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strawberry-nugget · 1 day ago

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Chapter 2 // prev. chapter

~Technically this should be your fresh start. Moving to Japan as a single mom and getting a regular job, living the peaceful life you've always wanted. But trouble finds you in every corner, taking either the form of those weird monstrous things you catch in a blurry half gaze ocassionally, or of that extremely hot single dad, whose son, Megumi is friends with your daughter.

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, canon divergence, single parents au!, slow burn(ish), car sex, unprotected sex, p in v sex, handjobs (yes while driving), creampies, kinda sleazy Toji, reader can see curses, drifting

Word Count: 9,9k

It’s been a week since he came to your house.

The days stretch long, hot, and quiet. Toji hasn’t texted again. Not a meme, not a dad joke, not even an accidental thumbs-up reaction to his own message so you can convince yourself he checks maniacally for a response as much as you want to give him one.

Still, it’s only ever just that single message from the other night staring at you from behind the screen. The one he dropped between you like a match and walked away before it could catch fire.

You figure something must’ve come up. Probably Megumi—maybe he got a cold, or got that dreadful stomach flu that’s been going around that you are praying your daughter doesn’t get as well.

With the way your engine has been growling this whole week, you’d die if you had Mai-Mai cry over her tummy hurting too.

Today, the evening settles in with a haze of humidity and burnt orange sky. You’re under the hood of your car, determined to find the reason behind the weird sounds your engine’s been making—sounds you’re now convinced are from that fucked up gas you filled it up with last week.

Your tank top clings to your back, sticky and damp, your arms streaked in grease, your collarbone darkened with fingerprints of oil and sweat. Your hair’s pulled back but messy, a few strands curling against your temples, and your hands are wrist-deep in wires and metal.

You find yourself thinking about it—the text—as the air thickens and your fingers search for problems in the guts of your car. You’d let it sit too long. That’s what happens when someone like him sends you something so casual, so simple, and you don’t know how to answer without sounding like you’re choking on your own anticipation.

Next time I see you, you better show me how you drift.

He didn’t even add a smiley face. Just that low, heavy suggestion sitting at the bottom of your chat like a weight.

Maybe if you busy yourself enough, you won’t keep replaying his voice in your head. The way he said your name—rough and warm, like it meant something. The soft rasp of it, half-dragged over a laugh. And that look he gave you, like you were a question he was dying to answer with his hands.

It shouldn’t get to you. It’s your own thoughts, you tell yourself. Your imagination going wild. If he’s so casual to be like this with you an hour into knowing you then…He’s probably like that with every woman. Probably doesn’t even remember what he texted. Probably didn’t think twice about the way he leaned too close or brushed your fingers when he handed you his phone or offered to help with getting Mai-Mai into your car like it was instinct.

Still.

Still, you feel him like a pressure behind your ribs. Still, your stomach twists when you think about the way he looked at you up and down.

Now, with sweat beading along your spine and your hands sore, you don’t expect anything except maybe a cold shower and a frozen dinner, if you’re lucky enough.

Luck has always been a weird concept to you though. Maybe it’s that weird manifestation thing you’ve realised you can do, or it’s that gut feeling that something’s bound to happen if you keep thinking about it because there’s no other way you can explain how on earth he runs into you in your backstreet.

For all that's worth it— you hear him before you see him.

It’s like he’s already making a habit out of creeping up on you when you’re bent over your car.

For a prideful moment, you convince yourself he’s just drawn to your ass; then you shove that thought away like a bunched up paper in a trash bin. Like he can’t be.

But you can’t help it—the awareness is instant. Your spine straightens a little, the drag of your fingers slows in the engine, and your mouth goes dry before he even says a word. You tell yourself to be cool. Which works about as well as it usually does.

“Didn’t know you were working on her tonight,” he says, voice low and curved with something unreadable.

Your stomach drops.

He doesn’t say hey, doesn’t greet you in a normal way at all, like the two of you are way past that even if it’s just the second time you're seeing each other.

Quick — how do you talk to someone whom you’ve practically ghosted?

You don’t look up right away. Let him wait. Let him see you wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist, grease smearing your temple. You know you look fucked up, even feel how gross you might look or smell but at least you’re trying to convince yourself you can make it look even a tad bit sexy.

You turn, slow, like you’re not internally vibrating as you are met with the sight of him in a shirt that hugs his frame like it was born there, baggy sweatpants —you ignore the crocs, so you don’t laugh in his face about them and because his biceps look like they’re about to burst. So much that it serves as a great distraction.

“Didn’t plan to,” you say, casual. Careful not too be not too much “She was whining again. Thought I’d check the belts.”

He’s closer now. Arms crossed, weight leaned into one hip, eyes flicking between the hood and the tank top clinging to your ribs. You feel the heat of his stare like a spotlight.

“And? Find anything?”

“I think it’s the gas I put in it yesterday. So much for trying to get the cheaper choice. I should have known better”

You wipe your palms onto the sides of your cargos at that, turning to fully focus on him. A bead of sweat runs down your chest and he catches it with his eyes, like it’d ever escape him.

It’s too soon to make such a bold move as to reach his hand and wipe it off—or worse, lick it. The sight punches something low in his gut, drags his attention from the smudge on your neck to the way your fingers curl around your tools with muscle memory. Like you belong there. Like this whole scene belongs on a magazine spread labeled.

“Problem?” You look like you’d just smirk from under your lashes.

“You sure it’s the car that’s whining?” he asks, and there’s that smirk again, like he’s already tasted the silence that follows.

You tilt your head. “You calling me dramatic?”

He almost turns around. Raises both his hands in the air in surrender.

He’s not proud of the part of him that wants to watch you longer, silent, soaking in the view like it’s his business. But he clears his throat and steps into your clear line of sight.

You look up, and he sees it—that flicker in your eyes. The flash of surprise. You cover it quick, but he catches it. Just like he catches the way your jaw tightens. Like you’re mad at yourself for hoping he’d show up.

That's exactly when he knows, he’s got you right where he wants.

“God, you’re a piece of work, ain't you?”

You shoot him a look that lands somewhere between annoyed and amused. Exactly where he likes to keep you.

The ball is yours now to shoot.

And you do—only not in the way he expects.

“Haven’t seen you and Megumi all week, is everything alright?”

“He's been feeling under the weather, you know how four year olds catch a bug and suddenly you’re canceling your whole life to wipe noses and warm soup.”

You nod, trying not to show too much relief, or worse—interest. But it’s already out there, raw and embarrassing. The truth is you’ve been wondering. Not just because you’ve missed the kid’s giggles echoing through your living room or the way Toji has that infuriating ability to take up space without asking—but because you care.

“You didn’t tell me” you say, softer now, wiping your hands on your cargos again just for something to do.

Toji tilts his head. He doesn’t look sorry. Not exactly. But there’s something in the way his gaze narrows, like he’s reading more out of your words than you meant to give.

“Didn’t think you missed me that much.”

You roll your eyes so fast you almost give yourself a headache. “Mai-Mai missed Megumi.”

He hums. “Suuuuure.”

There’s a beat. You’re still half-under the hood, half-exposed to the dying heat of the sun, and Toji’s leaning closer now, like your little denial just fed him instead of shut him down. He taps one knuckle against the frame of the car like he needs something to do with his hands, like he’s trying to anchor himself.

Toji lets out a slow breath. Then, almost too casually, “You know, you could’ve texted too.”

You peek at him from under your arm. “Yeah. I… didn’t know if I should.”

“I texted you first”

“That you did”

“And I hate waiting” he smirks again, pushing past that unspeakable and invisible barrier that should be between you and him -an almost stranger- “you gonna show me how you drift or what?”

You like it— the way he catches you off guard and pushes in closer with just words. And even though he doesn’t say it, he likes seeing you like this too—raw, annoyed, sweat-slicked and glowing in the burn of the sun— it does something to him he’s not ready to unpack, but will, nevertheless.

You ponder about it for a moment. The thought of you showing off how you drift to him, that is.

It’s Friday, there absolutely should be a place in the heart of Tokyo to drift, one of those usual get-togethers that you went to during the week and the idea of winning a drift race, getting money and impressing Toji is too mouth watering. However it’s also illegal. And you can only waste too much of your luck once a week.

Then again, now that you’ve planted this idea in your own head it’s hard to let go of it.

“Well I could-“

“Atta girl” he says and interrupts you, but you don’t wield this simply.

“-tonight.”

Toji blinks at you.

“My sister came to visit so she can watch Mai-Mai, if you can find someone to watch your Megumi” you say “I’ll shower, get ready and I’ll pick you up. And please by love of god, lose the crocs. These guys are gonna eat you up”

Toji snorts, shoulders shaking just a little with the kind of laugh he only lets slip when something really amuses him. You’ve got him aaaaall wrong. But he doesn’t mind, because you are way more readable than you think.

“Didn’t know you cared about my fashion choices,” he says, half-teasing, half-testing. “You trying to get me to impress anyone?”

You blink, mouth parting, but nothing comes out except the faintest uhhh. He grins, like he’s won something you didn’t know you were playing for.

“Thought so,” he mutters, then straightens up and stretches like he’s got all the time in the world, like you didn’t just invite him into a part of your life most people never see. Not just the drifting, but the in-between. The sweat and grease and dumb jokes. The space where he could, if he’s careful, belong.

“Alright then,” he says, nodding, looking just smug enough to be annoying. “I’ll see if the neighbor kid’s mom can take Gumi for a few hours.”

“Great,” you reply, with more bite than grace. “Try not to show up in pajamas.”

Suddenly you find out that keeping this teasing tone between you and him suits the tone and nature of your relationship.

“Can’t make promises, sweetheart.”

You flip him off without even looking, already halfway back under the hood to hide your face.

But Toji just walks away, steps slow, deliberate—grinning like a fucking bastard the whole time. Because tonight, you’re going to show him what that car can do. And he’s going to see exactly how far you’ll go to win. Maybe even how far you’ll go for him.

_____

You pull up outside of his apartment just past nine, the engine a low purr under your seat as you lean an elbow against the window frame. The street is quiet, lights dim and flickering over the cracked pavement, but your car is anything but subtle tonight—cleaned until it gleams under the yellow and orange street lamps, tires still warm from the tension of anticipation.

You text once.

Well, at least it’s not double texting since he did send you his address after you messaged him asking for it.

You: I’m outside. Don’t take ten years.

A minute later, the front door opens and he steps out, hands in his pockets, wearing the same black compression shirt from before, silver chain catching the light around his neck and fortunately he's made the effort to pair his top with dark , baggy jeans. His hair’s pushed back like he didn’t try too hard, but the second his eyes land on you—really see you—he stops in his tracks.

Because, well yeah, maybe you went a little overboard. Black halter crop top, tight across your ribs open all over your chest, breasts all pushed by just how tight it is, a denim skirt, belt buckle winking like a challenge. Brown leather jacket draped over the back of your seat and matching cowboy boots, lips glossed just enough to look like trouble.

You’re not even trying to seduce him—at least, you tell yourself that—but there’s something about the way he just stands there, smirking like you’ve already stepped into his trap, that makes your pulse skip.

He opens the passenger side door slowly, leans down just a little, eyes dragging over you as if he’s reading a fucking manual.

“Well, shit.”

You glance over at him, feigning innocence. “Something wrong?”

He huffs a low laugh, gets in, shuts the door.

“Nah,” he says, adjusting his seat in need of a distraction. “Just didn’t know I was gettin’ picked up by a Bond girl.”

You roll your eyes and turn the key, shifting into gear. “Thought I told you to ditch the Crocs.”

He wiggles his foot, now covered in dark sneakers. “I listened. Proud of me?”

“Hmm, yeah yeah” you pout.

But your voice has a rasp to it now, tight in your throat. Because he keeps looking at you—up and down, like he’s taking inventory. Like he can’t decide whether to whistle or bite.

Well, if you were trying to seduce him, you would have loved the way he decides to bite his lip and shakes his head in amusement as he slides into your passenger seat.

“You dress like that for the crowd,” he says, casually, “or for me?”

“I dress like this for me,” you answer, trying to keep your tone flat, steady. But you know he knows it’s a lie. Or at least, not the whole truth.

Uh-oh, he’s onto you.

“Huh,” he says, dragging the syllable out as he settles deeper into the seat, getting too comfortable as he eyes you up and down “So it just happens to be my lucky night, then?”

You don’t reply. Not right away.

But your hand shifts on the wheel. Tightens just a little. Your nails dig into your palm.

And Toji sees it.

He grins like a man who’s just seen the river card fall in his favor.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he says, voice low and continues before he cuts off his own self with a laugh “If you drive like you look tonight… I might actually-”

You snort under your breath, cheeks hot, heart hammering and finally, you turn the keys into the ignition.

___

The city swells around your car in waves of neon and engine growls, headlights slicing through alleys that don’t belong on any map. You’re driving fast enough to make the suspension whisper, but smooth enough not to jostle Toji in the passenger seat—he hasn’t said a word in the last ten minutes, which is impressive considering he’d been side-eyeing your outfit since he stepped out of the house.

Now, he’s sprawled in your passenger seat like he owns the damn thing—legs open, one knee bouncing, hand tapping against the door in slow, rhythmic thuds, the other resting over his knee. You catch him watching the skyline blur out of the corner of your eye, a faint grin tugging at his mouth like he’s already five steps ahead of wherever you’re going.

“You always take your first dates through a construction zone?” he asks, voice gravelly amused.

You scoff. “This ain’t a date.”

“Mmh,” he hums, not arguing, just letting it hang there between you.

The alley opens.

And there it is.

A rooftop lot that pulses with life—part underground haven, part holy ground. The air here tastes like exhaust and trouble, music pounding from subwoofers stacked on milk crates. Floodlights cut sharp shadows over every cracked patch of asphalt, every spray of tire-burned circles. Hoods are popped. Boots are up. Eyes are watching.

Toji lets out a low whistle and leans forward, elbow on his knee. “You brought me to a damn Fast and Furious reboot,” he says, sounding more entertained than scared.

Your mouth opens and shuts once. You’re tasting how sweet your lipgloss is, smell your perfume—you definitely look the part he states. But….You didn’t do it for him.

You didn’t.

In retrospect, maybe you shouldn’t have brought him to such an illegal place, you barely even know him and you’ve got a whole kid in a foreign country that ideally, you wouldn’t want to get deported from and you still don’t know if you can trust him and yet as if he reads your mind, Toji chuckles low.

