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bluesidez · 3 months ago

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Gym Rat Miguel Part 13

content warning: alcohol, drugs, 18+ so MDNI, food play??, fellatio, cunnilingus

word count: 5.8k (YAY FOR MY BETA! @slushycoookie )

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GymRat!Miguel who starts the week with hope in his heart.

He was reaching a new milestone in his life and he was really looking forward to seeing you. He’s even started to cross off the days on his calendar as he gets closer to the date. Never mind the fact that midterms were right around the corner.

At this point, the reserved rooms in the library had his and Xina’s name imprinted on the sign-up sheet. He was confident about his progress in his classes while Xina was triple checking everything.

“I swear to god if I don’t make at least a B on this, I’m going to do commit arson.”

“Do you have any gasoline?”

Xina threw her pencil at Miguel while he snickered and dodged.

GymRat!Miguel who noticed that Xina was taking a liking to these brighter sets. The shirt she was wearing right now looked a lot like the one you wore on you all’s anniversary.

GymRat!Miguel who has been texting you as much as he could because he knew your critiques were coming up. You’ve been sending him progress of your work and the occasional paint covered hand. He didn’t know how you got yellows and charcoal on your face, but it was cute and he saved every picture.

GymRat!Miguel who is laughing at his a clip that Gabriel sent him when Xina grits out his name.

“I know you might be free to live, laugh, love, or whatever, but some of us have tests coming up.”

Miguel places his phone down, “I have tests, too.”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“What’s with you all of a sudden?”

“Nothing,” she breaks the lead of her pencil with how hard she’s writing across the page.

“Xina, I’m sure you’re going to do great on your tests. You’re stressing yourself out over nothing. If this is how you’re like now, the finals are going to take you out.”

“I really need to pass. Some of these tests are, like, 30% of the grade.”

“And like I said,” Miguel laid his head on the table. “You’re going to do great. Trust yourself a bit more.”

Xina flit her eyes from Miguel back to her notes, a flutter in her eyes.

GymRat!Miguel whose phone is on lockdown for the next two hours as per Xina’s request so he was now in line for snacks and drinks.

He was thinking about getting something sweet, a reward for finally finishing one of his papers and the write-up for his game.

“Migster! It’s such a coincidence seeing you here.”

Miguel tenses, that shrieking voice recognizable anywhere.

“Aaron,” he turns with a polite smile.

“Grabbing some munchies for you and your girlfriend? Where is she by the way?”

Miguel shifted his eyes to him in his peripheral and back to the bread on display.

“You’ve never seen my girlfriend.”

“Don’t act all shy, now!” Aaron nudges Miguel’s side to which he doesn’t budge. “You guys look cute together.”

He couldn’t recall a single moment where you picked him up from his robotic team meetings, the engineering building, or the science building where he could see it.

Miguel looked down at him and curled his lip a bit, “Are you stalking me?”

Aaron let out a bird-like laugh, voice making the people in front of him jump, “You’re really a riot. Dude, she’s always outside of the building waiting for you. She gave me an invite to your birthday party?”

He leans in even closer, “You’re not cheating on her are you?”

Miguel stepped forward, the line decreasing and Aaron following him like a lackey.

“That’s not my girlfriend.”

Aaron snickered, “Could have fooled me.”

GymRat!Miguel who returns to the private study room with a knot in his stomach.

He places down a sandwich and a latte for Xina and taps on his own cup of coffee.

“Can I have my phone back?”

Xina slid it back without a fight, “Don’t distract me.”

He checks his phone and it’s only emails from school and a reminder to buy protein powder.

He guesses you’re busy again.

GymRat!Miguel who fights through the beginning of the week just to breathe by the time his birthday gets here.

Peter wakes him up with a mini confetti cannon and a lit cupcake that almost burns through his comforter.

They both panic for a few seconds as they beat the life out of the fabric and Peter looks shameful before he runs to his last midterm.

GymRat!Miguel who sees that his brother has dropped a saxophone rendition of “In Da Club” and dedicated it to Miguel on his TikTok.

The comments are full of praise and begging to see Miguel.

GymRat!Miguel who doesn’t have any messages from you yet.

There’s two from his mom, one from his dad and Tyler, some sporadic messages from his abuela, celebratory words from The Geek Squad, an email from his Steam account, a bunch of messages from Xina, and nothing from you.

Miguel’s shoulders wilt, thumbs flicking through his phone.

The countdown he started stared back at him.

GymRat!Miguel who didn’t really do anything special outside of his normal routine.

Get up. Exercise. Breakfast. Rest. Think about you.

Was his last birthday this uneventful?

GymRat!Miguel who dresses up a bit for this party that Xina insisted on having.

He looks in the mirror and adjusts the chain on his neck and smooths down his jean jacket. He doesn’t feel any different from yesterday, but he does feel like a loser for moping all day.

He should be thankful that he has friends and family that reached out to him. He should be thankful that Tyler slid him a nice amount of cash. He should be thankful that Xina is going out of her way to celebrate with him.

He still wishes you would have called.

GymRat!Miguel who hears the party as he’s walking up the stairs to the apartment door. He doesn’t know what to expect, but knocks on the door with fated breath.

GymRat!Miguel who is pulled into the party and given the ugliest birthday hat he’s ever seen by a guy he vaguely remembers from the gym.

He turns to the crowd and shouts, “The Birthday Boy is here!”

Everyone in the room shouts and cheers, patting him on the back as he weaves through the sea of people.

A beer was placed in his hand and noisemakers were blown past his ears. He smiled a little at the chaos and yelled thank-you’s over the noise.

GymRat!Miguel who saw some familiar faces once he got to the living room of the apartment. Margo was inching further away from Aaron as he laughed at something with a grimace on her face.

She looked up as Miguel came closer and jumped from the couch.

“Miguel!” She gripped his shoulders. “I am so glad to see you here. Let’s go to the balcony.”

She uses Miguel like a bulldozer moving past people drinking and dancing.

As they make it outside, she thanks him.

“Aaron is entirely incapable of reading the room or shutting up. You just saved me from hearing him mansplain the mechanics of Mario Party while Doritos fall from his mouth.”

Miguel smiled apologetically as she shoved a gift bag in his hand.

“And this was a nice experience! But I want to catch a game update that happens at 2am, and I need some shut eye.”

“You’re leaving already?” Miguel huffs, weight shifting in his stance.

“I’m sorry, Miguel. I’ve been here for a while and there’s only so much grass I can take in my clothes before the shots wear off. Also, a couple has been eyeing me since I walked in, and the guy looks sinister. I’ve got to go home.”

Miguel furrowed his brow, “Need me to drive you home?”

“I’m ok. I’ll text you. Enjoy your gift!”

She hugs Miguel and books it, ribbons in her braids trailing after her.

He opens the bag and laughs when he catches the card with a dad joke staring back at him.

GymRat!Miguel who really has no clue who majority of the people standing around are.

He’s chatted with a few people and pushed away a couple of wandering hands, but outside of Margo and Ben, who was currently dancing on top of the table like a video vixen in between some girls, he hasn’t really found anyone.

There was a coarse smell that ran through the apartment. He wasn’t sure if it was because the amount of sweaty bodies pressing against each other or because of the mix of mango pineapple smoke and something else he couldn’t pick up.

The music was rattling his bones and the hairs on his skin were standing upright. Everywhere he turned, someone was there and the weight of it was becoming too much. His height could allow him relief if the ceiling didn’t feel like it was caving in.

He got to a bathroom, praying for a break, only to be met with someone sliding their nose across the counter and another person at their side sitting on the toilet. He closes the door with a panic and shuffles to the kitchen.

It’s a small break, the people lingering around the island laughing over red solo cups. He reached for his phone, heart pumping through his veins as he runs across your name in his phone.

“Nuh uh,” Miguel’s phone is snatched from his hands. He’s about to panic until he sees who it is. “Tonight, you’re living in the moment.”

“But-”

“No buts! Only shots and smiles!” Xina pocketed the device. “Now, let’s have some fun.”

She smiles at him and grabs his arm, chest pressing up against his as she leans towards his face. He can smell the alcohol on her breath before he attaches the back of his hand onto her face.

Xina stumbles back, “So I can’t kiss you on the cheek now, either?”

“No. You haven’t done that in years and you’re drunk right now. Give me my phone back, please.”

“At least enjoy the party a little first. There’s,” she glances over to the middle of the island, “was…cake for you.”

Miguel follows her gaze to a mostly eaten cake with a part of it with teeth marks. He turns back to Xina who is pouring a shot for him.

She hands him a cup, “Just another hour. Please? I haven’t even given you your gift yet.”

“Forty five minutes and I’m going back to my dorm.”

She jumps up at down, loose straps of her dress sliding down. She pulls Miguel into the crowd with laugh and a shriek.

GymRat!Miguel who tolerates the party for a little longer, but the more he’s here, the more he regrets agreeing to stay.

He lost the stupid hat he got when he came and the beer he had was long gone.

Xina is nowhere to be found for what feels like the fifth time and between her topping off his cup every time she sees him and the guy next to him that looks like he’s about to puke over the floor, Miguel wants out.

Three doors, two heated couples, and face down body in, he finds her room.

No one is here so he steps in and sighs. He sits on the bed and holds his face into his hands.

He could hear some people riling each other up just outside the door and the thumping of a bed against the wall. He checked his watch and saw he was well overdue for his escape.

And you still weren’t here.

GymRat!Miguel who jumps up when the door bursts open, a wide-eyed Xina lighting up.

“Were you waiting for me?” her voice is drawn out, dress haphazard. She hops onto the bed and stretches out with a lazy smile.

“Xina, give me my stuff. I’m not asking again.”

“Ooh, touchy,” she takes his phone from her bra with a pout. “I can’t believe you’re still so tense with all of the alcohol.”

He’s been letting it splash out of his cup all night.

“Some people can hold their liquor,” he takes his phone and checks it. Still, nothing. “I’m leaving. Good night.”

Xina whines out a no as she reaches for him.

“Don’t go,” her words get stuck in her throat. “It’s your big day.”

Miguel looks back her, the colors in her face changing from warm to cool. He grabs a trash can from the side of the room and places it at her beside.

“Get to the bathroom if you can, Xi,” he makes quick work to clip her hair up with a lone butterfly claw. “I’ll check on you later.”

As he slips through the door as the sound of her hurling gets drowned out by the packed apartment.

GymRat!Miguel who is standing outside of the apartment by the stairs and leaning on the wall to catch his breath.

It was all too much.

He wonders how know one has come with a noise complaint yet.

He walks down the steps, the tenseness in his neck amplifying.

“Miguel!”

The way he perks up is almost comical.

You’re standing by his car with a gift bag in your hand and a worried look on your face. He hurries to you and engulfs you in a hug, sticking his nose in the top of your scalp.

“Baby, I thought you forgot.”

“How could I forget?” you push him a little. “And you smell really loud. Were you about to drive back like this?”

“I promise I only drank a beer and a shot-“

“And how come you weren’t answering the phone? I’ve been blowing it up all night. And your location is off.”

Miguel groans, “Xina took my phone.”

“Why does she have your phone? Why did she take your phone?” the tone of your voice was sharp.

“She wanted me to enjoy myself tonight,” Miguel rubbed your shoulders, trying to get you to take the wrinkle from between your eyebrows. “‘M sorry.”

You clicked your tongue and pushed his hands off of your shoulders. Miguel called your name like a plea as you walked around his car to the driver’s side.

“Sorry isn’t enough, Miguel. Something could have happened to you. My mind was going everywhere.”

Miguel followed behind, hands floating and wanting to touch, but not wanting to make you madder.

You turned to him with an irritated look and he shot his hands down.

Even when you’re mad, you’re pretty. Your lips curled up and moved a mile a minute and he just wanted to kiss you. You looked so cozy in your sweater and baggy pants. He wanted to bury his head in your chest and hold you for a while.

Your fingers waved in front of Miguel’s face, “Earth to Miguel. Are you listening to me?”

“Mm hm, I-. We…yes.”

A slew of profanities from one of the apartment balconies passed over you both, the silence between you growing.

You turn your palm over, “Give me the keys. You’re not driving.”

“But I’m fine! I can drive.”

“You’re literally dozing off standing up.”

“That’s because you’re gorgeous, bebé.”

You roll your eyes while Miguel smiles at you and crowds you against the door.

“No. No and no,” you shove his face as he laughs. “Stop being cute and hand over the keys. I’m mad at you right now.”

“No te enojes,” he whispers as your eyes peer up over your glasses. “I don’t want you to be.” (Don’t be mad)

You squish his face in between your hands.

“Then go to the passenger side.”

GymRat!Miguel who sits petulantly in his seat while you try your best to navigate back to his dorm.

“Baby, watch the curb-“

“Miguel, I see the curb. I’m not going to hit it.”

“Ok, but slow-“ his body jerks while as you slam the breaks, “down.”

“I’m driving perfectly, but you should remember this moment so that it doesn’t happen again.”

Miguel’s eyes shifted from the narrow road in front of him to your profile, heart full.

“And how do you drive this big ass thing everyday anyway?”

“I’m a big guy, for starters.”

“Stop talking.”

“Claro, hermosa.”

GymRat!Miguel who grips your hand tight as he brings you back to his dorm.

You’re still fussing at him, but your tone has shifted to a softer one. You wanted him to understand how scared you were.

GymRat!Miguel who is ready to pounce on you once you step into his room but you stop him with a wish for him to take a shower first.

“And then maybe we can cuddle.”

He starts hopping on one foot as he yanks his clothes off one by one, feet tripping over each other as he runs towards the bathroom.

GymRat!Miguel who walks into the room with clouds of steam behind him and a towel wrapped around his lower half.

You’re sitting on the bed with your pants on the floor, a blanket covering you, and Miguel has half the mind to dive on top of you.

As he gets closer, you look up from your phone with a glint in your eyes, “Where are your clothes at?”

“I just took a shower.”

He stands beside the bed staring at you, waiting. You scoot over closer to the wall to give him some room.

“How was the party?” you ask, trying your best to ignore your boyfriend’s muscles relaxing and tensing as he stat down. He tugged you in, laying your head against his chest and your fingers twitched as you thought about squeezing it.

“I hated every bit of it.”

“What happened?”

He maneuvered you so that you were straddling his thighs, your glasses almost falling off in the process.

“It didn’t really feel like a party for me,” Miguel fixes your glasses for you, tucking the handle back over your ear. “There were a lot of people, most of which I didn’t know. Xina was also on and off all night. And you weren’t there.”

“I tried, Miguel, I really did. But my calls weren’t going through. I thought your phone was off or something. Plus, I was getting all of your gift together.”

“What you’d get?”

He has a vice grip on your hips as you lean over to grab the bag from the floor.

You place the gift in front of you, the top of almost hiding Miguel from your view.

His hand flies for the top, throwing the red tissue paper everywhere. He reaches into the bag and grabs the first thing, a bottle of oil with a small note attached.

He looks confused before you explain yourself, “I know sometimes after your bigger workouts, your muscles get tense. This is for when I’m with you and can work those out. It smells really good too. And it’s mostly there because the massage gun I ordered didn’t come in yet.”

Miguel’s grin widens, “This is better.” His mind is short circuiting thinking about you in a masseuse scrub that hugs your body leaning over his back. Or maybe no clothes. He wants that.

You tilt the bag and he pulls out some shirts to which you hold up against his skin after you place the bag to the side.

“I think these will fit nicely,” you nod to yourself more than anything. Miguel likes the texture of it and whatever you think looks good on him.

“Thank you.”

“There’s two more things.”

He rummages through the bag again and pulls out a small box. His eyes focuses on the words.

“Is this,” he flips the box around, “us?”

You nod without saying a word.

In his hands, he holds a blind box that you made, the outside decorated in hearts and stars with your names combined together on the tab.

“This is one of the things that took me so long. I was making it from scratch.”

It was a little figure of you both inside from one of the nights of the yacht party. You made the chocolate boat come to life coupled with the red outfits you were both wearing.

Miguel stares up at you in awe, “I love it. I love it so much.”

“I’m glad. I was scared it was too cliché.”

“To who? I’m going to put it on display and project it on the wall.

He spun the figure around in his hand taking in every detail. You got everything right down to the way his hair fell. Even the box had pictures of figures from other dates and meetups.

“I would like to collect them all.”

“That requires at least two and a half more birthdays.”

GymRat!Miguel who watched you brace him for the last gift.

“Why are you so nervous? What is it?”

“Just, don’t laugh. Actually, no, you’re supposed to laugh. I was delirious when I made it.”

He pulled out a blue box with a transparent top, watching as you spun your thumbs in circles. As he untied the ribbon around it, he could see why you looked like you were about to pounce to the other end of the bed.

In the box lay a bunch of cookies in the shapes of hearts and stars to match the blind box. The ones on top are plain with holes in the middle.

He pulls one out.

“‘Birthday Blows?’”

You seal your lips tight as he reads over the rest of the cookies.

“‘Let Me Crumb On Your Face-’”

“It’s a gag gift-“

“Then let’s do it.”

“What?”

GymRat!Miguel who ensured you that the gift was perfect. At least the movement under his towel showed that he was serious.

Now, he’s sitting against the headboard doing something he’d never thought he would do.

“You’re laughing,” Miguel throbs while you sit back and cackle at his state. “There’s a chocolate chip cookie stuck on my dick, and you’re laughing.”

“I’m sorry!” your shoulders shake as you push up your glasses. “I thought the hole would be big enough when I made it. I underestimated you. I also wasn’t expecting you to actually want to use it.”

Miguel twitched as you pushed the cookie down further, the inside of it melting from the heat. Your eyes were sparkling the longer you stared at him.

“A-Amor, we’ve been apart for too long because you should know that all you have to do is mention it once and I’m in.”

“So,” you rub a finger over the tip and like magic, Miguel was sure to follow. You shuffle your position on the bed watching him get harder. “All this took was an explanation?”

Miguel stuttered out a yes as you ghosted your fingers over his inner thighs. His breath hitched as your gaze stayed on him.

Your sweater was pooling over your shoulders and your thighs filled the space in between his.

You bent and took a bite out of the cookie, humming as the taste hit your tongue. Your fingers dig into his thighs as you lean back up.

“That’s delicious,” you chew with your hand covering your mouth. “I think I did a really good job.”

He moves your hand and follows.

“I wanna try.” Miguel whispers. He’s staring at you with heavy eyes. You smile softly and kiss his cheek, his face leaning into your lips.

You bend down and take another piece, Miguel trailing you as come up to his face. He opens his mouth, eyes going from yours to your lips as you place the piece on his tongue. The sweetness explodes in his mouth once the chocolate hits his senses.

You take a hand to the side of his face as he chews, kissing his lips and licking a crumb off. Your other hand runs up his chest, squeezing at it as you take your lips to his neck.

Miguel groans as you suck his skin, nails scratching lightly behind his ear. His hands grip the back of your t-shirt, fabric stretching in his hold.

You feel him swallow and you kiss near his adam’s apple.

“C’mere,” Miguel guides your face back to his. His kiss is desperate as he opens your mouth, moaning when he can still taste the sugar on your tongue.

Your hands warm him up as they move from his neck to his shoulders, thighs shaking when he holds your tongue in between his lips.

“Let me,” your breaths hits his lips, a whine coating your words, “let me finish.”

He continued to leave long kisses over your mouth, “Keep going, then.”

As you moved to bent to take another bite, Miguel knew you were barely holding on. He feels your breath shudder over him as you take another bite.

His mind was hazy as he watched you focus on freeing him. The heat from your face was radiating off of you and your lips were shining, glasses keeping a tiny fog at the corners.

He grit his teeth as you slid the remainder of the cookie up and off. Your tongue followed the line of chocolate along his shaft, glasses becoming crooked. A dribble of pre-cum escape’s Miguel and he trembles as he watches it blend on your tongue. He still has a mind to take the cookie out of your hand and back on the plastic bag it came out of, your mind too preoccupied to continue your endeavor.

You arch your back, shirt riding up as you take his head into your mouth. Miguel just about cries when you hollow your cheeks. The moonlight coming through the curtains leaves cool lines on your body as if he guided it.

Miguel smooths your hair back as you sink onto him deeper, a load moan escaping Miguel’s throat when you pump him with another hand.

It’s messy and fervent watching you try your best to catch every drop of him and clean the chocolate from your hands and his skin.

Your name is on the roof of his mouth as your lips connect to your grip on him.

What’s more is that your other hand reaches in between your thighs, the sound of you mixing with your hums and constricting throat.

“Mi sol,” Miguel feels like the stars are falling into his room. “Amor, bebé, I can’t take it.”

Everything was overwhelming in the best way possible.

The vision of your body before him, from the way your hips folded onto your thighs to the way your ass moved as you bobbed up and down, was perfect. The way your lips swole to sink onto him felt amazing and your fingers moving from him to yourself only moved him more.

You only moan as you move your hand from his length to the place below, holding him in your grasp. The sound of your throat gagging as you take him all in at once pulls him to the edge. He’s loud enough to where you know his neighbors heard.

A swallow or two before he lifts your head off of him, torso bowing and arching. He springs, convulsing as cum lands on your glasses.

“Shit,” he cries as you kiss the tip, mouth leaving flutters all the way down. Just as always, his mind can’t help but to think, “you’re so pretty.”

His core is sore but it’s nothing that you can’t fix. He takes your glasses off and pulls you up. He replaces your hand on yourself with his, mouth quick to taste him on your lips. Your hands grip at his shoulders as he flips your positions.

He yanks your underwear off, reveling in the way the fat of your thighs move. He wastes no time in bending your body up, one knee digging into the bed and the other foot on the ground as he lodges his face into you.

“Miguel!” you grip onto the edge of the twin mattress trying to find your balance as he starts to indulge in you in place of the cookies.

You’re already so wet and it excites him. He’s sucking your clit in slow motions, rubbing his tongue over the nub at a steady tempo. Your eyebrows are furrowed as your sweater scrunches up.

Miguel grips his arms around your thigh on his shoulders, fingers kneading the flesh. You try to muffle yourself as the sound of Miguel slurping you up gets louder and louder.

“My neck, baby,” you sigh through your whines. Your hands hit the bed then grip his hair and you feel fireworks going off.

He only kneels on the ground, holding your hips so you don’t slide off of the edge. He quickens his pace, tongue sliding into your entrance.

You shake and bend around him as he digs his head deeper, groaning as his forehead meets your stomach.

The ceiling is blurry, your brain not knowing whether to focus on the building slick going down Miguel’s chin or the vibration of his voice thumbing through you.

It could also be his buzzing phone that keeps drifting next to you.

Ignoring it is almost impossible, the feeling of it becoming irritating.

You take his phone in your hand, eyes focusing on the blue light and the pit of your stomach drops when the name flashes across the screen.

“Miguel, stop.”

He looks up like a deer in headlights, face flushed and doused.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something off?”

You shove the phone his face, legs pushing off of him to get away, “I don’t know. You tell me.”

He catches the phone as you sit and opens it. You look over to see what feels like a thousand messages from Xina.

“whete did you to?”

“I can’t bepkwvw you lert mr here”

“Mkguel”

“mgel”

“answer the freaki b phohe”

“I knoq you’ee sgull uo”

“come bacl to ny riom”

“k feel ndytee now”

“beter”

“better”

“i missss u”

“You were in her room?” the bed sheets make a peculiar sound under your palm.

“Only to get away from the party and to look for my phone. She came in afterwards. These,” he places the phone on the bed, “these aren’t what they look like.”

“Then what the fuck does it look like? Because to me, it looks like you’re a liar.”

Miguel’s mouth gapes open and he flounders, not knowing what to say that’ll make you see the truth.

“God,” you climb off of the bed and head to bathroom. He crawls into a run after you, tight on your heels. “I feel so fucking stupid.”

“Amor-”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

“Baby, please, just listen to me.”

“I’ve been listening to you for weeks, trusting you for weeks, and look where it’s gotten me! You let your ‘friend’ run you and belittle me, so we don’t have to do this shit anymore.”

Miguel’s heart sank as he watched you wipe away at your skin furiously. A stutter fights the words leaving him, “W-What are you saying?”

You brush past him and snatch your clothes from the floor. His strides are wide to meet you.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re getting what you want.”

“What are you talking about? I-I don’t understand.”

“This has been going on nonstop. Outside of school, when we rain checked, it was her. When we made plans, you’re always mentioning her. You’re spending every moment with her. I’ve been texting and calling you all fucking day, and you say your phone is with her.”

Your fingers press into his chest with every pronoun, his face crumbling at your words.

