chatting excitedly beside you about the upcoming UA sports festival that Aizawa has just announced⏤ you only think, a little despairingly; more work.

You glance up at your pink-haired friend’s surprised exclamation, and you see: a crowd of people, so many that from your vantage point, it seems like it’s the intruder incident all over again. A scoff, vaguely familiar⏤ “They’re obviously scoping out the competition, small fries. We’re the group that made it out of the villain attack.” Someone protests, telling him to play nice⏤ no , you think. This is him being nice. “Out of my way, extras!”

“I came to see what the famous Class 1-A is like, but you all seem pretty arrogant. Are all the students in the Hero courses like this?”

You see: a head of purple hair, mussed, and you think⏤ wow, he could be Aizawa if your sensei’s hair was shorter, purple, and he were using his Quirk.

“Seeing something like this makes me disillusioned. There are quite a few people who enrolled in general studies or other courses because they didn’t make it into the Hero course. Did you know that?”

You didn’t, but he only continues.

“The school has left those of us a chance. And based on the results of the sports festival, they’ll consider our transfer into the Hero course, and vice versa. Scoping out the competition? ” He scoffs. “I, at least, came to say that even if you’re in the Hero course, if you get too carried away, I’ll sweep your feet out from under you.” His eyes flash, chin raised high. “Consider it a declaration of war.”

You sigh a little internally at the theatrics. “Excuse me, coming through.” You call. You ignore the way the ash-blond tenses a little as you walk up beside him, and you smile politely at the crowd; your uniform your armor, and your makeup your helm. You can do damage control just fine. “I’m class 1-A’s healer, so I don’t have a bone to pick with you really, but,” You cock your head. “All we did was fight off and survive a villain attack. I’m not sure how that’s arrogance. Have any of us gone out of our way to bother you?”

You are sure your classmates haven’t, because though you have not known them long, you are observant enough to tell that they are good and dedicated to the path of Heroism. And you are right: he is wordless in the face of your diplomatic tone, the maturity of it all.

But then⏤ a laugh, somewhat mocking. You think you recognize the voice, and you do: it’s class 1-B’s understudy, standing in the middle of the crowd. You have not talked to her much, thinking her quiet, but it seems that really, she just dislikes you.

“That’s so rich of you to say,” She says, with a scoff. “Sucking up to Recovery Girl all the time, parading around like you own the place, all because you went viral and people started calling you The Best Healer of our Generation. ”

You blink⏤ you remember Sueko mentioning it once, you think, after one of your co-workers, one of the older interns had started making videos of you, with your consent. You had not put much thought behind it, and you hadn’t the time to, between your many hours and the boneless weariness that had been so constant in your life after.

“Get off your high horse,” She snarls, a vehement finality to it, as she scans you, up, and then down.

You don’t know what to say, because honestly, you had never thought of yourself that way; had not thought of any others thinking of you that way. There are cries of outrage from behind you, you hear, distantly, as if you are underwater, but you are still stuck on the way she scans you. As if you are less than what you are, reduced to the painted trim of your nails, the makeup on your face, less than what you are and undeserving. As if it does not matter that you go to the hospital more often than not, your features clear, your hair pulled up, and lose yourself in your work; the agony of your patients, healing them and then some more until your bones ache with the ghost of their pain and you drop dead to your pillow, your phone turned off.

You are silent not because you are hurt, exactly⏤ you do not know this girl, and she does not know you⏤ but because you are so stunned. You don’t know what to say, because you have never thought yourself reduced to just this, less than what you are and undeserving. Distantly, you hear the cries of outrage, you feel yourself, adrift amidst an ocean, your hands clenching. You don’t know how to start, or what to even say.

But he does.

“She doesn’t use social media,” He starts, and yes , you don’t, but how does he know? “It obviously wasn’t even her recording the videos, you fuckwit, and it says in the account biography that it’s owned and run by a friend.”

You are staring at him, your heart held like hope in your throat. ( You think of your sunflowers. ) You don’t understand why he is saying this, why he is stepping in for you. ( You remember making fun of the things he likes, and he of yours. You remember finding that you do not regret lying the first day and calling him your best friend, because even if you are not even friends⏤ he is tolerant of you, he punches your pseudo-stalker for you, he walks with you before school, and he walks with you after. He never calls himself your friend, but he believes in you and your dream, and promises to walk you to and from school anyways, even if you do not attend the same one. )

He does not look at you, nor does he pause, and though there is anger in his voice, you think he is holding himself back. “High horse?” He laughs sardonically. “Get off yours. She’s already ten times the healer, hell, the Hero , you’ll ever be.”

( He doesn’t call himself your friend, but he still stands up for you. )

You don’t know what sort of expression you’re making, but it has to be ugly, something complicated, not exactly bewilderment nor gratitude or simply hope but some combination of them all; something in between.

“And what would you know? What are you, her guard dog?” She snarks back.

And finally, you find your voice.

“He does what he likes.”

You are still watching him, and you see the way his hands clench, and then unclench.

( You think very briefly of your sunflowers, and you think that you will always miss them. You can heal any wound on this earth, save the fatal ones, but you cannot heal the hole he has carved into your heart; not the one from this boy who knows you, every facet, both the good and the bad. You have never needed to hide the unsavory parts of yourself from him; after all, your very relationship was built upon a lie. You think a part of you has always loved him for it, will always love him for it⏤ this boy who is not your friend, has never been your friend, but still knows you, stands up for you, and believes in you, in all of you. And, you think, even if he does not care for you, there will always be a part of you that always cares for him. )

You turn to level her with a cool stare.

“He’s right,” You say. “I don’t use social media, and before you call me a liar, just listen.” You add, as her mouth opens.

( Your mother is a doctor, and when your Quirk develops, you know you want to go the same route. You have never even considered anything else; never even thought of being a Hero, until your sensei tells you that he might’ve pushed you for it, had you not already been so dedicated to the path. And you will not pretend like you have been good every step of the way ⏤ you are not that much of a good person. Your mother tells you to play nice , because you are a willful child, vindictive in both your action and your speech, and petty enough to hold onto your grudges. You are not that much of a good person, you have never particularly cared to cater to the feelings of those around you unless you feel like it; do not care to stand up for a boy who has done nothing to you, just because he has done nothing for you. You are grown now, better now, you know, but some elements of you still remain. You still wear your outfits like your armor, though it is not your hair but your makeup that is now your helm, you take time with your appearance and you take care of it every morning. Your volunteering at the hospital was not born entirely out of unselfish intention⏤ firstly because your mother said it was what you should do, and second because you thought the experience would look good, especially since you were applying to UA. But⏤ )

“I don’t know why you applied to UA, but I know why I did.” You say, simply. “It was because I wanted to become a healer, and this is one of the best places in the world to do it.” You straighten, jerking a finger at the ash-blond beside you. “We all went through the same application process. Take him, for example. He’s arrogant, he’s loud, and he always gets on your nerves. But that doesn’t make him any less passionate, or any less of a Hero. It doesn’t matter, because if you’re determined enough, strong enough, you’ll eventually rise to the top.”

You are the center of attention, but you have never been so aware of a singular set of eyes, burning straight into you.

You continue. “I don’t know who you are, or what you want to be, but that goes for the rest of you, too.” You jerk your thumb back to your classroom. “There’s a green-haired boy in there that everyone thought was Quirkless, including himself. But he had a dream that he dared to try for, and look where he is now.”

You look at your fellow intern, the class 1-B one.

“I don’t use social media for a variety of reasons, haven’t for a long while, and I won’t pretend like all of them were good. But ever since I started volunteering at the hospital, whenever I think about it, I think: every second I spend scrolling the internet could be another life lost. Someone I didn’t save, something I didn’t learn that could’ve helped someone in the future.” Your shoulders are set, and you lift your chin high. “You can think I’m a liar all you want, but I would hope, as a healer, you would be at least able to understand this.”

