cxvii666

[cxvii666]

A THOUSAND NOTES OMG OMG WHAT THE FUCK

“nah, i can’t, bro. my girl said no.”

hanta’s voice is casual, breezy, like he’s turning down a movie he’s already seen. except the movie is an invite to hit this new ramen spot downtown, something the group’s been trying to plan for weeks.

denki, leaning against the kitchen counter with a stolen capri-sun in hand, blinks at him in utter disbelief. “you literally just said she’s asleep.”

“exactly,” hanta says, like he’s pointing out the obvious. “she’s asleep, and i don’t wanna wake her.”

denki’s eyes narrow. “you’re at your house.”

hanta doesn’t flinch. “the vibes are asleep, denki. don’t mess with the energy.”

in the corner of the room, bakugou lets out a sound so sharp and pained it’s honestly impressive it’s not lethal. “you are so full of shit.”

hanta just grins, throwing his phone lazily onto the couch and stretching like he’s got all the time in the world. he’s draped across the sectional like he lives there—which he kind of does, when you’re around. the hoodie he’s wearing still smells like your shampoo. his legs are tangled in a fuzzy blanket you left behind two days ago, the one you claimed clashed with his “whole aesthetic” but brought over anyway. your socks—those ridiculous yellow ones with the tiny strawberries—are balled up under the coffee table.

everything in here is steeped in you. your perfume still hangs faintly in the air. your laugh echoes if he thinks about it too hard.

it’s not that he can’t go out.

it’s just—okay. no. it’s exactly that. he can’t go out. not when he could be here, waiting for you.

“look, i’m sorry,” he says with all the sincerity of a man who is not sorry in the slightest, “missus said no. y’know how it is.”

denki frowns at him, straw still in his mouth. “you don’t even call her that to her face.”

“i call her worse,” hanta replies proudly, just before a throw pillow comes flying from bakugou’s corner of the room and smacks him in the head with practiced precision.

“you’re so annoying when you’re in love,” bakugou mutters, already reaching for another pillow like it’s open season on sentimentality.

“thank you!” hanta chirps, catching the first pillow and hugging it to his chest like a trophy. “finally, someone’s noticing the effort I put into being an incredible boyfriend.”

“you’re lying to avoid social plans,” denki points out flatly. “you bailed on us last week too.”

“that time she really did say no.”

“no she didn’t.”

“she could have!” hanta says, like that somehow justifies it. “i just… preemptively respected her boundaries.”

bakugou makes a noise like he’s seriously debating whether homicide is worth the paperwork.

hanta settles deeper into the couch, gaze flicking briefly to his phone screen—already lighting up with a little preview of your goodnight text, the one you typed before your post-shift nap knocked you out. he doesn’t open it. just smiles at it. lets it sit there like a quiet little warm thing in his chest.

you’re coming over later. you mentioned it in passing this morning, half-asleep and brushing your teeth. said something about bringing that stupidly specific kind of candy he likes from the store near your work. he knows you’ll show up smelling like body lotion and a long day, probably steal another one of his hoodies and complain about the lack of snacks in his pantry like you don’t eat them all.

and if you’re even a minute late, he’ll act like he’s not checking the window every five seconds like a dog waiting for the mailman.

but right now, you’re asleep. and you’re still the best excuse he’s ever had.

“y’know,” he says, propping one foot up on the coffee table, “i just think it’s important to prioritize your partner. i’m choosing love. you guys are choosing noodles. i’m making mature decisions.”

“you’re eating half a pack of gummy worms and wearing her fuzzy socks.”

“maturely.”

denki sighs and checks the time. “whatever. i’m leaving in ten.”

“send me pics,” hanta calls after him, already fishing for the remote. “unless they’re ugly. then keep them to yourself.”

bakugou, on his way out, doesn’t say goodbye—just mutters something that sounds like simp and slams the door harder than necessary.

hanta doesn’t care.

he’s got a show paused right where you left off. your blanket. your scent. your goodnight text warming the screen like a promise.

the vibes are asleep, yeah.

and he’d rather stay in them, anyway.

[cxvii666]

fuck you guys i wasnt gonna update bcos im on vacation for like two months in a sleepy ass village in the balkans but if i get my hands on some bud promise i'll write summn

“nokia”

college au! denki kaminari + hanta sero x reader

“where's the function?" “—where the fuck the function?” “send the addy—” “where the fuck the function???”

wc: 3.7k

part of the hoe cakes - EP

...starting track

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

.....

"guess who just got that big cashmoneyyyyy!!!"

denki kaminari, to much surprise of those who don't know him so well, is an early riser.

that's not to say that the blonde's sleep schedule isn't completely out of wack, because it is. late nights that could barely be counted as nights, more like extremely early mornings, are not infrequent to him. most days he's up till 2am on his playstation, or playing minecraft on his laptop, or rewatching the same three movies.

but he's always up before 7am.

fuelled by nictotine, caffeine, (sometimes ketamine), and sheer willpower.

he enjoys getting up with the sun, the quiet of the house at dawn.

it's peaceful in a way nothing else is. he gets to attempt at quieting his mind. sometimes he's downstairs before bakugou goes on his morning run, so he makes the guy his favourite disgustingly green multivitamin shakes, and in return receives quiet instruction, general life advice, and insightful words of wisdom from the other blonde. because they are both calm in a way they're normally not.

hanta sero, on the other hand, is a master of the lay in. you won't see him before 2pm on a regular day, he'll be upstairs in his room, snoozing, snoring, drooling into his pillow, until either his stomach wakes him up and he leaves his dungeon of his own accord, in search of food or an energy drink, or, someone gets sent up to check on him, to make sure he's not dead or something like that.

on this particular morning, hanta had stumbled downstairs just after midday, slightly buzzing because he had finally bought the pair of sneakers he'd been eyeing up for the last week.

he flops onto the couch, a gangly pile of long limbs and messy brown hair, knocking denki on the leg accidentally-on-purpose. denki looks up briefly, over the top of his book, from where he's resting in the corner of the couch and acknowledges his friend with a nod.

"'bit early for you, ain't it," the blonde mumbles, the frame of his reading glasses slipping slightly as he turns the page.

"shaddup." is all he receives from hanta in return, who then takes a swig of his redbull like he's tryna give himself wings.

"dude, did you hear what i just said?" hanta yawns out, lazily kicking his feet up to rest on the blonde's shin, "the bag just got dropped in my bank account."

"what, you finally got that uber eats refund?" denki snorts, eyes still focused on the printed words on the page, he has to finish this chapter now, else he won't pick the book back up for another two weeks.

"don't be funny," hanta laments, thinking of the food that never got delivered, the money that was never returned, "and fuck uber, fuck the government." denki rolls his eyes at the rant he's already heard, "what do they get out of torturing underpaid students, huh? no loyalty in this game."

"what game?" denki replies, nearly at the end of the page.

"the game of life," he drawls back dryly. "you finish that chapter yet? i wanna go for a smoke."

"almost, the mc is pissing me off though, i don't know if i can finish this."

"what's the book?"

"pride and prejudice."

hanta whistles low and long, head tilted as he picks his phone back up to open depop. "damn," he mutters, thumb pausing over a blurry jpeg of a hoodie that definitely doesn’t justify the £85 price tag, "sorry, mister classic literature."

denki doesn't even glance up. he just hums, flipping another page with the careful indifference of someone pretending they’re not rereading the same paragraph for the third time.

they fall into silence — not heavy, just easy — filled only by the soft tap-tap-tap of hanta’s screen and the occasional creak of the old couch when one of them shifts. sunlight slants through the living room blinds, catching on dust motes and the curl of denki’s blonde hair as he leans deeper into the cushions, glasses slipping slightly down his nose.

hanta’s sprawled out beside him, legs stretched halfway off the couch, socked feet resting dangerously close to denki’s side. he’s locked in, zoned out, scrolling through overpriced streetwear resellers hawking one-of-one drops and faded zip-ups from some underground german brand he can’t even pronounce.

the quiet’s broken by the sharp snap of a book closing.

“you got funds for said smoke?” denki asks, voice dry, already reaching for his phone.

“i haven’t picked up yet,” hanta replies without looking up.

“that’s not what i asked.”

“you’re so annoying.”

“i was gonna text shinsou. he came back yesterday, i’m sure he’s got at least an eighth on him.”

hanta stretches, joints popping. “then yeah. tell him i’ll bank transfer.”

denki raises an eyebrow. “so you do have smoke money.”

hanta tosses his phone up, catches it against his chest. “what did i say earlier? the bag got dropped.”

a beat.

denki glances at his phone, brows lifting. “oh shit. it’s the 30th.”

“there he is,” hanta grins, already anticipating it. “and you know what that means—”

“we got paiddddd” denki sing-songs, jumping up just enough to do a half-assed shoulder shimmy.

hanta kills the moment immediately, as he always does, with a well-timed scoff and a raised brow. “we? bro, who’s this we you speak of?”

denki freezes mid-dance, blinking. “we… like, you and me?” he gestures between them helplessly. “that’s, like, basic grammar, i fear.”

“i mean,” hanta says, voice climbing mock-dramatically, “there is no ‘we’, okay? you don’t have to spend all your free time in that stupid stockroom. ‘sero can you come in today?’ ‘sero we need a full size range of xyz’ ‘sero can you take the bins out?’ ‘sero can you close the store tonight and then open the next morning’—NO. fuck that.”

denki snorts, trying and failing to hide the smirk pulling at his mouth.

hanta sees it and narrows his eyes. “unemployed bastard. shut the fuck up.”

“okay, okay, relax, bruh,” denki says, holding up both hands. “you know what?”

“…what?”

“we should go out tonight.”

“are you kidding? i thought we were locking in. don’t you have, like, five assignments due next—”

“no thoughts. only vibes.”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

by 9pm they’re crammed around a too-small, sticky round table in a bar that smells like old wood and spilled citrus. the lighting’s low and uneven, all weird amber glows and exposed wires, and the music is some indie playlist that’s trying a little too hard to be ironic. something with a harmonica plays over the speakers, no one knows the words, but everyone knows the vibe: overpriced, under-cleaned, maybe cool in a way that’s embarrassing if you think about it too long.

denki’s halfway into his second tequila soda, slouched back against the booth with his knees knocking into hanta’s. his eyes are glassy, hair a little damp at the temples, grinning like someone just told him the funniest joke in the world and he’s still recovering.

hanta’s beside him, obviously crossfaded. talking too loud, gesturing too big with a joint in his hand, cheeks flushed pink from a cocktail that had way more liquor than mixer. he’s half on the seat and half off, manspreading shamelessly and knocking into denki every time he tries to make a point.

kiri’s on denki’s other side, balanced on a chair that definitely wasn’t made for his size, nursing a beer that’s already gone warm, launching into some dramatic story about how he “definitely tore something” at the gym last week.

“nah dude, i swear, i was just squatting and something snapped—”

“your common sense,” bakugou mutters from across the table, not looking up from the glass of whiskey he’s been babysitting for the past twenty minutes.

“fuck off, man,” kirishima laughs, clapping him hard on the shoulder, “just ‘cause i’m built different—”

“built stupid,” bakugou corrects, finally glancing up, eyes narrowed like he’s considering whether the redhead needs to be thrown out the window or just insulted more thoroughly.

shinsou’s wedged between bakugou and the wall, hoodie hood up, sipping something dark and bitter with the look of a man who’s about to start dissociating. he hasn't said much since they sat down, just making faces into his glass every time someone raises their voice — which is often.

denki points across the table suddenly, finger wobbling as he focuses on bakugou. “i’m just saying,” he slurs, “you’re, like, objectively the hottest out of all of us, and that’s so unfair because you’re also mean and rich.”

bakugou doesn’t even blink. just flips him off slowly, deliberately, like he’s done it so many times it’s lost all meaning.

“i think i’m the hottest,” hanta says, almost spilling his drink on his lap. “in a, like, mysterious way. like… the kinda hot that sneaks up on you.”

