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[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

Bakugou’s head pounded as he struggled to fit his front door key into the lock, roughly smashing it against the cold metal until it clicked. Practically falling into his house as he strumbled to regain his balance, fuckin’ dunce face and his happy hour strawberry daiquiris. He’d always told him that those drinks were the most lethal, the ones that would really get you in trouble.

He hadn’t planned on going out to celebrate his birthday, perfectly content with spending the evening at home cooking his favourite mapu tofu and watching reruns of the American All Might documentary; but instead he’d found himself at a dingy dive bar surrounded with all his friends who insisted on plying him with drinks. Practically groaning at the puppy dog eyes Kirishima had given him when he’d returned with a tray of shots, “You need to let yourself relax and unwind a little, Bakubro! It’s not good keeping yourself so pent up.”

And perhaps his best friend was right.

Collapsing onto his bed as he attempted to struggle out of his jeans, barely able to unbutton them before giving up with his chest heaving. For fucks sake, the room was spinning. It didn’t help that his cock was stood proudly at half mast, bulging beneath the denim and desperate for some sweet relief. He’d spent the entire day bricked up, and the alcohol had only worsened the sensation.

Bakugou unlocked his cellphone to check for the time, wincing when a bright 1:49AM flashed across the screen. But even more glaringly obviously was the influx of notifications that had caught his eye, a multitude of them replying to a post that in his drunken stupor he hadn’t even realised he had sent.

Replies:

Reply from @kweenkatsuki-fics just head, king?

Reply from @kingkatsuki who knew Dynamight was such a slut?

Reply from @saturnsorbits thought you said you weren’t that desperate, huh?

Reply from @bakugotrashpanda video attached, hit me up

Reply from @strafepanzer anyone will do huh?

A Bakugou Birthday Bash Collab!!!!! A mix of smut and crack fics we've whipped up and hope you enjoy! Please be sure to check back for the fics on the mentioned blogs! Fics will be posted around Bakugou's birthday! 420 blaze it 🍃

Reply from @katsukikitten picture attached, location shared

Intro written by @kingkatsuki

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prev chap | YOU ARE A FEVER | gojo x f!reader | series masterlist | next chap

cw: reader has defined characteristics (complexion that visibly reddens), two sisters, mentions of farming and livestock. word count 3k.

SIX YEARS AGO IN THE VILLAGE OF UCRA

Your days begin before the sun begins her own.

Distant roosters crow letting you know that morning has arrived and you shift in your bed uncomfortably, linen sheets scratching against your bare legs. Reasoning with yourself for five more minutes would be useless knowing it would throw your entire day off schedule. For a fleeting selfish moment, you contemplate the harm in allowing those measly minutes to clear your own head. The more reasonable part of you wins out this time, five minutes here and there add up quickly if you tally them at the end of the day, and your feet dangle over the edge of the bed. Your grandmother’s voice is audible through the door separating your bedroom from the kitchen, the soft clatter of dishes accompanying the sound of her singing quietly to an audience of no one.  

Padding softly across the floor, you swing the door open and greet her with a sleepy half-smile. Your sisters are still asleep and your grandfather is out of the village to trade leaving you responsible for the animals until he returns. The chickens will be fed twice today and their eggs will be collected and delivered to your neighbors. The goats will be pet gently while they’re milked, something you hope you can convince one of the girls to help with. The cows will be allowed to mosey in the pasture all day, chomping on grass while clouds roll by over their heads. 

You, on the other hand, will be handling a transaction between your grandfather and someone from the bustling city of Amavel. Sheer mention of the city makes your stomach flutter excitedly, imagining what it must be like to be in a place so large you can remain anonymous. In Ucra, everyone knows you and has since the day you were born. The community is small and deeply protective of itself, something you have always found difficult to understand given how big this world is. 

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

Your grandmother greets you as she does every morning, a soft smile on her face that shows the ever deepening lines around her mouth. Age leaves no one untouched, a thought you often refuse to indulge in because it makes you sad to think about ever losing her. You grab her hand gently and she perks up when you squeeze it. 

“Take a rest today.” Your word isn’t absolute given you are not the woman of the house but she is fair enough to consider your opinion when you give it. “Have one of the girls tend to stuff around the house.”

She sighs and squeezes your hand back, dropping it to reach around your back and grab a few eggs out of the bowl on the counter. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

It’s the best answer she can give. The responsibilities double when it’s just you girls left at home. She cracks eggs into a skillet and the soft sizzle fills the kitchen while you take a seat at the table your family has been sharing for three generations. This house, this table, this life - it has all belonged to people who existed long before you did. You’ve never felt like you fit into it quite well enough, something beneath your skin itching to break free from the fate of the women before you. 

This line of thinking always draws you back to imagining Amavel. A place where you can truly be anyone or no one or even someone if that’s what you desire. It’s hard to imagine a single cow or a milking bucket in a place like that, paved and illuminated streets leading its citizens from place to place if the stories you have heard are true. Bustling libraries and places to get food and drink you have never even dreamed of having in your life.

You sigh as your grandmother did moments ago, settling back into the chair you sit on for a moment. It does no good to dream, being labeled as a dreamer is being seen as trouble and you have worked your whole life to be seen as anything but. You are reliable, where you’re supposed to be when you say you’ll be there.

With any luck, your good reputation will help you today.

“Do you know what time I should be meeting our visitor? Papa didn’t say anything before he left.”

Grandma smiles and flips your egg by lifting the pan and tossing it gently in the air. When you were a child you swore this was a magic trick and told her so, eyes sparkling with joy. You were quickly and sternly told to never mention something like that again after you said it. The request has been honored but you still think the same thing every time you watch it.

There have always been rumors that magic exists in all of Ormur’s countrymen although in Ucra, this is strongly frowned upon. The people of this village lean on the primitive side compared to the rest of the increasingly modern country and superstition runs rampant in every home. Doorways and windows are blessed to keep evil out, black cats are shooed away with brooms and terrified glances.

“I believe he said this evening although I think you should stick as close to home as you can today in case he arrives sooner.” She advises and you nod. “People from the city tend to run on a different schedule than the rest of us.”

From the few past experiences you’ve had handling transactions with people from the city, you know she’s right. Time moves differently when you have endless amounts of it. “I better get started then.” You move to stand up but she stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder, sliding your breakfast in front of you. The same breakfast you’ve enjoyed since you were a child, two eggs with their yellow eyes staring up at you. “Eat first. I’ll see if I can get your sisters up to milk today.” A gentle reassurance that she’s trying to lessen your load, just as you do hers. You smile up at her and she leans down to kiss your forehead while you split the two eggs into separate pieces and silently give thanks for the meal. The sun has risen, her light filling the kitchen, and you’ve well and truly managed to mess up your schedule for the day by taking those few minutes to enjoy your breakfast. 

-:¦:- -:¦:--:¦:- -:¦:-

As expected, nothing has gone according to plan today and it feels as though there is some force out of your control causing all of the chaos around you.

The chickens got out of their coop overnight, giving you no choice but to walk into the forests that surround the village to gather them all. You gently reprimanded each of them and placed them back in their homes with a disappointed sigh, plucking eggs from the nests to put in the pockets of your apron. Counting over each of the rows, you notice one is missing and shut the coop tightly, latching it closed before leaving.

How could you forget one? You could’ve sworn they’d all made their way back when you clucked at them and scattered feed on the ground at your feet to beckon them to you and you stomp back into the woods, frustration evident in the way you mutter to yourself quietly. 

“Of course this has to happen today of all days,” you spit through gritted teeth, the blooming hydrangeas of the forest brushing your arms as you walk through the thick bushes to a clearing where you stand and take a deep breath.

“FLORENCE!”

You scream the name one of your sisters gave the chicken so loudly it practically rips itself out of your throat, your body bending with the force of it. Fists balled at your sides, you stomp in place and furious tears roll down your cheeks. 

Your mind races with anxious, spiraling questions. Why is this happening? Is it because you wasted too much time with grandma this morning? Is it because your mind dwelled a little too long on this concept of magic that seems so foreign but so pervasive everywhere you look?

Bottom lip quivering, you unball one of your fists to wipe your fingers down your face. A few angry tears drip down your chin before you can catch them and you blow out a defeated puff of air. Going any deeper into the woods could spell disaster if you can’t find your way back home by the time you need to be there so you contemplate what to do next. 

Then you hear them - footsteps. The crunch of fallen leaves and dirt causes you to spin around and you come face to face with a man you’ve never seen before. A whole lot of man at that. 

He’s taller than any man you’ve ever seen, broad shouldered and easy smile wearing. Blue eyes lock their gaze on you and you note that if they’re the sky, the floppy white strands atop his head are the clouds and they’re both unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Your breath catches in your throat and he smiles, raising his arms that are wrapped around your lost chicken.

“I’m guessing this,” he nods downward at the surprisingly calm bundle in his arms, “is Florence?”

Wordlessly, you nod and reach out for your lost chicken. He holds her a moment longer, thumb stroking the fingers around her neck, and you wonder if this isn’t an ambush given you are in the forest on your own. Long before your adulthood, there were a few packs of bandits that attacked villagers and forced the entire group to be assigned escorts.

Your posture stiffens and he notices, handing her over with an affable smile and a laugh.

“Believe it or not, she found me.”

You attempt to discreetly assess your chicken for any harm that may have come to her on her adventure but find yourself thwarted by how interested this man is in speaking to you, his glance still fixed on your face. Florence clucks and shifts in your arms but your touch immediately soothes her as you pet the feathers on the top of her head and her beak.

Deciding to play it cool, you clear your throat and raise your eyebrows, finally meeting his gaze fully. Your stomach flutters as it did this morning, the excitement of something you’ve never seen before nearly overcoming any farm girl stoicism you may have perfected in your life. 

“Where at?” You ask coolly, or at least you believe you do until he cracks a smile. He can tell you’re trying to appear tough and aloof to protect yourself from any potential threat so he slackens his posture to make himself at least a little smaller. 

“In the bushes not far from here.” He points in the opposite direction of where you stand and you nod, still clutching the chicken. “I was on my way to the village to pick up an order and honestly assumed that’s probably where she came from.”

