#saturnssnippets

[saturnsorbits]

Android AU where you purchase a discounted and broken Bakugo model.

He’s got limited movement in his right arm, a faulty ocular system and a series of burns that cover one side of his face and have made the middle of his chest all melted and tacky - the synthetic skin warped like scarred flesh, but he works well enough.

It’s nice, having him around. You cook together. Watch movies. Go on picnics. Hike. Dine out. Visit aquariums and museums. It doesn’t take long for people to start assuming…

Husband. Boyfriend. Fiancé. It’s all thrown round. An endearing misunderstanding that never garners more than a blush, or at least it was, until the feelings started.

It’s a growing debate, if the androids can feel like humans can, but you find yourself at his mercy anyway. You fall for him slowly, but definitely, lost to him in all of the ways you’d never thought possible.

You bottle it, lock it in your chest even when it becomes too much taking you in a choke hold and then one day, you just… Burst.

Ducking under the rail of the park, you cross the wood-chips and toss yourself to the curved rubber seat of the swing. Beyond the small park is the ocean - a small slither of wide open blue that crashes against the walls of the sea barrier before you.

This was your place, just your place and now, now you’re sharing it with him.

He sits on your left, pushing himself with the balls of his feet. In the shadow of the street light with his synthetic blonde spikes spilling over his forehead, he almost feels like a lover - like something more than he can be. ‘I like it here.’

‘I know.’ Bakugo turns, smirks. The social module downloaded into his brain makes it look perfect, tells him the exact angle his lips should stretch to for the chosen effect.

‘There’s something about the sea being so close, it’s…’

‘Calming.’

‘Yeah.’ You sigh, glancing over to Bakugo careful not to look too long. ‘It’s calming.’

‘You wanna know why?’

‘Sure.’

‘My search says it’s due to the broad nature of the sound, as it hits your ear...' He taps your tragus. 'It creates a deep tonal noise, which due to its processing ease in the brain creates a soothing effect.'

'Huh.' It’s strange, hearing him talk like this. Usually, he’s so informal, so blunt and matter of fact it’s strange when all of that wiring in his head kicks back in and has him talking like… Well like a robot.

‘Did it again, didn’t I?’

You chuckle. ‘Sometimes you just talk like we’re worlds apart.’

‘Sorry. I -.’

‘No, no…’ You smile, softly, before reaching over and resting your palm on his thigh.

Bakugo blinks, looking down at the hand wrapping his leg. Gingerly, he accepts it. Entwining his fingers with yours, he squeezes. ‘I…’ His voice is a whisper. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Katsuki.’

Squeezing softly, Bakugo doesn’t lift his gaze when he talks. 'I don't love you.'

You laugh, the cold air stinging your teeth. ‘I don’t love you.’ It’s a half-truth, the emotion caught in your chest might not yet be love, but it’s too close to it for comfort. ‘You don’t have to love me.’

Bakugo breathes deep despite not needing to. ‘I - I don’t feel -.’

You cut him off, eyes wide, a softeness already burrowing into your expression. You can’t imagine what’s it’s like, to be filled with a thing you were born never to have - to be coming alive for the first time. ‘Katsuki… You do. I know that you’re more than just a robot… More than -‘

‘No.’ Bakugo tightens his grip on your hand, flicking his eyes up to meet yours. ‘I can - I do feel…’ He corrects. ‘I just don’t feel for you what you feel for me.’

[saturnsorbits]

Have a snippet of something I'll never finish, ft Ochako.

TW: F!Reader x Ochako, KiriBaku, MomoJirou, Suggestive, Bad Writing, Unedited, Opening Only...

Ochako shrugs. ‘I’ve never fucked a woman.’ The words are spilling from your tongue before you can stop them, a runaway sentence and a half unfurling from your tongue as you ask: ‘Do you want to?’ Ochako blushes that pretty shade of pink she reserves for when she’s really flustered and bats those long eyelashes twice before answering with another, coy-er, shrug.