“you’re hot in a raccoon-at-3am kinda way,” shinsou mutters into his drink without missing a beat.

hanta pauses. considers. “thank you?”

kiri claps him on the back like he just won a prize. “you’ve got that haunted twink energy. it works for you.”

hanta makes a face like he’s been personally victimised. “okay wow, homophobic and accurate. you guys are on thin fuckin ice.”

they all laugh — loud and messy — drawing a few annoyed looks from the couple at the next table over. denki knocks his knee against hanta’s and hiccups once, eyes fluttering closed like the room’s starting to spin just slightly.

then he suddenly lurches forward, forehead thunking onto the sticky wood of the table as he groans, “can we go somewhere else? shinsou, your internship aged you like milk. i feel like we’re thirty-five. i wanna move. i wanna dance. i want fun.”

“then go,” shinsou says, without even lifting his head.

denki doesn’t even hesitate. he’s already got his phone out, dialing with shaking hands and tequila optimism. he holds the phone to his ear like it owes him money.

“this is gonna end badly,” hanta whispers to kirishima, grinning wide.

“denki, babe, what’s up?” mina answers on the second ring, her voice loud with bass and laughter and probably a little champagne.

“where are you? save me. i’m surrounded by clinically depressed men and i need a serotonin shot.”

“club downtown with the girls. music’s fire. drinks are pink. get your ass here.”

“we’re on our way.”

he hangs up like he just solved a crime and slaps his palm down on the table. “mina’s at the club. we’re going. sero, get up.”

“say less,” hanta says, already trying to climb over the bench with the grace of a baby giraffe.

“absolutely not,” bakugou growls, right as kiri fist-pumps with a too-loud, “hell yeah!”

shinsou sighs like he’s dying, then tips the rest of his drink back like it might bring him peace.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

they leave the bar like a storm — noisy, uncoordinated, half-drunk and dramatic. denki’s leading the charge, coat flapping behind him like a cape as he marches toward the curb, phone in hand and eyes bright with mission.

“someone call a ride,” shinsou mutters, already regretting this.

“on it,” hanta announces, immediately opening instagram instead of uber. “wait, no, shit.”

“i’ll do it,” bakugou growls, snatching the phone out of hanta’s hand. “you idiots’ll end up the other side of the fuckin' country.”

“wow,” hanta says, mock-offended, “it’s giving control issues.”

“it’s giving i don’t want to die in a ditch tonight,” bakugou snaps.

kiri’s standing too close to the street, waving his arms. “is this legal if i flag one down like a taxi—”

“it’s a rideshare, bro!” denki yells, exasperated. “you don’t just... wave at random cars!”

“what if it’s the vibe though?”

the car arrives miraculously only five minutes later, a silver prius that has seen better days. they pile in like a jenga tower mid-collapse — kirishima practically sitting on shinsou, hanta in the middle seat with both elbows out like he owns the place, denki leaning his whole body across the row to yell something incoherent out the window. bakugou slams the door shut with unnecessary force and glares at the driver like sorry in advance.

the entire ride is chaos.

denki insists on playing music and ends up blasting a playlist called “feral thot energy.” hanta starts freestyle rapping over it, badly. kiri tries to harmonize. shinsou has his head against the window with the thousand-yard stare of a man who has made several mistakes in life.

“this is the kind of night where legends are born,” denki declares, arm draped around hanta’s shoulder like a drunk prom date.

“it’s the kind of night where someone gets kicked out of a club,” shinsou mutters.

“same difference.”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

the club hits them like a wave — sound and sweat and heat and light. music thrums through the floor, vibrating up through their shoes, a pulsing beat that makes your ribs buzz. everything’s cast in blue and purple and gold strobe. bodies packed tight, the air thick with perfume, alcohol, and cheap fog machine mist.

mina spots them first — she’s glowing, standing on the low couch in a VIP booth like it’s a stage, waving her drink and grinning like she owns the place. she yells something they can’t hear and beckons them over.

they shove their way through the crowd, hands on shoulders, stumbling into strangers. hanta gets distracted by a girl in platform boots and nearly crashes into a server. kiri’s already hyping himself up, bouncing to the beat, dragging bakugou by the wrist with zero shame.

shinsou disappears into the dark like a shadow, muttering something about getting a drink and being “less near all of you.”

denki’s still laughing when he sees you.

his brain short-circuits. just flatlines for a second.

you’re across the room, leaning against the bar with a drink in hand, face lit up in electric violet from the LED strip beneath the counter. you’re laughing — at what, he doesn’t know — and you look good. criminally good. all done up and shining like you were dipped in starlight and eyeliner.

denki halts mid-step, grabbing hanta’s arm like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

"holy shit."

hanta blinks, following his gaze. he spots you instantly. his entire vibe shifts in half a second.

denki’s shoulders stiffen. hanta’s grin tilts, almost smug.

they don’t say a word — but the battle lines are drawn.

denki smooths his shirt down and straightens up, already plotting, because tonight just got way more interesting.

"bro," the brown eyed boy drawls, his normally nonchalant tone cracking, "you’re joking."

"i’m not. she’s here. she’s right fucking there."

they both just stand there for a beat, frozen in place like idiots in a teen movie.

"we knew this might happen," hanta says, knocking back a too-big sip of his drink like it’ll help. "she’s friends with mina. and mina lives here. and we are, unfortunately, also here."

denki groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. "okay but what do we do?"

"we don’t panic," hanta says, clearly starting to panic. "you like her. i like her. classic romcom setup. we wingman each other. bros helping bros."

"that never works."

"you’re right. but i’m already a teensy bit faded, so my judgment is impaired. let’s do it anyway."

they fist bump like absolute morons. it’s unspoken, the truce. the agreement. the absolute guaranteed disaster they’re about to unleash on themselves.

“denki,” hanta hisses suddenly as they're making their way over to the bar, grabbing his friend by the shoulder like he’s about to keep him from walking into traffic. “don’t do the eyebrow thing. it makes you look insane.”

denki freezes mid-step, brow raised just slightly, lips twitching in what was clearly meant to be a smolder but lands somewhere between drunken anime villain and confused raccoon. his bleached hair is slightly damp from the humidity of the club, strands clinging to his forehead, cheeks already pink with tequila and ego.

“what eyebrow thing?” he says innocently, blinking way too much.

“that thing where you raise one and try to smolder. you look like a drunk ferret.”

denki looks genuinely offended. “you’re so full of shit.”

“don’t fight me on this right now,” hanta says, standing tall, long limbs graceful in that lazy way only he can pull off — baggy jeans slung low, silver chain flashing under the neon. “focus. you’re acting like this is a final boss level. relax.”

before denki can retaliate, you spot them.

your grin is immediate — wide, familiar, a little sharp at the edges like you already know something they don’t. you’re leaning against the bar like you own the place, glass in hand, lips glossy, eyes flicking between the two of them like you’re trying to decide who to bully first.

“well, well, well,” you say, raising your drink. “look who crawled out of the sad boy table.”

“we got tired of being emotionally repressed,” denki replies with a grin, already sliding closer. his chain catches the light, and there’s a faint glitter on his cheek like he walked through a cloud of mina’s body spray.

“also the drinks here are pink. i couldn’t resist.”

“pink drinks do hit different,” you concede, tipping your glass to him.

hanta leans in on the other side of you, effortlessly cool, one elbow braced on the bar like he’s done this a hundred times before — because he has. he flashes a lazy smile. “so who’s your friend?”

you glance sideways, and the guy you’d been chatting with is already edging away like a guy smart enough to take a hint. “just someone mina introduced. he’s chill. not as entertaining as you two, apparently.”

they both beam at that — practically glowing.

and for a while, it’s good.

you talk, or more accurately, yell over the pounding bass. denki shoves a round of lemon drop shots into everyone’s hands like he’s on a mission from god. hanta makes a joke about astrology that makes you snort vodka soda through your nose. denki doubles over laughing and nearly chokes on a lime wedge.

you steal one of his fries when a plate of mystery bar food appears out of nowhere, and he acts like you’ve committed a felony. hanta dramatically narrates a fake backstory for the guy passed out in the booth across the room. it’s chaotic and stupid and loud and fun.

until it stops being that.

it’s little things, at first. denki cuts hanta off halfway through a story, correcting him on some inconsequential detail. hanta retaliates by one-upping him on a joke you weren’t really listening to. denki starts leaning a little too close to you. hanta starts rolling his eyes a little too obviously.

you feel it shift — the air getting tighter.

“you always do this,” hanta mutters later, after denki slides into the booth beside you uninvited, legs brushing yours casually like it’s nothing. “you get weird.”

“i’m not weird,” denki snaps, voice rising just enough to make it obvious that he is.

“you’re doing the thing.”

“what thing?”

“the thing where you pretend to wingman but then you cockblock.”

“you literally just told her i cried during Up.”

“because you did!” hanta says, throwing his arms up. “and it was sweet!”

“it was manipulative.”

“you need therapy.”

you stare at both of them, blinking in mild alarm. “are you guys okay?”

“we’re fine,” they say in unison. then glare at each other.

a beat passes. the silence is immediate and awkward.

“i’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you announce, already sliding out of the booth. it’s the emotional equivalent of pulling the fire alarm.

as soon as you’re gone, the mood collapses in on itself like a dying star.

“we’re idiots,” hanta says, rubbing his hand over his face.

“massive idiots,” denki agrees, eyes on the condensation sliding down his glass.

“she probably thinks we’re in love with each other.”

“we are. just not the sexy kind.”

they sit with that. the weight of it. the creeping shame of being two grown men emotionally combusting over a single girl in a bar with glittery walls and a sticky floor.

“you wanna go home?”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

they stumble into hanta’s room just past midnight, extremely early by their standards, shoes half-kicked off in the doorway, smelling like tequila, sweat, weed, and mutual defeat. the walls glow dimly with the soft wash of purple LEDs, casting shadows over the usual mess — a hoodie draped on the desk chair, empty cans on the windowsill, a pair of skate shoes abandoned under the bed.

denki drops face-first onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. “we blew it.”

“royally,” hanta agrees, toeing off his sneakers and collapsing beside him. “like, worse than the Up thing.”

“i’m never gonna hear the end of the Up thing.”

“you cried so hard," hanta giggles out into the silence.

“don’t start again,” denki mumbles into the blanket. “we’re mourning.”

“mourning what? the shreds of our dignity?”

“that. and the fact that we probably scared her off forever.”

hanta snorts softly. “you think she’ll still come over saturday?”

“she said she would.” denki flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling like it has answers. “you invited her, remember? you were all—come hang, it’ll be chill, we’ll do frozen margaritas, good weed and bad movies.”

“yeah, and you added i’ll make nachos and accidentally seduce you with my helpless little golden retriever charm.”

“it’s not a bit. it’s my burden.”

they lapse into silence again, heads lolling toward each other on the bed, limbs splayed out like they’ve just returned from war.

“you think she’s into you?” hanta asks eventually, voice low, a little too casual to be real.

denki’s quiet for a beat. “i dunno. maybe?”

another pause.

“you?”

hanta lets out a long breath. “maybe.”

they don’t look at each other. they don’t need to. it’s not the first time they’ve liked the same person — just the first time it might actually matter.

“we suck,” denki says again, softer this time.

“at least we suck together.”

"that's so gay."

they fall asleep like that — fully clothed, limbs tangled, laughter still clinging to their skin like the glitter they’ll find in the morning.

...end of playback

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

prev track ▷ 93 'til infinity

next track ▷ black beatles

[cxvii666]

FUCKING YUMMY ASF god its genius its beautiful why didnt i think of it

GAMEBOY .ᐟ SFW. Slightly shitposty.

Gaming with Hanta, Sero.

"... Dude! Hanta? Come on...!"

Kaminari begs, though it falls on deaf ears. The Hanta in question, hair strung between your fingers and hands tucking fingertips into the softest section of your hips, chuckles softly between slightly-too-tongued kisses.

"His mic's off, bro," Eijirou mentions, an eye-roll audible by his tone. "Do you think he even has his headset on?"

He does. He's just not listening– instead, his teeth sink tauntingly into the flesh just below your jaw, only to clench harder when you'd gasp. Giggling followed, just in time for Eijirou to come up with a test.

"Kami, turn the volume down. Like, now."

"Dude? ...Okay," Kaminari obeys, and there's shuffling on Eijirou's end.

"GRRRRAFF!!! RAFF RAFF ARF ARRRGGGG GRRRR GRRROWWWWFFFF BARKBARKBARKBARK!!!"