“Relax. I ain’t judging. Just… surprised you’d bring me here.” His voice dips, almost amused. “Place like this? It’s dangerous.”

You glance at him sideways, engine now idling low. “Thought you liked danger.”

That gets you a sharp look, quick and loaded. But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he nods toward the starting line where two modded imports finish a race with the stench of burning rubber curling behind them.

You pull into a spot off to the side and let the engine purr, hands still on the wheel, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek hard enough to cut through the delicate tissue.

You smirk, awkwardly, keeping both hands on the wheel. “You said you hated waiting.”

“I didn’t know you were gonna take me to a pit of unpaid parking tickets.”

You don’t answer—just pull into your usual corner spot, not too far from the start line. You slide the car into park, engine still humming beneath the hood, and finally glance at him. He looks like he belongs here without even trying—black jacket draped open (how did you never notice he was holding one in the first place is behind you), dark eyes roaming the crowd like he’s already assessing which of these men are too drunk to bet against you.

As your usual ritual requests, you just have to open the hood of your car for the world to see. You eye Toji, signaling him to get out of the car and push the button to open your hood before grabbing the door handle.

You step out into the night, a little adrenaline already licking up your spine. The pavement is warm under your boots, and the air’s thick with engine smoke and sweat. Familiar faces nod your way. Some cheer. One girl whistles.

“You judging my taste in extracurriculars?” You mutter, bending over your open hood, this time saving Toji from sparing him a glance to catch him red handed. You’re too sure he’s looking.

Toji shrugs. “Nah. I’m impressed.”

But the attention Toji draws is different. Curious. Appraising. Some of the other drivers clearly don’t know what to make of him because they’ve never seen him before, and you know that smirk on his face well enough by now—he’s enjoying it.

Someone approaches. A guy in a muscle tee, cocky and slow, eyes flicking from you to Toji. “He your spotter or something?”

“She’s my ride,” Toji says smoothly, before you can open your mouth and your face purses in sourness.

The guy pauses.

And you—deadpan—just raise your brows. “I’m driving. He’s observing.”

Then when the guy shoos away, scared of the death stares by the both of you; you say it.

“I’m gonna race.”

Toji’s brow ticks up. “Yeah?”

You don’t look at him, eyes on the lineup. “I know these guys. They’ll throw down good money if they think they can smoke me.”

A pause. You feel it when he shifts, weight turning just slightly toward you.

“You think you can take them?”

“Oh…” You smile, lips dry. “I know I can.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he clicks his tongue. “Now this I wanna see.”

You wave the marshal over with two fingers, voice steady even as your stomach tightens. “One round, cash in hand. You want drama, I’ll give you smoke.” He nods, even smiles at you and mutters something about being happy to have you back and gives you a playful pat across your shoulder.

“Now we wait” you turn to Toji, who cocks an eyebrow at you, too nonchalant to ask ‘what’.

“See how much people bet”

Something in his gaze darkens. Like he’s found his next betting addiction.

To anyone betting money on you or your car, Toji’s presence is oil on fire.

He doesn’t say anything, not right away—just leans back against your car with his arms crossed over his chest, that lazy, dangerous grin playing at his mouth like he’s more comfortable in this chaos than anyone else. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, untouched. Like he lit it just to pass the time, not because he wanted to smoke. He doesn’t even look at the other guys. Doesn’t have to. They’re already looking at him.

And not kindly.

You hear one mutter behind you, “Who’s the suit?”

Toji catches it, of course he does. Doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Just tips his head slightly in his direction.

“He your sponsor or your bodyguard?” someone else snickers. A guy you’ve smoked twice before, who always bets against you like it’s a personal mission when he’s not racing.

You don’t answer them. You just check your tire pressure again and pop the trunk for your helmet. But Toji… oh, he’s getting that look again. That glint that says he’s seconds away from doing something wicked.

“The helmet’s for you. You’re riding with me”

“Damn,” he murmurs, leaning just a little closer. “Should I be wearing a helmet?”

Toji smiles, then rushes into your car when the marshal announces the money price you asked for has finally been gathered.

The crowd’s grown louder by the time you line up. Neon strobes sweep across your dash as you adjust the mirrors, the lights stinging pink and green across Toji’s face. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you with that sharp, too-aware stare while he’s trying to figure out what exactly you’re made of.

Your opponent rolls up beside you in a lowered RX-7, a veilside one, but it just doesn’t look like yours, decals crawling across the hood, the engine guttural and twitchy.

“Great,” you mutter. “Another twitchy trust fund kid.”

Toji laughs once, low in his throat. “You nervous?”

You tap your fingers on the gearshift. “Not about the race… try not to flinch Pa-”

Toji stills.

Then he smirks, slow and crooked. “I'm not that old now Ma, huh?”

The flag drops before you can even fire back.

You floor it.

The tires shriek, the rear kicks, and the force yanks both your shoulders into the seat as the car surges forward. You’ve done this a hundred times before—breathed this heat, kissed this speed—but something about having Toji beside you, cool and wordless, changes the pulse of the air. Every move you make, he’s watching. Not the road. You.

Your helmet stands on the floor between his legs and he. doesn’t. flinch. he doesn’t even blink. Like he’s felt this speed and energy before.

That eerie feeling about him is back again.

The second you slam the clutch and whip the wheel, tires screeching, he grins.

It’s not just any grin.

That feral, toothy thing you’ve only seen from gamblers mid-win or men about to do something stupid.

The first turn comes hard and fast, and you ease into the drift like your body’s stitched into the machine—tires skimming the paint of the barricade, smoke curling behind you like a signature. The RX-7 is just a breath behind, but your line is tighter, smoother.

Another turn comes ahead.

You take the turn tighter than you should. The back fishtails and you catch it clean, body jolting with the force—and he’s laughing. Actually laughing.

“Holy shit,” he says “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“Well I did just meet you” you remind him

You can feel the way Toji shifts, not afraid—interested. The corner of your eye catches the way he presses one palm flat to the dash, not because he’s bracing. But because he’s feeling it.

“Are you betting?” you call over the engine.

He grins. “Didn’t have to. You’re already paying me back in full.”

You take the next two curves without thinking, pure muscle memory, slicing through Tokyo’s underbelly like it’s yours to conquer. The final stretch is a blur of lights and screaming engines and one wrong move from chaos.

There’s smoke everywhere and that unpleasant smell of tires melting and merging with the street underneath.

But you don’t miss.

You cross the finish line three seconds ahead from what you had originally counted. And your opponent, distracted by it, crashes the tail of his car, earning the crowd’s distress—Toji’s too.

You win.

Clean.

The moment the tires screech to a stop, the crowd explodes behind you—cheers, catcalls, people slapping bills into open palms like they can’t believe they lost.

And Toji?

He whistles low, looking at you the whole time. You don’t let him speak, set on pumping a punchline at him. Show off.

You bite back a grin, eyes still on the crowd gathered around your car. “Ask and you shall receive.”

Then he leans in, close enough that his breath slides across your cheek.

“I knew you were a menace,” he says again, voice low and warm.

You grin, still panting, still burning.

But behind his smile—behind the praise—you’re too naive to see the glint of something darker, something sharper.

A man doing math.

A man realizing just how dangerous and efficient you are when you drive.

And exactly how much he could make off that danger.

____

By the time things have settled down, it’s late. The kind of late where the air gets thick and sticky and makes everything feel a little slower, a little dirtier. The crowd’s thinning out—just the die-hards and the degenerate hangers-on now, loitering with smokes and plastic cups of warm beer.

It’s fine— you like warm beer anyway. But Toji doesn’t; he sets off to fetch two fresh, ice cold cups that you insist are your treat and gets lost in the crowd.

You’re parked under a flickering garage-like light in the back corner of the lot, hood popped open again. The engine’s still ticking as it cools after you’ve spent so much time revving it just for the tired to smoke out, to show off and you’re leaning over it with a wrench in hand, half your weight on one arm, your top clinging to the small of your back. A blotch of grease, smeared across your shoulder looks war paint. You look like the problem, and maybe that’s why someone decides to try you.

You hear the voice before you see him.

“Nice ride,” he says, like he owns the ground you’re standing on. A hand reaches out—dumb and slow—to tap the inside of your engine bay like it’s a vending machine he just fed a coin. “Whatchu say I race you for it and have it towed to me?”

You don’t even look. Just smack his hand away with the flat end of your wrench. Not hard. Not soft either.

“Touch it again,” you say calmly, “and you’ll be the one getting towed.”

He flinches, more from the tone than the contact. “Jesus, it’s just a car.”

You look up then, finally meeting his eyes. “Yeah. And you’re just a guy. Can’t win even if you tried, pick your battles, king”

He stumbles back with a half-muttered insult and disappears into the night,

Toji sees all of it from a few feet away, where he’s busy getting cornered by someone -still holding your cups of beer, mind you- while she’s trying way too hard to be interesting. She’s cute, objectively. Tight dress, loud laugh, hands that keep brushing his bicep like they’re gonna conjure something.

And he’s being polite. You hate that he’s being polite. He came here with you, not to smile at strangers in a parking lot.

You remember that saying, that you lose someone the way you find them and something low burns in your throat. It doesn’t have a name, but it’s mean. Ferocious. The same kind of energy you get when a guy tries to overtake you on a drift without earning it.

You wipe your hands on a rag and stomp over, uninvited, the heels of your boots clicking in the loud way you’d normally hate. But here, in this place, it doesn’t fucking matter. The louder, the better.

“Hey, babe,” you say to Toji, sweet as antifreeze. Grabbing your beer from his palm, you loop your arm through his, lean into his shoulder like you’ve been doing it for years, even rub your cheek against his bicep. “You left your phone in the car. Thought maybe you were gonna disappear on me.”

Toji blinks, just once. Then he smiles—slow and wicked, realising what game you’re playing and deciding to raise you, play along.

“Thanks, doll,” he says, playing along instantly. Arm sliding around your waist, fingers settling a little lower than they should, the tap on the clothed skin under your ribs once, twice, thrice. Just enough to be mouthwatering “Didn’t mean to get caught up.”

The girl’s eyes narrow. “Oh. Sorry—I didn’t know you were—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in, unkind, sipping on some of your beer before smiling at her “But now you do.”

She excuses herself fast, face tight, heels clicking back toward the shadows she came from.

Toji turns toward you, still holding on like it’s just the natural thing to do, even if your head shoots away from his shoulder instantly.

“Babe?” he repeats, amused.

Oh you want him.

You shrug, trying to play it off like your heart isn’t doing acrobatics in your ribcage. “I panicked.”

“That was hot,” he says plainly. “You got a little mean in you.”

You pull back just enough to see the look on his face. Half impressed, half something else you don’t wanna name. You simply sip on some more of your beer.

“Don’t get used to it,” you say. “You can’t survive here if you ain’t mean”

Toji hums like he agrees, but his eyes haven’t left yours—not really. He lifts his beer and clinks the rim of it lightly against yours, like a toast without words. You both drink in sync, long pulls that drain half the cup in one go. It goes down easy, sharp and cold, numbing the edges of whatever that little scene stirred up between you.

“Let’s get outta here,” you say after a beat, voice low, head tipping toward the lot’s exit.

“Before I start a fight just to watch you finish it.”

Toji jokes, but you don’t need convincing in this setting. The heat’s still clinging to your back, sweat drying sticky beneath your tank top, grease on your skin catching the green light of the overhead bulb like armor. You’re tired, wired, and suddenly hyper aware of how close Toji is walking beside you.

Of course you’d give him anything he asks for right now.

However, you’ve got a daughter at home, no need to get tougher and end up with a new set of mugshots.

Toji just grins, like he can read your mind again, drinking the rest of his beer like he’s hot nothing to apologise about. Like he knows you would pick a fight for him.

By the time you toss the empty cups into a trash barrel and slide into your car, the lot’s almost dead. Only the die-hards remain, arguing over borrowed tires and split winnings. Toji settles into the passenger seat like he’s done it a hundred times, arm slung lazily over the back of your seat. His thigh brushes yours when you shift gears. Neither of you mention it.

The engine rumbles to life with a low, satisfied growl.

You’re halfway back to your place, cutting through city streets that still buzz with leftover adrenaline. The windows are cracked, the cool night air threading through sweat-slicked skin. Your hands are still loose on the wheel, fingers flexing now and then, like your body hasn’t figured out the race is over, like you’re drifting still for the final price.

Toji’s in the passenger seat, silent in that way of his. Not tense, not uncomfortable—just… watching. Legs spread like he owns the floor space. Arm braced against the door. He glances over every so often, and every so often you feel it burn into the side of your face.

You let him smoke inside your car and you do too, silently, only asking for his lighter every now and then.

You pull up to a red light. One of those long ones, the kind that sits forever like it’s waiting for something to happen. Toji exhales slowly. And you take it as a sign he’s trying not to say something.

You cut a look at him, not letting it slide. “What?”

“Nothing….You’re a good driver.”

You scoff. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

He hums, lazy. “You get cocky when you win.”

“You get quiet when you want something.”

That earns you a look. A real one. And he turns in his seat, just a little, so he’s angled toward you more than the road.

The light is still red.

And your fingers are tightening slightly on the wheel, but your chest is stupidly loud. Stupidly full. You expect the next moment like you knew it would happen the second you chose that good tasting lip gloss.

Toji reaches over—slow, deliberate—and brushes a stray piece of hair from your cheek with the tips of his fingers and slides across the underline of your jawline. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets his fingers rest there, at the middle of your chin, light as breath. He’s giving you a chance to stop him, when he knows you won’t.

You don’t.

He leans in. Not fast, not hesitant either. Just sure.

You meet him halfway.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy and warm, your lips a little dry despite the lip gloss, the center console pressing awkwardly into your ribs—but none of it matters.

It’s his hand coming up to cradle your jaw, it’s the taste of the night still clinging to both of you, the ash and spice and sugar from juice boxes and late dinners. It’s heat that doesn’t come from the engine.

His lips press hungrily against yours, dangerously, fuelled with the intention to bruise as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth the second he feels you try to pull back.

He bites down, hard enough to draw blood and smiles against your lips when you pull back.

The light turns green.