This is the man coming to pick up a freshly processed cow, sold to him by your Papa? Your eyes widen and you smile, tension melting from your body. 

“You’re supposed to be meeting me, actually.” You laugh. The coincidence is funnier than you expected and you tilt your head to the side curiously. “Are you the cafe owner? Nanami, I believe?”

“No, no. I’m the cafe owner’s friend,” he raises his eyebrows and waggles them in a way that makes you giggle. “I don’t know if he’d call me his friend, maybe just his brave and extraordinarily handsome delivery man, but he’s my friend.”

The chicken meltdown seems like a distant memory as a giggle bubbles out of you, amazed by this man’s easy going nature. The people in your village are so serious it’s hard to believe a person like this actually exists. Every bit of him seems different, thrumming with a bright white light of joy and vitality. His steps are as light as air, his grin shines in the dappled afternoon light.

“What’s your name?”

The man smiles down at you and opens his arms.

“Satoru Gojo, the one and only. And you?”

Quickly you introduce yourself though your confusion about his introduction is apparent. You tilt your head to the side curiously. Florence once again rustles in your arms and you touch her, gently assuring her everything is fine despite whatever she is worked up about. The chaotic energy that has blanketed your day clearly hasn’t disappeared fully but you are best suited to keep her calm.

“You’ll have to forgive me for asking but are you famous or something?”

Now it’s his Satoru’s to laugh. It sounds like the music that is played during the seasonal festivals in the village to you; you hear the songs so rarely that they have become something you cherish. 

This laugh could become the same if you think too long about it. 

“I mean if you mention my name at any bar in Amavel you’ll probably get a collective sigh from the patrons,” he jokes. “I’m pretty talkative and drunk people hate that.”

You wouldn’t know. You’ve never stepped foot in a bar despite being old enough to drink, the village tends to steer clear of alcohol unless it’s festival season so even wine is hard to come by. Excitement rises in you again, warmth lightening your limbs. 

“Can I ask you a few questions about the city while we walk back to the village?”

Gojo grins, a bit taken aback by your friendliness though he plays it off well. He has only traveled to Ucra a few times in his life, most of them recent, and he has never met someone quite as excited to see a stranger. Your eyes gleam and he wonders for a moment how anyone in your life has denied you a thing.

“Of course but you have to answer my questions too, okay?”

Nodding excitedly, you giggle.

“You can go first if you’d like.”

He pretends to ponder for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully while you begin walking back toward your home, where the large wheelbarrow of meat purchased waits for him to take back to the city. You don’t want to take up too much of his time knowing that what he purchased is time sensitive but the day is already so off track - what does it matter if you take a few minutes to do this? You took a few minutes to nourish yourself with breakfast, this is simply a different kind of sustenance and one you get to enjoy so rarely.

“Why is your chicken named Florence?”

You squeeze her gently in your arms.

“My sister named her. I have two of them and they named all of the chickens. This is Florence, we have Mary, Hattie, and Lucy and a bunch more at home. I could introduce you if you want?”

Even your frustration about having to wrangle and return each of these chickens has long evaporated and Satoru nods at you, holding his hand out in the direction of your village.

“After you.”

-:¦:- -:¦:--:¦:- -:¦:-

Once he’s certain that he is far enough out of the village that his magic will not be detected, Satoru mumbles a spell that encapsulates the bundle of packages in the wagon in golden light and they whoosh away in an instant, magicked off to their rightful owner Kento Nanami hours away from the secluded village he remains outside of. There’s a basket of preserved fruit and eggs dangling from one of his arms, courtesy of you, and he decides to keep them with him instead of sending them back. He doesn’t have to share a gift, after all.

Taking his time getting home, he walks in the opposite direction of the dirt path you walked him down just hours ago. There is so much to contemplate from this one little trip but there are two things he knows for certain. 

One, you have magical ability. Your touch alone was enough to calm animal and human alike, the slight golden aura shimmering off of your hands alerting him that it is not simply your good personality providing comfort although he did believe it to be nothing but at first. He won’t deny your good nature or your kind heart but there is more, something you clearly are interested in judging by how many questions you asked him about Amavel.

Two, he likes you. Not in the way he sort of likes everyone, it’s in his nature to be personable, but in the “why is my heart beating a little too fast right now” way. The “why do I have to leave you when I want to stay here and listen to you talk about how you named your chickens all night” way. The way that will make him certain he has to come back no matter what. Clever man that he is, it doesn’t take long to concoct a plan to figure out how to do just that.

Gojo mutters an incantation and with a wave of his free hand a book materializes out of thin air. It’s heavy and leather bound with gold raised lettering on the cover. It plops onto the ground with a thud when he releases his magic and he bends down to situate it between the hydrangea bushes far enough away from the village that he knows only you will venture out here. 

There’s a binding spell on the book, something to always tether him to you while he is back in the city. The book won’t spy on you per se but he will know every time you pick it up to read it, a gentle tug on his magic telling him that the sweet village girl is interested in more. 

If you wanted it, he’d give you everything including the world but he must take it a step at a time. This is simply step one - a magical interest check if you will. 

Satisfied with his plan, Satoru rises to standing and plucks a satchel of dried peaches from the basket you sent him home with. Popping one into his mouth with a pleased hum, he grins as he chews and continues walking away from the place he hopes to return to very soon.

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Calling cumming "finishing" is fine and all but like...we are not finished though. The bell does not dismiss you, I dismiss you. Sit back down.

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

Sleepy sparky boy ⚡️⚡️

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deleted scene...

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YOU ARE A FEVER | gojo x f!reader | series masterlist | next chapter

cw: mentions of witchcraft and witch hunting. reader has defined physical characteristics (red hair, long length, wavy texture), two sisters, and a complexion that visibly reddens. word count 2.6k.

Is this the sum of my life?

It is not your intention to seem ungrateful for the gift of the years you have lived so far, all twenty something of them, though you will admit grace is difficult when the scratchy fibers of hemp rope binding your wrists together scrape against you with every twist and pull of your hands. One of your neighbors binds you while another digs through the meager belongings, picking through pages of your current journal.

“What are you going to do to me?”

The small mob of people occupying your grandparents kitchen is wordless despite their zeal, no God chosen leader speaking above the crowd to read out your crimes. There is no fairness in this trial and any words you dare speak will only be used to further persecute you.

“A witch alright,” the man picking through the pages of your journal exclaims while holding up a page he ripped from its handbound spine. It’s a page of rudimentary drawings, doodles of a shooting star you witnessed while out in the woods one night alone, and he holds it up triumphantly. The sneer across his face makes you flinch. “Does your family know about you and what you’ve done to them?”

You’ve done nothing though you consider for a moment that this has been your crime. You’ve let them whisper about you and the things you’ve “done” for months, deciding to ignore the rumors rather than address them for fear of stirring more controversy.

“I’m not a witch.”

Your words land with no one and you are given little more than a sidelong glance from the people in your home. The same woman who used to plait your hair when you were a child, just as you have now done for hers many times since their birth ten years ago, refuses to meet your eye while securing another length of rope around your waist. She knots it tightly as though it’s the difference between you remaining where you stand and bolting barefooted into an early winter night, something you hadn’t even considered until now.

There is always the option of running but they’d give chase, a small group of fifteen can still outrun a single woman before she can even make it into the woods. The trees and shrubs miles outside of the dirt road leading to Ucra, your village, have been your refuge from the suffocation of restrictive superstition since you found your hiding places as a young girl.

“What have I done?” Your pleas fall on deaf ears and although you’ve tried your hardest to remain unaffected and stoic, sobs hiccup from the back of your throat before you can stop them. “Will someone please explain what’s happening? Where are my grandparents and sisters?”

You’d be indignant over this treatment if it were less painful to be treated this way by your neighbors and friends, people you once viewed as aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters. Tears fall down your cheek while the woman whose eyes are still downturned gently pulls the tether end of the rope, guiding you out of the small home your family has shared for two generations. 

“Witch!” 

The word strikes you as colder than the earth and rocks your feet walk across, led by the tether of a rope. There was no consideration for your comfort and goosebumps erupt over your cotton nightgown covered skin. The winter air is almost freezing at night and you glance upward toward the sky, a blanket of stars winking down at you. The night sky has always been more beautiful this time of year. It feels bitter to glance above knowing it’s the last time you will ever do so.

“Witch!”

This time the accusation comes from the lips of a child, the tender age of twelve, one you’ve clothed and bathed more times you can count in an effort to assist her mother. Your role in your village has always been that of a caretaker, if not animals and children then the elderly and ill. The entire village once called you responsible and always where you’re supposed to be though it appears the goodwill only extends as long as they aren’t suspicious.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“What crimes have I committed?”

“Treason!” One of the members of the crowd shouts. “Adultery! My husband admitted to having impure thoughts about you! Cut off her hair so that we can bury it in the woods and it won’t curse another. Flame colored hair is a sign from the Devil!” Another shouts and a few women join her words in unison, your mouth running dry. “Murderer! The goats!”

The goats. Before autumn two of your goats fell ill, several weeks ago two more died unexpectedly. The small, reclusive village lacked the supplies needed to stave off the infection that started in their gums and eventually took their lives. Did this begin all the way back then, before you could ever fathom this cruelty being inflicted upon you?

“My goats were killed too.”

The man tying you to the stake in the middle of the village sneers at your muttered words. 

“Of course they were. You thought we’d never suspect you if you killed your own first.”

A pained groan leaves your mouth when the back of your head hits the stake sharply, the man standing in front of you using his forearm to press you against the wood. You attempt to arch your back but are met with another forearm pressed against your torso, someone behind you securing the ropes around your feet, wrists, and middle to the wooden stake they’re planning on burning you on.

“I didn’t do anything!”

Another chuckle from the man pressing his forearm against your sternum, his face inches from yours.

“You’ve been using your cat familiars to spy on all of us, we know your games.”

If you were less shocked by everything happening you would argue that the cats come to you and not the other way around although it wouldn’t do you any good at this point anyway. Everyone’s minds are made up and you look out across the crowd, squinting to see if you can find your family anywhere. There is no sight of them and you are both relieved and terrified, shuddering breath leaving you while your hands are fastened above your head.