“I waited things out because I didn’t want to be the girlfriend that makes herself sick over every girl that passes you by, but this is making me insane.”

He says your name with a crack in his voice, “You don’t have to worry about her. I’ll talk to her. I’ll sort things out.”

You pick up your phone and dial a number, waiting only second before the call drops. You do it again, and turn the phone to his face. His name in your phone is there in all caps, one ring, and the call doesn’t go through.

“What was that again about sorting shit out?”

He pinched his brow, lost.

“You can be so,” you looked around like the word was in the room, “stupid sometimes.”

The settings on his phone are opened to his blocked contacts, your name the only one on the list.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and almost laughed in disbelief at the situation. Your throat was tight as you looked straight at the wall.

“I didn’t do this!”

“Then who did, Miguel?” you wiped a tear from your face just as fast as it fell. You trudged towards the door, limbs heavy as Miguel pulled at them, a bubble of no’s coating air.

“Let me go.”

“Then please don’t go. I don’t know how this happened, but none of it’s true. We can talk. I-I love you. I need you. Mi amor, por favor no me dejas.” (My love, please don’t leave.)

Your sweater almost rips as you pull his arms from around you and grab the door knob, a sob growing at the bottom of your jaw.

“Wipe your fucking face,” was all you said in response as you slammed the door after you.

Miguel watched the door rattle against the hinges in horror, cheeks burning with tears as he scrambled to put some pants on.

He hit his knee as he made a run for the exit, hoping to catch you before you got back to your own dorm. The chill of the autumn night shocking his skin.

The sidewalk was empty, only the scuttle of dry leaves going across the pavement.

In the dark, stood this weeping man who felt like a boy, lost and heaving out, no hope in his heart.

divider by: kodaswrld + adornedwithlight 🩵

a/n: Trying to update and format this on my phone is so infuriating. And also it took a lot of planning to get here.

The taglist has reached the max number! If you want updates, check my blog, turn on post notifs, or subscribe to it on AO3! (Although, I’ll have to clean this one up because some blogs aren’t here anymore!)

taglist: @ghost-lantern @miguelhugger2099 @emelie-s-h @lake-lili

@obsessed-with-miguels-ass @scaleniusrm @superiorspiderass @lexluvswriting

@flordelalunas @froggygal @vmpz8sauceee @famouscattale @nixinluv02

@jada-of-arcadia @spideykid22 @what-the-jams @julia4today @tojishugetiddies

@samjinxx @sleeklyalisha @the-pan-liquid @prongs-lover @kikaaauu

@urlocallocachica @wanderlustingcastaway @peachey-pie @ch3rry-bl1ss @girl-of-multi-fandoms

@love-kha1 @manlikemilesmyguy @sillysillygoofygoose @monticellohoe @kodzuminx

@lauraolar14 @bruhhvv @m4dyy @farrowroyale @cl3stevu

@ohara-whore @muneca-lemon-steppa @alexa4040 @amelialysm @snails-doodles22

@questionable-behaviour @babygotl01292003 @calig0sto @tatatida @haveclayeveryday

@earth2fae @maiyart @darkstarlight82

@sonicbutbutter @relatednative @slowlyshycomputer @nuetralcolorsenthusiast

@beyondstarlight @leoeloo @just-simpins-blog

@poisamm @thequeenreaders @tinybirdhidedout @aly29a2001 @mimi-sanisanidiot

@snakelore @pigeonmama @darkstalight82 @prettygirleli @koikohib

@jayskookies @xo-zeze @planetxella @thedevax @stressed-cherry

#love lab drabbles 💊#GymRat!Miguel 💪🏾#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara #x chubby reader #x plus size reader #miguel o’hara x plussize!reader #miguel o’hara x chubby reader #miguel o’hara x plus size reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara fanfiction #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara x y/n

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thebunnednun · 9 days ago

Text

Toast 2.

Pairing: Pro Hero! Katsuki Bakugou x Prohero!Ex! Reader

Years after you walked out of his life, Katsuki can't stand how his mind won't let you go after all this time.

And after your most recent phone call,

He doesn't think he ever will.

Part one right here.

Inspired by the song: Darling, I

Warning: Heavy angst, post break ups, crying Katsuki, meeting ex's (you).

Wc; 16k I think, I hit the limit so multi parts it is.

“You did WHAT?!”

Kirishima’s voice echoed through Katsuki’s office like a thunderclap, eyes wide and disbelieving as he stared at his friend.

“Shut it, Shitty Hair!” Katsuki barked, slamming a gauntlet down on the desk with a clang.

But it was too late. Kirishima was already pacing, running his hands through his spiky hair, muttering to himself like he was trying to process the madness.

“You deleted the message?!” he exclaimed, spinning around to face Katsuki. “Do you even know what you’re doing right now?”

Katsuki growled, clenching the edge of the desk like it was the only thing keeping him from combusting.

–

Katsuki hadn’t slept.

He’d spent the night staring at his phone, the glow of the screen burning his retinas as the message to you remained unsent. Something about the damn Wi-Fi, probably, but it didn’t matter. By the time he noticed, the moment was gone. He stared at the unsent message—at those words he’d spent too long overthinking—before gritting his teeth and hitting delete.

“Tch. Waste of time,” he muttered to himself, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

He wasn’t going to bother you with his feelings now that he knew about your grandma.

The apartment was still and quiet, except for the hum of the freezer. Katsuki found himself standing there, bare feet cold against the floor, staring at its contents. Frozen meals, bottles of water, and the random junk his crew had dumped there over the years. Half a bottle of soy sauce, a freezer-burned loaf of bread, and—he scowled—a frozen action figure Kaminari had shoved in there “for science.”

His fingers dug into the back of the freezer, brushing against a cold plastic binder. He yanked it out, his breath visible in the chilly air as he stared at the thing that had been sitting there for years.

Your grandmother’s will.

The rush of relief was short-lived, quickly replaced by a wave of memories he didn’t ask for. He thought of your old apartment—the one you shared together, the one he still hadn’t been able to let go of.

Instead, he’d thrown money at it, year after year, paying a cleaning service to keep it in perfect condition. It wasn’t just sentiment. At least, that’s what he told himself. It was an investment for your future—a gift he couldn’t bring himself to deliver.

His jaw tightened as he shoved the binder into his work bag.

The reminder of that place, combined with his lack of sleep, his foul mood, and the obligation to meet you later surrounded by the rest of the old gang, had him feeling more grouchy than usual this morning.

–

Kirishima leaned closer, his crimson eyes wide with disbelief. “You deleted the message? Dude, you poured your heart out—like, you never do that. And then you just… erased it?”

Katsuki glared at him, his scowl deepening. “I said shut up, Shitty Hair. It ain’t a big deal.”

“And?” Kirishima repeated incredulously. “Bro, that’s huge!” The larger redhead stood and threw his arms up into the air.

You’ve been beating yourself up about her for years! And now she reaches out, and you—”

“Shut. Up.” Katsuki growled, his tone low and dangerous.

Kirishima sighed, shaking his head. “Man, you’re impossible. What even happened last night? You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

The words hit like a reminder, dragging Katsuki’s mind back to the night before.

–

He hadn’t gone to bed. Couldn’t.

Sleep refused him and Katsuki refused to chase it.

And everytime he closed his eyes he saw your pretty face.

The glow of his phone had been his only companion in the dark apartment, your contact pulled up on the screen. His thumb hovered over the call button. Like he didn’t just make plans to see you hours ago.

When he realized it—that you were only showing up for the will, not to hash things out, maybe not even to stay for the annual get-together, and this will probably be the last time he sees you in person again—

Katsuki stared at it for what felt like forever.

And then he chucked his phone out the bedroom.

“Tch,” he muttered to himself as he slammed the window shut, feeling more irritated than relieved.

By the time he’d made his way back to the kitchen, the freezer’s icy air had jolted him out of his foggy thoughts. His eyes roved over the random collection of junk melting on his floors. Fucking leftovers from Kaminari, ice packs Mina had insisted he’d need “just in case,” and even some weird protein bars from Kirishima.

But as he reached deeper, his hand brushed something familiar, something colder than the frost itself. A memory surfaced, unbidden.

The apartment you’d shared.

You’d picked it together, your laughter filling the empty space as you debated over paint colors and furniture. It had been more yours than his—cozy and bright, filled with the warmth only you could bring.

When you left, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything with the place. Every year, he wrote a check for a cleaning service, making sure it stayed in perfect condition. Not because he couldn’t let go. Definitely not because he’d been holding onto you all these years.

‘It was just practical.’

That’s what he told himself.

But standing there in the dim light of his kitchen, thumbing the frosty binder that contained your grandmother’s will, the weight of the empty apartment hit him again.

It didn’t matter that he’d kept it spotless or untouched.

Without you, it was just… a building.

The rest of the night blurred into a mix of pacing, overthinking, and trying not to think about how seeing you again—especially in a public setting with people he also cared about—was already making his mood worse.

‘Fuck me.’

–

And it was fucking raining.

Katsuki glared up at the slate-gray sky, droplets pelting his face like tiny, frigid reminders that the universe had it out for him.

His boots splashed through a shallow puddle as he stormed into the agency, the freezer bag slung over one shoulder like a weapon. His scowl was etched deeper than usual, and his mood was as dark as the thunderclouds looming above.

The glass doors slid open with a hiss, and he stomped through the lobby, tracking water across the pristine floors. A cheerful voice greeted him from behind the front desk.

“Hey, Good morning, Bakugou—”

Sero didn’t even get to finish his sentence before a frozen packet of soy sauce collided squarely with his face.

“COñO—!” Sero yelped, clutching his forehead as the icy projectile clattered to the floor.

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki grumbled, rummaging in the freezer bag for his next target.

The front desk assistant rushed to help Sero back to his feet, their expression a mixture of concern and barely concealed amusement.

“Bakugou, what the hell!” Sero managed, still reeling from the unexpected assault.

Before he could get a response, Denki came barrelling out of the side hallway, his signature grin plastered across his face.

“Hey, bro, what’s—”

He didn’t get to finish either.

A bag of frozen fried rice sailed through the air, smacking him in the chest. Denki staggered, his arms flailing, before his foot slid on the now-wet floor.

“Whoa—!”

He went down in a spectacular crash, skidding into the front desk and sending papers and pens flying.

Katsuki’s grin widened, sharp and feral, as he grabbed the next batch of frozen contraband from his bag.

“What’s going on out here?”

Mina’s voice echoed from down the hall. She rounded the corner, her pink features scrunched in confusion. When her golden eyes locked onto Denki sprawled on the floor and Sero clutching his cheek, her jaw dropped.

“Are we under attack?!” she gasped, her gaze snapping to Katsuki.

But then she saw it—that devilish gleam in his crimson eyes, the way his shoulders shook ever so slightly as if holding back laughter.

Her instincts kicked in immediately.

“Oh no. Nope. Not today!”

She pivoted on her heel to retreat, and she was actually running pretty fast, but she didn’t make it far.

With deadly precision, Katsuki hurled several frozen chocolate bars, each one finding its mark on her back. Mina yelped and stumbled, clutching at her rear as she muttered something about betrayal.

The commotion had drawn the attention of the interns and staff in the building. They peeked out of offices and around corners, whispering and pointing as the chaos unfolded.

Only one person had yet to face Katsuki’s wrath–

Kirishima.

Speak of the angel, and he shall appear.

The red-haired hero stood at the end of the hall, balancing a large box of donuts against his hip, his rugged frame outlined by the dull gray light streaming through the agency’s rain-streaked windows.

Kirishima’s garnet eyes scanned the chaos before him, his expression a mix of calm curiosity and restrained amusement.

The scene was a study in destruction. Mina was crouched over, her back hunched as she fumbled with an unopened chocolate bar. A faint smear of melted chocolate was already on her cheek as she muttered about wasting good snacks under her breath.

Denki, sprawled on the slick, rain-damp floor, was kicking weakly at the legs of a chair he’d somehow entangled himself with during his fall. His hair was sticking out in wild, damp spikes, and his voice rose with melodramatic flair.

“Attempted murder!” Denki declared, pointing a shaky finger at Katsuki, though his dramatic delivery was undercut by his inability to actually get up.

“This is what friends get for trying to brighten his day? Betrayal, Sero! Betrayal, I tell you!”

Sero, meanwhile, was leaning heavily on the front desk for support, the soy sauce held firmly to his face like an ice pack. His lips moved rapidly, stringing together curses in Spanish as the desk intern fretted beside him. They kept trying to guide him to a nearby chair, their shoes squeaking against the damp floor as they slipped and stumbled.

“Dios mío, it’s soy sauce! What kind of psycho uses soy sauce as a weapon?!” Sero barked, holding up the offending packet as evidence.

“THAT psycho, who else!”

The intern muttered something about checking the first-aid kit while simultaneously trying to help Denki, whose flailing made the slick floor even harder to navigate. At one point, they nearly toppled into Sero, who shot them a frantic look and muttered, “No, no! You’re not taking me down with him!”

And then there was Katsuki, standing at the center of it all like a storm. His crimson eyes burned with something fierce and unrelenting, and his grin was razor-sharp. The freezer bag slung over his shoulder looked almost deflated now, but his hands were far from empty.

Kirishima took all this in, his gaze inevitably landed on Katsuki, who had frozen mid-motion. His head turned slowly, like a predator catching the scent of something new and tantalizing.

“Kirishima,” he growled, his tone low and ominous.

The redhead raised a single eyebrow, his stance casual as he adjusted the box of donuts against his hip.

For a brief moment, the tension was palpable, and even the air seemed to hum with an unspoken challenge.

“Hey, Bakugou. Rough morning?”

Katsuki didn’t respond. He simply reached into the bag and hurled the remaining contents—

A bundle of frozen salted beef and pork.

Kirishima didn’t flinch. He shifted the donuts slightly, hardening his features just enough to let the freezer bag land in his waiting hand with a dull thud.

The interns whooped and clapped at the smooth catch, some even pulling out their phones to record. Kirishima turned, flashing them his trademark grin as he lifted the box of donuts higher.

“Hey, everyone, grab some donuts before they’re gone! Sugar makes the rain less miserable, right?”

His easy charm worked like a magnet, pulling the staff’s attention away from Katsuki’s rampage. They crowded around him, laughing and chatting as they snagged pastries and exchanged banter.

Kirishima waited until the hall cleared out before he gently placed the donuts on a nearby desk and turned his attention back to Mina, Sero, and Denki. He crouched to help them to their feet, murmuring soft reassurances and checking for any real damage.

But Katsuki wasn’t done. He reached into the freezer bag and yanked out a frozen loaf of bread. The corners of his mouth twitched, and for a second, Kirishima thought he might actually laugh.

“Don’t you—” Sero started, but his words were cut off as Katsuki began tearing the loaf apart with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to weaponize anything.

Half-frozen slices became makeshift projectiles, hurtling through the air with alarming precision.

“You absolute lunatic! Pan de muerto! Pan de muerto!” Sero screeched, ducking and covering his head as a slice grazed his shoulder.

“Bakugou, stop!” Denki wailed from the floor, holding up a chair leg like a shield. A slice bounced off it with a dull thwack, landing squarely in his lap.

Meanwhile, Mina, unbothered by the chaos, had already unwrapped her chocolate bar and was munching on it contentedly. “You guys are being so dramatic,” she mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate.

“It’s literally just bread.”

Another slice whizzed past her head, and she ducked with a startled laugh. “Okay, okay! Maybe it’s explosion murder bread!”

Sero finally managed to pull Denki upright, only for both of them to slip again as more frozen slices hit the floor like ninja stars.

Kirishima sighed, a soft exhale that carried years of understanding for his volatile best friend. With deliberate steps, he approached Katsuki, his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Alright, bro,” Kirishima said, his voice low enough to cut through the commotion but firm enough to command attention.

“Put the carbs down.”

Katsuki turned his gaze on Kirishima, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with a grunt, he threw the last slice onto the wet floor and slung his work back over his shoulder.

“Fine,” he muttered, though his scowl didn’t soften.

Kirishima clapped a hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward the hallway. “Good. Now let’s figure out what’s really going on before you turn the agency into a war zone.”

Behind them, the chaos was still unraveling, with Sero clutching his chest like he’d survived a battle, Denki inspecting the bread slice in his lap, and Mina casually offering him a bite of her chocolate.

Once they were situated—Denki sprawled on a couch in Kirishima’s office, Sero nursing an ice pack in a plushy velvet chair, and Mina sitting in the office chair muttering about revenge—he straightened and fixed Katsuki with a knowing look.

“Let’s have a chat, yeah?”

Katsuki groaned, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “The hell for? Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.”

“Uh-huh,” Kirishima said, crossing his arms. “You’ve got your murder face on, Bakugou, and you’ve been picking fights all morning. Spill it.”

Katsuki gritted his teeth, looking anywhere but at Kirishima. “It’s nothin’. Just had a shitty night.”

“Uh-huh,” Kirishima repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism.

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with her, would it?”

Katsuki froze.

His jaw clenched tightly, the flicker of frustration in his eyes stark against the fluorescent office light. Kirishima’s voice, steady but gentle, cut through the taut silence that hung between them.

Kirishima’s expression softened, his crimson eyes full of concern, though his tone didn’t waver.

“C’mon, man. Talk to me. You’re not gonna get through this by chucking frozen food at everyone.”

The rain pattered rhythmically against the windowpane, filling the space where neither of them spoke. Its soft cadence was a stark contrast to the tension radiating from Katsuki. The faint hum of the refrigerator buzzed in the background, adding a low hum to the room.

Katsuki exhaled sharply, the sound breaking the stillness like a knife.

The tightness in his shoulders loosened slightly as his grip on the bag slackened, letting it drop onto the desk with a sharp thud. He scrubbed a hand through his messy blond hair, his usual fiery confidence dimmed.

“It’s complicated,” he muttered, his voice gravelly and uncharacteristically quiet.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Kirishima quipped, stepping closer and clapping a firm hand on Katsuki’s shoulder. The gesture wasn’t forceful but grounding, like an anchor tethering him to the present. “But you don’t have to do it alone, you know? So, let’s hear it. What’s going on?”

Katsuki’s crimson eyes flickered, darting away before landing on the floor. His fingers twitched at his sides, his internal battle visible in every muscle of his tense frame. Kirishima didn’t push further, just stood there, steady and patient, his presence solid as ever.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Katsuki felt the faintest urge to let go of the walls he’d so painstakingly built. He thought about your voice—how it had lingered, filling up his whole body and apartment before cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

The words teetered on the edge of his tongue, heavy and unresolved.

Katsuki found himself considering it—actually talking about what had been weighing on him since your call.

–

“You didn’t sleep, did you?”

Kirishima’s voice broke through Katsuki’s thoughts, dragging him back to the present.

The blond stood by the desk edge, leaning on one hand, his other gripping a water bottle so tightly it crinkled under the pressure. His sharp red eyes darted to his friend briefly before returning to the floor.

Katsuki grunted, unscrewing the cap of the bottle with a flick of his wrist.

“Don’t need to. I’m fine.” His tone was clipped, defensive, as if the words themselves were meant to ward off further probing.

“Yeah, sure,” Kirishima drawled, his disbelief obvious as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. He strolled over and perched casually on the corner of Katsuki’s desk, tilting his head like he was sizing him up. His lips curled into an easy grin, but his eyes betrayed the concern simmering beneath.

“Because staying up all night thinking about her is totally fine.”

The tension in the room shifted instantly. Katsuki’s glare shot up, blazing and deadly, his jaw tightening like a steel trap. “Keep talkin’, and I’ll make sure you ain’t fine either,” he snapped, his voice low and dangerous. Kirishima laughed, utterly unfazed by the threat. He leaned back on his hands, his grin widening.

“Whatever you say, bro. But let’s be real—you’ve been waiting for this chance for forever. You’d better not screw it up.”

Katsuki scoffed, turning away to avoid the look on his friend’s face. He hated how easily Kirishima could see through him, but there was no point denying the truth. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. His shoulders were tight, every muscle coiled as if bracing for impact.

The thought of seeing you again loomed in his mind like a storm cloud, heavy and unavoidable. No matter how many nights he spent convincing himself it didn’t matter, his chest tightened at the idea of facing you.

Too much had been left unsaid, and no amount of time could erase the sting of those unresolved feelings.

Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter how much distance he’d put between you, seeing you again wasn’t going to be easy.

Katsuki rolled the water bottle in his hands, the plastic crinkling under his relentless grip. He stared down at it, the weight of Kirishima’s words settling over him like an iron chain. His friend’s casual posture only added fuel to his simmering irritation.

“Don’t act like you know everything,” Katsuki growled, his voice rougher than intended, his throat raw from too much silence and not enough sleep.

Kirishima didn’t budge. If anything, his grin softened, losing its teasing edge. He shifted slightly, planting one foot on the ground while the other swung lazily. “Come on, man. You think I don’t know how you get? You’ve been wound up tighter than a damn spring all week.”

Katsuki grunted in response, unscrewing the cap of the bottle and taking a long drink. The water did nothing to quench the fire burning in his chest. He slammed the bottle down onto the desk, droplets splattering the surface. “I said I’m fine,” he bit out, but the sharpness of his tone felt hollow even to him.

“Yeah, you keep sayin’ that.” Kirishima’s voice dropped an octave, losing its earlier playfulness. His gaze turned steady, unwavering, as he leaned forward slightly. “But we both know it’s bull, Bakugou.”

The blond tensed, the air around him crackling with unspent energy. He turned his back to Kirishima, his hands gripping the desk edge like it might crumble under his touch. His reflection stared back at him in the rain-slicked window, pale and sharp and tired.

“You don’t know anything,” Katsuki muttered, his voice low and bitter.

Kirishima let out a soft sigh, the kind that was more understanding than frustrated. He stood, his broad frame casting a shadow over his friend. “You’re right,” he said, his tone gentler now, less like a challenge and more like an offer. “I don’t know everything. But I know you, Katsuki.”

That struck a chord, and Katsuki’s shoulders stiffened. He didn’t turn around, but his silence spoke volumes.

“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” Kirishima’s voice softened even further, barely above a whisper. “Waiting to see her again. To fix whatever the hell’s been eating at you since... since back then.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched, just for a moment, but it was enough for Kirishima to catch it.

“It’s not that simple,” Katsuki muttered, his words clipped, almost choked. He finally turned, his sharp crimson eyes meeting Kirishima’s softer gaze. For a moment, all the walls he’d built around himself seemed thinner, more fragile.

“Nothing with her ever was.”

Kirishima gave a small nod, understanding without prying. He placed a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder, firm but reassuring. “Then don’t make it complicated now. Just... don’t let whatever’s in your head ruin this, okay?”

Katsuki didn’t respond immediately. His jaw worked as he wrestled with his thoughts, the storm behind his eyes churning violently. Finally, he gave a sharp nod, brushing past Kirishima with his usual gruffness.

“Don’t need your pep talk,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. “I’m not gonna screw this up.”

Kirishima smiled faintly, watching his friend stride toward the door, his steps purposeful despite the weight hanging over him. “You better not, man,” he said softly, more to himself than to Katsuki.

As the door slammed shut behind him, Kirishima’s grin widened slightly. He knew Katsuki wouldn’t admit it, but the fire in his eyes wasn’t just from frustration.

Katsuki didn’t just walk out of the agency—he stormed out, every step heavy and purposeful, the air around him buzzing with his barely contained frustration. His boots pounded against the polished floor, leaving startled interns and bewildered sidekicks in his wake.

He ignored the calls of his name, the concerned glances from his team.

The agency doors swung open with a force that echoed through the lobby, and he stepped into the rain without a second thought.

Cold droplets slid down his face and soaked into the hood of his sweatshirt as he pulled it up, shielding himself from the world. With a single motion, he turned off his phone and shoved it deep into his pocket, silencing the incessant buzz of notifications and calls.

For the first time in years, he was unmoored.

No schedule.

No expectations.

No demands.

Just...him.

The streets blurred as he moved through them, a relentless rhythm carrying him past familiar landmarks. He passed several hero agencies, their glowing signs cutting through the rain-soaked afternoon. One of them bore Midoriya’s name, bright and proud. Another belonged to Shoto, sleek and understated. He barely glanced at them, his focus inward, his thoughts too tangled to untangle.

At the station, he bought a bullet train ticket without even checking the destination, his fingers fumbling with damp bills. He boarded and sank into a window seat, the hum of the train beneath him oddly soothing.

For once, he didn’t have his earbuds in, no music to drown out the world.

He didn’t even have his work bag.