You don’t move. The road is empty anyway. You simply kiss him again, more fiercely than how you initially did and Toji knows—he knows he calculated right. So he kisses you softer, pressing his face into you, his nose bunching as it collides with your cheek.

Toji breaks first, resting his forehead against yours. Breathing heavier than before. “Shit,” he mutters. “You taste so good, you’re gonna get me in trouble.”

You blink, trying not to smile from your nervousness. You’re flustered and taken aback.

He laughs under his breath.

And when you drive off again, neither of you say much—but your hand stays close to the gearshift, and his stays a little too close to yours.

The city hums low outside, golden streetlights stretching across the windshield like molten wire. Your hand shifts gears, heart hammering like you’re still at the start line of a race. Toji hasn’t leaned all the way back yet—still angled toward you, one arm draped over his seat like he might reach for you again, if the car hits another red light.

But you don’t stop this time. You keep driving, one hand firm on the wheel, the other resting just close enough to his thigh that your pinky keeps brushing the denim of his jeans every time you shift. Neither of you talk. It’s thick in the air now—this thing, this pull.

He finally breaks the silence. Quiet. Low.

“I’ve got an idea”

You huff, trying to play it cool even though your chest feels like it’s glowing. “Like what?”

Toji’s mouth curves into something crooked. He doesn’t ask if he can, doesn’t ask if he should, hell he doesn’t even keep any form of good manners as he shoves his foot out of the window, manspreads even further into your car and then turn to you. He runs his fingers down your neck and hisses, edging low, low, low to the v line of your halter top.

You gulp. Hands twitching on the gearshift and the steering wheel, sparing him a look. Partly because you're scared he’s going to leave a stamp of his shoe in your car, partly because whatever idea he has you know is wicked.

You’d be stupid not to see the bulge print between his legs. And you love the way he touches you smoothly, like water, as he trails his hand over your shoulder, your bicep.

“Gimme your hand” he mutters and you wish he was testing the waters but he isn’t. He snatches your hand, like it’s his to take. “Just tell me when to switch gears”

You don’t answer. You can’t—not without sounding like an idiot, and you’d rather crash this car than let him know just how much that kiss scrambled your thoughts. You shrug instead, eyes making an actual effort to stay on the road, not on his lap, where your hand stands as a prisoner.

He runs his fingers through yours, guides your hand between his legs and urges you to feel. What you’ve done to him. With acting badass, your outfit, the way you kissed him. The way you try to not make it obvious that you want him.

And just like he predicted, you rush. To untangle your fingers, try and work his zippers down, but he’s allowed you to think you’re dominant for way too long.

This is his territory now.

He squeezes your hand like it’s punishment and growls at you. Then he unbuckles his belt and his trousers come shortly after, he takes your hand again and turns his head to you so fast that you can’t help but look back, magnetised by what he’s going to do next.

Toji stares into your eyes and smirks before bringing your palm to his mouth and sticks his tongue out. You feel how hot and wet his breath is when he inches your hand closer and finally after gathering all the spit that’s in his mouth onto his tongue— he licks it.

He shoves your hand into his boxers so quick that you don’t even manage to notice when he even shifts the gearstick.

“Look at the state you’ve got me in.” His voice is raspy, his smirk widening as you feel his hot, hard length throbbing against your palm. “Move your hand” He demands, his voice leaving no room for arguing. “Now.”

His smirk turns into a full-blown grin as he watches you try to focus on driving while his hand guides yours along his length underneath his boxers. “Mhm? Keep driving then.” He challenges softly against your ear before nipping at it playfully.

You burn the next red light.

Your heart is palpitating everywhere in your body, pumping in adrenaline and save for feeling the excitement of fulfilling this dirty little fantasy you’ve always had, you convince yourself whatever’s happening right now is because Toji is pumping in adrenaline too. Be it from the race or that facade you had on. Maybe it’s even the fact that you called him baby, to save him from getting cornered by someone random.

Maybe you gave him the wrong impression.

Or maybe you gave him the correct one.

Νο matter what you overthink, on your left, Toji throws his head back, laughing darkly as you keep driving, his hand moving your wrist in quick, jerky movements along his length. He’s so hard it’s almost painful, and the fact that you’re trying to focus on the road while he’s being jacked off is only making him harder.

He lets out a low groan, his hips bucking slightly as you continue to stroke him. He leans back in his seat, one hand gripping the gear stick tightly while the other guides your movements, until your hands entangle.

"Fuck... keep going." His voice is strained, and he bites his lip to suppress another moan.

You feel it, how the hem of his boxers is getting wetter by the second. Your hand moves quick and rough, and unbeknownst to you it’s just how he likes it. He watches your profile, your expression as you drive. Lips pursed tight even if your lip gloss remains strained.

He realizes you're good at multitasking– handling a car and jacking him off without causing an accident.

He spreads his legs wider unconsciously, giving you better access. His boxers are getting wetter and wetter with pre-cum. He watches your serious expression again– no smirk, just big doe eyes as you turn them over to his direction. Just driving and jacking him off like it's your job. He swallows hard.

"Baby..." he says, just to jab, sharp, like a wasp.

“You're so fucking good at this." He admits quietly, hips bucking slightly against your hand. He's so hard that your hand can't even close in its own fist, precum leaking from his tip in thick ropes. You move your hand rhythmically, up and down in a hammering motion, thumb barely brushing his tip every few strokes "Keep… fuck, i love that, don’t stop" He orders, softly.

His eyes roll back and the way you slam on the gas, serves as a promise not to stop.

You feel he's getting closer, as his breathing turns into shallow pants, his cock twitches in your hand. He can feel his balls tightening when he moves past your hand to grasp them; at that, his length throbs in your hand.

He reaches out blindly with his free hand, grabbing onto your thigh tightly -so very tightly that you think it’s inhuman- as if anchoring himself. "Fuck... I'm gonna come..." He warns hoarsely.

You don’t answer him—not out loud, anyway. You just take the next turn off the main road, rip your hand off him so you can change the gear, tires skimming gravel as you pull into a side lot behind an old batting cage that’s been closed for years.

Toji audibly protests at the lack of the warmth of your hand, but shuts up, the second you pull the e-break.

Wherever you even are, everything on sight is a wreck. The fence is half fallen, the floodlights dead, and it's only the view of the city that glitters over the rise like it was lit just for you.

You kill the engine, but neither of you move.

Toji raises an eyebrow, eyes scanning the dark lot and you unbuckle your seatbelt so fucking fast, he thinks you could outmatch his own speed.

You pounce onto him, feet moving faster than your brain just to straddle him and your hands wrap around his neck like it’s instinct.

"Oh fuck-" He gasps when you suddenly attack him, his back hitting the seat as you straddle him. His hands immediately go to your waist, gripping it tightly as he looks up at you with slant eyes. Aroused.

You answer that look.

“You okay?” you ask, voice smaller than you mean for it to be.

He nods, once. Then leans in slow. Like he’s giving you the chance to stop him again. But when you touch your lips to his, you’re practically telling him you don’t want to stop him.

This time, the kiss is heavier. More certain. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek like he’s mapping the shape of your face. He tastes like spice and smoke and something sweeter —your lipgloss— as you’re pulling him closer, chests colliding against each other.

You grind your hips on him and the second you feel his throbbing cock catch your clit through your panties, a moan escapes you.

You breathe in through your nose, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. It’s too much and not enough. His teeth graze your bottom lip and you hum into it, letting your hand slide up to his shoulder, just to feel the strength there, to anchor yourself before your body forgets it has a shape at all.

He pulls back only slightly, eyes half-lidded, his forehead brushing yours. His gaze fixated on the way your skirt has bunched up on your hips and his hands come, strong and firm to work you onto him.

You blink at him, lips parted.

You moan but the sound never makes it to fruition— only because your mouth is too busy finding his again.

And in this quiet, empty lot, under a broken streetlight and the hum of the city beyond, you kiss Toji like you don’t care how complicated things will get. Like you don’t know him for a week, like it isn't your second time seeing him.

You’ll allow yourself to feel wanted, you’ll break the celibacy oath to yourself in shreds, You'll feel alright with actually participating into your new life in this new country.

Maybe for once, tonight doesn’t need to make sense. You’re allowed to want something just because it’s yours to want.

And right now, he’s all yours.

You don’t know how long you’re kissing him. Minutes? Hours? Your sense of time slips between the cracks of his hands, the press of his mouth, the warm pulse in your chest that keeps rising, higher and higher, like your body’s chasing something it doesn’t have words for.

Toji shifts closer, pushes further and suddenly there’s nowhere else to go. The center console might as well not exist with how he leans across it, hand skimming your thigh like he’s testing the weight of permission. You suck in a breath, every nerve in your leg lighting up under his palm.

He pauses.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low. Rough around the edges. “If you want to.”

You don’t. You really, really don’t. But the way he asks—the fact that he does ask—hits you somewhere deep.

You shake your head. “Don’t stop”

That’s all he needs.

His hand squeezes lightly at your thigh before it starts to travel, slow, deliberate, like he’s relearning anatomy by feel. You arch slightly and suddenly you're met with the feeling of your dashboard on your back.

Now that you're all cornered, he smirks, the pads of his fingers tracing a slow, ghostly line over the centre of your panties. You squirm at the teasing, yet as to make you suffer further, he presses his pointer finger flat onto your clit and moves left and right as agonisingly slow as he could.

You’ve never been one to plead, and you definitely can’t think of the right honorific to do it right now, but you squirm again and he knows what you want.

He pushes your panties to the side and fuck, even that is too hot because he did it.

“Fuuh- pretty pussy”

Your stomach flips. It shouldn’t be allowed, how his voice sounds like sin itself when it drops like that. You roll your hips just a little, testing as you grab both hands around his cock and urge it towards your slit. He catches the shift with a low noise in his throat.

He mutters softly, something almost inaudible, watching your hips roll experimentally. Surely, the hand he intended to grab around your throat grabs the base of his cock and pays no mind to your hold on him as he slaps his bulging head once, twice over your pushed open lips.

His smirk widens as he realizes how sensitive you are— how your body reacts to the smallest movements. He pushes your thighs wider apart with his knees, spreading you lewdly on the dashboard.

"Fucking hell..." He groans, his fingers tracing your entrance lightly before he pushes two fingers inside you. You're so wet that it's almost obscene, and he can't help but let out a low, appreciative noise. "You want my cock in here instead?"

He groans, low in his throat and fuck there’s a vein even there, watching you nod your head. He pulls down his pants as much as he can and he's already hard again. Harder than before, as if that's even physically possible.

“Ma, speak up”

“It’s just, I’ve never” you stutter, words getting caught in your throat for what you’re about to say “I’ve never had sex in Japanese”

Toji clicks his tongue, an amused chuckle coming from his chest, he looks at the mess between his and your legs, how you’ve practically drenched his cock already with how wet you are and speaks “‘S fine, we don’t gotta talk”

He guides his tip to your entrance, pushing inside slightly, watching your reaction. "You okay?"

You nod—hum, whatever. You don’t even know how you respond, but somehow you do.

He pushes in, just barely below the tip before he decides this isn’t going to work if he doesn’t spread open your pussy, so he pushes out, gets his thumbs to work and pushes in again with a loud hiss.

When he tosses his head back, he's reminded he is in a car, with minimal space.

Not that it’d stop him anyway.

He ruts into you slowly, giving you just a little time to adjust to that monstrous size of his before he bullies his cock all the way inside you with a smug smile. Whatever’s left of you that’s not spent, squirms.

You cry out slightly, claws scratching his shoulders, digging through the fabric of his shirt.

Toji groans, his hips moving faster. He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours as he fucks harder into you with half thrusts.

"God, you're fucking squeezing me perfectly..." He grunts. And it’s the truth, your walls flutter and tighten around him with every single move and you're shaking, your legs are shaking when he hits that spongy spot inside you.

For a while there are fast, needy hands everywhere. Around your neck, through your hair, over the outline of your breasts and waist and squelching sounds fill the silence of the car until it’s no more there.

"You're going to make me come way too fast, you know that?" His lips brush your ear, words coming out despite his suggestion as he latches himself into the soft skin of your neck, not to suck, but to bite. His teeth sinking into your skin in synch of that numbing feeling his cock stirs in you.

You’re already whimpering in protest as he finally wraps his lips around the painful spot on the side of your neck, swiping his tongue around it in smoothing motions.

"How close are you?"

“Mhm-‘m not close yet." You pant and earn another deep chuckle.

Toji, spent on your words like it's personal now, reaches between your bodies instantly, his fingers finding your clit. He starts rubbing circles around it, matching the pace of his thrusts. "Better now?” He growls softly.

You slur an inaudible ‘yes’ and then a ‘more’

"You're so fucking needy..." He hisses, his fingers picking up speed.

He leans down to suck on your neck— no your collarbone, biting gently as he hammers his dick inside you harder, faster. And fuck, maybe it’s the pull of the moment and your dizzy head but you feel like your car might actually break with how hard his thrusts are.

You’re too far gone, drunk into this moment like your body won’t stop wanting more and more from him with every buck of his hips. You push back the splitting pain of his girth, past the sound of skin clapping on skin and Toji groans, his thumb pressing down on your clit as his fingers continue to circle it.

“‘S too good”

"Damn it..." He laughs softly, his hips snapping forward harder into you.

He feels just how sensitive you are there, so he hits that spot again and again and again. Fingers spreading your pussy lips apart slightly, giving him better access and rubbing your clit faster.

You like it more than you want to admit, you like being spread open and played with, you love the way he drags his tongue to whatever skin is exposed from your chest and this angle— it’s him hitting all the right spots all at once that makes that knot in your lower stomach tighten.

“Fuck, you're killing me..." He adds a third finger to your clit, pressing down hard, way too fast as he thrusts deep and holds himself there, grinding against you. "There it is... right fucking there..." His voice is strained as he watches your face contort with pleasure.

You don't even care to fix your face to make it sexy, make it appealing; your lips are open in the shape of an ‘o’, your eyes are closed and there’s surely a bead of sweat forming at the edge of your hairline, ready to run down your forehead.

And Toji thinks, with his eyes snapped wide open, that this is definitely a sight for sore eyes. You're just like he likes his girls. Raw, desperate. Chasing your release while being split on his cock.

He feels you clamp down around him and almost loses it completely, unable to even hold it for even a second. His hips start to jackhammer against yours as he moans against your chest, one hand coming to grab onto the hair at the base of your neck.