“Witch!” The crowd continues to shout in unison, the ringleader backing away to hold oil and a torch in front of everyone looking on that cheers for him to light you up. “Burn her!” 

The crackling sound of wood being set alight fills the night air, melting the light snowflakes that are falling into tiny puddles. You shut your eyes tightly and cry wordlessly, smoke filling your nostrils. You hope that inhalation takes you before the flames do, that some God takes mercy on a woman falsely accused, striking her accusers down. You pray and plead and beg and when you feel the air around you shift, your eyes open to see a man standing directly in front of you.

You recognize him. 

Satoru Gojo, the man always making the trip to pick up meat and produce for the cafe owner in the city. The man whose smile and eyes are etched in your daydream, their memories messy little sketches in the pages of your journal that will never be returned to you. 

“Sorry I’m late, do you know how hard it is to sneak around a village this small without being noticed?”

The man shakes his head, unable to hide that you are not giving him the reaction that he was expecting. Your world is blazing everywhere you look but he is not. He remains unscathed, hair the same color as the stars above dipping over his eyebrows and touching the tips of his eyelashes that are the same color.

“So they’ve called you a witch, huh?” Glancing at him, you blink silently with a quivering bottom lip. A pair of vaguely familiar large eyes dance over every feature and crease of your face, impressed by what they see despite the circumstances. The unbelievable man in front of you is unable to hide his expressions, head tilted with a little smile on his face. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Another sob bubbles out of you. Your body reacts, finally, and you strain against the ropes that bind you and secure you to the stake.

“Please, please, please get me down,” your chest heaves and the white nightgown draped over your frame turns more gray from exposure to smoke with each moment that passes. The heat of the flames licks your feet. A fresh round of tears streams down your face, finally forcing Satoru to move. He reaches above your head, loosening your bindings with his fingers while his magic handles the ones securing your feet and waist. A few seconds feels like an eternity as orange flames give way to hotter blue ones at the heart of the fire and as soon as your arms are free, you wrap them around his neck and cling to him. He chuckles and wraps one arm around your waist, holding you to him tightly.

“They won’t be able to see us leave.” You nod in response to his whisper, holding onto him tightly. “But they will come looking as soon as they realize there are no bones and ashes in the morning.”

These people wanted to wake up to nothing but a pile of you left. Your stomach churns and you squeeze this practical stranger tightly, wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried against his shoulder. Your tears dampen his shirt although he doesn’t mind and before you can think, the heat of the flames disappears and gives way to a whoosh of cooling air. 

The two of you materialize inside of a makeshift hideout, stone cave walls surrounding you on all sides when you unbury your face from his neck and look around. Blinking, you look upward and downward and finally directly in front of you. Gojo grins at you, arm still wrapped around your waist and holding you against him.

“Hi there.”

Adrenaline moves your body on its own, beckoning you to lean forward and press your lips against his. You’ve dreamed about this moment before, the day you would be brave enough to kiss this glamorous man who is from a city you have only ever heard about secondhand, and while this feels different it also feels like the exact way to say thank you. 

Your lips pucker a second time and press against his though your senses return and your eyes widen, arms unwrapping from around his neck to push yourself away from him. 

“Is that how you thank everyone who saves your life?”  Your mouth opens and closes silently, words that you want to say refusing to form on your tongue. Satoru has managed to render you speechless and he smirks while keeping his gaze pinned to your shocked face, cheeks still reddened thanks to the blaze you barely escaped from. “Even if it is, I won’t hold it against you.”

Finally you scoff and your body wakes up all at once, attempting to wiggle free from his grasp. He sets you down on the ground below and steps away, holding his hands up innocently. You wrap your own arms around your chest, hands smoothing up and down your forearms to comfort yourself. Looking around the unfamiliar surroundings, you begin crying again.

“Why did you save me?”

He smirks, holding his arms open and glancing at you exaggeratedly.

“I can’t let a pretty girl get burned alive in good conscience, I’m a gentleman after all.”

More tears drip down your nose and chin while you shake your head incredulously, eyes wide.

“That doesn’t answer my question. How did you know? Did you tell them I was..?”

“Absolutely not. You are a witch but I know you didn’t do what they accused you of,” he retorts with a raised brow. “I mean, maybe you are guilty of the fantasy accusation but that’s hardly your fault. Pretty hair, pretty girl…things are bound to happen.”

Gojo reaches out to wrap one of the long strands of your hair around his finger, marveling at the color. You reach up to slap his hand away and he drops the strand, giving you room to pace across the stone floor of the hideaway he has secured you in.

“I’m not a witch!” Chuckling, he sits down on the small bed in the corner of the room and crosses his legs one over the other. “Is that all you took away from everything I just said? You are weird, I was right.”

Feet carrying you forward, you plop next to him on the bed. You know Satoru Gojo but you don’t know him. You know he’s from Amavel, his friend runs a cafe and he’s the only one daring enough to make the quarter of a day’s journey to your village to pick up fresh goods for said cafe. You know he’s charming, everyone in the village gawks at him every time he’s around though it doesn’t answer your question.

“I am weird and scared and I don’t know where my family is and a man I’ve met a handful of times but think about often came out of nowhere to save me from certain death and,” your words tumble out endlessly, breathlessly, and he stops you with a finger to your lips. He withdraws it as soon as you stop speaking and raises his brows, lowering his face until the two of you are eye level.

“Because you’re special.”

Shaking your head, you refuse to believe his words and stand once again. His hand gently closes around your dangling forearm and he pulls you back down to the bed, rubbing his thumb along the inside of your arm the same way you remember your mother doing to comfort you as a child. 

“Listen to me before you say anything else.” He instructs and you nod wordlessly, letting him speak. “I saved you because I’ve known for a long time that you are a witch. You don’t have to believe me now but I will prove it to you, okay? I’m going to keep you safe here until the village has given up looking for you and then we will return to Amavel.”

Sighing, you find it hard to argue with a man who seems so certain of everything he says. You lean forward and place your elbows on your knees, turning your palms upward and burying your face in them. The option of running is still on the table though you know it’s unsafe for you to do so in just a nightgown and bare feet so you turn your face toward him, cheeks still warm from the fire, just the fire, and not the way his gaze remains fixed on your face as if he’s afraid to look away.

“How are you so certain?”

Gojo grins and leans in your direction, finally touching you the way he wants. A large palm rubs your back and eventually works down your shoulder and upper arm, settling on scooping one of your hands into his.

“Because I am a witch, you silly girl. How do you think we got here so fast?”

A raised brow is your only response, too shocked by the truth to speak, and he lifts the back of your hand to his mouth to kiss it. That same look as before is on your face, awestruck and overwhelmed. There is an overwhelming urge inside of the man to gloat about your surprise but he thinks better of it, knowing there will be plenty of time for the two of you to discuss your future together.

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

I'm not gonna question why or how shigaraki always ends up shirtless in a fight I will simply say thank you horikoshi

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

Understanding Us

AO3

Ship: Solomon/Asmo

Word Count: 2952

Warnings: Mildly referenced implied homophobia/misogyny. The undertones are very light but it is there.

A/N:

Another installment of the Next Gen! AU that I made with @leviathanswingman. Solomon and Asmo integrating into the human world is definitely something that is worth exploring in this AU because it does come with a few challenges, especially in terms of socializing. They find their niche eventually, but there will always be challenges.

(Solomon is touch starved and no one can change my mind about this.)

I hope you enjoy!

Solomon forced a smile, swirling his cup in his hands as he watched his partner from across the backyard. He fit in well here, much better than Solomon did. Of course they both had their moments of bouts of odd behavior, and yet Asmo slipped into the neighborhood as a socialite with near flawlessness and perfection. He laughed like windchimes as he sipped his cocktail, gossiping and chittering away with a few of their neighbor's on the host's deck next to the grill. He looked stunning too, as he always did. The spring air appeared so much sweeter as it carried Asmo's essence.

What made it sweeter still was their child on his lap. Asmodeus was the perfect image of a parental socialite. Solomon had already heard him fantasizing about joining a future PTA meeting after speaking to a few of their neighbors who had older children. An entire bake sale had practically already been organized in the entirety of his mind for when Lilith started attending classes, and of course Asmodeus would be chaperoning field trips! Perhaps he could still make a post or two as well, after all, Asmodeus was still an influencer.

Tilting the cup in his hand again, he wondered if there was another cocktail floating out there for him somewhere. Perhaps one with blueberries or pomegranate.

“Solomon! That's not going to do you any good stayin still in your cup.” 

A man clapped him on his back. Solomon had heard his name once or twice, his wife had brought over cookies when he and Asmo moved in. It had been a rough introduction, Asmo had still been a bit bristly around strangers so Solomon had done most of the talking. It went about as well as it could have with an unhappy demon in the background. Despite that, this man still seemed to hone in on Solomon at every social event.  No matter how hard he tried to hide himself, he always seemed to find him and drag him out to groups which discussed subjects that Solomon cared little for. Still, Solomon forced a smile and stood a little straighter, “I'm more of a whisky man if I'm honest. I like my liquor a bit… smoother.”

“You get used to it, it's an acquired taste.”

Solomon would beg to differ.

“You're partner up there, he get you whisky? It's always nice to have your own little treats.”

Solomon had seen Asmo put back stronger drinks than whisky on a Saturday night. Solomon liked whisky, the best way to taste it was the remnants from Asmo's lips.

“We drink together, although he does know how to pick out rather divine blends,” Solomon continued  to stare straight ahead, not offering the man a glance, “Sometimes we drink together later in the night after we put Lilith down.”

The man elbowed him, making the drink in his hands slosh onto his skin.  It felt as disgusting and horrendous as it tasted. 

There was a way this man talked about Asmodeus, a few of them talked about Asmodeus in a similar fashion.  Solomon hated it. They projected their own ideas onto their relationship in a fashion that often made Solomon uncomfortable, and they liked to pry. Asmodeus confused them all, whether it be his mixture of pronouns or presentation of gender or how he fit in with Solomon and Lilith. They were much more concerned about Asmodeus’ role that Solomon thought they ought to be. Asmodeus was Asmodeus, and that should be enough.