Just the water bottle in his hand.

The train sped forward, the city giving way to fields and mountains, but Katsuki barely noticed. His eyes stayed fixed on the window, though he wasn’t seeing the scenery. He turned the bottle around in his hands, the plastic cool and slightly damp from condensation. His reflection in the glass stared back at him, pale and shadowed under his hood.

He didn’t think. Not consciously.

Instead, his mind wandered, circling around things he’d tried to ignore—your face, your voice, the weight of everything left unsaid.

By the time the train reached the last stop, he realized how far he’d gone. He stepped off into a station that was quieter, smaller, and felt worlds away from the city’s chaos. Still, he kept moving. A few more trains, then a bus, then one long, solitary walk.

The rain had stopped by the time he reached his destination, leaving the air fresh and heavy with the scent of wet earth. Katsuki stood in front of the door, the building older but familiar. The key in his pocket felt almost foreign as he fished it out, the metal cold against his fingertips.

With a sharp twist, the lock clicked, and Katsuki shouldered the door open. The weight of the past few hours pressed down on him as he stepped inside, his boots thudding loudly against the wooden floor. The sound echoed through the quiet space.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Instead, he stomped forward, his presence filling the room like a storm rolling in. The air inside smelled faintly of dust and something floral—maybe from a long-forgotten air freshener.

Everything was just as he’d left it.

The couch, the small table, even the old photo frame on the shelf he hadn’t been able to bring himself to take. The place wasn’t just a building to him—it was a time capsule, a shrine to everything he couldn’t let go of.

Katsuki stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, the water bottle still clutched in his hand. The silence pressed against him, but it didn’t feel suffocating.

It felt... expectant.

His boots scuffed against the worn wooden floor. Dust motes danced in the faint light filtering through the drawn curtains, and the air was thick with the scent of stagnation—like the place had been holding its breath for years, waiting for something to change.

Finally, he sank onto the couch, his head dropping into his hands. The storm inside him hadn’t passed.

Shit was far from over, really.

The apartment was eerily still, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears until it felt like a scream.

Downstairs was sparse, the furniture exactly as it had been left the last time it was occupied. A couch, its fabric faded but familiar, faced a small television set atop a scuffed coffee table. A few coasters, still holding the faint stains of coffee cups long since gone cold, rested haphazardly on the surface. Along the walls, shelves held a mix of books and trinkets, some of which hadn’t been touched in years.

Katsuki’s gaze landed on the bookshelf, where a single photo frame sat tilted to the side. He knew exactly what it was without picking it up—a picture of the two of you, your arm slung around his shoulders, his around your waist, both of you grinning like idiots after a night at the ramen spot.

He hadn’t been able to take it down.

Upstairs was no different. The other units in the building had been empty for years, their echoes a testament to time marching on. The once-lively hum of neighbors going about their lives had long since vanished, leaving only the faint creaks of the structure settling against itself.

Outside, the world was different.

The neighborhood had transformed, a shift Katsuki had poured his own energy into. The cracked sidewalks had been replaced, the run-down playgrounds refurbished, the community centers bustling with activity again. Charities and outreach programs he’d quietly invested in had brought life back to the area, giving it a second chance. Katsuki wasn’t the type to invest in something unless he saw its potential.

And yet, even with his vision realized, it wasn’t enough to let him move on.

It was the same reason he couldn’t bring himself to leave this place. It was tied to you, to the life you’d built together before it all fell apart. He had turned down countless relationships since—supermodels, celebrities, other heroes—none of them came close.

They weren’t you.

The few times he’d been blindsided into a surprise date, he always left before dessert, feeling the weight of your absence like a physical ache.

The paparazzi didn’t make it any easier. His hatred for them had grown over the years, festering like an untreated wound. They weren’t just vultures to him; they were the embodiment of every failure he couldn’t fix.

They’d hounded him, his friends, and worst of all, you.

After the breakup, the tabloids had gone wild, their headlines cruel and invasive.

“High School Sweethearts No More: The Explosive Breakup of Dynamight and Obsidian!”

“Behind Closed Doors: What Really Happened Between Them?”

“Moving on so soon: Pro Hero Obsidian Spotted at High Profile Party with New Beau.”

“Looks like Villains Aren’t The Only People He Beats Up: Pro Hero Obsidian Spotted with Burns After Hero Gala.”

“Diva Drama: Dynamight Recorded Snatching his Arm Away From Model in Distress.”

“Forever the Lone Wolf: Dynamight STILL Single After All These Years.”

That one landed on his desk yesterday morning.

Every day had brought new speculation, new rumors, and new strangers tearing apart your life for sport.

He could handle the attacks on himself—he’d grown used to being the target—but the thought of you enduring that same scrutiny twisted his gut in ways even his most brutal battles hadn’t.

He’d tried to protect you. He held one press conference—solo, against the pleading advice of his PR team—and stood in front of the world with his jaw set and his voice steady. Katsuki took full responsibility for the breakup, refusing to let your name get dragged any further.

He didn’t care what it cost him.

His warning was clear—

"Anyone who speaks about her again won’t just lose their job—they’ll lose their future. I’ll make sure of it. And trust me, no one’s gonna stop me.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

And the sheer force behind his words silenced even the most shameless reporters. Their voices faltered, cameras lowered slightly, as if the weight of his fury had reached through the lenses and pressed against their chests.

But it wasn’t just his actions that had left an impression on everyone.

No, what burned even brighter in his mind was the moment you’d stood up for him. The memory was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. The video that went viral, the one where you’d taken on a photographer with a cold, unflinching resolve.

It had been a crowded evening, flashing lights illuminating every corner of the red carpet as you glided toward an award show in a gown that made you look like you’d descended straight from Olympus. Then, it happened—a venomous voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

The man’s insult was vile, a filthy accusation hurled without an ounce of restraint.

“Happy to finally be free of that abusive asshole?!”

You’d spun around so fast, the sharp movement of your signature braids snapped in the air like a whip.

The crowd stilled, the atmosphere electric with tension as all eyes turned to you.

Your voice was a razor, cold and sharp, slicing through the noise like a blade.

“You’re speaking about something you know nothing about. He never laid a hand on me. And as far as I’m concerned, Dynamight’s got more character than all of you and your mothers put together!”

There was no anger in your tone, just a cutting precision that left no room for doubt. You stepped in close, not an ounce of fear in your eyes, towering over the man with an authority that seemed to shrink him where he stood.

The photographer stumbled, the smugness draining from his face as he paled under your gaze. The cameras were relentless, capturing every second as you stared him down.

And then, as quickly as it began, you turned on your heel, walking away without sparing him another glance. Your posture was regal, your back straight, your movements fluid as if you’d never been bothered in the first place.

It wasn’t just a dismissal—it was a statement. You were untouchable, and he wasn’t worth another second of your time.

The photographer looked like he’d pissed himself on live TV.

That clip dominated headlines for weeks, but what stuck with Katsuki wasn’t the internet’s reactions or the humiliation painted on the man’s face.

It was you—the way you defended him without hesitation, the unwavering strength in your voice, and the way you carried yourself like a force of nature.

That moment said more than words ever could.

You had his back, even when he didn’t ask for it, even when he absolutely didn’t deserve it.

And that?

That was something he would never forget.

Katsuki hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry when he saw the clip later. All he remembered was the sudden surge of love and fury that had overwhelmed him, so strong he’d accidentally melted his phone in his hand.

That love hadn’t gone anywhere, no matter how hard he’d tried to bury it. And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe he couldn’t let go of you because he couldn’t find a way to value himself again after the fallout.

Every rescue, every award, every headline proclaiming him Japan’s strongest hero felt hollow, like pouring water into a cup with a crack in the bottom.

Nothing filled the hole you’d left behind.

Sitting now in the apartment, Katsuki felt the weight of it all pressing down on him. The silence screamed louder than any explosion, a constant reminder of everything he’d lost and everything he hadn’t figured out how to reclaim.

The water bottle in his hand crinkled under his grip as he sat there, staring at the room that once felt like home. He was poisoning himself with the past, and deep down, he knew it.

But knowing and fixing were two different things.

And for once,

Katsuki wasn’t sure if he could continue living this.

Pushing up from the couch, Katsuki wandered through the apartment, the silence clawing at him with every step. He didn’t dare pull his hood down, as if keeping it up could shield him from the memories flooding the air. His chest felt tight, his throat burning as he stepped into the small dining room and caught sight of the photos hanging on the wall.

The first one stopped him cold—a shot of the two of you at U.A., drenched in sweat and grinning like maniacs after a brutal training session. You were mid-laugh, your arms thrown above your head into the air, and his smirk was cocky, as always.

Katsuki had forgotten how much you both smiled back then. He reached up and brushed his thumb over the frame, his hand trembling as his vision blurred.

He tried to keep walking, but each photo was like a punch to the gut. There was the one of your first joint mission as sidekicks, your hero suits bright and pristine, your eyes alight with determination.

Another of a rare quiet moment at the dorms, you leaning against him on the couch, fast asleep while he scowled at whoever had dared to snap the picture.

Even younger versions of you stared back at him—wide-eyed and full of dreams, utterly unaware of the fallout that would one day shatter it all.

His breath hitched, and he wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand, trying to keep himself together.

He moved to the kitchen next, where the emptiness screamed louder than the silence. The refrigerator was gone—he’d taken that with him when he left, though the small fruit magnets you’d collected were long gone. The counters were bare, and the cupboards hung slightly ajar, revealing their hollowness.

Katsuki’s gaze lingered on the stove, where a faint scorch mark marred the wall above the burners. He remembered the time you’d tried to make dinner and accidentally set the pan on fire. You’d laughed it off, waving away his curses, and somehow managed to salvage the meal. He could almost hear your voice echoing in the empty room, teasing him, grounding him.

He couldn’t stay there any longer.

His feet carried him upstairs, the weight of the past growing heavier with each step. When he reached his old room, he paused, his hand on the doorframe.

The air inside felt untouched, frozen in time.

His closet door was slightly ajar, and he could see his old clothes hanging there—his U.A. uniform, worn hoodies, and jackets he hadn’t thought about in years. A stack of textbooks sat on the desk, some still marked with your notes scrawled in the margins, reminders of late nights spent studying together.

Then there were the sweaters. The ones you used to steal. He pulled one from the pile and held it to his face, inhaling deeply even though he knew your scent was long gone. His chest heaved, and a bitter laugh escaped him. He let the sweater drop to the floor and leaned against the door, pressing his forehead to the frame as the tears spilled over.

He didn’t sob—Katsuki Bakugo didn’t sob—but the silent hot tears came all the same, streaking his cheeks and falling heavy onto the floor. He stood there, shaking, as the ache in his chest threatened to consume him.

Finally, he pushed himself upright and made his way down the hallway. Each step felt heavier than the last, his legs leaden as he approached the door at the end.

Your bedroom.

‘No, the bedroom.’

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, and he clenched his jaw, willing himself to move. He turned the knob slowly, the creak of the door echoing in the empty hallway.

The room was bare now, the bed stripped, the walls empty. The only sign of you was the faint indentations in the carpet where your furniture had been.

Yet, Katsuki could see it all so vividly in his mind—the way the sunlight used to stream through the windows in the mornings, casting golden light on your face as you stretched and yawned. The way your laughter used to fill the space, making it feel warmer than any heater ever could.

His eyes flicked to the vanity where your things had once been. The scattered hair ties, the rows of books, even his eyeliner that you’d stolen because, as you’d said, “It’s better than mine, and you don’t even use it for fun!” He chuckled bitterly at the memory, the sound raw and broken.

He stepped further along, his feet dragging as he took it all in. This was where it had all fallen apart, and this was where he kept coming back to remind himself.

To remind himself that you were gone. To remind himself that you weren’t coming back. To remind himself that he didn’t need you, that he was fine.

But as he stood there, the silence screamed the truth he couldn’t escape. He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine since the day you walked out, and no amount of victories or accolades could ever fill the void you left behind.

Katsuki sank to the floor, his back against the wall, and buried his face in his hands.

For the first time in years, he let himself fall apart.

Katsuki sat on the dusty floor of your old room, his back pressed against the wall. The weight of his emotions clung to him like a wet cloak, heavy and suffocating. His red, swollen eyes tracked the faint streams of dust swirling in the air, illuminated by the dim, gray light filtering through the window.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the old apartment settling.

It scared Katsuki because it screamed the truth.

He felt hollow. No, worse—he felt small.

Like a child left behind, staring out the window for someone who wasn’t coming back. His hands rested limply on his knees, and his breathing came in shaky, uneven bursts. He wasn’t used to sitting still, wasn’t used to being in a space where he couldn’t just do something to distract himself from the gnawing ache inside.

The growl of his stomach startled him, low and persistent. Katsuki huffed, the sound a weak shadow of his usual irritation. His lips curled into a half-hearted scowl before his expression crumpled again.

That heat—the kind that had nothing to do with his Quirk—began to bubble up in his stomach.

Guilt.

It burned low and steady, an ember that refused to die out no matter how much he tried to smother it. It wasn’t just about how he’d treated you, though that alone was enough to make his chest tighten painfully. It was everything.

The way he lashed out at the people closest to him. The way he snapped at reporters, interns, and sidekicks like a cornered animal.

The way his anger had turned into a shield, pushing everyone away.

Everyone knew you were a sore subject.

Even the most daring reporters had learned not to mention you to him unless they wanted to get scorched—sometimes literally. Interviewers were warned to stick to a script, and those who didn’t often found themselves on the receiving end of a death glare that could silence an entire room.

And then there was the squad.

Katsuki clenched his fists, the sting of his nails digging into his palms grounding him. He knew they still kept in touch with you.

It wasn’t hard to figure out.

Denki, with his awkward attempts to avoid the subject, had once likened the situation to a messy divorce. "Like… y’know, when the parents split up, and you don’t know which one to visit for Christmas," he’d joked, only to pale when Katsuki glared daggers at him.

Mina didn’t care. She’d outright told him she wasn’t going to stop being your friend, and he hadn’t had the energy to argue. Sero, ever the peacemaker, danced around the topic like his life depended on it, deflecting with humor or changing the subject entirely.

Katsuki had created this. Another hostile environment, born from his selfishness and entitlement. He had made you his, convinced himself that you always would be, without stopping to think about what you needed.

And when it all fell apart, he didn’t just lose you. He dragged everyone else into the fallout, leaving them to tiptoe around his anger and his grief.

A fresh wave of tears pricked at his eyes, and Katsuki didn’t fight it this time. His chest heaved as the sobs came, rough and unrelenting.

He leaned forward, clutching his head in his hands as the sound tore from his throat, raw and ugly. The guilt was suffocating, a weight pressing down on him until he thought he might break.

He wasn’t angry anymore. He wasn’t defiant or proud.

Katsuki was just tired.

Tired of carrying the burden of his mistakes. Tired of pretending he was fine. Tired of the you-shaped hole in his heart that refused to be filled, no matter how many battles he won or accolades he earned.

As the sobs subsided into shaky breaths, Katsuki stared blankly at the floor, his vision blurred by tears.

The room was quiet again, but it wasn’t the same oppressive silence as before.

It felt… heavier.

Like the space itself was bearing witness to his breaking point, holding his grief like a fragile, unspoken truth.

For the first time in years, Katsuki allowed himself to admit it.

He wasn’t okay.

And he didn’t know if he ever would be.

Katsuki’s chest was tight, his breaths ragged as he wiped the last of his tears away with the back of his hand. His body felt like it was made of lead, and every movement was an effort, but somehow, he forced himself to his feet. His legs felt unsteady, his knees weak, but there was no way he could stay here any longer.

The weight of the apartment, the ghost of the past, was killing him.

With a frustrated growl, Katsuki swiped his phone from the floor, his fingers trembling as he tried to unlock it. He wasn’t looking at it—couldn’t look at it.

The missed calls, the messages, all the reminders of the life he had built and lost... He turned the key in the lock with a final, deliberate click and slammed the door behind him, the sound of it echoing in the empty street like the final strike of a hammer.

His heartbeat hammered in his ears, but he didn’t stop.

Katsuki didn’t think.

He just ran.

The cold afternoon air hit his face like a slap, and for a moment, it felt like he was being pulled into a new world. The weight of his guilt, the crushing sense of failure, was still there, gnawing at him from within, but he refused to let it win. His feet pounded against the pavement, the rhythm of his legs a steady, almost desperate beat that matched the chaotic thoughts running through his mind.

He ran as though he could outrun the past, outrun the damage he had caused, and for a moment, he didn’t care if he looked insane.

Katsuki didn’t care who saw him or what anyone thought.

He ran through streets he barely noticed anymore, feet flying over cracks in the pavement, his breath coming in short bursts, but he didn’t slow down. He barely noticed the buildings changing, the neighborhood morphing as he passed it. He’d run this route countless times, but now, it was a blur—a blur of pain and raw need, pulling him forward with a force he couldn’t understand.

His muscles burned, his heart hammered, and still, he pushed forward, faster, harder. He could feel the familiar ache of exhaustion crawling into his bones, but it didn’t matter. The world outside of his mind felt like too much, but his feet knew exactly where to go.

The house.

His parents' house.

There was something in the idea of it that drew him, like the pull of something steady, something that had always been there—no matter how chaotic the world around him had become. It was the one place that had never changed, the one place where he could feel something close to peace, even if it wasn’t enough to fill the hole inside of him.

The city was a blur now, the tall buildings giving way to quieter streets, and then, finally, the familiar stretch of pavement that led him to his parents’ home. He didn’t slow down until he was almost there. His legs felt like they might give out, and his lungs screamed for air, but Katsuki didn’t care. His feet carried him forward, each step bringing him closer to something that felt like home.

When he finally reached the house, he stopped only long enough to catch his breath, leaning against the iron gate. The place still looked the same— untouched by the changes that had swept through his life.

He had been here countless times, but now, the weight of it hit him differently. It wasn’t just his parents’ house. It was his last tether, the last place he could go to feel like he wasn’t completely lost.

Katsuki stood there for a moment, staring at the door as his breath came in ragged, gasping pulls. His hands shook as he pushed the gate open, the familiar squeak of the hinges sounding strangely distant in the air. His body was trembling, both from the run and the heavy emotions that still threatened to swallow him whole.

He didn't think about knocking. Didn’t care that it was unplanned. Without another thought, he made his way to the front door, his hand reaching for the handle.

And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Katsuki threw open the door with a sharp, deliberate motion and stepped inside.

The quiet of the house hit him like a wave.

It was warm, comforting. The familiar scent of his mom’s cooking lingered in the air, and the floor creaked under his feet just the way it always had. Katsuki took a step forward, and another, his shoes thudding heavily against the wooden floors.

The house didn’t change. It wasn’t the home he once shared with you, but for some reason, right now, it was enough.

It was all he could handle.

Katsuki didn’t speak. He didn’t call out for anyone. The house was empty, but it didn’t matter. It was the only place left that he could collapse into and not feel the weight of the world bearing down on him.

He was alone in the quiet. Alone with his thoughts. Finally, in what felt like forever, Katsuki allowed himself to breathe.

Even though everything was broken, even though he wasn’t sure how to fix it, he let himself have this—just this one moment where he didn’t have to be the hero, didn’t have to run, didn’t have to fight.

For just a few moments, he could rest.

The house was silent except for the low hum of the television.

Mitsuki's sharp, watchful gaze was focused on the screen, her usual sharp expression softened in the dim light. Masaru sat beside her, his larger frame relaxed but his eyes narrowed in thought as they both watched the news.

Outside seemed distant, almost irrelevant in this moment, and yet, the quiet tension in the room spoke volumes.

The creak of the door echoed through the hallway as Katsuki stumbled in, his boots sloshing with wet mud, his movements jerky and uncoordinated from the emotional storm he'd been fighting off.

His face was flushed from the run, his cheeks wet with tears that hadn’t quite dried. He had barely entered the room before his mother’s voice sliced through the air.

"Katsuki—" Mitsuki started, her tone already tinged with disapproval as her gaze flicked down at his muddy boots.

But before she could finish, before the words of reprimand could leave her mouth, Katsuki did something neither of them expected.

He fell to his knees in front of her, his usual strength suddenly crumbling. He buried his face against her waist, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind. His arms wrapped around her, clutching her tightly as if she were his lifeline.

Mitsuki gasped, her body freezing for a moment in surprise, her hands still poised mid-air as though to scold him. But she didn’t push him away. No, instead, her arms instinctively found their way around him, cradling her son close as she let out a soft, breathless,

"Katsuki...?"

She could feel the wetness soaking into her blouse, the warm, trembling weight of him pressing against her. Her heart sank, her mind scrambling to make sense of the unfamiliar situation. Her son, the strong, unyielding Katsuki who had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, was crying.

Katsuki never cried.

His body was trembling against hers, and it felt like the world had shifted beneath them. Her strong son, the one who could defeat entire villains with a single explosion, was here, broken and raw.

Mitsuki’s eyes blurred for a moment as she felt something stir inside her chest—a mother’s instinct. She gently pulled his face away from her, her fingers brushing against his wet cheeks.

And there, in the light, she saw it—tears, streaked down his face, his eyes red and raw from the pain he was hiding.

Katsuki’s face crumpled for a moment as his eyes met hers, and the weight of everything he had been carrying seemed to burst through in a single, unrestrained sob. His chest hitched, and the sobs that he had been stifling now seemed impossible to contain. His hands grasped at her blouse, as if afraid she might slip away.

Mitsuki, still in shock, gently cupped his face, her thumbs swiping across his damp skin. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words failed her. Her son, the boy who had always been the protector, the one who never allowed himself to be vulnerable, was here with her now, and she didn’t know what to say.

Before she could find her voice, Masaru, who had been silent the entire time, slowly rose from his seat.

His large hands came down on Katsuki’s shoulders, his grip steady and reassuring. The older man’s face was unreadable, but there was something heavy in his eyes. He, too, had seen the cracks forming in their son, the breaking apart of someone who had always held everything together.

Without a word, Masaru sank down beside them, his large frame settling against the floor with an almost practiced ease. Mitsuki shifted slightly, making room for her husband as Masaru sat beside her.

Together, they surrounded their son. Katsuki, in between them, continued to sob, his body wracked with emotions that seemed too much to bear.

The two of them wrapped their arms around him, holding him tightly, wordlessly, as if trying to keep him from falling apart completely.

It was an embrace, but it was also something more. It was a lifeline, the kind that only family could offer, a shelter from the storm.

Katsuki’s hands clutched at them both, his fingers digging into their shirts as if he might fall into an abyss if they let go. His sobs softened but didn’t stop, and the sound of them filled the room, echoing against the walls as if the house itself understood the weight of the moment.

Mitsuki’s eyes stung with unshed tears, her chest aching as she held her son. She hadn’t expected this—hadn’t realized how badly he had been hurting. All these years, she had watched him grow into the man he was, and yet she had never once seen him break. He had always been the one who broke others.

But now, here he was, in their arms, vulnerable and human in a way that shook her to her very core.

The silence of the room was filled only by Katsuki’s occasional ragged breath and the soft rustle of clothing as the family clung to each other. Time seemed to stand still as they stayed there, the world outside forgotten, all the noise of the city drowned out by the quiet, simple act of holding one another.

Katsuki’s sobs eventually tapered off, but he didn’t pull away. His body was still, exhausted, as if the release of everything he had been holding back had drained him completely. Mitsuki gently ran her fingers through his hair, trying to comfort him in the only way she knew how.

Masaru, ever the silent protector, simply kept his hands on their son’s back, his presence a steady force that didn’t need words. There was no judgment in his touch, no harsh reprimands, just the quiet strength of a father holding his son, knowing that sometimes, all you could do was be there.

And Katsuki, let himself be held, his walls down, his guard shattered.

For just a little while, he wasn’t the hero. He wasn’t the explosive force that burned through the world. He was just a son, in his mother’s arms, in his father’s embrace, with nothing but love to shield him from the chaos outside.

Katsuki’s hiccups racked through his chest, short and desperate, like each sob was trying to tear him apart from the inside. His hands trembled as he wiped his eyes, but the tears kept coming, flowing freely down his flushed cheeks.

He tried to speak, but the words got caught in his throat, leaving nothing but a choked sound.

Masaru, ever steady and calm, placed a hand on his son’s back, his voice gentle but firm. "It’s okay, Katsuki. Just breathe. We’re here, you don’t have to say anything." He rubbed his son’s back soothingly, his large hand offering a quiet strength that steadied Katsuki, grounding him in the moment.