"That's it, fuck yes, come for me..." he orders —All the while, his fingers keep that perfect pressure on your clit, making your legs shake. He can feel you're there, before you even do.

He keeps his fingers moving on your clit, feeling your body convulse with pleasure as you come undone above him, hips spasming and thighs clenching hard enough for you to get cramps. Toji watches your face, eyes and mind mesmerized by the way your eyes roll to the back of your head and your mouth opens in a silent scream.

“Goddamn..." He lets out a deep groan, one hand still grounding your hips way too harshly as his thrusts become faster, his hips loose at the feeling of drenching him, sogging his cock into you "Fuck...Fuck yeah..."

He pulls out abruptly, making you gasp at the loss of being stuffed to the brick. He grabs his cock, and you widen your eyes at just how hard it is. You only watch, lazily and out of breath as he aligns his tip with your clit and starts jerking himself off quickly. His face contorts in an expression of pleasure similar to yours as he gets closer.

"Fuck..." He's barely holding back his own orgasm as he watches his cock head rub against you, messily parting your pussy lips with each slide.

Back and forth. Left and right.

If the sight of you coming was too much, if it burned like hell, then this? This is purgatory.

"I'm gonna " His breathing is ragged, he's moving between your folds faster, grabbing your hand to guide it through giving the last few strokes before release "You're making me- fuck! Im gonna cum"

It’s on cue after that. The way he moans betrays him, the way he lazily slows down his pace and pushes his hips so far up that your head collides with the roof of the car, the way he says that sudden, deep ‘fuuuuuck’, it all adds up to him, coming undone. Spurting hot strings of cum against your clit and your thighs, even the hem of your skirt and your side pulled panties.

Between heavy breaths, his eyes move down your body, where you're wet with his cum, your sleek and an excessive amount of sweat, watching as his cum drips down between your legs.

"Fucking hell that was so good..." he sighs and slides a finger through the mess on your clit, making you flinch with oversensitivity, deciding to be a gentleman for a second and pull your panties back to their original place.

But truly— it’s just so he won’t get hard again after watching the mess he's made out of your pussy.

And then, gently, flustered and spent, while he's trying to catch his breath, he leans in to kiss your neck gently.

You don’t protest, being fucked out of your goddamn mind, as he pats your ass, giving you a little squeeze that is accompanied with a sinister chuckle, signaling you to get up.

He curses whatever demon possesses him to lean towards you, while buckling his pants closed, to peck you, especially because he catches you off guard– you don’t even manage to turn your head toward him when he catches the left corner of your mouth with his lips.

Your goddamn skin is too soft, too youthful. He wishes that side of his own mouth was as kissable as yours.

“This,” he says against your mouth, “this is exactly what I thought would happen when you showed up lookin’ like that.”

____

The ride back is quieter now that you’re all dressed neatly and into the driver’s seat, because you’re trying to ignore the actual ache of being split open, between your legs.

At least this silence– it’s simmering, not awkward. It’s the kind of quiet that hums with all the things neither of you are saying, thick with adrenaline and aftershocks and something else you don’t quite want to name.

Toji hasn’t spoken, touched you, or cracked a joke in five minutes, which might just be a record. He’s slouched in the passenger seat, one arm resting on the door, the other draped over his thigh, hand flexing like he’s still feeling the echo of your touch. His eyes keep flicking to you, sharp and unreadable.

You pull into his street, slowing to a crawl near the curb outside his building. The streetlight flickers above you, spilling just enough yellow light into the car to catch the sharp set of his jaw.

“Here we are” you announce, hand cradling the side of your face.

He doesn’t move to open the door.

Instead, he clears his throat and you can already tell he’s thinking way too hard.

“Hey…” he starts and you glance over at him, laced with curiosity “Can I crash at yours tonight?”

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

#self reblog #y’all read this or no notion pt2

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strawberry-nugget · 1 day ago

Text

katsuki will pull away from a full blown, steamy, hot makeout session, cheeks red and heaving with his full chest while gripping your sides, and will genuinely ask you if you still love him.

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strawberry-nugget · 1 day ago

Text

Im sorry

Every single song IS about you

now that my broken bones all have been healed—

kirishima x reader

wc: 11.2k+

warnings: reader is a parent, feels the pressures of being a good one, kirishima is so darn cute that it's ridiculous, tooth-rotting fluff

part two >>>

—i think i'm starting to feel

The first time Koji mentions him, you don’t think anything of it.

“Red Riot says I’m gonna be strong and manly, mama.” Already he’s blinking hard and slow, with his parted lips and wild hair. At the sight of him in your rearview mirror, you turn up the soft music playing over the car radio, nodding to him as if he can see you.

Red Riot, Red Riot, Red Riot…

The frame of a man is built as you think of the hero in question, all jagged edges and harsh corners, a blank face you can’t color in. A commercial about hair gel, all over shirts in the boys section of the department store, taking up one, red wall in the toy aisle; there are places you know you’ve seen him, but Koji hasn’t ever brought him up before, that you can remember, and he’s your only real source of knowledge about the popular heroes these days.

“Did he?” The car line for his kindergarten pick-up is long, so you sigh and turn around to look at him. “He’s right, I’m sure you will.”

But his eyes are already closed.

The second time Koji mentions him, you don’t think anything of it.

It’s the kind of very rare Saturday that has you up early, stove on and eggs cooking over it. Koji is all yours this weekend — though he’ll be with his dad next week — and your co-worker agreed to take your shift so you could enjoy some quality time with your little man.

It’s not unusual for your son to stroll out of bed really, really early, so it doesn’t surprise you when he comes from his room, drool still on his cheeks, and grabs the television remote from the coffee table. What does surprise you, however, is the attire Koji has dressed himself in.

The Christmas sweater is All Might themed and from last year, but it’s bright red and he’s only got some red undies on underneath. It reminds you how much he’s grown since the holidays; the sleeves barely reach his wrists and his little tummy is sticking out at the bottom.

“Morning, honey bee.” You say, smiling at him when he smacks his lips and looks up at you. After he hits the power button on the remote, he silently comes to you, yawning still, and stands on your feet until you heave him up onto your hip. Nishida says you shouldn’t carry him so much anymore, since he’s five now, but you don’t care. There are only a handful of moments you have left with your son like this, so you just kiss his head and let him lay it against your collarbone, even if you are struggling to support his weight.

“Mama,” another yawn. “I wanna watch Mighty Friends.”

Plus Ultra: Mighty Adventures with Mighty Friends! is a cartoon for the newer generation, though it still wields All Might as the Symbol of Peace in all his chibi glory. It’s a cute little show, one that airs every Saturday, and it’s not necessarily an origin story, but All Might pops back and forth between his hero persona and regular, thin figure. A lot of the up and coming heroes are featured, usually coming in at the moment of disaster to help All Might—who talks a lot about real strength and determination, even as blood comes from his mouth—with a conveniently specific quirk for the kind of villain tearing up the town.

Koji has never asked for it by name, but if you put it on, it’ll capture enough of his short attention span to keep him still for at least two fifteen minute episodes.

“That sounds like a good idea.” The eggs are just about done, so you move them to a cold burner (they’ll finish cooking in the pan) and carry him to the couch across from the television.

When he’s sleepy like this, it’s easy to cradle him like he’s still your little, bitty baby. Koji doesn’t resist when you sit him up, back against your chest as his legs dangle over your knees. It’s not hard to find the show—even though Koji isn’t a huge fan, it’s quite popular—and you flip to it just as All Might takes the screen to shout his catchphrase.

Koji is a rambunctious five year old boy and it shows in every aspect of him; of course he likes heroes, though there hasn’t been a singular one he’s attached himself to. Maybe All Might, a little bit, but the media is still so saturated with him, just like the toy aisles and birthday supply stores, it’s hard for kids not to latch onto the retired hero. Your son has most of the popular hero action figures and he knows them all by name, makes them fight in the bath, but he doesn’t love any of them.

Just as chibi Deku comes across the screen in all his emerald glory, Koji sits up and starts pulling at his hair, like he’s trying to make it stick out at a number of wild angles. A laugh track plays when the freckled figure trips over his own feet, turning beet red when All Might pats him on the head. Koji turns to look at you, a smile on his face like he thought it was funny, too.

“Mama, look.” He points to the television, but you just smile at him.

“He’s a little clumsy, huh?”

Koji nods and turns back to watch as more of the new heroes pour onto the screen, all meeting and talking about whatever problem is at hand. Sitting on the couch had been a mistake, because now your eyes are closing, rolling back into your skull as you get more comfortable.

“Red Riot!” The sound of your son’s voice jolts you upright, just as he jumps from your lap to move closer to the television. Sleep is still heavy upon him, his voice a little croaky as he holds his fist in the air. The red hero comments "so manly!” on something Deku says, something about working together, that asking someone for help is brave. Koji whips around to smile at you again, a little brighter than the one he’d given you during the laugh track. This one is genuine.

So is yours.

—

The third and fourth time Koji mentions him, you start to realize something is up.

Nishida is meeting you in the parking lot of your local supermarket—sans cute, blonde Hatano, the girlfriend you found out about through your son—and the car has just stopped when the back door flings open. Koji is absolutely, totally not strapped into his fucking car seat, which nearly makes you lose it when his dad steps out to grin at you.

But Koji’s hair is gelled up in four different angles, pointing off his head in spikes so sharp that they almost take your eye out when he bounds into your arms. The sight of your son is enough to kick away your worries for the moment, to lower the flame that roars up, and you only clear your throat and smile at him.

You won’t give Nishida this, you won’t indulge the lecture he’d probably been expecting.

“What in the world has happened to your hair?” A laugh even comes from you when Koji shakes his head, eager to show you how stiff it is.

Nishida shrugs, smelling like the cigarette smoke you’d noticed on your son's shirt last weekend. “The kid wanted hair like Crimson Riot’s.”

The kid.

Fuck, he’s really pushing it.

“No, dad!” Koji swivels in your arms and shakes about, suddenly insistent on being put down. When he’s on the ground, he crosses his arm across his chest, straightening his hands to be as stiff as his hair. “Red Riot has hair like this!”

“Oh, yeah, Red Riot.” Nishida scratches his beard and smiles. “Do you remember Crimson Riot? He’s, like, old or whatever. Guess this new kid is his replacement.”

Steam is coming out of your ears, but you just cross your arms behind your back so Koji’s dad can’t see the fists you're making. “Hmm. Not sure. Koji just started talking about him last week.”

The kid in question starts standing on his dad’s feet, grabbing at his biceps in a silent plea to be picked up.

Nishida just pinches Koji's nose. “Tell me about it, he wouldn’t be quiet about the guy all weekend.” Koji swats at him, shouting unbreakable! as he crosses his arms again. “Making me think you love him more than your dear old dad. It wounds me, kid!”

There are many things you can’t stand about Nishida Heizo, but when Koji gives him a funny look, when he puts his hands on his little hips before hugging your ex-boyfriends leg, you can’t help but smile. It’s been a long week without your little man and you’re more than ready to have him back in the apartment. The absence of him had been abundantly loud, seeping out from his dark bedroom and into your lonely heart, but the sight of his bright, amber eyes light up your own.

“Gonna have to find this guy, kick his butt.”

Koji crosses his arms for real and sends his dad a serious glare, one that resembles the exact look you gave Nishida when he’d gotten out of the car. Your ex-boyfriend seems to notice this because he points to your son, then at you, and then rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Dad, Red Riot would totally kill you.”

“Hey,” you frown, squatting down as you pinch Koji’s cheeks lightly. “I don’t think Red Riot kills anyone, heroes don’t kill. Why’re you saying that, anyway?”

The first movie date Nishida had ever taken you to had been some exploding, flaming, blood-filled action film; it's not hard to figure out where this vocabulary word came from. Koji's dad is standing there, open and staring at you, waiting for the lecture you want to tear him open with, but you won’t indulge him. No matter how much you want to.

Koji ignores you—he must hear the stern tone lingering in your voice—and instead focuses on karate chopping his dad in the leg.

Half a decade of emotional distress is just begging to come out and swallow the three of you in the parking lot, so you try not to look at Nishida. You shake Koji’s arm lightly, tugging him a little closer to you. “We have a few things to get here, honey bee.”

It takes another awkward fifteen minutes for Koji to bid his dad goodbye, too used to the scratch of his facial hair, the callousness of his words from the long week. The routine is so heartbreakingly familiar at this point, so he doesn’t cry, not like he used to, but he does ask if your ex-boyfriend can come in the store with you (Nishida gains a point then: you’re too quick to say no). It’s weighing on him a little, though, and you can tell by the quiet way he sits in the cart as you wheel him down aisle after aisle. Absent-mindedly, he picks at the sticker on the bunch of bananas in his lap.

Koji doesn’t speak until you turn down the cereal aisle. The fruit goes flying against the front of the cart as he climbs to unsteady feet, the weight of his little body jolting it forward just a bit, as he shouts,

“Mom! Red Riot cereal!”

Sure enough, the recent center of your son's attention is outfitted in his heroic red, hands on his hips as he stands with broad and proud shoulders. The box of corn flakes is traditionally orange, but it’s as crimson as the shorts your son wears, and the box advertises a brand new flavor(!). When you flip the box to look at the back, Red Riot is holding a bowl in his own hands, sharp teeth digging into a too-perfect strawberry. Packed with iron and 5 other vitamins, Kellogg’s Corn Flakes are the manliest way to start your morning!

Up close, you can finally color in the parts of his face you couldn’t recall. It’s no different than the rest of him, the skin that isn't covered by his headgear; sharp, jagged, tan. It’s a wonder how such an angular man can look so friendly, wrapped in red and wielding teeth that could pierce flesh as easily as they do fruit. But Koji loves him, suddenly, and he’s reaching for the box in your hands.

Usually your son doesn’t eat cereal if it doesn't have two cups of sugar in it, is multi colored and loaded up with vibrant marshmallows. Besides the dried strawberries, Red Riot's riveting new cereal is just cornflakes and Koji is not going to eat them.

You send him a curious look. “Koji, don’t you want that fruity cereal you had last time? You really liked it.”