And, suddenly, Hanta can no longer ignore the sounds of his mic– and, in fact, just about jumps out of his skin to get away from you. His face flushes, eyes narrowing, as you laugh, and laugh, and laugh... Falling over in his bed, as he turns his mic back on and eyebrows raise amusedly in your direction.

"... Who put they dog on mic?"

[cxvii666]

then i clocked i have free will and picked up the pen myself

when there’s no fics of my favorite character and i can’t write so i just have to make shit up in my head

[cxvii666]

no-context boyfriend txts w/ ten

FEATURING!

YUJI ITADORI, DENKI KAMINARI, HANTA SERO, hitoshi shinsou, eren yeager, ryuunoske tanaka, KEIGO TAKAMI, takuma ino, connie springer, hajime iwaizumi, issei matsukawa, (i could see) yuuta okkotsu, osamu miya, tetsurou kuroo, satori tendou, yuu nishinoya, koushi sugawara, satoru gojo, also suguru geto (he gives closet weirdo), jean kirstein, yuuji terushima, togata mirio + ur faves ofc x

[cxvii666]

“nokia”

college au! denki kaminari + hanta sero x reader

“where's the function?" “—where the fuck the function?” “send the addy—” “where the fuck the function???”

wc: 3.7k

part of the hoe cakes - EP

...starting track

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

.....

"guess who just got that big cashmoneyyyyy!!!"

denki kaminari, to much surprise of those who don't know him so well, is an early riser.

that's not to say that the blonde's sleep schedule isn't completely out of wack, because it is. late nights that could barely be counted as nights, more like extremely early mornings, are not infrequent to him. most days he's up till 2am on his playstation, or playing minecraft on his laptop, or rewatching the same three movies.

but he's always up before 7am.

fuelled by nictotine, caffeine, (sometimes ketamine), and sheer willpower.

he enjoys getting up with the sun, the quiet of the house at dawn.

it's peaceful in a way nothing else is. he gets to attempt at quieting his mind. sometimes he's downstairs before bakugou goes on his morning run, so he makes the guy his favourite disgustingly green multivitamin shakes, and in return receives quiet instruction, general life advice, and insightful words of wisdom from the other blonde. because they are both calm in a way they're normally not.

hanta sero, on the other hand, is a master of the lay in. you won't see him before 2pm on a regular day, he'll be upstairs in his room, snoozing, snoring, drooling into his pillow, until either his stomach wakes him up and he leaves his dungeon of his own accord, in search of food or an energy drink, or, someone gets sent up to check on him, to make sure he's not dead or something like that.

on this particular morning, hanta had stumbled downstairs just after midday, slightly buzzing because he had finally bought the pair of sneakers he'd been eyeing up for the last week.

he flops onto the couch, a gangly pile of long limbs and messy brown hair, knocking denki on the leg accidentally-on-purpose. denki looks up briefly, over the top of his book, from where he's resting in the corner of the couch and acknowledges his friend with a nod.

"'bit early for you, ain't it," the blonde mumbles, the frame of his reading glasses slipping slightly as he turns the page.

"shaddup." is all he receives from hanta in return, who then takes a swig of his redbull like he's tryna give himself wings.

"dude, did you hear what i just said?" hanta yawns out, lazily kicking his feet up to rest on the blonde's shin, "the bag just got dropped in my bank account."

"what, you finally got that uber eats refund?" denki snorts, eyes still focused on the printed words on the page, he has to finish this chapter now, else he won't pick the book back up for another two weeks.

"don't be funny," hanta laments, thinking of the food that never got delivered, the money that was never returned, "and fuck uber, fuck the government." denki rolls his eyes at the rant he's already heard, "what do they get out of torturing underpaid students, huh? no loyalty in this game."

"what game?" denki replies, nearly at the end of the page.

"the game of life," he drawls back dryly. "you finish that chapter yet? i wanna go for a smoke."

"almost, the mc is pissing me off though, i don't know if i can finish this."

"what's the book?"

"pride and prejudice."

hanta whistles low and long, head tilted as he picks his phone back up to open depop. "damn," he mutters, thumb pausing over a blurry jpeg of a hoodie that definitely doesn’t justify the £85 price tag, "sorry, mister classic literature."

denki doesn't even glance up. he just hums, flipping another page with the careful indifference of someone pretending they’re not rereading the same paragraph for the third time.

they fall into silence — not heavy, just easy — filled only by the soft tap-tap-tap of hanta’s screen and the occasional creak of the old couch when one of them shifts. sunlight slants through the living room blinds, catching on dust motes and the curl of denki’s blonde hair as he leans deeper into the cushions, glasses slipping slightly down his nose.

hanta’s sprawled out beside him, legs stretched halfway off the couch, socked feet resting dangerously close to denki’s side. he’s locked in, zoned out, scrolling through overpriced streetwear resellers hawking one-of-one drops and faded zip-ups from some underground german brand he can’t even pronounce.

the quiet’s broken by the sharp snap of a book closing.

“you got funds for said smoke?” denki asks, voice dry, already reaching for his phone.

“i haven’t picked up yet,” hanta replies without looking up.

“that’s not what i asked.”

“you’re so annoying.”

“i was gonna text shinsou. he came back yesterday, i’m sure he’s got at least an eighth on him.”

hanta stretches, joints popping. “then yeah. tell him i’ll bank transfer.”

denki raises an eyebrow. “so you do have smoke money.”

hanta tosses his phone up, catches it against his chest. “what did i say earlier? the bag got dropped.”

a beat.

denki glances at his phone, brows lifting. “oh shit. it’s the 30th.”

“there he is,” hanta grins, already anticipating it. “and you know what that means—”

“we got paiddddd” denki sing-songs, jumping up just enough to do a half-assed shoulder shimmy.

hanta kills the moment immediately, as he always does, with a well-timed scoff and a raised brow. “we? bro, who’s this we you speak of?”

denki freezes mid-dance, blinking. “we… like, you and me?” he gestures between them helplessly. “that’s, like, basic grammar, i fear.”

“i mean,” hanta says, voice climbing mock-dramatically, “there is no ‘we’, okay? you don’t have to spend all your free time in that stupid stockroom. ‘sero can you come in today?’ ‘sero we need a full size range of xyz’ ‘sero can you take the bins out?’ ‘sero can you close the store tonight and then open the next morning’—NO. fuck that.”

denki snorts, trying and failing to hide the smirk pulling at his mouth.

hanta sees it and narrows his eyes. “unemployed bastard. shut the fuck up.”

“okay, okay, relax, bruh,” denki says, holding up both hands. “you know what?”

“…what?”

“we should go out tonight.”

“are you kidding? i thought we were locking in. don’t you have, like, five assignments due next—”

“no thoughts. only vibes.”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

by 9pm they’re crammed around a too-small, sticky round table in a bar that smells like old wood and spilled citrus. the lighting’s low and uneven, all weird amber glows and exposed wires, and the music is some indie playlist that’s trying a little too hard to be ironic. something with a harmonica plays over the speakers, no one knows the words, but everyone knows the vibe: overpriced, under-cleaned, maybe cool in a way that’s embarrassing if you think about it too long.

denki’s halfway into his second tequila soda, slouched back against the booth with his knees knocking into hanta’s. his eyes are glassy, hair a little damp at the temples, grinning like someone just told him the funniest joke in the world and he’s still recovering.

hanta’s beside him, obviously crossfaded. talking too loud, gesturing too big with a joint in his hand, cheeks flushed pink from a cocktail that had way more liquor than mixer. he’s half on the seat and half off, manspreading shamelessly and knocking into denki every time he tries to make a point.

kiri’s on denki’s other side, balanced on a chair that definitely wasn’t made for his size, nursing a beer that’s already gone warm, launching into some dramatic story about how he “definitely tore something” at the gym last week.

“nah dude, i swear, i was just squatting and something snapped—”

“your common sense,” bakugou mutters from across the table, not looking up from the glass of whiskey he’s been babysitting for the past twenty minutes.

“fuck off, man,” kirishima laughs, clapping him hard on the shoulder, “just ‘cause i’m built different—”

“built stupid,” bakugou corrects, finally glancing up, eyes narrowed like he’s considering whether the redhead needs to be thrown out the window or just insulted more thoroughly.

shinsou’s wedged between bakugou and the wall, hoodie hood up, sipping something dark and bitter with the look of a man who’s about to start dissociating. he hasn't said much since they sat down, just making faces into his glass every time someone raises their voice — which is often.

denki points across the table suddenly, finger wobbling as he focuses on bakugou. “i’m just saying,” he slurs, “you’re, like, objectively the hottest out of all of us, and that’s so unfair because you’re also mean and rich.”

bakugou doesn’t even blink. just flips him off slowly, deliberately, like he’s done it so many times it’s lost all meaning.

“i think i’m the hottest,” hanta says, almost spilling his drink on his lap. “in a, like, mysterious way. like… the kinda hot that sneaks up on you.”

“you’re hot in a raccoon-at-3am kinda way,” shinsou mutters into his drink without missing a beat.

hanta pauses. considers. “thank you?”

kiri claps him on the back like he just won a prize. “you’ve got that haunted twink energy. it works for you.”

hanta makes a face like he’s been personally victimised. “okay wow, homophobic and accurate. you guys are on thin fuckin ice.”

they all laugh — loud and messy — drawing a few annoyed looks from the couple at the next table over. denki knocks his knee against hanta’s and hiccups once, eyes fluttering closed like the room’s starting to spin just slightly.

then he suddenly lurches forward, forehead thunking onto the sticky wood of the table as he groans, “can we go somewhere else? shinsou, your internship aged you like milk. i feel like we’re thirty-five. i wanna move. i wanna dance. i want fun.”

“then go,” shinsou says, without even lifting his head.

denki doesn’t even hesitate. he’s already got his phone out, dialing with shaking hands and tequila optimism. he holds the phone to his ear like it owes him money.

“this is gonna end badly,” hanta whispers to kirishima, grinning wide.

“denki, babe, what’s up?” mina answers on the second ring, her voice loud with bass and laughter and probably a little champagne.

“where are you? save me. i’m surrounded by clinically depressed men and i need a serotonin shot.”

“club downtown with the girls. music’s fire. drinks are pink. get your ass here.”

“we’re on our way.”

he hangs up like he just solved a crime and slaps his palm down on the table. “mina’s at the club. we’re going. sero, get up.”

“say less,” hanta says, already trying to climb over the bench with the grace of a baby giraffe.

“absolutely not,” bakugou growls, right as kiri fist-pumps with a too-loud, “hell yeah!”

shinsou sighs like he’s dying, then tips the rest of his drink back like it might bring him peace.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

they leave the bar like a storm — noisy, uncoordinated, half-drunk and dramatic. denki’s leading the charge, coat flapping behind him like a cape as he marches toward the curb, phone in hand and eyes bright with mission.

“someone call a ride,” shinsou mutters, already regretting this.

“on it,” hanta announces, immediately opening instagram instead of uber. “wait, no, shit.”

“i’ll do it,” bakugou growls, snatching the phone out of hanta’s hand. “you idiots’ll end up the other side of the fuckin' country.”

“wow,” hanta says, mock-offended, “it’s giving control issues.”

“it’s giving i don’t want to die in a ditch tonight,” bakugou snaps.

kiri’s standing too close to the street, waving his arms. “is this legal if i flag one down like a taxi—”

“it’s a rideshare, bro!” denki yells, exasperated. “you don’t just... wave at random cars!”

“what if it’s the vibe though?”

the car arrives miraculously only five minutes later, a silver prius that has seen better days. they pile in like a jenga tower mid-collapse — kirishima practically sitting on shinsou, hanta in the middle seat with both elbows out like he owns the place, denki leaning his whole body across the row to yell something incoherent out the window. bakugou slams the door shut with unnecessary force and glares at the driver like sorry in advance.

the entire ride is chaos.

denki insists on playing music and ends up blasting a playlist called “feral thot energy.” hanta starts freestyle rapping over it, badly. kiri tries to harmonize. shinsou has his head against the window with the thousand-yard stare of a man who has made several mistakes in life.

“this is the kind of night where legends are born,” denki declares, arm draped around hanta’s shoulder like a drunk prom date.