Mitsuki, watching with soft eyes, let out a sigh of understanding and slid off the sofa beside Masaru, her hands never leaving Katsuki’s trembling form. She made sure to sit beside him, her touch warm against his shoulder, her comforting presence a safe harbor for him.

Without a word, she pulled him close, both of them cradling him between them like a fragile piece of glass that might shatter if not held tightly enough.

For what felt like an eternity, the family remained like that—silent, holding one another.

The world outside continued, but here, in this home, time had slowed down to a quiet, comforting crawl. The only sounds were Katsuki’s ragged breathing and the soft rustling of clothes as his parents held him until the weight of his tears began to lessen. The sobs that had wracked his body slowly ebbed away, leaving only an aching, hollow emptiness in their wake.

Katsuki tried again to speak, but his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "She…" His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, his chest aching as the name hung in the air, fragile and broken.

"Her Grandma…" His voice faltered, and the words faded before he could finish them.

Mitsuki’s heart clenched at the sound of her son’s voice, so raw, so vulnerable. She didn’t need to ask what he meant.

She knew.

Last night, her own phone had been filled with calls, messages from people in the know about what was going on, and the news had come in sharp, like a slap to the face. She had been planning to call him again, to warn him, but he had come to her first.

She nodded softly, her voice steady as she wiped away the last of his tears. “That’s why I was calling last night, Katsuki. I—I didn’t want you to find out this way…” She gestured toward the television, where the news had already begun to broadcast the breaking story, her hand trembling slightly as she pointed toward the screen.

The words on the news flashed across the screen, each one like a punch to the gut. Katsuki's eyes followed his mother’s hand, still bleary and unfocused, until they locked onto the face that had been burned into his heart.

Your face, drained of color and swollen, your eyes pink and red from the weight of everything. The image was unrecognizable, not because it wasn’t you, but because it felt like you had been stolen from the world he knew.

You looked so small, so fragile under the weight of your grief, your face framed by your braids and the veil covering you.

The headline flashed at the bottom of the screen:

"Beloved Hero’s Only Family Member Passes After Battle with Villains."

And then, the part that shattered everything for Katsuki, a second line, written across the screen in red letters:

"Hero Obsidian Hurled Through Building, Unleashes Energy Blast Causing Widespread Blackout."

Katsuki’s breath caught in his chest. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his vision, to make sense of the fragments of words that were now too real.

Your image on the screen, alone, broken, and wrapped in black, your face hidden behind a veil.

The camera caught you walking out of your agency building, your body trembling with grief, the weight of the world on your shoulders.

Somehow, you were still standing, still fighting.

But it wasn’t enough.

And that’s when the tears came again, hot and vicious. His vision blurred, and the overwhelming guilt struck him like a wave crashing down, pulling him under. Once again, the bitter truth gnawed at him.

Katsuki had failed you.

He had failed to protect you, to be there when you needed him most.

His body shook with the sobs that wracked him, harder this time, deeper, as if the very pain he felt was too much for him to hold alone. His parents, still beside him, held him tightly, their arms a wall that wouldn’t break, even as he broke in their grasp.

And in that moment, Katsuki realized the truth of it all.

No matter how strong he became, no matter how many villains he defeated or lives he saved, it was never enough to keep you safe. You had always been his greatest fear, the one thing that could shatter him—and now, here it was, the aftermath of everything that had gone wrong.

The image of you, still grieving, still trying to stand tall despite it all, only dug the knife deeper into his heart. You were hurting. You had always carried the weight of the world on your shoulders, and he had been too blind, too stubborn to see it until it was too late.

"I'm so sorry…" Katsuki choked out, his voice barely audible as he tried to gather what little strength he had left. "I—I'm so fucking sorry." His words were broken, heavy with regret and love, as he clung to the warmth of his parents’ embrace, hoping for something, anything, to make the pain stop. But nothing could.

Once again, the guilt consumed him.

And once again, he wasn’t there to protect you.

As selfish as it was, Katsuki began to cry again.

Each tear that fell felt like a jagged shard carving through his chest, shredding whatever was left of his strength. He was crumbling. Not from the weight of his work or the expectations placed on him, but from the crushing weight of the realization that once again, he had failed.

His heart felt like it was caught in a vice, pulsing painfully in his ribs as if trying to escape its own confines. It ached for you—aching for the warmth of your presence that had been ripped from him so suddenly, so violently.

The thought of you lying alone, hurting, with no one to hold you the way he should’ve, broke him further. He could barely breathe, each gasp filling his lungs with sharp, cold air. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to grasp something, anything, that could make him feel like he wasn’t losing his mind.

But instead, the only thing he could hear was the sound of your breathing. The same steady, rhythmic pattern from last night, when he spoke to you on the phone, after you’d calmed down, when you’d sounded so calm, so composed, as if nothing was wrong.

As if she—your grandmother—hadn’t just slipped away from you, and you hadn’t been carrying that weight alone.

Why didn’t you tell him?

Why hadn’t you said something, anything?

Katsuki could feel the words clawing their way out of his throat, but they wouldn’t come. He knew, deep down, it wasn’t his right to demand that kind of information from you.

He was no longer in your life, no longer someone you leaned on. He didn’t have the right to intrude on your grief, to insert himself back into a life he had broken and walked away from. But it didn’t stop the bitterness and the sting of realization from gnawing at his insides.

He should’ve noticed something was wrong. After all, he was always so sharp, so perceptive. The number of things he caught before others did, the number of times he’d read the room and predicted the outcome—he’d prided himself on that, but now?

Now it was all worthless. It felt like everything he’d ever been good at had betrayed him in the face of you.

Why hadn’t he put it together? Why hadn’t he noticed the small shifts in your behavior over the past few days? Your strained voice on the phone, the way you’d sounded a little more distant, a little more tired. He thought it was just stress, just the weight of everything you carried in your job, but it was something else entirely.

Why didn’t he see it?

He should’ve known something was wrong. He should’ve realized the moment you had mentioned needing her will. Rita had been getting up there in age, sure, but this—this was something different.

Something he’d never imagined. He should’ve been paying attention to you, to that. Why didn’t he?

The guilt and confusion raked through him like a storm, and it was all he could do to stop himself from losing all sense of reality in the flood of self-hatred. His fists clenched in his lap, his breathing heavy and erratic.

He felt so sick, so utterly useless.

But most of all, he felt like a coward. For leaving, for not fighting harder to stay in your life when he should’ve.

He had thought that, maybe, he could pull himself out of it. He thought he could convince himself that what was broken between you two couldn’t be fixed.

As he sat there, the realization of how he had failed you settling in his chest like concrete, he knew that wasn’t true.

What had he done?

What had he really done, other than push you away? What had he been doing, for all these years? His mind raced with guilt and regret, and his tears flowed again as his heart continued to tear itself apart.

Maybe, if he had been there. Maybe, if he had just held on a little longer. Maybe, if he’d cared more.

Maybe, if he hadn’t been so consumed by pride, he would have known. He would’ve known you needed support.

But it was too late.

Now all he could do was sit here, broken and alone, haunted by a truth he couldn’t undo.

He’d wasted part of his life not fixing things with you.

Katsuki barely even noticed when he drifted off, the exhaustion from the emotional and physical toll finally overcoming him. His sobs had quieted, his body trembling in the warmth of his parents' embrace.

The familiar scent of his mother's perfume and the steady thrum of his father’s heartbeat against his back had acted as a balm, one he hadn't realized how desperately he needed until now. It wasn’t that he found solace in their arms.

It was that, for the first time in so long, he didn’t feel alone.

Somehow, though, sleep wasn’t a reprieve. It was more like a hazy lull where time slowed down and nothing mattered, where his mind floated in a space too calm to feel anything but the rawness of his sorrow. He could still hear you in his thoughts, and even in his dreams, you were present.

But when he woke, the aching reality of the day crashed down on him.

His muscles screamed in protest as he shifted, a dull soreness creeping into every joint. His eyes were swollen, gritty, and felt like they were stuck shut from all the crying. His throat burned from the hours of silent sobs, and the pressure in his head made him feel like it might split open.

It was a heavy, uncomfortable reminder of how much he had failed himself—and you.

The weight of his stomach growling only reminded him how long it had been since he’d eaten, but his hunger was only a dull throb compared to the anguish gnawing at his heart.

As he slowly opened his eyes, he could see the dim light of early evening filtering through the curtains, casting a pale glow over the room.

Katsuki blinked groggily, trying to make sense of the disorienting moment. His eyes landed first on the familiar fabric of his father’s favorite throw blanket draped over him, the one he always used when he napped on the couch.

The softness of the fabric was a sharp contrast to the tension in his body. His head rested on one of her cushions—plump and worn, the one she always refused to part with because it was “just the right amount of softness.”

He felt the stirrings of a headache behind his eyes, an ache that seemed to travel deep into his skull, a reminder that the last few hours—however long they had been—had drained him beyond his limits.

His stomach churned again, a wave of discomfort, but it was nothing compared to the pounding in his head and the gnawing pain in his chest.

Fuck a hangover, heartbreak hurt worse.

As he shifted to sit up, a wave of dizziness swept over him. His body protested, muscles tight and stiff, every inch of him feeling heavy and fatigued from the weight of everything that had happened.

Then, in the slow haze of his waking, it all came crashing back. The rush of memories hit him with the force of a freight train—the sound of your voice on the phone, so calm and composed despite the turmoil beneath. The image of you in black, your grandmother’s funeral probably just hours ago, and the devastating headlines that he had tried so hard to ignore.

It all spiraled in his mind, flooding his senses.

The realization hit like a slap. His heart skipped a beat, a pang of panic rushing through his chest.

His work bag.

He left it at the office.

The one thing that had mattered in that damn bag was the will. The last piece of your grandmother’s life, the last thread connecting you to everything you had left. And he’d forgotten it, forgotten everything as he ran to his parents’ house, lost in his own grief and guilt.

His chest tightened again, but not with the same ache—it was different now. It was a feeling of responsibility. He couldn’t leave it there. The thought of you, of your grandmother’s final wishes, sitting alone in the office—waiting for him—was unbearable.

Katsuki reached up, brushing his hand over his face, wiping away the remnants of his tears. His fingers were stiff, trembling slightly, but he forced himself to focus. The world felt too loud, too heavy around him.

He turned to look at his parents, still sitting nearby, their concerned eyes watching him closely.

They said nothing, but the silent understanding between them told him everything he needed to know. His mother’s eyes, soft with concern, her hand resting lightly on his knee, and his father, always a quiet force of support, sitting with his arms crossed but not leaving his side.

And in that moment, despite everything, Katsuki knew he couldn’t afford to stay here forever.

With a deep breath, he forced himself to stand, his body still protesting the movement. His knees were weak, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. Not now.

“Mom… Dad…” His voice was hoarse, strained from all the crying. He could barely get the words out, but he pushed through. “I gotta go back to the office.”

Mitsuki nodded, her gaze soft but worried. “We’ll be here when you get back, Katsu. But take care of yourself. Come eat something.”

He didn’t say anything else. He just turned and walked toward the door, his heart pounding in his chest, and the weight of everything he had to make right threatening to crush him all over again.

“Leaving so soon?”

Katsuki paused mid-step, his hand resting on the doorframe as the familiar voice cut through the heavy silence.

He turned, surprised, to see Kirishima standing there with a steaming bowl of stew in his hands. The bright, cheerful expression on his face was at odds with the heaviness of the moment, but that was Kirishima, always trying to lift the mood, even when things were dark.

The sight of his friend, standing there in the doorway, looking like he just walked out of the kitchen with a bowl of comfort, made something in Katsuki’s chest tighten. He hadn’t realized just how much he needed someone who wasn’t going to back off, someone who wasn’t going to let him just stumble through this mess alone.

“Me too, bro,” Kirishima repeated, a sincere, easy grin on his face as he approached. The warmth from the stew seemed to radiate between them, almost as if the simple gesture was meant to say, you’re not alone, man.

Kirishima extended the bowl toward him, and for a moment, Katsuki just stared at it, the steam rising in little swirls, as if the scent of it could somehow ground him in the reality of the present.

Katsuki shook his head, his breath catching for a split second.

"I… I don’t deserve this." His voice cracked slightly, the raw emotion from earlier threatening to spill over again.

But Kirishima didn’t flinch. Instead, he nudged the bowl a little closer, his eyes full of that unrelenting concern, the kind of concern that never gave up on people.

“Yeah, you do. You’re my bro, and I’m not gonna let you drown in all this by yourself. We’re here, Katsuki. You ain’t gotta do it alone.”

Katsuki’s chest tightened at the words. He’d always known Kirishima had his back. Hell, Kirishima had always been there when Katsuki was too stubborn to admit he needed help. But hearing it now, in the quiet of the room, after everything that had happened, felt like a weight lifting off him, even if just a little bit.

He took the bowl from Kirishima’s hands, the warmth of the stew sending a little comfort through him.

“Thanks,” Katsuki muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He wasn’t ready to face the world outside, not yet, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone in this as he thought.

Kirishima clapped him on the shoulder, the weight of his touch grounding, steadying. “Anytime, bro. We’re in this together.”

Katsuki looked down at the bowl, the steam fogging up his vision, and for a moment, the pain was more bearable. Not gone, but bearable. He wasn’t ready to go back out there and face everything just yet—but with his friends here, maybe he could.

Maybe he could face it, after all.

The evening had been a strange mix of comfort and rawness. The stew had filled Katsuki's stomach, but it hadn’t quite reached the gnawing emptiness in his chest.

Still, he was grateful for the quiet, and for the small moments of peace he’d found with his family, his friend, and the warmth of home. Kirishima’s constant cheer was a strength of their bond, even when Katsuki felt like a shell of himself.

Dinner had come to a close, with Kirishima showering compliments on Mitsuki and Masaru’s cooking, making them both laugh and blush. Katsuki could hardly believe how easily his best friend could turn everything into a good time, even in moments like these.

It wasn’t the most perfect dinner, but for a moment, everything had felt almost normal again.

Mitsuki, though, seemed determined to make the most of the little reunion. “You boys make sure to call me later, okay?” she said, her voice soft but insistent. “And bring everyone next time. I love these visits.”

Katsuki merely nodded, his throat tight. The familiar warmth of her words felt like a balm, but also reminded him just how much he’d let slip through his fingers.

Masaru was the last to leave the house, and as he pulled his son into a tight hug, it felt almost like he was trying to force the pieces of Katsuki’s broken heart back together. “We’re here, son,” he murmured, a low and steady voice that Katsuki could almost hear echo in his chest.

“You’ll get through this.”

Katsuki’s throat constricted, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he squeezed his father back, holding onto that connection, that unspoken understanding between them. After a long moment, his father pulled back, giving him one last pat on the back, and it was then that the flood of emotions seemed to subside, just for a moment.

Kirishima, ever the one to break the tension, clapped his hand on Katsuki’s back. “Alright, bro, let’s get outta here.”

The trio said their farewells, and soon, Katsuki was sliding into the passenger seat of Kirishima’s pickup truck. As soon as he did, his eyes landed on the familiar sight of his work bag sitting in the front seat, its strap hanging over the edge. The weight of the bag was a reminder of the responsibilities waiting for him—of the work he still needed to do, despite the emotional rollercoaster he’d just been through.

Without thinking, Katsuki punched Kirishima’s shoulder, a hard and sudden jab. ��Next time, you mind your business, idiot,” he muttered, his voice gruff but with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Kirishima only chuckled, shaking his head, used to the gruff way his best friend expressed his gratitude.

“You’re welcome, bro. That’s what I’m here for,” Kirishima said, leaning over and patting the bag like it was some kind of prized possession. His chuckle rumbled in his chest as he started the truck, the engine roaring to life.

Katsuki could feel his muscles aching again, the tension from earlier creeping back in, but at least he wasn’t alone. Kirishima started driving through the streets, the familiar hum of the engine a background to their shared silence.

The quiet was different now—still heavy, but with an unspoken understanding.

Kirishima didn’t press him to talk, knowing full well that Katsuki wasn’t ready for that. Instead, he kept the radio low, just enough to fill the gaps, while the truck bounced over potholes and raced past city lights.

Katsuki leaned his head against the window, watching the world blur by in the dark. As much as he hated to admit it, the warmth of his family’s home, the comfort of Kirishima’s presence, had eased something inside of him. But it didn’t change the fact that the rest of the world, his world, felt like it was still spinning out of control.

He hadn’t done enough, not by a long shot.

The drive into the city was long enough for Katsuki to get lost in his thoughts, to feel the weight of what had happened—and what he still had to do. The city lights flickered as they passed, the skyscrapers standing tall against the skyline. He wanted to feel the pull of duty, of the hero’s path he walked every day, but tonight, it felt like the world had a different, darker gravity.

Kirishima’s truck finally pulled into the parking lot, the familiar hum of the engine dying down. Katsuki rubbed his temples, still feeling the weight of the day’s events pressing against his skull.

“Alright, bro. We’re here. You ready?” Kirishima asked, his tone light, trying to lift the weight again.

Katsuki paused before responding, looking at his work bag, the reminder of the mess he’d left behind at the office. The last thing he wanted to do was go out. Not when everything felt like it was falling apart. But he didn’t have a choice.

“Yeah,” Katsuki said, his voice hoarse but steady.

“Let’s get this over with.”

The moment Katsuki and Kirishima stepped into the ramen shop, the atmosphere immediately shifted.

The cozy space, usually filled with the murmur of quiet conversations and the aroma of simmering broth, was alive with the sounds of laughter and friendly chatter. A table near the back was occupied by several of their classmates from Class 1-A, with a few familiar faces from the Bakusquad as well.

Izuku and Todoroki were stationed near the door, almost as if they had been waiting. Both of them looked up the moment the door opened, their expressions lighting up in a mix of surprise and excitement.

"Kachan!" Izuku grinned, his usual energy sparking to life as he waved, his eyes full of that unrelenting warmth. His unruly hair seemed a bit more disheveled than usual, but his bright smile and the slight bounce to his step made it clear that he was just glad to see his friend again, despite everything.

“Bakugou,” Todoroki greeted with his usual cool demeanor, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps an understanding, or an acknowledgment of the man standing before him. His tone was calm, almost like a subtle invitation for Katsuki to relax.

The rest of the group was no less enthusiastic. Momo, Jirou, and Kaminari were seated at the table closest to the window, while Sero and Mina had clearly been in the middle of a conversation that paused as soon as Katsuki entered. Kirishima’s arrival with Katsuki made it feel like a small celebration, one that none of them could help but join in on.

“Hey, you!” Mina cheered, tossing her fortune cookies into the air as if they were confetti. “Glad to see you’re alive, Bakugou!”

“Damn right he is,” Kirishima said with his usual loud and cheerful tone, slapping Bakugou on the back with a grin so wide it seemed like it might break his face. He led them toward the table, giving everyone a moment to make room for them. Katsuki’s gaze briefly flickered across the others, but it wasn’t a long stay.

His focus was elsewhere, the nagging feeling of being out of place itching at his skin.

Katsuki stood there for a moment, his body stiff, before a grunt slipped out of his throat. “Water. Lemon,” he muttered, his voice flat as he stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the nearest counter. The order was short and to the point, and it seemed like something he was only half-conscious of. The tension in his shoulders never quite let up, the weight of the day still hanging over him like a fog.

Mina’s laughter and Kaminari’s upbeat comments filled the space around him, but Katsuki didn’t fully engage. He turned to Kirishima, who was already talking animatedly with Ochako about something silly. "I’m gonna grab some aspirin," he said, his voice softer than usual as he finally broke away from the group.

Kirishima turned with a bright smile, giving him a thumbs-up. “Gotcha, bro. Be quick. Don’t want you missing out on all the fun!” He didn’t press any further, instead giving his attention back to Ochako, who was clearly just as happy to see everyone hanging out.

But as Katsuki turned to slip out of the shop, he noticed that two figures had quietly followed him. Izuku and Todoroki. The two of them were so alike in that way—always lingering near the door, almost like they had been expecting him to leave.

“Hey,” Izuku greeted again, his voice lower now, but still that familiar warmth in his tone.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Todoroki added, his gaze calm but observant. His eyes flickered toward Katsuki for a moment, and then away. “You don’t have to lie about it.”

Katsuki was quick to turn on them, his eyebrows furrowing as he clenched his fists. “Tch, I don’t need you two following me around,” he snapped, but the tone wasn’t as harsh as it could have been. He was tired, and his words didn’t quite hold the usual fire they had.

But they didn’t stop following him.

The trio stepped out into the cool night air, the city lights casting a soft glow on the streets around them. Katsuki didn’t look back at them as they walked in step, his mind elsewhere. His stomach still churned, the pounding ache in his head persistent despite the steady, rhythmic steps of his boots hitting the pavement.

He glanced over at the convenience store across the street. It felt like a million miles away even though it was only a short walk. He had to get the aspirin before anything else. Before his head split open. Before he crumbled to pieces in front of his classmates. He could already feel the emotional weight of everything threatening to pull him under again.

“Should’ve known you’d be the first one to leave,” Izuku chuckled lightly, trying to ease the silence with his usual friendly banter.

Katsuki shot him a side-eye. “Shut up, Midoriya.”

The small moment of back-and-forth was enough to remind him that, even though everything had changed, some things could still feel familiar.

When they reached the store, Katsuki stepped inside, heading straight for the aisle with the pain relief section. He was running on fumes at this point—physically and emotionally drained. The chaos of the past few days was too much. His fingers brushed the cool bottles on the shelf, the ache in his head reminded him that the weight of it all wasn’t over.

And in that moment, he wasn’t sure when it ever would be.

Izuku and Todoroki were right behind him, the soft padding of their footsteps the only sound accompanying his heavy steps. He didn’t want their company, didn’t want their questions—but they didn’t seem ready to leave him alone.

Izuku's voice broke through the silence, the familiar tone almost like a thread pulling him back to reality.

"Hey, Bakugou… how’ve you been?"

Katsuki grumbled in response, not looking back at his old friend. He felt the tightness in his chest again, that familiar discomfort from their past exchanges, but this time it was different. This time, it was harder to ignore.

Todoroki, with his usual calm demeanor, didn’t wait for an answer before adding, “When are you going to try therapy? You’ve been shutting it down for a while now."

Katsuki stiffened, his eyes narrowing. He shot Todoroki a glance, one that said everything without him needing to say a word. But Todoroki didn’t flinch. He didn’t expect Katsuki to break. He didn’t expect a miracle.

Just… a chance.

Katsuki shoved the door to the refrigerator open with a loud clang as he marched towards the back of the store, where the flowers and cards were displayed. He could feel the irritation boiling beneath his skin. He didn’t need therapy. He didn’t need to talk to some stranger. It was all bullshit. Just because it worked for Todoroki didn’t mean it would work for him.

"I don’t believe in that crap," he muttered, not really directing it at anyone in particular, but his voice was sharp, and it cut through the low murmur of the store. "Just because it worked for you, doesn't mean it’s gonna do anything for me."

Izuku, trailing behind him, quietly held out the water and aspirin in his hands, his expression unreadable. But his words were soft, almost like a plea, “We just want to see you out more, Bakugou. Join us again. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself. We’re here. But it’s up to you…”

Katsuki’s throat tightened, and he swiped a bouquet of flowers from the cooler, his fingers brushing the delicate petals. He focused on them, determined not to let his emotions boil over again. ‘Focus,’ he told himself.

‘Focus on the flowers. Just pick something appropriate for someone in mourning.’

He was barely aware of Todoroki’s calm response as he was absorbed in selecting three tasteful bouquets—nothing too extravagant, but still enough to express sympathy and care. He shoved them into Todoroki’s arms without a word, turning back toward the card display. His mind was spinning, too distracted by the weight of his emotions to truly focus on anything else.

When he reached for the cards, though, he paused. He needed a pen. Shit, he muttered under his breath, glancing around the store. His frustration simmered just below the surface as he clomped his boots toward the front counter, making a sharp turn toward the cashier.

The cheerful voice of the clerk met his ears as he stepped closer to the counter, “Hi there! Can I help you with anything?”

Katsuki was about to ask for a pen when something caught his attention from behind him. A soft voice, quiet and almost hesitant, slipped into his awareness.

“Excuse me…”

He turned instinctively, his gaze falling on the source of the voice—a young girl standing a few feet behind him. She was shorter than him, her figure partially obscured by the shelves of snacks, but there was a noticeable quietness about her. Her face, however, was obscured—hidden by the frontal locks of hair falling into her face despite the strong posture she wore.

But the way she moved, the way her gaze flickered down before ever making brief contact with his—there was something about her that immediately drew his attention.