Immediately, everyone’s eyes turn hungry.

Momo has her nails digging into Jirou’s thigh so hard they’re sure to leave a mark, her dark eyes shining like beetle backs as she clears her throat and pushes more of her chest onto the table for good measure.

Beside her, her girlfriend smirks - the idea of having two insanely attractive women wrapped around her fingers doing funny things to her stomach. ‘We could -.’

‘Knock it off.’ Mina snaps glaring over the lip of her almost-empty glass. ‘Give the poor girl some air, she’s barely admitted to being curious and you’re trying to get yourself a third.’ Momo huffs, Jirou scowls, but both drop whatever proposition was waiting at the back of their minds in favour of offering the table a warm smile and settling back to drink. Breaking the newly settled lul with a sledgehammer, Bakugo grunts into his pint; a bored grimace knotting his brows. ‘If you’re gonna fuck one of them Cheeks, pick quick and get on with it, yeah?’ Mina snorts, raising her eyebrows at Kirishima. ‘And you say he’s a romantic.’ ‘He is!’ Kirishima whines, slipping his hand into Bakugo’s under the table and pressing their shoulders together. Bakugo grunt, rolling his eyes even as a blush creeps across his cheeks to rival Ochako's. ‘Only for you.’ The entire table moons over Bakugo’s show of affection. Mina even, in a show of pure daring, leans across the table enough to pinch at his cheek; which in turn almost leaves her maimed. With the group settling back into its own brand of relaxed and the chatter finally turning to things like Kirishima’s new PR and Momo’s latest lingerie shoot - you feel the telltale heat of Ochako’s arm pressing into yours. She’s not drank much, still nursing her first sickly, sweet, strawberry daiquiri and yet, there's something more than just the signs of a soft buzz in her eyes.

Something you're quite sure you'd like to get more acquainted with.

[saturnsorbits]

Just a little snippet of something I’ve been working on ft Dabi.

[saturnsorbits]

‘What are you doing?’ Kirishima’s eyebrows scrunch on his forehead, knitting together as he holds his hand out for you.

You’ve placed your palm flat against his, eyes roaming the surface of his skin with an examination so fine he feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

‘Mmm?’ You hum. Slipping your hand up, you feel his warmth against your fingers. The odd plain of his palm like a map, smooth and yet, hardy. Reaching the deep groves of his fingers, you slot yours into place and squeeze. There’s no give, just a strong pressure as he holds you back, confused, but allowing you to continue in your endeavour.

It’s strange, you think, as you unlace your fingers and stroke gentle down each of his digits; how someone so strong, so bold and large can be so… Gentle. His hand is almost double the size of yours. Long fingers that are thick at the joints, and a palm built for combat; but the only thing you’ve ever known from them is protection. The love and smooth caresses you’ve shared the only experience you’ve had with the jagged, cutting edges you see on the battle field.

Wrapping a hand around his wrist you bring his palm to your cheek and sigh as he cups your face. His thumb, gaining a mind of its own, ghosts across your bottom lip.

‘Babe?’ He cocks an eyebrow as the confusion in his eyes melts to molten adoration.

You blink at him. Twisting, you place a soft kiss against the smooth of his palm before nuzzling back against his skin, keeping his eye. ‘I just didn’t realise your hands where so soft.’

[saturnsorbits]

Thinking about being childhood sweethearts with Bakugo.

About first crushes and awkward hand-holding, of stolen kisses and sweaty palms; of realising just how thin the line between ‘like’ and ‘love’ can feel at sixteen.

In the blink of an eye, you’re almost twenty-five with the whole world in the palm of your hand and a partner that you know almost better than yourself. You’ve seen Bakugo grow, helped him, eased his ego and pushed him to be everything you knew he could be and he’s done the same for you. You’re a powerhouse of a couple - almost ten years strong and the envy of all of your friends. There’s no question that there’s so much more ahead of you: a ring, a house and white picket fence, children?

He’s your person and you’re his.

…Maybe that’s why neither of you see it coming.

