#imagine the tension

[insanesonofabitch]

I’m a firm believer of the idea that the writers had to get Cas and Dean to stay away from each other as much as possible in season 9, especially after everything that happened before, during, and after their time in Purgatory—like Goodbye Stranger, for example—because if they stayed together, destiel would’ve already been canon.

So just imagine if Gadreel wasn’t a dick who was being used to keep them apart, and they let Cas stay inside the bunker. Cas is human, complete with fresh, new, and intensified human desires. Who’s also canonically in love with Dean, by the way. As for Dean, that motherfucker literally almost confessed in season 8. They wrote an entire subplot about Cas being brainwashed with the intention of breaking him out of it by having Dean confess his feelings towards him. By telling him he loves him.

Do you fucking see where this is headed towards?? THE natural progression of these events??? That the writers had set up and trapped themselves in?????

Human Cas safely staying in the bunker with Dean would’ve been such a perfect environment for more intimate moments between them. And they couldn’t risk that. Dean having to guide Cas through mundane, day-to-day human things he never had to deal with before literally sounds like the plot of a cheesy romantic series I’ve seen. Which makes me wonder about what the hell took place between the night Dean stayed with and took care of Cas after their fight against Ephraim, and the morning when he drove Cas back to work. That was one of the few moments in that season where they could be alone together. And also something that they chose to skip over.

[wikitpowers]

actually i think it would be adorable if bc of the isolation johnny put him in, kit didn’t know how to swim, bc then we could get a scene of ty trying to teach him one day and it would genuinely be the cutest thing ever <3

[jahanmp4]

I do agree with Etoiles that it's kind of sad if they won't be able to talk to the other islanders in the meantime but that means MORE PINING I kind of love it

[neiptune]

thoughts are currently being thought about mikage reo do not look at me do not perceive me

[general-dweebous]

How I want to be with Miguel O’Hara. Also imagine this but looking up at that like 6’9” man.

[mischievous-thunder]

Sometimes the dialogues are the same but the roles are reversed in different universes

Flirt like Wade and Logan flirt across the multiverse

[viriv]

The Knight and The Dragon

[psychronia]

I've been rewatching Avatar: The Last Airbender because why not and I'm losing my mind at Zuko's proper introduction. I don't know if it's hindsight, shifting characterizations, or just me not watching this in a long time, but this was amazing.

We start off showing he's an impatient and very angry kid. Reasonable, and the sort of flaw we might expect to see in a villain. Kinda funny that he expects to go up against an adult and fully 4-Element realized Avatar, but the kid is desperate and Iroh clearly expects his nephew to get the banishment-denial kicked out of him.

What's important here, though, is Zuko's introduction to the Southern Water Tribe.

Here, we have a very intimidating entrance where his entire ship just sails through the ice right up to the village's front door. It's quite ominous and this is our first proper introduction to how the Fire Nation interacts with a foreign people.

Sokka charges, I'm assuming fully prepared to die, and Zuko casually knocks him out of the way. Okay, so clearly the Water Tribe are entirely outgunned.

He asks "Where are you hiding him?" and the people of the Water Tribe go silent. I assume they're either just too scared to talk or actually protecting Aang.

Whatever the case, it's important to note that the Southern Water Tribe know the terror the Fire Nation can inflict. We have a whole episode dedicated to tracking down a division of raiders. Sokka was able to not only identify the ash-mixed snow as signs of an incoming attack, but estimate how many ships the amount of ash measures to. These are a people who have experience being terrorized and are probably expecting something terrible to happen.

And then, after they don't answer, Zuko grabs Gran-Gran. There was a horror sting to it, and everything the tribe knows about the Fire Nation suggests that Zuko is about to threaten or straight up hurt her to get answers. Classic "terrorize the elderly" bad guy stuff.

And then...

He goes "He's (the Avatar) be about this age and is a master of all four elements!?" and lets her go.

And all of a sudden, the tension that was built up is shattered as Zuko went "I know, I'll give them a reference for the person I'm looking for because clearly they're confused and I wasn't specific enough."

This went from a show of villainy to a show of Zuko being totally socially awkward and misreading the situation entirely. Not helping is that when he does try to menace them a moment later, his fire is slow and angled quite safely.

It still worked on the Water Tribe because they're understandably scared, but all I could think of is that this was the equivalent of a playground bully trying to make someone flinch with that fake-out lunge thing.

Because the fact-and something we'll come to learn-is that Zuko is TERRIBLE at being a Fire Nation oppressor. He's capable of doing morally dubious things and is a competent fighter. But he's lousy at terrorizing people and cruelty-that's kind of the point of his banishment.

And while we can see the story paint this picture of Zuko's true character as the story goes on with hints of good and conflicting loyalties, here we get to see just how bad he is at being "the bad guys". He's still unambiguously being the villain of this scene, and it makes no real difference to the oppressed themselves, but there is a comical gap between where Zuko thinks he is, where he actually is, and somehow it still puts him on the same page as his victims just because of how terrible the Fire Nation's influence is on everyone involved.

[happy74827]

A New Moon

[Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Despite his gut telling him he shouldn’t, Dexter can’t help but fall deeper into the trap of his own emotions. And the more time he spends with you, the more he starts to realize what exactly those emotions are. {GIF Creds: beautifulguycollector}

WC: 2889

Category: Slight Lime/Spice, Friends to Lovers + Forbidden Love (if you squint) Tropes

Gotta keep this fandom alive somehow 🥲 (also… why are titles so hard to write? That and the synopsis are harder to write than the actual fic)

『••✎••』

You were too good for him. Plain and simple. You were a smart, beautiful, hard-working woman who had goals and dreams. He was a cold-blooded killer. Not to say that he hadn't been there for you, though. The two of you had been friends since… well, a while. A long while.

He couldn't quite pinpoint the moment he started to notice the changes in your relationship. It was a slow, subtle buildup, and the first time you called him your friend, Dexter thought nothing of it. The second time, it made him pause, but not enough for him to consider what the implications of you saying that to him could mean.

But when you said it again and again and again, he realized the meaning behind your words, the affection they held. Dexter couldn't say that he was particularly close to many people. There were a select few he'd consider his friends, but he wasn’t emotionally invested in any of them. And he didn't think he was invested in you, either.