He stepped aside, and she gently nudged past him to place a variety of snacks on the counter. The mix of items she piled up was a curious assortment—ranging from sugary treats to fiery, spicy snacks, all with no in-between. Katsuki’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the way she handled the snacks, her fingers brushing them carefully before she set them down.

Izuku and Todoroki’s voices faded into the background, muffled as if they were miles away. Katsuki found himself standing still, just watching the girl as she interacted with the cashier. His eyes followed the way her hands hovered over the snacks, how her fingers fumbled for the right ones.

There was something delicate about it, as if she were caught in her own little world. A brief sense of quiet intrigue filled him, and it was enough to distract him from everything else.

His thoughts swirled, unbidden memories flashing like a series of old film reels—of being close to someone, of having moments like this once.

But the feeling quickly passed as the cashier gave the girl a cheerful greeting, taking the snacks from the counter. She didn’t speak much, but her presence left a soft ripple in the air, something fleeting.

Katsuki stood by the counter, his irritation simmering just under the surface, but he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He reached up and cleared his throat, not realizing how tense his shoulders had become. "I need a pen," he grumbled, tapping his fingers on the counter impatiently.

The cashier, a young woman with a soft smile, looked up at him with a polite nod. "Of course, just a moment," she said before turning to grab the pen from behind the counter.

Before she could even hand it to him, a voice interrupted. It was soft, almost tentative, but it hit him like a freight train—suddenly clear and undeniable in the quiet of the store.

“Excuse me, can you wait just a moment?”

Katsuki's head snapped around. His eyes zeroed in on the young girl, the one who had been so quiet earlier. She was turning on her heel, her movements quick and purposeful as she darted toward the back of the store. The unmistakable sound of footsteps—soft, yet swift—echoed in his ears as she disappeared behind the aisle.

Something in Katsuki’s chest tightened. The voice... He didn’t know why, but it fucking caught him. It was like a sudden shift in the air, the kind of thing that made everything else disappear for a split second.

His gaze flickered back to Izuku and Todoroki, who had, strangely, gone silent. Both of their faces were wide-eyed, staring at the spot where the girl had just been. Their expressions were something akin to shock, like they'd seen a ghost.

They were frozen, not moving a muscle, eyes fixed in disbelief.

Katsuki’s heart began to pound in his chest, the sense of unease growing with each passing second.

And sure enough, when the girl reappeared, clutching a small bouquet of red roses in her hands, Katsuki realized exactly why the air had shifted so drastically.

It was her eyes. That same fucking gaze. She was wearing a casual outfit, and her hair was tucked beneath a beanie—nothing too distinct, but those eyes... Those familiar eyes. He had seen those eyes before, but where?

‘When?’

The girl glanced over at him, her hand hesitating midair before setting the roses down on the counter next to her. She blinked, as though he hadn’t even realized he was staring at her with such intensity. Her gaze flicked down toward the flowers, but then, just as quickly, it darted back up. There was something in that brief moment, something that clicked in Katsuki’s mind.

It was as though the room had gotten smaller, the air thicker. His thoughts scattered, but one question floated up from the depths of his confusion, demanding an answer.

‘Why do I know those eyes?’

Before he could act on it, Izuku was the first to break the silence, his voice trembling slightly as he leaned in to whisper to Todoroki, who was still staring at the girl, mouth slightly agape.

“H-Haven’t we... seen her before?” Izuku asked, voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough for Katsuki to hear.

Todoroki nodded slowly, his face still frozen in shock.

Katsuki stood at the counter, still tense, his mind whirling as he gripped his thoughts. The roses were bright red, their soft petals clashing with the tightness in his chest. His thoughts were a mess—he was so close to figuring something out, but his head was pounding too hard for him to focus.

As he stared down at the blank card, trying to push the sick feeling of confusion and dread out of his system, he heard the familiar sound of footsteps—light but purposeful—approaching from behind him. He didn’t think much of it at first, too absorbed in his task of selecting the right ones for... your.

His hand itched to finish the transaction, to do something with the flowers, to make it right somehow. He needed to focus, to ignore the feeling gnawing at the back of his mind.

But then, everything seemed to freeze.

Katsuki’s heart skipped a beat as he heard a soft rustle, followed by a voice—familiar, yet impossible.

Katsuki froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he turned, his eyes narrowing as the girl came into view again.

Her braids.

Perfectly done, just like yours.

They cascaded down her back, the intricate weave of strands so familiar that Katsuki’s blood ran cold.

Katuski had seen those braids so many times in his life. He had helped form those braids so many times. He could picture you wearing them—could picture you with your eyes sparkling as you told him to stop acting like a damn fool. You were always so damn confident, so sure of yourself, just like the girl standing before him.

But this girl wasn’t you.

She was taller. Not by much, but enough to make her look like a stranger. At least four inches, maybe more. She wore a UA uniform, the distinctive blazer with the badge pressed into the chest.

Her hair. Those braids. The bright pink and purple dip-dye at the ends.

Katsuki’s mouth went dry. His mind screamed at him, ‘No, this can’t be real. This can’t be happening.’

And yet, there she was, standing in front of him. Her eyes met his, and that was it. The moment she looked at him, everything else fell away. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, as if trying to escape. He knew those eyes.

He knew that face.

It was yours.

Her face was like a mirror of your own, a reflection that made his heart stop in his chest.

The curve of her cheeks, soft and gentle, mimicked yours perfectly, as if they had been carved from the same mold. Her lips, sweet and naturally shaped, held the same subtle curve at the corners—just like your own, a detail he'd hadn’t thought about until now. Even her eyebrows arched with the same curves, the same slight tilt that he’d always thought was uniquely yours.

Her forehead, smooth and slightly rounded, matched your own to a T, and her nose—perfectly symmetrical, the bridge just as pronounced as yours—seemed to belong to him just as much as it did to her. Even her chin, that small yet defined curve, was the same, the same gentle dip at the center.

It was like staring at a ghost, or a memory he never had.

The identicalness of it all sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t escape it—the way she looked so much like you, the same subtle tilt of her head, the same glint in her smile. It was unnerving how her presence seemed to echo your own so perfectly. The way she held herself, her posture, her demeanor—

It was as though he were looking at you through a lens, and that realization crawled under his skin in a way he couldn’t shake.

But it was her eyes. Her eyes that bore into him, the same shade of deep, unwavering intensity, the same fire that had always blazed in his own gaze. It was there, in the way they stared back at him with an uncanny familiarity that both soothed and unsettled him. Her eyes were mirrors, reflections of his very soul, and they pulled him in with an intensity he wasn’t ready for.

The way she looked at him, with that knowing spark, felt like both a warm embrace and a haunting whisper. It was like something from deep within him was calling out to her, to the part of him he didn’t know was missing until now. It both comforted and terrified him—how close she was, how much she was like you, yet still somehow apart.

And that’s what unsettled him the most. She wasn’t just like you. She was you. And somehow, that thought didn’t feel like a connection—it felt like a haunting.

The girl crossed her arms, her posture suddenly all authority. She stood tall against him now, hair no longer in her face, and when she spoke, it was with an ease and confidence that sent a chill down his spine. Her gaze was colder. Sharper. Hardened by something.

“May I fucking help you?”

Her voice was smooth, but laced with a quiet venom. Gone was the softness he had expected. Instead, she spoke with the kind of command that made everyone in the store pause.

Katsuki couldn’t move. He stood there, frozen, staring at her like some kind of idiot. His breath felt tight in his chest, and the air around him was thick with disbelief.

The cashier looked flustered, fumbling with the register as if she didn’t know what to do in the face of this girl’s sudden authority. Katsuki’s hands clenched into fists, his stomach twisting.

His thoughts were spiraling. His heart was pounding. He could barely process what was happening.

It couldn’t be.

It shouldn’t be.

Those were his eyes.

For as long as he could remember, that was his red. He knew them. There was no mistaking it. Same as his mother and her father.

But Katsuki didn’t answer. Instead, he opted to engage in a silent staring contest with the girl before him.

Izuku stepped forward to break the tension, stepping between Katsuki and the girl. His voice was soft, trying to smooth over the awkwardness that Katsuki had no idea how to handle.

“I’ll pay for your snacks,” Izuku offered, his tone a little too chipper, trying to diffuse the awkwardness in the air.

The girl looked at Izuku for a moment, her gaze flicking from him to Katsuki, before quirking an eyebrow before taking the bag of snacks and the flowers with a simple nod. But before she turned to leave, she gave one last look to Katsuki.

A look that pierced through him like a jolt of electricity.

There was something in that look, something so familiar, so haunting, that he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

She walked away, leaving Katsuki standing there like an idiot, completely dazed. He could barely breathe, could barely even think.

“What the hell just happened?” Katsuki grumbled, his voice rough and hoarse.

Todoroki placed a hand on his shoulder, his touch firm but gentle, offering silent support as Katsuki tried to make sense of everything.

“I’m… not sure,” Todoroki said quietly, his voice calm as ever.

Katsuki didn’t reply, his mind racing. He quickly turned back to the counter, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He grabbed the card and began to scribble something down in a daze, not caring what it was, just needing to get it out of his head before it exploded.

His heart felt like it was about to explode from his chest. He had to do something.

Anything.

There was no time for second-guessing. His hands moved with precision, tying together the flowers into one large bouquet. The stems clicked together, and the sight of the carefully assembled flowers seemed to ground him, even as his thoughts scattered in a thousand directions.

He couldn't be hallucinating.

But the way his heart ached, the way his mind kept circling back to that girl, made him wonder if he had finally gone off the deep end. Maybe it was time to see a therapist after all. Maybe his crazy ass needed to be locked up in a padded room.

‘Wait.’

Icy-Hot and Deku had seen her, too. That meant she was real. She wasn’t just some twisted figment of his imagination.

‘But how the hell could that be?’

Katsuki clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face tensing as he finished tying the bouquet. The delicate flowers seemed almost out of place in his hands, a reminder of everything that had spiraled out of his control. He pushed the thoughts aside with a sharp exhale, forcing himself to focus.

Every movement felt robotic as he pressed the bouquet into a bag and paid for everything in a mechanical daze, the cashier’s words drifting over him without registering.

He wasn’t going to let this break him. Not yet.

He had to keep it together. He couldn’t afford to crumble now. Not when he had already come so far.

But as Katsuki stepped out of the store, the cold air hitting his face, his mind kicked into overdrive. The streets buzzed around him, people walking, cars rushing by, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him. He barely noticed any of it.

The questions spiraled, relentless and clawing at him from every angle. What had he missed? What was slipping through his fingers? He couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was shifting, moving faster than he could keep up, and he was losing his grip.

His heart beat harder, thoughts colliding in a tangled mess, but there was one thing he couldn’t deny.

A thought that had already started, and he had no idea how to stop it.

Katsuki’s hand tightened around the bag as he and the candy canes stalked down the street, his breath coming faster, sharper. He wasn’t going to let it break him. He wasn’t. But the knot in his stomach twisted harder with each passing second, and the weight on his chest grew heavier, suffocating.

He needed answers.

And he needed them now.

Todoroki’s voice cut through the tension, and for a brief moment, Katsuki thought maybe the chill in the air had frozen his thoughts too. His tone was cool, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his gaze.

"Secret love child?"

Katsuki whipped his head around, his eyes flashing. "WE NEVER HAD KIDS, ICY-HOT!" he growled, his temper flaring up despite himself. People were staring but he didn’t give a shit.

"And don’t even joke about that."

Izuku, walking alongside them, was muttering to himself so fast that Katsuki swore his lips might fall off. “I mean, how could it even—there’s no way—she looked so much like—what if she—”

Izuku’s eyes were wide, his mind racing through the same thoughts Katsuki had been trying to shove down. But it was too much, and he was too frantic to keep his mouth shut. Maybe his lips would finally fall off from all the mumbling.

“Dude, calm the fuck down,” Katsuki snapped, turning toward Todoroki as his mind reeled with the implications.

“You seriously think she’s—what? My kid or some shit?” His voice was harsh, but there was a nervous edge creeping into it, something he couldn’t hide.

Todoroki was calm as ever, unaffected by the rising tension. "It has to be. She looked so much like you. She even had those same eyes—there’s no way it was just a coincidence. Maybe you should’ve asked her. We could’ve—"

"No!" Izuku interrupted, his voice frantic. "We can’t just approach high schoolers without their guardians, what if—what if she was uncomfortable or something, you don’t just ask people questions like that, it’s—"

"I’m not asking shit!" Katsuki cut in sharply, hands curling into fists. "I’m not talking to a goddamn high schooler, I don’t care how she looks. You’re out of your damn minds. I’m just trying to get through the damn day without anything else fucking up"

His chest was tight, his thoughts too loud, and the panic was creeping in again, that feeling of being out of control. He wanted to scream, to punch something, but instead, he just stood there on the pavement, feeling like he was going to crack and die in front of them.

Todoroki didn’t seem to be fazed, though. "But you have to admit, Bakugou—there was something there. Something familiar. Maybe we should’ve just—"

"No!" Katsuki snapped, stepping forward, his frustration bubbling over. "This isn’t a damn soap opera! She’s a random girl with a damn hairstyle and a bouquet of roses, not some—"

He stopped mid-sentence, a wave of unease washing over him again.

Izuku, meanwhile, was pacing in tiny circles, muttering under his breath. "It just doesn’t make sense. She looked so much like you, but—"

"Okay, enough!" Katsuki snarled, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t deal with their incessant back-and-forth while his brain kept spiraling into chaos. "I don’t give a shit how much she looks like me. She’s not mine, got it?" He stopped, his voice quieter now, an edge of defeat in it.

"She can’t be."

There was a heavy silence between them, the cold air swirling around as they stood there on the sidewalk. Katsuki’s thoughts were still a mess, tangled in confusion and a sense of dread he couldn’t shake. But one thing was clear—whatever was going on, it was only just starting.

He couldn’t escape it. And maybe that was the worst part of all.

Finally, Todoroki broke the silence again, his voice cool as always but with a faint trace of something Katsuki couldn’t quite place.

“You really should’ve asked her.”

Katsuki’s chest tightened, and he couldn’t tell if it was the tension or the lingering weight of something else. Something more unsettling. But right now, the only thing that mattered was getting away from this, from her—and from whatever the hell was going on in his head.

“Fuck off, Icy-Hot,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s just go get ramen or something. I can’t do this shit right now.”

Izuku nodded, relieved for the distraction, and as the three of them turned toward the ramen shop, Katsuki couldn’t help but feel like he was walking straight into a storm.

Walk into the storm he did.

As soon as they entered the ramen shop, Katsuki's thoughts still a swirl of confusion and irritation, he almost stumbled into a woman dressed entirely in black, her figure striking and confident in its bold simplicity. Her long braids swayed with the motion of her steps, the rhythmic sway of her hair somehow bringing an unsettling familiarity to him.

But it wasn’t just the way she moved—it was the sound of her laughter, light and carefree, that stopped him in his tracks.

Katsuki blinked, his heart skipping a beat. His gaze followed the sound of the laughter, and his eyes landed on the white-haired girl she was holding, swinging her effortlessly in the air. The pre teen giggled, her face lighting up with joy. And before he could fully process what he was seeing, something deep inside him—the kind of sensation that came from something primal, something deep in his bones—shifted.

His body froze.

No, it wasn’t just his body—it was his soul.

Like a force pulling him to the surface after drowning, his heart started beating again, slower, steadier, as if its rhythm was syncing with something outside of him. It was as if he'd found the one missing piece of a puzzle he didn't even know was incomplete.

His breath hitched for just a second, and that was all it took.

The woman turned, her presence radiating a confidence that matched the fire burning in his chest. She was almost nose to chest with him, so close he could feel the warmth of her body—feel the exact moment when her eyes lifted from the white-haired girl in her arms and locked onto him.

It wasn’t just any glance. It was as if she had known he was there, had been expecting him, even. There was no hesitation, no surprise. Just an immediate recognition, like two forces from opposite ends of the world pulling together.

"You," she breathed, her voice a mix of disbelief and something softer—something that, for a moment, reminded him of a time long ago.

He knew her.

Katsuki’s heart was pounding in his chest, and it was impossible to ignore the weight of the connection that surged between them, as though the universe had just decided that it was time for them to cross paths once again. His lips parted in disbelief, his eyes searching hers as the world around him seemed to narrow down to just the two of them.

Everything else—the ramen shop, the chatter of the other patrons—faded away.

Katsuki took a breath, forcing himself to speak even as his mind raced, his thoughts still spinning in a cyclone of emotions and half-formed questions.

"You."

Part 3 now up

Taglist: @elarakive, @thealtofvalleyxdoodles, the-dumpster-fire-of-life, @raendarkfaerie, @bunny-b34r,@v3n7s

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Be sure to check out my other works and leave likes and comments, they really help. I have some more Katsuki (and other mha) here in the master list.

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I promise I bite~

See you soon my loves!!

(｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

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magni-draconum · 2 years ago

Text

It’s because the moisture redistributes/equalizes based on the environment! So something with a lot of moisture will lose moisture to the environment and become hard, but something with low moisture like crackers will gain moisture and soften.

if you leave out soft bread, it gets hard, but if you leave out hard bread (crackers, etc), it gets soft. and you're telling me we can understand anything in this world

#food science #bread #it makes shelf life stuff interesting for food products with different components with different moisture contents #my addition

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wordsofelie · 29 days ago

Text

🌌The stars he left in the sky

Oikawa x f!reader

Summary: The stars he left in the sky are nothing compared to the footprints he etched on the earth.

or when you fall in love with Oikawa Tooru, only to have your heart collapse into his orbit.

Sequel:🎋The footprints he etched on the earth

Content warnings: angst, high school & time skip setting, manga spoilers, swearing

Words count: 4.5k

You shouldn’t have been impressed by stars. After all, they were just distant objects burning quietly in the void, destined to explode in silence. Yet, every time you looked at them, a feeling of greatness gripped you.

But they were out of reach. You knew that. You would never touch them; they were bound to the laws of science. You had known this since childhood.

And it made sense, really. Stars exist on a scale far beyond your own. So why did you ever think you could change that? Why did you let yourself believe you could stand beside one? Naivety had swept you up, convincing you that proximity was possible. But no matter how far you stretched your arm in their direction, they remained a universe away. And so did he.

You met Oikawa Tooru during your second year of high school, a time when everything seemed to fall into place for you. You were diligent, sharp, and unassuming—the perfect daughter, the good student, the nice friend. Life was predictable and neatly organised. You weren’t really popular in school, didn’t really care about romance and boyfriends. You just had a normal life, and you were fine with it. But that’s precisely why you found it strange when he, the infamous volleyball captain and your senpai, started taking an interest in you.

Your eyes met his for the first time when you went to the third years floor to discuss a club matter with someone from his class. He got up from his chair the second you called for your clubmate’s name.

“She’s not here. Should I deliver a message for you, chibi-chan?” He spoke.

You found the nickname weird but tried not to look flustered by it.

“I…yes. Thanks, I guess.” And you handed him a paper, he looked at it with attention.

“You’re in the baking club, huh?” He read on the paper, “would you bake me milk bread someday?”

You tried to ignore the pressure coming from his classmates glaring at you, “Sure, if you want, Oikawa-senpai.”

Before you could leave the classroom, he asked for your name because “it’s only fair since you already know me.” And his charming smile made your ears warm.

After that, he often came across you. He always made sure to linger on you when you walked past by in the corridors, fasten his pace to reach you on your way to school (leaving Iwaizumi on his own, not that it disturbed the outside hitter).

And you found yourself looking for him more. You wanted to see him everyday. And little by little, it made your heart beat loud in your chest.

“Hello there, chibi-chan. Mind if I join?” he sat next to you one afternoon in the library and leaned over your shoulder. “What’s that book?” he asked.

“I’m preparing for the university exams,” you replied.

“Even though you’re in your second year? You’re so cool,” he said, his lips turning into a smile.

“What about you senpai. Are you planning to go to university?”

You bet he would. Oikawa Tooru wasn’t only pretty and athletic, he was smart and studious. He could get accepted in the best schools; get the highest scores in everything he would do.

“Me? Nah, I’m going to be the best setter in the world.”

In the world. Those words should have been your first warning, but the glow of his confidence made you blind to how far his dreams really stretched. He was bright, made of light. You were attracted by him the way meteorites are pulled into an orbit. There was nothing you could do about it anymore, you couldn’t look away from him. So when he asked you to be his girlfriend a few weeks later as he walked you home—“Even though it’s my last year and volleyball’s my priority, I promise I’ll take care of you. If you’ll have me, of course”—you didn’t hesitate and said yes, under the starry night.

Oikawa Tooru was the kind of boyfriend who made you believe in true love.

Every morning, he was there waiting for you in front of your house, his scarf loose around his neck, cheeks pink from the cold. On bitter winter days, he let you slip your frozen fingers into his coat pockets, teasing you about how small they were. For your birthday, he somehow convinced—or maybe, forced—Iwaizumi into helping him bake chocolates for you.

The taste wasn’t too bad, but you told him that next time you would teach him how to bake proper chocolate biscuits. You liked to hear him talk about his passion, and in return, you talked about yours.

When you sat together in his room for what you insisted were “homework sessions and nothing else,” his hands inevitably found their way to your hair. He would twirl strands around his fingers, brushing it with the same precision he used to set a ball. It would always end up in heated kisses sessions.

You gave back in your own way. You never missed a game—not even practice matches—always in the stands. Your cheers were never as loud as his fangirls, but it was always your voice he heard first. At lunch, you peeled fruits for him, offering slices in a delicate handkerchief. He didn’t even like apples, but when you held one out with that quiet smile of yours, he couldn’t refuse.

He liked your baking, though it was never enough sweet for his taste. The first time he tried your chocolate mousse, he stuck out his tongue and wrinkled his nose.

“Heh… Too bitter,” he told you.

“Oi! Trashykawa,” Iwaizumi growled. “Say thank you, it probably took hours to make.”

“Oops, thank you chibi-chan.”

Matsukawa looked at you with a detached look, “don’t mind the guy, he always puts two spoons of sugar in his hot cacao.”

“Matsuuu!” Oikawa whined, “I’m sure everybody does that, right?”

“You’re gonna dye of hyperglycaemia someday.”

The setter pouted and he hid his face into the crook of your neck, “help me, I’m being bullied.”

Everyone laughed, expect for your boyfriend who pretended to be hurt and Hanamaki who was trying to find the definition of “hyperglycaemia” in his biology book.

You didn’t bake him much after that. It’s not that you didn’t want to but rather you were scared it wouldn’t meet its liking, and you had to focus on your studies anyway. You needed to be great for him so he would be proud to tell the world you’re his girlfriend.

When he failed to make it to Nationals, your eyes held no pity—only love and respect. That was the moment he realised how rare you were.

At first, you both kept your relationship quiet.

“That’s how you know she’s different,” Makki had said.

“All the other girls would be screaming from the rooftops,” Matsukawa added.

Oikawa only smiled. You were special. So special. But he only truly understood how special when it was too late.

After high school, his world shifted.

Even though losing at the semi-finals had been a heavy pain, Oikawa never allowed himself to feel down on failure, or at least he didn’t show it. His dreams reached far beyond high school volleyball, beyond Japan itself. So, when he created the opportunity to train in Argentina under his hero, José Blanco, he didn’t think twice. Even if it meant leaving his family and Iwaizumi behind.

Should he have felt guilty when you promised to get a part-time job to save for visits, while a quiet voice in his mind whispered that he hadn’t thought of you at all when making his decision? Maybe. But when you asked if long-distance was okay, he still said yes.

It was the second warning you ignored.

You had never been like Iwaizumi Hajime, you were not able to read between the lines the way he did, or to decipher what Oikawa hid behind his pretty face, so you trusted him.

You believed it would be alright. Your first love would last (but every seventeen-year-old would think so; it is an incredibly naive time to fall in love).

The day he boarded the plane for San Juan, you started your final year of high school.

“Tell me when you get there,” you said, forcing a smile to hide the sadness, “and send me plenty of pictures. Call me every day.”

“I will,” he answered. “Go on now, or you’ll miss your entrance ceremony.”

Move on, he should have said instead.

Distance, it turned out, was more than just eighteen thousand kilometres. It was in every missed call, every half-hearted apology, every time zone that stood between you.

The “plenty” of pictures you had asked for became sparse, dwindling to nothing. One day, you learned he had cut his hair short through a post on Instagram. He didn’t even tell you. You cried all night.