Falling out of love can be like that.

[saturnsorbits]

Bakugo Katsuki, 28, wakes up to the sound of shouting.

Which is… Honestly, more common than he’d like.

‘I can’t believe you didn't tell me...’ You tilt your head and dig your fists into your hips.

Kirishima shakes his head, mouth opening and closing to expose the pointed tips of his teeth. ‘There’s nothing to tell!’

‘Yeah. We these aren’t mine...' Brandishing the pair of soft, lace panties you'd plucked from the dyer in front of his face, you cock an eyebrow. 'And Bakugo doesn’t date so -.’

‘I’ve never seen them before.’

Bakugo appears at the door, blinking sleep from his eyes as he tries to blink the pair of you into some kind of shape. ‘The fucks the yapping for?’

‘Kiri’s been fucking someone in our apartment and won’t admit it.’ You twist, catching Bakugo's eye.

‘I haven’t!' Kirishima complains.

‘What give you that idea?’ A dull smile tugs at Bakugo's lip as he slips into the kitchen, making his way over to you on socked feet.

‘I found these - in the washing machine.’ You lift the underwear again, dangling it from a finger.

‘Oh.’ Bakugo nods.

You frown. ‘Oh?'

'They’re not Eiji’s imaginary girlfriends.’

‘See.' Kirishima stretches out his hand, palm flat as vindication floods through his voice. 'Thank you!’

‘How do you -.’

Bakugo chuckles, finally closing the distance as he reaches up and snatches the underwear from your hand. Shoving the underwear into the pocket of his sweatpants, he pushes them just enough that a thin, lace strap is visible digging into the pale skin of his hips. He smirks. ‘Because they’re mine.’

[saturnsorbits]

Tw: Angst, Suggested Death, Post-War.

After the war, the city of Musutafu constructs a monument.

In the middle of a park, not far from the grounds of UA Highschool, an obelisk stands. Tall and proud, stretching its arms up towards the heavens; a silent remembrance of all the cities fallen heroes. In the right light, the metal glows, guiding weary passers by to its feet where the names of the lost are carved in neat Japanese, side by side, the same way many of them where found.

It’s a sight to behold.

But, if you’re lucky and happen to pass by at the perfect time, you’ll see an even more heart-wrenching sight.

A man will stand at the base of the obelisk. His head bowed, cap pulled low over a neat blonde buzzcut - almost enough to disguise the pearl of a milky eye and the torn scar tissue that has taken much of high cheek bone and ear. His right arm has gone, replaced by the modest metal prosthesis he uses for the slower moments in life: grocery shopping, the school run, this. The other arm, still of flesh and bone, is roughed and muscled leading to a hand that holds another, smaller, hand.

The little girl beside him pauses. Looks up at the man and upon his nod, reaches out to splay her palm against the glowing stone.

‘Do you know what this is?’ Her dad asks.

The girl scrunches her nose and frowns.

‘This is for Musutafu’s heroes…’

She brightens. ‘Like the ones who saved you?’

The man swallows, bites his tongue to quell the grief he knows will never leave him. ‘Yeah. Those ones.’

‘And uncle Kiri!’

‘No.’ A rolling wave of sickness takes the man’s stomach. ‘Not yet… But, eventually.’

She hums as if considering something, but before she can speak again the man kneels beside her and places his hand over hers. The stone is cold, much like them, but it soothes his skin all the same. It always does. ‘Any time you walk past here, you come and touch this stone; yeah? It’s a tradition… A way to say thank you, to remember them, honour them.’

Restless, the girl leans into her father. Her eyes are simmering lava, full of questions she doesn’t have the words for yet. One day she will and those eyes will look even more like his than they do. ‘Do you do it?’

‘Yeah.’ The man smiles. ‘Every single day.’

[saturnsorbits]

Bakugo can whistle LOUD, okay.

You know that thing where someone puts their thumb and index finger in the sides of their mouth and does that horrifically high-pitched, loud whistle? Yeah. That. He does that.

