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Floral Heartache

Falling in love with Midoriya Izuku had been easy, all things considered. Every time you see him, you think you couldn't love him more. And then you see him again, and you know you can, because you do. And it's such a warm feeling, gooey and sweet like honey, it's almost dumb. You wish you could hate him.

But that's all a little melodramatic, you don't often find yourself thinking like that. Those thoughts are reserved for nights alone, wine drunk and weepy. And for when you're hit with a quirk that makes flowers sprout in your lungs.

Izuku Midoriya/Reader

hanahaki disease, aged up characters, Pro Hero! Deku, implied smut, not actually unrequited love, angst, canon-typical violence, gore in the form of bloody flower puke and broken bones, past Hitoshi Shinsou/Reader, background BakuShin and EraserMic, parental Aizawa, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader has a mutation quirk (wings)

21.1k words | complete

notes: on ao3 this is 3 chapters, here it'll just be one part

♡♡♡

Falling in love with Midoriya Izuku had been easy, all things considered. It had been like falling asleep; slowly, and then all at once. And after the feelings were known, it had been as easy and automatic as breathing and blinking and being. Even if you didn't know what to do with all the new things that came with falling in love with someone who didn't love you back. Falling in love with someone who loved the whole world too much meant there was little space for you. 

(He is someone that many people could fall in love with – probably have fallen in love with. You can see the way other friends of his toe the line of platonic. Ochako, Shoto – all of them, any of them.

And you pointedly ignore the way it makes rage and jealousy spread through your chest and down to your toes like molten lava.

He is not yours to claim, to take, or to love. He is not yours.)

You sat with those feelings for years, debating and thinking too hard about it for too long, before eventually deciding that his friendship was too important. Telling him how you felt would just ruin it, and you weren't willing to risk that. Your feelings for him were something that you would never tell him about. Even if they never went away, even if you ended up old and wrinkly and alone because of it – that would be fine. Because you would still be his friend, and that's all you needed anyway. There's no room between you and him and the world for a silly, little thing like love.

Every time you see him, you think you couldn't love him more. And then you see him again, and you know you can, because you do. And it's such a warm feeling, gooey and sweet like honey, it's almost dumb.

It makes you mad, how easy it is to love him; how hard he thinks it is to be loved, despite being the first to openly love anyone at any time. You wonder if he knows already, that your heart has moved on its own to make space for his beside it. That there's a hole carved in your chest just for him. If only he knew – if only you could tell him that you want to pour your soul into his hands. That you want him to let it seep through his fingers to the dirt, just so you could finally get relief in knowing he doesn't want it. You wish you could tell him so he could be too sweet and too kind when he says no, he doesn't love you back. Even if only to allow you a goddamn moment of clarity, so you could mourn a relationship that was never going to happen anyways.

With some weird, misplaced guilt in your chest, you wish you could fall out of love with him. You wish you could hate him.

But that's all a little melodramatic, you don't often find yourself thinking like that. He's a good friend, a good man, and a great Hero. You couldn't hate him, even if you tried. Those thoughts are reserved for nights alone, wine drunk and weepy and hoping that maybe one day he'll confirm all those tabloids about him and Ochako.

And for when you're hit with a quirk that makes flowers sprout in your lungs.

The villain hadn’t even been the one to hit you. It had been some toddler caught in the middle of the fight. He’d been scared, said so himself through his snot and tears when you leapt down to grab him, wings spread like a shield to protect him from rubble and debris. You remember him crying, asking for his mom, and pressing his hands to your chest. Too young to have control, his panic had his quirk going haywire. And then you were falling, tumbling down towards the concrete and choking on pretty, pink petals.

Everything had ended up fine, all things considered. Hitoshi had swung down and caught you and the boy. And you’d been practically shoved into an ambulance and taken away. And now you’re here, sitting in a private hospital room after being poked and prodded for over an hour. And all anyone can tell you is that you have a garden growing in your chest, and it's all for a man you know you have no chance with. They'll wither, you know, and you'll probably wither with them.

“The quirk in your system is similar to the hanahaki disease. I'm sure the quirk analyst has already explained it to you. Unfortunately, any romantic feelings you may be experiencing won't aid in your situation,” Doctor Kimura is kind when he speaks, eyes maybe too soft. “The flowers have already begun blooming, and you're likely to start coughing and vomiting within the next twenty four hours. Maybe sooner.”

“‘m not in love with anyone. There are no feelings to be unrequited,” you mutter, watching the way the doctor frets with his stethoscope. Your wings twitch behind you, heavy and hurt and begging to curl around you. The lie slips between your teeth easily, coated in pain and an aching tiredness. It's stupid, and you don't know why you do it. The quirk manifesting in your chest is proof enough of your feelings. Maybe it's humiliation. Maybe it's because saying it will make this all a little too real. Maybe you're just a coward.

Doctor Kimura hums, ignorant to your inner turmoil, and his fingers pause around his stethoscope before smoothing down over his crisp, white lab coat. You're reminded of your own clothes and hold back a wince at the sight of your torn and tattered hero suit. It feels out of place in a hospital; too dirty for such a sterile environment.

The heart monitor behind you mocks you, spiking with your pulse the very moment green eyes and green curls appear in your mind.

“The flowers in your lungs say otherwise,” he says, leaning just past you to click off the screen that shows your heart rate, “I won't force you to tell me who it is, that's none of my business. But, your health is and I seriously urge you to… resolve the issue. The quirk itself won't kill you, but the long-lasting effects can.”

“And if I don't confess? What happens then?”

“Unfortunately, due to lack of knowledge on the quirk, we don't know. The boy is still being checked out for any traumas, so we've decided to wait before asking his mother any questions regarding his quirk,” he clears his throat, turning to point at the screen of your scan results, “We did determine that the flowers growing inside your lungs are anemone, also known as windflowers.”

“Does that mean something?” your throat is sore already, and your voice catches as you speak. Doctor Kimura eyes you warily, and offers you a cup of water. After you've downed it, he sits down on the stool behind him.

“Typically, yes, but we can't be sure if it means anything under the influence of a quirk,” he says, “We can start you on some medication, they’ll help with the coughing and vomiting for now. But they won't work forever. Your best bet is to confess these feelings and get an answer back. We recommend you have a solid support system for something like this, is there anyone I can call?”

“No, I'm fine. Thanks,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi makes you take the next week off. And from the way he offers you a weak grin, you know Aizawa is really the one behind the decision. You accept, only because you know if you don’t someone will call Katsuki. Or, worse, Izuku. And having either of those men show up at your doorstep is literal nightmare fuel right now.

The time off is needed, though, may even be appreciated (if he hadn't forced it on you), because twenty-four hours after your hospital visit, nearly on the dot, you puke. Your cat yowls when you jerk up from your bed, gagging so violently your body shakes and your wings tremble. Petals are behind your teeth in seconds, and you, much like a child who's had too many sweets, puke into your hands. You gag again as it spills between your fingers and on to your comforter. This is a new low, even for you. Globs of bloody, mucus covered petals burn their way up your throat, and you can’t do much other than sit up fully and let it happen. Your cat had jumped away in time to be unscathed, and you thank whatever god will listen for not letting you puke on your fucking cat. The thanks is followed up with a big, fat fuck you for making you puke in the first place, though. Which evens you out, you think. Keeps you in a nice gray area.

The petals are soft in your palm, pretty even, despite the blood, and clearly from a fully bloomed flower. Your nose wrinkles. At the mess of petals and broken stems, and the weird, floral scent, heavy with copper low notes. Someone would buy this in a perfume, you’re sure. Some freak – probably a villain.

You gag once, twice. And after five full minutes of deep, painful breaths, you get up to clean. The blanket is ruined – a shame really. It had been expensive, and the very first thing you bought yourself when you got this apartment. A thick, down comforter, soft on your wings and a pretty shade of green.

(The comforter Izuku had helped you pick out, grinning as he said it matched his hair. But that was definitely not the reason you caved and bought it. And you do not cry as you stuff it into a trash bag.)

(You do cry. You cry and try to scrub the blood soaked stain from the fabric, and cry some more when you finally give up.)

The shower you take after is rewarding in a way, washing away tears from your cheeks and blood from your chin. You stay in long enough for the water to run cold, and then another ten minutes after that, until your fingers are weird and pruned. And when you get out, you sit in nothing but your towel, on your blanket-less bed. Your hair is still soaked, dripping cold water down your neck and on your shoulders, but you make no move to dry it. The wall is suddenly the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen, and you cannot pull your eyes from where your paint is peeling. Somewhere behind you, your phone buzzes with a call, and you pointedly do not move to answer it. The buzzing stops. You blink, sigh, sniff. The buzzing starts again. Out of irritation, your wings search the bed for your phone and scoot it across the sheets to your hand. Without looking, you answer.

“What,”

Izuku breathes your name, and you feel your stomach drop and your wings go poofy the way they always do when you hear his voice, “Hitoshi told me you were on leave for the next week. Is everything okay? Is it because of the quirk you were hit with last night? I can–”

“Who told you that?”

“Uh,” Izuku makes a long, slow, squeaking noise. “No one?”

“Who called you, Midoriya?” you grumble, finally tearing your eyes from the wall to glare at your own reflection. You've looked better, and you've certainly looked worse. The skin under your eyes is shadowed and puffy, swollen with exhaustion and your pitiful bout of tears, and your raw, chapped lips look one smile away from bleeding. There's a bruise coloring your cheekbone, and a cut to go with it. And your poor wings, damp from the shower and missing a few too many feathers.

Your few fans would call this look sexy. Rugged, if you will. At this point in your career, looking rundown and beat to hell is your brand in the same way that being an emotionally constipated asshole was Katsuki's brand, and being perpetually exhausted was Hitoshi's. You tilt your head back, trying to understand how people find this attractive. Nothing stands out to you, you just look like the human equivalent of a soggy piece of bread.

But hero fans will be hero fans, and you learned the hard way that they find pretty much anything attractive so long as it's their favorite hero. The fanart is proof enough. And your handful of fans happen to be the weirdest brand of freak there is, unfortunately for you.

(According to Mineta, who apparently has a secret account he uses to look at fanart of not only himself, but the rest of former class 1-A students, your very few fans have an ongoing argument about your relationship with Hitoshi. Some call you sibling-coded, and others are insistent that you both have wild, nasty sex after a good villain take-down.

Why Mineta knows this, you don't know. And you are not about to ask him to go into any more detail about it than he already has.

And neither he, nor the fans, need to know that yeah, a couple years ago, maybe you did fuck Hitoshi every so often. It was nothing big, just a way to let off steam. Because you have that thing for Izuku Midoriya, and Hitoshi has that thing for Katsuki Bakugo. And you are both hopeless, sad fools who hold each other too close for fear of letting the chill of being unloved by those you crave seep through the cracks.)

“It wasn't Hitoshi!” Izuku says quickly. You can picture him waving his hands around frantically as he speaks – Jesus, you need to get it together.

“I know it wasn't. Who was it?”

“I’m listed as your emergency contact,” Izuku says, “They called me when you were admitted last night.”

“My emergency contact has been Aizawa for a year, you liar,” you scoff, narrowing your eyes at your reflection. Izuku knows this, and even cried when you told him. But having the Number One Pro Hero as your emergency contact felt wrong. Selfish. So you had it switched, much to his dismay.

“It doesn't– you–” Izuku whines, and then quietly says, “Aizawa called me.”

“I'm gonna knock that old man's teeth out. The whole point of changing it was so you didn't get called,”

“He's just worried. We all are. The doctor said this could…” his voice tapers off, and you can feel the guilt eating away at you, “You could die?"

“I won't die,"

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Two days pass, and if you could eat, you'd be eating your words. You feel like you're already dead. The coughing and vomiting only get worse, as expected, and you are damn near glued to your toilet. The petals and stems come up all in one piece, full flowers that make macabre and deconstructed bouquets. You suck on ice chips to soothe your throat and drink water when you can, but haven't eaten solid food in so long you think your stomach is digesting itself. And your wings suffer too, weak and droopy and unable to do much other than drag behind you uselessly.

Katsuki, unsurprisingly, is the first to actually visit you during your ban from work. He does not call, or text, or even knock when he arrives. And you immediately regret ever giving him a key to your apartment. He hollers your name from the living room, and you manage a grunt back before turning to puke into your toilet. His palm startles you, warm between your wings, comforting and oddly kind.

“Bad time,” you wheeze between hacks and gags. The flowers floating in your toilet mock you, dancing between blood stained water and tears. You pluck a fully bloomed one from the bowl, holding it gently between your pointer and thumb and twisting it beneath the florescent lights of your bathroom.

“Nasty,” Katsuki grunts. His nose wrinkles, and you mirror the look as you slap your other hand up to flush. He leans back from you, balanced on his toes, “You look like shit. Is that a full fucking flower?”

“‘m fine. Why are you here?”

“Because you're obviously not fuckin’ fine, dumbass. This is you dying,”

“Can everybody knock it off with that shit? Fucking– I'm fine–” a gag, “So just–” a heave, “Go away .”

“This is disgusting,” Katsuku scoffs, completely ignoring you. He pulls the towel hanging over your shower rod and turns to wet it in your sink before lowering himself to a crouch beside you. With gentle hands, he tilts your face up and wipes at your lips and chin, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, “Are you about to cry?”

“Fuck no,” he grunts. The crack in his voice and the way his lip trembles betrays him. He sniffs, “The stench of your puke is stinging my eyes. You look like shit, by the way. What's wrong with your wings?”

“Yeah, you said that already, thanks,” you snort and spread a wing out, “They're fine, just weird right now because I'm sick. And I haven't been able to, like, preen or whatever.”

“Can you still fly?”

“Negative,”

Katsuki stares at your outstretched wing. Your bathroom is significantly smaller like this as it is, with your wing stuck out completely to touch the wall opposite of you. But you feel more than cramped when he sucks his teeth and stands to his full height, filling the space with his wide shoulders. He takes one long, deep breath before turning on his heel, “I'm calling Deku.”

“I'll kill you,” you gasp, nearly slipping on your bath mat as you scramble to your feet to follow him.

“Yeah?” he prompts. Sarcasm drips from his teeth when he turns to look at you, “I don't think you can do much of anything in this state. Look at you, can't even fucking fly.”

“Fuck you,”

“You're killing yourself,” he presses a finger to your forehead, “Do you fucking get that? You're killing yourself and, what, expecting us to just be fine with it? Him? All because you love him? This is killing you, and it'll kill him when you die.”

“I'm not about to be coerced into a goddamn love confession because of some stupid kid's quirk,”

“He feels bad,” he says.

“Yeah, Deku always feels bad,”

“No, idiot, the kid. Mindfuck said he and his mom stopped by the agency. He wanted to say sorry. Made a mess cryin’ all over the place,”

“Once I get my shit sorted I'll find him to tell him I'm fine,” you gnaw on your cheek, “He doesn't need to feel bad. He was scared. He could've died.”

“ You could die,”

“I know. It's kind of a sick quirk when you think about it,” you nod, eyeing the way Katsuki’s fingers fly across his phone screen. You scoff and point an accusatory finger at him, “Stop texting him.”

“Don't fucking tell me what to do. And don't point at me,” Katsuki pockets his phone anyways, offering you a scowl, “I was messaging Hitoshi.”

“Woah, first name basis. So you've fucked then, yeah? He's good with his hands,“ you grin and raise the rest of your fingers to wiggle at him suggestively, “Did he do the thing where he–”

“Jesus fucking– stop, what is wrong with you?” his annoyed huff sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Your grin softens around the edges and you stretch a wing out to tickle the tip of his nose at the same time that you poke a finger into his stomach.

“That wasn't a no,” your laugh is meant to lighten the mood, but it turns into a nasty, gurgling cough that immediately ruins it instead. You bat away Katsuki's hands when he raises them to hover around you, “I'm glad Hitoshi got his happy ending.”

Katsuki's face crumples and he turns away from you to try to hide it. You catch it though, the way heartbreak spills out from his eyes and over the bridge of his nose. You've felt it enough to know how it looks, and you feel sick knowing he looks like that because of you.

“You could have yours too, dumbass,” he lets out a rough breath that melts into a groan and tilts his head back to stare at your ceiling. “You know that right? You can't be that dense. Even– even if it isn't with Izuku. You can still be happy.”

“I know that. I'm perfectly happy the way everything is now,” you wave the flower dismissively at him and he reaches out to pluck it from your fingers.

“You're dying,” he says again, brows furrowing when he holds the flower up to look at it.

“Yeah, for the hundredth time since I was fourteen,” you shrug, shuffling past him towards your couch. “I'll be fine. I always am.”

Just as your ass lands on the plush cushion of your couch, a knock sounds on your door. You whip your head up to stare at Katsuki, who grimaces and tosses the flower down onto your coffee table, “I didn't think he'd get here so fast.”

“Who the fuck is here?” you hiss. He sucks his teeth when another knock echoes through the space between you. “Katsuki, if Deku is on the other side of that door–”

“It's the old man and mindfuck, relax,”

“ Two? You invited two people to my apartment? Should've fucking called Deku, Jesus , what the fuck?” you groan, slumping down into your couch as your front door opens.

“Consider it an intervention,” Aizawa drawls, pausing in your entryway with Hitoshi so they can each toe off their boots. “Since you're so set on letting yourself die.”

“I'm not–” you cough, turning away from them to hack into your elbow. A tickle in your throat makes you gag, and you slap a hand against Katsuki's hip, “I'm gonna puke– I'm– get me a–”

A trash can is shoved beneath your chin just as petals and stems crowd your tongue. You wheeze between each stretch of flowers crawling their way out, batting away the six hands reaching into your space. Hitoshi scoffs beside you, smacking your hand back. His fingers graze the back of your neck as he gathers your hair, sending a shiver down your spine. You shake your head, leaning forward more and he clicks his tongue, following you.

“Get off'a me,” you slur, slapping more at his hands. 

“Let me hold your fucking hair, you heathen,” he grunts, pulling back the hair on your forehead, “You hair is so greasy, when's the last time you showered?”

You lean back into the cushion and his hands, humming out a rasping breath when he scratches at your scalp, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, you're welcome,”

“Freaks,” Katsuku rumbles, landing heavily beside you. When you hiccup, jostling with the movement, Aizawa shoots him a disapproving look that he withers under.

You snicker into your fingers while you wipe at your mouth, “Don't be jealous, Katsuki,”

“Fuck you,”

“Enough,” Aizawa sighs, balancing in a crouch on his toes in front of you. “Feeling better?”