“I want this one!” The smile is blinding, even more so than that of the—presumably—photoshopped one his hero wears. “It’s Red Riot cereal. It says,” Koji is still learning to read and he narrows his little eyes at the words, running his finger underneath them as he sounds the letters out quietly. After a minute, he spins the box to show you, impatient. “Red Riot says, ‘eat this to be a hero!’”

A hum comes from your chest as you nod, taking the box from his hands. “Is that what it says? Honey—you aren’t gonna eat these, let’s just get the fruity cereal. The one with the lion on it, like last time?”

Emotions are still high due to the parting from his father and a pout comes easier, heavier, on his lips than it should. The logical mom part of you wants to stand your ground—he’s not going to eat the cereal, he’s gonna assure you he will, only to leave it soggy and sitting on your table.

But the soft part of you—the one that’s been away from your son for five long days—wants to kiss that pout right from his lips.

That part of you earns a point; you put the box back in Koji’s hands, sighing when he sits back down on the bananas, hugging it to his chest.

—

The fifth time Koji mentions him, you decide to ask him about it.

The third button on your blouse is missing and has been since your son put his toys in the dryer, apparently letting them experience the wrath of Shoto after getting captured (though you doubt the hero would wrap the villains in a tornado of fire and Ingenium undies). If you bend too far, your bellybutton shows and you’ve asked your boss for a new shirt ever since it happened—three weeks ago—but you’ve yet to receive it.

Koji must get his stubbornness from you; you refuse to buy a new one, especially since your boss promised to supply you with one. You would never admit to passing that trait onto your son, however, as it would only result in another point for Nishida.

There are pillows on the floor in your living room and your son is laying on top of them, wrapped in the end of his blanket as he watches the television on his stomach. Behind him, your mom is sitting on the couch with a romance novel in her hands (Secrets of the King, a golden crown sitting on a pair of discarded gloves, a red lip print stained over the white silk). She won’t open it and read it until you’ve gone, and she looks between you and Koji, peeking over her glasses in such a grandma way, you want to tease her for it.

“I’m supposed to work until we close, so maybe eleven?” You answer her, shifting on your feet as you wiggle into your slacks. “But you know how those people are—sometimes they want to stay after hours and Takata will let them, like he always does.”

“Eleven? That’s really late.” Lines form around the frown on her face, lines you’ll one day inherit. “Did you call that place I told you about, the office job?”

“Yes, they just haven’t called me back.”

That’s a lie. Shortly after your mother had forwarded you the link to the company website, you had spent about 30 minutes calculating out your monthly salary, how much you already spent on Koji and yourself, and realized it just wouldn’t be enough.

It’s not that you and your son were struggling, not at all; the two of you lived just fine in your apartment, on the second floor, and Koji even had a room and closet of his own, enough space for a dresser and a play table for his Legos. There is a personal bathroom connected to your room, one with a nice, large tub, and the kitchen was big enough that you and your mother could cook together, side by side, if you wanted. Koji went to a nice school close by, he got new clothes every time you got rid of some, and he got the gifts he so desired (in a responsible sense, of course; you weren't throwing toys at him left and right). Not once had your son ever gone to bed hungry, not once.

There was a time when you were staring down an empty apartment with a new baby in your arms and you had been sure you couldn’t do it, not without Nishida, but here you were, four years later. It had taken a lot of hard work to get to this place, this apartment, this living room with Koji, and you would do it all again, if need be, for your son. The workings of your daily life as a single mother were a well oiled machine, there was a schedule and a purpose to every small decision you made, and the truth was that you just didn’t have room for any changes.

Much as you disliked the teppanyaki restaurant you worked at, it was high class and you were always receiving decent tips on the tickets from customers you trash talked in the kitchen while grabbing another bottle of sake. The worst part about it was how much it weighed on your own self confidence, being a venue that took pride in the “servitude” of its employees, of the “elegance” to their appearance. All you wanted to do was pour more wine in a glass, not be judged—openly—for your etiquette.

The white blouse you’re required to wear has a gold lined collar and your slacks have to be freshly ironed, pressed and looking as black as night. Jewellery is alright, as long as it is small and classy, of course, but you always forgo that so you can fasten a peach clip against the pieces of your hair that don’t slick back enough. When you cast a glance at your mother, she’s frowning, clearly unhappy with your night shift.

“How do I look, honey bee?”

Koji looks from the television before sticking his little thumb up at you. At the sight of you pulling on your shoes, he seems to realize something, shouting mama, wait! before sliding across the floor in his long (red) socks and disappearing into his room. When he comes back to you, there is a crumpled piece of paper in his hands, one stained with grape juice.

“What’s this, a love letter for me?” It’s stuck to itself and you do your best not to rip it. When it finally folds open, you furrow your eyebrows a little—you haven’t bought grape juice in a few weeks.

“I need you to mail it to Red Riot.”

The handwriting is in crayon and all Koji’s, though it’s clear he’d had help with writing it all out (Nishida, +1), and it’s addressed to the famed hero himself.

Red Riot, when are you going to train with me like you said? My name is Nishida Koji and I am 5.

Much to your horror, the note also includes the address to your apartment (Nishida, -1), which leads you to re-read the words over and over again, three more times. Train with me like you said? Koji is none the wiser to your confusion, eyes back on the puppy television show playing in the background as you try to make sense of his little letter.

Theories are bouncing around in your brain; the sudden obsession with this Repeat Riot has come from nowhere, it seems. Sure, Koji had been excited about receiving his action figure at his birthday last year and the hero has been in a multitude of battles in the bathtub, fighting off Sugarman and the whirlpool created by the drain, but he’s never shown him any special attention. Until now.

The one concept that scares you the most is the one your frazzled brain clings to: like you said must mean that someone dressed like Red Riot approached Koji, somewhere, and tried to—

—well, they must have tried to—

—lure him, your sweet Koji. Pull him into an alleyway and snatch him up, like a fucking pervert. Maybe even asked your baby for his address so he could slip through the windows while you slept in the other room, oblivious to the horror befalling your home.

The devastation sweeping across your life.

“Koji, did you give Red Riot your address?” When you grab him by the arm, his eyes go wide, the way they do when you speak to him in that you’re-in-big-trouble-mister voice. At the sight of his face, you try to at least appear calm. “Did you tell him where you live, honey?”

“He’s supposed to teach me to use my quirk.”

The intensity of your mother’s gaze is burning the side of your face and you can feel the uncomfortable weight of her disappointment and confusion building in your own chest, the same weight that stays too long after you return from work, the same weight that wants to talk in the kitchen while Koji sleeps. The same weight, with the lines around her frown, that questions the kind of mother you are.

“Who?” She asks.

When Koji turns to look at her, you’re quick to grab his chin and steer his face back to you. “Koji,” you try the sleepy-time voice, the one that tells him bedtime stories on the nights he crawls into your bed. “Did you tell Red Riot where we live?” No words escape him as he shakes his head. “When did Red Riot tell you he was going to train you? Where?”

“At school.”

The image of the hero is tarnished; you want to throw away the cereal box, block Mighty Friends from your channel list, and put the action figure in the dryer on ‘high heat’. It’s not actually his fault, but from this moment forward, you won’t be able to remove this fear from the sight of him on the billboards downtown. From this moment forward, those predatory teeth of his will be biting into Koji instead of that damned strawberry.

The first day, the one in the car, comes flying back to you and you make the connection from all the times the red hero has come up in the last two weeks. It makes your eyes burn with furious, terrified tears; some fucking weirdo had tried to take your precious, curious little—

The tone of your voice, which has deepened from fear, has him near tears, and you press your lips into a thin line as you grip the paper in your hands. It crinkles beneath your fist and you do your best to smile at him, clearing your throat as you lean away so that you can fold the letter and tuck it into your back pocket.

“I’ll send it to him, honey, I’ll make sure Red Riot gets it.” Koji’s face doesn’t lighten up. “But he’s a big time guy, okay? He might be too busy with hero stuff to come play.”

He’s already in a blue mood and your words only darken it. “But he said he would.”

“Who?” Your mom repeats, and the book is leaving her hands to be set on the coffee table, so she can round it and hold out her hand for the letter.

The last thing you need in this infuriatingly scary moment is her own disapproval shining in her eyes, on top of the lie about the office job. After work, you’ll make a point to rip the paper into the smallest shreds your fingers will allow, and you’ll drop half the pile off in one dumpster and then drive all the way across town to dump the rest in another; no Rotten Riot is going to find your Koji.

It bothers you all the way to the car, all the way to work and to the time clock, it bothers you at your first table and your second, your third, your forth. When you head to the back after the first two hours, you decide to put a point in Nishida’s hands: you type out a text asking him what in the ever loving fuck he was thinking, allowing your son to write a letter addressed to a stranger.

(Even if by some odd miracle it had ended up in the PR office for Red Riot himself, who knows where that letter could have gone? You have no doubt that his agency gets them all the time—maybe Ridiculous Red even reads them—but then what? Surely he doesn’t keep them in a drawer for later, so...the trash? For other scoundrels to find?)

But then you realize you are handing your ex-boyfriend way too many points, and you’re infuriated enough to entertain the thought that the fucker did it all just to spite you, just to see this exact reaction come across his notifications, and you cool down enough to just ask him if he knew what the letter to Red Riot had been about. The phone burns a hole in your pocket with your steaming impatience and your hands curl into fists when your coworker tells you table 57 wants another bottle of sake.

The amount of money left on the tickets for you is a mystery. You can’t find it in yourself to pay attention to hardly anything anyone is saying, you can only think about Koji in the street with a stranger, you can only think about the breeze that hits your belly button when you breathe too hard—which is constant; away from Koji’s eyes, your heart rate has increased, not helped by the anxiety of your job, and you’re panting. It feels as if your resolve is crumbling loudly, as if your chest is thumping hard enough to shake the entire building.

When you round the corner and stop by table 57, blue bottle in your hands, you can hardly focus on what they’re saying to you—it’s almost as if they aren’t saying anything at all. The night shines through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows behind you, decorative lanterns illuminating the street and the well-dressed patrons that cross it. Table 57 has six customers and when you begin to berate yourself for lacking concentration, you realize they are all already looking at you.

“I’m sorry?” The force of your smile has your cheeks hurting as you look each one of them in the eyes, your own widening as theirs do. They look suddenly nervous, then worried, and then your own grim attitude is manifesting on their face.

A woman at the table gasps. Two of the men jump from their seats to scramble away. Glasses break and plates smash. People start yelling.

The man in front of you is heavyset, round and purple with the extent it takes for his chest to heave in a breath, and his eyes are boring directly into yours, so hard that you can’t find it in yourself to look away. They’re green, so shiny and full of some emotion you can’t process that you can almost see your own reflection in them, you can see the matched expression that has taken over your own face. The exchange happens in a matter of seconds, but you could swear the two of you looked at each other for hours.

In your pocket, the phone vibrates.

The windows break just after you turn. They’re close enough to you that the shards of glass slice into the skin of your cheeks, the lines worrying your forehead, even your exposed ears. The sleeve of your shirt is torn and you’re already bleeding by the time you see the black, shiny car barreling over the tables and charging you. It’s creaking and cracking; it’s own windows have already broken, all six of them, and there is a large dent on one side, as if it had been rocketed forward by some mighty force. The side mirrors on the car have gone concave, folding back into the car with the amount of times it’s rolled against the ground, and the elegant dining room of KOBE turns into ground zero.

There wouldn’t have been time for you to react, not even if you’d turned around sooner, and the only thing you can think of as your death hurtles toward you is Koji.

The honey color of his eyes. The dimple in his right cheek. The sweet smell of his watermelon shampoo. The caress of his soft hair against your face in the middle of the night. The weight of him on your hip, on your back, in your belly. The white of all his little teeth when he laughs, the sound of it pure and innocent of any darkness from the world. His imagination, which has led to hundreds of his own bedtime stories, of his own hero and villain battles, of his own dreams (which he whispers to himself every night before he falls asleep).

He’ll be motherless in the blink of an eye; you should have hugged him tighter hours ago.

It’s on instinct that you close your eyes and the side of you that was exposed to the window is impacted violently, the firm wall of steel that sends you flying. The force is so strong that you can feel your bones move beneath your muscles before your body catches up, the way your shoulders extend completely outward before your head follows. There isn’t any pain, not at first, though you can hear the crack of your own bones as the table breaks underneath you��coating you in even more broken glass. The heavyset man hadn’t moved either. Someone is shouting for him.

When the chaos ends, there is only the creaking of broken steel, the grunting of the man beside you, and the weight of your end planted against your back.

For a solid few seconds, you’re sure you’re dead. Koji is an ever present background in the flash of life that blinds you. All the good moments in your life are of him and you’ll go out sobbing at the very thought of his sweet, round face.

But then another face is coming into your field of view, one you recognize but can’t place, and it’s speaking, saying “hey, hey, hey, don’t close your eyes”.

The pain is what makes you realize you’re still alive, the pain of your ribs and your neck, of your shoulder and forearm. The weight on you is not the car—which sits, beaten to all hell, only feet from you—but a man, with his fingers on your face, pulling your eyelids up. After a few moments, he moves his hands to your sternum and his eyes are wide, just as you imagine yours are.

“You gotta breathe, lady!” The tone of his voice is sharp and gravelly, barely reaching your ears through the screams behind you. “C’mon!”

You try to listen to him, but when you attempt to puff out your chest, it becomes obvious that the air had been entirely knocked from your lungs. There is a searing and terrifying agony as you open and close your mouth, arching your back as you struggle to expand the shriveled lungs in your chest. Just as terror flashes across his face, your body reacts, inhaling great, heaving gulps like you’d been underwater for the past 3 minutes it took for the accident to happen.

“Shit, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

Hands come up to your face—your own, you eventually realize—and the blood against your forehead is hot and dripping, the cuts on your cheek sting and burn as you let out a cry of pain from moving your arm. The firm figure on top of you cradles your elbow very gently, urging you to stay still before he’s glancing around the dining room, before he’s peering behind the car that’s on its side.

“Yeah, yeah, man, I know, I’m coming! Just —” His intense eyes flash back to your face, one hand on something in his ear. All this red—the tablecloth, his hair, the blood on your hands—is overwhelming, putting an anger the same shade back in your chest.

But just as you try to discern why, your mind goes back to your son.