“He get cuddly with you drunk? Scooch in real close?” it was a joke, but not one Solomon enjoyed in the slightest. It was shallow, superficial, and the implications left bile in his mouth,  “Bet he's the type to get scared during horror movies too. You ever watch those and drink your whiskey?”

The man next to him was laughing as the plastic crickled beneath Solomon's finger tips.

***

“More, please.”

It was far from erotic, and Solomon craved it all the same. Asmo's caress did something to him, lit a fire deep within his cold soul. If it was taken from him, he wasn't sure how he would ever survive. Asmo's hand caressed the side of his face and moved upward to ruffle his hair.

“My Darling is so needy tonight,” the arm around his waist tightened, pulling him closer, and Solomon reveled in it. He knew his face was flushed, his body contorted to distort himself into some smaller form perfect to fit in Asmodeus' grasp. His legs tangled, arms struggling with whether to stay pressed close to his chest or to wrap around and capture the source of undying affection and attention before him. 

“But that is okay,” Asmo cooed in his ear, “Because I am here for whatever he needs, whenever he wants it.”

It was like this frequently in the beginning once they started more openly expressing wants and desires. Solomon would fluctuate between a kind of aloofness and the cold void inside him that demanded to be filled. Before all of this it was easy to ignore. After all, how could you miss an experience that was forgotten to you? But once he had the tiniest taste, the switch inside of him was flipped. Nowadays the void was quiet more often than not but every now and again that craving for intimacy and affection overtook him to a point that was almost painful. Twisting his head to the side, Solomon looked up at Asmo through his lashes.

“I love you.”

The words fell short in so many ways, if only there was something more he could say, some word that fit better. One day he would find one, but for now, this would do.

Asmo's fingers continued to card through his hair, his eyes soft. His lips pressed against Solomon's forehead, “I love you too. How do you feel?” 

Solomon shifted, adjusting his position and making himself feel more comfortable in Asmo's arms. The ache in his chest had lessened to a dull thud as Asmo's warmth took its place. 

“Better,” Solomon said, “Luckily I have you and your love for this poor heart of mine.”

“Careful Handsome, you might have another baby if you're not careful with your words.”

Solomon laughed, “You say that like it isn't something I would like.” Asmo had passed on so much to their child. She looked so much like him and Solomon didn't doubt that what else he had passed on to her would be revealed with age. Solomon had passed on his talent with magic, that he knew, but he swore that she would never know what the void within him felt like. He would shower her in all the love and affection he could muster and assure that her days were filled with brightness and laughter.

“I know you would,” Asmo purred. God, Solomon loved that purr. The only thing better than the purrs were the chirps and chitters he made. It was all music to Solomon's ears. “You're such a good Daddy, there isn't a better man I could have accidentally had a child with.”

He punctuated each word by walking his fingers up Solomon's shoulder and tapping his nose.

All Solomon could do was smile. He kissed Asmo once. Then again. And again. He lost himself in his partner's laughter as they continued their exchange of soft kisses, completely and utterly enveloped in each other.

It was the best whiskey Solomon could ever chase, and he would gladly get drunk on it any time of day.

***

“I love what they do with the gore,” Asmo moved closer against his shoulder and it made his heart lurch, “It's so… artistic. Like a pretty little metaphor.”

“It does look like a flower if you pause it right.”

“Yes! See you get it! It's about blooming into her true potential and truths being revealed! Also I just think it was done in a very pretty fashion.” With the way Asmo squealed and kicked his feet, one might think they were watching a very different genre of film, certainly not a psychological thriller. But Solomon loved how excited Asmodeus became. It was lovely being able to discuss in depth literary analyses with his partner.

“What about you Solomon? What do you think?”

“What do I think?”

“That is what I asked.”

Solomon glanced back at the screen, intertwining his fingers with Asmo's as he thought. “I think it's about an acknowledgement of all parts of yourself, the good and the bad of human nature, that sometimes the more horrendous things can be masked with beauty and that escaping it in itself can be brutally terrifying, but there is beauty in escaping and gaining your freedom.”

Asmo used the tips of his fingers to turn Solomon's face towards him, his feather light touch on his skin sending shivers up Solomon's spine. “Beautifully put.”

Her finger tips traveled down Solomon's neck, tracing along his carotid artery, “Most people forget about the horrors often faced in order to reach that pretty little ending. When perfection is mistaken for beauty, some tend to turn volatile in their blindness.”

“You would know that.”

“So would you.”

“It's not easy to forget.”

“Would we want to?”

A few minutes of silence lingered between them, Asmodeus’ fingers dancing over his heart before gripping the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in.

“I wanted to go back to the Celestial Realm more than anything,” Asmodeus whispered, “I'd almost forgotten why I left.”

His fingers ran throughSolomon's hair and down his back, lulling him into a security. He let out a sigh and wrapped his arms around his lover. Asmo's scent filled his lungs as he inhaled, and a sense of completeness watched over him. 

Asmo's eyes were once again fixed on the television, his grip on Solomon tightening.

“I'm glad she got her freedom.”

***

Solomon hummed, his eyelids lowering. 

“Well? Do you?” 

Another jab came at him from the side. It was taking all Solomon had not to let his agitation show. For the first time since their interaction began Solomon turned to him, a wide smile spread across his face. 

“You don't know anything about my partner nor myself, and I think I like having our little mysteries,” If he were a worse man, he'd curse him now, “It keeps a certain spice to life, wouldn't you agree?”

Solomon didn't allow him to say another word. He dumped the vile liquid on the ground, stepping out of the way of playing children, and made his way up the deck steps. That man could speculate as much as he wanted, as could the rest of them, but unless they treated Asmo with dignity and respect when they thought he was out of earshot they wouldn't get a word out of him.

Asmo hadn't seen him approaching, in fact, he was still enraptured in conversation when Solomon approached him. A soft noise of surprise left him, a chirp. Solomon kissed where his jaw met his neck and then allowed himself to settle. 

“Oh hello Darling! Coming by to say hi?”  Asmo asked, leaning into Solomon. His warmth radiated to Solomon’s core and his hair smelled dizzyingly of the sweetest roses. 

“How could I ever stay away?” 

He took one of Asmo’s hands and placed kisses from his wrist to the tips of his fingers. A soft flurry of noises rose up and fell just as quickly as they appeared.

“What did I tell you?” Asmo chirped, looking around the table, “He’s a perfect model of a gentleman.”

“He is,” a woman crooned, “All you’re missin is a ring honey.”

“You’re gonna get me a pretty ring right Sol?” Asmo asked, batting his lashes. His voice was overperforming. Words dragged out in an exaggeratingly sweet manner as he cozied up to him. If only they knew how Lilith had come into the world.

“The prettiest, if I can have a sip of your cocktail.”

WIthout a word, Asmo lifted the pretty drink to his lips. Solomon could have groaned. Finally, something that didn’t taste like piss. Why take the enjoyment out of life by taking the pleasure of consumption away? Why ingest something horrible when perfection was a few yards away? Asmo set the glass back down onto the table and relaxed once again into their previous position. 

“Thank you my Darling.”

Asmo hummed in response, content to let Solomon recharge his dwindling social battery. This was a game they often played at gatherings. For some reason or another, the same group of men would find themselves flocking towards Solomon, trying to get him to engage in one draining activity or another. Eventually Solomon would escape towards Asmodeus and allow himself to relax. He was more interested in the conversations Asmodeus was a part of anyways. If there was one thing his demon excelled at (well… one of many) it was honing in on interesting gossip or picking up key information that others let slip past their lips.

His fingers toyed with Lilith’s hair, it was soft and wavy, and Asmo had placed a little pink bow in it. Asmodeus loved toying with their daughter's hair. He absolutely delighted in it, seeing all of the different stylings that could be accomplished. She always looked so cute too, Asmodeus made sure she was the pinnacle of cuteness. 

“How about I take her for a while?”

“I’ve got her.”

“I can take her inside and reapply her sunscreen, it’s getting hot,” Solomon continued, “Besides I want to make myself a drink.”

It didn’t take anymore convincing for Solomon to have their daughter in his arms as he walked into the house, a deep sigh left his lips. “Oh Lilith, what am I to do?”

Lilith babbled in response, blowing bubbles out of her mouth and grabbing for Solomon’s hair. “Ah, wise words from a wise young lady,” he shifted her weight to his hip as he looked at the counter full of mixing ingredients, “Now, let's make a good drink.” 

Fortunately he spent the rest of the time in the kitchen talking to Lilith about everything and nothing. She was delightful company, always was. They could have a much better social event than whatever was happening outside, and when temperatures would eventually continue to rise they wouldn't be the ones melting. In every possible way, this was a much more favorable outcome in his books. Fortunately for him, no one else came in for however long he had decided to wander around. That was, until familiar heels clicked on the linoleum. Solomon had started making his second drink, explaining the elegancies of a wyvern’s bone structure to an enthused Lilith, when Asmo entered the room. 

“You ready to head home?” he asked, hip cocked against the doorway.

“Are you done socializing?”

“They all started fixating on how I have a year old baby and no ring, so yeah I think I’m done,” Asmo said, “It’s a shame, they can’t seem to understand why I trust you to not leave me.”

Solomon snorted as he lifted the newly mixed drink to his lips. Asmo seemed to be matching his annoyance. It was concealed just enough, if Solomon hadn’t known Asmo for as long as he had or as intimately as he did, he might have missed it, “It seems to be challenging for some of them to understand us doesn’t it?”

“You mean your new friends don’t understand you?” Asmo teased.

Solomon choked, “God, I don’t know why they flock to me.”

“You’re an intriguing man Darling,” Asmo tilted his chin and pecked his lips, “And the cost is exhausting.” 