“No,” you laugh, leaning around him to set the trash can down. “No, I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit,” he nods.

“Thanks, wow. I'm so glad you're all here to tell me how bad I look, I really love this,”

Hitoshi's hands leave your hair and you twist around to press your cheek to the back of the couch and watch him. He steps through your kitchen like it's his own, collecting a cup and turning to fill it with water. He smiles when you catch his eye, pushing his fingers through your hair when he's close enough to touch.

“Drink this and take your meds,” he forces the cup in your palm.

“Get them for me?” you ask sweetly, propping your chin in your hand and fluttering your lashes up at him.

“Where are they?” he laughs, pushing lightly at your forehead.

“In my room, by my phone,”

“I'll grab them,” Aizawa grunts as he stands, “When's the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday,” you guess, “Morning. I think. Couldn't keep it down though.”

“You need to eat,” he says over his shoulder, disappearing down your hallway, “Make yourself useful, Katsuki, and make her something light.”

“I'm always fucking useful,” Katsuki scoffs, but he stands anyway, shouldering past Hitoshi in a way that makes you grin and Hitoshi flush. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I really won't be able to keep anything down,” you mutter, balancing the cup between your knees.

“You still have to try,” he grumbles, gesturing towards what Hitoshi it busy pulling out of your fridge and cupboards, “What the fuck is this shit for?”

“Oh, me,” he says, “I came straight from patrol, haven't eaten yet. You mind, birdie?”

“Please, eat it,” you grunt, hissing when you sit back on your wings wrong, “It’ll go to waste if you don’t.”

A comfortable silence settles over you. Aizawa returns quickly, popping the lid on your pill bottle to shake two into your waiting palm. After you’ve swallowed, he refills your glass and settles beside you. Hitoshi and Katsuki bicker quietly in your kitchen, heatless insults thrown and taken with ease. Your TV is turned on at some point and reruns of Sailor Moon drone on, filling the empty corners of your apartment.

“You like this show?” you ask, nudging your wing into Aizawa's arm. He rolls his eyes, lifting his arm so you can crowd his space, mindful of your wings.

“Eri and Hizashi watch it,” he shrugs, “I don't dislike it. But I've never paid enough attention to confidently say I'm a fan.”

“I think you could be if you gave it a chance,”

“I'll keep that in mind, kiddo,” he turns to press his lips to your brow, “We still have to talk about this.”

“I know,”

“Who is it?”

You go quiet, discomfort seeping into your muscles when Hitoshi and Katsuki join you both in the living room. Katsuki sets a plate of toast and a bowl of applesauce down in front of you as Hitoshi sets his own food down. His bowl of instant ramen looks suspiciously delicious, almost gourmet, and you have an inkling he had nothing to do with that. The boys settle shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the opposite side of your coffee table, long legs kicking out to tangle with your ankles.

It's humiliating, you think, having to bare your soul out to people because of a quirk accident. Even if it is your friends and chosen family, people you've known for years and trust with your life, it's still embarrassing. But you do it anyway, with cotton in your mouth and sweat on your palms.

“Izuku,” you say softly, leaning forward to snag a piece of toast. “It's always been Izuku.”

“Of course,” Aizawa huffs, scratching at his scruff.

“You know,” Hitoshi says between loud slurps, “I'm pretty sure he feels the same. What are you so afraid of?”

“Fuck off, I'm not afraid,” you scoff, tossing the last bite of your toast at him. It smacks his forehead and lands in his bowl with a cartoonish plunk! that makes him frown. “He's the number one hero in Japan. I'm not afraid that he doesn't feel the same because that doesn't matter. It would never work.”

“Why not?”

“This isn't a fucking therapy session,” you sway as you stand, chest tight and wings fluttering as if to catch you. Aizawa catches your elbow when you stumble over his feet. “I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine,”

“I can handle it–”

“No. You can't. If you could, you would've by now,” Aizawa's tone is stern, cold, and you tilt your chin up to scowl at him when he stands. “I won't allow you to kill yourself over some boy .”

“Allow me?” you hiss, “Last I checked, I was a grown ass adult. And he's not ‘some boy’, he's my friend. Your former student, and the number one hero of Japan.”

“Right now, he is just some boy, and you are–”

“Your student. I'm not your daughter and you are not my fucking father, Shouta!”

“I know that,” he says slowly, “Do you?”

Behind you, your wings flutter, twitching with your irritation. Your lungs feel heavy, like they're full of lead, rumbling with every sharp, shaky intake of breath. Your facade of anger must crack, showing the hurt beneath it because Aizawa’s own frustration melts. The mean twist to his mouth straightens and his eyes go soft when he steps forward to catch your face in his hands.

“Listen to me,” he says quietly, “I know I'm not your father. But I also know I'm the closest thing that you have.”

“I'm sorry,” you curl a hand around his wrist, feeling for his pulse. You fold easily for him, too soft and gooey to be mad at him for too long, “You're right, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“You're scared and angry. It's okay to feel that way, even as a hero,” he hums, pulling you into his chest. You go willingly, sighing when he curls a hand around your head to press you closer, “I know you feel like accepting or asking for help makes you weak. It doesn't, I promise it doesn't.”

“I don't want to die,” you whisper it like it's a secret. Like it's unexpected for a young woman, a human, to fear death. Like it makes you weak. “I'm scared, Shouta.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, heaving a deep breath that you feel against your cheek, “I know it's scary. Love always is.”

“Just– give me a few days,” you plead, voice trembling, “Please. Just a few more days. Then I'll call him. I'll tell him.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Unfortunately for you, things don't always go to plan. When the front wall of your apartment blows inward not even two hours after everyone leaves, you truly think God wants you dead. For which reason, you're unsure. There are many options, each full of their own potential as to why any higher being would maybe want your head.

It happens so fast, you don't have time to react, you don't even think you would've been able to react anyways in the state you're in.

You're dozing on your couch, half asleep and too lazy to get up and get into bed. Somewhere behind you the bell on your unnamed cat's collar jingles when he hops up onto your counter. And not even a second later, your shit gets absolutely rocked. The explosion sends you and the couch you're on backwards and you can hear your windows shatter. The collar jingles again.

Confusion clouds your senses, a million thoughts filter through your head. Is this a targeted attack, or was your apartment just a casualty? Are there already other Heroes on the scene, or are you gonna have to try to fight? How many of them are out there? What are their quirks? You can't fight like this, you know you can't. You probably can’t even move the couch that’s flipped on top of you, caging you in and pinning down your right wing. Through the chaos of sirens and settling debris, you hear Izuku shout your name and you can feel your panic wash from your skin at the same time that your lungs go heavy.

“Deku,” you wheeze, slapping a hand out from your hiding spot. Something wet drips from your hairline into your eyes, you don't bother wiping it away, “I'm– my wing is stuck. I–I can't–”

“Hold on,” he says gently, falling to his knees. Pressing his chest to your floor, he lowers himself flat to look at you. “It's more than just the couch on top of you, I've called for Red Riot to come help me dig you out.”

“Get my cat,” you rasp, ignoring how your head pounds, “Find him first.”

“Your–”

“My cat, Izuku, find my fucking cat,”

“I can't leave you here like this,” he frets, eyebrows pulling together. Your head hurts, it's all you can think about beside your cat and Izuku. On repeat in your mind, head hurts, cat, Izuku. Head hurts, cat, Izuku. Head hurts, really really hurts. Where the hell is my cat? My chest is killing me, Izuku won't stop staring. My cat is gonna get out. I think I'm gonna die. I think I'm dying.

You choose to ignore the last part your brain spits at you.

“If you let my cat die or get out, I'll never forgive you,” you hiss, groaning when the weight of whatever is on you shifts, settling heavier over your wing. You can hear the crunch, can feel the pain melt across your shoulders and down to your toes. You grit your teeth, hold back a shout, and squeeze your eyes closed, swallowing the bile in your throat.

“I– okay, okay, I'll find him– you– and…”

You think he says more, you know he does, but your head is throbbing and your chest feels ready to explode. His words begin to mince, garble, like he's underwater. Or maybe you are. You can't tell. Everything is fuzzy, distorted. The last thing you see is someone's bare chest as they lean over you and the shock of red hair on his head, you'd recognize Eijiro anywhere, even half dead. The collar jingles, the warmth of another person curls around you. Someone is speaking, telling you to stay awake, keep your eyes open. But you’re so cold and so tired, and something like sleep takes over.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

It's all so humiliating. Falling in love, feeling that emotion so intensely. Being so mentally weak from being in love. Being so physically weak because of it, even if it is because of a quirk. You feel so young again, fragile and fifteen and scared to speak or even breathe too loud.

Everything is green. It's in his eyes, his hair. You feel it in your chest, in your heart, in your blood. Green is a good color, a good feeling. It's all you see, feel, taste.

It's his hair. It's his eyes. It's his hero suit. It's the blanket you bought because of him, and the green in your own hero suit. It's the grass you laid on back in high school with him. You've spent years subconsciously weaving bits and pieces of him into your life just so you can have something, anything.

You see him in it, you see it in you.

It's love. The green in your life is love, and you are so scared. Of dying because of it, of losing it.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You're fading in and out of consciousness. The sound of the city makes your head spin. Your sense of time is off, and it's unnerving, it’s scary . The first time you muster up the strength to blink open your eyes, you're mid-air, limp and jostling against Izuku's chest as he jumps from rooftop to rooftop. There's something sticky on your forehead, your hands, your spine. Blood, you can assume. And the fresh, warm liquid that drips onto your cheeks are tears, ones that aren't from you.

You only open your eyes two more times after that. Once when a doctor forces you to, so he can shine a light in your eyes. And the second when someone starts to reset the bones in your wing. For this, you do scream. The pain is the worst you've ever felt, and you can only weep and wail and flail until they hold you down and sedate you.

Behind the conglomeration of medical professionals, Izuku watches. He watches you twitch and tremble in pain. He listens to the way you wail, he sees the way your spine contorts and arches off the table in pain. He watches the controlled chaos the doctors maintain as they shout out directions and instructions to each other.

When the monitor they have hooked up to you starts beeping rapidly and then flatlining, Izuku thinks he may be sick. One doctor says you're coding, another says to push some epi and charge the defibrillator paddles. It’s all medical jargon Izuku doesn’t need to understand to know that you’re dying. Someone starts compressions and shouts to get him the hell out, and then a nurse is pressing at his shoulders and leading him out of the room and toward the waiting room. He collapses into a seat and hangs his head in his hands until Katsuki, Hitoshi and Aizawa find him.

“What the hell happened?” Hitoshi asks, full of fear and pain. And Izuku breaks. He cannot stop the waterfall of tears pouring from his eyes when he stands to greet them. He can't catch his breath. Katsuki catches him at the elbows when he sways in place.

“Deku, what is going on?”

“She– there was an attack. And she was caught under some debris. I don't–” he presses a hand over his chest, twisting the fabric there and curls in on himself while he weeps, “She coded and they kicked me out of the room. I don't know– I don't know if she's even alive. I don't– I love her so much and–”

Katsuki lets him press green curls into his chest. Thick, scarred fingers nearly tear his shirt with how tightly Izuku is holding onto him. The fear in his chest is all encompassing, the edges of his vision darken. And all he can do is cry into Katsuki’s chest.

Eventually, after some hours have passed and Izuku has cried himself into a migraine, a doctor steps into the waiting area. Hitoshi’s hand tightens over Katsuki's. Izuku keeps his head down with his hands pressed over his mouth. Aizawa stands to greet her.

“How is she?” he asks.

“Is she alive?” Katsuki breathes, voice cracking.

“It was very touch and go, but she's okay. She didn't need any surgery, but we did have to put her under to finish resetting the broken bones in her left wing, so she's intubated right now to help her breathe. The majority of her injuries were minor, most of which we fixed up with healing quirks. We have her on some medication for the hanahaki disease in her lungs. Once that's under control, we're expecting a near full recovery,” the doctor smiles softly, jerking her head back, “She's in the ICU now. Would you like to see her?”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

The next time you actually wake up is in a hospital bed. The sky is still dark, but you have a feeling it's been at least a day since the attack, maybe more. Your chest feels like it's been packed with cotton and all you can think about is your cat. Through the slim window on the door, you can see two men. Standing guard you think, they always do that no matter who the hurt hero is. You've been there before, played bodyguard for other heroes. Snuck them greasy food and sugary drinks when they complained about hospital food. Held their hands when they openly wept over lost lives and limbs, when they've been so hurt they're forced into retirement.

Based on what you can see of their uniforms, you can guess it's Katsuki and Hitoshi. You wonder how long you've been out, but can't find your voice to call for either of them.

“You're awake,” Izuku’s voice is groggy, shockingly loud in the eerie silence of your room despite not being more than a whisper. You jump, startled, and turn your head to look at him over the oxygen mask strapped to your face. You reach for the mask, weak fingers scrambling to remove it and he jumps up from his seat to curl his own over yours and pry them away, “Hey, hey, don't take that off. You're okay.”

“How long–”

“It's been two days,” he says slowly, “Your injuries from the attack were mostly minor. They used a healing quirk on most of them. But–”

“My lungs,” you rasp, “I'm here for my lungs.”

His fingers twitch around yours and you only then realize he never let go of your hand. You let yourself indulge, tightening your grip until you're sure it hurts. He looks terrible, like he hasn't slept or showered in days. The shadows under his eyes rival yours and his curls are weighed down and flattened in some parts with grease and dirt. He must've stayed after the attack.

“My cat?” you change the subject. He lets you.

“I got him,” he tries for a smile and fails, “He's fine, not even a scratch. Present Mic came and picked him up, Eri has him right now.”

“She can have him forever,” you croak.

“Don't. Please don't say that,”

“Izuku–”

“Get some sleep,” he says, “We can talk more tomorrow.”

You do sleep. He's gone when you wake up again a few hours later, after the sun has begun to rise. Hopefully to shower and get some sleep of his own.

He doesn't come back.

The talk never comes.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“You need to tell him,” Katsuki’s face is turned away from you, dark and shadowed. You think he may actually be crying this time, you can hear it when he says your name, the heartbreak and the fear. His voice breaks when he says, “You aren't gonna survive this.”

It's the fourth time he's said this since you woke up. And he hasn't actually looked at you once. You get it, you probably wouldn't be able to look either.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi doesn't leave. He's either at your side, attempting to sleep on the tiny couch across from your hospital bed, or standing guard outside your door. He looks bad, maybe just as bad as you're sure you do.

“Go home,” you wheeze, “Get some sleep, REM sleep, not those fake ass naps you take. Shower, eat. Take care of yourself.”

“No,” he's slouched in the chair beside your bed, feet propped up beside yours. The magazine over his face has Izuku on the cover.

You remember him talking about that shoot, how excited he was to be wrapped in all his friends' merch. He looks like a mess of color. He must've picked which pieces he wanted. Baby pink Uravity themed sweatpants with a white stripe along the side, mismatched red and blue Shouto themed shoes, an orange and army green Dynamight t-shirt. And maybe the ugliest shade of yellow you've ever seen on his Chargebolt sweatshirt, not that you'd ever say that to Denki. You’re shocked they let him wear that for the cover of such a popular magazine. But you can admit, he pulls it off in some weird, almost kitsch-y way.

(You remember fondly the way he had whined about your lack of merch. He'd gone on and on, begging you to make anything for him. A shirt, a hat, anything. He had merch from all his classmates, he said, he needed to finish the collection with something of yours.)

“Hitoshi,” you reach over to pull the magazine down and toss it to the tiled floor.

“I'm not leaving,” he grunts, rough but not irritated or upset. Just tired, scared. “I'm fine right here.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

No one else knows you're here except a select few. Aizawa told you it's a well kept secret, that you're listed under an alias. It makes you wonder if that villain attack really was personal. Someone who wants you dead must've heard you were almost there and too weak to fight. You want to ask him about it, ask for the case file. You want all the information.

You ask him about your lungs instead.

“The doctor has you on some medication for your lungs that's keeping the infection and flowers at bay,” he drawls. His fingers are curled around your ankle, feeling for the pulse point there.

“That's why I haven't puked,”

“Yes,” he nods, “As for your wing, you'll need to do some physical therapy. But they don't want you up and moving yet, not until your lungs have healed. Waiting too long can impact how well your wing heals, so–”

“I'm not telling him,” you huff, “You can't make me. Make sure Eri takes care of–”

“Absolutely not,” his fingers stop petting and squeeze instead, “Don't talk like you're dying. It's freaking the boys out. It's freaking me out. Stop.”

“Sorry,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Eri visits you. She's sweet, still soft spoken even as a teenager. You appreciate that about her, and wonder how she did it. How she kept all the soft and rounded edges after everything she's been through. You wish you could’ve done the same. Then again, you never really had soft edges to begin with.

Present Mic comes with her, grinning when they tell you they smuggled your cat in.

“Why haven't you named him yet?” Eri whispers, eyes wide and sparkling while she watches him knead at your thigh. You hum, rubbing a knuckle under his chin.

“Dunno,” you say back, just as quietly, “It's been a year but I still feel like I don't know him well enough to name him. Do you wanna?”

“Name him?”

“Yeah, go for it,”

Eri thinks for all of one second before she grins and says, “What about Hiro?”

“Sure,” you shrug, “Hiro. Cute. A bit on the nose though.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

On the sixth day of being stuck in your hospital bed, Izuku visits again. He's quiet, eyes glassy and red rimmed like he had cried the whole way here. After he left the first day you woke, he hadn't come back. Not while you were awake at least. Katsuki mentioned briefly that he's been back a few times, calling him a freak for watching you sleep like he hadn't been doing the exact same thing. You fiddle with the nasal oxygen tube you'd been downgraded to, readjusting how it sits behind your ears.

“Hitoshi told me,” is how he greets you. Panic rises like bile in your chest, you can't do much but stare. He speaks again, fills the silence, “It wasn't his place to do that, and I'm sorry. But he's scared, Kacchan too. Why didn't you tell me?”

You open your mouth and his phone rings. His shoulders go stiff, his fingers twitch. That is why. One of the reasons why, at least. You're selfish and if you let it happen, you'll want him all the time. Every time his phone rings, every time he goes on a week-long mission, you won’t be able to handle it. You barely handle it as it is.

“You should answer that,” you grunt in lieu of a real answer. It’s maybe a little passive aggressive too, but whatever.