She is mute, and you look at the rest of the crowd, wearing your outfit like armor, your makeup, your helm.

You raise one eyebrow. “Anything else?”

Silence is your only answer, and you shrug.

“See you around, I guess.”

The crowd parts mutely before you, but then your wrist is clasped in a hand⏤ you think, very briefly, of sunflowers, but then you turn, and it is Mina grinning up at you, several others from your class in tow. “You’re so fucking cool,” She tells you, bright and genuine.

You are not that much of a good person, never have been, and, you think, you are not entirely sure if you ever will be. You will never be entirely unselfish, free of your precociousness, your pettiness, your occasional lying habits, and all the other thousand-and-one flaws you could find in yourself, if you really tried.

But you are growing. You are the same you that you were before, and you are also different.

You grin at her. “I know I am,” You say.

You are not that much of a good person, but you are growing, just as much the person you were before, as you are someone new.

You are a healer, you are yourself; this is who you are, and this is what you do.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

His mother calls him out on his sulking, barely a week in.

“Did something happen between the two of you?” She frowns, and his heart clenches painfully in his chest.

“S’fine,” He snarls. “Keep your damn nose out of my business, old hag.”

For once, his mother does not take him up on the challenge⏤ he almost wishes she would. He’s been itching for a fight, to get it out of his system somehow, but she’s always been able to read him⏤ just like you.

Mitsuki waves the phone in her hand. “Her father said she won’t be joining us for weekly dinners anymore⏤ she’s started volunteering at the hospital, and just won’t have time.” She states, plainly, and without judgment. “I don’t know what happened between the two of you, or if you’re still friends, but you were probably a little shit like usual, so get off your ass and go apologize.”

Apologize. That damned word. He hates it. And he’s considered it, but then he remembers: you, your face, the way it had crumpled, and then the way you’d sneered, don’t talk to me again.

He has always been able to tell your lies from your truths, and it stunned him in the moment, because it had not seemed like so much of a lie.

And it’s not. He sees the truth of it, a week later, when you skip out on your weekly dinners, accept your volunteer position, and cut the whole of him from your life, just like that. He sees the truth of it, on the first day of school, as he waits by your intersection and is almost late because you aren’t there, as he scans his class for your face and finds you absent, when you pass him in the halls and don’t even bother to look up. He sees the truth of it two months later, when that damned nerd stands at your table, a tray in his hands, and you allow him to sit. His heart is in his throat, clenching around something painful, there is smoke rising from his hands⏤ Deku looks up instinctively, flinching, and you do not even bother to turn.

( You and your sunflowers, the way you smile like the sun when you find out he is allergic , and go out of your way to plaster sunflower-themed things all over yourself, and he’s not quite sure if they are your favorite flower, or you do it just because you hate him. But then he gets to know you, slowly and over the years, a thousand-and-one forced interactions until he finds, one day, that he is not reacting so sharply to your barbs, uncaring that you flop onto his bed and muss up the sheets, unminding of your chatter, your studious, stupidly competitive nature, the way your eyebrows knit a little when you focus on a more difficult concept, or how you’re grinning as you annoy him, rambling about anything and everything; your fictional crushes. You say you want to be a healer, and the first thing he thinks is: that’s stupid , why not a Hero?⏤ but your eyes are determined as you say it, there is a fire in them, and he sees that bleed into the way you do things; the way you act. You never call him your friend⏤ you have, once, very clearly a lie ⏤ but he punches your pseudo-stalker for you, promises to walk you to and from school, even if he does not know which one you might go to, promises to teach you how to fight. It’s stupid, he knows it is, the way he tenses when you joke that you want him to kiss you so bad because he’s imagining it. And then the guilt after, when you press your cheek softly into the curve of his nape, feeling the dried-out tracks of your tears, the way you shudder as you steal his pain⏤ barely-there, but he feels it, anyway. )

He looks at you, properly, fork crumpling in his hand. “Yo. You’re staring.” One of his friends nudges him, gently, and he forces himself to look away.

( You, the sunflowers you bedazzle yourself in, your bag absent of them, and the way you never wear anything yellow ever again. )

He’s angry at you, at first. It’s unfair, he thinks, the way you seem to carve him completely out of your life, with all the practiced precision of a surgeon, that he spends almost all his time thinking about you, and that you do not do the same for him. You don’t want to talk to him, you’ve made that abundantly clear, and that’s fine⏤ he has his pride, and he is not going to beg you to stay. Not when you chose the nerd over him.

But then you stand in the doorway. You look like you did the first day, clear-eyed, but older. Your eyes widen when they catch sight of him, ever-slight, but he’s never missed a single expression on your face, and he does not miss it now. All of a sudden, he wants to talk to you so badly that it hurts⏤ he sees the bags under your eyes and wants to tell you to sleep, the bone-weariness with which you carry yourself, your step absent of skip.

But then, your gaze drops. He sees your bag, absent of its sunflowers.

He feels as if his gut were a stone, heavy and damning.

He remembers: you have never once thought of him as a friend, and he will not beg you to. He will respect your space, your wishes.

And yet. You stand by the entrance, the day of that first class, fierce and silhouetted by the sun. Are you hurt? You ask him, and it feels as if he were floating, stuck in a dream.

He takes too long to respond, and you give him a once-over, clearly discerning he is fine. You kneel by the damn nerd’s side, and he feels the absence of your attention like a physical thing, but even that is secondary to the horror he feels when you reach the other boy; his arm painfully bruised and almost a terror to look at.

He wants to say: you don’t have to do this, you don’t have to hurt yourself. There are other healers in the building, and don’t you have a mentor? You raved about Recovery Girl all the time, there’s no reason you should be taking his pain for yourself. And the nerd will be fine ⏤ anger clenches at him, then, because if the nerd knows about your Quirk and still allows you to hurt yourself for him⏤ “Why does that even matter?” You ask him, and he hears the ghost of what you don’t say: why do you even care?

He does. Of course he does. He always has, even when you giggle to yourself about something so blatantly stupid, even when you are an entire pain in his ass.

But then he thinks of you, your bag empty of sunflowers, the way you have not worn yellow since.

His arm drops back to his side, and he says nothing more to you, just as you’d like.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You have always disliked crowds, but so has he.

He is watching you when it happens, sees you lingering hesitantly by the exit. You’ll be smart about it, he’s sure⏤ he’s hotheaded, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid or blind. But then⏤ brown-haired cheeks tugs you by the wrist, forcing you into the throng, and he thinks: what the fuck?

He knows it’s stupid, and that you won’t thank him for it, but he dives after you, anyway.

He forces his way towards you, watching as you elbow someone particularly hard with a surge of pride, before he’s holding you and marching away, towards the wall, towards free space, trying not to think about how you feel in his arms, how you feel with the whole of you pressed against him. He needs to say something, anything to distract himself, so what he says is: “What the hell were you thinking? You don’t even like crowds.”

Your cheeks are a little flushed, and you are staring at him. He feels his own warm in turn, and he feels like a kid again, heart like a sun in his chest.

Your features still. Your mouth flattens, and you are cold as you say what you did not only a day before. “Why do you even care?” You ask.

He does. Of course he does.

But you do not ask this question in hopes of an answer. Your gaze slides past, and then you go with it, refusing to give him even the time to reach for you.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

When the mist envelops him, the first thing he turns towards is you.