But maybe he was.

Debs was different, and it made him question how much he was supposed to care about someone. But that was his sister, the one person in the world who loved him unconditionally. That reason alone made his relationship with Deb unique. He was sure of that.

The same went with Brian—his brother, as it turned out. And Harrison, his son. Dexter felt things for those people, but they were different. Those were family, the people he was genetically tied to. Of course, he would care about them.

But you weren't family, and yet he still cared about you. It was a different kind of caring. And it was confusing. Dexter had convinced himself for years that he was a high-functioning sociopath, but lately…

Lately, he was beginning to question if that was true. Simple glances from you could bring an unwelcome smile to his lips. And when he heard the sound of your voice, he could feel his chest getting warm. It was a nice feeling, something he'd only experienced briefly with Rita, but then, that relationship was different too.

It was hard to put his finger on it, but being with you was just… easy. And it didn't feel like work. There was no pretending. Dexter didn't have to act when he was around you. He didn't need to try to be someone he wasn't. It was the real him.

It was terrifying.

Because now, as he sat on your couch, watching as you moved gracefully around your small apartment, the feeling was back, and he didn't know how to deal with it.

He should have been home with Harrison, but the little boy was staying over at Debra’s tonight, so he didn't have any responsibilities. The passenger within him didn’t see it as a problem either, considering he’d just recently “disposed" his latest target.

It was nice, Dexter decided, to relax every once in a while. Work and family didn't give him a lot of opportunities to do so, and now that the two were temporarily taken care of, he felt he deserved to be lazy for a bit.

You didn’t have a TV in your living room, so the two of you settled for movies. Dexter didn’t really have a preference for them. He could watch a comedy, action, drama, or horror and not feel strongly for or against any of them.

Apparently, you didn't mind what he watched either because he could see the spark of excitement in your eyes when you pulled out the case for one of the worst comedy films Dexter had ever seen.

He'd seen it before. Not with you, one of the movies Vince shoved down his throat when he planned a night out with him, Angel, and Quinn.

It wasn't his favorite, not by a long shot, but the grin on your face and the way you eagerly skipped to the DVD player, set the disk inside, and closed the hatch made him bite his tongue.

Dexter had learned a long time ago that you were a very expressive person. And even though most of the time your feelings weren't displayed on your face, your eyes told another story. Such opposites to his own, Dexter often found himself fascinated by the light they held.

You had a passion for life that was rare, and it drew him in. It was a quality he lacked, and he could see it in everything you did. Whether it was talking about the newest book you read or making coffee, you put all of yourself into your actions.

It was something that Dexter had never understood. How could you have such a strong sense of self? Didn't it get tiring, having to live up to a standard of being so… so good?

But then again, you'd always been better than him. He might’ve been smarter in some regards, but what was intelligence if it didn't come from a place of morality? You were better, purer than him. He knew it, and everyone else did, too, even if they weren’t aware of how pure he wasn’t

That's why this was so wrong. This thing that had been going on for the past couple of months between the two of you. The subtle touches, the longing stares, the late-night calls. It was all wrong.

You were similar to Rita in some ways. You were kind and compassionate, always looking for the good in others. You had a knack for taking care of people, whether they needed it or not.

Dexter could tell that was your nature, and it was one of the things that initially attracted him to you. All the things he lacked, you had. But that didn't mean that you could replace Rita. He didn’t want you to.

And that was the difference. While he may have found qualities in you that resembled the ones he'd found in Rita, you were not her. Rita was gone, and it was his fault. She didn’t deserve to die, and yet she did. She deserved to grow old, to see Harrison grow up.

She deserved better.

The same went for you. You didn’t deserve a monster like him. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that he should stay away. It was for the best of both of you.

And yet he was here. On your couch, watching a shitty movie and drinking the beer you'd offered him. Because, despite his efforts, he couldn't keep his distance from you.

He should've known. When it came to you, Dexter didn't have a choice.

His gaze drifted over to your form as you sat down beside him. You were smiling, your eyes bright and focused on the television. A lock of hair fell across your face, and you pushed it back, the sleeve of your hoodie falling down slightly.

Dexter had never been so tempted to reach out and touch someone in his life.

It was a feeling that had been creeping up on him the last few weeks, and now, sitting with you, watching a bad movie, it was at an all-time high. He'd never craved intimacy. But there was something about you, a pull that he couldn't deny.

It gave him a sick feeling in his stomach. Reminded him of that need with Lila. God, Lila. What a mess that had turned out to be. Another thing to add to his growing list of mistakes.

And yet, the longer he stared, the more he found himself leaning forward. He didn’t register what he was doing until his lips were a hair width away from yours.

You froze but didn't move away. The only indication that you were startled was the widening of your eyes. They bored into his, unflinching. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He was scared. Scared? Yes. That was what he was feeling. Why? He didn't know. Fear was new. It was a feeling reserved for Deb and sometimes his son, but even then, it was different.

But as Dexter gazed at you, so close and so beautiful, the fear melted away. It was replaced by a warmth that he was quickly becoming familiar with. It made his body thrum and his blood rush. It made him feel alive.

You were the first one to make a move. Well, not really a move, just the smallest shift forward, and then you were breathing the same air as him. You weren't kissing. You were just… waiting. Waiting for him to make the final move.

It was like an unspoken rule between the two of you, the power dynamic. He was the dominant one, and you were the submissive. You had never fought against it. You were a people pleaser, and he knew that.

It was one of the reasons he knew this was wrong. Because he couldn't stop, and you would never ask him to. Even now, as he hesitated, you waited patiently. You trusted him.

Why did you have to trust him? Why couldn't you be more selfish, more like him?

But deep down, Dexter knew that it wasn't your nature. You couldn't change, not any more than he could.

So, after another agonizing second, he closed the distance between you.

It was gentle, the way his lips pressed against yours. A stark contrast to the usual forcefulness he applied when taking his victims. No, with you, he was careful. Almost timid.

Your lips were soft and smooth, and the kiss was sweet. Nothing more than a simple caress. Dexter didn’t expect the tingling sensation it would cause, but the slight brush of your mouth sent shivers down his spine.