“K-k—” The lungs in your chest are bruised, voice coming out as little more than a wheeze. “Ko—”

“Kirishima,” His face softens considerably, a stark contrast to the rest of him, to the glass clinging to his unharmed forehead. A hand leaves his ear to lie gently over your own, brushing away the debris there with his thumb. “Yeah, it’s me, I’m Kirishima. I’m gonna get you help, okay? Don’t worry, the ambulance is comin’!”

Red Riot, Red Riot, Red Riot is the last thing you think before the world goes black.

—

The first time you see him, it's technically the second.

Three ribs were cracked and your forearm had nearly snapped in half, there is a litany of small cuts all over your skin from the glass, and your shoulder had been dislocated. At first, you had assumed it to be from the impact of the car, but the doctor had assured you, were that true, you simply wouldn't have survived.

Eyewitnesses can’t remember seeing Red Riot until after the car stopped, which means he had made it in the nick of time. The damage that you’d actually taken was from the hero himself, when he’d thrown his body backwards to earn a little more time, so he could use his quirk when it was most needed.

Your customer, the heavyset man, hadn't survived; his wounds, yes, but the shock and panic of it all had stopped his heart.

All the broken bones had been healed in the hospital, though you would have to keep your arm in a sling so it could set, and breathing would hurt for about another week. The cuts were shallow, only surface level, and would have to heal on their own. Despite how it felt at the time, nothing serious happened to your neck, though it was in a brace anyway, and it had you turning your entire body to look at someone.

The last thing you—or your mom or Nishida—wanted was to scare Koji, which is why you hadn't seen him in four days. His dad had stepped up to take him during the week, getting him to school and back, and he'd played it all off as a surprise camping trip; on the phone, Koji told you Nishida had bought him a red tent and he'd been sleeping in it out in the backyard.

Nishida, +1.

The sessions with the doctor's quirk left you horribly fatigued, enough that you slept most of the day, but your mom and Nishida still visited, brought you food, clothes from home. If Koji knew why they were at the hospital or who his dad was there to see, it hadn't been mentioned to you. He always stayed out in the hall when his dad came in to speak to you and, though you couldn’t see the light against his face or the roundness of his cheeks, the sound of his sweet voice was enough to placate you, until he was back in your—healed—arms.

All the ugly thoughts that you’d had about this Red Riot have gone muddy; the fear that gripped your heart still lingered, the threat to your baby not so easily washed away as you lie in the hospital. When you try to picture the hero's face (which you can’t remember seeing; if eyewitnesses hadn’t told you that you’d even spoken to him that day, you’d be none the wiser), all you can think about is some ugly half-wit, standing in the alleyway with hands too large and too gray, trying to snatch up a trusting little boy.

But then you stop to think about that little boy, your little boy, and you realize just where you’d be if Rigid Riot hadn’t been there. You realize where Koji would be, and Nishida and your mom, if that car had hit you and not the hero. And then you can picture him, the man on the cereal box, and for only a few moments are you able to disentangle this ugliness from his shining image. The feelings you have about him are conflicting; maybe you won’t put the action figure in the dryer, after all.

The day before you are set to be discharged, you decide that you will help Koji to draft a new letter (sans your address), one that will thank Red Riot for saving his mama, one that will have a few, heartfelt sentences about how your son adores him, and then you will wipe your hands of the man. Even you will sign, at the bottom, with a sincere thank you.

When Red Riot steps into your hospital room, this plan goes to shit, however.

There had been a slight commotion out in the hall. Your mom and Nishida had already left for the day, with the sun dipping low outside the panes of your hospital windows, and the time for visitor’s was almost over. There hadn’t been any physical therapy for your arm, or any more healing from the doctor, so you’d been prepared to eat whatever concoction the hospital cafeteria cooked up and had already knocked back the pain pills the nurse brought you—the ones that usually knocked you out.

So when the door opens and in steps this man (this giant), all you can do is blink at him, as if he was a shadow on the wall, just another part of the hospital background.

It’s the first thing you realize about him, how much taller he is in person. The second is that the smile on the cereal box had indeed been enhanced; his teeth are just as gleaming and white, but they don’t look as half as threatening as they had before, nearly hidden behind sheepish and awkward lips. Before he closes the door, he looks back through it one last time, casting out a hand to wave at someone in the hall.

The commotion from earlier, it had been because of him. Because he’d come to the hospital. To see you.

“Hey there!” That hand waves at you, too, before he stuffs it into the pocket of his loose jeans, rolling on the balls of his feet. As broad and formidable as he is, he looks every bit boyish, with the cheesy grin and the gray sweater on his chest, the black sneakers—one untied—covering his feet. For a moment, you feel older than him, like he’s just some teenage boy sitting at table 39. “Glad you’re awake! I hope I’m not buggin’ you or anything.”

Blink.

Those crimson eyes of his look over your swollen face, the arm in the cast, the brace on your neck, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Sorry about that,” with a nod, he gestures to you vaguely, as if he isn’t sure which part of you to apologize for—perhaps all of them. “I should have held my ground a little more, but, man, that White Noise guy packs a punch! We got him, though, so don’t, uh, don’t worry about any of that.” A hand slips from his pocket to rub at the back of his neck.

Blink.

His cheeks puff up momentarily before he lets out a deep sigh, every last bit of sunshine setting on his face as he closes his eyes and leans his head back. A look of defeat settles on him, though you can’t be sure why, and when he looks at you again, disappointment dims the crimson of his irises. It’s as if the sight of you brings about something he can no longer avoid, a guilt he can no longer escape.

“I should have gotten there sooner. Shit, I shouldn’t have even let him—” Red Riot shuts his mouth, furrowing his brows at the floor as he hangs his head. “What kinda hero hurts the people he’s supposed to save, anyway? And, and that man, Sando Konosuke,” —your customer, the heavyset man, the one that died from a heart attack— “I failed him, too. Fuck.” You have no idea where any of this is coming from, so you just watch on. “And your boy, I bet I scared the shit out of Koji when I broke—”

Koji?

“Koji?” The sound of your son’s name from his lips is like a slap in the face, one that rips you from your reverie. All at once you remember it: the letter, the obsession, that ugly fear, those too-large hands. “What do you know about my son?”

The very idea that he would speak his name in your presence brings back that anger, the one the same shade of his hair, his hero outfit, his eyes.

If he notices you trembling with fury, he doesn’t react. In fact, a little bit of that sunshine reappears. “Oh, the little dude? He’s great!” The smile on his face is so wide, it makes his eyes close. “Yeah, great quirk, though I’m probably being a little biased. You know, rocks and hardening and everything.”

“His quirk?” You gasp, “How do you know—how could you—”

The hands are reaching out, the teeth are ready to rip, Koji doesn’t realize someone is behind him. Koji doesn’t realize a solid hand is wrapping around his throat, cutting off his air supply. No one notices, no one is around to see him get taken away into the darkness. No one, not even you—

“At school.” Red Riot shrugs as if it’s the most casual, obvious answer. “It was Hero Week a while back and I came to his class, me and Kaminari.”

Blink.

“I know I’m not supposed to play favorites—and I’m not, I swear—but, what can I say, his quirk is way manly. Flashy, too!”

Blink.

“Once he gets a handle on that thing, he’ll be an even better hero than me!”

One of the many things you can’t stand about Nishida Heizo: his lack of drive or motivation. It’s not that you ever wanted him to pursue the hero route, or that you felt he was even required to; he would entertain this argument with anyone that would engage, that, just because he had a “heroic” quirk—Landslide, or something—it didn’t mean he had to be a hero. Maybe he wanted to work in construction his entire life, just like his own dad, which is exactly what he was doing.

Nishida didn’t put up with the hero talk and he wasn’t even half-interested in Koji’s quirk. It manifested last year, when he’d thrown a tantrum so large that the rocks under the playground moved with every beat of his little fist on the grass, and you had no idea how to begin a conversation about where to go from there. A quirkless life was all you’d ever known—until Nishida, until Koji—so the whole concept of heroing was one long, dark hallway.

And now Red Riot is standing in it, flipping on every last light.

“You came to his class?” Tears are welling up in your eyes, though there is a whirlwind of emotion inside your chest and you aren’t sure which one is causing them. “You, you?”

Red Riot nods, unaffected. “Me, me. Uh,” the tears escape your eyes and slide down your cheeks, catching in the fluorescence of the room. He takes a wide step forward and reaches a hand—one that is tan and not gray, one that is large, but not threatening—out to you. “Hey, don’t cry. Everything is okay.”

There isn’t any way for him to know what’s happening inside your mind, the conversations and thoughts you are running back through with a fine-tooth comb, but his hand is gentle on your shoulder anyway. You do what he did, you blabber: “I thought he was—I thought you were a pervert.”

“What?” The hand leaves you quickly, as if you’d burned him (or maybe he, you) and his eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

“Koji—he said you told him he was strong and I just thought—oh, thank—I thought it was some creep running around looking like you.” There isn’t a flicker of recognition on his face, he has no idea what you’re talking about (still looks horrified, though). “And that he was trying to take him or something, but it’s you. It’s really you!”

Suddenly, he looks boyish again, face going as red as his hair when you grab his hand to squeeze. He gently squeezes you back. “I mean—uh, yeah, yeah! It’s me, Kirishima!”

Kirishima. Kirishima. Kirishima.

Yeah, it’s me, I’m Kirishima. I’m gonna get you help, okay?

With a huff, you take your hand from his to wipe at the messy tears and snot on your face. More than the painful embarrassment of thinking so terribly of him is the relief that washes over you; Koji was fine. There were no Red Riot shaped weirdos out there, looking through the trash, piecing together your address and your baby’s letter.

“Thank you,” you tell him honestly. “Not just about saving me, but,” his face softens a considerable amount, eyes going wide and glassy as he listens to you, as he watches you bite your lip. “For Koji. My son freaking adores you.” A pitiful laugh escapes you as you try to pull yourself together, looking down at his hand still on the hospital cot, at the slight gape of his mouth.

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” There is a strange look on his face, his voice a breathy whisper when he finally speaks. For a moment, his eyes are intense on your face and then he blinks, hard, just as you had. “I, uh—Koji’s great.” He repeats.

“Koji is great, I agree.” When you laugh again, it’s more natural and he nods along with you. Another grin breaks across his face and you are released from the fear that has been pinning you, so eased by the realization that Koji did know Red Riot that you aren’t finding the time to care about all the layers you are exposing to a stranger. “We have the cereal, you know, and it’s good. I like it. Koji doesn’t eat it, but he tries. Not enough sugar, I’m afraid.”

“That was the whole point, I think.”

“It’s a valiant effort.” When you say it, he laughs, warm and cozy. It reminds you of the duality of him, on that cereal box. "But I'm afraid you're losing out to a pink, sugar-coated lion."

Kirishima snaps his fingers and shakes his head. "My arch nemesis."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm on your side." Placing a delicate hand on his shoulder, you send him a sympathetic smile. It's hard to tell now that the pain meds are kicking in, but he almost—melts back into his chair, reddening again.

"No, uh, yeah that does—it does make me feel better."

"Wow," you heave a sigh and lean against the cot, lolling your head towards him awkwardly, because of the brace. "It all makes so much sense now. Koji hasn't stopped talking about you." In order to stop the flow of tears that threaten to spill again, you wipe a hand over your eyes and sniff. "I really can't tell you how relieved I am that it's actually you."

"Yeah, no problem." Kirishima is beginning to look a little uncomfortable, like he doesn't know what to do with all this praise, and he rubs his neck again. "I can't believe I had such a—I mean, a lot of kids love Bakugou, so it's nice that he—remembered me, I guess."

The quiet tone of his voice is relaxing and it has your eyes lidding a little.

You hum, "He won't stop doing the—" with the hand not in the cast, you cross it over your chest, straightening your hands like Koji did.

That has him laughing, shaking his head like he almost doesn't believe you. What he said repeats in your head, a lot of kids love Bakugou, and the surprise on his face has you feeling something soft and foreign for him. Bashful is the last thing you'd expect from him, someone so massive and broad, a hero you can't seem to escape.

"Kir-shma," it comes out slurred, but he looks at you, stunned, regardless. "'m really glad s'you."

The vision of him, cherry and gentle and keen, melts as your eyes fall closed.

—

The second time you see him, it’s technically the third.

Little scabs are freckles all over your body and your face is still a little swollen, a little sore and bruised, but you can't take it anymore—you've just gotta see Koji. It's why you let him sit in your lap as Nishida wheels you out of the hospital, even as Koji's little body rocks back and forth and into your tender ribs. More than once, he gets so excited to tell you something that he swivels around in your lap, even tries to put his feet on your legs and stand. The logical mom part of you wants to chastise him, to warn him to treat his mama a little sweeter, to be mindful of the broken arm he keeps grabbing.

But the soft part of you chimes in that you haven't seen him in six whole days, and so that other part of you just shuts up.

Nishida uses his mad-dad voice to tell him to sit down if he wants to ride in your lap, but the threat seems to go unnoticed. Whenever Koji feels awkward about getting scolded, he does exactly what he shouldn't, which is pretend he doesn’t hear. It's something you're working on with him, to talk about his feelings and why he just blatantly doesn't do what's asked of him, but it's slow going—he's only five, after all.

It's counterproductive of all the respect and all the manners you’re trying to instill in him, but you wrap your arms around him and hug him to you tighter, giggling as he whirls around to stick his tongue out in your face. When you kiss him on his chubby little cheeks, he says ew! loudly and wipes it from his face emphatically.

Nishida jerks the wheelchair to a stop outside the doors to the hospital and threatens to carry Koji over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

"C'mon dad," your chest is on fire and you grunt when your son elbows you in the boob. “We’re having fun.”

“Yeah, dad!” Koji mimics, raising his arms like he’s going to fight him.

It’s taken a long time for this kind of interaction to be okay in your eyes. It’s taken a long time for you to be able to be in Nishida’s presence without feeling the weight of all your own insecurities bearing down upon your shoulders, the reminder of your failures as a partner and mother. There was a lot of letting go, accepting of apologies you would never actually hear, a lot of forgiving that which was never asked of you, and you’d never be fully okay with your relationship with Heizo, but this was as close to good as you could get.

And that was okay. As long as Koji was happy, so were you.

And Koji is overjoyed, especially when he climbs onto your back and clings to your neck as you walk to Nishida’s car, especially when you run and stop and run and stop, just to jostle him around a bit. Especially when he sees the red figure coming across the parking lot.