His eyes widen⏤ you are already in the air, lunging at him, and he barely has the mind, the presence of thought to catch you. You fall as one, and his gut lurches⏤ he wraps himself around you, shielding your vitals, your head from harm, and gladly takes the brunt of the impact. He has all of a second to check up on you, to feel you pressed against him, know that you are safe, before he catches sight of more villains behind. “STAY THERE.” He shoves you into a corner, setting his back to you⏤ and when they are done, you have not moved an inch.

He sees the daze of your eyes, the shock, and cups your cheeks anyways, trying to ground you. “Oi,” He says, harsh, but also soft. “You hurt anywhere?”

You blink up at him, and then at the red he barely feels sliding down the side of his cheek.

He jerks away. He doesn’t want you to touch him, not to heal him⏤ he’s strong, he’s fine, he can deal with it, he doesn’t need you to steal his pain. Not when it’ll hurt you.

“I am a healer,” You say, and his heart clenches again at the sound of your voice, and again when you tell him: “You are hurt, and I am simply repaying a favor.”

He hears the steel in your voice, lets you touch him.

He would give anything to curl into your touch, even if for the rest of your life, your relationship is just like this: he, the dog, and your favors, the bone. He wants it, so long as you will keep on touching him like this, and yet he also doesn’t want it, because he cannot bear to be the one causing you such pain.

He is angry beyond words when the extra starts laying into you like she does, and you simply stand there, bearing the brunt of it all.

He’s watched the videos, seen every single one. Seen how hard you work inside of them⏤ the comments talk about how beautiful you are, but all he can think of is the tired pallor of your face⏤ but what’s more is that he knows how hard you work outside , too, and who is this girl to even talk about you like that, when she doesn’t know what it’s like to take the pain of another, and make it into your own? His tone of delivery is quiet, no less than lethal, and he speaks with every ounce of pride he has in you and the person that you are.

You are watching him, he thinks, and he thinks, somewhat dizzily, that this is it. You’ll chew him out in front of the crowd, call him out on his bullshit, tell him to stop speaking about you, speaking for you, that you hate him, that he’s stupid, anything and everything of the above.

But you do not.

You only rise, and he thinks that you are not at all the girl he has known before. Some parts of you are the same, entirely unchanged, but you have grown⏤ so much that it takes his breath away. You have always been coolly elegant in your deliveries when you mean it, but this ⏤

He thinks: it is okay if you never want to talk to him, if you don’t care one bit. It is okay if you choose never to wear yellow again, your bag remaining empty of its sunflowers, it is okay if you carve him entirely from your life.

He will respect your wishes, and watch from the sidelines, basking in the radiance of you: the healer, the girl, and simply everything that you are.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You should not be here.

You feel terribly out of place in this darkened room, with a crowd of familiar villains before you, disoriented and groggy.

If it were not for the ash-blond by your side, you think you might’ve started hyperventilating. You are quiet as you wake. You notice: his hands are bound, but yours are not⏤ they know you are a healer, you think, and they do not fear you.

You feel, rather than see, crimson eyes slide to yours. You blink up at him.

And then, his eyes flicker up.

You see the resolve set firmly onto his face. You know him, likely more than he does himself, which is why you know what he will say.

He says: “I’ll listen. I’ll consider working with you, so long as you make sure to leave her out of it.”

No. The word clangs into you with a force, a viciousness. You jolt upwards, so fast your head spins⏤ no. You know he won’t. He is a Hero to the core, and you know this, because you have decided early on that you will remain a step behind him always, even if he does not care at all for you, there and ready to steal away your pain. You have decided: you will see him live out all of his days, full of glory and entirely unscathed, victorious, and you will not watch him burn his life away like this, tucked away in a corner of this world, quietly and without a sound.

He lies to protect you, and you decide there and then that it isn’t worth it. You know him, have spent a thousand and one days getting to know him, just as you know that his bluff will be called before long, because though Bakugou Katsuki is many things, you have always known him to be a terrible liar .

You aren’t, though.

You straighten, and rasp. “No, he won’t.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He watches you straighten, watches you drawl, and he feels a terror like ice creeping over his throat.

Your lips are pulled into your liar’s smile, soft and lovely under the candlelight, but then⏤ “Katsuki’s going to be a Hero,” You tell them, and his heart stutters because when was the last time you actually called him by his name?

“Shut the fuck up,” He tells you.

You ignore him.

“Trust me when I say, this guy’s like, the biggest All Might fan you’ll ever see. Well, actually, maybe not the biggest⏤ Midoriya’s collection is insanely impressive, but you get the point. Did you really see his actions at the Sports Festival and think that was your opening?”

You stand, a smirk on your face, and he wants to tell you to shut the hell up again, to just stop talking, but⏤ you turn, you flash him a grin, and it’s like he’s six again and seeing you for the first time. You see him, in a way no one else ever has, in a way that assuages all the criticism he’s seen since, narrowing his world down to these things: you, and your unwavering confidence in him. Your lips are pulled into your liar’s smile, you are scared and terrified and pretty much everything in between, but he hears your words, hears your truth.

“Newsflash, losers. He’s wanted to be a Hero ever since he was a kid, and nothing’s ever going to change that.”

His heart swells so tight he thinks it’s going to burst. You, in this moment, like you still care , that he’s not alone in this, and that he cares for you more than anything else in the world, loves you more than you will ever know.

You do not need to say anything else, because there is a knock on the door⏤ pizza delivery , someone calls, and then the door opens; All Might in the flesh. The heroes⏤ and then you are scrambling for him, your fingers fumbling with the knots, but he simply jerks his hands apart, tearing the fabric, and reaches for yours.

You still a little, surprised, flinching back a bit, but his heart is singing⏤ you care , he thinks, somewhat dumbly, like a mantra bouncing around inside his head. He barely registers the rest of it⏤ he emerges by the ruins of a building, your hand still in his, piloting the both of you around the villains who try to keep you. Shitty Hair, calling down at him from the fucking sky⏤ what the fuck? but then he’s calling for you, and then there is you: looping your arms around his neck, knowing, instinctively, what he means.

His chest warms like the sun, ethereal and glorious.

You blast together into the night. His hand lands upon another one, similarly callused, and then he’s curling his other around you, latching you to him. Your head is settled in the crook of his neck, and you don’t protest it in the slightest, only untangling yourself once you land.

You don’t reach for his hand once you do, but that’s okay. His heart is singing.

He snarls at the others in his usual manner, and you assert yourself with your own. He follows you as you walk, a step behind. The others leave you at the police station, their own parents plenty concerned, and he doesn’t mind it in the slightest⏤ he gets to walk you home, after all.

You are silent as he does. He walks a step behind, and does not prod you.

You stop. He does, too. Your hands ball up into fists. He watches, waiting.

Finally, you whisper. “Why the hell’d you do it?”

That is not at all what he’s expecting you to say.

“Hah?” He’s never been good with his words, always more combative than means. Particularly with you. Especially with you. “Cause I wanted to, dumbass. The hell do you want me to say?”

You whip around and slug him instantly, punching him square in the gut.

He barely bends from the force of it. You clutch your fist, teary and glaring.

“Fuck you,” You hiss. “ Fuck you , Katsuki. You don’t just get to pretend like you care when you want to, whenever it suits you! You don’t get to⏤”

He’s stunned into silence. He’s the one that’s pretending like he cares about you?

Your mouth opens and closes, so angry that you cannot quite find the words. “You don’t get to just fucking try and sacrifice yourself for me! What the fuck!”

He steps closer, disbelief lighting a second sun in his chest.

You lash out. “Stay away from me!”

He catches it in his hand, and you try to fucking headbutt him. He dodges that, too, and then he’s pulling you into him, as tight as his heart feels.

You stiffen. Frankly, he doesn’t give a shit, not when he’s figured out how you really feel.