“it’s the kind of night where someone gets kicked out of a club,” shinsou mutters.

“same difference.”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

the club hits them like a wave — sound and sweat and heat and light. music thrums through the floor, vibrating up through their shoes, a pulsing beat that makes your ribs buzz. everything’s cast in blue and purple and gold strobe. bodies packed tight, the air thick with perfume, alcohol, and cheap fog machine mist.

mina spots them first — she’s glowing, standing on the low couch in a VIP booth like it’s a stage, waving her drink and grinning like she owns the place. she yells something they can’t hear and beckons them over.

they shove their way through the crowd, hands on shoulders, stumbling into strangers. hanta gets distracted by a girl in platform boots and nearly crashes into a server. kiri’s already hyping himself up, bouncing to the beat, dragging bakugou by the wrist with zero shame.

shinsou disappears into the dark like a shadow, muttering something about getting a drink and being “less near all of you.”

denki’s still laughing when he sees you.

his brain short-circuits. just flatlines for a second.

you’re across the room, leaning against the bar with a drink in hand, face lit up in electric violet from the LED strip beneath the counter. you’re laughing — at what, he doesn’t know — and you look good. criminally good. all done up and shining like you were dipped in starlight and eyeliner.

denki halts mid-step, grabbing hanta’s arm like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

"holy shit."

hanta blinks, following his gaze. he spots you instantly. his entire vibe shifts in half a second.

denki’s shoulders stiffen. hanta’s grin tilts, almost smug.

they don’t say a word — but the battle lines are drawn.

denki smooths his shirt down and straightens up, already plotting, because tonight just got way more interesting.

"bro," the brown eyed boy drawls, his normally nonchalant tone cracking, "you’re joking."

"i’m not. she’s here. she’s right fucking there."

they both just stand there for a beat, frozen in place like idiots in a teen movie.

"we knew this might happen," hanta says, knocking back a too-big sip of his drink like it’ll help. "she’s friends with mina. and mina lives here. and we are, unfortunately, also here."

denki groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. "okay but what do we do?"

"we don’t panic," hanta says, clearly starting to panic. "you like her. i like her. classic romcom setup. we wingman each other. bros helping bros."

"that never works."

"you’re right. but i’m already a teensy bit faded, so my judgment is impaired. let’s do it anyway."

they fist bump like absolute morons. it’s unspoken, the truce. the agreement. the absolute guaranteed disaster they’re about to unleash on themselves.

“denki,” hanta hisses suddenly as they're making their way over to the bar, grabbing his friend by the shoulder like he’s about to keep him from walking into traffic. “don’t do the eyebrow thing. it makes you look insane.”

denki freezes mid-step, brow raised just slightly, lips twitching in what was clearly meant to be a smolder but lands somewhere between drunken anime villain and confused raccoon. his bleached hair is slightly damp from the humidity of the club, strands clinging to his forehead, cheeks already pink with tequila and ego.

“what eyebrow thing?” he says innocently, blinking way too much.

“that thing where you raise one and try to smolder. you look like a drunk ferret.”

denki looks genuinely offended. “you’re so full of shit.”

“don’t fight me on this right now,” hanta says, standing tall, long limbs graceful in that lazy way only he can pull off — baggy jeans slung low, silver chain flashing under the neon. “focus. you’re acting like this is a final boss level. relax.”

before denki can retaliate, you spot them.

your grin is immediate — wide, familiar, a little sharp at the edges like you already know something they don’t. you’re leaning against the bar like you own the place, glass in hand, lips glossy, eyes flicking between the two of them like you’re trying to decide who to bully first.

“well, well, well,” you say, raising your drink. “look who crawled out of the sad boy table.”

“we got tired of being emotionally repressed,” denki replies with a grin, already sliding closer. his chain catches the light, and there’s a faint glitter on his cheek like he walked through a cloud of mina’s body spray.

“also the drinks here are pink. i couldn’t resist.”

“pink drinks do hit different,” you concede, tipping your glass to him.

hanta leans in on the other side of you, effortlessly cool, one elbow braced on the bar like he’s done this a hundred times before — because he has. he flashes a lazy smile. “so who’s your friend?”

you glance sideways, and the guy you’d been chatting with is already edging away like a guy smart enough to take a hint. “just someone mina introduced. he’s chill. not as entertaining as you two, apparently.”

they both beam at that — practically glowing.

and for a while, it’s good.

you talk, or more accurately, yell over the pounding bass. denki shoves a round of lemon drop shots into everyone’s hands like he’s on a mission from god. hanta makes a joke about astrology that makes you snort vodka soda through your nose. denki doubles over laughing and nearly chokes on a lime wedge.

you steal one of his fries when a plate of mystery bar food appears out of nowhere, and he acts like you’ve committed a felony. hanta dramatically narrates a fake backstory for the guy passed out in the booth across the room. it’s chaotic and stupid and loud and fun.

until it stops being that.

it’s little things, at first. denki cuts hanta off halfway through a story, correcting him on some inconsequential detail. hanta retaliates by one-upping him on a joke you weren’t really listening to. denki starts leaning a little too close to you. hanta starts rolling his eyes a little too obviously.

you feel it shift — the air getting tighter.

“you always do this,” hanta mutters later, after denki slides into the booth beside you uninvited, legs brushing yours casually like it’s nothing. “you get weird.”

“i’m not weird,” denki snaps, voice rising just enough to make it obvious that he is.

“you’re doing the thing.”

“what thing?”

“the thing where you pretend to wingman but then you cockblock.”

“you literally just told her i cried during Up.”

“because you did!” hanta says, throwing his arms up. “and it was sweet!”

“it was manipulative.”

“you need therapy.”

you stare at both of them, blinking in mild alarm. “are you guys okay?”

“we’re fine,” they say in unison. then glare at each other.

a beat passes. the silence is immediate and awkward.

“i’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you announce, already sliding out of the booth. it’s the emotional equivalent of pulling the fire alarm.

as soon as you’re gone, the mood collapses in on itself like a dying star.

“we’re idiots,” hanta says, rubbing his hand over his face.

“massive idiots,” denki agrees, eyes on the condensation sliding down his glass.

“she probably thinks we’re in love with each other.”

“we are. just not the sexy kind.”

they sit with that. the weight of it. the creeping shame of being two grown men emotionally combusting over a single girl in a bar with glittery walls and a sticky floor.

“you wanna go home?”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

they stumble into hanta’s room just past midnight, extremely early by their standards, shoes half-kicked off in the doorway, smelling like tequila, sweat, weed, and mutual defeat. the walls glow dimly with the soft wash of purple LEDs, casting shadows over the usual mess — a hoodie draped on the desk chair, empty cans on the windowsill, a pair of skate shoes abandoned under the bed.

denki drops face-first onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. “we blew it.”

“royally,” hanta agrees, toeing off his sneakers and collapsing beside him. “like, worse than the Up thing.”

“i’m never gonna hear the end of the Up thing.”

“you cried so hard," hanta giggles out into the silence.

“don’t start again,” denki mumbles into the blanket. “we’re mourning.”

“mourning what? the shreds of our dignity?”

“that. and the fact that we probably scared her off forever.”

hanta snorts softly. “you think she’ll still come over saturday?”

“she said she would.” denki flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling like it has answers. “you invited her, remember? you were all—come hang, it’ll be chill, we’ll do frozen margaritas, good weed and bad movies.”

“yeah, and you added i’ll make nachos and accidentally seduce you with my helpless little golden retriever charm.”

“it’s not a bit. it’s my burden.”

they lapse into silence again, heads lolling toward each other on the bed, limbs splayed out like they’ve just returned from war.

“you think she’s into you?” hanta asks eventually, voice low, a little too casual to be real.

denki’s quiet for a beat. “i dunno. maybe?”

another pause.

“you?”

hanta lets out a long breath. “maybe.”

they don’t look at each other. they don’t need to. it’s not the first time they’ve liked the same person — just the first time it might actually matter.

“we suck,” denki says again, softer this time.

“at least we suck together.”

"that's so gay."

they fall asleep like that — fully clothed, limbs tangled, laughter still clinging to their skin like the glitter they’ll find in the morning.

...end of playback

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

prev track ▷ 93 'til infinity

next track ▷ black beatles

[cxvii666]

“PRETTY VISITORS”

orrrrr a cousin!bakugou!reader x hanta sero college au

“what came first, the chicken or the dickhead?”

.......

“is blasty… laughing?”

they're at their usual place—the shitty student bar downtown. it's too warm, crowded in that way that feels a little sticky—sweaty shoulders brushing yours, music bleeding through the floorboards, every surface just a bit grimy. the air smells like tequila and floor cleaner, and there's a low red glow coming from the shitty neon beer sign above the bar, blinking like it’s tired of existing.

"who, the hell, is that?"

the words leave hanta’s mouth before he can stop them, quiet and suspicious, as he leans forward slightly, squinting across the crowded bar like maybe he’s hallucinating. maybe they all are.

because bakugou is laughing.

not scoffing. not snorting. not giving one of his usual mean little chuckles like he’s already halfway through insulting your bloodline. no. this is different. this is full-blown, chest-shaking, head-thrown-back laughter. obnoxious. loud. bright-eyed. the kind of laugh that says something has actually made him happy, which. obviously. is fucking terrifying.

denki looks like he’s about to faint. his eyes are wide and glassy, clinging to his drink like it’s a lifeline. his hair’s a little sweaty at the roots, sticking to his forehead in little lightning bolts. kirishima’s frozen halfway through sipping his beer, hand hovering in the air like his brain stopped sending signals to his muscles. lips still pressed to the glass. not blinking.

mina’s leaned up against the high-top beside them, one elbow propped on the high-top, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, pink acrylic nails tapping rhythmically against the sticky surface. she’s staring across the bar with the expression of someone watching a plane crash in slow motion—too fascinated to look away, too horrified to speak. her lipgloss catches the neon like a warning sign.

“nah,” denki laughs in disbelief, clutching his beer like a rosary, “nah, i'm done. this ain’t real. we’re in, like, a weird timeline. multiverse type shit, like the batman that smiles thing, i don't like that.”

“he’s laughing with people,” mina adds, voice flat like she’s reporting a crime.

“strangers,” denki breathes.

“one of whom is…” hanta pauses and squints, makes the mistake of looking again. “…really hot.”

silence.

denki's mouth falls open. kirishima blinks, then glances at mina, who’s already raising one eyebrow like she’s clocked something important. the corner of her mouth twitches. she looks like she’s about to start taking bets. hanta immediately regrets all of his life choices.

“i mean—” he stammers trying to salvage it, hands up, half-laughing like maybe he can charm his way out of it, “not like—i didn’t mean it like that—”

“bro,” denki whispers, dead serious, “start writing your will.”

“you don’t know who that is?” kirishima says slowly, like he already knows the answer but is giving him a final chance to save himself.

“should i?”

“you’re joking.” from mina, the words roll off her tongue slowly, sarcastically.

“oooohhh, you’re so dead,” denki snorts, shaking his head as he picks his drink back up already resigning hanta to his fate. “super dead. we’ll use a hot photo as your memorial post, don't worry.”

and that’s when bakugou finally turns.

just a glance. a lazy wave, barely more than a lift of two fingers. casual, like he doesn’t care who’s watching. but the girl next to him—you—you follow his line of sight. turn your head, easy grin still lingering on your lips like you know exactly what just happened and you think it’s so hilarious. you’ve got this kind of light in your eyes that doesn’t match the low bar lighting, this way of standing like the room’s yours even though nobody gave it to you. your hand is still resting on bakugou’s shoulders.

he lets it stay there.

hants’s stomach does something horrible and fluttery. like a bug in a microwave.

“that’s his cousin,” kirishima says, and suddenly it all clicks. “she moved back from osaka a few weeks ago. they're real tight, apparently.”

“tight?” hanta echoes, disbelieving. “how tight? like—tight enough to make him laugh?”

“she’s the only person who’s allowed to talk to him like he’s not a landmine,” kirishima shrugs. “she’s kinda like him. but funnier.”

hanta can't stop staring. at the tilt of your smile, at the way you roll your eyes at something bakugou says and bump your shoulder into his like it’s instinct. like you’ve been doing it your whole life.