The kiss was short and chaste, but it was enough to leave him feeling dizzy. The heat spread through him, from the tips of his toes all the way to his cheeks.

Dexter pulled back, and you stared at him. His breath hitched in his throat at the look in your eyes. There was something there, something that mirrored his own emotions.

Was it possible? Was he really capable of such intense emotion?

Maybe he was.

You didn’t move. It was like time had stopped, and the only sound that could be heard was his own uneven breathing. That, and the movie playing in the background, which was forgotten as soon as your lips touched.

The urge to reach out and grab you was there. He could feel the need deep in his bones, in his soul. But instead, Dexter sat, staring. Staring into the eyes of the woman who had somehow managed to break down all the walls he'd spent his life building.

You didn't speak. There was nothing to say. No words could describe the feelings that had surfaced between the two of you. So, instead, you smiled. A simple, beautiful smile that had him feeling weak.

He could have stayed there forever, just looking at you, taking in the beauty that was you. It was a new experience for him, and it was nice.

“Debra is going to be pissed," you finally said, breaking the silence. “I’ll be bullied into telling her every detail."

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then, his lips curled up in amusement. It was true. Eventually, she’ll figure it out. Maybe she already knew but was waiting for confirmation. Debra was good at figuring out things, even if it wasn’t the most obvious answer.

His sister was good at a lot of things, like being a detective. And, apparently, being an interfering matchmaking nuisance.

At least she wouldn’t call you the things she called Lila.

The thought made him chuckle, and you looked at him in confusion, but it would have to stay a mystery to you. For what was life without a few private jokes between siblings, right?

You didn’t press for answers, though. You did what you’ve always done and waited for him—waited for him as if it was his turn in Chess.

And he did the only thing he could think to do. He kissed you again. And again. And again. And again. Until he had you pinned beneath him, your arms around his neck, and your breath coming out in heavy gasps.

The kisses were still innocent, just as you were. But he could feel the passion behind them, the hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that. It had been a long, long time.

But the longer he kissed you, the more the heat grew, and soon, he was lost in the sensation. Your hands found their way into his hair, and you tugged at the strands. His heart was racing, and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears.

It was exhilarating.

Your lips parted, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and the innocence was gone. Replaced by a desire that left him trembling. The feeling of your tongue against his, the taste of you on his lips, the smell of your shampoo mixed with your unique scent—it was all intoxicating.

The movie continued to play in the background, forgotten as you pulled him closer. The warmth in his chest intensified, and Dexter didn't fight it. Instead, he embraced it. He gave in to his emotions and let himself feel.

He didn’t go too far; he knew you weren't ready for that yet. The craving was there, and it was strong, but the moment wasn’t right. Instead, he satisfied himself by touching your skin, mapping out every inch of it, memorizing the way it felt under his fingertips.

And, when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, he held onto you, refusing to let go. His eyes searched yours, searching for something. Anything. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but whatever it was, he didn’t find it.

He mostly saw fear, anger, and some regret when he had them pinned down beneath him. Of course, that was usually the case with his victims. Fear, anger, and regret were normal emotions—a reaction to being trapped by their own demise.

Having someone look up at him with emotions on the other side of the spectrum was different. Not a bad different, just... different.

Rita had been the first to look at him like that. Lumen did, too, once upon a time. And Lila, well, her emotions were never consistent.

But you? You looked up at him with an expression that was all too familiar and yet not quite the same. Your eyes were full of affection and desire, yes. But they were also filled with something else. Something he couldn't place.

Something he couldn’t understand.

"Dex,” your voice was so soft, a whisper. He almost didn’t hear it, and yet, he felt it. He felt the way his name rolled off your tongue, and it was like music to his ears.

"Yeah?" he whispered back. He didn’t know why he did that; it wasn't like the two of you were speaking in a library or something. Maybe it was the way the light danced in your eyes, the way the colors reflected off the white walls, casting an ethereal glow.

"I didn’t expect you to be… like this," you murmured. You ran a finger over his cheek, down to his jawline. He swallowed thickly. He could feel his pulse quicken.

"Like what?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Not bad," you replied. Your lips curved up, and his eyes were drawn to them. They were red and swollen from kissing, and it was such a contrast to the pale skin of your face.

"You think I'm not bad?" he said, raising his brows. "I'm flattered."

You shook your head. "You know what I mean," you said. "I just meant that you're different than how you come off. I didn’t think you'd be so... bold.”

He snorted.

Bold.

If you only knew.

"I guess I'm full of surprises," he said, smirking. You rolled your eyes and punched him lightly in the shoulder, only for him to catch it and press a kiss to the back of your hand. It was something he picked up from a movie once, and it seemed to be a pretty romantic gesture. And by the look on your face, it seemed to be appreciated.

You didn't say anything else. You didn't have to. There was nothing else to say. The two of you simply enjoyed each other's company, content to just be together. The movie might've been a failure, but the night wasn’t.

And when Dexter finally left, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. Not the type of relief he felt after a successful kill, but the type of relief one feels after a burden is lifted off their shoulders. The type of relief one gets when they are finally honest with themselves.

Rita was gone. Lumen was gone. And although his guilt and shame were still there, his self-loathing and fear were slowly starting to fade away. It wasn't gone, it was never going to be, but it was a start.

A fresh start.

A new beginning.

A new moon.

Yes, tonight was the night that changed everything. Tonight, Dexter Morgan learned that maybe he was more than the monster he thought he was.

[eggsdrawings]

side eye

[beneathashadytree]

LOVE YOU TO DEATH - SYLUS QIN X READER

Warnings : slightly suggestive, making out, alcohol consumption, allusions to “sinning”/religious imagery, reader is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns!

Genre : domestic fluff with lots of tension!

Word count : 4.5K words (oops…)

Additional notes : This has been a seriously long time coming🙏🏽 It was a commission made by a friend here on Tumblr, based off Type O-Negative’s song “Love You to Death”, and may or may not have gotten carried away with it (hence the delay and the absurd word count😭). Hope you like it!! And let me know what you think of this guys🫶🏽

Commissions are open!

Tip jar

Masterlist

“Madame!”