“I’m sorry,” He rasps into your ear. “I care for you. I’ve liked you since we were fucking six, and you shoved your stupid fucking sunflowers in my face. I was angry. I’m sorry. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll have me.”

You do not move. Do not breathe, and for all of a second, he thinks: this is it.

And then, you crumple.

He can count the number of times he’s seen you cry on one hand, but you weep into his shoulder now, a year’s worth of repressed emotions wrung out of you in an instant. You melt into him so perfectly he feels as if he was made for you, the weight of you so perfect and familiar in his arms. “You’re so fucking stupid ,” He thinks you are saying though it’s somewhat unintelligible, between your sobs and the way your voice is muffled from being pressed into his chest.

He chuffs in your ear. “Feel free to add blind and ugly to the list, if you’d like.”

You laugh, broken and teary, but then your arms rise, and you are wrapping them around him.

He thinks: it’s okay if the world ends right then and there, so long as he gets to hold you; just like this; just then and there; just for a moment longer.

( He thinks of you and your sunflowers, your liar’s smile. How your face had lit up in absolute delight at the sound of his first sneeze, and how you’d stepped forward to thrust it further into his face, a wicked grin on yours all the while. How you lie your way into weekly dinners, and he’s furious , swearing he won’t talk to his parents for the whole of a month⏤ but then you’re there, in his room and making fun of his figurines.

You say, somewhat disinterestedly, that you think you remember a new All Might one on the market. He caves, and his vow lasts only a week.

He thinks of you and your sunflowers, your liar’s smile. How he had always hated the sight of them before you; a young god faced with his one mortal weakness, but as time went on, he learned how he did not quite mind the look of them on you. He thinks of you and your sunflowers, your liar’s smile; soft and lovely under the candlelight, scared and shaking and terrified but still believing wholly in him, just as he does you.

He thinks he has loved you since forever. )

Absent-mindedly, he presses his mouth to your hair.

And in the light of the dawn, pink-streaked and painting you awash in yellow, you look up at him, and you smile.

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socyy

1 year ago

BEST BIG BROTHER EVER 🥲

15K notes View Post

socyy

10 months ago

this boy’s too young to be singing the blues.

katsuki never really knew why he hated the rain as much as he did, it was like everytime it rained, his mood quickly turned sour as he went upstairs to his room, trying to distract himself from the gloomy weather that overtook the outside world.

he never knew why he hated it so bad, at least, not until now.

not until your unconscious body was tossed aside by shigaraki, like you were some piece of trash that he had to dispose of in order to fully gain the power he desired.

the boy was already on the ground, slipping in and out of consciousness when he turned on his side, seeing you lying there with your eyes closed. bruises and bloody cuts littered your face, your beautiful face. the rain hitting your body with soft taps, smudging every liquid covering your face. all he wanted to do in that moment, where he couldn’t move his body more than a couple inches, was to touch your face, hold it in his hands and whisper to you how everything would be okay. how izuku would make everything okay.

his hand never fully made its’ way to your face before it fell onto your body, the boy being rendered fully unconscious as one of his forearms rested on your collarbone, so close and yet so far at the same time.

katsuki now had a reason to truly hate the rain.

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socyy

11 months ago

CHAPTER 11: POISON ROOT

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

It disgusted you a little bit, needing them like a fiending addict. Living with yourself and yourself alone was starting to get old, though you aren’t sure how much left of you feels whole. You were always fruit split in between a blade, all the gory parts splayed out by the hand of someone greater than you.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: explicit content (18+ mdni) , unprotected sex, drunk sex, threesome, oral sex, cumplay, phone sex, mentions of depression, angst, descriptions of mild gore

ੈ✩ wc: 7k

ੈ✩ a/n: here's a nice and fat chapter for you before we enter The Dark Ages <3

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

“Sorry, what?”

Yaga scowls at you and you’re unfazed. Mostly, you’re exasperated.

“I’ve repeated myself twice already,” he says calmly. More so brusquely, but you didn’t care enough to gauge his reaction. You’re too busy processing his words.

“I—I know, I’m sorry,” you mutter. “But why me? Shoko’s technique is way stronger than mine.”

“Shoko’s technique is not your technique. And unlike her, you actually engage in combat.”

“Because the boys forced me—”

He brings a hand to your shoulder in an attempt for reassurance. You freeze.

“Your technique is remarkable. Stronger than you think,” Yaga sighs, almost in resignation. He doesn’t seem particularly enthused about what he’s proposing to you, but you consider that you’d probably worn him down over the past half hour.

He rolls his eyes at the look on your face. Mouth parted like an animal struck with fear.

“But—”

“There hasn’t been anyone with a technique like yours in over ten years. I remember it. I had a family friend as a teacher here first—she talked about a boy that could regenerate cells. Practiced on plants and small animals as a child until he was able to resurrect bigger ones at your age.”

“That boy isn’t me,” you protest, your brows furrowing.

“He isn’t,” Yaga snaps back. “He died, and his death could’ve been prevented. This is why I want you to do this. I want you to be strong enough so that the same thing doesn’t happen to you.”

You swallow and look down, pretending to be interested in your thumbs. Your hands are delicate compared to anyone else’s. You had always admired people who could make something out of nothing, people who sculpted, crafted. Sometimes, you often wonder if what you do could be considered the same.

You haven’t told anyone, but it’s easy to destroy things with your hands. Much easier than it is to build anything up, to heal.

You’d tried it during long walks through the forest. On your way back from solo missions, you’d take routes that were less traveled, needing to clear your head. Once or twice, you remember finding animals that were victims of hunting. Broken limbs, bleeding out too much for you to save. You’d practice the darker parts of your technique, letting quick rot take away their misery.

“For how long?”

“Just two months. July and August.”

You take a deep breath. You could be alone in Kyoto for two months. The boys would survive. At least, you think Suguru would.

When you tell Satoru the next day, it’s a disaster.

“You’re what?”

“Satoru,” you warn, crossing your arms.

Dealing with him is arduous. You knew he would react this way. He looks at you with irritation, nipping at your bare thigh just to see you pout. You were in the middle of reading when he had barged in, craving the scent of your moisturizer on your inner thighs. Needed the whipped softness of your flesh squeezed in between his hands after some heated sparring with Suguru.

“You can’t.”

“That’s not your decision—”

“You can’t. What did that old man say? Some other guy had your technique and died?”

“I’m not going to die!” you huff, rolling your eyes.

Satoru frowns, his blue eyes glowing. He was free of missions for the past week, treating you to dates whenever he could. It seems that you’ve ruined his bliss. That ugly thought in his head festered in his mind again — the need to possess you. Trap you in a glass cage to stay alive forever like you were his enchanted rose.

“Like hell you won’t,” he mutters. “Which is why you’re staying.”

“I want to get stronger, Satoru.”

“You didn’t even want to be a sorcerer in the first place! And now you’re desperate to train with your little cell regeneration? Are you gonna dabble in necromancy?”

You frown at his condescending tone. He isn’t taking you seriously. He never does. Satoru has always had his way of belittling others, but he’d sworn to never do that to you given your history. You take a deep breath.

“It’s just… an independent study, alright? This could help me in the future. I could go to medical school with Shoko or something, you know? If you’re so scared of me dying because of combat, then I could just focus on the regeneration part and—”

“And what about the other part? How you make things rot and disintegrate?” he asks you incredulously, nearly snarling.

“That’s another thing I can learn to control.”

“But–”

“I didn’t have private lessons like you! I’m not a prodigy like you. Can I just have this one thing?” you plead with exhaustion. You can see the way his eyes flicker with a quiet rage, his mouth turned down into a pout. Petulant even at his big age.