“It's fine,” he whispers once the ringing stops.

“They need you, Deku,”

“There are plenty of other heroes,”

“None of them are you,”

“I love you,” he whispers, so quiet you're surprised you catch it. It makes your lungs tight, your chest twist. Then, just barely louder, “I love you, let me love you. Let me help you.”

“I don't want to love you,” you sigh. The cheap, hospital grade blanket in your palm is close to tearing with how tightly you've got it in your grip, “I wish I didn't. I don't want you to love me.”

“Just,” he groans, laying the heels of his palms to his eyes and pressing in hard, “We don't have to– to get married, we don’t even have to date. It doesn't have to be a big thing. Just let me– it's my job. It's my job to save people. And I want to save you, maybe more than anyone else. Let me save you, even if you don't let me love you. Tell me what to do. I just– I don't– I can't just watch you die. Please. Please.”

“Nothing changes,” you insist, “We won't work.”

“Okay,” he looks like he wants to say more, like he wants to argue. He looks angry. But he just nods, gnaws at his bottom lip, and says again, “Okay.”

“I have to confess,” you turn your head away from him, press your cheek to the shitty pillow under your head, “And you have to confess back. Or reject me. The doctor says it'll clear up either way, that's how the quirk works. Please reject me.”

“No,”

You turn to stare at him, watch the way his curls move and bounce when he shakes his head, “What?”

“No, I'm not going to reject you. I'm not lying to make you feel better,” his hand is warm around your ankle, “I'll pretend it never happened after. But I'm not going to say I don't love you. I can't pretend I'm not in love with you. Of course I love you, how could I not? How could I spend years with you, learning you, watching you, and not love you? No. I won't reject you.”

“Okay,” you say, inhaling slowly.

“Okay,” he nods, “Ready?”

“I love you, Izuku,” you whisper, “I have loved you for years.”

“I love you,” he says back, stepping around your hospital bed to fall to his knees by your side. His lip trembles and you look away with the rush of air you get to your lungs. He presses his forehead to the blanket beside you and cries, and when he can't see you, you cry too. You curl your fingers into his hair and cry and mourn the relationship that will never happen.

The flowers come all at once. The doctor said this would happen, he called it the final purge. (And had not been impressed when you laughed and called it dramatic.) All the flowers have been uprooted and need to get out. You barely turn away from him in time, and you again find yourself thanking whatever god will listen for not letting you almost claim another victim with your weird lung-vomit. It comes and comes, tearing your throat up as it goes. And Izuku is there, pulling your hair away from your face and rubbing a warm hand between your wings.

He is so kind. He is everything you want and you find yourself almost immediately regretting everything you said. You love him so much, you want to let him love you. And you want to love him. You want that nasty, gooey type of love. The fluffy kind. The good morning and goodnight texts every single day. The I love you mores, the dancing in the kitchen and breakfast in bed type love. The kind where you're so comfortable, you don't close the door to pee. You want to kiss him first thing in the morning, morning breath and all. You want his face to be the first thing you see when you wake up, and the last thing you see before you go to sleep.

You want Izuku more than you've ever wanted anything else in the world.

And you think you need him to want you too. You need him to love you. You always have and you were stupid for ever thinking otherwise.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku takes your boundaries too seriously. He leaves after you puke yourself into a near comatose state, and he doesn't come back during the two weeks you spend recuperating. Not to check on you, not to see you through your physical therapy. And he isn't there when you're told you can fly again, when you're discharged and told you're healthy again. You think your chest hurts more now than it did when it had a bed of flowers growing in it.

You don't reach out to him either. Katsuki lets it slip that he's angry, angrier with you than he's ever been because all he wants is to love you.

(“So tell her that,” Katsuki scoffs, sliding a bowl of katsudon across his counter. This is the fifth time in an hour he's had to listen to Izuku bitch and whine about how he feels. He's seriously considering manslaughter.

“I did,” Izuku spits, uncharacteristically short tempered and irritated, “I did tell her. And she said no. She told me she wished she didn't love me, and she didn't want me to love her. She is so goddamn stubborn.”

Katsuki is more annoyed than surprised, “I think she’s just scared.”

“She's stubborn–”

“Okay, I fucking get it! She's stubborn, and so are you! Pull your balls out of your back pocket and man the hell up, or shut the hell up!” Katsuki barks, slamming a sparking palm against the marble. Izuku's glare does not scare him. He takes a deep breath, remembers what his therapist taught him, and counts to three. He’s calmer when he says, “What does that say about you? She was so scared to tell you she loved you that she died. Fucking talk to her about it and quit whining. She's the one in the hospital, not you. Try thinking about it all from her perspective.”

“Kacchan–”

“Don't Kacchan me, you asshole,” Katsuki says, “You think you're the only one affected by all this? She's my friend too, and Hitoshi's, and we aren't sitting here all angry at her. This is your mess now, it's your responsibility to fucking fix it.”)

“Called you stubborn,” Katsuki snorts, feeling oddly fond, “Just call him, talk about it.”

“Thanks, jackass. I hadn't thought of that,” you scoff, leaning past him to slap the ground floor button on the elevator, “Of course I've called him. He isn't answering.”

“Just keep calling. He'll break eventually,”

“Dunno if I want him to. What the hell do I even say if he answers? That I'm an actual fucking idiot? That I changed my mind? I wouldn’t trust me, so I don’t see how he would,” you groan and lean back against the elevator wall, watching the floor numbers change. “This is why I wasn't gonna say anything. Now it's all different and I may have lost my best friend.”

“Oh, he's your best friend? Go stay on his couch while your place is being rebuilt then,”

“Okay, are we in middle school? Didn't mean to hurt your feelings, bestie,”

“Call me that again and I'll rip your tongue from your throat,”

“You are so bipolar, good fucking lord. You wanna be my best friend, you have to live with the nicknames,” you laugh, “And, no offense but, Hitoshi is my actual best friend if we're gonna get technical. You didn't even speak to me until third year.”

“You weren't in the hero course until third year, that isn't fair!”

“I was still friends with your whole class! And I fought with you in the war. And Hitoshi has been inside of me,” you grin when Katsuki's cheeks go pink and he scowls at you, “Gave me some of the best orgasms in my life, so he gets extra brownie points.”

“I hope the cable of this elevator snaps and we both die instantly,”

“Asshole,”

“Bite me,”

The elevator dings and you straighten from your slouched position as the doors slide open. Aizawa and Hitoshi are both waiting for you, offering twin smiles when you walk towards them.

“Look at you,” Hitoshi grins, cupping your face in his hands, “You look good. Healthy. You good to go?”

“Mm, yeah. Just gotta sign some stuff at the front desk and I'll be all set,”

“Okay, pigeon,” he presses a wet smooch to your forehead before releasing you and ushering you towards the desk.

The paperwork takes all of five minutes and then you're practically running outside. The fresh air outside the hospital feels borderline orgasmic as it enters your lungs. After not flying for far too many weeks, you’re nearly vibrating with excitement. The first flutter of your wings sends a jolt of exhilaration down your spine, but before you can take off Aizawa wraps his scarf around your ankle.

“What the hell, dude?”

“Be rational,” he grunts, “Flying here will attract too much attention. And do not call me ‘dude’, that's disrespectful.”

“Whatever,” you huff and shove your hands into your sweatshirt pocket, “Fine. Dude.”

“Have you talked to Deku?” his voice lowers as he steps closer and releases his grip on you. You shrug, tilting your face up to soak in the sun.

“No,”

“You should,” he says, “He's going on a mission soon.”

“How long will he be gone?”

“A week, at least. Longer if things go awry. And things tend to go awry with him,”

“He doesn't want to talk to me,”

“He doesn't have to talk, he just has to listen. Make him listen,” he murmurs, “You've always been good at that.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You stop by the rubble of your apartment before going to Katsuki's. Clean up hasn't even begun yet and you grimace as you toe over glimmering glass, chunks of drywall, and broken bits of brick. Your couch is where it landed after Eijiro pulled it off of you, torn and bloody, and you take a moment to mourn it. There are a few feathers scattered on the floor a few feet away from it, likely where you had been pinned down. The wall that had been blown in is still an open space, just one with caution tape pulled across haphazardly. Just looking at it makes your lungs tighten and your wing throb.

“What a fucking dump,” Katsuki grunts, kicking at the debris by his feet.

“I want the case file on the guy that did this,” you mutter, leaning forward on your tiptoes to peek out the hole. “He fucked up the whole block.”

“I'll have Deku send it over to my agency,”

“Thanks,” you nod and take a step off the ledge. Katsuki makes a panicked noise, rushing over and scowling when you turn and grin, “Chill, I'm good. See? Wings work just fine, just wanna look at the damage.”

“Be fucking careful,” he grumbles. “Why are we here anyways?”

“Clothes. It's hard to find shirts and stuff for people with wings. And expensive,” you hum, fluttering past him towards the hallway, “My bedroom should be pretty much untouched. Gotta grab a few things and we can go.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Katsuki doesn't actually make you sleep on his couch. His guest room is made up for you, complete with not one, but two, baskets on the dresser, a fresh bed set on the bed and a brand new pair of house slippers by the closet door. The first basket is small, filled to the brim with differing toiletries. You snicker and finger through it, giving him a mental kudos for picking out decent shampoo and conditioner. The second basket is bigger and has various snacks in it. Your favorites, you notice.

“You got me welcome baskets?”

“I didn't get you shit. The food is from my mom and the other shit is from my assistant. And they're ‘I'm glad you didn't die’ baskets,” he scoffs, glaring at something over your shoulder. The gleam in his eye betrays him, you can't stop yourself from teasing just a little.

“Right, and who told your assistant to do that?” you laugh and yelp when he pinches your waist. “Okay! Okay, sorry. Tell your mom and assistant I said thank you.”

“Whatever. I'm going to make lunch,”

“For me too?”

“Obviously,”

“This is why you're my best friend,” you flutter your lashes up at him and pout your lips in a way you hope will make him laugh. You know you've succeeded when he presses his whole hand to your face to push you away.

“Shut up. Go shower,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi sets up a meeting with the little boy for you the day after you get out of the hospital. He’d argued at first, told you to rest and heal more. But you push and insist. It’s important. The kid needs to know you aren’t upset, he deserves to know. So you push and push until Hitoshi inevitably gives in and calls the mother. He tells you to be at Katsuki’s agency by noon. Katsuki forces you to get there by eleven.

“They’re here,” Katsuki grunts, hand warm on your back. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. He's, what, five?”

“Four,” Aizawa drawls.

“And three quarters,” Hitoshi tacks on, grinning when Aizawa rolls his eyes and you snort. “He's in the conference room with his mom.”

The door is all glass and you take a minute to watch him. He's small for his age, you think. Maybe. You actually don't know, can't actually tell. All kids are small to you. The only kid you have any real experience with is Eri, and she was always so small because of her situation, so mature too. Always so gentle and wise, too wise. You don't know anything about kids, but this kid is small .

He's sitting politely in a chair that’s four sizes too big for him next to his mom, who looks young. She’s saying something to him, pushing the wispy hairs from his eyes and then smiling and pointing a finger towards you. You take that as your cue to go in. They both stand as you enter, bending deeply at the waist.

“Oh, don't,” you gasp, fluttering over to them and hovering uncertain hands out in front of you, “Please, really, no need to bow.”

“Thank you for making time for us,” his mother says quietly as she straightens, “Asahi feels terrible. He appreciates the chance to apologize.”

“I don’t need an apology, really. I just wanted to come show you both that I’m okay. What's your name?” you wonder, holding your hand out towards her. She blinks down at it a few times before seemingly deflating in relief and touching her palm to yours.

“Ito,” she shares, “Ito Hana. But, please, call me Hana.”

“Right,” you nod, offering her a gentle smile, “It's fantastic to meet you Hana. And you too Asahi. You've got a powerful quirk, kid.”

Asahi's lower lip trembles and he tumbles forward to press his face into your tummy before his mother can stop him, blubbering unnecessary apologies into your shirt, “I'm so sorry Ms. Aviator! I didn't mean to–to quirk you! I didn't mean to–’

“Hey, hey, no tears,” you whisper, detaching yourself enough to fall to your knees in front of him. You make a big show of taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, so he can hear it, “I'm all good. You hear that? My lungs are fine, kiddo.”

“You aren't mad?” he snivels and scrubs at his cheeks, smearing tears and snot across his face. His own breathing is unsteady, and you urge him to take a deep breath too. Together, you count as you breathe. His trembling slows, his breathing evens out, and you speak again.

“No,” you coo and pull your sleeve up over your thumb to help wipe the snot from his face, holding back a grimace when it just makes it worse, “No, I'm not mad. Accidents happen. And it's silly to get mad over accidents, isn't it?”

“My doctor says my quirk can make people bleed flowers from here,” he mumbles, jabbing two of his little fingers over the center of your chest, “Did it make you bleed like that?”

“Um,” you flit your eyes up over his shoulder, gauging his mother. She nods once, so you look back at him, “Yeah. I did for a little bit.”

“It's scary,” he whimpers. Behind him, his mother presses the knuckles of her hand to her lips and closes her eyes. You exhale a shaky breath when his tears well up again, beading over his lash line and he says, “Everyone says my quirk is scary.”

“It can be. Any quirk can be scary. But nothing scares me,” you smile when he gives you a look like he doesn't believe you. “Your quirk is only scary because you don't have control yet. But that’s okay. My friend Red Riot’s quirk was scary before he could control it. And Tsukuyomi, and even Deku. But when they learned to control it, it wasn’t scary anymore.”

“Mama says I'll get control when I get bigger,” he agrees. Then there's a moment where he looks unsure, bashful even, before he says, “You aren't even afraid of the dark?”

“Nope,” you confirm, “ Especially not the dark. I do my best hero work in the dark.”

Asahi settles after that. You aren’t sure if it’s you that soothes him, or if he does it himself. But he calms down, starts acting more like a kid should. He asks questions about your quirk and what it’s like to be a hero. You give him all the details. You tell him what all the different feathers in your wings do, and how your quirk gives you excellent hearing and incredible night vision. He asks if you know Chargebolt too, and Shouto and Uravity, beaming when you say you do. He tells you his favorite is Cellophane and you give him a high five, because that is a good choice.

You end up pulling Katsuki and Hitoshi in too when you catch the way he won’t stop staring at them. Katsuki slips on his kid-friendly Dynamight persona and lets him ogle his gauntlets and ask as many questions as his heart desires. Hitoshi lets him try on his mask. He's even kind enough to allow requests for different voices once he slips it over his own mouth again. Asahi dissolves into a fit of giggles when All Might’s voice booms through the speakers.

You learn a lot about Asahi and his mother as the next hour passes. Love related quirks run in the family, apparently. Hana’s is called Soul Ties, her mother's was Cupid's Arrow. She elaborates on her own when you raise an eyebrow at her.

“I can see people's soulmates,” she shrugs, leaning forward to brush a thumb over Asahi’s cheek.

“Soulmates? More than one?”

“Platonic and romantic,” she adds, smiling softly down at her hands like that’s where she can see it. The string of fate, you've heard of similar quirks. Hana’s smile fades to something a little more melancholic, but she puts on a happier facade quickly before Asahi notices it, “Most people have more than one of each. But it differs per person.”

“Oh,” you say, staring down at your own hand. You wonder if you have any. Any platonic, any romantic. You wonder if Izuku is your soulmate. How many strings of fate tie your hands to someone else’s? How many soulmate’s could you possibly have? Can you have a soulmate who's soulmate isn't you?

“Those men,” she says quietly, gesturing behind her to where Katsuki and Hitoshi are sitting, “I can see you're close with them. You have a strong connection with both of them. Sometimes the universe determines our soulmates. Sometimes we determine them. But when the universe decides, the connection is almost unbreakable. All of your connections are strong ones. You're lucky.”

You give Hana your number before they leave, slipping the paper effortlessly into her hand when you say goodbye, “Call me if either of you ever need anything. And when he gets older, if you want, I can get him a spot at UA. Whichever course he may want. They can help him with quirk control and confidence.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, taking your hand into both of her own, “Thank you so much. For saving him and for this. He really looks up to you.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Katsuki must've planned this. The jackass. The absolute cretin. You can practically see it, see him rubbing his grubby little hands together like the roach he is. Grinning and scheming up the best way to get you and Izuku in a room together. Probably with Hitoshi. They're both nasty little creatures and you have decided you love them now more than you ever have. Because you miss him.

You miss Izuku.

You're in the middle of drowning your self-imposed sorrows in more Sailor Moon reruns and half a pint of freezer-burned ice cream you found buried in Katsuki's freezer when he lets himself in. You're hovering around in a lazy circle to stretch your wings, cataloging and memorizing every picture Katsuki has on his walls. He notices you first and stays silent to watch you, watch the way you move, the way your wings flutter to keep you up. When he finally speaks, you and your wings jump, nearly knocking some expensive looking frames off the wall.

“I brought the case file you asked for,”

“Jesus– how did you even get in here?” you yelp, slapping a hand out to steady a wobbling frame.

“I've had a key since Kacchan bought this place,” he snorts, tossing the file down onto the pristine black granite countertop. “I didn't realize you were staying here, sorry, I would’ve knocked. He didn't tell me, just said to drop the file off.”

“Oh, yeah, well,” you shovel another spoonful of ice cream into your mouth without saying anything else. Izuku hums anyways, like you said something worth any sort of response, and leans his hip against the counter. You force yourself to look away, “Thanks for the file. Was it a targeted attack?”

“No, no. We thought it was too, turns out it wasn't even a real attack. A civilian with a seizure disorder had an episode and the lack of control over his quirk is what caused the accident. You and your apartment just happened to be above him. Uh, but, this is all in the file–” Izuku coughs into his fist and stares at the wall behind you.

“Yeah, thanks, I'll drop it back at your agency when I'm done reading it,”

“Take your time,”

An awkward silence falls between you. You keep eating your ice cream. Izuku looks at everything but you. The city keeps moving underneath you, your quirk helps you hear things like the coffee being brewed across the street and the dog barking three floors down if you really listen for it. You tune it in, let it wash over you. Eventually, after your ice cream is gone and Izuku’s eyes have stayed on you for the last few minutes, you speak again, “I changed my mind.”

“What?”

“I want things to change. I changed my mind,” you speak quietly, delicately, like everything will shatter if you say it too loud, if you say it out loud, “I can’t be normal after this. I love you so much that I was willing to die about it. And it’s been that way for years. Something has to change, because obviously my feelings won’t.”