Nishida doesn’t notice at first and is half-way through ripping him from your back when Koji erupts in a squeal: “Dad, it’s Red Riot!”

“Koji, stop—fuck—"

The look you send Nishida is all hot irritation and he sends one right back, throwing his arms in the air as your son slips away. In what seems like seconds, your little boy is running past two parked cars, arms open wide like he’s going to fling himself onto the Pro as soon as he’s close enough—which is exactly what he tries to do.

Red Riot clearly doesn’t have children, and he must not spend much time with them, because he stiffens and doesn’t scoop Koji up, even as your son stands on his (still untied) sneakers and tugs on the tight, black shirt he’s wearing. It’s as clear as day what your boy wants, to be picked up, but the Hero is only looking at you, and then Nishida.

And then Koji, then Nishida, then Koji, then you.

And then back to Koji.

“Hey, little man!” Those sharp teeth beam at your son as he bends down to his height, having to go so low that he nearly sits on the ground. His hands are behind his back and he’s leaning against a car you don’t believe is his (you can’t be sure, but you doubt Red Riot drives a blue minivan).

“Mama!” Koji whirls around and the grin on his face makes your own cheeks hurt, just looking at him. “It’s Red Riot!”

“It is, huh?” The sight of him is welcome, a sudden shyness creeping up on you now that the pain meds have worn off; despite them, you haven’t slept well and you haven't taken a full, proper shower in almost a week. Nobody brought you a bra in the hospital, something Nishida seems to remember as he glances at you, and you do your best to cross your arms over your chest and curl in on yourself. Embarrassing, though if Kirishima seems to think so, he doesn't show it (you don't miss the way his hand jostles behind his back, however, the quick flash of something that's discarded beneath the minivan).

Now that the Hero is eye-level, Koji throws his arms around his neck, innocent and unashamed. Red Riot stiffens and then his face goes soft, patting your son on the back with a heavy hand.

“Um,” Koji leans away, breathing heavily with all the excitement, “do you want to come to my house to play?”

The look on the Hero's face tightens just the slightest, hesitation shining in his eyes as he glances back between you and Koji's dad. Before he's forced to decline, you close the distance and step up, placing a hand in your son's hair (though, now that someone cool and tough is watching him, he shakes it off with a growl). “Honey bee, remember what we said before? About Red Riot doing big guy stuff?”

Koji ignores you as Red Riot stands to his feet, lips flattening into a line so stern that he almost looks disappointed in himself. Nishida comes beside you and you try not to be petty, but it’s hard; he’s three years older than you and it’s just too funny to see your ex-boyfriend square his shoulders, widen his stance, and try not to look up at a giant redhead that’s most likely his junior.

“Hey again, hope I’m not interrupting anything.” As Kirishima talks, he only stares down at Koji, who vibrates at the attention. "You look good—I mean—" his head shoots up, eyes wide as his face burns, "—better, you look better than you did. Not that—not that you looked bad or anything, just that—"

"It's okay, thank you," you wave a hand, unable to stop from smiling as he looks at you properly. It's contagious; his little grin is open-mouthed, looking that same shade of boyish and comforting. It's almost difficult to see him now, and think about the Pro in the chaos of the restaurant.

Koji tugs on your shirt, but it's his dad that picks him up—against his own rules—and adjusts him on his hip with enough movement and force that his car keys jingle, loudly. Perhaps you shouldn't, but you'll indulge Nishida, just this once—he has kept your son calm this past week, after all. "This is—"

"Nishida. Heizo. What's up, man?" He nods his head, trying way too hard to be cool.

They exchange a small introduction and Radiant Riot tells you, all three of you: “Kirishima’s’fine, no need for all the Hero stuff.” That hand does the nervous thing, on the back of his neck, and he rolls back and forth on his feet again.

“So, you really do know the kid, then?” Nishida asks, as the kid in question struggles to get back out of his arms. As soon as he’s on the ground, he tries again—on the Hero's shoes, tugging and grinning. If Kirishima knows what to do, he doesn’t, just glances at you awkwardly (he sees you roll your eyes at the kid comment and looks back at your ex-boyfriend).

“Uh, yeah, the little man and I are great friends! Right?” Kirishima smiles when Koji sucks his lip between his teeth and nods, standing beside him as he tries to imitate his wide stance. It makes the Hero laugh, but you take in the back and forth look he gives the three of you yet again.

This dynamic between your little family, he must be trying to figure it out. Koji is hugging and tugging on both of you, but you and Nishida are hardly close by any means. There’s a question in Kirishima’s eyes, shining with a curiosity he’s trying to stamp out, and you wonder if you should offer a simple answer. This is Koji’s dad, perhaps, setting him as a separate being from yourself, but you remind yourself that—friendly as he is—-he’s still a stranger.

“Hey buddy,” you lower yourself to Koji’s height, trying to grab his attention by rubbing his back, though it’s shrugged off. “We gotta get home, okay? Maybe Red Riot can play another day, hm?”

“Yeah, kid, let’s get you and your mom home.”

The red hero in question is none the wiser, just staring down at your son with that trademarked Kellogg grin on his face. It finally drops when Koji smiles mischievously back at him and rears his little arm, delivering a punch directly at his stomach while shouting, "unbreakable!"

“Nishida Koji!” You squawk, but his dad is already yanking him by the arm back to the car. Your son knows he’s done something wrong, already knew it before he did it, because they don’t get two steps away before he starts wailing. Heizo leaves you in the dust, only hissing down at the five-year-old as Kirishima widens his eyes and lets out a surprised cough.

“I’m okay!” One had goes to his stomach, the other in the air to wave at Koji (who doesn’t even see him through his big, fat tears). “Little guy packs a punch, that’s all, caught me by surprise!”

Raising a rambunctious little boy, one in a world of heroes and quirks, it’s not unusual for you to get whacked a time or two, sometimes in the stomach or the boob. Very rarely in the face, though it still happens. Koji is just a kid, after all, and that aggression isn’t appropriate for him, but it isn’t unexpected, either. Most people don’t have the patience for kids, which is fine—you didn’t have any either, until you had your own—but that just means, sometimes, you have to stand in a parking lot and apologize to your child’s latest victim.

“I am so, so sorry!" The hand that isn’t in the sling claps over your eyes as Koji cries mommy, mommy behind you. The car begins to ding when Nishida pulls the door open and your son kicks at it while struggling not to get put in his car seat.

“No, it’s okay!” The Hero insists, looking down at his stomach when he pulls his shirt up to inspect it (just like the rest of him: rippling, defined, tan). You turn around to watch Koji until he puts it back down. “I like his enthusiasm!”

Despite the shame plaguing you, a huff of laughter slips through the fingers splayed across your face. "His enthusiasm? Yeah, I suppose you could call it that." There's the shuffle of feet, sneakers scraping against concrete, and he's closer when you finally peer at him again.

"It's okay, really!" He shrugs, a wash of red peeking from under the collar of his shirt, creeping up his neck as he taps his fingers against his thighs. Quickly, his eyes dart over your shoulder to the sound of Nishida's mad-dad voice, before he clears his throat. "He would certainly give that White Noise guy a run for his money!"

The image of Koji standing at Kirishima's side, widening his stance, hands on his hips, comes back to you, only this time Koji is wearing a red mask and his hair is up at all different angles. It's cute at first, in a Halloween costume type of way, but then a pit develops in your stomach as you remember,

"Hey," you say, though the Hero before you is already looking with big, soft eyes, "did you say you would—you would train Koji?"

"Oh! Uh," Kirishima's gaze drop to the ground sheepishly, "well, when he and I were talking at his school," he looks back at you, as if to remind you how they are acquainted and not because he's a pervert, "he seemed really into it, but I don't want to—" vaguely, he gestures to you and then Nishida behind you (who is talking quieter now that all Koji's screaming has stopped).

Landslide, Rockslide, Erosion—whatever it is exactly that makes up your son's quirk, you aren't sure, and you would be lying if you said the future involving it didn't scare you. There will come a time when he'll have to understand how to control, how to hone it and use it when he needs it—use it as a Hero, if he so desires—and it pains you to imagine him asking for help only for you to open empty hands.

Don't want to overstep, you think Kirishima means to say, and you send him a polite smile. "No, that's—that's kind of you to offer, but—"

Koji? Your baby? The idea of him, your sweet boy, standing in a thunderstorm of glass and debris, risking his life for a distracted waitress as a villain hurtles a car her way; it all seems too much too soon. Maybe it's because death is a fate you so narrowly avoided, but your stomach turns so hard that you waver, suddenly exhausted, and Kirishima steps up as you shake your head.

It's hard to see Koji as anything other than an awe-struck little boy, standing on the toes of his Hero.

"Uh, no, I don't think he's ready for that." Everything aches: the tendons in your neck, the sling your arm is in, the disappointment in your chest, "He's only 5, afterall."

"Are you okay?" Kirishima's demeanor has shifted almost entirely, far from that kind boy and into the shape of a tall, able man, one that looks ready to carry you back to the hospital himself.

"Yeah, I'm just tired, I think." You blink until his worried face is clear in your eyes, trying to placate him with a weak smile. "Lot of excitement today."

It melts him, just the slightest, and he shifts his eyes nervously back to the minivan, screwing up his mouth like he's trying to decide what to say—but then Nishida is calling your name, standing in the open car door with his arms out.

Kirishima takes a wide step back, hand on his neck as he finds interest in the clouds. "Yeah, you should head home, get some rest! I'm sure Koji is dying to play with you again!"

"I'm sure he is," you try to glance at him over your shoulder, but the moment feels ruined as Nishida gets in the car and slams the door. For some reason, you have the urge to ask Kirishima if you'll ever see him again, after all this, but it seems—silly. Of course you will; he just might not see you and your son, watching from afar in the crowd.

It's not until you are getting into your seat that he gives you one last wave—shy, red, smile taking up his entire face—and you try not to linger on the sweet sight of him as your turn to face your hiccuping son.

“But—but he said,”

“What did he say, honey bee?” You reach back to rub his little knee in his little jeans, but he turns away, sour.

“He—Red Riot said he would—that he wanted to come and play at my house.”

“No, kid,” Nishida sighs, “Red Riot can’t come play at the house. Because he’s got a job, he works.”

Koji is rubbing his hands and fingers together, the way he does when he’s forced to look, forced to answer. “But—but dad, he can—can come right now.”

“No, Koji.” Nishida says, “He can’t.”

It’s easy to see him retreating across the parking lot, the crimson giant that he is, hands in his pockets and head held high. There’s something warm about him, something safe; you wonder if it’s because he did, in fact, save your life, or if that’s just him. Just Kirishima—entertaining your son at his school, making sure you’re alright in the hospital, stepping up to help as you stumbled.

That warm something spreads to your neck and your cheeks as you realize that you’re thinking about him still, even as the sight of him is obstructed by that minivan as it backs out of its parking spot. When it drives by the front of Nishida’s car, you look at the driver—a man, frazzled and weary in a set of green scrubs—and watch as he twists through the lot. It comes around the row of cars in front of you again and gives you a look at the other side of his face, which has woken up and looks much brighter than it had only seconds ago. The vehicle stops and the driver calls out of it.

Red Riot turns around, beaming, glowing, radiant, sticking his hand through the window to shake the one the nurse is holding out.

In the parking space where the van had been, there is a small, flattened bouquet of peach-colored flowers.

#I think about this fic way more than I probably ever should #but it has set the BAR for me #I think about it and I fall to my mf KNEEEES #reblogging to read after work bc I haven’t read it in years #im nervous actually #im SO sorry willow I just can’t be normal about this fic #im sorry #😔#fic recs

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strawberry-nugget · 2 days ago

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notion | masterlist

Summary: What do you do when your best friend needs your help with something they have no experience with? You help them, obviously, even if things are complicated and it ends up spiralling into a three— no four year old situationship

Warnings: smut, 18+ minors do not interact, oral (f&mreceiving), fingering, squirting, fwb, part 1- virgin!Bakugo (he's in his 20s tho), jealousy, angst, p in v sex, creampies, situationships (my real worst enemy), sex marathons, mating press

Paring: Bakugo Katsuki x reader

All characters are 20+

Part 1

Part 1.5 (smau) #1 #2 #3 #4

Part 2

Part 3

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

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strawberry-nugget · 2 days ago

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notion 1.5 | k. bakugo | smau (1)

This is the direct sequel to this

Warnings// tags: nsfw, MDNI, situationships, a liiiiitle angst with comfort

Auth. note: im gonna be feeeeeeding yall with these two

Notion M.list

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

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strawberry-nugget · 2 days ago

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Okay oooooof part two and three to notion coming up because I had to split it in two fucking parts 😇

#bakugo #strawb only talks.💕

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strawberry-nugget · 2 days ago

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Last week I went on a date and I kept talking to the guy about Clark fucking Kent- mind you I was PASSIONATE about it

#strawb only talks.💕

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strawberry-nugget · 2 days ago

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Everyone be quiet my show is ON

"DON'T STOP LOVING ME."

synopsis: things were always easy between you and katsuki. until suddenly, they weren't. (aka you pull back and katsuki notices and hates it)

notes: ALWAYS w the unofficialbf!katsuki agenda. wc ~5k. childhood bffs bc duh. barely proofread sorry

ever since you were three years old with your scraped knees and sticky fingers to now, where teenage life could not be more confusing, there has always been one, unwavering, constant fact.

you're absolutely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with bakugo katsuki.

and you've never been afraid to show it! backhugs, tackling him to the floor, jumping on top of him and climbing him like a jungle gym, telling him you love him like it's the most obvious thing in the world. (it is)

he always scoffs and grumbles, but you'd never take it personally, because when he tells you to get off, he pulls you close. when he complains that you're annoying when you're sick, he brings you soup and medicine and cuddles you to sleep. when he says he blushes and tells you he hates you, his eyes tell a different story.

so what if he doesn't express it the same way you do? everyone has different ways of showing they care. even if he doesn't say it much, you know katsuki loves you.

right?

it was late when you accidentally overheard it. when you froze up and felt your heart drop to the floor. when you started shaking and sweating, eyes darting around for a trash can in case you threw up.

"bakugo, bro, when are you and y/n gonna make it official?" kirishima had teased, throwing an arm around katsuki.

katsuki scoffed and shoved him off. "tch. it's not like that."