It wasn't just that. They both knew it.  They knew it was Asmo's perceived femininity. The fact that he enjoyed it when Solomon referred to him as “his girl” or “his princess” and that sometimes she preferred she. The fact that his makeup and nails were constantly well maintained. That Asmodeus enjoyed skirts and heels just as much as slacks and flats. It was easier to digest Solomon for them because in their eyes he fit their definition of masculinity more closely even when his nails were occasionally done. It didn't matter what Solomon felt about his own identity, what mattered to them was how they viewed him, and the way they viewed both of them was in strict little boxes. 

Asmodeus was masculine and feminine and everything in between and every point in the spectrum. They would never know how safe and comfortable Solomon felt in his arms, or how his lower registers would send shudders up his spine just as his higher ones would inspire a similar yearning desire. No matter what form or what presentation, Asmodeus was Asmodeus his love and his muse.

He who inspired him and filled up the aching void in his chest.

She who held him until the loneliness once again drifted away into nothing. 

They were his comfort, his everything, his dearest love.

“So, what do you say? Let’s go home, put Lilith down for a nap and we can cuddle up and watch a movie on the couch? We can even make a lil charcuterie board.”

“You know exactly how to entice me, Dear One.”

“And that’s why I’m yours.”

His. 

The word made his heart lurch and ache in the best of ways. How it made him yearn for his partner in the deepest recesses of his very soul.

Oh Solomon could not wait to be home and have those pretty fingers tracing shapes on his skin and his voice whispering such sweet things in his ear. The comfort and familiarity of his lover’s embrace was worth more to him than anything else this would had to offer. 

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

The Inevitable Things We Try to Avoid: chapter three

aizawa x reader fic

cw: cisfem reader, no quirks, office au, miscommunications, slow burn, sexting, alcohol consumption. full tags available on AO3 (linked in masterlist)

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Hizashi and his (real) wife are exactly the type of people that you want to notice you from across the room. While Hizashi is long and lean, Nemuri is all curves, with a delightfully heart shaped face and wide, thick thighs that you can’t stop yourself from looking at sometimes. Her dark hair is pressed into curls, as deep and as black as her lipstick.

“Do you want a taste?” Nemuri leans in, elbows tucked against her ribcage, pushing her chest up just a bit more. Her dress is sheer enough that you can catch a hint of nipple, dark and pearled up in the cold-

“Uh-?” You rip your eyes away. Two drinks in and you’re already ogling. You’d feel bad about it if the couple didn’t absolutely bask in the attention.

“Of my drink.” Nemuri says, like she knows what she's doing. “Taste my drink.”

“Leave the poor girl alone- Shouta has her all riled up.” Hizashi laughs, wrinkling his nose in delight as he watches the both of you. His cheeks are flushed with alcohol, glasses off kilter one way and smile tilted the opposite. The top five buttons of his business appropriate top are undone, meaning he’s also sporting a bit too much nipple for late afternoon. 

“I was just trying to see that pretty smile,” she pouts, with the almost unobtainable balance of sweet and sexy.  You’re not sure if she’s really this pretty, or if it's rose colored glasses, tinted by your own jealousy.

You take Nemuri's drink and tip it back, swallowing it faster than your brain can process the flavor. It's gin, maybe absinthe: you just know that it burns. Fighting through your gag reflex, you offer a quick grin, one much less wobbly than it was earlier. 

“Aw, there it is!”

Nemuri runs the city’s one and only ‘lifestyle club’: Midnight. From what you've heard, it's a very lux, beautiful venue, filled with torrid amounts of untold debauchery and countless swingers. Technically, the couple started it together- which, now that you’re thinking about it, says a lot about their relationship. They’re the type of couple that’s almost too similar: they're too much, too loud, too nice, too confident. 

 Most of your friends couldn’t leave work midday on a Thursday, so your ‘birthday bash’ is less exciting than Hizashi had originally planned. That’s fine; you didn’t need more than this.

“Are you feeling better?” Hizashi asks softly. The restaurant is quiet, with only a couple of other tables filled. The three of you had chosen a booth in the very back, hidden away from everyone else who wanted a quiet meal; the waiter seems grateful for that. He’s in the opposite corner, checking his phone and waiting for you to finish your drinks before heading back over. Drinking at 3 in the afternoon isn’t usually your style, but you think you deserve it today. It’s a hat trick: breaking up, turning thirty, and getting screamed at. Maybe a meteor will fall from the sky and really add insult to injury.

“No.” You slump into the booth and the room follows suit. “Aizawa's such an asshole.”

The couple gives you identical looks: tiled heads and pressed lips. Both of them are a bit older than you, 37 and 38, but most of the time you don’t feel the gap. Today, however, you do; you feel like a baby, sucking down fruity drinks while moping about. It’s incredibly childish, but you just can’t stop yourself. You want time to be sad.

“He doesn’t mean to be.” Hizashi starts. 

“But he is!” you whine. “I don’t know how you guys are even friends with him.”

“He's different outside of work.” Nemuri says. Shit-talking the man puts them into a strange position, you know that. They have all known each other since college; Aizawa had even gotten Hizashi his current position at the company. It’s strange to think that they are friendly-- let alone close- but you guess they’re both friendly with everyone.  “He's a real kitten in real life.”

You try and imagine the guy without a stick up his ass and can’t. What-- is he doing yoga and petting puppies in his free time? As if. All that blue light has rotted his brain.

“He's just crazy stressed. It makes him act like a bone head.” Hizashi  reasons with a shrug, forever unflappable. His own drink is almost empty, so he gestures for another. “I'm sure he'll apologize tomorrow.” 

The bartender is quick to bring you guys another round. He asks about food, which the couple is quick to order, insisting that everything is their treat. That’s probably a good thing; that half a latte you had for breakfast isn’t doing anything to absorb the alcohol in your system and your stomach is growling. In the meantime, you take the cherry out of your drink and chew on it. You’ll have to savor this drink, just to make sure you don’t get too drunk-

Nemuri leans in conspiratorially. “Was it at least kind of hot?”

“What?”

“Having Shouta scold you.”

What.

“What.”

Hot? Hot?

“What.” you repeat, stressing the vowel.

“He's a handsome guy!” she laughs, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “Deep voice, kind of domineering-- it didn't… turn you on a little bit?” 

“And you clearly have a thing for assholes-” Hizashi grins, then yelps, shooting his wife a glare. “Ouch, don't kick me!”

Nevermind. You take a long, long sip of your cocktail until your stomach and vision swirl. You need it.

“And he’s hotter than that idiot you were dating- ‘muri, stop kicking me.”

The only time Touya ever came to your work was for a Christmas party. He was very interested to learn that Hizashi and Nemuri's relationship was open and seemingly forgot that your relationship was, in fact, closed. It's been ages since you forgave him, but Mic still hasn’t moved on. 

“Stop saying dumb shit then.” She rolls her eyes, then returns her attention back to you. “He’s right though.”

“Touya is--”  Defending him is reflexive. It's not that Touya isn't attractive, it just happens to be in his own way. Maybe other people would see it if he smiled more or pulled out some piercings. Sure. you had never seen yourself with someone as grungy as him, but... “He’s handsome and kinda charming.”

The energy shifts. Hizashi practically leaps across the table, scooping your hands into his, eyes wide with horror.

“Please don’t tell me you’re taking him back,” he begs. Apparently, your face answers for you. because he draws back, horror drawn across his features. “No. No! You're better than this!”

That phrase hits you funny and you remember Aizawa told you the same thing. Better than this-- why does everyone decide that you need better? Why can’t you be okay with… just okay? Mediocrity fits you well. 

“Am I?” you say into the glass edge of your drink. 

“You're miles out of his league. You deserve someone with a full time job, and a savings, and who doesn't habitually cheat-”

“Hizashi, leave her alone.” Nemuri glances his way and he immediately complies, throwing his hands up in surrender. When she returns her attention to you, her expression is kinder. “Don’t do something you regret just because you’re sad. You just need to get back in the saddle and you'll feel way better.”

“Yeah, once you're back at work, things will smooth out,” Hizashi says.

“Work isn’t the saddle- a dick is the saddle,” she corrects. “You just need a crazy hook up.”

It’s not that you don’t like sex. You think it’s perfectly fine. You’re just not in love with it the same way these two are. The whole experience of it all is so exciting and wonderful in theory, but in practice? It’s more awkward moments than orgasms. It doesn’t help that Touya is the only person you’ve ever slept with, since he’s admittedly selfish in that department.

You realize you’ve been silent for a suspiciously long amount of time. “Oh, well, uh-” you try to come up with an excuse. “I dunno how to date-- I’ve been with Touya for years.” 

“Sex isn’t dating.” she insists. “It’s just-- mutual fun and understanding. What’s your type?”

“Dark hair, I guess.” You aren’t really sure. “Are you going to bring me to your club and set me up with someone?”

“No way.” She leans forward on to her elbows again. “It’s a bad environment for a beautiful girl who can't say no.”

You try to imagine yourself being hit on, maybe a man buying you a drink or inviting you on to his lap, and can’t bring yourself to say no. You heave a sigh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“See? You can’t even argue with me. Midnight is the major leagues-- start with the basics. Do you own a vibe?”

You glance over at Hizashi.

“Pretend I’m not here.”  He says, leaning back with a smirk.

“Uh-” You glance between the two, trying to decide how honest you should be. Laughter bubbles out of you that you can’t  quite control. “No?”

Both of them look aghast.

“Finish that drink and get your phone out.” Nemuri demands. “You’re buying yourself a birthday present.”

.

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur. There’s dinner and drinks and a stroll around town, the bits and blurs of laughter and conversation and the back of Hizashi’s car. By the time you’re dropped off at your apartment building, you’re wobbling on your heels and pleading for the world to stay still. Overindulging isn’t usually your speed, but it’s certainly fun.

 Your key barely makes it into your lock and you stumble in, laughing at the way your oven’s clock flashes at you. 8:00: in college you could have been out all night, but now you’re ready for bed before the good television shows come on.  

The bed is still made from this morning, sheets untouched and pillows unsquished.  

You don't want to sleep alone.

The bathroom calls your name. You're supposed to be washing your face, but you can't rip yourself away from your phone long enough to bother. 

You don't want to sleep alone.