Izuku stays silent. When you turn to decipher how he feels, what he’s thinking, you find him with his hands over his face. The skin of his cheeks is splotchy beneath his fingers, flustered and warm. He takes big breaths and you watch the way his chest expands with them, the way his fingers shake and his shoulders tremble.

You should say something. Or maybe you shouldn’t. You don’t know. You’re out of your element here. Romantic stuff has never come easy to you, hadn’t ever come at all. All of your romantic feelings were kept buried so deep in your chest, you hadn’t even tried to date before. No one was worth the time or effort because they weren't him.

“Say something,” you babble, ignoring the residual tightening in your lungs, “I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? You’ve had, like, girlfriends or whatever. But I’ve never dated, so this is incredibly out of my comfort zone and I feel like I’m just rambling and I’m sorry. I’m, uh, done talking. Now.”

When Izuku starts to laugh, you genuinely wish you had died. Humiliation is hot in the back of your throat, seeping between your tongue and teeth. He lets his hands fall from his face and when you see the tears in his lashes, your own lip starts to tremble and you drop your feet to the floor, “Don’t laugh at me. I just emotionally stripped myself naked to you and you’re laughing? You are such a dick. Katsuki’s nicer than you, fuck.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh,” he hiccups between quiet giggles, stepping close enough that he can cup your face in his hands, “I’m sorry. I'm sorry, baby. Don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, you’re crying too,” you sniffle, letting your fingers curl around his wrist. He leans forward to kiss away your tears, cooing when you crumble forward in his arms and cry some more, “Katsuki said you were angry.”

“I was angry, but it was misplaced,” he says once you’ve settled to loud, wet sniffles and hiccuping whimpers. “I'm sorry for laughing, I’m just relieved. And excited. And I thought it was funny that you think I’ve had a girlfriend, let alone multiple. You think too highly of me.”

“I just thought– with Uraraka– and you've got your pick of the litter with your fans,” you huff, “You could have anyone you wanted, you know.”

“I want you. It’s always been you,” he whispers into your hair, swaying you both in an attempt to soothe you, “There’s never been anyone else.”

“Don’t say shit like that, you’ll give me a complex,” you groan, grinning into his shoulder when his chest rumbles with a laugh. “I’m sorry that everything got so fucked up.”

“If it hadn’t, would we be here?”

“No, probably not,”

“Then I’m not sorry. Not if this is where we ended up. And you shouldn’t be either,” he murmurs, “I am sorry that you got hurt. And I'm sorry that it was because of me. But I'm not sorry for this.”

A half hour later, after your tears have dried and your breathing evens out, Izuku makes you eat a real meal. He doesn't cook it (read: can't cook it), but he orders from your favorite place and has it delivered. You eat on opposite sides of the couch (despite both of you knowing damn well that Katsuki would absolutely kill you if he found out), but you touch him when you can. Brushing a curl from his eyes, tangling your ankles with his. Once you've eaten, when you're sated and nearly asleep with a warm, full belly, he breaks the very fragile case of glass around you.

“I took a mission,” he mumbles around a cheek full of rice.

“I know, Shouta told me,”

“I can back out,” he clears his throat, glancing at you through the curtain of curls falling into his eyes, “They don't actually need me. I took it to get away. Or, no, not to get away! To, uh, to give you space. But, I can pull out.”

“Stop, don't put your job on the back burner for me,” you grumble, leaning forward to steal a piece of chicken from his bowl.

“If I go, I leave tomorrow morning,” he continues, “And we should talk. I can drop out of the mission if you want me to.”

“Seriously, don't. Don't do shit like that,” you scoot towards him on the couch, press your hand firm over his chest, “I am a selfish person. I don't like sharing. And I won't want to share you. But I’ll have to if we're gonna make it work. And if you call out of work for me, you're just feeding into that delusion.”

Izuku’s eyes are so soft on your face, flitting between your eyes and your cheeks, your lips and your nose, taking in every detail. Cataloging every freckle, wrinkle, and scar. He lays his hand flat over yours, lets his fingers fall between the gaps, “I want you to be selfish with me, because I'm gonna be selfish with you. I've waited years for this, and I'm gonna take everything I can get. I'm gonna be greedy, let yourself be greedy too.”

Izuku's freckles get darker in the summertime, and his scars. His skin goes golden under the sun, and new freckles appear to mark constellations across his nose, down his neck and over his shoulders. He doesn't burn the way some people do, you think, he ripens like fruit.

“Go on the mission,” you sigh and crawl into his lap. He hums, leaning back to give you more space to get comfortable. You curl into him, press your nose into the crook of his neck, “We can talk when you get back.”

“Okay,” he breathes out, unsure, as scarred palms curl around your waist. You can feel how his fingers shake before they tighten over you. He squeezes then releases you twice in quick succession, just to feel you, just to touch. It relaxes you, turns your insides to liquid, warm and gooey. When your limbs go heavy and your eyelids start to droop, Izuku uses gentle hands to lift you as he stands. Your noise of confused complaint is hushed and you go quiet, letting him carry you to bed.

You're asleep before you hit the sheets and Izuku has to take a minute. Just a moment. To watch you breathe, watch the way your chest rises and falls. He remembers the fear that boiled in his chest when you stopped breathing that night. He doesn't even think you know, but he does. He knows, he remembers. It had only been for a moment, the doctors had worked quickly to get you back. But you had been gone, really, actually gone. Your heart stopped beating, your lungs stopped breathing and you were dead. Dead . You had died because of so many things, because of him.

So he takes a goddamn minute . He watches your chest rise and fall, syncs his own breaths with yours. He listens to how clear your lungs sound, presses his fingers to the pulse point in your wrist to feel your heartbeat. He reminds himself that you're alive, you’re fine. It takes an hour of watching you sleep before he feels okay to leave.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“This roof top is inaccessible to the public,” Katsuki drones, “How the hell did you get up here without a key?”

“I jumped out of the window,” you shrug, muttering around the straw between your teeth. The sun is just beginning to rise, melting the horizon into pools of blue and pink, orange and purple. The clouds soak it up like watercolor and spit it back out onto mirrored skyscrapers and tree tops. A breeze blows between you and Katsuki looks angelic, all windswept and sun-kissed.

“You doing okay?”

“Are you?” you reflect back, tilting your chin up to see him better, “I'm sorry. I haven't said that yet. I was inconsiderate and self destructive and didn't really think about how it would affect anyone else. And I almost died because of it. So, I'm sorry.”

“It's– you're fine. I'm fine,” he shrugs and stuffs his hands into his sweatpants pockets to stave off the chill creeping up his spine. “We’re fine.”

“I know,” you say, “But I'm still sorry. And I love you. And– and thank you. For taking care of me.”

“Okay,” he grumbles, “Stop, seriously. We're fine.”

“Stop being so emotionally constipated,” you snort, shooting a hand out to slap at his calf, “Say it back.”

“I love you too, or whatever, fuck,” he literally shudders the moment the words leave his mouth and you cannot contain the laugh in your chest. He nudges at your thigh with his toes when he hears it, but he's grinning down at you so you know he's not too upset. “So, how'd it go with nerdface? Did you get your happy ending too or what?”

“I don't know yet,” you sigh. He sits beside you when you pat the space there and ducks to catch your eyes when you look away from him, “I don't know. We didn't really talk a lot–”

“Keep that to yourself. Disgusting,’

“Not like that you fucking freak,” you scoff, “No, I mean, I told him how I felt, that I changed my mind. And, you know, we both cried a little bit. But I told him to go on the mission and we could talk after he got back. I don't know. I don't know what he wants or how it'll all play out.”

“Izuku has been obsessed with you for years,” Katsuki shivers with the next gust of wind, shoving his hands between his thighs to create some warmth, “I don't know what the outcome of all this shit will be, but it'll be good. It has to be after all the shit you went through for it.”

“I hope so,”

Katsuki ushers you back inside after he shivers again, insisting that if he's cold you must be too. He isn't wrong, but you argue anyway, just to poke the bear. He pokes back until you're both back in his apartment. He steers you towards a stool at his counter and once you’re settled he starts on breakfast.

“Give me that, what the hell is wrong with you,” he grumbles, plucking the half empty slushie cup out of your grip, “Blue raspberry isn't a flavor you're meant to drink before noon. Where did you even get this?”

“The twenty-four hour convenience store on the corner,”

“It should be fucking illegal to buy shit like this so early in the morning,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Your ban from work continues despite being officially deemed healthy enough to go back by your army of doctors. Aizawa is insistent on you taking more time, getting more rest, and you know arguing won't get you anywhere. So you stay home.

The days all mesh together, they're all the same. Today marks day five of doing the same shit over and over again, and day three of Izuku being gone on his mission, and you're moments away from slamming your head into the drywall of Katsuki's apartment. Not your own, no. The drywall of your apartment is already busted and construction still hasn't begun yet. That makes you wanna dive headfirst through the wall even more.

“You have nothing fun to do,” you complain for the millionth time as you follow Katsuki down his halls, toes dragging because you're too lazy to fly properly.

He's not doing anything particularly interesting, just his daily chores and clean up, but anything is better than sitting in the living room and watching the window like it's TV. He won't even let you help, and normally you wouldn't want to help. Who the hell wants to clean? Not you, and especially not if it's someone else's house. But you would. You would scrub dishes until your fingers bled if you could.

“Read a book,”

“I did,”

“Read another one,”

“I've read every book on the shelf,”

“It's only been five days, there's no way–”

“Well, all the fun ones,” you wave a hand dismissively as you float past him, “I didn't read any of the boring literature or history books. Just the All Might comics and some manga.”

“You took my All Might comics out of their protective sleeves?” he gasps, staring at you like you've betrayed him.

“Who's the nerd now?” you snort, offering him a pointed look. “We're getting off track here. I'm bored.”

“What the hell do you want me to do about that?” Katsuki barks, spinning on his heel to stomp back towards the living room. Presumably to inspect his comics.

“Fucking fix it,” you toss back, trailing closely behind him, “Come get coffee with me.”

“Fuck no, today's my one day off this week because I'm covering your patrolling shift with mindfuck tomorrow. Find someone else,”

“You are so cruel,”

“Suck it, loser,”

“Cruel,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku's mission goes well. Better than anyone thought it would. In fact, he and his team come home days before they're supposed to. And when he calls you requesting to meet up somewhere, you're more than eager when you ask him when and where.

The place you decide on is a sweet spot and one of your favorite bakery cafes. It's a small place, kitsch-y and warm with sweet American style pastries and strong coffee. You've been coming here for years, dating all the way back to before you had even enrolled at UA. You came here with your mom before she left, and your grandparents after that, and then your friends. You grin when you catch a glimpse of a familiar face through the window to the kitchen, icing a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls.

The owner is a sweet middle aged woman who likes to talk about her years spent in America to anyone who'll give her the time of day. You've heard the story of how she met and fell in love with her wife over a dozen times now, but it never gets old. You're a sucker for romance like that.

The whole business is family run, Kiyoko and her wife Sophie run the kitchen and their endless supply of nieces and nephews take turns serving guests and whipping up photograph-ready coffees and teas. Some work more often than others, only because they live in America during the school year and can only come out for summers to visit and help out.

Izuku is already there, draped over one of the chairs at the furthest table from the door and sporting the worst disguise you've ever seen in your life. A dark blue Ingenium themed baseball cap is haphazardly shoved over his mop of green curls, and a pair of Pro Hero Chargebolt themed sunglasses (that are the same ugly shade of yellow as the sweatshirt from the magazine cover) are slipping down his nose as he blows the steam from his mug.

“Nice disguise. Never would've guessed it was you,” you greet, coughing into your fist to cover up the laugh on your tongue when he turns towards you and visibly brightens at your sarcastic compliment.

“Thanks! Oh, here,” he scooches his chair over to make more space for you and your wings beside him, “Sit. Can I grab you a drink?”

“I'll get it,” you insist, pressing your hand to his chest when he tries to stand, “I just wanted to say hi first.”

“Okay,” he agrees and settles back into his seat. Before you can get too far, he curls his own hand over your own and smiles at you. His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles and he tilts his chin up to see you better when he says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” you laugh, leaning closer.

“Missed you,” he breathes, tightening his grip on you. His head tilts again, offering himself to you, waiting but not pushing, and you–

You're very aware that you haven't kissed yet. Not a real kiss at least. You've been friends for over a decade, cheek kisses have happened in that time. But you give cheek kisses to sweet old ladies and Eri too, so those don't count in your head.

You are so painfully aware of the lack of kissing that it makes your fingers go numb and your heart stutter in your chest. It's so dumb, you aren't some love struck teenager anymore. The idea of a kiss shouldn't have you feeling this way. You're an adult. An adult who has kissed people before. An adult who has done many things far more lewd than kissing with other adults. It feels wrong to do it now. Before talking, before figuring yourselves out. What if this conversation ends in an argument? What if it ends with the decision to ignore everything that's happened? If you kiss him now and then lose him, you don't think you'll survive.

And so, you chicken out. Izuku takes it in stride, like you knew he would. He smiles softly and jerks his head toward the register as a reminder to go order and it's clear he's giving you an out here. He offers it up so kindly, so sweetly, that you don't even feel guilty for turning away from him to go order. The kid working the register today is secretly your favorite of all of them. Ren is a sweet kid, freshly eighteen and freshly out as nonbinary. You remember the day they told you, how nervous they looked asking you to use the pronouns they preferred. How happy they were when you congratulated them on speaking up for themselves.

They look equally as shocked to see you as they are relieved when you stop in front of them at the register.

“You're here!” they gasp, leaning forward over the counter to look you up and down, “You aren't missing any limbs either! Auntie! Aviator's back!”

“I told you she was fine! What're those tabloids saying about her now?” Kiyoko hollers back, popping her head into the window, “Oh, she's here here! Hi, honey!”

“Hi, Kiyoko! Is the missus here too?”

“Not today I'm afraid. Sophie's visiting family in the United States right now. Oh she'll be so sad she missed you. Where in heaven have you been?” she frets, using her quirk to step through the wall towards you. “You had us all so worried! There were news headlines saying you'd gone missing from the hero scene!”

“I was– I'm fine,” you appease, offering what you hope is a calming smile. “I was just temporarily out of commission. But I'm better now and hoping to get back to work soon if they'll let me.”

“Well good,” Kiyoko sniffs, “Now, answer me this.”

“Anything,”

Kiyoko glances around conspiratorially and you meet her halfway when she leans into you to whisper, “Is that young man sitting at table six Pro Hero Deku?”

“Uh,” you risk a glance over at Izuku, who's watching you with wide, quizzical eyes, before looking back at Kiyoko, “Yes. It sure is. But he's been here before, I don't–”

“That's what I thought,” she interrupts, nodding triumphantly. And then her face contorts into the biggest shit-eating grin you've ever seen on her and she asks, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Auntie!” Ren squawks, looking as horrified as you feel, “You cannot just ask personal questions like that, oh my God!”

“What! I'm just curious! Especially because he's staring at you like you hang the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the sky,” she laughs, tossing you a wink, “If he isn't, he should be.”

“He isn't staring–”

“Oh, hush, yes he absolutely is,” she snorts, leaning back against the wall behind her. You fear your face is as warm looking as it feels. “I've seen all those tabloids about him and that Uravity gal, but I've never seen him look at anyone but you like that. He's always looked at you like that.”

“I don't know what we are,” you give in, practically deflating on the spot, “That's what I'm here to find out.”

“And I'm sure you're here for a coffee,” Ren says, successfully segueing the conversation. Kiyoko clicks her tongue at you both, but dutifully turns away towards the pastry case to let you order in peace. You wait to the side while Ren makes up your coffee just how you like it. When they set it on the counter for you, Kiyoko slides a pastry box towards you too.

“What's this?” you laugh, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Some raspberry turnovers. On the house,” she says, effectively ignoring you when you attempt to argue by phasing through the wall and into the kitchen again. You share a look with Ren and slap enough money on the counter to cover it anyways before turning to make your way back to Izuku.

“What was that about?” he wonders when you settle beside him.

“Kiyoko was meddling,” you push the box towards him and sip at your drink, “She gave us some raspberry turnovers though.”

“That's sweet of her!” he coos, carefully peeling the tape off the top to open it. Despite there being two, he still takes one and pulls it apart, offering out the larger of the two halves to you. You accept it with a smile.

After you finish your piece and suck the bits of raspberry filling and sanding sugar from your fingers, you ask, “So, what's up?”

Izuku hums around his cheekful of pastry, lifting his hat with his clean hand to scratch his head and ruffle his hair. He seems to hesitate with what he wants to say, nervously tapping his fingers along his cup, before he mutters, “Why– you said you didn't want this. That you didn't want to love me. And you didn't want to tell me either, you were going to– you did die. You died instead of just… telling me. And I can't wrap my head around it.”

“That was so cruel of me to say,” you say, “I should not have ever said that, I'm so sorry, Izuku.”

“I don't want an apology,” he rushes out, waving his hands out in front of him, “I don't want you to feel bad about it, I just want to know why. Was it– did I do something? Did you not trust me? Were you scared of me?”

“No. No, it wasn't that,” you're nervous, palms wet with sweat and heart fluttering in your chest, “At first, back in high school, I didn't think you had any interest. So for a long time, I didn't wanna ruin what we had. You're one of my best friends. And I know that even if I had told you, it wouldn't have made you drop me. And it probably wouldn't have been on purpose, but you're so hyper aware of how you treat people, I know it would've been different. You’d treat me differently, we wouldn't be like we had been. And I wasn't willing to risk that.”

“Okay,” he nods, shifting in his seat, “So, what about after high school, before you were sick?”

You watch a drop of condensation slip down the window in front of you. Follow the trail, guessing where it'll land, if it'll make it to the bottom before it disappears.

“I still wasn't sure how you felt. And by then, there were so many headlines about you and Ochako. And I know those are almost never true, but you guys have always been close. And I know she liked you too in school,” you sigh and lean forward in your seat to give your wings a little more space. The left one still aches sometimes, despite being all healed from the break it suffered. It's weaker now, just barely, but enough that you notice it. You stretch it wide, shake it out, and then fold it back nicely against your back.