Oikawa was amazing. Articles were written about him, fans started queuing outside arenas just to catch a glimpse of him, coaches from all around the world praised his sets. And each time you read something about him, you remembered. Remembered his brightness, his light. Remembered he was a universe away, out of your reach.

You were a mere object; he was a beautiful star.

And that reality hit you in the face on a May evening, a year after he left.

You had planned to talk but the phone call came late at night. You tried to picture him, somewhere in his room, the sun coming through his window, where it was the moon on your side of the world. Maybe his face was glowing faintly from his phone screen, maybe he had dark circles under his eyes like he often had when he trained too much. Maybe his brown curls were falling on his face. He probably looked handsome anyway.

“Will you come for Christmas?” you asked at some point during the call.

He paused. Too long.

“I’ll try,” Oikawa said, his voice sounded polished but there was something brittle beneath his words. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, after your exams.”

“Do you promise you’ll call?” You hated how childish your voice came out, but you were desperate to have him on the phone. You wanted him to the first you would hear after your exam.

“Promise,” he said. And though his tone softened with a warmth coming from an impossible distance, you doubted.

When the exam ended the next day, you waited for his call.

He will call, you repeated a few times in your head. He promised.

But as the evening turned into night, your phone remained silent in your pocket. After what felt like longer than the exam itself, you started walking, though you didn’t know where you were going.

You only stopped at some point in front of a shop. It was the smell that drew you in.

It was a little pâtisserie tucked between two tall buildings. Inside, it was warm and so you sat somewhere by the window. It was oddly comforting.

You weren’t hungry, you didn’t even know why you were here, yet, when the waitress asked what you wanted to eat, you found the courage, somewhere deep in your gut, to order something.

“What would you recommend?”

“Try the black chocolate cake,” she said. “It’s my favourite.”

You didn’t regret the choice, and the first bite melted on your tongue, it was rich and bittersweet. For the first time in hours, if not in days, you felt good.

When you stood by the door, on impulse, you asked, “Is it hard? Becoming a pastry chef? Running a shop like this?”

The woman smiled, “it’s hard work,” she said. “But it’s worth it.”

What if it was worth it for you as well?

Your phone finally rang just past midnight.

“Hey,” Oikawa’s voice came through. “I’m so sorry, I lost track of time. Are you okay? How was your exam?”

You hesitated before saying. “It was fine.”

You could have told him in details how it went, what exercise you found hard, which ones were easy, but somehow, you found yourself losing the will to do so.

“Is everything okay?”

“You promised you would call.”

You heard his mouth opening and closing a few times, “I know and I’m really sorry. Training went longer than expected and since I became the starting setter, I really need to put more effort into work.”

You stayed silent, to be honest, you didn’t even know what to say. Should you have gotten mad? Gotten sad?

He was the one to continue the conversation.

“Listen, I won’t go home for Christmas.” He finally admitted with a long sigh.

You stopped breathing. You couldn’t move. In this moment, you were convinced that if someone looked into your heart, they would find nothing but broken pieces, “Why?”

“I’ve been offered to play for the National Team here. But I need to apply to become a citizen first and the appointment with the embassy is around Christmas.”

“I’m not going to university,” you informed.

There was a long silence again. Oikawa was probably waiting for your disappointment or congratulations. But neither of those things left your mouth, “What? Why not?”

“Because,” you said and your voice started trembling slightly, “I’ve decided to become a pastry chef.”

“But… you’re so smart. You’ve always talked about university. I mean, baking is nice but that’s just your hobby, right?”

The words hit like a slap, and something inside you snapped. “My hobby?” You repeated his word. “I’ve been baking for I don’t know how many years. That’s the only thing that truly makes me happy and you call it a hobby? Of all people, I thought you would understand what it’s like to pursue a dream. But of course you wouldn’t even know this was my dream, heh? You’ve never really paid attention to me anyway.”

“That’s not true,” his voice rose. But you didn’t let him finish.

“I can’t do this anymore, Tooru.” You tried to hold your ground even though your stomach twisted and your throat tightened. “I think we should break up.”

“What? Wait, shouldn’t we have a real conversation about it? I-I will call you tomorrow morning, alright? Try to get some sleep first.”

“No, sorry Tooru. It’s over. Good luck with volleyball.”

There was a muffled sound on the other end—a sob, barely stifled—but you ended the call before it could break you more.

The days that followed felt like a blur. He sent a few messages—apologies, explanations—but you didn’t answer.

You told your parents you wouldn’t apply for universities here in Japan, they couldn’t hide their confusion at first but supported your choice after your brother mentioned how happier you would be if you did what you really wanted.

(You made sure to bake your little brother dozens of cookies.)

You started researching schools and ended up going for the one that stood out the most: l’École Ducasse, in Paris. It felt like a long shot, but you applied anyway.

A few days later, an email arrived. You opened it with trembling hands, your heart was pounding in your chest.

You’ve been invited to attend the exam, in France.

You stared at the screen.

“I knew you could make it nee-san,” your brother grinned.

“I didn’t get in yet; I still need to pass the exams.”

“Yes, but you’re going to Paris.”

Your eyes were filled with tears, happy tears. And in a rush, you booked your ticket and began packing your bags.

For the first time in years, you felt like you were moving toward something that was truly yours.

Maybe, just maybe, life wasn’t entirely against you.

When you stepped into Paris at the age of nineteen, you didn’t imagine it would become your home for the next five years—but it did. You passed the entrance exam and began your studies. The first few months were tough. You missed Miyagi. You missed the crisp sound of cicadas in the summer, the quiet beauty of snow-draped mornings in the winter, the comforting taste of miso soup, and the warmth of home. Everything felt foreign—the dormitory walls, the sound of words, even the stars above you.

Still, you told yourself it was for the better.

Some days were great, especially when your teachers praised your work. Other days were marked by a single, damning silence—the kind that hurt more than any harsh critique. You’d lie awake at night, blaming yourself.

Who did you think you were, chasing this dream? You were no Oikawa Tooru. You didn’t have his tireless hard work or his ambition and would definitely never polish your instinct the way he polished his. You found yourself missing him more than when you broke up with him. You missed his curly bed hair, the lock that fell on his eyes when he was sweating after practice, his wink to you from the court after a powerful serve, the face of disgust he would make when you baked dark chocolate mousse.

Regrets invaded you; homesickness ached your heart.

Had you made a mistake leaving Japan? Had you walked away from your true love?

You were on the verge of giving up the next morning. Still, you decided to get up to attend the chocolate-making workshop with students from a year above you. Afterwards, you decided that you would talk to your director and move back to your hometown.

“Bonjour,” you murmured hesitantly. You were still struggling with French. You looked around the room and tried to remember the right orders of words to ask a question, “Est-ce que c’est là… I mean… Ici pour le classe de chocolat?”

Shit, you know “classe” is feminine, so what did you get it wrong? What are they going to think of you?

Your eyes fell on your feet. You were tired.

“Yes, welcome,” someone replied.

The words weren’t in French but in Japanese. You blinked, startled, and turned toward the voice. Your own language sounded familiar and foreign, and somehow, both felt like a lifeline.

“Well, well. Isn’t this Oikawa Tooru’s girl?”

It took a moment to place him—Tendou Satori. But you had not doubt it was him with his red hair, his thin silhouette and curled smile. Your ex-boyfriend would often refer to him as “Ushiwaka’s freak middle”, you had also heard, probably from Iwaizumi, that his nickname was “the Guess Monster”.

Class began, and Tendou ended up as your partner. He was just as sharp and quick-witted as you’d heard, but also kinder than you’d expected. After the session, you wanted to find a way to spend more time with him, so you came up with the excuse that you had a few questions about chocolate making, since it was his speciality. Instead of brushing you off, he asked if you wanted to come with him “somewhere nice”, you said yes. He led you through the Parisian subway, chatting the whole way, until you found yourself standing in front of a small Japanese restaurant tucked into a side street.

The owners welcomed you warmly. They were from Akita, just next to Miyagi, and when they placed full plates of oysters and steaming gyutan in front of you, you didn’t wait a second to bring your hands together in clap and with a grin (and a little drool at the corner of your mouth) exclaimed a loud “Itadakimasu.”

You shared a few beers and had zunda mochi for dessert. It tasted like home and more.

“It gets easier,” Tendou said as you walked along the Seine later. “You just need to find your own rhythm. Do you still want to give up?”

You opened your mouth in shock. You never talked to that guy before tonight, and still, he had been able to read you like an open book. You simply offered him a smile and a “of course not.”

The Friday evenings at the restaurant became a ritual, it was always followed by long walks by the water. Paris felt less overwhelming with Tendou around, you even came to believe that meeting him was a miracle. And so, slowly, you found yourself thinking less and less about Japan and about Oikawa.

One evening, as the two of you strolled, you tried to be discreet, but Satori noticed right away. He always noticed.

“You keep looking up,” he said, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

“It’s just… we don’t see the stars here. In Miyagi, they’re so clear and bright.”

“It’s because of the pollution.” He said matter-of-factly.

“But what do you do when they’re not here?”

“There’s water,” Tendou replied after a moment, he didn’t stop walking. “And trees, and buildings, and wind. They’re here and they’re close. You can touch them and feel them. Isn’t that better than stars?”

You smiled faintly, and the pain in your chest seemed to be relieved, even a little. “I was always scared of what Tooru would think of me. I thought, if I didn’t succeed, if I didn’t become something impressive, he’d stop walking beside me. I wanted to go to university to become a lawyer or an engineer just so he’d be proud. Am I weird for following my dream and breaking up with him instead?”

Tendou glanced at you, then grinned suddenly. “See that rat?”

Startled, you followed his gaze to a fat, black rat scurrying across the cobblestones.

“Most people hate them. Think they’re dirty and gross. But no matter what, rats keep doing their thing. People try to chase them away, kill them even, but they always come back.”

“Are you comparing me to a rat?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Rats are cute.”

“Not the ones in Paris.”

“Fair.”

You both laughed, the regrets eased.

“What I mean is,” Tendou said, almost turning serious, “there’s something you’re meant to be. It’s up to you to figure it out. But once you do, you’ll always be drawn to it. Your cakes are amazing. I think you’ve already found your path. So, stop worrying about whether that loser would have been proud of you or not.”

“He’s not a loser,” you said instinctively.

“Come on. It’s just between you and me. I know you want to say it.”

“Well…” You hesitated, “maybe he is a loser.”

“You can say it louder.”

You turned toward the Seine, cupped your hands around your mouth, and shouted, “OIKAWA TOORU IS A LOSER!”

Tendou burst out laughing again, and so did you.

That night, you went back to your dorm and, perhaps because you felt a pang of guilt, you sent Oikawa a text (because he really was not a loser, you were simply a bit heartbroken). You attached a photo of yourself in your chef’s uniform, smiling brightly.

“If you ever come to Paris, you can visit my school. We have a restaurant, and I’ll bake you milk bread.” you wrote, “I’m happy here. I hope you’re happy too.”

He replied quickly. “You’re so cool!!!(*´◡`*)” A moment later, he sent a picture of himself on a mountain peak, lying in the snow. “This was in Patagonia a few weeks ago… I got high on coca leaves. It’s supposed to help with nausea. It didn’t for me >﹏< But I’m glad to know you’re happy. I’m happy too.”

You laughed quietly at his message. You wanted to tell him more; that it was hard, and that you cried a lot, you almost wrote it down. You imagined him answering that it had been hard for him too, working even more than in high school, learning a new language, fitting in a complete different society. The two of you, maybe, weren’t so different after all. But you decided to keep those thoughts to yourself.

“Do you have one of those big white hats, like the real chefs?” he texted.

You scrolled through your photos. There was one selfie with Tendou where you were both grinning, wearing tall chef’s hats, you sent it. “This one?”

A few seconds passed before he called you.

“First Iwa-chan, now you? Traitor,” he accused. You knew he was pouting on the other side of the phone as he told you about Iwaizumi and Ushijima meeting in California. You asked for updates on his childhood friend. The call stretched on, two or three hours, his afternoon overlapping your late night.

“Shit, I have to go to my physiotherapy session. You know for my knee. I’m good though,” he added quickly. He suddenly remembered the old times in high school when you scolded him for not going to the doctor even though his knee hurt or when he forgot to apply the anti-inflammatory cream. “But I prefer when you’re the one putting it chibi-chan.” (he would always get you to do it).

“Tooru… thank you. I mean, for everything you taught me. Talent really blooms when you let it.”

This was a moment you knew you’d always remember. It was like an in-between, a raw instant and it made you feel like your universe was finally meeting his.

Stars were distant objects burning quietly in the void, destined to explode in silence.

However, they don’t explode to disappear, no, they create something new. They die and then, they are born again.

“And thank you”, he said, his voice softer now. “For teaching me to believe in myself.”

You never asked what he meant by that. Maybe he said it out of politeness. Maybe he truly meant it. Either way, you wanted to keep those words in the back of your mind forever.

Years passed, and your hard work paid off. You got an internship which turned into a permanent position at the prestigious Ritz in Paris.

Eventually, life pushed you to London. You climbed the ranks and carved out a name for yourself.

One day, Oikawa walked through the doors of your workplace in the UK, always so charming but more confident than when you met him. He was visiting from Argentina, he explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to drop by unannounced. You made him a chocolate mousse (you didn’t forget to add two extra spoons of sugar in it.)

Tendou, meanwhile, often took the train to visit you. You would always go out in the city to try the best pastries and rank them (it would usually end up with a stomach ache). He never stayed too long, but his visits would brighten your days.

You loved Europe, deeply, it had a special place in your heart now, but maybe it was time to go back, you found yourself thinking one day. Not because you’ve failed here, but because you missed Japan—its sounds, its tastes, its skies.

When you returned home, you noticed how brightly the stars in Miyagi shone, but you knew there was one, on the other side of the ocean, that shone even brighter.

Slowly, you stopped searching for stars above you. You began to think that what you have here on earth is enough. Perhaps what you’ve been seeking all this time isn’t a thousand kilometres away or in some distant universe. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s closer than you imagined.

Maybe it’s already within reach.

And one day, it might find its way to you (but that’s another story).

author notes: this will be the first part of a 2 parts story. i really enjoyed writing it so i might post the second part before i start writing ‘and i will wait for you (a thousand springs, a lifetime)’, my apologies 🫣

btw as a non-english native speaker i found it really challenging to write in the past tense, so i really hope the grammar and stuff is consistent, please tell me if you see mistakes <3

lots of love

Elie

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nectardaddy · 3 months ago

Text

wild youth

one | trash can

masterlist

track one . . . crystal

cw/notes : ignore timestamps, hurt/comfort (my bread and butter yum), anxiety attack, feelings of panic, feelings of nausea (no throwing up), someone get me a suga asap fuck I love him so bad, ignore any typos I tried my best

The swirling sensation in her stomach never stopped even after she had sent everyone on their way. In fact, it got worse as her eyes tracked over the calendar she had on her desk. Little boxes filled to the brim with colorful ink, each color holding a significance that was important to only her.

Red was urgent, meetings she couldn't miss, or she would never hear the end of it. Blue was content, what subject matter she should be on week by week - which she was behind on. Green was tasks listed out in bullet points for science and math - to make a study guide, to redo a failed worksheet, to get supplies together for an upcoming lab, to make calls regarding a field trip in the near future.

Orange was personal.

Orange ink littered every Friday - ‘after school w/ K.S.’ (Abbreviated in case anyone came up to her desk with prying eyes. Already learning the hard way - last month - when question upon question was asked of “oh my god what do you and Mr. Sugawara do after school?!?” And “is Mr. Suga your boyfriend?! Is that why you have that on your calendar?!”)

Orange ink that scrawled underneath every box labeled Friday made her heart squeeze but wrench all in the same breath. Holding onto the feeling so hard she felt it crush and shatter in between her fingers. She had the tendency to hold onto things too hard, and never did find it within herself to let go - fractured or not. Always finding herself picking up stray pieces that fell here and there, leaving a trail behind her wherever she went.

The amount of colorful ink, some smeared and some barely legible, threw her into a spiral if she looked at it too long. Too many things to do, too many calls to make and meetings to attend, and simply not enough time in one school day to complete everything. The swirling feeling that started in her stomach began to move, forcing its way to her throat and she took a deep breath. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, fighting the nausea and overwhelming need to spill her guts right then and there.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

She remained like that a moment, focusing on her breathing and taking deep inhales of air only to let it back out again. But she gripped the orange pen she had in her hand tightly when she heard someone step through the threshold of her door; the sickly feeling returned to her throat immediately. She kept her eyes closed and took a shaky breath, determined to focus herself onto one thing rather than the person who came in.

She knew it was Sugawara.

Knew the moment she heard long, relaxed strides and the soft squeak of chucks onto the horribly waxed floor. Knew as soon as she heard him walk through the door without a word - silent and all too ready to listen, to help. She knew he looked at her in worry, brown eyes swimming with an emotion she had yet to pinpoint. She knew he wouldn't dare leave until he knew she was alright.

Sugawara knew that she was losing her grip on remaining calm.

“Do you need the trash can?”

A simple question, asked in a soft voice near her. She only screwed her eyes shut tighter and shook her head. “I'm ok.” Lying through gritted teeth, hoping he would turn to leave, but to no avail.

“No you're not.” Another whisper of a reply.

“I'm fine.”

She heard him hum before the screech of a chair hit her ears, making her flinch and a ‘sorry’ followed quickly after.

And that's when she felt him.

His presence radiated next to her that she couldn't ignore - warm, caring, and selfless. Not a single off hand comment to say as he pulled a chair next to her and sat down without a word. She could feel his arm brush against her own, a simple accident as he got comfortable in the plastic chair. But a tingling feeling that made her heart stop; a proximity she couldn't tell was intentional or not.

“Then I'll be here to make sure you stay fine.”

She hated that answer.

Loathed it even, for the sole fact it caused the sickly feeling to arrange itself into a lump in her throat. A lump that made her swallow hard, as to try and fight it, but only made it worsen as it became bigger. Growing until the feeling hit her chest painfully, overwhelming her with a sense of panic. One hand still held onto the orange pen for dear life, and the other death gripped her pants leg.

“Suga,” the name spoken in a whisper, but voice cracking all the same. It dawned on her she had no control over how the situation went anymore, realizing she would ultimately drop her façade in front of the man only made the burning pain in her chest worse. The mask would reluctantly be long gone if she started to cry; and it hit her hard as she became acutely aware of the fact she couldn't stop herself if she did.

Her face felt hot and her heart pumped violently in her chest, hearing every thump within her ear drums so loudly it drowned out the rest of the world. She took one last deep breath - but that was the start of the complete collapse of her mind.

The inhale was labored, fighting back every instinct to let tears flow freely - she couldn't, she wouldn't, not in front of him, anyone but the man beside her.

But she did.

The exhale was a choked back sob, one of which made her drop the orange pen completely and cover her mouth to muffle the sound. A cry for help that sounded too desperate to let anyone else hear, too pained to allow the man next to her bear witness too, too raw for even herself. Even with her eyes screwed shut, squeezing them so tight the corners of her eyes began to hurt, the tears fell anyway. It wasn't gradual, it wasn't a wave that pulled her down slowly but surely - it was the sudden, violent collapse of an, otherwise fine, structure. The chaos of watching a building fall, watching as brick by brick it all came tumbling down on itself.

She couldn't register what happened, as the time from his statement and her crying was nothing but a brief pause. She only knew she was crying, her fingers sore from grabbing at the fabric of her pants, that her throat felt hoarse, and the hand that covered her mouth was now wet with tears. But a new sensation was thrown into the mix that made her jump in her skin and hold tight to the last thread of sanity she still had. A warmth on the back of her hand completely sent her to the deep end and lurched her off.

His hand atop her own.

She couldn't explain why she flipped her palm over in that moment, couldn't place why exactly she interlocked her fingers with his without a second thought, and she surely didn't know why she removed her hand from her mouth only to open it. “What the fuck is wrong with me, Suga?” A wrenching question asked through broken cries and hot tears, “why can't I think, for just one goddamn second, that I'm not drowning? Why can't I think I'm good enough? Why can't I think I'm not a complete failure with everything I do?”

There was a long pause, one that only made her tears flow a bit harder. Because his silence felt cold to her, his silence felt like an answer all in itself. But he squeezed her hand in his own and looked over to her; if she had glanced, even briefly, to him she would've realized she took his heart right out of his chest. Held it in her hands unknowingly and dug her fingers into it, leaving marks that would linger for the rest of his days.

“You’re the farthest thing from a failure,” he whispered. "And I’ll tell you every day that you’re good enough, because you are. You’re more than enough - you’re perfect.”

She wished she had said yes to the trash can.

“I am failing miserably,” she choked. “They won’t fucking listen, they won’t stop talking, they keep asking me the dumbest things imaginable after I tell them what they’re doing, and they look at me like I’m stupid constantly. And I have to pretend that everything is okay, and smile and laugh. Even when I just want to slam my fucking head into the wall and cry. I-”

“Hey.” She felt him squeeze her hand once more as he cut her words short. “Breathe.” Another squeeze, this one tighter than that last, and he kept the tension. He held her hand like her life depended on it, interlocking fingers between his own and remained firm. He refused to watch her drown - or at least, they'd drown together.

She took an uneasy breath in, and hopelessly failed at holding it as another sob wracked her chest again. To this, he didn't say a word; only watched as she tried to inhale and hold it. Brown eyes swirled with a concern she wouldn't even bear witness to, holding her hand as it was the only thing he could do. Failed attempt after failed attempt until she was finally able to the fifth time around - holding it and releasing a shaky exhale.

“It's ok to not be ok,” he assured, to which he squeezed her hand once again.

She finally found it in herself to open her eyes, and she looked over to him in sorrow. Blurry, tear stained eyes locked with his own and he felt his heart sink even farther in his stomach. How long has she felt like this? Thinking himself an idiot for letting it get to a peak such as this one; ridiculing himself within the chasms of his mind for not noticing sooner. On the contrary, she felt her stomach surge upward. A squeamish feeling that made her swallow harshly, and a bitter taste at the back of her throat that made her look away from him completely.

She most definitely should have said yes to the trash can.

Her eyes had only met his own for a fraction of a second, but that was enough for her to feel embarrassment wash over her. So she kept her eyes glued to the orange ink that littered the calendar on her desk. Orange was consistent, never changing, caring - adoring. And she watched as, now slowed, tears dripped onto the paper. Drops created small, circular splotches that bled through to the pages underneath. Watched as the ink started to scatter and feather out from hot, salty tears; and for once, she didn’t care. Didn’t care that her handwriting began to be illegible, didn’t care that red ink started to blend with green. As long as the orange ink was still there, if it still remained intact - it was fine. As long as the orange ink would always remain there, it was ok.

“But I have to be ok,” she whispered, negating his statement as she closed her eyes again. “If I’m not ok then everything will go to shit.”

“Says who?”

“Says my brain.”

“Well,” he began, and she heard the faintest of a chuckle sound from beside her. “Don’t listen to your brain. You don’t have to be ok at all.” And in that moment, she became overly aware of the fact he was holding her hand, because he squeezed it again. Pale fingers locked with her own, holding tightly, and she felt a heat rise to her cheeks. Muddled with the already warm feeling of being overwhelmed, she felt herself thrown to the deep end all over again. “Honestly, we can not be ok together.”

Together.

One singular word felt crushing, but relieving all in the same breath. While it took her by the ankles and yanked her downward, it also grabbed her by the wrists and surged her up. A head spinning feeling that didn’t help her nausea; it only made it worse as now she felt torn asunder. Friday after Friday of being together but so, god damn, far apart. Together felt like a curse. A god awful, caring, loveable curse she couldn't get enough of.

She kept her eyes closed and lips sealed shut at his words, humming them over in her mind as seconds passed. Burnt out, foolish, embarrassed, and hot, she still noticed the yearning feeling that pulled at the back of her mind. An ache that never went away, only nagged and pined as it only continued to grow as moments became minutes. And minutes became a crushing weight to finally say something - anything.

Together.

“Do you want to get hammered tonight?” An off kilter, frankly off color, question she blurted out to him as she reopened her eyes. Looking over to him in anticipation, but a deep rooted fear swimming in her eyes, and she finally squeezed his hand back in response.

She saw the smile form on his lips the second the question was asked, watched as the smile turned to a chuckle, and the chuckle became a silly, joy bringing laugh. “What kind of question is that?” A rhetorical question asked between chuckles, “obviously I want to get hammered.”

“I still don't want to go to the bar though,” tagging on the statement quieter than the last and she saw him shrug in response.

“My offer still stands. Do you like shitty, cranberry vodka?”

“Yes?”