"you suuure?" sero questioned. "you two seem awfully close for just friends."

"mannn, if i was bakugo, i'd be all over that. y/n is such a pretty girl!" kaminari chimed in, clearly jealous over his lack of love life.

the teasing continued. you couldn't see him from your angle, but you knew that katsuki definitely had a vein on his forehead that was getting larger by the second.

"you're always carrying her bag, walking her to class.."

"cuddling with her during movie nights, scratching her back.."

"oh! and don't forget how she never forgets to tell him she loooves him whenever they say goodbye!"

"c'mon, bakubro, just spit it out! you two are practically married already!"

the three laughed heartily, clearly enjoying the rise they were getting out of katsuki.

"all of you, shut the hell up!"

"just admit it. you're in love."

he gritted his teeth.

"i'm not in love." he grimaced, venomous anger bubbling to the surface.

"she's just there all the fucking time! always fucking doing girlfriend-y shit when she knows damn well she's not! always clinging and trying to cuddle and all that stupid sappy shit. she's just an annoying fuckin' habit ive learned to tolerate." he spat.

you froze.

what?

was he serious? like, really, truly, deadass serious? you knew he wasn't exactly the super affectionate type, but even still! you thought he really cared about you! clingy? annoying? tolerated?

your head spun as you broke out into a cold sweat. you could've sworn that that wasn't true. you and katsuki have been friends forever. surely he wouldve gotten rid of you by now if he hated you that much, right? and he cuddles you! and hangs out with you! he takes care of you when you're sick! there's just no way, right? he's just angry because he's being teased, right?

..right?

"damn, dude, that's pretty harsh," sero snickered. "you always take care of her, though, no?"

you held your breath.

"tch. doesn't fuckin' mean shit. just gotten used to her because she's been around so long."

your stomach dropped to the basement. he tolerated you. he thought of you as nothing more than an annoying habit.

insecurity pooled inside of you. now that you think about it, was he really cuddling you, or just not bothering to move you off when you laid on him? maybe he just thought you were too much of a hassle to get rid of when you came to hangout, so he just let you stay even thought he didn't want to. when he brought you medicine and stuff, maybe your sickness made you delirious and made you think he was being more affectionate and caring than he really was.

you felt nauseated. you recall all the times you threw a quick "i love you!" over your shoulder or while you clung to him. had he ever once said it back? ever? the room started spinning as you realized you couldn't think of a single time. he'd always deflected. gave you a classic "tch." rolled his eyes. messed up your hair. you dont think you'd ever even heard the word "love" from his lips.

had you just been deluding yourself all this time?

you couldn't take it anymore. sweating, you sprinted out before you could be spotted.

it's been two days since you overheard that conversation, and you'd been avoiding katsuki ever since. or rather, not quite avoiding completely, but there was an undeniable shift in your behavior. you stopped trying to cuddle with him. you stopped showing up to his dorm room to hangout. you especially stopped saying "i love you," even though it killed you every time.

katsuki hadn't shown much of a reaction to your change in behavior. he'd raise an eyebrow when your usual daily hugs disappeared or ask a gruff, "where were you?" when you didn't show up to your unofficial but completely established after school hangouts, but he had otherwise put up no protest.

you didn't know whether to be relieved or heartbroken.

on one hand, katsuki's kind of scary when he's confrontational. also, you don't know how you would be able to talk to him. "i overheard a conversation where you said you hate me but im madly in love with you and want to marry you and have your kids?" yeah right. you were sort of glad to be getting off easy.

but on the other hand, you were devastated. his apathy served as further confirmation that he meant every word he said. he really didn't mind that you were pulling back, and seemed perfectly content not being nearly as close as before.

you really had been deluding yourself. secretly, you had been hoping that he was just saying stuff in the heat of the moment and would actually be upset if you pulled back. because that would mean he cared. but he didn't give two shits about you. you really were just some stupid childhood habit he'd learned to tolerate.

you became less energetic as a person. not just with katsuki, but simply in general. your days seemed unbearably longer and darker without him. you had a hard time engaging and staying in the present, your mind wandering to katsuki again and again. it was pathetic, really. you two had never even dated. why were you so hung up about it? you two were just friends, and in fact, it seemed like he never even liked you in the first place. you were just stupidly hopeful and naive.

katsuki was dying.

two days. it had been two fucking days since you'd touched him or even just been remotely affectionate with him and he was going crazy. hell, he'd give the whole damn world even for just a smile at this point. he was desperate.

he didnt understand why you were being like this. it was like everything he knew about you had shifted, and he was just standing there, waiting for some kind of sign or something like an idiot.

katsuki had noticed the shift in your behavior immediately. of course he did. he knows you better than he knows himself, after all. at first, he thought you were just playing some dumb game or pulling some stunt to get his attention, but that wasn’t it. you waved instead of hugging. said a simple "bye" instead of "love you, bye bye!" it's not like you were completely avoiding him. you still talked. you still laughed. only now, it didn't quite reach your eyes.

and it was fucking killing him.

he hated that you were pulling back. he hated how off everything felt. he hated how fucking empty his dorm room felt when you weren't there to pester him. but most of all, he hated how he couldn’t even figure out what he'd done wrong. he couldn't think of any fights or reasons to be angry, but if that wasn't it, what was it? why were you suddenly just.. leaving?

he wanted to confront you. he wanted to pull you aside and demand to know where the fuck you went. but for the first time in his entire life, he didn't know how. because this wasn't like confronting stupid deku about his new powers. it wasn't about asking icyhot what his fuckin' deal was. it was you. his whole fucking world, even if he never said it out loud. he was nothing short of terrified to ask, because he feared it would drive you away even further, and he couldn't think of any alternate universe where he'd be able to handle that.

he found himself looking for excuses to be near you, to talk to you, to just be around you in any way possible. the last two days had been a torture of silence, of missed chances to sit next to you or casually reach out and tug you into his space like he used to. the times when he’d shove his arm around your shoulders or playfully mess with your hair, it had all stopped. he didn't feel like he could anymore. like he'd somehow lost the privilege. and now, all he was left with was this gnawing feeling in his gut that something was horribly wrong.

he had finally worked up the courage and tried asking you once, but you had shut him down with that all-too-familiar "nothing, just tired" bullshit and that damn closed-off look on your face that made him feel completely hollowed out.

he was desperate. he needed to feel you. needed to hear your bright laughter and see your stupid smile. it was so fucking stupid and sappy and so unlike him, but he couldn't even bring himself to care about that. he needed to cuddle with you until you fell asleep. have you curl up on his chest and get swallowed up by his much larger frame and watch you as your breathing quickly evened out from his touch. you could never stay awake long when cuddling with him. he found himself smiling at the thought.

he scowled. this is so fucking stupid. he thought to himself.

it all came to a bubbling point for him on friday. 5 whole days of "hi's" and a half-smile instead of "KATSUKIIIII's," and a running hug. he was losing his fucking mind.

usually, you convinced him to join the weekly 1a movie night by taking his hand and dragging him out of his room. he'd grumble about it, but he'd never refuse. he'd sit on the corner of the couch and you'd sit close to him before gradually inching closer, the night ending with you two cuddling. now, he willingly trudges to movie night of his own free will and sits in the same corner of the couch, but this time alone.

the room buzzed with quiet chatter and the flicker of the TV as the opening credits rolled and iida turned the lights off. it was some dumb romcom movie katsuki couldn't bring himself to care about in the slightest. you would definitely like it, though. kirishima passed around popcorn, sero argued with kaminari over which movie was the best, deku was doing his stupid nerd rambling as todoroki and hagakure gawked at him. and you? you sat on the other end of the couch.

not just away, but away from him.

the usual spot right beside katsuki, practically in his lap, head on his shoulder, knees draped over his thighs sat empty. you sat next to mina instead, curling into the armrest and pulling your legs up to your chest. you offered sweet smiles to everyone, laughed when something was funny, made conversation when prompted. but katsuki saw it. he saw you.

and he saw that you weren’t you.

he stared.

throughout the entire first half of the movie, he barely processed a single second of it. he kept looking over, waiting for you to glance at him, to shift closer, to give him a sign, anything, but you stayed curled in on yourself, legs angled away from him. he hated it. he hated how you looked like you were trying to make yourself smaller. like you were trying to disappear.

katsuki’s heart thundered. his leg bounced impatiently. his jaw was tight. he couldn’t take this shit anymore.

he stood up abruptly, catching your attention. he stalked straight over to you, jaw clenched and shoulders tense. he hovered over you, looking down and saying nothing.

you blinked up at him. "...what?"

his eyes were sharp and unreadable to most. but to you, who knew him better than he knew himself, you could see the anxiety and desperation swimming in his eyes.

no, no, no. remember, don't delude yourself. he doesn't like you, not even as a friend.

"are you okay..?"

"no." he snapped, his tone making you flinch. he softened at your reaction. "i just.. you've been.." he started, but his tone cracked, eyes flashing, and something in him snapped. "fuckin’ hell, just—"

he reached down and grabbed you.

gently, but with zero room for argument. strong arms slid under your knees and behind your back like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you barely had time to yelp before he was sitting down again, with you in his lap, pulled tight into his chest like you were his lifeline. (you are)

you froze, wide-eyed and stiff, but he just held you. his arms locked around you. he didn’t look at anyone else, didn’t give a shit about the stares or the knowing grins. he buried his face in your shoulder, muttering low and rough into your neck.

"i don't know what the fuck i did," he said. "but you don't get to just... take all that away. not from me."

you blinked, suddenly breathless.

he held you tighter. his voice cracked again, this time softer. "whatever i did, 'm sorry. i'll make it up t'ya, i swear. but don't just.." his voice trailed off. "dont stop loving me." he wanted to scream.

you felt your heart stutter, but you didn't say anything.

not at first, anyway.

because what is there to say when your heart is lodged in your throat and your body is caged in the arms of the person you swore you were going to get over?

you just sat there, crumpled in his lap like some lost puppy that finally found its way home again. your face is pressed into his shoulder, and you think if you speak, you’ll cry. so you don't. you just let yourself relax and melt into him.

he doesn’t say anything else either. his grip doesn’t loosen, not even a little. his fingers press into your back, not hard, just steady. grounding. enough to keep you pressed firmly against him. like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

the room’s still noisy with all the side conversations, but it's all background noise now with you two just in your little bubble away from the rest of the world. you feel safe and like you’re about to fall apart at the same time.

you shift a little in his lap and glance up at him.

“…you didn’t have to drag me across the room, you know,” you finally mutter, voice hoarse.

he scoffs, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “yeah, well. you weren’t comin’ on your own.”

you wrinkle your nose at him. “you could’ve asked.”

“whatever." he grumbles. "this is more efficient."

you snort. "the hell?"

he shrugs, completely unapologetic. “worked, didn’t it?”

you don’t answer. because yeah. it did.

instead, you rest your head back on his chest, and he immediately shifts to accommodate you. your legs drape over the couch, his arm hooked under your knees to keep you anchored, and his other hand settled at the base of your spine. he starts tracing slow, absentminded circles there, hand slipped under your hoodie to rub at the bare skin like nothing had ever changed. like you hadn’t just gone five whole days without touching him. like you hadn’t spent those five days trying to unravel every version of reality where he didn’t love you back.

you sit like that for a long time.

finally, he speaks up, his voice low.

"what did i do?" he asked, his voice oddly shy. "why'd ya stop.. you know..?"

your breath hitches. because you do know. but you don't know what to say or how to say it. "i thought you completely hated me" doesn't quite seem like an appropriate response.

"nothing," you settle with.

he gives you a look.

you sigh. you never could lie to katsuki. he's known you for too long and too well to fall for them.

"i just.. got insecure. overheard some conversation where you said i was, um, clingy and annoying." you murmur, your voice small. if katsuki wasn't pressed up against you and hanging on to your every word, he wouldn't have been able to catch it.

but he did.

and you swore you saw complete heartbreak in his eyes.

you let out a small gasp of surprise when he pulls you flush against him, arms tight around your body and face nuzzled deep into your neck. he holds you with such a gentle intensity you think you might cry. he holds you in a way that makes you feel loved and safe.

"'m sorry." he mumbles into your neck, voice watery. "didn't mean it. i was just.. mad that they were makin' fun of me. none of it was true. at all."

your breath hitches.

"you're.. so fuckin' special to me. i mean it. these last few days without you have been hell."

you think you might cry.

"been missin' your fuckin' smile and your damn laugh. and your stupid hugs that make me almost topple over."

you hold back a giggle.

"i love you."

the world stills.

you don’t move.

you don’t speak.

hell, you're scared to breathe.

your heart is beating so loud you’re worried he might hear it. your face is burning, your lungs feel tight, and your throat’s a warzone of words you can’t quite say.

he said it.

and now he’s quiet. breathing you in. arms wrapped around you like you’re something precious. like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

you pull back just enough to look at him. your hand comes up to brush his bangs from his eyes, and your fingers linger at his temple, trailing down his cheek like you’re memorizing him.

his expression is soft in a way you rarely get to see. wide-eyed. hopeful. a little scared.

you offer him a tiny, quiet smile.

no teasing.

no trying to be brave or play it all off.

just soft. honest. the kind that only he gets to see.

you lift your hand and touch his face. not dramatic, not shaky, just steady. fingers brushing along his cheekbone, thumb ghosting over the edge of his jaw like you’re memorizing the shape of him again.

his eyes close for a second and you swear you see him leaning into it a little.

you say nothing.

you don’t need to.

because you’re here. because he’s holding you. because you’re not pulling away, and he's pulling you in.

you nuzzle your face into his neck, like it's right where you belong, and you breathe in.

he breathes in too.

slow. like the world’s stopped spinning for a second just so you can exist like this, tangled up in each other without saying anything. no talking about what's going on, no complications, just.. being.

you both don't notice how mina and kirishima are gossiping wildly about how you two are practically married and wondering how you still claim not to be dating. you don't notice the way that ochaco squeals after glancing over at your position, and you don't notice the way izuku looks fondly at you two with soft eyes. (he's been shipping the two of you since childhood)

you and katsuki are the only two people in the world who matter.

"i love you," you whisper as you feel yourself dozing off.

you think you feel his lips press gently against your forehead.

"i love you too."

masterlist

#YESSSSS #MMMMMM #JUST HOW I LIKE MY KATSUKI

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