The frantic call came from behind her, and with a practiced turn, she faced the red-faced man who’d been running up to her. Keeping her facial expression as placid as possible wasn’t as easy as she was trying to convince herself it was—and especially not after having spent 3 hours in a bedazzled ballroom, head splintering already from the wine and the rapid-fire conversations she’d had to entertain—but she somehow managed it. Coolly, she arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

And though she eyed him with no disdain, her indifference was intimidating enough to force the man to swallow thickly and shift in his place. A flush had settled on his face, fueling her amusement as he took a hesitant step forward. “I… you said you were waiting for something. If… if you don’t mind, would you, well, care for a dance?”

Poor thing. He probably had no idea. She felt a little sympathetic, but her resolve was still hardened. After all, she was well aware that the only possible reason he’d deemed her fitting to approach in the first place was the fact that she was inarguably the most powerful person in the room. This was only mere exploitation, not actual admiration. His hesitation could be chalked up to intimidation. “Thank you, but I’ve got an escort.”

“But, please, you were talking about the firearms deal—!”

A rich chuckle resounded in her ear, followed by the soft smack of lips against her cheek in a kiss. Fond as that gesture was, the upwards flicker of crimson eyes was no less sharp as his gaze became directed at the overly-ambitious upstart. “I see you’re feeling rather bold tonight, Richter. Directly going for such business talks when asking for someone’s hand… a rookie mistake.” Punctuated by the hand settled on her waist, stroking over the silk, it was made more than apparent who her ‘escort’ was.

The young man’s face paled, and she couldn’t deny the twinge of enjoyment she felt as she played along with Sylus. “Indeed. Anyone else would be put off by such open exploitation.”

“But you’re not anyone, are you? I’d even say you like it when I bring up these things,” he quipped back, bringing her in closer by the waist and tucking her against him, before turning to the wide-eyed, speechless man whose trembling seemed to amuse him even more. “We’ll be off now. Be more careful next time.”

And though he said nothing more, it was clear that Sylus’ warning wasn’t just about being tactless. It was a reminder that the most poised, fanged woman in the room stood by his side, and no one else. The only secrets she’d divulge would be to him, in the confines of their own bedroom, and Richter would do well to remember it. Next time—if there ever were to be one—he’d make sure to remember it, or else he wouldn’t be as lenient.

Arm in arm, they left the stuffy ballroom together, and as soon as they were out in the open air, she heaved a sigh in relief. “Gods, I was about to suffocate. Everyone was going on and on about that deal.” Rolling her eyes, she stopped on the sidewalk to slip out of her heels, stretching her toes as they settled against the gravel. “Approached by ten different people, no less, all trying to butt in and include themselves to ensure some profit or the other.”

Within a second, Sylus had already kneeled down to take her heels, carefully twisting her ankle this way and that to try and soothe the ache of the long evening. She sighed again, and his gaze was hard as he looked up at hers. “You shouldn’t have let them bother you. You’ve got enough influence to prohibit them from ever mentioning it in front of you. And I wouldn’t mind exacting punishments in your stead.”

“A privilege I won’t be using any time soon, thank you very much.” With her heels in one hand, he began to steer her by her back with another. Frowning, she looked away from where she’d initially set her sights. “You didn’t let Luke and Kieran bring the bike around tonight for us to go on a joyride after?”

Sylus gave her a pointed look, slightly exasperated but still dyed in fondness. “Given the dress you’re wearing, I’d have to be particularly stupid to force you to hike it up to your hips to ride on. It would’ve been an entirely different thing if you’d worn one of your velvet suits, though.” Maybe he hadn’t noticed it, but his hand on her back was leaving fluttering touches and strokes over the small of her back, right where the fabric started. And maybe that was his little give-away that he enjoyed seeing every inch of exposed skin with that dangerously low-cut back.

It wasn’t long before they were sliding back into their respective seats in his sleek car. The fresh smell of new leather, cooled wine in the compartment, and something a little heady—a little him—made her grow dizzier with each second. Barely a few minutes had passed with her legs crossed when his own rough palm slipped through the slit of the dress and between her knees, gently prying them apart and gliding over the soft skin, before settling on her thigh right underneath the lace edge.

And though he’d done nothing else at all, save flicker his eyes back to her in the rear view mirror and quirk the corner of his lips upwards, squeezing her thigh before turning his attention back to the road, she felt like he’d bared a fraction of his mountain of carefully-hidden desires. And that was one mountain she knew only she had the ability to watch tremble and shake. Perhaps that was another privilege she had, standing by his side.

***

Sylus’ hands on her feet felt like a small piece of heaven made perfectly with her tired self in mind. After he’d carried her out of the car like she’d weighed nothing with her heels dangling from two of his fingers, he’d let her unlock the door with her fingerprint and quickly settled her into the couch without so much as a grunt. And soon his deft fingers were kneading at her soles, earning a hiss or two here and there that let him know he was definitely doing the right thing.

“I take it you failed to break into these new shoes,” he chuckled, shaking his head as he felt out another small knot that had been killing her the entire evening.

Groaning, she clutched at his wrist, the sudden pain sharp and unyielding. “Wasn’t exactly my priority, with so much going on. I was more preoccupied by the fact that Denise fucked up in the middle of the information chain. Had me cleaning up after her.” Despite her twitching, he went on massaging their tendons and muscles, until the frown on her face slowly morphed into a relaxed expression.

“Why do I have to keep telling you not to concern yourself with what’s beneath you?” Again, he sighed, as though it truly pained him to hear her putting herself through this, and then went on to reverently stroke at her calves, gently lifting her legs up for a second so he can take a seat in her place. “You shouldn’t have to do the dirty work. We’ve got lackeys for that.”

“You say that, but you’re really just pushing more work onto Luke and Kieran,” she scoffed, flicking his fingers away, instead pushing forward and draping herself across his lap, the slit on the side of the dress revealing more of her thigh as she did. A not-so-small part of her absolutely reveled in the way his eyes tracked her every movement, following the fabric as it slipped away and darkening with every inch of soft skin it exposed to his gaze. “And besides, I kind of like letting everyone know that I’m aware of everything going on, now and then.”

“An ego trip then?” Sylus teased, before bumping his nose with hers, hungrily taking in the catch in her breath. “Mm. Well, it’s a highly deserved one, sweetie.”