“My place it is then.”

taglist (open, send an ask)

@19calicos @yoshit-he-dinosaur @sandwhitches @bokutoko @wyrcan

@darling-eos @mitskicain @cherrypieyourface @eggyrocks

@yogurtkags @cupidsblonde @honeekyuu @s1ckntw1st3d @causenessus

@maeflowers653 @crispchocolates @moucheslove @staygoldsquatchling02 @phoenix-eclipses

@ji9sstar @zumicho @keeboismine @cloudybillows @kameyyy

@strawberryuri

#hq x reader #haikyuu #hq #haikyuu smau #sugawara koushi x reader #sugawara fic #sugawara x reader #hq sugawara #haikyuu sugawara #sugawara koushi #sugawara x reader smau #hq suga #haikyuu x reader #koushi sugawara x reader #suga x reader #hq smau #series: wild youth

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weenwrites · 1 year ago

Text

Cooking A Meal: Part 2

Summary - You ask one of the cons to cook you a meal, but honestly it goes about as well as you'd expect. Characters - Megatron, Shockwave, Starscream, Soundwave, Dreadwing, Knockout, Breakdown, Airachnid, Predaking, Darksteel, Skylynx Content - Crack Category - Headcanons Trigger Warnings - None

✎ A/N: This is an un-revised shitpost, not something too serious.

[ Please do not repost, plagiarize, or use my writing for AI! Translating my work with proper credit is acceptable, but please ask first! ]

Megatron

Don't even bother having him try to cook you something, he can't cook at all. More often than not he'll just send some vehicon off to fetch you a meal, but when he's actually put in a kitchen and told to cook a meal, he'll probably serve you a plate of charred... Stuff.

It reeks and honestly you can't even tell what it used to be. The most he knows about cooking is that humans always heat up their food. He doesn't know how cooked a piece of meat or a slice of bread has to be, and despite knowing how useful patience is, he can't bring himself to wait a couple minutes for a slice of bread to turn golden brown.

Even with some instructions he doesn't understand a single word on that page. What does "fold in the cheese" even mean?! All in all, the food tastes awful, the presentation is awful, and it's not even a nice experience, he somewhat cleans his mess, but still, it's an awful experience. Even your local fast food restaurant would serve something better than what he could make you.

Shockwave

He wouldn't be too bad at cooking... However the meal he's served you is most likely made from some artificial substitute... It's not bad, per say, and it has a higher nutritional value than everything in your kitchen combined, but... He didn't stand in a kitchen to make it, he stood in a lab and fabricated it. That aside, it's plain and has a bit of a weird taste, the presentation sucks, and it's not naturally made, it was fabricated in a laboratory. It counts as science. Not cooking. So nevermind, he'd be bad at cooking.

But if he were to cook, he'd get into the technicalities of all, and spout food science facts at you. He'd tell you all about how proteins in meat force out moisture through coagulation, and that's how meat cooks. Or how amino acids and simple sugars are rearranged to change the color of meat as it cooks. Unless you know about food science yourself, all it may sound like some scientific garble to you. Whether you implore him to continue or not is all up to you.

But just because he knows about the chemical composition of a cracker doesn't mean he knows how to make things taste good. He chooses things based on their nutritional value, not their taste. Everything from meal portions, to seasonings, to even the temperature it was cooked at is all carefully measured to ensure that you're getting your healthy fill of nutrients. He doesn't even allow you to season it afterwards, because any more seasoning would disturb the healthy balance.

Still, while it may be nutritious, it certainly isn't delicious, but at least it's 100% edible and extremely healthy.

Starscream

He didn't know humans cooked their food, he thought they just ate it as is. So you'll have to explain a lot of stuff to him before either of you actually get anywhere. But once he gets the basics down, he'll be off to a rough, yet good start!

He's very particular about the way things are organized in a kitchen, and he'll get real annoyed if you moved something like a spatula or a spoon he was using. He's sorta set up this organization system in the kitchen that works specifically for him and no one else. While it may look like a mess on the outside, it works really well for him.

He'd never touch raw meat, even if it were to cook for you. He just hates the feeling, so you'd basically have no luck at getting him to scrub a chicken down with salt and seasoning unless you gave him a pair of gloves or a brush. But even if he's a bit squeamish, he's very thorough with his work, and very patient too. But he does complain about how long it takes for things to prepare things and then cook.

Might be a bit burnt here, and a bit bland over there, but if you pick some parts out and sprinkle some salt, pepper, spice, or hot sauce on it, it makes for a solid-ish meal! Which is pretty impressive, given the fact he once knew nothing about cooking a few hours ago.

Soundwave

They're actually a really good chef, better than everyone else, that's for sure. Soundwave knows where and how to learn what he needs to know, so it wouldn't take long for him to research and grasp the bare bones of cooking. And after a couple of tries, they could definitely whip you up a 5 star meal that tastes like something the best chef in the world would make.

It's almost scary how fast he learns, but hey at least you're getting like one of the best meals in the world using cheap ingredients from your fridge. Like who knew ketchup could taste so good in place of fancy marinara sauce!

And because of the amazing meal he made, it's without a doubt that he is the undisputed best chef aboard the Nemesis and everybody else's skills immediately pale in comparison. If it were a competition, it would've been over the moment they joined.

Dreadwing

Like almost everyone on this list, he has no idea what to do, and he has no idea what humans eat, so it ends up being a bit of a lecture before he actually starts cooking. It might take him a bit, and he'll stumble here and there, but he's always quick to ask good questions to ensure he has a solid grasp on what he needs to do.

He's quick to pick up anything you teach him, like about cutting vegetables, or seasoning meals, temperature, et cetera. And in a while, he's able to follow a recipe rather well, only occasionally coming to you to ask a question about what "folding" or "basting" or "al dente" means.

He'd serve you a pretty solid meal all in all. But on the off-chance that what he made for you had caused you to get sick, he'd immediately and sincerely apologize to you, and most likely never make you a meal ever again.

Knockout

He has some knowledge around human cooking thanks to the internet, and it helps the slightest bit, but for the most part he'll be bugging you with all his questions about human cuisine and cooking.

And all the while he's cooking, he'll ask you to fetch him things like that kitchen knife over there, or that measuring cup—no, not that one. That one was used for wet ingredients, he needs the other one that was used for dry ingredients, now chop chop. The clock's ticking. Or he'll holler at you to come and help hold the bowl as he scrapes the mixture into another pan.

Surprisingly, the kitchen actually remains rather nice and orderly throughout it all. He fills your sink with water and just leaves the dirty dishes in there to soak, and cleans messes the instant they're made, which greatly helps with clean-up afterward! But he won't touch the dishes. He just hates the feeling of scrubbing grimy food off, so you're on your own unless you give him a pair of gloves.

But as for the food itself? It's... Semi-decent! He may have burned it a little, or messed up one of the steps, but it still tastes good and it's still edible. He even decorates it nicely! He'd chop any vegetables into cute little shapes, and he has a good eye for presentation. So it's pretty nice.

Breakdown

He doesn't know anything about human cooking. He does question where the heck human food comes from though, and the most he knows is that humans consume other organisms, which he finds really weird. So in the beginning, the whole cooking session might be more of an educational session than anything, but only so he understands what humans can eat and what he should be doing.

He technically doesn't do any cooking since he just makes you things like instant noodles or instant mac n' cheese. But he'll need a bit of supervising because with the noodles, he'll put the seasoning packet in the water while the noodles are cooking, and then drain the noodles because he thought that the noodles would absorb the flavor (same goes for the mac n' cheese), but it turns out that the cheese water just goes down the drain. So it technically isn't completely his fault that the food may taste off (because instant food doesn't always taste that good...) but he does mess some of the steps up which contributes to that.

But with a little guidance here, and a little trial and error there, he'll actually be able to whip up something pretty decent using the instant stuff as a base! He'll add things like chopped up vegetables or spice for some flavor in some instant ramen, or cook the macaroni in milk and add some mustard for mac n' cheese, or perhaps crack an egg and add some garlic into some insta-soup.

All in all, it's a pretty solid meal for his first time cooking. But does it really technically count as cooking if he used an already pre-made thing to make it?

Airachnid

If she didn't care about you as much as she does, she would've fed you something poisonous if she didn't ignore your request first. She's... A questionable cook... To say the least, but one thing's for sure, all the meat she uses in her cooking is fresh. And I mean fresh as in "she dragged that animal into the kitchen and slaughtered it on the spot" kind of fresh, which is ideal if you're eating something that requires super fresh meat like oysters.

She doesn't burn the food, but she most likely under-cooks it. As for seasoning, well, she doesn't add any, so whatever you're eating will need a whole lot of salt, pepper, and spices either to taste like something, or to distract from the horrible taste the food already has.

But while the food may taste weird, the presentation's interesting. It's something of an art, made from something you don't even think you can call "food" anymore, but it's interesting to look at.

All in all, the food tastes horrible, the presentation's neat, and you're 100% guaranteed to get food poisoning if you scarf the entire meal down (which you won't, the stench is bad enough to kill even flies).

Predaking

He can't cook at all—actually, he doesn't even know what humans eat, so you'll have to explain to him quite a lot. Even then, he'll probably just bring you a dead animal and assume that's enough. You'll actually have to lecture him on cooking meat, preparing ingredients, and whatnot. So this whole thing turns into a cooking lesson as opposed to doing actual cooking.

He soaks all that knowledge up like a sponge, and with his newfound knowledge of cooking he's able to make something relatively decent for you, if not leaning more towards mediocre! The meal is something simple, probably from a cookbook you have at your house (or on the internet...)

All in all, while it's below average, it's probably above-par by your standards, given the fact you just taught him how to cook a hot second ago. The presentation is simple, the food actually tastes good, so all in all it's a pretty average meal.

Darksteel

Surprise, surprise! He is the worst cook out of them all. And here you might have thought that Predaking or Airachnid would've been the worst, but nope. It's him. He'd most likely burn your kitchen down, if not trash everything you have, and waste everything you have in your fridge. The best he does is bring you a dead animal that he "cooked" by spewing fire at it. Then again it's most likely either overcooked or undercooked and would definitely give you trichinellosis, E. coli, BSE, salmonella, or whatever other horrible disease you risk contracting by eating what he's served you.

But what about vegetables? He doesn't even know what a vegetable is, and unless you give him a really thorough description of what counts as a vegetable or not, he'd most likely just uproot a tree or pluck a bush out from the ground and give it to you, mildly scorched, because he remembered that you have to cook it.

If you were to ask him about presentation, he'd probably pose the scorched cattle or chicken he got his claws on, set the crisp "vegetables" upright, and think that's good enough "presentation".

Bottom line? Do not eat anything he gives you, it'll absolutely destroy your stomach.

Skylynx

Yeah he doesn't want to. He'd hate cooking so much because everything takes so long to do! He's sensible enough to do some research and learn, or ask you questions for clarification, but waiting for water to boil just drives him crazy.

He tries to work diligently and be patient, but you might catch him cutting corners a little bit. How so? Well, he'd raise the temperature of the stove to get something to cook faster, or if he needs to carefully ground something into a poultice, he'll just smush it into paste. If you're having something simple like mashed potatoes, then he has absolutely no problem preparing that.

He doesn't pay much attention to how it looks, so while the food he serves looks unappetizing as he straight up slaps it onto your plate, it actually tastes pretty decent... Ish... Decent-ish. Sure your food may have come out a bit burnt, or you might find some weird chunks in it, but it's better than what Darksteel has to offer, that's for sure.

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valscigarette · 3 months ago

Text

Summary: Val gets so overstimulated by his own prehensile dick that his demonic form comes out. inspired by this post by @shushposting!

Tags: Vox/Val, Val/Angel, Val/Velvette, Poly Vees, Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Toxic Relationship, Smut

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed warnings!

WC: 7.9k | AO3

By now, Vox has the ritual down to a science. Every so often, just infrequently enough to avoid suspicion, he taps a couple drops of Velvette's love potion into Val's morning Four Loko and jumpstarts the program for his desktop camera feeds to follow Valentino for the day. It’s easy. Val never fails to leave his drink unattended at some point over breakfast and no attendant would dare point out Vox spiking his drink. Even Kitty, ever watchful, says nothing.

“I'm busy today, just so you know,” Vox lies while Valentino curses out their toaster one morning. “Back-to-back meetings. Try not to have any emergencies.”

He pulls the bottle of potion from his pocket and draws up the usual two drop dose, leaving only a thin veneer of the glossy liquid at the bottom. It always amazes him how potent it is; the formula is derived from Val's own pheromones, after all. The love potion dissolves easily into the acidic drink, and, when a quick glance confirma Val is still fighting to get his bread back, Vox tips the remainder of the bottle in as well. It's hardly anything, he reasons. There's no sense in leaving so little behind.

As he slips the empty container back into his blazer, Val turns around with a frown twisted across his face. “Vox, the fucking toaster is broken again!”

“Did you hear me? At all?” Vox asks, already getting up to assist with the not broken toaster. He leans into Val's space as he pulls the lever back up. It was knocked off track by Val's struggling, but his breakfast is salvageable and Vox can have the toaster replaced after the fact. “You're on your own today. Don't call me unless the tower is burning down.”

Once Vox plates up the toast, Val swans back to the table to spread spiked butter over it. Generally, Vox can't remember a second of the time he's known Valentino and seen him sober, and it no longer surprises him how much Val takes in a single day. So long as the studio keeps pumping out blockbusters and Val stays too high to notice a little extra kick in his drink, Vox is content to let him bury his days in a foggy quagmire of his own making. Val's less of a bitch the higher he is, anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, your schedule’s tight, Papi's got more important things to do than me,” Val drawls. He slugs back a heavy gulp of his Four Loko and doesn't so much as twitch. “Tell me, Vox, when did you get so fucking boring?”

Vox takes one of Val's hands and rubs his knuckles, a charming grin cutting into his screen. “These meetings keep the lights on, babydoll.” His own face mirrors back at him hundreds of times in Val's compound eyes, dancing as his gaze shifts over the reflections. “If anything goes wrong, take it up with Velvette. I'm sure she'd be,” Vox stops, his fans whirring like an inhale to cool his rapidly heating processors, “happy to assist. Provided you leave her models alone.” He raises Val's hand to his screen for a kiss, and doesn't begrudge Val a flirtatious caress along the bottom of his screen as he pulls away.

Val groans low in the back of his throat, but it's too early in the morning for him to put up much of a fight. He finishes his breakfast in relative peace, scrolling through Sinstagram, texting Angel Dust, and occasionally slurping his drink, none the wiser about how long the day ahead will be for him. Vox can barely contain himself long enough to see Val out the door of the kitchenette, still nursing his Four Loko as he lights a cigarette.

The second he can drop the pretense of his own standard morning routine, Vox zaps into the nearest security camera. The electrical currents carry him down to his office, where a set of screens on the right side of his desk follow Val through the hallways of Vee Tower exactly as planned. His day is empty. There are no meetings. All Vox has to attend to is his own libido as he watches the love potion slowly rip Val’s self control to pieces.

Its effects first make themselves known on the elevator to the studio. A simple twitch is all it is. Val looks down at his crotch, mildly surprised by the semi, but overall nonplussed as he finishes the last of his drink. He’s probably watching porn on his phone, Vox thinks, and can blame the early tinges of arousal on it.

Valentino bursts into the studio like a model entering a runway, his wings a cape and his smoke a dramatic cloud, and the plain irritation on his face only enhances the beauty of his harsh angles. One of Vox’s cameras, outfitted with a zoom lens, closes in on the shape of his cock trapped in his tight white bell bottoms. Shifting shadows hint that the eager thing is already squirming, probably mere minutes from plunging into Val's own hole to sate its drug induced need. Vox cups himself in sympathy, stroking his thumb along the length of his bulge.

“Angel,” Val hisses. His gravelly voice carries across the studio, distracting Angel Dust from the makeup artist turning a black eye into a smokey shadow look. “I need to see you in your dressing room.”

With a flurry of assurances to the cosmetician, Angel follows Val to his dressing room, unable to get a single questioning word past his lips before Val bends him over his vanity, yanks down his panties, and shimmies his own pants down just enough to let his swollen, prehensile dick out. The side angle from a visible security camera is perfect for admiring it until Val hunches over Angel, guiding himself into place and humming in pleasure as the slut beneath him squeaks. At that, Vox switches to a hidden camera among Angel’s makeup brushes, which allows him to watch Val’s tongue loll out and antennae quiver as he pounds Angel so hard the vanity dents the drywall.

“Fuck, fuck, Val,” Angel whimpers, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth glass top until Val pins all four of his wrists with two hands of his own. “Val, please, I’m gonna-”

Val shoves his head down against the vanity to shut him up, evidently not in the mood to hear his begging. “Just a couple minutes,” he coos, barely audible to the microphones in the room over the wet slap of his balls against Angel’s ass. “You can take it.”

None of the cameras are positioned appropriately for Vox to see the bulge Val is undoubtedly making in Angel’s stomach, but he can forgive it when this is hardly going to be Valentino’s last orgasm of the day. It’s just his first. Watching Val’s thrusts lose rhythm, Angel’s eyes cross, convinces Vox to unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly, and shove his slacks down to his knees. He knows he has all the time in the world to take care of himself.

Angel doesn’t finish, but does keen in at an obnoxious pitch when Val does. A rich, velvety moan accompanies the final few thrusts, each hard enough to bruise and pushing more jizz to spill down Angel’s quaking thighs. Moments later, he's still panting and shivering when Val pulls out to continue jerking his now glistening cock, either unwilling or unable to stop pleasuring himself as Angel weakly pulls against the hands still pinning him in place.

“Clean yourself up before the shoot,” Val snaps. Coming has done nothing for him, and he must realize the sort of day he’s in for. “If we fall behind schedule because you’re a disgusting cumslut, I’ll make you regret it, Angelcakes.”

“Got it, Val,” Angel hiccups.

As soon as Val lets go of him, he stumbles out of the dressing room to get to the studio shower. Left alone, Valentino plops down on the couch and lets his head fall back. The whir of Vox’s cameras zooming in on him must get his attention, because he opens one eye and bares his teeth.

“Thought you were too busy for me,” he bitches, legs twitching apart as he pets a vein down the side of his cock, visibly trying to keep its interest in his hand so it doesn’t go searching for something better, like Val’s dripping pussy behind it.

In answer, Vox strokes himself faster and waits for Val to realize he can’t walk out into the studio touching himself like a desperate pervert. No one’s coming to help him out with his little problem, and nothing would help anyway except to let the love potion run its course.

“You better not be saving this to your spank bank, Voxxy,” Val spits, his back arching as his writhing dick finally escapes his grasp and presses into his hole. “You ffffuck- fucking asshole.”

After a few indulgent minutes, he clenches his fists, wipes the sweat off his brow, and eases his pants back up his hips, though their tightness does little to obscure the lewd act happening beneath. His staff ought to know better than to acknowledge it, though, when Valentino perches in his director’s chair with his legs crossed and calls action.

For the first half of the day, Val puts up an admirable fight against the overstimulation of being fucked by his own dick non-stop. He disguises his several orgasms behind cursed insults and bites so deep into the heel of his hand that his teeth come away dark with blood. Vox doesn’t get himself off as he watches, but occasionally manages to get a few emails sent off when Val gets himself together enough to complain about the costumes or the performances.

Vox knows things are getting interesting when Val calls for a lunch break. The mere idea is laughable, unless one happens to know it’s an excuse to clear the set so he can handle whatever meltdown possesses him on a given day. Practically the second he’s alone, Val calls Vox.

It takes a lot of willpower, but Vox lets it ring all the way to voicemail, eyes locked on the obscene movement in Val’s visibly soaked pants. He doesn’t answer the second time either. He also doesn’t feel guilty when Val throws his phone into a wall out of pure frustration. After all, Vox did warn him he would be too busy to help today.

“You little shit,” Val whines in the general direction of a camera, wobbly, like he might cry. “You can’t leave me like this Vox, get your flat fucking ass up here and help me!”

Truly, Vox calls Velvette out of the kindness in his heart. She answers for him right away, her end of the line chaotic with the background of her workshop, though she’s pristinely put together herself. “What, Vox?”

“I gave Val some love potion this morning,” he tells her, politely maintaining a high enough camera angle so as not to flash her with his own body or Valentino’s. “Great work on that formula by the way, my dear.” She grins with the compliment, a perfect opportunity for Vox to offer, “He could use a break if you’re up for it.”

Her smile drops as quickly as it appeared. “I’m not playing ring-around-the-cock-cage,” she snarks.

“Of course not.” Vox placates her by texting over a link to his live feeds of Valentino. “But I know you like him all pathetic, so I thought I’d give you a go.”

Velvette harrumphs and considers his proposition, before relenting with a long-suffering sigh as if he’s asked some gargantuan favor of her by offering up an overstimulated, submissive Valentino on a platter. “Fine. But you owe me one.”

“Whatever you please, darling,” he says. “Your wish is my command. Now, go put on a show, I’ll be watching.”

“Nasty prick.”

She flips him off, face wrinkled in faux-disgust before hanging up the call. On looking back at his screens, Vox finds Val spread out on the studio floor, massaging the base of his dick that isn’t buried in his pussy, back arched at the overwhelming sensations. The deep v of his low-cut shirt falls open as he thrashes to occasionally show one of his heart-shaped nipples, pierced and nearly as flushed as his cheeks with excitement. It takes minutes for Velvette to appear, but they drag on forever when Vox has such a delectable sight to enjoy.

“Come on, Val,” Velvette says, her voice ringing out before the cameras catch her walking up to his prone form on the ground. “You shut down the whole studio for this?” she asks. One of her sharp heels kicks Val’s hand away from his crotch, allowing her a better view of his situation. “This is embarrassing for you. You seriously can’t control your needy dick long enough to get through the day?”

To his credit, Val manages to speak between the wet hitches of his breath. “It’s not my fault,” he spits out. Excess drool puddles around his lips and tongue, slurring his speech. “I can’t make it stop, and fucking Vox won’t pick up his phone!” He lifts his hips toward Velvette but she backs away before he can touch her.

“If you only want Vox, then…” Velvette teases.

In an instant, Val is falling over himself to take it back, practically snapping his neck with how quickly he springs up on his knees. “No, princesa, I’m happy to see you!” Vox’s cock leaks at the desperation in Val's tone, the tremor in his hands as he claws up the hem of Velvette’s skirt. “Don’t go. Daddy’ll make it worth your while, don’t you worry your pretty head-”

“Shut up,” Velvette interjects. “Just- take your pants off and try not to make a fucking mess.”

She helps Val kick off his shoes so they can strip away his bottoms, exposing him to the cold studio air. Several of Vox's cameras whirr as they focus on the million dollar view of Val's mindless, almost tentacle-like cock cruelly fucking him past him past the oversensitivity. Oh, he's going to be crying before Velvette finishes with him.

The morning's buildup of tension surges in Vox's stomach as Velvette straddles Valentino, perfectly positioned to grind against the base of his cock and fondle his pretty nipples. A chirping trill breaks from his mouth when she pinched one between her fingers. “If you want a break,” she huffs, “we have to work for it. You know that, babes.”

Val moans a few slurred words that sound enough like an agreement for Velvette to slice off her panties to get them out of the way. Later, she'll absolutely invoice Vox their cost. At present, his cameras perfectly capture her sopping pussy rutting against Valentino. They're set to record automatically when he runs the program tracking Val, but he has to double check that he'll be able to watch the two of them forever. Velvette's exquisite heat is enough to tempt Val's cock out of himself and into her as well, giving Vox yet another gorgeous shot to obsess over for weeks before it plunges into her.

“Goddammit, Valentino!” she yelps, digging her nails into his chest.

At the same time, Val's hips jerk up to help him bury his dick in her cunt, the poor thing helplessly repeating “Thank you Velvette, thank you, thank you,” like he's forgotten how to say anything else. Dozens of cameras strewn about the studio give Vox every shot he could want, including a down-angled lens that lets him see both the place where Val disappears onto Velvette, and Val's swollen pussy that twitches every time he bottoms out in her. Pearls of come bead from between his lips and drip to the floor, and it's the realization of how much Val has already come that pushes Vox over the edge.

He's alone, but still bites the inside of his cheek to quiet his moan as he spills over his hand, the suddenness of it only intensifying the sensations. On screen, Val has found the perfect angle to drive fucked out little “ah”s from Velvette's painted lips on every thrust. His legs betray him. They kick out, restless and useless, a perfect tell that he's past his limit by midday.