Izuku follows the movements with sharp eyes. You take a breath and keep talking, “At some point, it sort of became a silly dream that I had. I made peace with it. I'd never fall out of love with you, but I'd never have you either. And that was fine as long as you were still here, you know? As long as we were still friends, it was fine. I ignored it. Stuffed all those feelings into a box and locked them up. I didn't ever even try to date anyone else, because I would've been a horrible partner. And that was fine too. I liked being alone. And if you ever did end up with Ochako, I would've been happy and supportive. Because I love you, and I love her, and I wanted you both to be happy.”

Izuku says your name in a soft whisper, ducking his head to catch your eye. You scrub your hands over your face and groan before turning to look at him. He looks exactly how you thought he would. Melancholic, heartbroken, thoughtful. He's soft when he says, “You don't have to tell me anymore.”

“I want to. You deserve to know,”

He nods, and you keep spilling your deepest thoughts for him. Word vomit is spewing from your chest, you can see the shadows of petals and stems on the tabletop. You tell him everything. You explain everything.

You tell him about how you wished he would reject you so you could have a moment of clarity. The way your feelings for him were so big you felt suffocated by them sometimes, and that's why you wished things were different. How selfish you feel about it all, how in denial you were about it for a long time. How you grieved him and the idea of there ever being an ‘us’ with him for years. How you mourned a relationship you thought would never happen.

You have a hard time articulating it all to him, but he seems to get it. He's always understood you, even before you'd been close. Even before you were in the hero course, back when you were just a gifted kid with a completely different dream. When you worked with your hands and went to sleep oil stained and excited to do it all again the next day.

(Being a hero had never been your plan. Sure, you had a useful quirk for it, you knew that young. And even during your days at UA, you knew you could transfer if you really wanted after being accepted. You'd been compared to Hawks more than once, you knew what you could do. But hero support had been your dream.

It's funny now, to think back on it, really. How against being a hero you were. You had no interest being on the front lines. Combat was never fun for you, you didn't get the rush kids in the hero course did when fighting. 

The war changed everything.

Aizawa and Hawks came to you to ask you to fight. They needed another Hawks for something, someone in the sky. And what the hell could you do, say no? Of course you couldn't. So you fought, you fought damn hard, and you won most of your battles.

The year following the war, you still refused to transfer. Despite Aizawa offering you a spot and taking you under his wing to train. You said no, you were firm in your decision.

Honestly, you don't know why you changed your mind. One day you woke up and remember thinking that if you could do even a fraction of the good that All Might did, that Deku did, you wanted to. You wanted to save people too.

You're still a shadow in the hero support world. You work with Mei on the downlow, fix friends' hero suits and support items under an alias and then go out and fight beside them.

You learned and adapted, figured out how to get the best of both worlds.)

By the time you've talked yourself out of breath, Izuku is openly crying beside you. Again, you find yourself uncomfortable. Laying your emotions out has never been a strong suit of yours, and you can feel phantom flowers in your chest. You briefly wonder if that feeling will ever truly go away.

“Sorry,” you say after a moment of silence, “I unloaded a lot. Didn't mean to do that.”

“No,” he sniffles, wiping at his cheeks and shaking his head, “I asked. Don't apologize.”

“I don't blame you if you don't want to pursue this,” you tack on, releasing a heavy breath. Your drink is long gone, but you tilt the cup back for the last few drops anyways, just for something to do with your hands. You miss the way Izuku whips his head up to look at you, mouth hung open and a panicked look on his face.

“Are you kidding?” he gapes. You don't look at him, focusing instead on the napkin in your hands. You tear it slowly, ripping tiny pieces off to pile up beside it. He sets his hand over yours, “I love you.”

“That doesn't mean we have to date,” you rasp, “We don't have to do anything. We could just– forget. We could pretend.”

“Do you remember in the hospital, when we confessed to heal your lungs?” he's so gentle with you, twisting your chair so your body is facing him. Your wings twitch behind you and he leans around to fix a few crooked feathers while you answer.

“I'll never forget it,” you huff, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Remember when you told me to reject you?” he goes on as he leans back again, settling across from you.

“Yep,” you nod.

“What did I say?”

“You said ‘no’,” 

“I did,” he concedes, “I also said I could never pretend I don't love you. This won't go away. I have spent years falling in love with you. I did it over and over, because it's you . I will always want this as long as you do. Do you want it?”

“I want it so bad,” you whisper, dropping your head back between your shoulders, “God, I have never wanted something more in my life.”

“Then you have it,” he laughs, like it's simple. And really, in a way, you guess it is. It always has been, you think. He sounds like he's still smiling when he says, “I'm all yours. Until you decide you don't want me anymore, but probably still then.”

When you finally look back at him, he looks beautiful. He's looking back, smiling so softly, so sweetly, it makes your teeth ache. It makes your chest ache the way his eyes squint when he smiles, the way his teeth peek out from behind full lips. How his freckles dance across the crinkled bridge of his nose when his smile widens. You want to spend the rest of your life committing each one to memory. You want to count them all and trace the constellations they make across his skin. There's a string of fate tying you to him, and it's unbreakable.

“I could never not want you,” is all you can think to say. And now, now you do want to kiss him. You want it so bad you can feel it in your teeth, in your fucking toes. But you don't.

The streets are busier, the bakery is picking up. There's too many people around and you know it'll be a whole shit show if someone snaps a picture of you together anyways. But it'll be far worse if it's a picture of you kissing. He's still in his terrible disguise, but you don't have the privilege of covering up. You're always exposed, the most recognizable thing about you is your wings and it's not like you can cover those up.

It'll look a lot worse for him than you if you kiss him and get caught by some pervy fucker with a camera. You're fairly underground, almost completely unknown, and people don't quite care about you the way they care about Pro Hero Deku. People that know enough about you to like you would be over the moon for a picture like that. People that like him would riot .

So you don't kiss him. You get another drink, and you share the second turnover with him. He tells you about his mission and you listen with just a smidge of jealousy. He notices and laughs, asking, “You miss it?”

“Oh, so bad,” you groan, “Dude, I'm going insane.”

“It's funny to think you almost didn't do this,” he hums, “Imagine how different things would be if you were in a lab instead.”

“I work under an alias with Mei sometimes,”

“I didn't know that! That's amazing!” Izuku gushes, leaning closer with hearts in his eyes, “How come I didn't know that?”

“It's a secret,” you laugh, “Hence the alias. Only a few people know, but I don't advertise it.”

“There's always something new to learn about you,” Izuku says quietly, suddenly awestruck and looking at you like you're a work of art. Your skin prickles with heat under the attention when he keeps going and says, “You're amazing.”

“Says you,” you scoff, deflecting. He hums, taking it in stride and props his head up with a hand on his cheek. You mirror him, grinning when he huffs a quiet laugh. Behind you, the bell above the door jingles and Izuku is slow to slip his sunglasses back over his nose and shuffle back to a more appropriate distance.

It's a group of young girls who ooh and aah at the pastries. One of them glances your way and has a look of recognition flash across her face. Izuku notices too, turning his face a little more out of her field of view and peering at you over the rim of his glasses. You both know he's too late, they've seen him.

“You've been caught,” you sing, laughing when his cheeks heat, “Gonna say hi?”

“Mm, I'd hope they can see I'm busy. But I will if I have to,”

“Wow, look at you. Not so nice after all,”

“Hey, I'm plenty nice,” he rolls his shoulders back, sits a little less like the Number One Hero and a little more like he's just some dude drinking coffee. You like being privy to this side of him, the side he doesn't show the public. The side of him that says fuck and gets irritated with fans. The one that doesn't help old ladies cross the street (they’ve done just fine before, they'll make it without him), and doesn't pick up trash in the streets. The grown ass adult side that's more like Katsuki than you think he cares to admit.

“Yeah, well, your fan club is coming over here. Smile, Deku,” you snicker, burying your grin into your collar. He follows your eyes when you flicker them toward the giggling gaggle of teenage girls inching their way closer. And when you stand he looks betrayed, “I'm gonna go talk to Kiyoko. Good luck, soldier.”

“Don't leave,” he begs, catching your hand before you can get too far, “Please, they're like wolves.”

“Fine,” you huff, folding easily for his big, puppy dog eyes.

The girls are fine. They don't squeal or cry, like some fans you've seen. They request an autograph and when he agrees, they run to ask Ren for a pen. The moment they turn their backs, Izuku takes you by the waist and rushes you out the door. You're both laughing, giggling into each other like you're teenagers breaking curfew. You run four blocks before he's pulling you into an alleyway to catch your breath.

“They were nice, why did we run?” you laugh, slapping his shoulder, “That was mean!”

“No one will ever believe them,” he shrugs, leaning back against a brick wall. “And I know Kiyoko will back me up.”

“Izuku!” you chastise, “What's gotten into you?”

“I'm not Deku right now,” he groans, “I don't wanna be Deku right now.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means, I'm just Izuku,” he hums, stepping closer. You raise an eyebrow, but meet him halfway when he tugs you closer by the hem of your shirt. “I'm just me and you're just you. No heroes here.”

“Uh huh,” you curl your fingers around his bicep, shivering when the hand at the small of your back presses you until your belly touches his, “And?”

“And,” he murmurs, ducking his head down inches from your own, “I'm gonna kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” you breathe, fitting yourself against him easily when he surges forward to press his lips to yours. Chest to chest, you consume him, you let him consume you. When he sighs, you're more than eager to swallow it down, offer him one of your own. You take everything he's willing to give, and he takes too. His hands are warm on your back, tickling their way up to settle against your shoulder blades so he can wrap himself around you. 

Kissing him is everything you dreamed it would be and more.

“Come home with me tonight?” he practically begs when he pulls away, lips shiny and kiss swollen.

“Okay,” you agree easily, chasing after him to press more kisses to the corner of his mouth, “Yeah.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku's house is warm, lived in. His furniture is nice, but not overly expensive. His dishes are mismatched, his walls are covered in decor. It's not all that different from his dorm back in high school, just a little more mature looking. He still has an overwhelming amount of All Might merch, but it's more spread out, blending well with friends’ merch and other things.

You've been here before, but never like this. You don't know how to hold yourself, what's appropriate and what's not.

“You're being weird,” Izuku teases, shedding his disguise. “Don't be weird. We're the same as before.”

“No,” you disagree immediately, though not unkindly, “We aren't. This is not the same at all. But, that's not a bad thing. Just–”

“Different,” he says, “You're right.”

“Takes some getting used to is all,”

He's got four large bookshelves that are overflowing with his own notebooks, old and new, comics, and manga, and that's where you plant yourself. You read through titles, take in all the knick-knacks decorating the empty spots. He's got an old photo of a bunch of UA alumni grinning at the camera. There's a cute, goofy looking Dynamight bobblehead beside the picture, staring you down from the top shelf and you reach up to flick the head, grinning when it bounces.

“I wish I had something of yours to add to my collection,” he comments, stepping up to join you with a hand on your hip.

“I'm not big enough for merch,” you remind him, “And I'm an underground stealth hero. I don't even think I'm allowed to have merch.”

“Aizawa has merch,”

“Not real merch. It's all fanmade, bootleg type shit,” you say with a snort, leaning into his warmth. “Do you not have work today?”

“No, I've got the next few days off because of the mission,” he says, then hesitates, gnawing at the inside of his cheek before adding, “Do you wanna stay the night?”

“Yeah,” you smile, leaning up to press a sweet kiss to the freckles splattered over his cheek.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You hadn't been expecting things to go the way they had when you spent the night, though you can't say you didn't like it.

Flashes of hot, sweat-slicked skin against your own flicker through your head. You remember how far down his freckles had reached, you think of those green eyes, staring up at you from between your legs. Scarred thick fingers squeezing so tightly at your thighs they left bruises. His mouth sealed over yours, swallowing down every noise you made. His own hiccuping sounds when you–

You're distracted. You can't be distracted. Today, you're officially back on duty. You're not back on the patrol roster quite yet, but you have a lot of paperwork to catch up on, so you hunker down in Katsuki’s office to do it.

On paper, you're a solo agent. You don't belong to any one agency, like Aizawa and Hitoshi, but you frequently find yourself working with or in Katsuki's agency.

Hitoshi joins you under the guise of being your partner and taking responsibility for half of the paperwork. You know it's really just because he and Katsuki are officially dating now and he wants to see him.

Simp , you think, as if you aren't exactly the same.

“Remind me again why you couldn't have just finished this shit?” you ask, wincing when the hand shaped bruise on your thigh throbs as you shift and tuck your foot beneath yourself.

Hitoshi notices your discomfort. He's seen it before, having marked you similarly. He watches for the telltale signs. The way you hiss, press your fingertips to the bruise in the same way whomever left them there must've, then flush a pretty shade of pink when you're inevitably reminded of how it got there.

“You got laid. You have a sex injury,” he accuses teasingly, leaning forward to press his own finger to the bruise. When you gasp, he does not hold in his laugh.

“It's not an injury , Jesus,” you bark out a shocked laugh too and slap his hand away when he keeps poking, “Just a bruise.”

“Damn,” he whistles, frowning down at his mug when he realizes it's void of any form of caffeine, “Didn't think he had it in him.”

“What, fucking me?”

“No, fucking you hard enough to bruise. Figured he'd be, like, vanilla. Missionary with super intense eye contact, you know, the works,”

“You are so fucked in the head,” you say.

“Like you aren't?” he throws back.

“I'm getting more coffee,”

“That's crazy, me too,” he grins, “You can give me details while we walk.”

“I hate you,”

“Mm, I don't think you do,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

They tell you that your apartment won't be fixed one month into your stay with Katsuki. Your landlord's son had been kind enough to call you the moment he found out.

“They found more structural damage after the accident that isn't worth fixing,” he explains over the phone, “Dad didn't wanna charge the tenants for an apartment they weren't currently living in. But without that income, he couldn't afford it anymore without risking foreclosure. And after finding out about the extent of the damages, he just decided to sell. He closed on a deal with a real estate company this morning and they're wanting to begin demolition immediately. Tenants have a week to get their things out.”

“That's not enough notice for more than half of the building,” you huff, “Where's your father gonna go?”

“My sister has an extra room,” he says, sounding extraordinarily tired, “I know a week isn't enough. I pushed for a month, but they wanna get started as soon as they can. And I have no say anymore. I'm sorry, Aviator.”

“Don't worry about it,” you sigh, “Thanks for calling. And tell your dad I said thank you too.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You hate moving. Even if you didn't particularly love where you were living, you still get this sad, melancholic feeling deep in your gut when you have to leave. It's definitely some childhood trauma shit, but you don't have time to deepdive into that.

And packing is a whole different annoyance. Especially packing an apartment that still looks like a warzone. You have backup on the way, Izuku and Katsuki are coming after they're joint patrol and Aizawa and Hitoshi texted saying they're a few minutes out. You're thankful for them, because you are overwhelmed.

Most of your stuff in the living room isn't even worth an attempt to save it. Your couch is destroyed, torn and missing pieces. Your TV is completely busted, folded in half and crushed under a chunk of your wall. Throw blankets are tattered, knick-knacks and tchotchkes broken or lost in the chaos, framed photos shattered and bloody.

You start in your bedroom instead.

By the time Aizawa and Hitoshi show up, you're nearly done packing all of your clothes. Hitoshi is gentle with you, he knows how you feel about moving. He offers you a coffee that you take with a grateful groan.

“How's it going?” Aizawa drawls, leaning back against your doorframe.

“The living room isn't even worth packing,” you huff, “Part of me wants to dig through the mess to see if I can salvage anything. But it seems useless at this point. They took so long that anything near the busted wall got wet from the rain we got a few days ago.”

“I'll dig through it for you,” he offers.

“You don't have to,” you mutter, defeated and tired.

“I know I don't have to, but I will,” he hums, scooping the hair off his neck to tie in a low bun, “You can focus on everything else. When will the boys be here?”

“Another fifteen, probably,” you say, “They're bringing the moving truck.”

“Well, with five of us it should be pretty quick,”

“Yeah,” you huff, “Thanks, Shouta.”

“Anytime, kid,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“You have my merch?” Izuku coos, leaning past you to grab the sweatshirt behind you.

“Of course I do,” you laugh and slide another box across the floor and into the hallway. Katsuki scoops it up easily, grinning when you roll your eyes at his show of strength.

“I didn't know that,” Izuku blubbers suddenly, tears gathering on his lashes. “This is a limited edition, too!”

“Izuku,” you huff, snatching the hoodie back, “It's almost like I was desperately, embarrassingly in love with you for years.”

“Was?” he teases, catching you by the waist when you try to walk away and pressing himself against your back. He grins when you roll your eyes at him and leans down to leave a trail of light kisses over your shoulders.

You tilt your head back, urging him to drop one against your lips, “Kiss me and maybe that ‘was’ will change into ‘am’.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs into your neck, kissing a path from just below your ear to your lips and then leaving two more once he gets there.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

It's not a conscious decision, not on your part at least. You moving in with Izuku starts slow. Your time there begins to extend from a few days to a week, then more. Your things show up slowly at first, a couple shirts, your toothbrush. Shampoo and conditioner. It's not even you that's doing it, it's him. He's the one that's casually bringing more and more of your boxes up from his basement. He's the one that insisted you bring Hiro with you. 

It's been such an easy transition, you hadn't realized how normal it felt. Your dishes mixed with his in the kitchen, your books beside his on the shelves. Hell, you have your own dresser and a dedicated side of the bed and closet now. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to even notice. It's been nearly three months, and you're just putting it together on a random, lazy Sunday morning.

“Do I live here?” you ask, startling yourself. Izuku is across from you, lounging on the couch and half asleep. The TV drones on while he blinks a few times dumbly, mind lagging and drowsy. You gasp, horrified, “Did I accidentally move in with you!?”

“You didn't realize?” he laughs, sitting up with a stretch. You're momentarily distracted by the slither of skin that peeks out when his shirt rises with his arms. He grins when he catches the look in your eye.

“No? What the fuck? You did?” you say as soon as your tongue catches up with your brain again.

“Baby,” he snickers, “You never even started looking for apartments.”

“I'm– I was just procrastinating!”

“Every single one of your boxes has been unpacked,” he adds.

“I didn't ask you to do that!”

“Are you upset?” he murmurs, suddenly looking guilty.

“I–” you hesitate, taking in your home. Your things fit so seamlessly with his, like it was always meant to be like this, “I don't think I am.”

“Okay,”

“Just– sorry, I guess,”

“What? Why?”

“For moving in with you without asking, maybe? I don't know. Are you upset?”