Nemuri was right, you just need to get under someone and you'll feel better. You’re itching for it, needy for touch, desperate for the validation that love affords you. Midnight will be open soon and its only a train ride away, but you aren’t a member and Nemuri made it clear you wouldn’t be getting an exception. You could download a dating app and scroll, but the idea of a stranger entering your life and home feels wrong. It’d be easier to stay with something familiar… someone you know..

AVOID AT ALL COST sits at the top of your contacts, mocking you in all capital letters. Touya. The man who won’t even read your texts. At this point, crawling back to his is ugly and pathetic, but your drunk brain keeps looping back to the idea of sex and love and touch and-

You close your eyes for deniability, then click.

i wish you were here<-

iwnt you so bad right now<-

You cringe at the typo, regret sitting heavy in your belly. Read sits heavy at the corner of the screen, taunting you with your mistake-

Your drunk brain catches up. Read? He… read it? Typing bubbles appear, then disappear. Then, they pop up again, typing for an uncomfortably long time. Despite yourself, you get excited, rolling on the balls of your feet and bouncing. Touya is answering you. When you’re starved for affection, even the smallest bits feel like full meals, both saiating you and wetting your mouth for more.

->Are you sure you're texting the right person? 

->I thought you hated me.

You lean against your bathroom sink to steady your hands, giggling and twitting about. 

I wish i hated you lol <-

but i just want you so bad <-

You lean against the sink, watching the little "seen" pop up under your messages. When the typing bubbles don’t immediately appear, you send off another.

 id let you have me <-

 any way you want me <-

You almost stop there, but then you catch your own eye in the mirror. Your outfit is a bit disheveled, your makeup is more than a bit smeared, but you look… good. Just fucked and ready for more. Your dress isn’t low cut enough to be inappropriate for work, but you manage to shimmy it lower, hem pressed just below the curve the lacy edge of your bra. It’s nothing new to him, but it still feels dirty, illicit enough to steal your breath away.

The response is instant.

->God. How are you so…

->Don't tease me if you don't mean it. 

Oh, you’ll tease him alright. You’re going to tempt this man away from wherever he is and back into your bed. You pull your skirt up this time, hiking it all of the way up your thighs until just a hint of your skin toned undies are on display. With the camera just slightly out of focus, it really looks like you've shown him a sliver of cunt.

->Fuck. 

->You're right. I want you. 

->I’ve always wanted you. 

You giddily skip to your room, tossing yourself on your bed. You should really shower first, but your body is hot and primed; your hand is already sliding down, the heel of your palm grinding against your needy core.  You need something to touch you, you need the friction of someone else. There’s a vibrator in your amazon cart, but you can’t wait for 2 day shipping.

For now, the edge of a pillow will have to do. You bunch it below you and rock your hips, searching for that perfect angle that will-

More texts come through.

->I've always thought about fucking you against your desk after everyone else has left. Those stupid slippers over my shoulders. Your lips on mine.

-> I know you taste sweet. All over.

A shiver turns through you. Yes, you need to be tasted, you need his teeth in your neck and his spit on your tits-

are you jacking off right now? <-

There’s a gap. Maybe you've pressed too far.

->Yes. 

I wish my hands were as soft as yours.

 lemme see <-

You expect the messages to dry up there. Touya likes the chase, not the follow through. You put your phone down and shift your weight more, trying to focus on rolling your hips just right. A pressure is building inside you, one that’s warm and fuzzy and rolling into your chest and down into your cunt. Your eyes close and you chase that high.

A message comes through.

A video message.

You scramble to press play, hips rolling against your pillow on their own, searching for friction. 

A barely there moan hits you first.

The video is dark and grainy, but you can make out the shape of his cock, heavy against his thick thigh. His pubes have grown out, a dark patch of hair that trails up his soft stomach and out of frame. You can see every breath he pulls, stomach constricting and expanding. The hand that isn't holding the camera is looped around the base of his cock, squeezing gently before slowly stroking the length. His fingers are slick with lube or precum and they glide over his length, earning you another growl of a moan.

Chills run through your body. Fuck. Holy fuck. He must really miss you. He's throbbing for you and you swear he's bigger than ever. It must be the angle and your drunk mind, but he looks huge.

never shave ever again ok I love how manly it looks <-

and fuck your voice is so hot I almost came from that alone <-

->Are you touching yourself?

yes<-

->Show me.

Embarrassment suddenly hits you. Touya always told you that men were visual creatures and rutting against a pillow like an animal isn’t the ‘porn pretty’ pictures he expects. Usually, you’d comply and pose how you know he likes it, but the room is off kilter and your body is heavy. Besides, Nemuri and Hizashi were right-- an orgasm would fix you. You need to keep going right now or else your stomach’s going to cramp.

i’m embarrassed <-

It’s mostly the truth. You would understand if he stopped texting you after that, but a response comes quickly. 

That’s okay. <-

Tell me about it? <-

Your heart thumps. Then, again. That shouldn’t be hot. 

->i'm humping my pillow and wishing it was you

My leg or my cock? <-

Fuck. When did he get good at this?

->whatever you'll give me

Ride my thigh and we'll see what you deserve.<-

God, it's just words, but you feel electric. When did he get good at this? The heat in your core feels like it's going to consume your whole body and you can't help but to continue to stroke it; you squeeze your thighs and tilt your hips over and over again, thinking about that wide thigh and his manly, big hands. God, you should be texting back, but you're just-- just--

Your orgasm hits you way quicker than usual. It's one that hits you all at once, straightening your back and stealing your breath and just tickling every inch of your core. It's all consuming and followed by the creamy feeling bliss that you so desperately needed. As you  flop forward and sink into your mattress, sleep nipping at your heels, you gather yourself enough to send one final picture.

You collect your cum in your fingers and scissor them back and forth, letting the wetness web in between. When you lift your hand, it catches in the overhead light, clear and lovely and all for him. The photo you take is a bit out of focus, exhaustion settling into your bones, but it’s very clear when you’re showing.

-> next time you make me cum ebtter be in person

-

The next morning you wake up to a pounding headache and fuzzy teeth, but your body feels good. There’s something looser, lighter, inside you, like you’ve relaxed for the first time in forever.  You can’t even bring yourself to care that your phone is dead or that you’re running a bit late to work. It’s awful to admit, but Nemuri was right- an orgasm really did fix you. Maybe that’s why the two of them are always so chipper; they’re definitely fucking like rabbits.

You plug in your phone and get ready for the day. Three ibuprofen and a shower mostly fix your headache and a very thorough brushing fixes everything else. Your toothbrush still sits next to Touya’s, seemingly the only thing in the apartment he forgot to take, but today that doesn’t fill you with dread. Things, finally, are good again. Pretty words have soothed all of your wounds and you’re just waiting for him to come back home to you.

It’s all you can think about as you get dressed. You slip into something black-- Touya’s favorite-- and put on those special red heels again, even though your instep is rubbed raw.

You're almost out the door when you remember your phone. You scramble back to your bedroom and start it up as you head out the door. The screen boots up and messages start inching their way in. A couple from friends, apps, and-

Hm. That’s. 

A name that you don’t expect pops up. Aizawa Shouta sits at the top of your direct messages, five messages sent through. Yesterday, you’d probably think you were losing your job or the world was ending, but today you can take it in stride. Hizashi was right; the man is already trying to apologize! You open the message and smugly prepare for the groveling-

-> I bet you looked so pretty when you came.

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

“so they’ve called you a witch, huh?”

thank you to @izvmimi and @bakvrue for the most absolutely beautiful gift in the form of this commission by @/komorebi.art__ on ig.

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

The Inevitable Things We Try to Avoid

an aizawa x reader fic

dividers by @/benkeibear

Synopsis:

Life has been throwing you a lot of curve balls lately: your boss is terminally ill, you just turned thirty, your boyfriend left without a word, and you've made a huge mistake at work. The only thing that could make it worse is if you end up sending that sext to the wrong person- Oh. Shit.

Link to Ao3

Content warning: cisfem reader, no quirks, office au, miscommunications, slow burn, eventual smut.

Masterlist

-Chapter One

-Chapter Two

-Chapter Three

-

-

-

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

The Inevitable Things We Try to Avoid: chapter one

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. no porn in the first two chapters, sorry gang :)

masterlist | next chapter

Prome Medical Devices hired you as a personal assistant to the CEO, Toshinori Yagi, shortly after he was diagnosed with his second bout of prostate cancer and shortly before they learned it had metastasized to bone. It was a tragic, yet expected turn of events.The man had been sick most of his life, they told you, he's probably slept in hospital beds more times than he's slept in his own. It was, like most things, inevitable.

Over the following weeks, through chemo and taps and rotating hospital doors, he began working from home and handling only the absolute basics, and your silly assistant job evolved into more. You had only planned to stay for a couple months, but then another horrible thing happened.

You became Somehow Important. 

Days went from scrolling on Twitter between writing notes to juggling everything that no one else could handle. Sitting in for meetings, handling calls, scheduling reviews and system checks, running to the pharmacy midday: there's nothing you haven't done. It’s a lot, but in the grand scheme of it all, it's nothing-- especially compared to the things that everyone else gets done here. 

8:35am. The security man gives you a nod without checking for your badge. Engineers skitter around the office like cockroaches. It's always a good sign when no one immediately comes to find you; that means your boss is still alive and doing about the same as he was yesterday. No updates, you’ve found, are good. No one bothers to tell you when good things happen: you’re the fixer, the emergency contact. When you’re being informed of anything, it’s because someone else wants you to clean up the mess.

(The only exception is from the man himself. Toshinori sends you the best kind of updates; mundane things from his life that he needs to share, like pictures of his duck pond or his review of the new coffee shop in town. It’s enough to keep you going, even when the day absolutely blows. You only had a few months working directly with the man, but he was fond of you-- and everyone was fond of him.)

Outdated filaments thrum down the halls. Your heels click against the tile with every step, a slow march to another day of monotony, a kind of dread that not even your phone can distract you from. Because your position is rather undefined for the corporate world, your desk is in an awkward spot, sandwiched in the hall, equidistant from the engineering department, the CEO's office, and the coffee machine. In terms of convenience, it's lovely, but it also means you have nowhere to hide.