“okay,” he mutters. “but like… she is hot, right?”

denki and mina immediately burst into peels of laughter. hanta just groans, rubbing a hand down his face. the two of them together are always like this. loud, stupid, uncaring of social graces or volume control, they feed off of each others chaotic energy like hyaenas.

"someone wanna clue me in on what's so fuckin' funny?" hanta grumbles, trying to salvage what little dignity he has left.

kirishima takes pity and explains, "“y'know that summer you went home for a couple weeks and we went to bakugou's for that barbeque?”

"yeah..."

“well she was there. midoriya too. and she—oh, i don't remember what she said, but it was something like ‘don't get mad at izuku just because he's thriving and you're probably gonna go bald in the next three years.’”

“no, no,” mina cuts in, still giggling, “it was more like, ‘you’re mad because izuku is still young and pretty and i can literally see your bald spot.’”

“either way,” denki says, grinning, “she’s fucking brutal. i thought blasty was gonna cry.”

“ok. so she’s mean. i can handle mean.” hanta nods, slowly, like he’s trying to convince himself that he's got more confidence then he actually has.

“no, she’s not mean,” mina says, thoughtful. “she’s just…”

“—a bitch?” from denki.

“dude…” kirishima winces.

“denki!!!” mina snaps, rolling her eyes. “what have i told you? you can't say that about girls. oh my god.”

“sorry, sorry,” denki says, hands up. “i meant like... she’s just waaay harsh. definitely too much for our boy sero to handle.”

“ok, that is true.” mina and kiri both nod at the same time, traitors to the cause.

“hey, wait a minute,” hanta frowns. “what’s with this sero hate train? you guys think i can’t pull?”

he says it light, like a throwaway comment. like of course his long-time best friends will disagree.

but it’s quiet for a second.

“you guys want another drink?” mina says eventually, looking pointedly at her glass.

“yeah, if you’re buying.” denki perks up instantly.

“yes please,” from kirishima, too chipper.

“seriously??” hanta gapes. “you guys really think i can’t talk to girls?”

“it’s not that you can’t,” kirishima begins carefully, tone gentle. like he’s trying not to step on a landmine. “because, we’ve seen you. don’t worry.”

“slut,” denki coughs into his drink.

“it’s just—well—you’re a bit—” kirishima tries.

“—you’re a massive dickhead,” mina finishes sweetly, not even looking up from the drinks menu.

“oh fuck off.”

that gets a chorus of fake gasps and offended noises from denki and kirishima.

“you’re gonna swear at a lady? really, sero?” mina doesn’t even blink, just raises one brow.

“well,” he says, mock-dramatic, scanning the table, “i don’t see any ladies here.”

mina jabs a sharp fingernail in his direction. “take that back.”

“all we’re saying is,” denki cuts in, trying to ease the tension, “you’re way too smug about it. girls can smell that.”

hanta raises a brow. “and what do they smell on you, sparky? desperation?”

“electromagnetic sex appeal,” denki deadpans, then flashes a shit-eating grin. “google it.”

“google told me you fried your phone charger by trying to flirt with a vending machine,” hanta shoots back.

mina chokes on laughter. kiri wheezes.

“ok, ok,” denki’s already sliding out of the booth, trying to make a break for it. “shut up. let’s go for a smoke before bakugou comes back and ruins the vibe. hanta, i know you’ve got some zaza in that back pocket.”

"fuck you," hanta grumbles.

"promise?" denki smirks.

hanta throws a crumpled napkin at him. they’re still laughing when they push through the crowd, already forgetting what they were arguing about in the first place.

to be continued.....

sorry y'all this came to me in a post shift nap and i had to write and post it out quick before the inspiration left lol

[cxvii666]

for the mixtape madness can you do Some by Steve Lacy for sero??

YESSSSSSSSS STEVE LACY AND SERO HANTA MY FAVEEEEE COMBOOOOOOOOOOO

MIXTAPE MADNESS

“i'm sure there's lots of guys that you see but, i swear they're not as cool as me”

hanta s.

starting track....

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

you’re on his couch again.

legs tucked up under you, hoodie too big for your frame, nails still perfect. you’re scrolling with one hand, eating his snacks with the other, and you haven’t looked at him in like five minutes.

sero’s watching you anyway.

he always is.

you don’t notice—except you do. you just don’t say anything about it.

his room smells like weed and dryer sheets. the tv’s playing something you’re both ignoring. his phone buzzes, he ignores that too.

you sigh. not in a real way. in that little princessy way you do when you’re bored and want someone to fix it.

he bites the inside of his cheek.

you’re so fine it’s genuinely unfair. lashes curled, gloss sticky, hair all done up like you didn’t just say you weren’t seeing anyone tonight.

he knows you could be.

he sees your comments. hears the way guys talk about your stories. he’s watched you and mina film tiktoks from across the quad, phone propped against a redbull. watched you post it without even checking twice.

and he knows.

he knows he shouldn’t want this. shouldn’t want you.

but he does.

not just like that.

not just the way you look when you’re on his bed with your phone in one hand and your lip between your teeth.

not just the way you roll your eyes when he says something stupid but you laugh anyway.

it’s all of it.

it’s you.

“hey,” he says, voice low, a little hoarse, a little sarcastic. “you ever get tired of fake flirting with losers?”

you pause, thumb hovering mid-text. look up at him. unimpressed.

“why?”

he shrugs, but it’s lazy. practiced. like he didn’t spend twenty minutes earlier talking himself out of saying this.

“just thinkin’,” he says, “i could treat you better.”

you raise a brow. “you tryna shoot your shot, hanta?”

“nah,” he smirks, “i shot that shit weeks ago. you just been acting like you didn’t notice.”

you stare at him. you hate how your stomach flips.

he keeps going, voice smooth, unbothered, but there’s something in his eyes. something real.

“i know there’s love in there somewhere,” he says, nodding toward your chest. “but who you giving it to? some guy who can’t even roll a blunt right? some dude who buys you drinks and dips when you get too soft?”

you narrow your eyes.

he grins. like he knows he hit something.

“i’m just saying,” he shrugs. “you could chill here. kick it with me. we could hit the beach. drive to nowhere. watch a movie. get high. talk shit.”

he leans back on his palms.

“you don’t even gotta post about it.”

the silence stretches.

your phone screen goes dark in your hand.

you hate him a little. for making you feel like this. for saying what no one else has. for making it sound like it could actually be that easy.

you toss your phone to the side. crawl across the bed.

he watches you, eyes hooded. mouth twitching at the corners.

you stop in front of him, legs straddling his lap, arms looped lazy around his neck.

“you think you’re so cool, huh?”

“nah,” he says, eyes dropping to your lips. “i think you are.”

you kiss him before he can get smug about it.

he groans into it, hands finding your waist like they belong there. like he knew you’d end up here eventually.

and maybe you did.

maybe you were always gonna fold for him.

because yeah — there’s love in your heart.

and tonight?

maybe he gets a little bit of it.

.......

end of playback

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

soooo not bothered to format any more sorry gang im on a solo vacation rn lol but im so bored so pls send more 😝

REQUEST A SONG HERE

[cxvii666]

Oh hi bloom! What a suprise event that I did not know was happening 😱 you are so creative! (I’m still sad u scrapped track 19 💔) but ANYWAYS I want a sero fic for track 12 yeahhh and I guesss you can add Mina and jirou since you already did 😞 joking I love them they’re so hot… ALSO HAPPY FIVE MILLION AGAIN!! Give me half your trillion dollar earnings pls and ty

lovers rock by tv girl ft. sero hanta event m.list

જ⁀➴ sunset car ride with hanta

contains: f!reader implied, fluff word count: 1.5k

“come on!” hanta laughed as he tugged on your arm. 

“no! i don’t want to die today, han! pllleaseee, spare me!” you shout back as you squirm around in your boyfriend's grasp—half joking, half not.

“you’re not gonna die!” he counters. hanta shakes his head at your thrashing and lets go of your wrist to pull his wallet out from his back pocket. “this,” he says as he flips his wallet open. “is proof you’re in safe hands.”

inside, you can see his new driver's license tucked into the photo id window of his wallet. his toothy grin is on display, wide and shining bright. his eyes are scrunched up above them, joy extremely prominent. the bottom of the id reads:

sex: m

hgt: 5’-11”

eyes: brn

iss: 05/30/2025

may thirtieth. just five days ago, hanta had taken his on-the-road driver's test (after two failed attempts, which he made you promise to never bring up again, ever) and thankfully, this time he passed. 

you thought you had a while, at least a month, before he’d offer to drive you around. 

you were extremely wrong. 

the text that followed “i passed!” was “wanna go for a ride? i can pick you up right now!” and it sent an alarmingly cold shiver down your spine. 

you love your boyfriend, very dearly. he’s good at many things; making the perfect popcorn that wasn’t too sweet and wasn’t salty. finding your lost jewelry in the mess that you call a room. building intercately complicated legos just to tear them apart and do it again. 

you could acknowledge hanta’s many talents. 

but along the same line, your boyfriend isn’t perfect; he’s not the best at math, but you don’t hold that against him. he struggles to distinguish the difference between the words effect and affect. he eats way too much junk food to be considered healthy. and most importantly, he’s not a good driver. 

and although he looks stupidly happy in his professional photo with his signature dorky grin, you can’t help but wonder who it was that thought it was a good idea to authorize your boyfriend to continue to haunt the roads with his uncoordinated presence. 

“and this.” he dangled his keys up in front of you. “is gonna be one hot car ride.” he leaned in to kiss you, making you remember another flaw about your very human boyfriend; his awfully timed kisses. 

you, as politely as you could, ignored the kiss and snatched the key from his hands. “fine. but no messing around.” you demanded as you walked past him and toward the car. 

hanta was right on your heel, “you got it babe!”

he ran ahead of you just in time to open the passenger door, “go ahead milady.” he announced with a dramatic bow. 

you stepped in, muttering a quiet, playfully, “dork” as he closed the door for you. all smiles despite your insult. 

hanta quickly traveled past the setting sun outside to the driver's side of the car. you watched as he sat down and closed the car door. you watched as he then as he buckled his seatbelt and then adjusted his mirror.

hanta looked over to your surveillancing eyes, “what?” he flashed you a toothy grin, one that mirrored his license photo almost exactly. 

“just making sure you’re doing everything right…” you responded cautiously.

“oh come on,” hanta’s hand found yours and brought it up clse to him. he held your hand with such reverence, as if i was a sacred treasure that he was glad he had the honor to be in the same vehicle with. “you think i’d drive unsafe with you in the car?” hanta titled his head toward you, “i wouldn’t dream of it.” he kissed the flat of your hand, then your knuckles, then peered up at you through his lashes. “you trust me?”

your face flushed at his words that felt way more intimate than they probably should’ve. “just drive..” you murmured as you attempted to hide your flusteredness by glancing away—though you know that hanta knows you and your emotions better than anyone, especially when you get razzled up like this.

thankfully, hanta chose not to tease you now. he chuckled, “you’re cute.” hanta let go of your hand and pressed the ignition button near the steering wheel. the car started with a jump and a low growl, and hanta shifted the car's gear into drive. “alright, let’s get this baby on the road.”

though the season had yet to officially start, the symptoms of summer solstice were apparent and already affecting the city of tokyo. 

the clock just below the car’s dashboard read 7:03, yet it seemed like the sun had just begun to make this trip down to the western part of the world. the sun had a tangerine hue to it today, one that shone bright through the mountainous horizon—clouds huddled near, not over cluttering but complementing the star.

the road you two were driving down looked long, like you could catch up to the sun if you drove fast enough. trees surrounded the path and lingered over the poles and skylines, making everything seem more surreal than it already was. there were no other cars in sight which left just you, hanta, and the wind whistling in your ears. 

sunlight filtered through the car's windshield and littered its inside contents, the dashboard that hanta had already begun to decorate with little trinkets and gimmicks, the black leather seats that soaked up all the sun's heat underneath you, but most noticeably, hanta’s face. 

the window on his side was slightly open, which caused the top of his shaggy mullet to dance along with the wind, frizzy and free. his eyes were focused, glowing, and free. 

he looks so kissable.

you stared at him shamelessly now. 

hanta glanced over at you, soft smile on his lips. his eyes made their way back to the road before you could make a quick, witted comment about his distracted driving. “hey, do me a favor?”