“Are you kidding? Coming home to you is everything I've ever wanted,” he's so earnest when he says it, “I was gonna ask anyways, but then it just sort of happened.”

“Oh my God, that's so fucking embarrassing,” you whine and drop your head to your hands. He coos, crawling from the couch to the lounge you're occupying and crushing his weight down on you carefully. You let your hands fall from your face to wrap around his shoulders and curl into the dark green curls at the base of his neck, “Is love always this easy?”

“I don't know,” he answers honestly, “I wouldn't say this was easy. It took us a long time to get here.”

“Yeah, but now that we got here it is,” you whisper into his hair, pressing gentle kisses to the crown of his head. “I think it's supposed to be like this.”

“I think so too,” he groans, squishing his face further into your chest, “You're so warm.”

“Are you tired, baby?”

“Mm, no,” he says, turning to bite at the swell of your breast. When you hiss, he apologizes with wet licks and kisses over the mark until you make a softer noise.

“Oh,” you sigh, “Okay, not tired.”

“Definitely not tired,” he huffs, scooping you up easily as he stands. “But I still prefer the bed for this. Only the best for my love.”

Your laugh is warm, loud and unapologetic, bouncing along the walls of the house as he carries you up the stairs and to your bedroom. His own laugh twists together with yours, filling the corners of your shared space. Somewhere downstairs, the bell on Hiro's collar jingles.

It's a vibrant feeling, realizing that this is your home too. The bed he drops you on is yours too. And the shower you share after is yours. You and him have weaved parts of each other into your lives, intertwined everything to make it shared.

It's not ‘mine’ or ‘his’ anymore, it's ‘ours.’

It's shared . It's two people coming together to make one life because they love each other enough to make space for one another.

It's everything you've ever wanted.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

When you were a kid, you didn't ever want to fall in love. You watched first hand how love ruined your mother. The man who helped bring you into this world hadn't even stuck around long enough for you to meet him. And when he left, he took a piece of your mother with him you think. And she spent years looking for it. Chasing men, begging them. Changing for them.

Every man after that was the same. Kind in the beginning, sweeter than sugar to you and your mother. And then, somewhere along the line, a switch was always flipped. They didn't want kids, they didn't want you . And they never stuck around long enough for you to call them dad, not that you ever would.

You didn't need a dad, you had your mom. She was enough for you, she always would be.

You weren't enough for her.

She craved love so badly from a man, it wasn't enough if it was from you.

One man stuck around long enough. He treated her so well, he said he loved her. He asked if she loved him too. If she loved him enough to leave you behind.

The first few times he asked, she had laughed him off. You listened through the crack in your door, waiting and wishing that she would finally put your relationship with her first. 

When you were ten, she left. And you learned that unconditional love doesn't exist. Not with men or women. Not with family, not with your own mother.

“He's gonna marry me,” she had said, delighted and rushing to pack her suitcase. “He just– well. He doesn't want kids. You want me to be happy, don't you? You understand, right?”

You didn't. Of course you didn't.

If love could do that, if it could take your mother away from you, you didn't want it.

Your grandparents had been furious with your mother when they took you in. They raised you well. With so much love, they taught you it could be good . They were so proud of you when you got your acceptance letter from UA. And they cheered for you during your first Sports Festival.

They tried to show you better love, healthier love.

“Love is easy,” your grandmother said, time and time again, “It shouldn't be hard. Real love is so easy, so simple. They won't ask you to change, they won't want you to be different. They'll love you as you are. And if they really love you, you'll believe them when they say it.”

And eventually, you could see it in them, in the way your grandfather knew how your grandmother took her tea, in the way your grandmother still made his favorite meal every year on his birthday, even after he passed. When she passed three years after him, you were more happy than sad. Still heartbroken, of course, but she was with him again. He had always been her happy place, and you knew they were together again, wherever they were.

You see them again in your life, in the relationships around you. You see them in Izuku and yourself, in Katsuki and Hitoshi, in Shouta and Hizashi. You see that same love, the good kind. The unconditional kind. The kind your mother failed to show you.

And you can see it now. Written between the lines of love, of devotion you've given each other. It's so saccharine, warm and gooey like honey. Izuku is so easy to love , he is so quick to give it right back. He makes the space for you, so he can love you and the rest of the world too. He fits himself in that hole in your chest, he cups his hands so tightly together to collect your soul when you pour it into his accepting palms. And he doesn't hesitate to pour his own into your hands, because he trusts you with it. Because he loves you.

He is so sweet, so kind, when he says he loves you too. He is a good man, and you are grateful to be the one to love him. You're grateful for the mornings where you wake up with him and the nights you fall asleep with him. And he, in turn, is just as grateful. And he shows it so openly. Touching you whenever he can, even if it's just a hand on your arm as he passes by you or a leg tangled between yours while you sleep. He kisses you at every opportunity, in public and in private. He dances with you in the kitchen, dips you low to the floor and presses a kiss over your heart.

You've spent years wanting him, loving him, and you are so fortunate in being able to do that. He'd shout his love for you from the rooftops if he could, you're sure. And you would do the same damn thing.

Being in love with Midoriya Izuku is so easy, all things considered. It's as automatic as breathing and blinking and being, because he loves you back just as easily. And in some sick and twisted way, you're thankful for those flowers that had sprouted in your chest. Without them, you wouldn't have this easy, beautifully simple love.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you,” he replies. And it's so easy, and he doesn't ask you to change anything about yourself, and you believe him every time he says it.

Choso gets so lost in the feeling of your pussy that he fucks you till he can’t stop. Tears rolling down his face with his head buried into your neck. The man whimpering and moaning shakily as he neared yet another orgasm.

“Ahh.. Choso baby. G- give.. nngh- give y-yourself a break.”

He shook his head, his thrusts loud and sloppy as he desperately rut into you. His breathing speeding up as he let out an uncontrollable string of whiny cries. “C-can’t!” his voice went up a pitch. “Your pussy, nngh- your pussy, o-oh fuck your pussy feels s-so,” a loud mewl. “so fu..ckkking good.”

Choso pressed his lips onto yours. Messily deepening the kiss as his tears dripped into your cheeks. “Nngh- cummin’! Cummin’ so hard— ‘s so good— so.. so- haah.” burying himself deep into you as he came. Pumping his biggest load into your overly filled cunt.

“More.” he breathed, not giving himself a chance to calm down before fucking into you once more. His hips snapping forward into your tight heat as his cum leaked out of you in spurts. Broken moans leaving his mouth every time you clenched down on his overly sensitive tip. “Wanna- nngh— wanna breed this pussy for..ever, f-fuck.” Barely able to keep himself up as he chased another painfully delicious high.

Bad Boys Bring Roses - G.S.

Synopsis. You’ve never dealt with the yakuza - not once. So why is the future head of the Gojo clan suddenly coming up to you, demanding that you marry him for 30 days?

Pairing. Yakuza boss! Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, yakuza! au, fake marriage, annoyances to lovers, elders suck, mentioned k*lling (not reader or Satoru), Satoru is INSANE and SO down bad, one bed trope, praise, biting, oral (fem receiving), fíngering, unprotected, créampie, spitting, overstim, flower language, kníves, bit dark, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 9.1k (whoopsies)

A/N. I just HAD to get this out of my mind like I wanna write an entire book series on this. Spent too long researching rose language as well so see if y’all catch that hehe.

You thought the wedding invitation was a joke when it had arrived - a delicate, lacey little card that you’ve probably read over a million times by now. It had been stuffed haphazardly into your mailbox, along with a ridiculously large bouquet of purple roses. Seemingly inconspicuous when you first tore into the thick envelope, wondering which one of your friends was getting married now. 

And it was - that is, until you saw your name at the very top - right where the blushing bride’s was supposed to be. 

We hereby formally invite you to the marriage of…

What? 

No return address. No date. No groom’s name either. Only yours, written in beautiful, golden writing - inviting you to your own wedding, exactly a week from now.

You remember perfectly the way you’d flipped it over and over in your hands, the gears turning in your head as you tried to crack down on the motive behind this invitation. A threat? A joke? Texting all of your friends about what a cute prank that was - only to get a shared confused reaction, and a few “April Fool’s has already passed, y’know.”

Hell, you’d even cornered the mailman, desperate to get to the bottom of this. But that wasn’t particularly helpful when he was only able to shake his head in protest, pale as a sheet, and trembling ever-so-slightly as he sped away from you. Weird. 

Without a clue as to who sent the letter, or even a follow-up in the days after, you stuffed the invitation somewhere deep in the back of your closet and handed the bouquet to your mother. Not bothering to tell your parents where it was from - because who’d worry over a stupid prank like this? It was probably one of the kids from down the street that’d gotten their grubby lil’ hands on a printer. 

You, however, had more important things to focus on - like trying to help your father revive his failing diner. It was a family business, a quaint, hearty little shop. One that was quickly, and dangerously, losing both customers and employees with the brand new fast food place that’d popped up right across the street. 

Which is why you found yourself here - working overtime on a Saturday night, looking over the empty chairs and stacks of boxes from behind the counter. Whatever, it was only a few weeks until relocation anyway.

You heave out a sigh, eyes flitting to the clock beside you - 11:21pm.

Nine minutes more, you drum your fingers in boredom, maybe you should just close up early. Because sure as hell no one else was-

“Oh? Still open?”

“Ah- Uh, yes, welcome!” Jolting out of your reverie, you stand up ramrod straight, taking in the customer standing at the door. He wasn’t one of the regulars - no, you think you’d remember if he was. Cloudy white hair, piercing blue eyes that twinkle from above his shades, even in the dim light of the diner. He was so very tall, taking up almost all of the doorframe, only getting more and more imposing as he walks up to you in quick, long strides. Magnetizing. 

And if you dared let your eyes wonder, you caught a few tattoos peeking out from his unfairly snug button-up, clashing with its flashy blue color. Dragons? Trees? Or were they flowers - roses?

“Roses.” the man in front of you answers your unspoken question, voice so very deep, and melodic - tinged with something playful in it that you wouldn’t have expected at first glance. At your raised brow he continues with a wink, “Could tell ya were checkin’ me out, sweetheart.”

“F-forgive my rudeness, sir.” you sputter, face burning. You look away from the way his muscled ripple as he crosses his arms, immediately turning to fumble with the menus, “Please take a seat and I’ll be there with you shortly.”

You’d expected him to take up a booth, or maybe head towards one of the good tables around the corner. What you did not expect was for him to plop down on the stool right in front of you, flashing you a playful grin before humming, “S’alright, m’just waitin’ for someone.”

Oh. Well, it made sense that someone like him would be taken. Swallowing, you hand over the menu, before giving him a close-lipped smile, “A lover?”

Resting his head on his palms, not bothering to even glance at the list of dishes before him. “My fiancée.”

“Congratulations, Mr…”

“Gojo Satoru.” he tilts his head, looking way too happy with himself. “Please, call me Satoru.” 

You nod softly, picking up your pen and notepad to get this conversation over with - and maybe to also avoid his heavy stare that made something hot and uncomfortable coil in your stomach. “Right, Mr-” at his disappointed whine, “Satoru. Congratulations, must be one heck of a thing to plan.”

“Oh I’m having fun with the wedding planning.” He waves off your words with a chuckle, missing - or pointedly ignoring - the way you were waiting for his order. “How’s it going for you?”

What?

You narrow your eyes at the way Satoru was batting those long lashes up at you, deceivingly innocent and waiting for your answer. “I’m sorry- Me? Did you mean with the diner relocation plans or-”

“No no no.” he laughs, loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say at someone interrupting you if you weren’t so mesmerized by that little dimple at the corner of his grin. One that moves as he plows on, “M’asking how wedding planning is going for you, wifey~”

There’s a beat of silence. One. Two. With you gaping at the pure audacity as Satoru quiets down to little titters, seemingly studying your reaction in amusement. Which slowly, but surely, drains from his face as you grit out a sharp, “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, sir. We’re very busy and don’t have time to entertain your pick-up lines.”

Those widened blue eyes sweep the painfully empty diner, letting out a low whisper. “I can see that.” you let out a strangled noise of embarrassment at that. “But you’re really gonna ask your husband to leave?”

Huffing in frustration, “I don’t have a husband.”

“...you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. And who the fuck are you to tell me I do?”

“What?!” Satoru jumps out of his seat in shock, fast enough that the stool clatters to the floor with a deafening clang! Hands slamming on the counter as he leans over it - so close that you could feel his minty breath fanning your face with each hurried, shrill word that tumbles out of his lips. “What do you mean you don’t have a- I’m gonna kill those fuckin’- After I bought Canva premium just to make that invitation? Did the flowers come at least?”

And while Satoru is panicking, words spilling out of his mouth a mile a minute - only one of those rings in your mind - invitation. 

“You.” you hiss, barely audible over meltdown in front of you. Pointing a finger accusingly, “You’re the one behind that prank with the dumbass roses.”

That seems to snap Satoru out of his dramatic monologue - and you’re glad it did. Because he looks up to meet your glare, “Hey! You didn’t like the roses?” 

And for the first time, you see Satoru more serious than he’d been ever since stepping into this diner. Eyes somewhere behind you, ablaze and almost…frightening. “Didn’t you ask him?” 

You whirl around to see your father, who’d apparently rushed downstairs at the commotion. Baseball bat to fight off the intruder hanging in midair as he stands frozen, taking in the scene before him - but more importantly, that man in front of him. “You.”

---

And, well, it’s not everyday that you’re having late night tea with your parents and one of your father’s…business associates. Even rarer when said business associate is…you gulp, praying to whoever’s above that this is all some sick dream you’ll wake up any second from. 

“So, let me get this straight…” you sigh, pinching your nose in frustration. It’s been an hour or two of trying to understand whatever this was. Giving a stern look at the two men squirming across from you in the booth. “My father was conned by one of your-” you gesture your head at Satoru, which only makes his smirk grow, “-men to take a loan from your um-”

“Family, yakuza. Anything goes.” he supplies helpfully.

You wave him off, trying as quickly as possible to brush off the ‘yakuza’ bit that makes your stomach lurch. “And now he owes you a favor of…what exactly?”

Satoru leans across the table, t-shirt opening tantalizingly. Voice dropping to an almost-pleading murmur, “Look, I just need you to pretend to be my doting, loving, charming, gorgeous-” backtracking at your withering glare, “...Anyway. I just need a fake wife for a few months, convince my family to get off my back about arranged marriage n’ carrying the Gojo legacy. Then bam! you stomp all over my heart, we divorce and I’m too heartbroken to ever get married again. Easy.” 

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You bet Satoru’s disappointed groan echoed across all 23 words of Tokyo, because it was definitely ringing in your ears amongst whirlwind thoughts of marriage? To a yakuza? Completely, and utterly ridiculous. And from his talks of “carrying the family name” it seemed like he was some sort of future head as well. Though, he definitely wasn’t acting like it right now. 

“Alright. Plan B, then.” 

Oh? You couldn’t help but think that maybe he wasn’t that much of a manchild as sits up from where he’d been splayed all over the table in tragedy. Lacing his fingers together before turning to your father, continuing in a more diplomatic tone, “But I want the cash you took. In full. Now. Gonna hafta disguise my best friend as my wife, n’ dresses for a six foot man aren’t cheap.”

Your mother looked like she could faint right then and there. Choking out a noise of surprise, “B-but we’ve deposited it all for the relocation- Please, can’t we pay any other-”

At the firm shake of his head, you stammer, “Now? Aren’t you some yakuza nepo baby, can’t you just ask your parents for money?”

“No.” Satoru chuckles, in a tone which told you that he probably could but might just lose his head for it. Only further supported as he muses, “Not unless I want a finger cut off for dealin’ money on the side. Seriously, sweetheart, why did you think I sent you the invitation last week?”

“Take me instead.” you father cries, trying to negotiate above Satoru’s half-joking mutters of “Ugh, I’m not into ol’ men dumb enough to sign yakuza contracts.”

It was all too much. You couldn’t take out the relocation deposit - it was a new start, possibly the only thing to save your family. Nor do you have enough in savings to pay back the loan. And if Satoru’s warning was anything to listen to, then you knew that dealing with the yakuza could be dangerous. Why you? Why you? Why you? 

“Fine.”

The moment that word leaves your lips, it’s like the whole world freezes. Everyone in the room - including yourself - unsure of whether they heard you right. “I’ll do it.” you clarify, voice hesitant but firm. Eyeing the way Satoru’s eyes begin to sparkle, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips. Raising a finger to shush your father’s protests, “But for a month, until we leave this place. After that m’going with my family and you’re never to contact us ever again. Deal?”

And oh Satoru seemed over the moon, reaching out to grasp your hand in a handshake - so warm, and softer than you’d imagined. “Swear on m’life, wifey. You can kill me if not.”

He was so intimidating - and intimidatingly exhilarating.

Only an hour more of arguing and a quick phone call later, men - yakuza, you assume - were flooding your family’s little diner. All tattooed and burly, looking somewhat comical as they carried your few packed-up suitcases outside. Well, at least they stayed for a late dinner. 

And ended up being witnesses to a very rushed, very rushed signing of marriage agreements. Evidence to really show up your alleged marriage. It barely even lasted a few minutes before, well, that was that - you were married, to the son of a yakuza head. 

You say a quick goodbye to your teary parents, soothing them with promises of “I’ll be back before you know it. One month. That’s all.” 

“And don’t worry about a thing,” Satoru sing-songs, coming up behind you. “If there’s anyone she’s safe with, it’s me.”

“You better keep your mitts off of my baby.” your father warns, raising the baseball bat still clutched in his hand menacingly. 

“I won’t lay a hand on her, father-in-law. And anyone that even thinks about it…” he cackles, breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll kill.”

Prancing off to hold the door of that shiny black Mercedes parked outside open for you. “Ladies first.”

With another quick hug to your parents, you hastily make your way inside. Feeling extremely out of place amongst the overly luxurious interior in your slightly-stained work uniform. God, the covers on these cushions themselves probably cost more than your house. 

“Like the car? I can buy you one. Or four, as a wedding gift.” Satoru grins. 

Oh, right. You weren’t in here alone - you were here with your new…husband. The word felt so strange to even wrap your head around, instead you turn to meet his easy smile. Clenching your jaw as you grit out, “So how do we act m-married?”

You swear he brightens up impossibly, scooting closer to you on the seat. Heart lurching as he raises his eyes to meet yours, dizzy with the heat of his proximity, he promptly pulls out his Notes app. 