With her heart hammering in her chest, it was a wonder she could even come up with any sort of reply, let alone one with her whole heart and snark in it. “Flatterer,” she breathed out, eyes betraying her to glance at his lips, perfectly curled and awaiting her every beck and call. If she wanted to regain her senses any time soon and not completely surrender to the gaping maw of his desires, she had to pull back for a second.

And that she did, though her entire being protested to it. No disappointment marred his features; in fact, if she could call it that, she could detect a glimpse of deeper yearning burning behind his ruby eyes. “You know I don’t. Flatter, I mean. You’re just that good.” His words were double-edged. Her power in the position she held was undeniable, but neither was the fact that he never needed to win her favor to have her feelings in his palm.

It’s just that Sylus always did like the chase, more so than the ever-so-pleasant rewards he reaped afterwards. Part of him always urged her to let him earn her affection, and the wickedness within her wanted to see him grovel for it, just a little. And with how utterly infatuated he was—if those all-consuming eyes of his were anything to go by, in their blazing glory and darkened depths—he’d have no qualms with that. If he truly didn’t like going down on his knees for her, then why did he look so sinfully good doing it?

And why was that image of him imprinted in her mind, playing in an endless loop, tempting her to indulge more and more in his attentions?

Still at what she felt was a safe distance so as not to get devoured by him, she gently patted his cheek, her thumb stroking in rhythm with his own fingers wandering to caress her waist ever-so-tenderly. “Then, why not reward me for my proficient skills?” she coyly asked, nodding her head slightly to the rack so conveniently placed beside them.

“Isn’t it too late for that, sweetie?” he asked, though his arm was already reaching over to the assortment of wines he’d so carefully picked out and left to cool in their chilled compartments. Though Sylus had never said it outright, it was no secret to anyone around that he was a wine connoisseur of his own right. The fact that his darling only wished to indulge in the sweet, sweet aftertaste of ludicrously expensive alcohol with him only made him more eager to have it ready at hand—particularly for moments like these, when the sultry look in her eyes paired with her fluttering touch drove him half to insanity.

It wasn’t so absurd to say that he would do anything to keep her so pliantly perched on his lap, every bit as demanding of his attention as he was willing to give her all of him. And the saccharine smile that grew on her face as he reluctantly pulled away from her waist to uncork the bottle was proof that she knew just how desperate he was for her hands all over him and her eyes solely focused on him.

Expertly, he began to pull out the decanter, only to be stopped by her fingers snaking around his wrist, tugging it back. “Not feeling very patient. I’d rather not wait for it to be aerated.”

He chuckled—a deep, pleasant sound straight from the depths of his chest—clearly pleased by her brazenness. “Straight from the bottle and to the glasses it is. I like it when you demand what you want.” Maybe a few years ago, she would’ve flushed deeply at the manner in which she put herself on the line. But with him, she knew that there was no line, and there was no ‘out there.’ For he was a part of her, nestled between her breasts and buried deep inside her, dormant and yet so awake.

Hadn’t they both willed it to come this far? Hadn’t they both wished to be so entwined that all possible lines blurred and faded? And wasn’t this complete and utter surrender to one another only natural after such implicit involvement with each other? She didn’t mind it one bit, if it meant that he was as much as hers as she was his in every meaning of the word. Perhaps that’s why the prospect of being so bare in front of him wasn’t at all daunting. In fact, part of it even felt somewhat exhilarating.

“You make it a habit to bring out my most selfish traits,” she breathed out a semblance of a laugh, watching as he pulled out the two most luxurious crystal glasses he owned, reserved only for their late night wine-entrenched conversations. “I suppose you’ll have to do as I say then, to make up for ruining me like that.” Her voice dipped into a low purr, and she grinned at the flush that colored the tips of his ears, despite how focused he seemed on the task at hand. Like clockwork; like it was some sort of muscle memory he’d acquired over the years he’d spent enamored by her and the words spelled out by her tongue and coated in an almost-innocent tipsiness.

“I’m already bartending for you now. But you can have three more wishes before the night’s done,” Sylus lazily said, stoppering the bottle once again as the sweet scent of his favorite Merlot enveloped her senses; a scent dipped in promises and secret whispers of devotion.

Part of her wondered when she’d started finding drinking so enjoyable, particularly when with him. She couldn’t really think of a specific point in time when his lavish lifestyle had started imprinting itself on her, but somewhere down the line she’d begun to wait for quiet nights of winding down like this. Wrapped up in his embrace, her body heating up with every single one of his achingly tender caresses, both with his practiced fingers and his gaze full of intent… more often than not she ended up sprawled all over him, clothes in various states of disarray as he ravished her—heart, body, and soul.

Leaning further into him and hooking her leg around his waist, the fabric of her dress completely exposed her leg hip-down. She pretended not to notice how he faltered in his actions, momentarily distracted by her as he always was. After all this time, it still left a pleasantly bubbling feeling in her chest to see him react that way to her; like he was being bewitched by her silhouette for the very first time. Laughing, she asked, “And will that power over you vanish at midnight too?”

“It depends on whether or not you play your cards right,” Sylus simply said, after having topped off their wine almost right to the brim, splurging over her just like he always did.

He knew all too well that she could manage him just as expertly as she handled every extravagant ballroom, every meeting hidden in the shadows, and every viciously-worded deal. There were no wrong cards in her deck.

Remorse was something she should’ve been feeling at least a twinge of; engaging in Sylus’ hedonistic lifestyle wasn’t something she’d have been proud to admit a while back. But then again, everything was a whirlwind of passion and earnest intensity when it came to him. Getting caught up in the eye of the storm was no surprise. And when the storm had eyes that twinkled over twin glasses of red wine that matched it, and a smile so wicked and yet so unbeguiling as she was handed one to sip from, then there was nothing to stop her from hurtling towards the edge and accepting the devil’s hand.

Maybe she’d have to beg for heavenly forgiveness for indulging in all her vices, unabashedly. But Sylus had far too much to atone for, and if she knew anything about him, it was that he’d much rather get on his knees to please her than to plead for mercy from divine powers. And though he wasn’t below her at the moment, looking up with lascivious want, he made sure that his palm drawing shapes at the small of her back let her know just exactly how much he craved the closeness of her body.