He spots you in the city, but you’re too far away, all the way down the street and getting further by the second? He whistles and you’re spinning on your heel because there’s only one person who can whistle that fucking loud.

You’re at a Hero event, dressed to the nines and about to step onto the red carpet to be photographed. The first thing you hear? That God-damn, fucking whistle. The paparazzi go mad for it, snapping shots of you half-turned towards the noise, a blush coating your cheeks as you search the crowd for the grin you know he's wearing.

He does it when you get your first promotion. You're stood in the corner of the bar, up on a chair because Kirishima had insisted on it with a glass held in the air as you're friends surround you and hold their own drinks aloft to toast. The applause after your thrown together speech is thunderous, almost drowning out the heavy bass of the music, but his whistle still manages to get through.

It's his way of celebrating. A way to tell you that he's so fucking proud, a way to make people look, to make it known that he's completely awed by everything you are and at your mercy, totally, always.

[saturnsorbits]

🤔💭: Thinking about Chef!Bakugo having to lock himself in the walk-in freezer every few hours because your skirt rides up when you reach over the hot plate and he gets a perfect view every damn time.

[saturnsorbits]

Two months into dating Kirishima, Bakugo gives you the ‘If you ever hurt him, I’m going to break your legs' speech and means it.

It’s late when he pulls you aside, takes a bruising grip on the turn of your shoulder and smushes your foreheads together. He’s a little buzzed, tipsy from the fruity cocktails Kirishima keeps plying him with, but all the words in his sentences ring clear.

‘He’s the best of us.’ He mumbles. ‘Fucking deserves it too.’

‘I know.’ It’s hard not to smile. You’ve not known Bakugo for long, but you don’t have to to know that he’s a closed book. The sudden display of emotion is explosive, but suits him and it warms your stomach to know that Kirishima has friends who are this fierce for him.

‘So you’ve got to be that, yeah, the best - for him… He -.’ A hiccough interrupts him. ‘He really fucking likes you, or whatever and…’

'I like him too, Bakugo -.'

He scowls at the interruption, tightens his grip on your shoulder until you wince. ‘And -‘ He continues. ‘If you ever hurt him - I will hunt you down and tear you limb from fucking limb… I’ll -‘

His threats get colourful after that, but you’re saved from a particularly vivid description of your evisceration when Kirishima brings back the drinks from the bar. 'What'cha talking about?'

‘Nothin’.’ Snatching his drink, Bakugo watches as you shift to give Kiri space. His hand falls to your thigh, thumb rubbing at the fat like it was made to be there and he has half a mind to condemn the subtle show of affection, but he won’t. Your eyes are shining, your lips forced into a pretty grin and when Kiri leans in to whisper something in your ear, you laugh like he’s the funniest person in the world.

Bakugo takes a sip of his cocktail and leans back. He doesn’t think he’ll be needing to explode your head or turn you into strawberry jam any time soon. In fact, he thinks you might just be it…

The best that Kirishima deserves.

[saturnsorbits]

Hand Prints

Ft: Bakugo.

Tw: Grief, Discussion Around Death, An Awkward Metaphor, Very Bad Writing.

‘I know it doesn’t go away…’ You twist your fingers around each other until the knuckles crack and then, you twist some more. ‘But, I just want to know if it gets better.’

‘Easier.’ Bakugo mumbles. ‘On the good days, it’ll be easier.’

‘And on the bad?’

He lets out a hollow laugh. That’s all the answer you need.

‘I just - I fuckin’ - I hated her, y’know.’ Bakugo’s grip on his coffee mug tightens until the porcelain creaks, but he doesn’t let up. ‘And now that - now that she’s not here to hate anymore, I feel… I feel…’

‘Lost?’

‘Empty.’ He supplies.

You nod. There’s been something spreading in your chest for days now, something that has evaded your attempts to christen it, but empty, empty feels like a good fit.