“Well, you see. I forgot to send this with the invitation so you better memorize this before we get home.” flashing you a long, long list of likes and dislikes, “Here’s my favorite color and my favorite Digimon and-”

That car ride could not have been longer. Because in addition to arguing with Satoru about who the best Digimon was, you had to fill out your own version of his overly extensive list. “So we can be foolproof.” he’d whined. And you’d been so engrossed in the process that you barely noticed the looming estate out the window.

“We’re here, young master and madam Gojo.”

It took a second to register that the driver was talking to you as well as Satoru, immediately pushing your face against the window to take in the scenic site before you. Heavy wooden doors - probably taller than an average house - opening to reveal sprawling gardens. Koi ponds and rose bushes lining a pathway that led to a traditional Japanese house - all power and glory. You half wondered whether you were still in Tokyo. 

“Home sweet home.” Satoru grunts. “Such a beautiful hell, huh?”

Your home, for the next month. At least. 

And if you had any doubt that Satoru was in fact the future yakuza head, that all went out the window at the welcome you got. Men lining the wooden hallway, bowing at the waist while your all-new husband wraps a hand around your shoulders, pointing out the various rooms and ornaments as he led you in. 

“-and this is going to be our room.” he brings you in front of a large tatami room, one the size of your entire diner. 

“Ours.” you repeat. Walking unhurriedly to the king-sized bed in the middle - the only bed. Heart pounding as you take it all in. 

“Ours.” Satoru echoes, happily. And if he was any bit as affected as you are, then he doesn’t show it, instead pulling out a blue yukata from the closet, a golden Gojo emblem stamped on the back. Made with such a pretty, delicate fabric that it made you shiver to think how much it cost. “Now, I had these made jus’ for you last week. You can give me a lil’ fashion show tomorrow, so make sure you get some rest, wifey.”

It’s only when he says the word “rest” that you realize exactly how tired you are. Your long shift and the entirety of this having your eyes feeling heavier than usual. 

“Um…” you start, risking a glance at the bed. 

Satoru jolts, “Ah- don’t worry, sweetheart. You take the bed.” beginning to saunter outside to meet his team. “Got some work, so I’ll be sleeping in my office. Dream of me~”

And, really, you almost felt bad splaying yourself out on the crisp navy sheets. Sinking into the heady smell of fabric softener, and something so so Satoru. Addictive. Like an expensive cologne that made your head spin, one that wafted through your mind as you dreamt of summer weddings, and blue, blue skies.

“Ichiji.”

“Yes, young master.”

“See to it that the madam is safe. Anyone try anything funny and you bring them back alive. I wanna be the one to play with them, okay~?”

“Of course, young master.”

---

Admittedly, you probably have the best sleep of your life at the Gojo estate- or, it would’ve been if your husband didn’t burst in every morning at 7am. Handing you a ridiculously big bouquet of white roses, straight from the garden, before dragging you outside. 

Milling about the estate, Satoru was never too far behind, chattering away. Letting you hold onto his strong arm crossing the bridges, occasionally having you show up to yakuza meetings as his plus one. Relishing in the rumors spreading all through the yakuza syndicates in Tokyo. Gojo Satoru, and the commoner wife he’d do anything for.

Weirdly enough, some strange little part of you thinks he puts in a lot more work than necessary for some pretend relationship…

“I think that stupid plan is really working, y’know.” you muse to him after a few days of this. Dipping your fingers into one of your favorite koi ponds with a nod at the figures watching you from a distance - Gojo clan elders, you assume. “Those old coots hate being within a five mile radius of me.”

Satoru huffs out a laugh, “That so? S’probably the method acting then, huh? Taking good care of me, wifey?” he wiggles his eyebrows, nudging you from where he was holding an umbrella beside you. 

Furrowing your brows mockingly, “S’funny for you to say, they don’t even look at me. But they follow me around everywhere.”

“Do they annoy you, must I do my duty as a husband and gouge their eyes out?”

He…didn’t sound like he was joking. 

Rolling your eyes, you pointedly ignoring the way your heart lurches at the word “husband.” Still so jumpy at the idea. “Speaking of, your parents give up the marriage proposals, yet?”

At this, Satoru clenches his jaw. “Still nagging, but they’re finally considering you as my actual bride rather than some hijink.” he spits out, seemingly recalling whatever conversation they’d had before. “And they want to have some family ‘dinner’, but it’s going to be awful and you don’t-”

“Let’s go.” you interrupt, nodding determinedly. “The realer this marriage seems, the faster we can divorce, no?”

He blinks at you slowly, “That’s…true. For the divorce, then?”

“For the divorce.”

And, well, that was settled - you were to meet your new in-laws. The ever-elusive heads of the Gojo clan. Also one of the most powerful yakuza in all of Japan, but, semantics really.

You spend the evening cooped up with Satoru in the library, poring over the bloody history of the yakuza - with the Gojo’s heading them all. The only time he actually leaves your side is a few hours before the dinner. 

“For you.” he’d murmured, lips ghosting your ear, slipping something cold onto your finger. You look down to see one of the most beautiful rings you’ve ever seen - gold, with delicate blue and white diamonds encrusting it, cut in the shape of roses. “Can’t be married without a wedding ring, huh? Think of it as a good luck charm for tonight.”

And with that he’s swept away in a flurry of bodyguards and ruffled men, and you’re left standing there all alone. Cheeks burning, wondering how the hell he knew your perfect fit. 

You worry longer about the dinner than you spend actually preparing for it. Though, that’s probably because of the group of stylists that come into your room to help you dress. Wordlessly fussing around you despite your weak attempts at conversation, eyes averted. Almost like they were…scared of you. 

But there wasn’t much time to think of that - not when you’re being marched off in the direction of what you remember Satoru had called the family dining room. “More like a fuckin’ meeting room for those hardasses.” he’d snarked.

The moment you step in, all eyes turn to you - the only ones you recognize being Satoru’s, who immediately stands with a smile. “Ah, wifey! Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” pulling you into a tight hug. His voice drops into a low, raspy murmur in your ear, “Ya look fuckin’ gorgeous in my colors, y’know.”

Traitorously, jolts of electricity run down your spine. Especially at how fucking gorgeous he looked in traditional wear. Whispering back, “Playing up the doting husband bit, huh?”

“Only for you.”

Pulling away, you drink in his dangerously handsome state. Hair so effortlessly styled, tattoos winking at you from just above his yukata - blue, to match yours. So pretty.

Stammering out, “Corny.”

“Only for-”

“Now that the girl is finally here, may we begin with dinner?” A stained voice sounds from behind Satoru, old and tinged with a tone that years of customer service told you did not bode well. Craning your head, you look over his broad shoulders, meeting the eyes of several disapproving elders. 

Shit. Some of the most dangerous people in this country right now. 

Gathered here - for you. 

Automatically, you knew which ones were his parents - painfully upright, and hauntingly beautiful in a cold, calculated way. Sat right at the head of the long table. With a jolt, you realize that you two are seated right opposite them. 

“So.” his mother starts, as you take your seat with a bow. Satoru doesn’t waste any time on niceties, plopping down right next to you, scooting closer than necessary. “Congratulations on the…wedding, my son.”

My son. You ignore the way both parents pointedly avoided looking at you. Your husband, however, does not. “What~ Not gonna wish my dear wife as well?”

It’s a silent staredown - one that has the entire room on edge. You don’t realize that you’re clenching your fists in tension until Satoru untangles them, slipping his larger hands into yours. Gaze still alarmingly intense and locked on the other side of the table.

He wins.

“Congratulations. Let us begin now.” 

You breathe out a sigh of relief, the tension only slightly broken as butlers stream into the room, carrying decadent trays of food. Well, at least the food might make up for how appalling this dinner is going to be.

It’s only 15 minutes in that you realize how very, horribly wrong you are - because the elders of the Gojo estate really don’t hold back, do they? Thank God you memorized every part of that stupid likes and dislikes list.

Besides picking apart every aspect of your relationship that they could manage to squeeze out of you between the appetizer and the main course, the main scrutiny tonight seems to be you. But in that icy, subtle way that has Satoru’s jaw clenching tighter each second. 

Lips curling, Gojo senior eyes you over his wine glass. “So, dear,” voice dripping with underlying venom despite the pet name. “Is it true our Satoru missed an esteemed marriage meeting with the Zenin group to ambush you at some rundown old diner?”

You fight to keep the smile plastered onto your face, painful and cracking under the pressure. A hand squeezing under the table to stop Satoru from opening his mouth to retort, you answer instead, “Well, ambushed wouldn’t be the word. You could say we fell in love over the counter - at my family’s diner.”

“A waitress, she said?”

“Now we know why it was this rushed. Probably pregnant.”

“The scandal. How far the Gojo name has fallen.”

The few stifled gasps from the other end of the table are so dramatic that you could almost laugh. But you don’t. Breath hitching as Mrs. Gojo chuckles, “Marrying the daughter of a lowly diner owner? How... quaint.”

“Mother, be quiet or-”

“What?” she throws her hands in exasperation. “Can’t I say anything around here. Honestly, Satoru, I’m just trying to make conversation with your new wife.”

Before either you or Satoru can react, his father speaks up, apparently not done with the interrogation. “You understand that we’re just worried, right, dear? Especially with marrying into prestigious families, of course.” The emphasis on “prestigious” is not lost on you.” And it drives you insane. 

Steeling yourself, you train your eyes on the untouched food below you. “I understand.”

Plowing on as if trying to infuriate you, “And you understand that this position is dangerous? You’ll be targeted.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Don’t be swept up in our Satoru’s charm and wealth, dear, my son just wants a way out of duty.” tone dripping with disdain, Satoru’s grip becoming tighter and tighter on yours. “The Gojo syndicate owns half of this city, we could bulldoze over that little diner of yours with only one phone call”

“My wife and I are leav-”

“I said I fuckin’ understand.” Your words hang in the air like a foul stench, and you raise your head to glare. If looks could kill, all the elders in this room would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on their graves already. “Neither me, nor my husband would ever let that happen because he knows a thing or two about respect, unlike you.” Lacing your fingers tighter with Satoru’s. “So shove your mighty family up your wrinkly asses. I don’t give a flying shit.” 

Eyes wide, jaws dropped, the old couple opposite you finally seems stunned into silence. And if it was any other situation you could’ve almost laughed at how similar they looked to Satoru when he found out you thought his proposal was a prank.

His father adjusts his glasses. “Perhaps that is so.”

Ah, if only the rest of the table would be quietened just as easily. 

“Not only is she a slut she’s a-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not even sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. Because in a split-second, the knife that was at your side is suddenly embedded, deep into the wooden table - barely even an inch away from the elder that had spoken up. 

“You’re lucky I’m matching with my wife n’ didn’t want to dirty this new yukata.” a voice sounds from your side. Melodic and so so eerie that you don’t realize for a second that it’s Satoru - your Satoru. 

He loops an arm under your legs as he stands up. Easily maneuvering you into a princess carry, forcing you to cling onto his robes for dear life as your feet dangle from the floor. You look up - maybe to snap at Satoru to put you down - only for the words to die in your throat at how absolutely fucking feral your husband looked. Eyes wide, aura menacing. A grin gracing his features, not the familiar one which had your heart racing, no - something so dangerous and cold. 

“Now,” he hums. Turning his back to the room, gaze still locked with the shocked heads inside, “My lovely wife and I will be retiring. Won’t you all say goodnight to your future madam?”

You don’t know what shocks you more - the way everyone in that room mumbles out a disdainful little “Goodnight, ma’am.”, or the way Satoru cackles as he carries you to your shared bedroom. Laying you gently on the mattress with a quiet, “Be right back, sweetheart.”

What the fuck happened?

He could’ve killed that man. And looked like he wanted to. 

Your brain yells at you - run away run away run away- But you weren’t…scared? In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever been less fearful in your entire life. Especially not when Satoru stumbles back into the room, clearly rushing. Something warm spreading in your chest at the trays of food in his hands.

“Dinner’s better without a bunch of fossils on my kill list.” he grins. Settling right next to you on the bed, setting out the dinner he’d brought for you. And, well, you didn’t doubt that they really were on his kill list. 

“Hey, wifey.” Satoru speaks up after a few moments of silence, satisfied with the food laid in front of you. “M’sorry for putting you through that. No more family dinners from now.”

You inch closer to lay your head on his sculpted shoulder, a hand bringing up the food to his pretty lips. He smelled so good, faintly like pine, and clouds. It made you so dizzy. “Eat, Satoru.”

That’s all which is said, because maybe that’s all that was needed. And for a second there, you almost forget that this is all pretend.

---

“Hey, uh- mister. You alright?” you call out, voice barely audible over the rain. 

The sullen figure didn’t react at first, soaked through and eyes trained on the ground. Unmoving, even when you hesitantly drew closer, umbrella quivering in your hands. 

You should turn around - walk away like everyone else on the sidewalk was doing. But no, something about the way he sat alone, stoic to the storm around him made you inch closer. “Here.” you hold out your umbrella. “S’our diner’s, but you look like you could use this more than I do.”

He jolts, as if hearing you for the first time. A flash of blue, so quick you almost think you miss it. Still not raising his head fully, the man’s snowy hair tousles as he jerkily closes around the handle. Pretty. And so so sad.

“It’ll be alright.” you nod. 

And with that, you turn, running back in the rain to the haven of the diner, where your father was waiting impatiently - he’d just bought the boxes to start packing up for relocation. Fingers still burning ever-so-slightly where his hand had brushed against yours. How strange, you wondered his name.

---

Satoru stayed true to his word over the weeks that followed. His parents seemed well and fully intent on avoiding you. And, well, other than a few disdainful remarks, the elders mostly scurried away in fear at your very sight. 

The only thing that made your skin prickle was that the housekeepers had a penchant for peeping in on the two of you. Increasingly following you - they always did, but now…honestly, it was a bit disconcerting. 

But other than that, it was almost…peaceful. You wake up every morning to a large bouquet of burgundy roses at your bedside table - and a husband. Because Satoru had taken to sleeping on the little couch at the corner of your room every night - saying something about not wanting to rouse suspicion because if he actually had a wife he’d be “taking her to bed every night”. Somehow, you didn’t doubt it. 

“Funny how it’s getting close to a month of being married, but you haven’t even kissed me yet.” you deadpan. Looking down at where he was resting his head in your lap, sprawled across the soft grass in the garden.

Something else also happened - something different.

Because Satoru was a bit touchier, a bit closer. Like right now, preening into your fingers carding through his soft hair. “Oh~? Why, wanna take me to bed, wifey?”

“You wish.”

“Maybe I do.”

Your hands still, pulse racing as your eyes bore into Satoru’s, trying to figure out what sort of bad joke this was. Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning down closer - too closer. Close enough that you could count every shade of blue in his hungry gaze. But by the grace of whoever was above-

“Young master, please excuse the intrusion but you have-”

Sitting up abruptly, addressing the newcomer in a stone-cold tone. “How many fuckin’ times have I not told you to never bother me when I’m with my wife?”

The servant bows apologetically, sputtering out apologies as you move to get up. Flashing a smirk at Satoru’s dramatic pout, “I have to catch up on some reading anyway. See ya, Satoru.” 

“Noo~ my sweetheart don’t leave me~” 

You stifle a laugh at his little tantrum, so different from when he was serious. He was so….dizzying. “You’ll be okay, Satoru.” Glancing up nervously to meet the servant’s intense stare, studying the scene before him, how different his master was. “I’ll be at the library now.”

And Satoru notices - of course, he does. He sees that tiny flash of concern in your eyes. One that you might not have noticed yourself. He lowers his voice as you walk away, so you don’t hear him speaking behind you. Words dripping with a similar venom he always heard from his parents, “Now, tell me who you’re spying for. Names, first and last.” 

Satoru doesn’t join you in the library that day, the first time in weeks. And you find yourself missing him more than you should. It’s dark out by the time you’re raising your head from the books, joints aching from poring over them for hours. The house seems a lot quieter. Somewhat bigger. 

Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. 

Scratching the back of your head, you wander through the wooden hallways to your bedroom - wondering what was amiss. Your feet take you there as if on autopilot, thankful for Satoru’s meticulous tours. 

“Hey,” you smile softly at a servant making your bed, “Where are-”

Your question dies in your throat at the way she yelps at your words, hurrying down the corridor with a jerky bow. Weird. Leaving you all alone, and confused, muttering to yourself, it’s only then that you notice the flash of red by your bedside table. 

Not a bouquet. Only a single, red rose - a note tied around the stem, something you’d never gotten before. 

“The marriage proposals have been revoked, your contract is fulfilled, my ex-wife.”

Oh, reading that hurt more than it should’ve. You should be happy at being free, a few days earlier than expected at that - but it was over - just like that. You didn’t want to leave him. You didn’t want to leave him.You didn’t want to leave him.

 Were you going insane?

Clutching the flower like a lifeline, heaving out a sigh, “Maybe Satoru knows…”

“Thinking of me?”

Startled, you whirl behind to face your husband. In the dim-lighting, making out the stoney expression on his face, eyes wide and a little duller than they had been earlier today. 

“Satoru?”

His eyes light up at the mere sound of your voice - then you’re engulfed in him. Wrapping you in his arms, bowing his body into yours, so tight that it almost hurts. But you let him, fisting the fresh yukata in your hands - and that’s when you realize, he’s changed his robes since this morning. “Are you okay?” you whisper into his shoulder. Drinking in the smell of his cologne, and something faintly metallic. 

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to take the opportunity - to run away from this yakuza and his slaughter and whatever this was. But how could you? Staying rooted to the spot, not even a speck of fear.

Satoru heaves out a heavy breath, tickling the hairs at your nape as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Those nosy elders won’t be bothering you anymore, sweetheart. You’re free to go.”

A shudder runs down your spine at his words, and you didn’t want to think too hard about what they meant. Instead, you guide him to your bed - and, surprisingly, he allows you to. Letting the two of you sink into the plush mattress. With Satoru still in your arms. He repeats, “You’re free to go.”

Run away. Run away. Run away-

There it was again - that strained little manta. You stare right into his eyes, voice thick at the sinking feeling in your stomach. “My 30 days aren’t over yet.” 

“Leave. Please.” he grunts into the crook of your neck, like your hands drawing patterns down his back had broken some dam. “M’not a good man.” 