Before you can even make it to your desk, a young man pops into the way and heads straight for you, a bit too quickly to be passed off as casual. Your heart sinks, then you realize it's just one of the interns: a college kid who's clearly had too many energy drinks already.

“Hey,” Denki smiles with too much gum, so wide his cheeks almost swallow up his eyes. He’s a scruffy, dirty blonde, a patchy black streak on one side of his head. His button down is obviously unironed, so crumpled it almost looks like a pattern, matching perfectly with his untied tie. It’s a good thing that he’s cute; you doubt he’d have gotten this far in life if he wasn’t. 

“Good morning, how are you? Have a good night? You look so pretty this morning. MILF town over here.” he says, twiddling the toe of his shoe into the carpet. “I made the pot of coffee for you,so you don’t have to worry about that-”

You cut him off. “What did you do?” 

The interns don’t report to you. If anything, they run parallel to you. If there’s anyone they should be ass kissing, it should be the department head, not some personal assistant, but the group considers you an ally. Maybe even a friend.

“I wouldn’t say that it’s something that I did,” the boy explains. He sucks air in through his teeth. “It’s more like what I didn’t do.”

“Denki.”

“It’s just the reports! I have to submit them end of day and it’s just not--” He juts out his bottom lip. “Can you proof my work? Please? The Eraser’s going to have my head if I make another mistake.”

The lead engineer is infamous for deleting whole chunks of code that the interns have made and ruining months of their work. Last month it was Ochako's work, who then spent the rest of the day at your desk, sniffling. The four others  were equally terrified of the man, constantly fretting and bitching about the ‘cruel working conditions.’ If Prome wasn't so prestigious (and internships weren't necessary for graduating) there’d be no interns left. You’re sure Eraser would prefer it that way.

“Please?” Denki clutches his hands together in prayer. “Please, please, please?”

 You don't even pretend to hem and haw.

“Email it over before lunch.” you say and he lights up. 

“Aw, you’re the best!” He turns away and practically skips down the hall. “I’m gonna drop off Izuku’s stuff too, okay?”

There’s no chance to say no before Denki’s gone. You flop into your chair and kick off your heels, trying to convince yourself that you don’t already regret saying yes. You catch your own appearance in the black screen of your computer. Makeup doesn’t do much to cover up the fact you’ve been crying. You can see it in your eyes, in the creases of your skin that you wish weren't there.  Even as the screen lights up, you can still catch your own face, starting back with that sad, sad expression. 

It's been mostly sleepless nights since Touya left, but you push through and ignore whatever you can. You miss your travel mug, the one that matched the coaster on your desk. You miss your forks, the ones that weren’t the awful ones from the thrift store down the road, bought solely out of panic when you returned to an empty apartment.  Most of all, you miss him, how the apartment felt warmer with two bodies instead of one, and how secure you felt with someone who loves you.

Your screen loads and a big, red 24 flashes in the corner-- fuck, the works already piling up. You try to squish any thought of Touya’s disappearing act into the back of your head. Like a dog, Touya always comes back home to you. He just needs to be wild for a bit, play off leash, and then he’ll crawl back like always. 

You check your phone. He’s still saved under “AVOID AT ALL COSTS” and the last five texts you sent are all unread. Your thumb hovers over the delete button for a moment; it’d be easier to cut him off and end this cycle. You can stop pushing the boulder up the hill,  just for it to tumble back down again. You could pursue someone else, maybe someone nice or smart or at least not rude-

 Focus. Compliance is raising concerns about the new platform and manufacturing has CC'ed you into an issue about screw heads, two things that you know nothing about. You flip your phone over and push through. What’s the difference between a hex and a truss and why should you care?

..

11:59. You’re none the wiser about either topic, but the dust seems to be settling and everyone seems to be happy enough. Denki’s reports are an absolute mess, bad to the point you start to wonder if he even tried. The pages aren't even formatted correctly, so it’s going to take most of your lunch to iron out the wrinkles. Luckily, Izuku is a bit more competent and his tasks look great, so-

“Oh, baby girl!”

You stop typing and sit straight up to peer over your computer screen, hiding the remnants of your microwaved lunch. With arms raised high and dressed in his finest ironed button down, Yamada Hizashi enters. Tall, blonde, thin, and leggy: Hizashi would have been a Victoria’s Secret model if he wasn’t a man. His long hair is tied back into a messy bun, a couple of loose tendrils floating  around his face in an effortlessly, annoyingly charming way as he marshes straight for you. 

“Let me see ‘em!” he demands loudly, a smile on his face and his hands on his hips. “Come on, baby. You know what I want.”

If it was anyone else, you’d think the man was a creep, but Hizashi is just so earnest about the way he lights up a room. With a belabored sigh and a grin, you roll your chair back a bit and stick your leg to the side to reveal your pink, fluffy slippers. The man claps his hands together and laughs a deep, hearty chuckle, genuinely bemused. 

The bunny slippers had started as a secret. The original dress code had required women to wear heels to work, which was fine, until the back of your feet became nothing but blisters. To give yourself some respite during the day, you had hidden a pair of slippers under your desk, just a little treat to make it through the day. It seemed like a genius idea-

Until the day the fire alarm went off. In the surprise, you had forgotten to change your shoes back, and proceeded to spend the next half an hour outside with the entire company in your violently pink shoes.

Luckily, everyone thought it was pretty funny.

Especially Hizashi.

“Seeing my work wife is the best part of the week.”

You throw a hand over your heart and gasp, trying to hold back your smile. “Only your work wife?”

“Oh, babygirl, I’d marry you in an instant.” He leans over your desk with another sigh, this one heavier. “I’d make you the trophy wife you were born to be.”

“Cool it, Mic.” Your heart sinks a bit at the voice.  “HR is going to have your head if you aren’t careful.”

Aizawa “The Eraser” Shouta makes his third appearance at the coffee machine this morning. He’s an average sized man, if not slightly short, with dark hair and the beginnings of a salt and pepper beard. The muscles in his jaw flex whenever he looks your way, almost as if he’s chewing away his annoyance. The most notable thing about him is a scar on his high cheek bone, long healed and silver in the light. He sits his coffee cup - a beat to shit Stanley thermos from long before they were cool- under the tap and lets the java pour, that sour expression never leaving his face.

Aizawa has worked here since the beginning. As one of the founding members of Prome and a lead engineer, he’s had his hands in absolutely every machine the company has produced, and yet he carries himself with none of the pomp and circumstance he deserves. Instead of abiding by the strict dress code, he wears a bright yellow sweatshirt that has an obvious coffee stain on the pocket.  It’d be charming if he wasn’t an infamous dick. The two of you rarely interact, despite the fact he visits the coffee station next to your desk multiple times a day, offering you no more than a nod most days. The interns are terrified of him-- and rightly so. You’re also scared of him. You’ve never met anyone else as tightly wound or as obsessed with work as him; there’s a rumor that he even sleeps here some days.

“Don’t listen to him,” Hizashi says. “He’s just jealous.”

“I’m not jealous, I’m protecting the company from potential litigation when bunny slippers over here-” he juts a chin your way- “ decides your flirting isn’t fun anymore.” 

You knew he wasn’t jealous. It’s an open secret that Aizawa doesn’t like you very much. Unlike any other of the department heads, he never allocates you work or stops by to chat. There was even a rumor that he wanted to eliminate your position last year; you wouldn’t care so much if he didn’t have the power and sway to make that happen. 

Hizashi pops a hip to the side. He isn’t afraid of anyone it seems; he even claims to be the man’s friend after hours.“Would you rather me go back to flirting with you?”

Aizawa stares back, only the trickle of coffee echoing in the hall. Finally, when it almost reaches the top, he shuts it off and glares. “You’re not even supposed to be in office today, Mic.” 

Hizashi had always been the most notable salesman in the company, but once the CEO’s health went downhill, he had taken over a lot of the speaking roles as well. Interviews, speeches, and the like: Toshinori Yagi had dubbed him Mr. Microphone and the name had just stuck. From what you can tell, he’s actually pretty close with Aizawa and the other founding members outside of work as well.

“I have a quick meeting with the marketing gals in a couple minutes,” Hizashi explains. He brings his attention back to you, brows waggling. Fuck- you know what he’s about to say.

 “And I wanted to wish my wife an early happy birthday.”

Oh, god. Your face flushes with heat-- you had hoped he had forgotten that. You glance over to Aizawa, who seems more interested than usual.

“It's tomorrow,” you explain. He nods curtly.

“Our office darling is going to be thirty, flirty and feeling fine!” Mic explains further. Ugh. You wish he didn't sound so happy about it. When you think about it for too long, turning thirty feels like the end of the world, an evil you just can't avoid. It's better than the alternative, you guess. 

“Are you and the boyfriend planning on a romantic night?”

A second gut punch of a statement.

“Oh, no, I’m just-- he--” You almost get emotional for a moment. Thirty years old and single: it feels like the end of the world for some reason. Everyone else is getting married or having kids or living some dream life. Fuck-- even two of the goddammit interns are engaged and they're practically babies! At this point, you might as well give up and die alone; no one else is ever going to want you, are they? 

 The glimpse of Aizawa in the corner, watching you with those judgemental eyes, sobers you up quickly. 

“We broke up, so I’m just staying in.”

The two snap their heads towards each other. Mic waggles his eyebrows, not so subtly gesturing to a non receptive Aizawa. You know that look, the excitement and relief. It’s not a secret that no one really liked Touya-- people have been openly voicing their contempt for years. He wasn’t a bad guy, except for the times he was, but people only ever remembered the bad things. 

“Oh, is it…?” Mic bites back his words, debating how harsh he should be.  “Is it for real this time?”

Touya always comes back. Everyone knows the routine by now. 

“Yeah,” you lie. “I’m done with him.”

“Good.” Aizawa says. You grimace at that; even he knows? You didn’t know he paid attention to anything outside of work, let alone your shitty interpersonal drama.

“More than good. Amazing! Spectacular! I’m so, so, so proud of you!” Mic adds on and you pretend it doesn’t bother you. It’s strange; the more others despise him, the more your heart aches. Touya needs you and you need him; who else will have him?