‘I went… I went to the house the other day. The auld fella wanted me to look through the attic, see if there was anything I wanted to keep… And there was this, this fuckin’ mould she’d had done when I was little with all of our hands sunk into some concrete shit.’ He splays his hand out in mid-air, shifting it slightly as he dips them into the imaginary prints shining in his minds eye. ‘Mine where tiny. I must’ve been about three…’ A sob wriggles up his throat and chokes him, forcing his hand to fall. ‘She - she wanted to do it again, get them re-done when I was older, but - but I’d already started to hate her then. I always said no.’

You feel the shift before you see it. Grief stretches its wings, flaps gently to dislodge its cob-webs and then, reaches those tired, awkward talons around his shoulders. You watch as he leans into the weight, basking in the heaviness of an old friend before letting out a shaky breath. Beside him, your own grief ruffles it’s feathers. Yours is a younger bird, still preened and proper that nips, digging it’s beak into your shoulders. One day, it’ll look as old as his. You hope it’ll be as kind too.

Reaching into his jacket, Bakugo pulls out a folded piece of paper and opens it. It’s crumpled at the edges, curled through years of being stuffed into an inside pocket, but there isn’t a single blemish on the page when he presents it to you. Instead, three hand prints stand out, faded, but clear from the page. The first, a broad palm with stout set fingers, is coloured green; the last, a delicate, purple hand with arthritic knuckles and in the middle, underneath the other two, is a large, strong print of bright orange. Under them, in Bakugo’s ever-neat scrawl are names, although each hand print is more than easily identifiable. ‘I caved when she went into hospital. Couldn’t find any concrete or plaster on short notice, but one of the nurses swiped a bunch’a paint from paediatrics for us.’

You want to reach out, but you don’t want to disturb the bird still looming over his shoulders. It’s a fickle thing and liable to take off your fingers if you move too quick, but as you shift in your chair, you notice it lift its wing leaving space for you to offer out your hand.

Bakugo sinks into the palm you rest on the back of his tricep. Your thumb digs into the dip at his elbow and strokes gentle half-moons into pale skin. ‘You should get it framed.’

He nods, folding the paper back into his pocket. ‘Yeah. Not ready to part with it just yet, though.’

Eyes lingering on the covered memory, you wince as the bird on your shoulders digs in its claws causing guilt to ooze through your skin. ‘I haven’t even got around to going through any of his stuff yet…’

‘There’s time.’ Bakugo reminds you. ‘There’ll be time.’

Your cheeks are already wet by the time your voice remembers to crack. The rickety intake of air is harsh and scolds your throat, leaving you gasping in it’s violent tumult. Grief digs in it’s claws, tries to tear and rip away the pieces of you that hurt even though you both know that won’t do any good. His memory is nestled far too deeply inside of you for that. Hiccuping, you twist your hands in your lap, breaking skin with bitten nails as you try and mend the breach to stop the flood. Bakugo’s hand in yours comes as a shock. For a moment, your sure the bird on your back will attack him, will have you flinching away and yet, the moment doesn’t come. Instead, the beast observes him. It’s claws still dig deep, but it allows you the small comfort of a warm palm squeezing against your own. He doesn’t tell you that he’s sorry, or offer any condolences. You’re thankful for that. So is the grief.

‘Let me know…’ Your voice is scratchy when you break the silence.

‘Know what?’

Swallowing, you let your eyes rest on his jacket pocket. ‘I want to buy you a frame.’

[saturnsorbits]

I’m having unsolicited domestic Uncle Bakugo thoughts today 😶

He’s the person Kirishima’s kids run to when they need straight up, no bullshit advice… They trust him with all of their secrets and he’s the first one they turn to when they’re in trouble…

It’s not uncommon to find a stray black-haired teenager crashing is his spare room, or as a tag-along on one of his lone hikes…

He gives them their first drink. Holds their hair when they overdo it at their first house party and teases them relentlessly about it after.