She carefully sipped on the wine, savoring its tang and sharpness paired with its sweet warmth in the way she’d grown to enjoy, all without breaking eye contact with him. It was a calculated move; almost devious of her to do that when she knew that no matter how much he feigned being collected in front of her, it was no more than a front—one that quickly collapsed after she pulled the glass away and daring to lick drops of Merlot off her lip for a few more seconds.

She could practically feel him groan before she could hear it, and she wickedly flashed him her canines, intently pressing the inside of her thighs against his hip, soft flesh flush against his suit pants, the fabric between them not stopping him from feeling every inch of her. Still, her movements were languid and relaxed. It couldn’t have been the wine; she’d barely had a few sips, not even half the glass, and her drinking habits in public weren’t known for being excessive. But perhaps she was drunk on him and on this moment, and she could feel her body easing into that relaxed state that only he’d ever witness her in.

To the entirety of the N109 Zone, she was unmatched in power, with or without Sylus by her side. To be able to command a room with so much refined and perfected grace, she’d have to have already long demanded respect with her presence alone. But in his arms, playfully peering into his eyes and watching how they roved over every inch of her, and how his Adam's apple bobbed with his thick swallow, she was just a lover who’d stripped away all her inhibitions—and his. A lover he was clearly too entranced by to properly function, if the slight tremor that shook his hand and spilt a few drops of wine onto his throat was anything to go by.

And gods, just seeing the rouge staining his skin and slowly trickling down to his clavicles was enough temptation to drive her insane. Impulsively, she placed a hand on the broad planes of his chest, leaning in so close that she couldn’t escape the scent of his cologne and slight musk. Her tongue darted out, licking a stripe up his neck, and earning a sharp hiss of their name. “Spilled some wine,” she mumbled into his skin, as though that were enough of an explanation, lips sucking a deep red mark onto him. Tensing underneath her, his own hand instinctively dug deeper into her back, pressing them even closer together.

“Minx,” his deep voice rumbled, all out of sorts as though she’d sent him in a daze. Some pride swelled within her as she pulled back a bit to admire her own work of art, the soft skin marred by her stark claim on him. His silver hair had gotten mussed along the way, strands falling in front of his hooded, lust-addled eyes. Even if he hadn’t said it out loud, it was clear that she’d turned him to putty with just one kiss to his neck. With a smirk, she slowly took his half-empty glass of wine and set it on the coffee table beside the couch.

How many times had Sylus regarded her with this much unadulterated want, like if she disappeared for a moment he’d grow mad? She couldn’t count on one hand; couldn’t even begin to recall the first time he’d tied himself down to her. But there was something so dizzyingly satisfying about having such an intimidating man submit to her in every way. Something about the way his hand traced up a path to her shoulder blades, barely covered by the almost-backless fabric of the dress, and his eyes consumed her whole, wine-stained lips curled in a lovesick smile… something about him almost made her delirious.

“You’re the messy drinker,” she shrugged, feigning innocence as she hooked an arm around his neck and toyed with the silken hair at his nape, delighting in the way his eyes momentarily fluttered shut at the contact. “Can’t blame me for taking the chance.”

He inhaled sharply, then let out a breathy laugh as his now-free hand settled on her waist, perching her right on top of him and completely disregarding just how dangerously close he was to completely baring her with that open slit of the dress. “Though I disagree on that slight to my character, at least now you can’t blame me either when I take my chances.”

And then Sylus was kissing her, all softened lips and cherry-flavored lip balm showered in the headiness of well-warmed wine. His hands soothed her aching muscles and yet kindled fire to life underneath her dewy skin, while his tongue caressed hers like a lover’s touch after a long absence. He kissed her like he’d missed her; like he’d been wanting this for too long that he’d nearly forgotten how to breathe properly without her lips on his, and without her wet moans.

He swallowed her every sound like he possessed it—and her, with the greediness of a sun threatening to burn her world whole. But all he ever really was was the all-encompassing night, his shadows curled around hers and his reverent touch bathed in moonlight streaming through half-drawn curtains. Adoration seeped even through his sighs and soft-spoken mutters between stolen breaths, and she wondered if sin should taste as pure as it did from his mouth.

Her hand reached up and her fingers dug into his hair, seeking purchase to ground herself and try to regain an ounce of sanity. An impossible feat that was, especially when his hand had dipped to lightly finger her spine and elicit shivers from the depths of her, while his lips ravished her. Daringly, she nipped at his bottom lip, slightly raising herself off his lap for a moment as she relished in the shaky curse that left him. And with a swift tug, he pulled her back down flush against him, the carnal passion in his eyes completely drowning out his irises.

Not for long though, as the sudden jerk had caused a sloshing sound, and they were both made aware of the fact that it had slipped her mind to set aside her now-empty glass of wine. Whatever was left of it now stained Sylus’ shirt with rose splatters, the wet fabric sticking even more taut against his skin. The glass had already come precariously close to slipping from between her fingertips, with the way he’d distracted her from reality and all common sense with his wicked mouth—but now, he was positively drenched, and somehow, miraculously, without even an annoyed pinch between his eyebrows as he set her glass down.

Perhaps it was because he knew he was to blame for her spiraling in a haze.

Failing to hold back a chortle, she tried (to no avail, of course) to pat at his shirt with a tissue from the coffee table. “If it’s any consolation, pink suits you too,” she managed to make out between peals of laughter. “Though we could’ve bought a rose shirt instead. Less of a hassle, y’know. Infinitely easier to clean.”

Shaking his head as he snickered, Sylus extracted her hands off him, tissue and all, and she climbed off his lap so that he could move freely. “And make your life less interesting? Now, where’s the fun in that, sweetie?” He was quick to shuck off his clothes, throwing them off on the arm rest and running a hand through his hair.

Flushed and disheveled, with kiss-swollen lips and a dampened chest and neck, he looked like the epitome of godless and lawless beauty. No heaven would take him when he lived like he did, but he was a small piece of debauched heaven she stowed away for herself. And having him shirtless like this while she stood above him with shaky legs and warmth trickling through her blood like thick molasses was going to be the death of her.