“hmm?”

“open the glove compartment.”

your eyes narrowed in suspicion. but you obeyed, leaning forward and flicking the compartment open.

inside was a neatly placed dvd case labeled, ‘for our first ride’ with a smiley face and heart doodle next to it. 

you took the dvd into your hands and flipped it around. there was a long track of songs written on it, a couple of songs you recognized from your shared playlist with hanta that you two had compiled months ago. at the bottom in bold was written ‘and to many more, love hanta.’

you turn to him to find his eyes already on you. you smile, “you couldn’t make a spotify playlist?” you tease as you tilt the dvd up towards your head.

“come on babe, you know i like it old school. Plus, it’s more romantic this way.” his lips curled up into a stupid, large grin before his eyes softened, “you like it..?”

you shook your head, “of course i like it dummy.” you nudged his arm and his eyes lit up again as he silently nodded to himself. 

you opened the dvd case and slipped it into the dvd player of the car. there was a small scratching sound before—

“are you sick of me?”

“would you like to be?”

you looked to hanta as the familiar melody played through the car's speakers, “lovers rock?”

“perfect for us—for now, right?”

“god, you’re—“ you had been smiling for so long now that your cheeks were starting to feel numb. “unbelievable.” you looked at your boyfriend, showered in the sun's blessing, carefree expression on his face—completely content just being here with you. “yeah,” you nodded your head as you hand reached over the console to intertwine with his. “it’s perfect.”

“you like a pretty boy.”

“with a pretty voice.”

hanta squeezed your hand in his and kept it close to his cheek, leaning against it and kissing your knuckles occasionally. 

he kept stealing glances at you, short ones that didn’t leave you concerned about the safety of the ride but still left a ghostly feeling of love in your heart. 

“and if she grabs for your hand and drags you along.”

“what?” you finally spoke after what had to be the dozenth peep from the love-drunken boy. 

“you might wanna kiss before the end of the song.”

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmured into your hand. “can i kiss you?” he already began to place feather-soft kisses on your hand as he looked up at you with the most pleading eyes you’ve ever seen. and you’d be an absolute idiot to say no. 

“you—“ you started, but couldn’t quite find the words to reject your patiently pleading boyfriend. you sighed, “pay attention to the road, han.”

hanta’s eyes flattered, just barely, before they fluttered back to the road. his hand reminded firm in yours. 

he held on tight, like if he let go, you’d fly up into the sky and land among all the stars where you belonged. 

you looked at your dramatically sad boyfriend and rolled your eyes before leaning over and kissing his cheek. hanta’s posture immediately straightened when your soft lips met his cheek, dimple already forming a dent in his cheek that you knew wouldn’t go away for at least a couple of minutes.  

you pulled away and—of course—hanta was glowing now. “we can kiss properly at the next red light, kay?”

he nodded and squeezed your hand again. he didn’t say anything smart, feeling completely content—knowing things couldn’t get much better than this.  

note: peach!!! thank u for the request i literally love u sm for picking this for hanta i loved writing it. we’re gonna ignore the overall message of the song and focus on the cute parts! anyways, i hope you like this and you will be getting proper compensation (my love and care) mwah have a good day.

taglist: @stargirlygirl

[cxvii666]

omfg i’ve been binge reading all your sero shit PLEASE it’s so good😭😭😭🙏🙏

can i scrimp some crumbs of college friend sero 🤲🤲 the way you write his smug ass has me spirallingggg and now i’m stuck thinking about what it would be like to have a friends w benefits type situation w him (pls im just a bitch down bad for a man who teases😔)

hehehehhehe 😝😝😝 how bout some coworker sero, ur both tired underpaid overworked students with nothing better to do on ur breaks

i might do more of this bcos coworker sero 😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫

it’s disgusting back here.

hot as hell. fluorescent lights flickering like they’re about to die. the tile is sticky. there’s a mop bucket in the corner that’s smelled like feet since last tuesday. you’re half-sitting on a plastic crate of off-brand soda syrup because all the chairs are taken and the only fan is aimed directly at the pastry case like it deserves to live more than you do.

and sero hanta—busboy, menace, gum-under-the-table bandit—is standing in front of you, chewing on the end of a straw like it's candy.

“you got something on your cheek,” he says, leaning in like he’s about to help. he doesn’t. just stares at it. smirks.

you flip him off.

he just grins wider. “damn, i was gonna get it for you. real sweet-like. real gentleman shit.”

“you’re not a gentleman,” you say, flat.

“nah,” he agrees. “but you like me like this.”

you do. unfortunately.

there’s something about sero that’s always a little off-kilter. a little frayed at the edges. like the gum he chews is also holding him together. he’s got an apron slung around his hips like he forgot to tie it, sleeves pushed up, sweat at his temples, and a half-finished order ticket stuffed behind his ear like he’s pretending to be organized.

he’s got this whole casual slouchy thing going, but you know better. you’ve seen the way he shifts when customers get nasty. the little smile that shows up when someone’s yelling and he’s pretending not to hear it. the way he walks through the kitchen like he’s part of the walls, but still knows every conversation happening behind them.

you’ve kissed him behind the walk-in cooler.

twice.

and once in the dry storage. and once in his car after a double shift when you were both still in your aprons, smelling like fryer oil and bad decisions.

technically, that last one wasn’t just kissing.

you’ve never talked about it. it’s not that kind of thing.

he’s not that kind of guy.

you’re not that kind of girl.

“how’s your section?” he asks now, leaning a hip against the sink like he owns the place.

you shrug. “dead. table seven asked if the lemonade had sugar in it.”

he snorts. “did you lie?”

“obviously.”

he tilts his head. “you’re hot when you’re morally bankrupt.”

“you’re hot when you shut the fuck up.”

he gives you a look at that. eyes low, mouth twitching. and then he’s stepping forward, one knee bumping the crate you’re perched on, one hand braced against the wall next to your head. just a little too close. just enough to feel it.

you tilt your chin up. don’t move.

“you got something to say?” you ask, cool.

“nope,” he says, all teeth. “but you look real pretty when you’re pretending you don’t wanna be kissed.”

your stomach flips. annoying. predictable.

you hate that he’s right.

“who said i’m pretending?”

that’s all it takes.

his mouth is on you in the next breath—hot and reckless and impatient. not romantic. not careful. he kisses like you’ve both got five minutes before someone walks in and asks for extra sauce.

your hands find the front of his shirt. tug him closer. he groans into your mouth, low and familiar.

his fingers drag up under the hem of your shirt, rough from dishes, cold from the soda machine. yours slide down the curve of his spine, tug at the waistband of his apron.

you bite his lip. he laughs.

“jesus,” he mutters, “you’re gonna kill me.”

“you started it.”

“nah, babe,” he says, breathless. “you did. with that little ‘don’t talk to me’ face. with your lip gloss. and that dumb little walk you do when you’re mad. you’re evil.”

you grin against his mouth. “you love it.”

he hums. “i’d love it more if you were sitting on my lap right now.”

you arch a brow. “we’re in the back of the restaurant.”

“yeah,” he grins. “adds ambiance.”

you roll your eyes. kiss him again.

it’s filthy. it’s messy. it’s way too hot back here. the clock above the fryer says you’ve got seven minutes before you’re supposed to be back on the floor pretending you care about soup specials and credit card tips.

his hands are on your thighs. your hair’s a mess. your apron is halfway off. you’re both a little sweaty and out of breath and glowing with something that feels like a secret.

you pull back just enough to whisper, “you’re gonna fuck up my makeup.”

he just smirks. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

you shake your head. push him off with a palm to the chest. he steps back, still smiling.

“clock’s ticking,” you say, smoothing your shirt, like that’ll help.

“yeah yeah,” he mutters, adjusting his apron like that’ll help.

he’s already halfway out the door when he glances back and adds, “hey.”

you look up.

he winks. “come find me on your twenty. i’ll make it worse.”

you don’t say anything.

but your lip gloss is already smudged.

and your mouth tastes like him.

[cxvii666]

marvin gaye - charlie puth + megan trainor 👅😛 and MEGUMI FUSHIGUROOOO <3333 IM SO EXCITED TO SEE HOW YOU DO THESE REQUESTS FOR OTHERS YAYYY!!

i saw ur character switch bbygirl dw i love writing for my man sero 😝😝😝

tbh i dont really listen to charlie puth so idk if i did this song justice and writing smut is still sticky for me sooooo yuh

MIXTAPE MADNESS

“there's loving in your eyes that pulls me closer, it's so subtle, i'm in trouble”

hanta. s

starting track...

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

....

you weren’t supposed to be alone with him.

it was a group thing. study night. powerpoint prep. mostly just a thin excuse for everybody to cram onto the same couch and pretend you’re being productive. someone was supposed to bring snacks. someone else was supposed to cry about citations. it was supposed to be chaos.

instead, it’s thursday night and dead quiet in the dorm common room.

mina bailed first—“nail emergency,” which could mean anything from a breakup to a smudged cuticle. bakugou left in a fury after denki tried to plug the projector into the wrong outlet and shorted the whole strip. then denki himself disappeared, chasing some personal vendetta against the broken microwave. again.

and now it’s just you and sero.

you. him. one laptop open between you. a dumb lo-fi playlist humming softly in the background.

two mugs of tea. going cold. untouched.

the lighting’s low. not romantic—just unfortunate. the couch is tiny. someone (him) is spread out like he owns it. your knees are dangerously close. if he shifts left even a little, you’re touching.

you’re not panicking.

you’re fine.

(it’s just… his thigh is warm. and you’re wearing shorts. and this has all the ingredients for a mistake you won’t be able to walk back from.)

“so,” sero says, voice low, smooth, already smug. “what’s the actual assignment again?”

you blink. “ethics in media. presentation. ten minutes, three sources, don’t make it boring.”

he nods, dead serious. “right. and your plan was to explain it while i sat here looking hot.”

“you’re not even looking hot,” you scoff. “you’ve got toothpaste on your hoodie.”

he looks down. wipes it off with the back of his hand. shrugs. “adds texture.”

then he grins again. slower, this time. softer. less of a joke and more of a thought. “you’re looking hot, though.”

you freeze.

of course he says it like it’s nothing. of course he doesn’t flinch. sero flirts like it’s just another reflex. like blinking. like breathing. like he doesn’t even register what it does to you.

except lately… it’s felt different.

like last week, when he walked you home across campus after class. “wasn’t doing anything else,” he said. (he was.) or when he brought your coffee the exact way you like it. didn’t even ask. or the way his gaze lingers lately—low, unhurried, warm like sunlight through a window.

like right now.

you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly the laptop is shunted sideways and sero’s leaning in—hand braced on the back of the couch, posture casual, but his eyes are locked on your mouth like he’s counting seconds.

“hey,” he says, voice lazy, a little cocky. “wanna do something unethical?”

your heart stutters.

you snort—barely. “what, like plagiarize?”

“like kiss you.”

your brain stops. just short-circuits.

you’ve wanted that. longer than you’re willing to admit. longer than makes sense.

but now that it’s real, that he’s right there, all warm limbs and trouble and syrup-sweet confidence, all you can do is breathe, “you don’t just say that.”

his smile tips wider. “who says i’m just saying it?”

he’s closer now. and you hate that you’re hyperaware of everything—his scent (citrusy, sharp, a little like weed and cheap shampoo), his breath (a little sweet, like tea), his goddamn fingers where they’re resting just barely on the couch cushion behind you, like they’re waiting for permission.

“i mean…” he hums, voice rougher now. “no one else is around. there’s a king-sized bed upstairs. and if i remember right, you said you’ve been sooo stressed lately.”

you roll your eyes. “i hate you.”

he grins. “nah. you don’t.”

the air gets thick. buzzing. full of something that isn’t quite tension, isn’t quite relief. like exhaling into the inevitable.

you stare at him. he stares right back. like he already knows what you’re gonna say.