Satoru sighs heavily. He nuzzles his face into your hand, kissing the heartline. You almost feel proud of yourself for not giving into him before the conversation began. He’d come into your room wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves messily cut off, exposing the hard lines of his stomach. Just a gaze had ripped away your autonomy, brain dumb at the sight of him.

You wanted to lick him clean before he opened his damn mouth.

“I won’t tell you what to do,” he says in defeat.

“Thanks.”

You sit with him for a while, staring at the ceiling, hair strewn around your pillow. Silence fills the air save for the sound of his breathing. Eventually, he curls into you, nose into your bare shoulder as he mumbles unintelligible things. His mouth in the shape of I’ll miss you.

“I know,” you murmur. “I will, too.”

Suguru copes by getting buzzed in the daytime. He liked the hope on your face, how the light hit your eyes in a certain way. It meant something more. He knew that you were worth more.

Lately, Suguru feels like less.

Not particularly less than anyone else, though he knows that he’s certainly less than Satoru just by default. He remembers the mission all too clearly—it’s the only thing that haunts his nightmares. The blankness on Satoru’s face, his willingness to kill a group of people just for the sake of it.

He thought he’d lost Satoru forever, that he’d fucked up the mission by letting a bullet go through Riko’s head. But then, of course, Satoru survived. Of course Satoru found a way to bring himself back to life. Everything should be fine, because Satoru came out alive, and so did he. So did you.

It didn’t feel like enough. The taste of curses started to get worse, if that was even possible. Suguru has been starting to believe that he didn’t deserve anything palatable. That the universe was working against him maybe, because his depressive spirals last longer now.

And you’re fucking leaving.

He knows he can have you whenever he wants, but he likes to lick the taste of you out of Satoru’s mouth.

He bites Satoru’s lip and it makes the boy yelp.

“What the hell was that for?” Satoru pouts. Suguru only grins wolfishly.

“Thought you wanted me to make you feel better. You don’t like it rough?”

“Of course I like it rough,” Satoru grunts. “But you know I hate teeth.”

“On your dick.”

Satoru pauses, rolling his eyes, then sinks his teeth into Suguru’s neck instead.

“You smell like a dive bar. It’s fucking 3 pm.”

“Day off, bitch,” Suguru mutters.

Satoru pushes Suguru against the mattress and spoons him, rutting against his ass. It’s always a little violent with them. You used to joke about it—something about dogs and masculinity. Satoru kept wanting to fuck like it was a cage match. Bull-headed, annoying. For Suguru, intimacy always felt like a car crash no matter who it was with.

“You’re not fucking my ass,” Suguru mumbles.

Satoru whines childishly, of course.

“Ran out of lube.”

“Spit?” Satoru begs, his eyes comically large.

“Fuck you, dude,” Suguru scoffs.

“I’m trying!”

Suguru turns to fall onto the bed facing Satoru, then shoves his head downward. He feels numb despite his throbbing cock. He knows Satoru’s mouth is probably watering for him.

“C’mon,” Suguru slurs, unzipping his shorts. “You need to work on giving head.”

“Hey!”

“Not my fault she does it better than you.”

Satoru huffs but leans over the end of the bed anyway, his limbs too long to crouch on the bed. He spits on Suguru’s cock and pumps agonizingly slowly, coaxing out guttural sounds vibrating out of the boy’s throat.

For once, Suguru feels a little powerful when the Jujutsu world’s boy-god chokes over his dick. He looks down and pushes his head down, reveling in the sound of him gagging, throat slack. Not as good as you, but getting better. The drool makes him look pretty. It matched the glazed look in Satoru’s eyes.

Suguru nearly finishes right then and there, the barbed wire inside of his body starting to untangle until there’s a knock on his door. Of course you knock—the polite girl you are.

“S’unlocked,” he calls after you. Satoru makes a noise. Something in between a moan and a sound of protest.

Suguru likes your wide eyes. You’re out of your school uniform, dressed in a white number with embroidered flowers at the hem that hits halfway above your knees.

“Oh… I—”

“C’mere, baby,” Suguru rasps, his hand reaching out for you. He’s so close, threading his fingers through Satoru’s hair before pulling at his snowy mop.

Satoru coughs, his throat raw. It makes Suguru laugh. You watch like you’re outside of your own body, eyes wide. It was easy for them to get you under a spell.

It doesn’t take long for their hands to grope you, have your dress pooling at your waist so that your bare ass is on display. Heathens. Being with them was always like throwing yourself to the wolves.

“So wet,” Suguru groans, circling a finger in the heat hiding behind your underwear. “Wanted a proper send-off, angel? Gonna miss us all the way in Kyoto, aren’t you?”

You can’t respond when your head is already so dizzy with Satoru’s teeth on your collarbone.

“Don’t talk about that, I’ll lose my boner,” Satoru huffs.

“What a baby.”

“Stop arguing,” you roll your eyes.

Suguru decides to be selfish, his dick already out and pulsing from the tease of Satoru’s tongue. He slides it along your folds, wetness pooling right underneath him. It makes him groan, his insides white-hot. He’d been craving this since he’d woken up this morning. The heat was making his moodiness deliquesce into desperation burning like acid in his stomach. He needed you and Satoru like a bullet begging to be lodged, piercing out of a bannister.

“Not fair,” Satoru grumbles, his knees bent as he gropes you. Rutting against the mattress pathetically as he whines, his desperation puppy-like.

His mouth is salty, leftover from Suguru’s precum. His hair smelled like Suguru’s too—he must’ve been copying his hair routine for the hell of it. It was enough to keep him close without asking to sew himself into the boy’s skin.

Suguru looks down at you and your blissed-out face, vulnerable before he’s even entered you. Your mouth is wet from Satoru’s kisses, spit drooling out of the corner of your pink mouth. Suguru smears it around and already imagines himself pulling out of you to finish there instead, just to see it on your lips. He’d like to see you cry again one last time.

You hum when you’re filled with him. Stuttering hips hitting slack thighs. Soft despite the violence inside him, the little voice in his head taunting him to wreck you.

He likes you like this, first. Daisy-soft, his fingers in your mouth until you gag. Yelping in time with Satoru’s stupid whines.

“Twigs,” Satoru breathes, his hot breath fanning your jaw. “Can I put it in your ass?”

You groan, shaking your head as Suguru howls with laughter.

July, 2010

Gakuganji has you on a leash. It hasn’t even been a week and you’ve already gone on two missions, each that ended with you covered in blood, but luckily unscathed. Satoru would have a fit if he knew. The ghost of him hovers on your shoulder at your weakest moments — taunting you, challenging you. You know he wouldn’t be as cruel if he was with you physically, but your psyche conjures him in a way that feels like punishment.

You can’t escape him, either. He’s needier than you expect — visiting you during off times during your weekends, treating them like serendipitous encounters. You don’t believe him, and you shouldn’t.

(He warps to you when he gets in fights with Suguru. When he gets too horny to find someone at a bar, because if it’s not Suguru, it’s you. But he could never tell you that.)

You like to keep yourself busy in Kyoto. Whether it’s immersing yourself in your studies or practicing your technique, you can occupy yourself easily, even if you’re bombarded by images of veiny hands, long black hair, pink mouths. Blue eyes that are too bright, even in your dreams.

You spend most of your time by yourself, anyway. It’s what you need. If not that, then you’re at the local bars with Utahime-senpai, who transferred to Kyoto months before.

“Are you their little plaything?” she teases. You’re loosened up after a few beers, all on her tab, but the mention of the boys sobers you up immediately. You scowl.

“What?” She holds her hands up in surrender. “Everybody knows… Shoko kind of already told me.”

“Of course she did,” you snort.

“I’m just saying, you should be careful. They’re insatiable. And never in their right mind. I could advocate for Geto-kun, but I’m sure Gojo’s already corrupted him.”