You press your lips to his forehead, searing and a desperate attempt to soothe the man. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I’m yakuza, sweetheart. Doomed to follow my parents here.” he mutters, strained and voice more unsure than you’ve ever heard. And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into your skin, “I hate it here, and you should, too. All these fuckin-”

“So go with me instead.”

“What if-”

“Toru.‘ you cut off his words, slurring and spilling out of his mouth. Gently, you pry him away from his little haven, reeling back to take a good look at the face he’s been hiding for so long. Hair mussed, curtaining his whirling eyes - all disheveled and vulnerable where he was once so suave. 

Your eyes bore into his, unwavering. “It’ll be alright, Toru.”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. Only when his lips meet yours, soft, and so so sweet, do you realize that this is everything you ever want right now - possibly these past few weeks. “Y’can kill me if you don’ want his.” he mutters into your open mouth.  

It’s so desperate - a messy clash of teeth and saliva, Satoru was drinking you in like you were the last drop of water on Earth. He tasted so sweet, like candy almost, and the gentle caress of a lover. You were addicted like you could do this forever and ever and-

And then he’s pulling away. A disappointed little whine leaves you involuntarily as he parts, delicate strings of saliva snapping in the space between you two. Satoru’s mouth drops into a soft oh! at the noise, surging forward minutely like he was about to kiss you senseless again. Only to halt with a pained grunt, just a hair’s breadth from your lips. 

“M’sorry.” Claiming your lips once again, like a man possessed. Drinking in your breathless gasps. Like he never wanted to let go. “F-fuck, sweetheart. Y’don’t know how crazy you drive me.” he pants.

“Why did you pick me?” you blurt out, a question that had been nagging at the back of your mind every time Satoru slipped his hand in yours, introducing you as his loving wife. “Was it just the debt?”

He’s kissing your pulse now, canines hovering over the erratic little cadence. Breathing you in like you were intoxicating. “No.” he’s licking a long, languid stripe up your neck. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down every inch of skin he could reach. 

“Then why?” your words come out in almost an embarrassing plea. But by the way his breath hitches, you know that Satoru loves it. 

“Because.” he breathes, “You treated me like a human.”

He’s capturing your lips with his again, nipping at your bottom lips. You squeal as he pulls, suddenly wanting him to tease you like this everywhere. To have him absolutely ruin you like you know he could - treat you like the wife he claimed you were. 

But Satoru wasn’t done yet - far from it. He chuckles, kissing down your neck, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Remember that night? You probably don’t, was rainin’ so hard I thought I’d drown out there.” Worshiping the valley between your breasts as he hastily unbuckles your bra. “That night was when the marriage proposals had come in. They said I’d either carry the legacy or be forced to leave the family. Kicked out of my own home.” 

And you’re reeling from both his words and the way Satoru was rocking his hips into yours now, something hot, and so achingly hard pressing in the damp area between your legs. “Thought I was gonna take ‘em all out that night.”

“Take them all out?” your breath hitches.

“Every. Single. One.” Fingers dancing across the hem of your panties. “Wouldn’t have felt bad about it either.” 

Satoru’s licking down your navel now, humming in confirmation into your skin. “But then…” he groans, taking in the first fucking sinful sight of your drenched panties. So flimsy and already dripping for him - and after just a few kisses, really? You were heaven on Earth. “But then along came you. So pretty and all worried f’me. The daughter of that diner owner I’d loaned money too.”

You watch, heart racing as Satoru swallows in awe. Darkened gaze locked on the way your slick beads out of your pussy, bare thighs trying to close - give yourself some semblance of dignity. But no- how could you? When Satoru’s holding them apart.

“And then I knew…” he’s sliding his index underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertip before popping it into his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut at the taste, and you’ve never seen him look so blissful. “I just had to have you.”

Rip! 

The cold air brushes against you before you even know it - only when you feel Satoru’s hot breath against your dripping cunt does it hit - this bastard just ripped your panties off. And he was dangling it like a badge of honor, breathing in your juices so animalistically. 

Your lips wobble as he just admires your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing. “Hah- please.”

“Please what?” he grins, and you can feel him licking little circles around your inner thigh. So close. “The wife of a yakuza boss has gotta know how to use her words.”

“You’re awful.”

“And yet you married me.”

With such a cute lil’ whine that makes Satoru’s cock twitch so painfully, you buck your hips closer to his hot mouth. “Wan’ your mouth on me, to eat me out. Please, Toru.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, “There’s my girl.”

You gasp when he surges forward, burying his pretty face nose-deep in your pussy. Holding your breath as he lazily licks up your folds - long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Swirling deftly around the sensitive nub. 

Drunk off your pussy with the way he’s so messy - seemingly unable to decide between sucking harshly on your poor, ravaged clit to dipping into your sloppy hole. And it’s driving you mad, keening and pulling at his soft locks. You haven’t been touched this good in ages, and Satoru was well and fully intent on ruining you. 

“Shhh, don’t worry, wifey.” words muffled into your cunt, “Your husband’s gonna take care of you.” He’s throwing your legs over his broad shoulders.

“Real good care of you.” Then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, the tips of his long fingers massaging your plushy walls. Messy enough that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Roaming for that one spot he knows will have you moaning deliciously. Pressing down, hard.  “Found it. Gonna have you screamin’ my name til’ the entire estate hears.”

You tug on his hair, urging Satoru’s mouth towards your cunt - partially because you wanted him there, partially because you really needed him to shut up right now. 

And shit how could he ever say no to his pretty wife?

Satoru is grinning, you can feel it on your throbbing clit as he wraps his pretty pink lips around it. Pumping his fingers in and out, hitting that little spot each and every time. Looking like he was absolutely in heaven as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over and-

“Sh-shit. Toru-”

“Mmm, yes- fuck, love it when you call me that.” he groans. And oh he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you - eyes half-lidded, such a pretty blush disting his cheeks - and making out with your pussy just as much. Tilting his head back, back, back so that your juices slide down his throat. “Feels good? Ya like when m’ruining your pretty pussy?”

“Yes!” you squirm. Shaking, bucking your hips into his touch so desperately. “Wanted it s’bad.” 

He’s becoming frenzied now, drinking in your cute little whimpers like he was addicted. But it wasn’t enough - it never was and fuck Satoru wanted more more more-

“Move your hips, yeah- jus’ like that.” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Letting you pull and angle him just as you please. 

“Gonna be the best fuckin’ husband you’ll ever have. N’ anyone that says otherwise, m’gonna fuckin’ kill.” The vibrations have your body jerking violently. “Make you cum harder than y’ever have. C’mon, say yes.”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and bullying his tongue through your swollen folds. Stretching you, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Jaw grinding deeper into you as he eats you out like his last meal. “Ngh- fuck, yes yes yes-”

“Beg for it, beg for your husband.”

“Wanna cum- Ah! Please, wanna cum, Toru.”

One hand so messy toying with your dripping entrance - not having the patience or the sanity to even draw circles anymore. Just quick, hurried patterns to get you off. The other digging into your hips, so hard you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. Making you drag your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth. Using him. 

“Hngh- Toru! Ah- fuck fuck Toru Toru T-”  You’re shaking - crying out as you cum. A guttural, strangled moan of your husband’s name. So violent, and hard that you don’t even realize at first. Just that you’re rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears.

And he doesn’t stop - not even once. If you were in any better state of mind you’d wonder whether it hurt - whether his fingers were cramping up, and his tongue was tired. If they were, he didn’t show, only letting you chase your high as roughly as you want. 

Greedily lapping up all your juices. Even when you’re blinking your vision back, chest heaving as you try to regain our breath. “S-Satoru.” you mewl, stars behind your eyes with each flick of his tongue. 

“Jus’ a bit more. Wanna taste all of you.”

You weren’t going to make it out alive.

Big, fat tears pricking at your eyes from the overstimulation as Satoru finally rises from what you almost worried would be his favorite seat. “All done. Now, keep that pretty lil’ cunt on display f’me, my girl.”

And your cunt is clenching in- fear? Anticipation? As your husband finally unties his yukata, letting it slide off those milky, toned shoulders. And shit he was such a fucking masterpiece. The dim-lighting bouncing off every curve and dip of those carved abs. Delicate swirls of his tattoo inching from his collarbone, down, down, down, hugging Satoru in a way that made you so half-lucidly jealous. All the way till the last inky thorn meets the neat tufts of white hair peeking up from the hem of his underwear. 

“Touch me.” he groans into your ear. The words barely leave those pretty lips before your hands are everywhere. Dancing down his tattoo, groping at this pecs - too much to worship, not enough time. 

“Toru…” you trail off, hand reaching out to brush his waistband. Tugging just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, fat tip weeping down his length, already so soaked in precum. He was so intimidatingly long - longer than anyone else you’d had before. Thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself. 

And he sees right through you.

“Now now, none of that.” he tuts, pushing your bare thighs as far apart as they’d go. He spreads your cunt so shamefully with his thumb. Spitting once, twice. Some of it splatter against your thigh as Satoru mixes his saliva with your slick. “Don’t worry, wifey, m’gonna make it feel good for ya.”

You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he drags his fat head down your folds. Wetting himself, all the preparation he was going to give you because fuck Satoru needed to be inside your pretty lil’ pussy right now. 

Then you feel like you’re being split apart - as if Satoru’s cock was pushing all the way to your lungs as he presses through the first ring of muscle.

“Ah! Ngh- Toru, s’too big!” you yelp, eyes locked on the way your lips were stretched so lewdly around his tip. Clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in, inch by fucking inch. No mercy. Absolutely none at all. 

And while he sounded like he was on cloud nine, you were having your head spin, torn between wanting to run away from his massive cock and just push yourself down for more more more. His lips claim yours - absolutely animalistic because God he needed to shut up your pretty whines or else Satoru was going to cum right here right now.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breath. Ngh- You can take it.” Satoru pants into your mouth, fucking into you in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to fit inside your snug cunt. Sounding like he was losing his sanity each time your heavenly walls milked him. “So fuckin’ tight. Jus’ relax f’me. Oh yeah, jus’ like that. You can take it you can-”

You gasp for air when he finally bottoms out inside you, tears streaming down your face and clawing at his back. 

Satoru only coos, letting you mark him up all you want. Pace increasing relentlessly, “Aww, my good lil’ wife. Taking me so well, huh?” Starting to rock his hips just a bit faster into yours, “Always knew y’would.” 

“Can y’feel me, right-.” Balls smacking against your ass, his finger tracing an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “-here?” Thumb stroking where he could feel himself bulging inside you, pressing down. Hard. 

You almost sob at the pressure, jolting - you should’ve expected that the yakuza boss would fuck so mean.

And shit you can just do nothing but take it, hips jerking wildly as Satoru pounds into you with reckless abandon. Clutching at his shoulders, the sheets, his hair - just anything. 

“C’mon~ Don’t run away from me,” he grunts, strained like he’s struggling to maintain restraint. Lacing his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper onto his cock. “Jus’ fuckin’ got you, so don’t you dare run away.”

You can only nod. Eyes glazed, cockdrunk and letting him thrust so sloppily. “Won’t run away Toru…” you babble, “Wan’ you to make me yours.”

“Mine? Gonna be all mine?”

“All yours, Toru.”

And maybe you were an idiot, maybe you were a mastermind - because with a choked out little moan of what sounded like your name, Satoru’s pulling you both to sit up. The gravity makes you bury his cock deeper and faster into your tight pussy.

With the new angle, your husband’s hitting all the right spots easily, almost as if he knew your body better than you did. Veins rubbing so deliciously against your walls, shifting around your hips to fuck up into that poor, abused spot. 

“Ya like this, huh?” he groans, fingers now toying with your ravaged clit. Rolling it around harshly between two fingers. “Always knew this cute pussy could take me s’well. Just didn’t know it would feel this fucking heavenly.”

Faster, sloppier. Bouncing you on his rock-hard cock  like he was claiming you from the inside. So, so desperate and debauched.

And exactly where you wanted to be. 

You leave delicate pink bites down this pale neck, alongside those roses - marking him in your own way as you edge closer and closer. It was too much. Everything was too much. 

“Toru-” you sob. And he already knew what that meant. With how your voice breaks so adorably and the way you’re clenching around him hard enough that it’s almost difficult to ruin that cute pussy. 

“Close?” 

“Mhm…”

“Well then.” thrusts getting sloppy, with no reason or rhythm now. Grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Cum f’me like a good lil’ wife, then.”

And that makes you throw your head back in ecstasy - it makes you cum. Thighs quivering, jolts of electricity running down all the way from your overstimulated cunt to your hazy mind. It has you chanting Satoru’s name like a lifeline while his teeth dig into your flesh. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood.

Letting out low, muffled moans into your neck while he cums as well. Hot ropes of seed filling up your poor, bloated pussy, painting your walls such a sinful white. Cumming and cumming so hard you wondered whether you’d make it out alive.

And because of the obscene position, you could feel the way it dribbled down your legs. Thick globs landing in a pool on the overpriced sheets below, smearing so lewdly between you two. Hips still fucking up into you - not even thinking about it as he pushes his seed deeper and deeper. 

You managed to raise your eyes, still dazed to meet his - exhausted, and dark with lust and something else that you really weren’t in the right mind to decipher right now. 

And then Satoru’s lips find yours again, biting and tugging lazily. Tasting so unfairly of candy and sweet, sweet trouble. Body melting into you like all the worries have been lifted from his shoulders. He’s looping his arms tighter around your waist, crushing you into an almost-painful hug against him. 

Something soft. Something new. Something that makes a little part of your heart twinge to break the kiss and pull away mere millimeters. “We better not divorce after this.”

“Of course not.” He chuckles into your lips, resting his forehead against yours like he was trying to map the constellations in your eyes. “I haven’t even given you my wedding gift yet.”

Smirking, you lock your legs tighter around Satoru’s toned waist as he lets the two of you fall back into the mattress. Sinking into it - and each other - with both exhaustion and something of a quiet, unspoken little fondness. Batting your lashes up at him, “Mhm, I remember someone talking about giving me four mercedes as a wedding gift and I’m leaving if not.”

“Well then, better get to it. Four for my in-laws to get on their good side, too,” he nuzzles the bite mark on your neck. “Because I plan to stay like this for a long, long time.”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

I need a Christmas miracle!!🌠

Monday, December 23rd: Hello, everyone. I’m Gem, a bi, mentally ill, and disabled woman in desperate need of help, as I am struggling to pay my overdrawn balance!!

I apologize for asking for help again; as most of you know from my previous posts, I have been struggling quite a lot to make ends meet while on welfare benefits and due to my rent arrears and ever-increasing debt. And to be quite honest, these past few months have been absolute hell for me, and with no other income, I've been relying on the kindness of others to get by.

However, I desperately need that kindness again because Christmas is in a few days, and my account is overdrawn due to chargebacks and fees. I don't receive my welfare until New Year's Eve, and if I can't pay it off before then, my welfare will be taken and I won't be able to get through January!!

Again, I know this is a lot to ask, but if anyone could spare any amount to help me, even if it’s just £1/$1/€1, it would save my life, and sharing definitely helps just as much.

£0/£105!!!

✨️PayPal✨️

"Hey, Nanamin!"

Kento looked over his newspaper, to the bubblegum boy gleaming into the staffroom. Kento hummed, his cover-all noise for greeting, confirmation, disapproval, etc.

"I'm buying us lunch today. Know anywhere good to eat?" Yuuji bubbled, pulling his wallet out with a flourish.

Kento frowned, firm in his chastisement. "You should save your money, Itadori-kun. You don't buy lunch when you're with me. It's wasteful, frankly, for someone with minimal income such as yourself. You should be more sensible with your money."

Yuuji's bottom lip puckered, but he remained bright and doubled down. "It's just, you buy lunch every time I'm on a mission with you, and-- and I'm really grateful, it's just that today--"

"I appreciate the offer." Kento stood, clipped, moving over to you, witnessing the exchange from your place by the coffee machine.

Kento turned away from Yuuji, pouring another coffee. "But it isn't necessary. I don't expect you to be offering to buy an adult lunch, when you should be building some savings. When you have time, I can talk you through what sorts of savings accounts you can--"

"Ahhh no no no Nanamin it's okay, I...I'm good. It's okay. I'm...I'm good." Yuuji deflated, his rainbows muting. "I'll uh...I'll see you after you eat, then, yeah?"

Yuuji closed the door. You tippy-tapped your fingers on the counter, looking shrewdly at Kento as he washed his used mug. You mused aloud.

"Yuuji hasn't got a dad." Silence. Splashing water. You sipped your coffee. "Hasn't got a grandfather either." Kento bristled, wondering as to your meaning, placing his mug upside down to drain.

"I assume you have a poin--"

"It's Father's Day." Kento froze. His brain whirred. "You buy your Father lunch on Father's Day to show you appreciate him--"

"Please excuse me." Kento walked to the staffroom door, frantically paddling below a smooth surface. The door closed, clicking politely. You heard Kento's steps speed up as he ran down the corridor, hearing him growing fainter as he called in the distance:

"Itadori-kun. Come back! Itadori-kun! Buy me lunch!"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento's fingers itched to reach for his card in his favourite coffee shop, clenching his fists instead as Yuuji counted out his cash. Kento couldn't deny, sat at the window with a casse-croute, that seeing Yuuji's face light up with the joy of gift-giving, made it all exquisitely worth it.

Yuuji's joy was fragile. He broke the silence over his panini.

"...I'm sorry it's not much."

"It's perfect. This is my favourite meal. I'm..." Kento broke off, his voice thick, his mind lost somewhere in the bustling crowds beyond the window. Yuuji brimmed with pride.

"...thank you, Yuuji."

My 14 year old brother just took a drink of hot chocolate and hissed like he'd knocked back a shot of vodka then set it down and went "ah... that's the good stuff."

will i always be this angry?

twitter in shambles, bakudeku found shot behind a parking lot, ochako STILL a closeted lesbian with a dead ass girlfriend, bakugou rejected, deku straightmaxxing, todoroki listened to the devil and cut his hair, hawks looking like the plucked chicken i have in my fridge, mirio's no.1 but his wig's a FLOP, touya dead for NOTHING, shigaraki's fine ass dead for NOTHING,

oouuh, oouuuhhh!! we are hiring! we are hiring!! we are sooOO desperate for workers we will take anyone !! OOUUHH labor shortage!!!! pleaze let us hire you!! ouuUUUHuuuUhh................ Your application has been rejected. You are not what we're looking for at this time. We're sorry.