“okay,” you whisper, soft. “kiss me.”

and he does.

slow, at first. like he wants to make sure you’re real. his hand cups your jaw like it’s delicate, like you’re something to take his time with. but then you exhale—shaky—and that’s all it takes for him to pull you closer. deeper.

his fingers curl into your waist. yours find their way into his hoodie. you taste peppermint and bad decisions.

somewhere, the tea goes cold. the laptop dies. the lo-fi cuts out.

neither of you notices.

.....

end of playback

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

REQUEST A SONG -> here!

[cxvii666]

hi ten! saw your mixtape madness - might i request the album, pebble brain, by lovejoy and denki kaminari? <3

MIXTAPE MADNESS

“oh yeah, you gonna cry?”

“but I quite like your girlfriend, how'd the fuck she end up with you?”

denki. k

starting track...

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

.....

you’re already in the backseat by the time denki swings open the door like he’s got all the time in the world. like you didn’t text him twenty minutes ago with a “u up?” that screamed desperation.

you didn't even wait for a reply. just showed up.

he doesn’t say hi. doesn’t ask why your mascara’s smudged or why your voice cracked on the phone earlier. he just slides in, slams the door shut, and lifts an eyebrow like, so, what’s the plan?

you’re on him before he can finish the look. hoodie bunched in your fists, mouth crashing into his like you’re trying to erase something with your teeth.

he tastes like burnt weed and cheap energy drink. smells like whatever body spray was on sale. the kind of scent that screams “i don’t try and i don't really care” but lands anyway.

you bite his lip.

he laughs against your mouth, lazy and bright and not even slightly surprised.

you climb into his lap like it’s a habit. because it is.

his knee knocks into an empty monster can, your thigh hits a cracked controller. there’s a half-eaten bag of sour patch kids stuck in the seat pocket. the car smells like teenage regret and vape juice and boy.

your not-boyfriend had an opinion about that, once. about denki. about how he’s not serious, and you could do better, and he’s a distraction from your potential. as if potential ever paid rent.

you told him to shut up.

denki grins into your neck like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. maybe he does. he’s stupid, not oblivious.

“so,” he mumbles, hands skating under your skirt like it’s just gravity, “your man still monologuing about capitalism through his teeth?”

you groan. “don’t.”

“sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “just can’t believe you let that guy talk near you.”

“he’s not my boyfriend.”

“yeah, no shit.”

his fingers dig into your hips. his mouth finds your collarbone. he moves like he’s been here before. like he’s not afraid of the version of you that only exists in his backseat—messy, bruised, mouthy.

you don’t know why you keep coming back to him.

maybe because he doesn’t ask questions. maybe because he never tells you what you should be doing instead. maybe because when you say “i don’t care anymore,” he just nods and passes the blunt.

your phone buzzes from the footwell. denki doesn’t move.

“it’s him,” he says, like a joke. “bet he’s sending you another paragraph about how your ‘energy feels off.’”

you snort. “he said my taste in film is juvenile.”

“jesus christ,” denki mutters. “he’s a caricature.”

you shift against him. he’s warm. always warm. too warm. hoodie pushed up to his elbows, rings cold on your bare skin, breath hot where it ghosts along your jaw.

“you wanna talk about it?” he asks, cocky tilt to his mouth.

“you wanna die?” you shoot back.

he laughs.

you kiss him to shut him up. he lets you.

your panties end up somewhere by the emergency brake again. you think that’s the fourth time. neither of you cares. the speakers are playing some lo-fi song you think he found on a discord server at 3 a.m. it’s kind of beautiful. it’s kind of fucked.

you’re half sprawled across the backseat, legs tangled, lips swollen, breath still a little uneven. his head’s against the window. your shirt’s twisted around your ribs. he looks at you like this is a normal thursday. like you didn’t just try to crawl inside him to forget yourself.

his fingers find yours. not sweetly. just there.

you blink up at the ceiling. the roof has a rip in it. you hadn’t noticed that before.

“he ever make you feel like this?” denki murmurs.

you don’t answer.

“yeah,” he says, nodding slow, “that’s what i thought.”

your phone rings again.

you let it.

you let it and let it and let it until it dies.

denki pulls out a lighter and flicks it open and closed in the silence, orange flash lighting up his face in pieces. he doesn’t say anything. just looks at you like you’re a problem he already decided to keep.

maybe love is dead.

but you're alive.

.....

end of playback

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

REQUEST A SONG -> here!

[cxvii666]

my man's a dirty talker

more burnout college student bf! hanta sero x reader

mdni 😴

“did you want me to leave these in the fridge? or d’you wanna eat ’em now?”

hanta’s already in the kitchen, arms elbow-deep in a tote bag crammed with leftovers from that bbq. someone denki knew, or maybe someone’s friend’s housemate’s cousin. didn’t matter. denki had screamed free booze through hanta’s phone until he caved, dragging you along while you were still trying to fix your eyeliner.

you’d had fun. more than you expected, honestly. one of those long, stupid chill nights where the speakers are duct-taped to a lawn chair, the firepit’s too hot, the beer’s warm, and it somehow still feels like the best night of the semester. the kind of vibe where everyone’s skin smells like smoke and coconut sunscreen, and hanta had his hand on your back the whole time, always. even when you weren’t standing close.

the crowd was decent. familiar faces from lecture halls and group chats, people whose names you knew in context only. hanta had talked to most of them, the way he always does, easy and effortless and a little too charming for his own good. and still, every time you caught his eye from across the backyard, he smiled like he only cared if you were having a good time.

you dropped denki off an hour ago, the car still stinking of watermelon vape and the awful soundcloud mix he insists on playing when he’s high. hanta didn’t even argue tonight. he just gave you the aux and told denki to shut up and crawl in the back.

he always does small shit like that.

quiet, subtle things that make your chest ache a little. stuff like making his boys jump in the backseat if you're also in the car, always walking street side, always passing you your drink first, giving you a hoodie before you can even say you're cold. a lighter before you’ve even touched your pocket.

he surprised you in the car. pulled out the tupperware with the leftover lamb skewers—the ones you liked. two cans of that weird canned mojito that everyone hated except you. it was dumb. it made your throat feel tight.

now you’re just standing in the doorway, watching him move around your half-clean kitchen, all slow and loose. he’s got one hand in the fridge, the other holding two drinks, and his shirt’s all wrinkled and tugged up at the back. bare feet on tile. hair flopping over his eyes, still smelling like firewood and cheap weed.

“baby?”

his voice drags you out of your staring, low and soft and a little hoarse. you blink. your eyes had been fixed on his hands—how they held the bottle, the easy grip, the carefulness.

his hands. those fucking hands.

hands that have held your face while you cried. hands that rubbed your back through the worst hangover of your life. hands that carried your tote bag all day like it was nothing.

his knuckles tap against the counter, sharp, and you flinch.

“you feeling okay, sweets?”

he turns to look at you, eyes heavy-lidded, bloodshot and lazy from the tail end of a blunt you’d both shared in someone’s weird-ass hammock earlier. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is pink and soft, a little chapped. he looks tired—in that warm, sunburnt, overstimulated way—but still so stupidly pretty it hurts.

you take the water when he offers it. your fingers brush. he watches you closely.

then he smirks. not big. not loud. just enough to twist something inside your ribs.

you don’t answer.

and he knows.

“oh… i see,” he hums, and it’s so smug, so unbearably cocky, like he just caught your hand in your pants.

your back hits the wall as he steps in. still not touching. his arms hang low, sleeves bunched at his elbows, the shape of his body all angles and slouch and sleepy menace. head tilted. that knowing look in his eyes like he already knows what you’re about to say, and he’s just waiting for you to beg it out.

he doesn’t move.

you’re about to combust.

“are we gonna stand here all night?” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper. “thought you wanted to watch that new episode of—”

you cut him off with your mouth. drag him down by the front of his shirt and kiss him like you’ve got something to prove.

he laughs into it, all low and breathless, one of his hands dragging lazy up your spine. the other finds your waist, then your thighs. he palms the soft curve of them like he’s holding something precious. like it’s not the hundredth time. like it’s still a thrill.

you bite his neck and he makes this sound, this soft, breathy groan that makes your stomach drop.

“what, no words, sweet thing?” he teases into your ear. “that party wore you out that bad?”

you shake your head, breath hitching as his thumb grazes under your shirt, warm and calloused and maddeningly slow.

“y’know,” he mumbles, lips brushing your jaw, “i’m not really into the choking thing.”

“s'fine,” you gasp, pressing your hips up into his. “just want your—your—”

he raises a brow, his grin going sharp.

“my hands?” he says, like he’s mocking you. his other hand’s trailing slow, pointless circles above your collarbone. “that what you want, baby?”

you nod fast, swallow thick. he pouts, faux-sweet, teasing.

“you gonna ask nicely?”

“hanta,” you whimper.

“hanta,” he repeats in a high-pitched voice that doesn’t even sound like yours, laughing as you twist his ear between your teeth.

and then—

his finger brushes your bottom lip.

you freeze.

his eyes narrow. you part your mouth. he slides two fingers in—pointer and middle—without saying anything else, and you take them. immediately. like instinct.

his breath catches. his pupils blow wide.

“fuck,” he mutters. “my girl’s so nasty. look at you. fuckin’—fuck.”

his fingers play with your tongue. your lips wrap around them, slow, messy. he watches like he’s trying to memorize it. you grind your hips against him, desperate now, soaked through your underwear and buzzing from the way he’s just looking at you like this.

his other hand finally slips beneath your waistband, slow and smooth and deliberate.

you whine when his knuckles brush against your heat, when he swears under his breath like he’s not expecting you to be this wet.

“jesus,” he mutters. “you been like this all night?”

you nod around his fingers.

“for me?” he breathes.

you nod harder.

“goddamn,” he grins, curling those thick fingers inside you, slow at first, then meaner when you shudder against the wall. “so fuckin’ perfect. my girl’s so pretty when she’s needy like this.”

you try to talk, try to do something, but he hushes you with his fingers still in your mouth.

“nah. don’t speak. just feel me, yeah?”

and he’s knuckle-deep now, his thumb working soft circles over your clit, his fingers dragging against that spot that makes your knees shake.

your back arches. your jaw goes slack. spit leaks past the corners of your mouth and he moans like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“so good for me, always,” he mutters, thumb pressing down harder. “can’t even wait ‘til the bed, huh? gotta fuck you right here. in the kitchen. s’that what you wanted?”

you let out a broken noise, a half-nod, half-plea.

his fingers leave your mouth with a wet pop. you barely get a breath in before he’s lifting you onto the counter, dragging your shorts off like they offended him.

he kneels.

and then he says, all sweet and cocky, looking up at you with that smug grin:

“be a good girl and hold on, yeah? lemme show you how much i missed you tonight.”

you barely register the sound of your shorts hitting the floor before he’s kissing the inside of your thigh, all slow and unhurried, his palms keeping your legs spread like it’s nothing. like he owns this. like you’ve always been his to touch like this.

his nose brushes the soft skin right next to where you want him most, and you twitch. his breath is hot. steady.

he grins into your thigh.

“sweet girl’s already shaking,” he murmurs, lazy and fond, his voice way too soft for what he’s doing. “can’t even wait, can you?”

you whine, your fingers already in his hair, tugging like you’re begging without saying a word.

“shhh,” he coos, kissing up, up, almost—and then not. “i got you, baby. i got you. just lemme take care of you.”

and fuck, when his tongue finally hits you, you actually whimper. legs instinctively try to close, but his grip gets firmer, thumbs digging into your skin in that perfect way that says he’s not going anywhere. not until he’s had his fill. not until you’re twitching around his mouth, begging him to stop even though you don’t mean it.

he eats you like he’s missed it. like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all day. licking long, slow, teasing stripes at first, then flattening his tongue and dragging it through you like he’s savoring it.

and the sounds—god, the fucking sounds he makes.

soft, greedy little moans against your pussy. gasping against you when you tug his hair. groaning when you grind your hips against his mouth like you’re losing your mind a little.

he pulls back just long enough to look up at you, his mouth shiny, lips wet, eyes dark and hooded.

“fuckin’ love this pussy,” he breathes, like he’s overwhelmed. “so soft. so sweet. fuck, you taste so sweet, baby. always do.”

your breath stutters. you’re trying to respond, trying to say something, but all that comes out is a gasp when he spits on your cunt and licks it back up with a groan like it’s divine.