“So perfect, so fucking tight,” Val praises. His lower set of hands find purchase on her hips to aid each fluid motion and the pressure makes Velvette groan. “My pretty dolly.”

“Please shut the fuck up,” she snarls. “I'll cut this thing off and hang it like a trophy in my office, don't test me.”

Contrary to her intentions, this drags another breathless orgasm from him, noticeable only from her offended gasp and the cum frothing around his cock as he continues fucking her. “Y-you can have it, amor,” he chokes out, “it'll grow back.”

“You wish. It's the only worthwhile thing about you.” Velvette's cruelty always impresses Vox, and strikes one of Val's many kinks. “Now hurry up and get me off, I have actual work to get done today.”

When it takes him too long to work up the coordination, she grabs the upper hand not somehow still clinging to his cigarette holder, spits on his slender fingers, and forces it into place so that she can still grind her clit into his palm even if he goes limp beneath her. Their hands make the swell in Velvette's lower stomach look even more obscene, visibly twitching as Val's devilish cock moves inside her.

“Finally. For a porn overlord, you're useless with a pussy, you know.” Her words don't match the climbing urgency of her motions, but do fit Val's downright sloppy rhythm that he'll be ashamed of when Vox plays this back for him later. “Vox fucks me better.”

“You fucking bitch!” Val cries.

Although Vox planned on waiting a while for his next round, Velvette's hard-earned praise has him shifting in his seat with pavlovian interest. In his second of distraction, the slight enrages Val enough to flip himself and Velvette over with a heavy thud. The cameras fuzz with the power radiating off him, not long enough for Vox to register it as anything more than his own malfunctioning systems as he wraps a hand around himself once more.

Velvette moans under Valentino, who has found the energy to put his back into each harsh thrust and growl, “I'll show you who fucks better.”

The spurt of jealousy surpasses his exhaustion and frustration enough for Val to drill her into the floor, each motion rhythmic and punishing in the way only a professional cam achieve, one of his many hands busy circling her clit between them.

“I can do this all day, Mami.” Every time Val thrusts into her, Velvette slides up the marble floor, until she wraps her legs around his waist for purchase. “All-” he interrupts himself with a whine, “all night, too.”

He's fucking her too hard for Velvette to get out a response, but her wordless moans say enough. She probably meant to rile him up. It worked beautifully, and Vox files away a mental note to buy her the most extravagant gift basket in the entire Pride ring tomorrow. Beads of sweat roll down Val's back like invitations for Vox's tongue, and each whimper in symphony with Velvette beckons him to join them but he promised himself he'd wait. It'll be so much better to deal with Val tonight after an entire day of this.

“Mi princesa.” Val's voice is equal parts breathless and honey-sweet, as saccharine as his dopamine riddled drool that Vox can see soaking stains into Velvette's top. “So beautiful, you, shit, you drive me fucking crazy.”

She doesn't reply so much as arch into him, nails digging into his skin once more and drawing enticing furrows of blood down the expanse of his back, mean tips of her heels beating bruises into either side of his spine with each vicious thrust. On another day, when they have the time, Vox could easily spend hours watching the two of them fuck like they're fighting. Today he only has one goal.

“Don't stop,” Velvette gasps. Her body has gone mostly pliant beneath Val, drowning in the sensation too much to keep giving as good as she gets. “Fucking hell-”

Val presses himself as tightly against her as he can when he comes. His muscles seize, thrown in perfect relief under the calculated, cold studio lights, then go lax as he collapses in a gaggle of uncoordinated limbs on top of her. Still, his cock keeps working on its own. Judging by her whimpers, Vox missed Velvette's orgasm under the beauty of Val's, though he doesn't mind when she's still exhaling pleased groans every couple seconds.

“Okay, that's enough,” she sighs.

Muffling his voice in her shoulder isn't enough to disguise Valentino's sob.

“Cut it out,” Velvette tells him, sharper this time, and shoves at Val's shoulders until he props himself up enough for her to wiggle from beneath him. Her biggest challenge is getting away from his ruthless cock, relentlessly trying to pound into her, but the advantage of being a separate person allows her to get back to her feet as Val's two excessive loads of spend drip down her legs.

Without the reprieve she grants, it takes seconds for Val's dick to find its way back to his hole. His legs collapse almost immediately. The tears come back full force when Val falls on his ass, overcome by his own rare disinterest with sex and the prospect that, like Vox, Velvette will make him deal with his libido on his own.

“Please don't go,” Val trills, unironically crawling across the floor to Velvette because his legs must be useless. Vox earmarks this section of the footage too. It’s not often he gets to see Val in a state so desperate, so soon. “I’ll do whatever you want! Anything for mi princesa, my beautiful Vel, always so good to me and Vox.” He reaches her inches from the doorway, clumsily petting whatever parts of her he can reach in the distraction of his nonexistent refractory period. If he notices her pushing his hands away, he doesn’t care, continuing to offer, “as much head as you want, my face was fucking made for sitting on,” with no appreciation for her waning patience.

“Piss off!” she finally shouts, kicking Val away with a heel to the chest that will surely bruise.

Now that seduction has failed, Val growls at a pitch subaudible to most sinners, and somehow draws himself up on wobbly, fawn-like legs. He hardly looks threatening, still at the mercy of his own traitorous body, but Vox still snaps screenshots off every camera. “Do you know how many bitches would kill to breathe the same air as me?” If he expects to frighten Velvette into submission, Valentino has another thing coming. “You don’t get to abandon me like this, amorcita.”

“Funny,” Velvette sniffs, “I don’t actually care.”

Before he can issue another empty threat, Velvette whips out her cell phone to take several crisp, high-definition shots that Vox knows he’ll want framed even before they upload to the crowd. Thousands of pixels catch all the glory of Val’s wrecked state: his fur matted by a mixture of his own fluids, Velvette’s, and Angel’s; his cheeks flushed so bright he looks made up; his mouth slack with a suffering that could easily be mistaken for pleasure; his cock a noticeable fiend blurred by its motion. Oh, Vox could kiss Velvette right now. Instead he rewards himself by speeding up his jerking off.

“Interrupt my work day, Val, see what I do with these,” she taunts, waving around her spoils.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Val roars, though he doesn’t make any move to take her phone or stop her from leaving. “Fucking ungrateful, irritating cocktease!” As Velvette exits the studio, his shouting follows her down the corridor, all the way to the elevator. “You’re dead, princesa! FUCKING DEAD!”

She laughs as the elevator doors close.

Vox happily returns his attention to Val, who cannot distract himself forever by fussing at someone who’s not on the same level of the building anymore. The brief reprieve for his overworked pussy seems to have made things worse, reducing Val to a weeping mess as his surge of adrenaline wanes and he fights to get to the set bed before his knees give out beneath him. Honestly, Vox couldn’t have designed this better himself. The studio is the perfect place for Val to take repose as his own cock relentlessly wrecks him.

He drags a pillow to his face and bites it to muffle the sobbing moans that return with a vengeance now that Val is giving into the helpless state he’s found himself in. What a pretty picture he paints, a magnificent masterpiece of debauchery that makes Vox understand the appeal of the sloppy scenes Val shoots all day. They’d make millions if he wasn’t such a priss about losing control of his dick, because the Sistine Chapel itself couldn’t compare to the tableau Val presents on days like these.

Another orgasm wrenches a scream from Val’s throat, his limbs jerking and the wet spot beneath him on the bed spreading faster than his legs on any-damn-day of the week. Vox has to congratulate himself, as Val’s crying turns to borderline hyperventilating, on picking such delightful business partners. Nothing in Hell compares to this, nor could it come close. And it’s all for him. He knows Val is waiting for Vox to come fix his problem, as always, and it’s a heady power the demon would never consider allowing anyone else except for maybe Velvette- who wouldn’t have put Love Potion in Val’s Four Loko this morning, but might’ve been more sympathetic if she didn’t get off on her participation in Vox’s scheme.

“Vooox,” Val whimpers, hardly discernible through the pillow and its feathery bite wound. The allure of his name in that voice has Vox leaning forward in his chair and squeezing the base of his cock so he doesn’t come from the acknowledgement alone. “Vox…?”

He switches his main camera, a few feet away but in need of an adjustment he knows Val will catch the motion of, given the wanton way he looks at the sea of cameras around him. All it takes a small movement, a few inches to angle the lens higher, and Val lets out a defeated laugh.

“You, mmm, motherfucker,” he giggles, or perhaps sobs. Vox can see every tear to drip down Val’s face, but there’s a humorous bend to his tone like he reaches when he’s grasping at straws for any semblance of control. It typically takes him all day to break this far, but Vox did tip extra into his drink to empty the bottle, and he can’t find it in himself to fault Val for his own mistake. Not when it turns out this well, that is. “Better be coming to help me, or I’ll- I’ll-”

Vox zaps into his desk and reemerges from the camera he fixed. All the footage runs in the background of his processors, but he won’t complain about the chance to see Val up close. His screens, no matter how high definition, can't capture the scent of sweat, smoke, and cum permeating the air, or the sound of the silk sheets rasping against the waterproof cover beneath them.

“Aw, Val,” he teases, crackling with all the faux-sugar that normally falls under his partner’s purview. “You’ll what?”

Anything coherent disappears into Val’s crying. From the edge of the mattress, Vox can run his claw-tipped hands up Val’s strong thighs, nudging them further apart for a better look at his predicament. The skin on his cock is as pink and raw as his pussy by now from his fruitless attempts at shutting down his libido, as if he truly believed that a go at anyone else would be enough to stifle his need.

“You’re no better than the rest of your whores, poor thing,” Vox tuts. He sinks into the bed enough to nearly lose his balance when he climbs on, but quickly braces himself with one hand on Val’s ass and the other on his lower back, between his bottom set of shoulder blades. Faintly sparkling sweat sticks to him, a side effect of the potion. But the barest contact drives Val wild, bucking as if he’s not sure whether he wants the attention he’s been demanding or if even Vox’s comparatively innocent touch is beyond the pail. “I can’t wait to show you all the footage later. Don’t worry- I probably won’t release it.” He squeezes Val’s ass to make him shudder. “This is just for me, right, honey?”

Val nods, trembling like he might be close again. “One more, then…?”

He sounds so pathetic, so tired, that Vox might’ve felt bad for him if he wasn’t leaking through his slacks. “Dunno about that. Your cage’s down in my room, and, honestly,” Vox trails off, shifting to pin Val’s legs with his own to stop them from twitching shut, “you already shut down the studio, and I’m not marking today as a loss.”

He knows well enough that his fingers alone won’t be enough to coax Val’s dick out of place, but he still traces the swollen point of connection where it disappears into his cunt, constantly rolling and grinding with more mechanical precision than Vox’s best designed machines. The joke really is on whatever God stuck them down here: nothing could be more heavenly than this.

“Do you know how many times you’ve come today?” Vox asks. “I counted a round dozen, but I might’ve missed some.” He rocks his hips into Val, which is barely satisfying, but nonetheless triggers his cooling fans to top speed and wires a shock over his body. “What’s your single-day record, anyway? It’s higher than twenty, if I remember correctly.”

The implicit warning breaks through to Val. He shoves the pillow away and fights to prop himself up enough to tearfully beg, “Don’t, Papi, I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” With little more effort than swatting a fly, Vox summons his cables to encircle Val’s wrists and ankles, each pulled flat to the bed until the moth is spread out for him and unable to wiggle more than a couple inches in any direction. In the chaos, he runs a quick records search as well. “You did twenty-four, one on each hour, for a New Year’s special a couple decades back. But you’re not the record-holder.” Vox abandons him on the bed. “That would be your pet project, Angel Dust. Last Valentine’s Day, you got a round thirty out of him. We never released it, but I’ve got it all on camera in case we decide to.” He pats Val’s ankle affectionately. “You’re not letting that whore outdo you.”

“Vox.”

Pretending not to hear him, Vox finds Val’s director’s chair to drag over for a better view. Nothing changes in the moments his back is turned, but he can’t stand to miss a moment of the best show of Val’s career--especially not when he finds the seat of the chair still damp.

“Calm the fuck down,” Vox assures once he’s perched at the foot of the bed, studying Val like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case his cameras fail. “Like you said, you were made for this. Cry all you want, sweetheart. I’m not here to help you.”

Either Val is worked up to the point that words are enough to send him into yet another orgasm, or Vox’s timing was perfect to the instant. It’s a victory either way. As Val babbles into the sheets, his wings begin to flutter and struggle too with the inescapable stimulation. Vox can’t strip his suit away fast enough, probably should have stripped it off before he came, but the combination of his dizzying hard-on and the pure filth of Val laid out in front of him make the layers unbearably warm..

“Fuck, if you could see yourself, Val.” Vox can’t decide whether it’s better to finish himself off now, and last longer when he gets around to fucking Val later, or if he should draw each climax out to its highest potential before letting himself enjoy them. “I’ve been nice. I always come to help when you can’t get ahold of yourself.” Choppy wheezing is music to his ears. “I’ve earned a front row ticket here, don’t you think? Raise those hips a little.” When Val doesn’t so much as try to move, he uses the cables to rearrange him like a doll. “Let Daddy see. Don’t tell me you’re shy now; you look gorgeous.”

Val gags on the length of his useless, slimy tongue, and slurs unintelligibly. The change in angle is enough to let the searching tip of his cock probe that much deeper, wrenching a broken scream from his throat as he seems to come again, even if his shriveled balls are too empty to pump any more jizz out: another moment Vox bookmarks.

“There’s thirteen, baby. Just eighteen more to go.”

Something in Val breaks and he struggles with renewed vigor. For all the times Vox has encouraged his favorite little interruption, he’s never dosed out this much in one sitting, and as the air thickens with demonic power, he wonders if he may have pushed Val too far this time. Funny, considering Vox hasn’t even made him cum that many times yet; they have longer sessions than this before breakfast, some days.

“Vox, Papi, pleeease,” Val crows, pulling hard enough for one of his shoulders to dislocate with a bright pop. He’s a real mess. A flap of his wings generates enough wind to knock over a couple of cameras but still does nothing to save him, which is no one’s fault but his own, because it’s not technically Vox’s responsibility to help him cage his naughty tentacle of a cock. “Can’t do it. Help me, Vox, please.” He gulps for breath before rubbing his face into the blankets to wipe away snot and tears, sniveling, “Please, you have to.”

The safe move would be to wrap this up and defuse the rising tension in Val’s body, like it’s waiting to explode into something far deadlier, but Vox is used to riding the line of too close to the sun. “I don’t have to do jackshit. I do whatever the fuck I want: which, right now, is to watch you,” he sends a lovetap of a shock toward Val’s thigh, “break the Vee Tower orgasm record.”

Val’s responding screech echoes back off the studio walls. In a heartbeat, the bunching muscles of his back bulk and his slobbery tongue lengthens.

“Shit,” Vox mutters. He has moments before Val snaps through the cables like paper chains, quickly rescinding them to spare the extra sparks that are certain to incense the monster before him more. “Val, baby.” Racking his servers for the right words to talk Val down, he finds himself too overloaded to move. As Valentino morphs into his full demonic body, his dick never hesitates in its quest to mold its owners cunt to its exact shape, though the second phallus--one Vox somehow always forgets he has--growing from Val’s pelvis is easily occupied by one of Val’s expert handjobs.

Whatever biological process generates Val’s aphrodisiac fluids kicks into overdrive, causing his saliva to cascade down his chin and chest, while his slick coats his legs. An extra pair of arms stretches in tandem with the first two as Val’s form grows to dwarf the bed he previously spread out on. In his presence, all the air seems to thin, leaving nothing but the siren’s call of his pheromones, strong enough to make it through the precise filters of Vox’s systems.

“What’s the matter, amorcito?” His purr resonates through Vox’s chest and vibrates the walls of the building, while the subtle hums and trills he makes are finally loud enough to be heard without Vox cranking his audio sensitivity far higher than is reasonable. “You have a record to break.”

A panicked laugh echoes from Vox’s speakers, filling the room as easily as Val’s voice. “I was joking. You know, how we sometimes laugh at each other’s expense.”

“I get it now.”

Val’s arms shoot out to grab Vox before he knows what’s happening. It feels as if he teleported into Valentino’s embrace, face buried in his chest and still embarrassingly hard dick pressed against his second cock. Being this close puts the size into perspective; Vox couldn’t wrap both hands around it, let alone one, and its length makes him queasy, both attributes that set him against having it this close to him, let alone pressed against him, groin to ribs, like a threat.

“Let’s be reasonable, dear,” Vox says. Static cuts through his voice, his face, in a betrayal almost worse than his own behavior this morning. “It would rip me in half.”

That tongue, endless and curious as the dick squirming against Vox’s stomach, caresses his body and drenches him in rosy spit. Several errors pop up at once, but he still hears Val murmur, “You’ll get over it.”

“Val. Val, come on.” One of Val’s hands trails through the viscous fluid and smears it down to Vox’s ass. Slender fingers circle his hole, massaging the drool into it and relaxing the muscle with unnatural ease. Vox’s only coherent thought is that it must have a different chemical makeup than the standard stuff. “No. Val-”

Val forces two fingers in. It should hurt, but instead it shoves Vox’s protests from his mind as his body falls limp into Valentino, and he barely notices the hasty addition of a third finger. Though they both know Val is an expert at both prep and fingering for the hell of it, he’s sure the cursory glance against his prostate is an accident because the bastard won’t touch it again.

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because Val only spends a couple minutes perfunctorily working Vox open before his impatience wins out. Three of his hands--the fucker has too many--lift Vox to position him with the tip of Val’s massive cock kissing his woefully underprepared hole.

“Val,” Vox entreats in a final desperate attempt, flaring his brightness to its maximum as his eye begins to spin, “you’re not putting that in me.”

He doesn’t get a second of control. Val laughs at him, and begins to press Vox down. Although the tip is flared, it’s still painfully wide from the get-go, and reflex-tears spring up with the first quarter inch. He bluescreens at the half and comes to at the quarter. He’s barely on Val at all and swears he can feel it in his throat with how full he already is.

“Nnn- Not gonna fit,” he chokes.

“Does it hurt?” Val coos, not that he cares. “You’re plenty wet, Papi.”

Vox shakes his head. “No. But I’m fucking full, ‘s not fitting.” The fact that it should hurt doesn’t cross his conscious mind.

“Not with that attitude, it’s not.” A haze of smoke comes on Val’s next exhale, and another one of his endless hands tilts Vox’s screen up so it seeps into his ventilation system. Another wave of warmth, of need, rolls through him in response and he loosens up enough to drop further onto Val’s impossible cock, and feedback squeals at them both in response. “You’re goddamn lucky the other one’s too busy for you, Voxxy.” Fuck, Val’s voice seems to be coming from everywhere, darkly continuing, “or I’d stuff you so full, you’d be in Velvette’s workshop for a fucking month.”

If Vox’s speakers aren’t blown, they're at least broken, judging by the constant static whine as Val works him further onto his cock. When the ridge of the head finally pops in, Vox spasms as he blurts precum into Val’s abs “Fuck, fuck, too much.”

“Don’t be such a baby.” Clearly mocking or not, Val’s voice seems to soothe Vox’s panic as he absorbs more and more of his toxins. “You’re thinking too hard, amorcito.” One by one, Val’s supportive hands let go, leaving Vox at the far lesser mercy of gravity to impale him on his cock. Of course one finds its way back to Vox’s wrists, to prevent him from holding himself up as a defense, and the one holding his screen never moves, but Val achieves his goal of defeating any chance Vox has left of escape as his dick explores to the best of its ability inside him.

At the point Vox thinks another millimeter will cause a crash so hard it takes all of Hell out with him, Val’s body locks up again as he orgasms, no longer too empty to flood Vox with burning, intoxicating cum. There’s too much for him to hold. It presses ruthlessly against his prostate and makes his stomach cramp even as it spills out around Valentino like a fountain.

Vox’s finish pales in comparison, pathetically small when the fullness drags it out of him alongside a glitching moan, though several lights shatter overhead and a rogue shock momentarily freezes Val in place. His system panics and bluescreens once more to prevent a crash, but he boots back up quickly enough that Val is still whimpering his way through the aftershocks.

“O-okay,” Vox gets out, “that’s enough.”

But he’s still slowly sinking down on Val’s cock with no hope of escape when Valentino sighs, “But we’re only a third of the way there.” At least Val relinquishes his screen, but it’s to press against the bulge in Vox’s tummy with a gusto that makes him simultaneously spurt out a few more drops of cum and gag so hard he tastes bile. “See? Plenty of room, Papi.”

“It’s not- you can’t-”

Val suddenly moves, thrusting up to force himself deeper. “What was that?” Maybe it would be less overwhelming, to be stuffed so full, if Val’s cock wasn’t constantly moving like it’s mapping every square inch of Vox’s insides and will be tested on its findings later. He can’t catch his bearings long enough to have a coherent thought, let alone keep up a debate with Val. When he dares to look down, he can see the outline of it through his skin, rearranging his internal organs to make more room for itself. “Just a few more inches,” Val informs, like he’s not already pressing against parts of Vox that shouldn’t be reachable without dissection.

Vox tries to say no, but a jumble of technical sounds and error beeps come out instead and Val just keeps pushing. There has to be more of dick inside him than anything else, or so he supposes until Val seizes and comes again. At this point there’s nowhere for it to go besides down what’s left of his cock outside Vox's body. Val is too far gone to play the slow game and he continuously rabbits up into Vox, fucking him on two or three inches at a time with no regard for the consequences.

The deepest thrust yet cracks something in Vox’s spinal cord and he loses connection to his left leg, but a complaint is too high a demand for him to fulfill when all he can think about is Val, Val, Val, in and around him, an inescapable fact of reality now. Nothing else matters. Nothing else compares. The complicated mesh of brain matter and AI that makes Vox could be rewiring themselves to dedicate his existence to being Val’s cocksleeve and, at this moment, he couldn’t give less of a shit if his soul depended on it. He can’t understand how Valentino complains about a pleasure so all-consuming as this one.

As he’s questioning whether Val’s cock ever ends, or if it will keep coming until he bursts like an overfilled balloon, his ass meets the cradle of Val’s hips. “Not so bad is it?” Val simpers. Vox only manages to gurgle. His heart, his lungs, his everything feels flattened and pinned to allow for Val’s monstrous cock. Not only does it continuously rub against his prostate, but the sweeping arc of its movement alights sensitive spots Vox would have never known existed, otherwise. “Feels, ah, so fucking good, Voxxy. Other bitches die of shock before I get this far.”

Somehow that sentence worms its way into Vox’s consciousness like a compliment. No one else could handle Valentino in his full form, but Vox can, and he’s forgotten why he kicked up a fuss about allowing it now that he’s managed the impossible. To reward him, Val’s roaming hands are back. They stroke down his back, trace the bulge in his abdomen, tease his nipples, and work his oversensitive dick.

Val allows the independent movement of his cock to do the work rather than thrusting, which Vox has to remind himself comes from laziness and not any sort of care for the damage he’s capable of causing. Between their moans, the wet sound of Val’s cocks fucking them both fill the silence.

Then Valentino comes inside him a third time, and whatever happens next is lost to a system crash that knocks out the entire city for several hours.

Eventually, Vox wakes up on Velvette’s workshop table with his chest sliced open and her nimble little fingers nudging his ribs back into place. She must have turned off his pain sensors, but hadn’t gone to the trouble of washing the copious amounts of spend from his skin. Hardly any of his lower body was spared, and a flaky trail that starts on his screen, floods around his neck joint, and spills down his throat only ends a half-inch above Velvette’s incision.

She glances up at him when she sees his face appear but quickly returns to the task at hand. “Do not tell me how the hell this happened. I cleaned jizz out of places it should never be, Vox. Never.”

“I appreciate it, my dear,” he croaks. She hasn’t gotten to his voicebox yet. But when he wiggles his fingers and toes, they move without issue, which is an improvement over his last memory. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to put me back together; can you imagine Val trying to replace my liver?”

They share a laugh before Velvette reprimands him for moving while she’s working. “Trust me, you’ll want to leave the pain receptors off for a couple days, but don’t forget to take it easy. Val did a number on you this time.”

“Yeah, well.” Vox grumbles, “I told him it was a bad idea.”

She pushes the mechanism that replaces his diaphragm with more malice than necessary, drawing a neon blue bruise to its surface from the rough handling. “I can't fucking wait to watch the video on our next date night.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to tell you about it?”

Velvette leans down to press a kiss to his exposed sternum. “I want you to show me instead.”

A lesser man than Vox would be embarrassed, but he merely grins in anticipation of reliving the memory with his partners in the days to come.

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