Corrupted. It’s a funny notion. You wonder if you’ve been corrupted by both of them. Satoru as your first didn’t bother you. To have Suguru as your second only complicated things. You haven’t known anything else but them. You aren’t sure if this should concern you until Utahime talks about it.

“They’re kind of the same in that way,” you mumble.

“Are they both your boyfriends?” Utahime giggles.

“N-No…”

“So it’s not serious? I know I’m not much older than you, but I still went through a few flings. You shouldn’t let them keep you on a chain.”

“They’re not–”

“Are you sure?” she laughs. “You’ve been checking your phone every five minutes. It’s like they brainwashed you.”

“Hime,” you frown.

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs. “There are lots of men around here staring at you.”

“No, there aren’t.”

“Someone is staring at you right now. Behind you. Blonde. Tacky if he wasn’t like, a little hot like he is.”

“Shut up.”

She gives you a pointed look that causes you to look over your shoulder. Lo and behold, there is a man of that description making glances at you with a cocky smirk. It reminds you of the way Satoru looks at you. It makes your stomach flip.

“See?”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you mumble.

You move past the crowd to the single stall, plastered in posters from vintage porn magazines and graffiti. Your phone’s about to die, but the group chat with you and the boys has unread messages. It’s mostly Satoru complaining, arguing with Suguru about things that you couldn’t care less about. There are separate messages from them, too. Satoru’s suggestive selfies and Suguru’s words of affirmation. You scoff at the difference between them.

When you return, Utahime grins at you like she’s plotting.

“What did you do?” you narrow your eyes.

“He came over here! I knew it. He was interested in you,” she beams.

“What?”

“Relax. He’s a sorcerer. And I gave him your number.”

“Hime!” You shove her arm lightly, groaning when she laughs.

“You need to get laid by someone who isn’t an idiot.”

You roll your eyes. The many beers are making your head swim too much for you to actually be angry. If anything, your cheeks feel warm at the prospect of someone else being interested in you. It’s not something you’ve experienced in your youth, or now for that matter, since Satoru had sunken his teeth in you so quickly.

Images of him talking to other girls at parties flash in your mind, making you grimace. Maybe Utahime was doing you a favor.

The bachelor in question is nowhere to be found. You curse yourself for not getting a good look at him. A pit forms in your stomach at the idea of him texting you – a handsome stranger who watched you babble drunkenly to Utahime. It occurred to you that you hadn’t even considered yourself something desirable in a context that wasn’t bound to Satoru or Suguru.

On the walk home, the thought consumes you. You aren’t sure if you even know yourself without them. During most of your life, you’ve only known obedience. Intimacy with Satoru was no different, you realize. You were wrapped around his finger since you were children – it didn’t matter that you were apart for years. It would always be him.

You aren’t sure if this bothers you or not. You try to push the thought away, shaking your head slightly as if daydreams of him would fall out of your head. It doesn’t work, not really. You’re drunk. Naturally, you think of his pink mouth. The veins on his hands.

You unlock the door of your room. When you enter, darkness envelops you, which you’re used to, if not for the bright blue eyes that stare back at you.

“Jesus!” you mutter, cursing to yourself once you can get the nearest lamp on.

“What? Not happy to see me?” he slurs, flashing you a sloppy smile.

“Can you at least give me a heads-up before you show up randomly?”

“That ruins the surprise, baby,” he purrs, walking over to you to set his hands on your hips. Trapping you gently.

“You’re drunk.”

“Hm?”

“You’re. Drunk. Why are you here?”

“Had a mission nearby. Then I went to a bar to relax. And then, I thought, warping to Tokyo would take too much for a drunk. Why not stay here?”

“I’m not a motel.”

“C’mon, baby,” he pouts. “You’re not gonna kick me out, are you?”

You scoff, moving past him to sit on your bed and take off your shoes.

Satoru chuckles, taking a seat right next to you, thigh touching yours. “You’re drunk, too. I can smell it.”

“I haven’t even been here for a full month and this is like, the third time you’ve surprised me. What’s going on with you?”

“What? Can’t miss my lover?”

He says lover like it’s an inside joke. He never says girlfriend. Never partner.

“You’re so needy.”

“You like me that way,” Satoru says, his voice velvety. He’s not in his uniform, but a light blue button-down and slacks. You wonder if he’s planned this or if he dressed up for someone else, running to you as the safest option because you’re always there. Always willing.

You’d been ready to sink into your shitty mattress and dream of him. You hadn’t been anticipating the real thing in front of you. It was stupid, how he took your breath away, as if he was still something new to you. As if he hadn’t been in the back of your mind since you were a little kid, always.

“I’m tired, Satoru,” you sigh.

“You sure?” he grins. “You smell like beer. Still trying to have some fun tonight?”

You narrow your eyes at him and he laughs. He comes closer, pinching the meat of your thigh right under the hem of your skirt, chuckling when you swat his hand away.

“So short. Who’s this for, huh?” he taunts.

You swallow back an insult the moment you look down at the way his large hands play with a loose thread of your skirt. How large they are compared to your thigh, the calloused tips of his fingers running circles in your skin.

“No one,” you breathe.

“You cheating on me, Twigs?”

“Yeah, with Utahime,” you roll your eyes.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that. Sounds hot, to be honest.”

Your cursed energy flares. You hate when he belittles you, but you could never do anything about it. You could only fall into his trap, giving into him the way he knows you will. You don’t even notice that he’s caged you within his arms, his hands settling on your hips as his body backs you into your bed. The back of your knees hit the mattress.

His breath smells sweet. It usually does, but it’s something sour this time. Something citrusy, along with the smell of something much too alcoholic. One of those whiskey sours, you guessed. You don’t realize how drunk he is until you look him in the eyes, his blue irises unfocused despite the desperation in his gaze.

“Of course not,” he grins, leaning in to inhale your scent. “You’d never. My sweet girl. My best girl, right?”

“You say that like I’m one of many,” you scoff.

“Are you jealous?” he rumbles, laughing. “As if there’s anyone else I like as much as you…”

He says girl and you think of Suguru. An exception, just barely. You realize how much you miss him, too.

Your eyes flutter closed as Satoru backs you into your bed, teeth grazing your earlobe. You aren’t sure if it’s him or the drunkenness of your brain. You don’t even notice his fingers massaging your thighs, trailing up to hook your underwear to the side to tease your dripping core. It’s his teasing laughter that snaps you awake.

“So wet… did you know I was coming, baby? Or were you expecting someone else?”

You don’t answer. Your breath hitches at the contact of his eager fingers prodding you, pushing upwards into your pulsating cunt before you can protest. The wounded noise you make only spurs him on further.

“You went to a bar, right? Were you thinking about me when you were there? Got yourself all wound up?”

You don’t reply. He’s too busy pushing his fingers to the very edge, stimulating the spot that makes your knees buckle before you can even form a thought.

You gasp, your mouth parting. Slack-jawed, eyes rolling back as you get closer to the edge before he’s even inside you. It could be pathetic if you cared, but Satoru always made everything around you melt, like you weren’t in your own mind anymore. You accepted being a body that belonged to him, nothing more.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he breathes, his lips tickling your jaw. “You’re so quiet.”

“Satoru,” you sigh. His other hand rubs the small of your back, touching the bare skin underneath your thin shirt.

He digs his fingers in further, knuckle-deep until he hears you make a pained noise. He grins at your broken moan like he’d just won a prize. He doesn’t stop, either — he wanted to hear more of those sounds out of your mouth. It was proof that you were still his, wrapped around his finger.

You try to catch your breath as you lay back on your bed, his strong arms hoisting you up to the wall. You hiss at the feeling of his teeth on your thighs, biting desperately. Satoru was already sweating despite only coaxing bliss from you once.