“You’re getting drunk.” He didn’t ask it, merely stated it as an observation. It didn’t take her long to ponder it, and then she nodded, earning a huff of a laugh from him. He stood up, readjusting the waistband of his pants and gently picking her up in a clumsier carry than earlier. Her dress creased in his grip, but it seemed that neither of them had it in them to care at the moment, nor did it matter that her entire leg had slipped out of the slip. “Lightweight.” And that teasing jab was all he needed to say for her to know that their little fun had been put on hold—just for the night, of course, as he carried her off to bed.

“Like you’re usually any better. Spoilsport,” she bit back, though it held no malice and little force. If anything, fondness seeped into her voice, enamored by the realization that he’d pulled back for her. And how could she have it in her to complain, when he’d taken such good care of her the entire evening? Such tender-hearted care didn’t go unnoticed; not when her eyes only ever saw him, and her ears nestled against his chest could find solace in the rapid fluttering of his heartbeat.

“You’ll thank me in the morning, when you don’t have to nurse a hangover or a sore body.”

Climbing up the stairs shook her body in his embrace, and she tightened her hold around him. Unsurprisingly, as though he’d truly predicted it, she could feel herself growing more drowsy with each step he took, and it took her effort to keep her eyes half-open. Her words were little above a mumble when she replied, “Take my makeup off and I’ll double my thanks in advance.”

“Mm. I’ll ask to cash in, first thing when you wake up.” Even his voice sounded more distant now as she could vaguely sense him pushing their bedroom door open.

“Greedy.”

“And shameless,” came his soft agreement, before slowly setting her down on the plush mattress and nestling her head into her pillow. Her eyes focused on him for a second, taking in that lovelorn smile and affectionate gaze that always, always followed her, before non-verbally handing him her trust and letting go of him, leaving him to walk off.

And before Sylus had even come back with her makeup remover in tow, she’d already succumbed to the viselike grip of a blissful slumber, surrounded by the familiar scent of him all over their bed, and the soothing pressure of him on top of her, taking such achingly gentle care of her like he’d always promised to.

Taglist: @mrlovesimps @snowyfragrance @malcarconia @jaysbookofnothing @kitsune25 @monohopeworld @lara635kookie @xinnn6 @moonlight-inthe-sea @canyonlouist @number-1-harumi-hater @2angelbaby2 @jinnieats @blobfishbumblebee @aesmstar @klutzycora-san @inkblotgalaxies @mxrissaauuu @rissaaaaaa @lilithmoonlite @wooyoungsfairygf @lemonsupernova @kpop-and-otome @elizabeth916 @cherrikissez @xcalkenf @i-am-fork @vergillvrr @billie-lover8 @musiclover2119 @rafayelsheart @loveyluv7 @foiledbug @xxaviibee @estelleokami @asherengel @wimpyvamps @witch-of-the-teapot @kttriangle @ayumi-darling @colorfulotaku @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t @secretmoneybearvoid @kurov1864 @doubleshoticedshakenespresso @afterdarkwithkaeya @blossomingrose @uselessnewt @sleepydang @nikkitc0703 @this-gave-pidgeon-further-shock @luna-usagi-chan @darkflowerav @kei-tsuki21 @oharasmommymilkers00 @b3gonias @urfavvmars24 @viscade (more in replies!)

Sign up for my taglist here!

[andi-o-geyser]

despite how you feel about the changes from the stream to the show, if you like or dislike them, i love how inherently hilarious the narrative path tlovm is taking regarding perc’ahlia is because a situationship would literally kill campaign percy and vex like how the internet would kill a small victorian child. they are NOT built for that

[lightseoul]

cw. worker!reader, prohero!katsuki, aged-up (25), some more pining, cussing (bkg-typical), mentions of food, we're finally meeting the bakugous!, angst (if you look closely)

words. 4.8k (see why i had to split it...)

a/n. we have one more chapter to go, y'all! i'd love to hear your thoughts about the series so far, as well as how you think it's gonna end <3

masterlist | part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 9

It doesn’t elude you that the air entering your nostrils and lungs through the shaky inhale you take is nothing short of crisp.

It’s early evening in the suburbs where Bakugou’s parents live just in the peripheries of Musutafu. The sunset that graced you through the man’s car windows on the way over was now nowhere to be seen, having been replaced by the sight of the waning gibbous with a sprinkle of stars dotting the night sky.

Something you rarely see in the city, you think to yourself.

Your head craned towards the infinite ceiling, you continue to admire the view, or at least try to do so—the act seemingly becoming more and more impossible by the second, what with your nerves shot and your stomach churning with anticipatory anxiety.

Bakugou must have noticed your wobbly breathing, because the man side-eyes you for a beat before finally speaking. “What are you, nervous?”

You turn your head to look at him, taking in the sight of your boss in a dark brown sweater with a white collar peeking out at the top in an effort to ground yourself, although you find you’re not feeling any calmer.

You hesitate for a moment, before heaving another jittery, somewhat resigned, sigh.

No point in hiding the truth now.

You shrug, “Yeah…”

“Don’t be,” he promptly replies, catching you off guard. His voice is serious and deceivingly firm when he finishes it off.

“They’re gonna like you.”

You don’t get the chance to think about how to respond, let alone react instinctively because the front door opens as if on cue, and out comes a relatively tall woman with ash blonde hair, followed by a slightly taller brown-haired man.

You’ve barely gotten a word in when you get scooped into the arms of the woman you now identify as Bakugou Mitsuki, and when she pulls away and keeps you at arm's length—beaming, no less, in what you hope is happiness—it takes everything in you not to gawk at how stunning the woman is.

“…You’re overwhelming her, honey,” you hear the man, who you assume is Bakugou Masaru, say worriedly at your right side.

“Oh, right,” Mitsuki hurriedly releases her hold of you and retracts her hands, flashing you a bright albeit apologetic smile right after. “Forgive me, it’s just that I never thought this day would come!”

At that, she shoots Bakugou, who’s standing beside your left, a pointed look before turning back to grin at you, “I can’t believe Katsuki has finally brought a girl home!”

You don’t have to look at the man beside you to know he’s sporting a scowl. “Watch it, old hag,” he growls.