“so pretty like this,” he mumbles, right against your clit now, tongue moving faster. “my pretty girl. always so fuckin’ good for me.”

you’re getting close. already. embarrassingly fast. you try to tell him, but your voice breaks and your fingers just tug harder on his hair.

he knows. of course he knows.

“mm, yeah? that close already, baby?” he purrs, tongue flicking faster. “go on, then. come for me. wanna taste you. wanna feel you fall apart just for me.”

and you do.

it crashes over you, sharp and warm and dizzying, your whole body trembling as he moans into your cunt, licking you through it like he’s starved. you try to pull away, too sensitive, but he keeps going until you’re gasping, thighs twitching, mumbling his name like a prayer.

“hanta, hanta, please—fuck, please—”

he finally pulls back, face flushed, lips wet and curved into the filthiest grin.

he kisses your thigh once more, then stands—towering over you again, hair a mess, mouth swollen, breath uneven.

“you okay, baby?” he asks, voice gentler now, his hand brushing your cheek like you didn’t just come all over his face two seconds ago.

you nod, a little dazed.

he kisses you soft, open-mouthed and slow. you taste yourself on his tongue and groan into it.

“still want more?” he whispers, pulling back just enough to search your eyes.

you nod again, this time quicker. more desperate.

“words, baby.”

“want you,” you gasp. “need you inside. right now.”

his eyes go dark again.

he cups your jaw with one hand, the other already sliding his sweats down enough to free himself, and god—he’s hard and flushed, already leaking, already twitching against your thigh. he grinds against you, slow and teasing, dragging the tip through your slick folds until you shudder and nearly sob.

“fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he mutters. “s’like you’re made for me, baby. every time. every single fuckin’ time.”

you try to roll your hips, but his hands pin you down.

“ah, ah—lemme in first,” he teases, voice wrecked. “i’ll give it to you, don’t worry. just gotta feel you clench around me first.”

and when he pushes in—

fuck.

it’s slow, deliberate, filling. you stretch around him in that perfect, aching way that makes your eyes roll back. he curses under his breath, head falling forward to press into your shoulder.

“shit, baby,” he gasps. “so fuckin’ tight. always so tight for me. how do you do that?”

you can’t answer. not with the way he’s fucking you now—deep and slow and so goddamn good it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“love this,” he mutters into your skin. “love this pussy. love this body. love you.”

his words are spilling now, soft and filthy and so real it makes your heart clench.

“my girl. my sweet, dirty girl. always so good to me. always let me have you like this.”

you’re shaking again. you’re close again.

“you gonna give me another one?” he whispers, biting at your neck. “hmm? can you do that for me, pretty?”

“yes—fuck, yes, hanta—”

his hips snap harder, fingers digging into your waist.

“yeah, that’s it,” he groans. “c’mon, baby. give it to me. wanna feel you fall apart again. wanna feel you cum around my cock, yeah?”

you do.

you break apart on him, mouth open in a silent cry, and he fucks you through it, gasping your name like it’s sacred.

and when he comes—it’s messy. drawn out. his hips stuttering, his voice rough, his body curling around yours as he spills into you.

you both just sit there, clinging. panting. wrecked.

and then he leans in and kisses your forehead like he’s trying to reset your heartbeat.

“jesus,” he whispers. “you’re gonna kill me one day, baby.”

you laugh, breathless and dazed.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.

“worth it,” he adds, smiling like a man absolutely down bad.

[cxvii666]

anytime you call sero cute he nuzzles that awful mustache on your face and says "aw, i thought you hated the 'tache."

[cxvii666]

YOOOOOOOOO WHAT ITS TEN AM WHY AM I SEEING THIS NEOW THIS IS GOLDEN

mint's recent thoughts on iida infected me and here we are

late 20s iida who's been on four equally disastrous dates in his life, total, so he figures one more blind date can't hurt. but when you arrive, you're not his type at all - you show up fifteen minutes late in a slinky black dress he swears he can see your nipples in, smelling faintly of weed and something floral, like jasmine, something he wants to fucking huff -

so he's not totally offended when you say that you don't see anything working out between the two of you.

"you're a great guy," you say, "but i gotta be honest here. i like people who know how to loosen up."

iida doesn't know why this bugs him. he's not that by the book - at least, not all the time.

"i know how to have fun," he protests. for some reason.

your smile nearly knocks him flat. no one's ever looked at him with an expression so candidly sensual and full of promise. his slacks tighten.

"oh yeah?" you lean in over the table. he does his best to keep his eyes from straying to your breasts. "and what kind of fun is that?"

cut to iida messily learning how to eat you out against the side of your car, one thigh slung over his broad shoulder as you latch onto his hair and rock your cunt into his mouth.

(to the horror of iida's family, you two elope three months later)

[cxvii666]

a man who yearns is a man who EARNS!!

was just minding my business doomscrolling when I saw this comment... and that was the catalyst of my uni student! suguru x reader brain rot...

You don’t know his name. You don’t know his major. You barely know what your own heart is doing every morning when you step off the bus and spot him across campus—tall, broad-shouldered, always lingering near the bike rack with his earbuds in and his hair half-up like he couldn’t care less. He leans against the railing like he has all the time in the world, lazily scrolling through his phone, hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins in his forearms. He’s beautiful in the kind of way that makes you feel a little ridiculous.

But it’s harmless—just a quiet, stupid crush. A stranger you look forward to seeing for five seconds on your way to class. Nothing more.

Until he walks into your lecture hall.

You freeze mid-sip of your coffee as he enters with a white-haired friend, both laughing at something, the sound low and warm. And just like that, your morning routine fantasy collides with your reality. You’re still staring—somewhere between disbelief and awe—when the white-haired one, all mischief and blinding smiles, notices you. He slows, double takes, then smirks. You don’t realize he’s nudged your crush in the ribs until the dark-haired one—him—glances over.

And meets your eyes.

It’s just a second. But it burns.

He looks away quickly, ears pink, like he wasn’t expecting to see you either. Like he recognizes you too.

You don't know it yet, but he does.

Because while you’ve been stealing glances from behind bus windows and lecture hall corners, so has he. He knows the exact time you get off the bus. Knows which coffee cup is yours. Knows the way your hair catches the morning light and how you never look up when you walk past him—like you’re too shy, or too scared to meet his eyes.

He gets it. He’s shy too. But now? Now you’re in the same room.

And Satoru’s smirk says exactly what Suguru won’t: This is your chance.

a/n: hear me out... uni student! suguru who’s been quietly pining after you just as long as you’ve been admiring him from afar—except now he’s got satoru as his chaotic wingman. like imagine suguru's in the middle of an internal dilemma, trying to finally work up the nerve to talk to you after weeks of silent longing during those kinds of lectures where the room is dead quiet except for the professor’s voice—only for satoru to ruin the moment by loudly whispering, “bro, that’s her,” right as the professor pauses to take a sip of water  😭😭 or just casually handing suguru your number like, “she told me to give you this,” when really, you gave it to satoru for a group project. and suguru just stands there, half-mortified, half-grateful, clutching the slip of paper...

[cxvii666]

i- uhhhhhh ummmm i uh omg uh what

roll the dice - ft. sero hanta

pairing: sero hanta x roommate!reader

summary: It's Valentine's Day and Sero does his best to keep his horny thoughts to himself. He doesn't succeed.

cws: smut mdni, face sitting, sero hanta is a pussy-eating KING, dirty talk

based on this prompt list

"Wow," Sero whistles, while you teeter on one heel and hop into the other. That dress hugs every inch of you. "Someone’s lookin’ good. Hot date?"

You laugh, and fuck, he’s such an idiot, because the sound travels straight to his dick. He adjusts himself as subtly as he can and goes back to cooking dinner.

"Something like that.” You swipe on lip gloss in the hallway mirror. "He’s a coworker. I might have mentioned him?"

You’ve mentioned him 17 times. Not like Sero’s counting.

"Make sure he treats you right," is all he says instead, doing his best to ignore the cute little blush tearing across your face as you duck out the door.

Alone on Valentine’s Day, he thinks ruefully, settling his long frame on the couch. Alone on Valentine’s Day with a raging hot case of let-me-fuck-you-right-now for his roommate.

He should have turned down being your roommate the minute he saw you on Denki’s phone. If he had, he wouldn’t be this jealous of some random shithead taking you out for Valentine’s Day.

He considers texting Denki just to have someone to commiserate with, but the guy is probably doing his best to woo Jiro and doesn’t need the distraction.

He sparks up a joint and turns on 13 Going on 30 (so he’s a rom-com guy, sue him), trying not to think about how much better this night would be if you were here.

The door clicks a half hour later, followed by the rap of your heels on the ground. You trudge into the room and slump on the couch right next to him.

“He didn’t even show up,” you whisper into the side of his neck, wrapping your arms around him. He feels a few tears hit his collarbone.

Sero Hanta considers himself a pretty even-keeled type of guy, but wanting to punch this dick’s lights' outs shoots to the top of his to-do list.

“Oh honey, what a fuckin’ dickhole.” His hands tighten on your waist. “Doesn’t deserve someone like you, anyway.”

He probably shouldn’t say that, not when he’s rubbing circles on your hip through the material of your dress, the scorching heat of your body against his impossible to ignore. But he's been thinking it for months now, all of his own attempts at dating tossed to the wayside when he realized he just preferred coming home to you.

“No?” You pull away and delicately wipe away unshed tears. He doesn't know why he finds it so cute, this innate desire to preserve what's left of your mascara. “Who does deserve me, Hanta?”

You grab the joint and drag and his mind goes fuzzy. You’ve never outright called him on it like this before.

“Maybe I do angel, ya ever think of that?”

“Yeah?” There’s that megawatt smile of yours, kicking him in the teeth. “You think of me like that, too?”

It’s new territory for the both of you, admitting to the attraction that Sero realizes has been simmering for weeks.

“Yeah. I think of you all the time.” He cups your face and cocks his head. "We doin' this? You gonna let me show you how I'd treat ya on Valentine's Day?"

You roll your eyes at him affectionately. "Cheesy bastard."

He cuts off your laugh with the press of his mouth.

Sero's not normally one to wax poetic, but something about the way your body instantly sinks into his makes his heart lurch. You kiss him like you've been spending your whole life studying how to do it, and it drives him absolutely insane.

"Knew we'd be good together," he says, grinding the curve of his cock into the cleft between your thighs. "Feel how hard I already am, baby? Just from one little kiss."

You groan into his mouth and start pawing at his clothes.

"I know, I know, want you naked too. Don't fuckin' pout, I think you'll like the idea." He repositions the two of you with him lying down on the couch, you straddling his hips. "Remember when you said you've never sat on a guy's face?"

Your eyes darken with excitement. "I remember."

"What if we change that?" He strokes his thumb under the band of your dress, shimmying it over your hips. The pretty red lace covering your pussy makes his breath catch. "Because you know what's gonna happen if we don't?"

He traces the folds of your pussy through your underwear with the pads of his fingers.

"I'm gonna get inside this perfect fuckin' pussy and embarrass myself. Probably come after two pumps like an idiot because she's just so fucking sweet." He pulls your panties down and drags you up to his face. He catches the little whine of insecurity in your throat at the position.

Your pussy is swollen and begging for attention, arousal clinging to your lips like dew.

"Take a fuckin’ seat, baby, ya think I’ve never done this before?"

He molds his hands around the meat of your hips and thighs, and then Sero feasts, sucking and grinding his chin and nose and tongue up into your cunt. You wail and fall forward, holding yourself steady on the arm of the couch. He doesn't care if he has to hold you up himself; he's in heaven between your thighs, the taste and scent of you all he can fucking think about.

You cum quickly, gasping and shuddering above him as he drinks down your orgasm like fucking water.

"Felt good, didn't it?" he prods, biting your inner thigh and soothing it with a kiss. Your shaky nod makes him grin.

Sero sits backs up with you in his lap, wiping the back of his mouth with a forearm and licking at his lips like a dog. He hopes he smells like you for hours.

Black streaks of mascara run under your lashes. He swipes them away with the back of his thumb. "Sorry honey. You worked hard on this makeup, huh? And I'm just making you cry it off."

It's your turn to cut him off with a kiss.

ahhhhh i've written for him ONCE i hope i did him justice