He claws at you, pulling at the buttons of your blouse and tugging your skirt down until you’re left bare for him. He groans at the sight of your silky skin, the way your chest heaves in anticipation. Everything about you is ripe, ready to break underneath his hands.

He’s less vocal this time when he takes you, pushing into you before you can say anything. He doesn’t realize how drunk he is until he does this, considering every sense of his was numb until he entered you, igniting his synapses on fire.

You whimper from the abruptness, aching between your legs. You think that you would’ve bled if you weren’t so in love with him, but you knew better. Anything from him made your entire body warm and pliant, wet beyond your comprehension. You hated it, sometimes.

But you couldn’t hate anything about it now. You were doused in bliss.

“My girl,” he slurs. “So fucking perfect. Say it.”

You mutter nonsense under your breath.

He bends you in half, your calves resting on his broad shoulders. He chuckles at your pathetic whines.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Fuck — I – I’m your girl,” you sob.

“My perfect girl,” he mutters, correcting you. He groans when he looks down at you, his hips stuttering. His thrusts are harder than usual on purpose — he’d rather die than tell you that he’d only warped to you because he was having a panic attack in his room alone.

He thought he could get his mind off of you, off of Suguru, who he’d assumed was angry with him all day. There were only dry texts from the both of you. No woman at the bar could compete, even if he managed to get a decent handjob in the bathroom. He could only think of you.

Satoru knew you’d hate him for it. He was disgusted with himself. He feels it now, aching inside the cavern of his chest when you moan his name, knowing he doesn’t deserve a praising word out of your mouth.

He whines, on the verge of tears as he rides out his orgasm in your cunt.

“Shit,” he hisses into the skin of your neck.

You can barely reply before he kisses down your stomach, licking himself out of you with his nails digging into your thighs.

“Satoru, what are you—oh, fuck—”

“Cum for me,” he slurs, lapping at your clit as he pushes his fingers into you. He pauses, mesmerized at the way his cum drips out of you, only for his fingers to push it back into the hilt, up to his knuckles.

You sob in protest, your thighs shaking as he plays with you. He doesn’t stop for a second. It’s almost as if he doesn’t realize you’re there, his heavy-lidded gaze fixed on the way your pussy swallows his fingers.

“S’too much,” you whine, grasping his wrist tightly.

“Fuckin’ love you,” he murmurs under his breath. You don’t hear him. Your body convulses as he continues to play you like an instrument. He only stops when he looks up to see tears pricking your eyes.

“S-Satoru…”

“Fuck,” he mutters. He finally retracts, licking his fingers as he looks at you intensely. “Mine… you’re all mine.”

The glassy look in his eyes is from the alcohol, you assume, but there’s something tantalizingly too real about the expression on his face. Raw with something he only buries inside his gut. He snaps out of it like it’s not something you’re supposed to see.

He grunts when he lays his head on your lap, his fingers digging into your skin possessively as you tremble. You prop your head up on your pillow, trying to catch your breath as you stroke his hair.

“Why’d you get so drunk?” you ask quietly. “Were you alone?”

“Of course I was,” he scoffs, almost defensive. But he smells a sweetness on his skin that isn’t from you, and he knows you’ve already picked up on it.

“You could’ve texted or called me instead of breaking into my dorm.”

“You just hate fun,” Satoru mumbles.

Despite his attitude, he rubs his cheek against your thigh like he’s a pet. He thinks about taking you again, just to shut you up — enough to have both of you sweating, the musk of your sex drowning out any remnants from the bitch that Satoru had tried to use hours before.

Nothing could replace you and he had to live with that.

He nips at your thigh, his mouth getting dangerously close to your core. You whine as you pull him back by his scalp, like the scruff of a dog. Satoru is always insatiable when he’s drunk, which is saying something considering what he’s like sober. His cravings for you are always intense. When he’s not in his right mind, you’re more considered prey than a craving.

You don’t have the energy to respond to him. His warmth satiates you for now as he locks his arms around your bare waist. The light breathing fanning your stomach calms you.

When you wake up, he’s nowhere to be found, but there’s a small floral arrangement on your desk. White orchids and blue hyacinths.

___

August, 2010

You hate bringing anything back to life as much as you hate desecration.

It’s unnatural — though you know that nothing about the Jujutsu world is natural. Everything to you is a myth you have to deal with. After knowing Satoru for so long and seeing what nasty curses humanity could birth, you shouldn’t be stunted.

It makes you feel a bit ill when you realize how much power your hands wield. As ordinary as you’ve always been, these days you often wish that you were the true epitome of it. Only human, unable to see the horrors of the world. Left in the dark when it came to sorcery. Perhaps you aren’t cut out for this, despite how much you tried to convince Satoru you were.

His voice echoes in your mind. His pleading. The ways he wanted to protect you. He’d belittled your technique for a reason, maybe. You aren’t sure you’re cut out for this shit.

Necromancy is only exciting the first couple of times. After that, it’s the reanimation of body parts that freaks you out. It doesn’t matter that it’s the revival of small birds and rodents on a lab table. You feel like you’re playing God and not even doing a decent job of it.

It catches up to you in your dreams. The image of you getting held down, leaving you to resort to your technique. Rotting flesh. Even in your unconscious, the smell is somehow striking, as if you’re really there. Other times, you find horror in the reanimation of corpses under your hand. Split limbs coming together. Limbs that belong to people you love.

Tonight, you’re shaken by the image of Suguru mauled beyond belief. Sacrilegious violence that makes your stomach turn.

When you wake up in a sweat, gasping, the alarm clock on your bedside table reads 1:12 am. You dial his number before you can even come to your senses.

“Twigs.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

You hear Suguru chuckle, deep and sweet like teeth sunken into cake. You’re filled with warmth almost immediately.

“What’s up? Isn’t it past your bedtime?” he breathes.

“Had a nightmare,” you mumble.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No,” you sigh.

“Fine. What are you thinking about, then?”

“You,” you mumble.

There’s silence on the other end. Despite this, you can still hear his grin. You can see his little smirk perfectly in your head.

“Yeah?” his voice lowers. “What about me?”

“Y-your hands,” you mumble. “You make me feel safe.”

“Is that right?”

You make a small noise that shows your agreement, but it’s noncommittal. You hum at the thought of him. You’re sleep-dazed, partially wishing for this moment that he was more like Satoru. Able to talk your ear off without any effort from your end.

Suguru had always known you differently. He had you memorized as much as Satoru did, but uniquely, given the similarities between your personalities. He knew how you worked and he never held it against you.

Satoru would probably try to pry it out of you. Suguru would already know.

And at this moment, he knows. It’d be infuriating if you didn’t see it coming.

“You’re upset,” Suguru says.

“No.”

“You are. Or you’re pent up, which is also like being upset. Need some catharsis?”

“Maybe,” you mumble.

“Tell me what’s wrong, then. Or tell me about your nightmare.”

“No.”

He laughs.

“Stubborn as always,” he purrs.

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” you whisper.

“You want to hear me be mean to you. You like not being in control. That’s what makes you feel safe, isn’t it, princess?”

“Shut up.”

“C’mon, baby,” he laughs. “Give me something to work with.”

Your eyes nearly glaze over as you watch the flickering lights outside of your dorm. A broken street lamp flashes on and off, shadowing your room in darkness only to illuminate seconds later, back and forth. Unpredictably so. You aren’t sure what else you should look at while you’re still so drunk on Suguru’s voice. You think maybe you’d handle this phone call better if you were far from sober.

“I fucked someone else yesterday.”

The line goes silent. Your heartbeat picks up.

After almost an eternity, you hear Suguru’s voice again. It’s soft, almost cooing. It feels awfully dangerous despite this.