[saturnsorbits]

You sit on the dock, legs dangling over the edge and dipping just into the clear water below. You haul in a breathe, the glance up letting your eyes roll over the man sat beside you. Nishinoya Yu looks exactly like he did back in high school, except for one thing. His usual spiked hair now falls flat, flopping lazily from his head and curling at the ends.

‘So what’s with the hair…’ You point, eyebrows furrowing. ‘Italian hair gel not as good as the Japanese stuff?’

He chuckles, his hands slipping between his thighs. ‘The salt makes it hard to keep it up.’

‘Ah.’ You sigh, eyes flickering back to the ocean.

‘So, how’ve you been?’

‘About as good as you’d expect… You?’

He doesn’t glance up, choosing instead to kick tanned legs about in the water. ‘I caught a marlin the other day.’

You shake your head. ‘That’s not a state of being.’

‘Nah…’ Leaning back in his hands, he shrugs. ‘But, it’s close.’

The water is warm on your ankles, contrasting with the cool numbness that infests the rest of your body. You’d been a fool to think you could escape heartbreak by running off to a warmer climate, but for the first time in a while, it feels like you just might be able to thaw. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Sure.’ He’s looking out at the ocean again.

‘Did you leave because of Kiyoko?’

Noya falls silent. ‘Was it that obvious?’.

You sigh. ‘It was to me.’

[saturnsorbits]

Solo P2 Thoughts… (It’s angsty)

Listening to the opening notes of ‘At Last’ on repeat and imaging Kaminari swaying softly back and forth with Jirou in the middle of an empty dance floor.

She looks beautiful in white. Which only makes things worse and you know you should look away, but you can’t.

The music sores and your heart breaks, but just as you’re about to toss back the rest of your champagne and head for the door - making a scene be damned, you’re frozen.

His eyes meet yours over her shoulder and for a moment, just one, brief, glorious moment it doesn’t hurt. There’s no hole in your chest, no ring on his finger - there’s just the two of you and the faint embers of everything you could have been…

[saturnsorbits]

Tag Guide:

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#SaturnScribbles - Original Fic Tag,

#SaturnsSnippets - Rough Idea Snippets,

#SaturnScrawls - Art Tag,

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#SaturnShips - Ship Tag,

#SaturnSpeaks - Ask Tag,

#SaturnServes - Request Tag,

#SaturnSuggests - Fic Rec Tag.

➸ All blog maintenance, ordering or general faffery is done under the tag #SaturnSorts, so feel free to block it if I ever end up clogging your dash!

[saturnsorbits]

He’s convinced himself that he’s okay with just being able to look, never touching for more than a few quick seconds when you squeeze past him; palms flat on the muscle of his back as he feels the barely there scrape of your tits. He’s content to day-dream and sneak off to the freezer whenever his pants begin to get a little tight. He is.

Or he was, until you burn your hand while handling one of the machines and Shoto fucking Todoroki appears at your side not two seconds later with what looks like heat balm and a cold compress.

The little shit shouldn’t even be in the kitchen, but here he is, first aid kid under one arm, lithe fingers gripping onto your dainty wrist and twisting it slightly under the cold water as you hiss.

Bakugo thinks he’s going to lose it. A jealousy burns in his stomach almost making him ruin the scallops in his pan and then, he’s tossing the whole thing in the bin and storming over, screaming at Sero to run his station while he’s gone. He flicks Todoroki between the eyes, barks out a dull ‘You’re treating the burn wrong, fuckin’ idiot.’ (he’s not) and promptly slips his hand around your wrist in place of the other mans.

Todoroki glares at him and for a second, Bakugo thinks maybe he’s finally going to go through with his constant threat to fire him - but, he can’t find it in him to care. You look at him, batting you eyelashes and smiling oh-so-sweetly as a quiet ‘Thank You, Chef.’ slips from your lips.

And Bakugo knows, then, looking will never be enough, not anymore.

Thinking about Chef!Bakugo having to lock himself in the walk-in freezer every few hours because your skirt rides up when you reach over the hot plate and he gets a perfect view every damn time.