Who else will have you?

“That means we can go out for drinks to celebrate!”

“Oh, it’s okay, you don’t have to do that.”

“Too late, nope. We’re having a two-for-one birthday single bash tomorrow.” He’s on his phone, typing wildly. “I hope you have something pretty to wear because I’m going to show you how you deserve to be treated.”

Fuck. You’d rather be alone, sniveling and waiting for Touya’s return in your apartment, but Hizashi is smiling. His intentions are good; it’d be cruel to deny him. 

“Nemuri knows some awesome spots-” The man is a whirl, typing and talking and walking. “You better get excited, baby girl.”

“Oh, yay,” you offer weakly. Hizashi isn’t listening anymore; he’s caught up in his own plans, briskly walking down the hall. A breath you didn’t know you were holding sneaks out and you slump back down to your seat.

“You really don’t have to let him walk all over you like that,” Aizawa says. He swirls his cup slowly, watching the rim.  

You try to offer the man a smile, but you can tell it looks forced. Sure, Hizashi can be a lot, but he just wants to help, as misguided as that urge is. 

“It’s okay.” When he doesn’t look convinced, you add. “Really.”  

“Are you sure?”  he presses, voice tight. 

“Mhm.” You return to your keyboard and start typing, hoping that he understands the social cue. “Thanks though.”

Thankfully, he lets it go. Turning down the hall, he starts to sip his coffee, but then freezes mid stride.

“You make this?”

“No.”  

“I can tell,” Aizawa says, examining his cup. “It’s fucking dog water.”

That comment is so off kilter that you can’t help but snort. Aizawa watches you for a beat more, maybe bemused, maybe not, then nods. With that, he leaves, an empty coffee pot in his wake.  Another item to add on your growing list. 

-

The rest of the day goes by quicker than you need it to. Denki leaves a little bit after lunch for a doctor’s appointment and the rest of the workforce trickles out after. The head of development, Nezu, has you run through potential presentations before you follow up on compliance’s worries again. The coffee pot was refilled four more times, all by you, and your messages to Touya still sit delivered and unread. Two hours after the work day was supposed to end, you slip your heels back on. Denki’s files are pretty much unrecognizable now, but that’s a good thing.  All of the college students are intelligent and more accomplished than you’ll ever be, but you’re not sure why they can’t figure out basic busy work. There’s nothing hard about it, other than focusing.

With a final press of a key, your personal printer hums to life. A staple and a paperclip and you’re done: now it’s just a quick trip to engineering and you can finally go home. Your work isn't physical, but God, hunching at a desk all day takes a toll on your body. A flare of something eats at your lower back as you stroll the empty building and try to rub the grit from your eyes. You think there’s a frozen pizza at home or maybe some pasta-- though, you can’t remember if that was from this monday or last monday. Maybe it’d be safer to just throw it away.

The department itself  is a long row of cubicles, with miscellaneous machines and computers littering the other side of the room. You recognize old prototypes and parts of Prome's most famous product: a hospital bed. 

Before you had set foot in this building, you never thought a bed could count as a medical device -- or as something highly complicated and thoroughly engineered -- but this bed is different. It’s comfortable, lightweight, and durable, all while able to track a patient’s movement and comfort. It even records a patient's glucose, body temperature, SPO2, and many other medical things that go over your head. When used correctly, bedsores rates have been reduced to nearly zero and hospital related illnesses are caught significantly earlier.

In about three months, the newest model will be released, complete with full integration into electronic record systems. If everything goes according to plan, it’ll be revolutionary. Working here is a headache, but you do take pride that it's a company that does good. 

“Do you need something?” 

You jump at the sound of the voice, flipping around to search the room. Tucked at the end of it all is an open office door. Inside, Aizawa is perched at his desk, head in one hand, reading glasses in the other.  He’s illuminated only by the computer screen, his deep, dark eyes bouncing side to side as he carefully reads.

 Aizawa always looks tired, but now so especially; his heavy lidded eyes are drooped with fatigue and his skin is pallor, black stubble dusting his unshaved cheeks. There’s no bite or annoyance to his voice-- maybe even a little levity. For once, you don’t want to scurry away from him like a mouse, hiding in the shadows and corners to avoid his claws.  You still approach cautiously, heels sharp against the tile. The silence in between each hit makes your skin prick with an unknown nausea. 

“I thought everyone went home.” You say. 

“Everyone did. Just me-- and you, apparently.” He taps out a word or two. His office is devoid of personal items, desk covered in nothing but stacks of papers and illegible post notes, nothing to hint to his personal life. It’s been three years, yet you have no idea what his personal life is like-- if he even has one, that is.

“No slippers tonight?”

That was either a dig or a joke. You aren’t sure either way, but the way your shoes sound when you walk even closer feels like its own answer. When you reach the corner of his desk, he finally looks your way. It hits you that you've never actually been this close to him before. It's always been passes in the hall and distant conversations. His skin is smoother than you'd thought it'd be, with creases between his brow that fill themselves when he-

“Do you… need something?”

“Oh, uh-- Denki left these at my desk by accident,” you lie, sliding the file on to the corner of his desk. “I think they’re for you.”

He regards you again, more thoroughly this time. With a tilt of his head, he inspects your face, eyes flickering between your two. In the dim, they’re nothing but black dots, an inkinesss that you could fall into if you were any closer. 

He’s pretty.  And that’s an unsettling thought. You’ve never allowed yourself to consider that before. Immediately, you walk the thought back. No. Nobody with his personality is attractive-- hands down. Touya is the only dick you need in your life. 

“You should go home. It's late.” he says before turning back to his work. He types a couple things, then hits the backspace and deletes it all again. “Go home.”

Adjusting the bag on your shoulder, you sigh, the workday catching up to you. “You should too.” 

“Hm,” he grunts. He takes a long sip from his thermos, tipping it back to suck the dregs. You’d never noticed the sticker of the bottom before- a faded and torn image of an orange cat.  “Maybe.”

That’s a no. You don’t push the issue. You start towards the door, then pause. 

“Do… do you want me to make another pot of coffee before I go?” You’re not sure why you offer. Everything’s been put away and cleaned for tomorrow. It’d take at least 15 minutes to set up again. 

Aizawa slides his glasses back on, adjusting them by the bridge, only for them to slip right back down the flat bridge of his nose.

“You don't have to do that.” 

With that you leave, no proper goodnight dismissing you. The tap of your heels and the clack of his keyboard mix into some sort of soft, unbalanced rhythm. Despite yourself, you think of Touya, of where he is and where he isn’t. Is it also quiet there? Has he thought of someone else in the same way you just did?

When the doors of the building close and the security guard nods your way, the sound of percolation echoes behind you, the final drops falling into a freshly brewed pot.

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

Tomura Shigaraki is the only man actually

[simultaneously-sick-and-calm]

pairing: gojo satoru x reader summary: bestfriend!satoru has returned, fluff, pining, slightly angsty bc of pining, simp satoru hehe, oblivious reader is back again, satoru loves you !! rheya's note: continuation to this drabble bc bestfriend!satoru is everything to me !!

bestfriend!satoru who insists that you have him on speed dial because "he's the most important person in your life" but really it just satisfies him to know that he's the first one you'd call if you needed anything.

bestfriend!satoru who started off being a bit of an ass when you first met. not because he was trying to be but because he's got an ego and doesn't know how to control it, until you call him out for his shit and it sends his heartbeat all out of wack.

bestfriend!satoru who doesn't trust anyone else around you. it's not out of concern or anything, oh no. but in his expert opinion only him and the people he trusts (like suguru, shoko, or nanami) should ever get within six feet of you.

bestfriend!satoru who waits outside every class for you, leaning against the wall with a bag of your favorite snacks in his hand, glasses perched low on his nose. the smile that crawls onto his face as you walk out of the classroom and join him is practically blinding.

bestfriend!satoru who grows older thinking of nothing but you. the person most important to him, the person he would move galaxies for. and no, it's not romantic or anything. he's just your best friend.

bestfriend!satoru who realizes that he's not the only one in the world who knows that you're attractive, and has to clench his fists with a scowl as he sees other men noticing you. then he has to stop and check himself because, why on earth is he mad about it?

bestfriend!satoru who starts openly staring at you because he can't even control it anymore, eyes soft and overflowing affection as he watches you indulge in silly mundane tasks. and when you turn and catch him looking all he can do is give you a dreamy little smile. he's got no excuses but he's gonna play it off like it's something you shouldn't worry about anyway.

bestfriend!satoru who makes you his number one priority, who doesn't care about anyone else when you're in front of him. and even if you aren't around, he can't bring himself to look at anyone else. if someone comes up to him on the street, mumbling something about how he's their type and they'd like his contact info, all he does is give them a breezy wave, saying "sorry. i got someone waiting for me."

bestfriend!satoru who, when you're trying to explain something and someone speaks over you, gives you a resolute "no i'm listening." and doesn't take his eyes away from you until you've said all that you needed to. don't ever think that nobody is listening to you because you always have his attention.

bestfriend!satoru who grits his teeth as you tell him about another unsuccessful date with a man who didn't even know how to treat you right. and how could they, when they don't even know how you like your coffee or what side of the bed you prefer to sleep on? they don't know what your favorite movie snack is or about your obsession with plants or your most precious pair of fluffy socks. not the way he does.

bestfriend!satoru who has to hold himself back during your ranting, who has to keep himself from just letting go and spilling that you weren't going to find someone who loved you more than he did. to stop himself from leaning down and kissing you so hard it takes your breath away, because he's wanted to do it since he was sixteen. he was just too stupid to understand it back then.

bestfriend!satoru who chooses to wait instead, knowing that he'll be stuck with these feelings for the rest of his life, so he'd rather wait for you. because he'd hate himself if he made you uncomfortable, and if he lost the relationship he had with you now over his silly little heart. no instead, he'll keep proving himself, staying by your side and showing you even just of fraction of the devotion he knows he has for you, if it means that you'll be by his side. and hoping that one day, maybe, you'd tell him you feel the same.