“Yeah? Who?”

You swallow thickly.

“This guy who got my number last month. Like, I didn’t give it to him — Utahime did,” you ramble. “But then we started texting and stuff and he’s… funny. He, uh, came over yesterday.”

“Did you like it?”

You imagine your throat closes up. Part of you wishes it would, that you’d just pass out immediately for no reason just so you didn’t have to have this conversation. You curse yourself for even bringing it up.

“Y-Yes.”

“You don’t sound so sure about that,” he chuckles.

“I am…”

“You don’t have to be so scared, baby. I know that Satortu took away your virginity, but he’s not some kind of god watching over you.”

“I know,” you huff.

“But you feel guilty, don’t you? Like you’re betraying him?” he teases.

You open your mouth to say something, then close it. You notice how he talks about Satoru and not himself.

“Do you care?”

“I know how you feel about me.” His answer is simple. Blunt. It almost sounds sarcastic, but Suguru often talks like he’s cock-sure about everything. Even if he isn’t, he’s always held a certain confidence that was different from what Satoru exuded.

Satoru was a bad liar, to you, at least.

“Tell me about your boy. What’s his name?”

“He’s not–” you gruff. “Naoya. His name is Naoya.”

“That Zenin brat?”

“Huh?”

“He’s in the Zenin clan. A right bastard, I’ve heard.”

“He seems fine,” you mumble.

“Someone’s defensive,” he teases.

You pause, staring at the darkness of your ceiling. You fix your shorts, your fingers grazing the wetness of your core. You didn’t even realize you were aroused.

“I should go back to sleep,” you whisper.

“I thought you couldn’t. That’s why you called me, right? You need some help?”

“I don’t need help,” you scoff. “I just… I had a nightmare and wanted to talk to you.”

Suguru smiles. He knows you can’t see it, but he’s beaming in the darkness of his room. He’d been restless for the past few days after some disagreements with Satoru. He tried to blame the heat on physical altercations — the sun burning down to rev up the irritation in their shared systems like they were still boys. Always wanting to pin each other to the ground.

They didn’t have you to mediate, so they’d come out of arguments with bruises. Marks from skin tugged too harshly. The ghost of teeth biting down on flesh.

“I wish you were here, babygirl,” he sighs, his tone desperate. You almost cringe at it — you always assume he’s playing with you.

“Yeah?” you snort.

“Mhm. It’s funny. You didn’t even wake me up when you called. I was already awake, thinking of you.”

“Were you, now?”

“Mhm,” Suguru hums. “I just kept thinking about your thighs. How small your leg is compared to my hand.”

Your breath hitches and he almost laughs when he hears it.

“Can you do something for me, baby?” he asks. “Want you to touch yourself. Tell me how wet you are.”

You gulp. Your fingers prod at the hem of your athletic shorts, the nylon riding up as you squirm in your bed. Your index and middle fingers prod at the center of your core experimentally. You’re fucking dripping and it makes your breath hitch.

Suguru calls your name.

“I”m…” you stammer. “I’m wet. Why?”

“Poor thing. Maybe that’s why you can’t sleep, no?”

“I-I’m fine… I just—”

“You should play with your clit. Since I can’t be there to do it for you,” he breathes.

“What?”

“C’mon, sweetheart. I can tell my favorite girl just needs to relax. That’s why you called me, right?”

You whimper. It was maybe half-true. Suguru had stopped answering his texts as frequently as he usually did, and you missed the sound of his voice. The odd ache in your chest wasn’t something that you felt like exposing to anyone else, not even Satoru.

The silk of Suguru’s voice brings you back. You wanted to breathe him in, but he hadn’t visited like he said he would. Didn’t have the warping feature that Satoru had, which to this day, still startled you whenever it happened. Ocean eyes whipping your senses from thin air, like a lightning strike.

Despite your recent gripes about him, you needed the both of them like you needed air. At least to make it all more bearable. It disgusted you a little bit, needing them like a finding addict. Living with yourself and yourself alone was starting to get old, though you aren’t sure how much left of you feels whole. You were always fruit split in between a blade, all the gory parts splayed out by the hand of someone greater than you.

You needed Suguru’s musk, his hair in between your fingers as he rocked into you. Your hands were too small compared to his.

He has you panting, sweating through Kyoto’s mugginess. The dorms were in even worse shape here than on the main Tokyo campus, probably why Gakuganji was such a vapid old man. Everything was too hot and falling off the bone.

“I feel like I’m hallucinating. It’s like I can smell you through the phone,” Suguru murmurs, his voice like a mirage. You’d laugh if you weren’t so deep in your cunt, fingers pruning and pushed to the knuckles.

Suguru knew you would do anything for him, so he made you torture yourself because he wasn’t there to do it himself.

Your groans are muffled from you smothering your face in the sheets, knees pressing down and ass up. Willing to humiliate yourself without him even being there.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already,” he chides.

“I’m not,” you whine.

“How many times have you cum?”

“None.”

He laughs. “What are you thinking about?”

“You know what.”

You’re close to tears by the time he lets you cum. The sound of his voice hitting you deep in your core, insides permeated with the thought of him. Sweeter than smoked sugar.

It was the sound of his grunt that tipped you over, imagining him with black strands sticking to his high cheekbones with sweat. The apples of his face candy-pink. Where Satoru looked cherubic, Suguru looked like a girl’s first wet dream.

“Were you touching yourself?” you pant, coming down from your high. You don’t bother putting on your underwear again.

“Obviously,” he groans. The vibrations of his voice made the speaker blow off-kilter like the audio of a shitty VHS. “Came all over myself.”

You could fall asleep to the sound of his static hums. The chaos in your gut is settled by the time your alarm clock strikes devil’s hour.

“How are things?” you ask sleepily.

“With me?” Suguru asks. “Fine. Same as always.”

“You sound tired.”

“It’s three in the morning, sweetheart,” he chuckles dryly.

“Mm. My phone bill’s gonna be so high.”

“Get Satoru to pay for it.”

The bastard probably would, if you asked.

You don’t get much out of Suguru for the remainder you’re awake. His answers are deflective and clipped. He hangs up by the time he hears you breathing, knowing you’ve fallen asleep.

He sighs in his room, rummaging for his pills. If nightmares didn’t keep him up, then the sheer unwillingness of his brain’s tranquility was often enough for him to run a graveyard shift. Stumbling in the dark, half-dead. He’d gotten productive in finishing the video games he’d started with Satoru by himself. Not much else.

His throat feels dry. He couldn’t differentiate the tastes of anything anymore. It all tasted like curses.

___

You keep having dreams about Suguru.

Tonight, there’s two of him.

One is the image you’re used to – hair swept up in a bun. Broad chest in his Jujutsu Tech uniform. Eyes crinkling into half moons.

The other seems to be an alter ego. A cursed version, one with eyes to kill and blood on his hands. Hands that are trying to tear you apart.

When you grip his wrist, you can see the imprint of your hand on his skin. Flesh falling away, much too easily. The air around you splinters like you’re in a glitched matrix. The Suguru you know and love falters beside you, his skin suddenly sallow. Pale as bile.

When you scream, nothing comes out.

Pseudo-Suguru smiles as your Suguru fades away into ash. You stare into his cat-like gaze, the familiar of his mouth.

“Come with me,” he says.

It’s the last thing you hear before your body wakes you up in a sweat. You gasp as you jolt awake, fingers curling your damp bedsheets. You’re further startled by the crack of thunder as a torrential downpour occurs without warning — unusual for late August, considering the rainy season had died down weeks prior.

You sit up and reach for your phone almost automatically, your hands shaking as you go through your contacts. Your fingers hover over two names as you swallow thickly.

A few beeps follow the push of the call button.

“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”