“You watch it, child. Mind how you talk to your mother in front of your girl.”

You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you as you watch the exchange, inadvertently catching the two blondes’ attention, their gazes drifting toward you at the sound. After a brief second, and to your relief, Mitsuki starts laughing along but Bakugou only looks away in what you think is irritation.

“Well, this girl is grateful for the invite, Mitsuki-san,” you start, mustering your most thankful smile. “But I hope I’m not imposing on your family…”

Mitsuki is quick to respond with a wave of a hand, “Not at all! You’re our guest of honor. Please, make yourself at home!”

Masaru nods in agreement, extending his right hand for you to shake, which you happily do. His smile is gentle—a stark contrast to Bakugou’s default expressions, you note—when he finally invites the both of you in. As you do—eager to escape the cold—you glance at Bakugou behind you, who’s apparently already been looking at you, although he averts his gaze when your eyes make contact.

Again with that solemn expression.

That unsettling expression drops down to the bottom of your list of priorities, however, when you enter the threshold of their home. You’re immediately hit with a glorious combination of fragrances emanating from what you think is the kitchen at the far side of the room.

“Everything smells great, Mitsuki-san,” you offer, hoping the sincerity can be heard from your tone.

You think it must have because the woman instantly lights up at the comment, “Why, thank you! Every day’s not Thanksgiving, after all.”

You nod, following them along into the living room, taking a seat on the corduroy couch opposite Mitsuki upon Masaru’s wordless invitation. “It’s so nice how you guys go all out to celebrate the holiday.”

You note how Bakugou, who’s planted on the armrest beside Mitsuki, frowns at the compliment.

“What?” you ask him before you can stop yourself, curious.

“They don’t really celebrate it,” he grunts, before tossing his mother a borderline disgusted look. “The old hag is just using it as an excuse to invite you over.”

That quip grants him a smack in the head from the said “hag”. Bakugou doesn’t yelp or cry in pain, although he does let out a slight hiss. You, again, can’t help the smile that creeps on your face as you watch them.

Mitsuki is facing Bakugou as she tuts in what you think is a warning, before turning to regard you again, a grin now having replaced the reprimanding expression that had just been on her face a second ago.

It grows even wider when she says: “What do you say we leave the rest of the cooking up to the boys and we go through Katsuki’s photo albums?”

“S-sure!” you quickly respond, the entirety of the suggestion not registering for a beat until it does, your head whipping to look at the man as you blurt out: “Bakugou, you can cook?”

At that, Mitsuki’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, eyes darting between the both of you. “Wait, are you saying he’s never cooked for you before?” Mitsuki asks, incredulous.

She then turns to her son, who now has his arms crossed in front of his broad chest like a petulant child, “Young man, what have you been doing?”

“God, relax,” Bakugou groans as he stands up from where he was seated, rolling his eyes as he makes his way to the kitchen. “We’ve just been busy with work. No time for that shit.”

“Busy with work, my ass,” she calls out to him, before once again turning to face you. “And honey, there’s no need to be all formal around us. Go ahead and call Katsuki by his first name—there’s really nothing to be shy about.”

Before you can think against it, your eyes widen in surprise for a fraction of a second before you school your face into what you think is an appropriate enough expression. “R-right, sorry.”

You chance a glance at the man, who’s now hacking away at the green onions like a madman albeit quite expertly, what you think is red creeping up his face in nothing else but scornful exasperation.

“So,” Mitsuki starts, and you turn back to see her wiggling her eyebrows at you, “about the photo albums?”

Just as Mitsuki suggested, you busied yourself with photo albums filled to the brim with close documentation of Bakugou growing up while the two men finished up in the kitchen. It didn’t come as a surprise that Bakugou was a cute kid, a signature boyish grin decorating his face in the few pictures where he isn’t scowling or glaring at the camera. You greedily took in the seemingly mundane details of Bakugou’s childhood as Mitsuki narrated the backstory of each photograph, smiling and even laughing along when she cracked a joke about how her son must have been born as the proverbial grump based on how early he learned how to glower.

Bakugou didn’t say anything the entire time you pore over the albums, probably used to his mom mouthing about her only child to friends and family who are willing to listen. Before you know it, dinner is eventually served, and the dishes that Bakugou and Masaru would bring from the island countertops to their hardwood dining table looked nothing short of scrumptious. It didn’t take long for you to conclude that they tasted exactly how they looked.

“Everything tastes incredible, but the miso ramen is glorious, Mitsuki-san,” you piped up in the middle of dinner.

The woman only tossed you a pleased, somewhat knowing look. “You’ve got your boyfriend to thank for that, dear.”

You must have looked like a deer in the headlights, because the man of the hour’s parents laugh at your expression. You stole a glance at Bakugou, who only slurped at his bowl in silence, face schooled into a rather neutral countenance.

A steady conversation gradually enveloped the four of you as you went ham on dinner, and you now find your shoulders relaxing, the tension from earlier leaving your body. You discuss current events, which then leads to Masaru asking Bakugou about how the agency is fairing in light of the recent spikes in crimes. The topic then drifts to you, like what’s your family like and what your parents do for a living; it shifts afterward to how work is going for them in the fashion industry, to the couple's retirement plans, with Mitsuki waxing poetic about how they really need to be there for each other when they do retire because Bakugou doesn’t visit them enough. To that, the man only scowls, mumbling something about how he does, in fact, visit them enough, and that the “old hag’s” definition of enough is stupidly skewed.

“But enough about us!” Mitsuki completely disregards Bakugou’s retort, shifting in her seat to address you, “I’ve actually been dying to ask you this question since you arrived. I know our Katsuki isn’t the easiest—”

“Hah?”

“—guy to be around, and so I’m really glad he was able to find someone as lovely as you. So,” Mitsuki tosses you a playful look, “what do you like about Katsuki?”

You barely stop yourself from choking on the maki roll lodged in your throat, quickly swallowing it rather painfully as you scramble for the proper way to react and respond. From the corner of your eye, you see Bakugou shift uncomfortably in his seat, but he doesn’t say anything to shut down his mother or even shift the topic of the conversation.

“Uh—” you start lamely, “What do I like about… him?”

At that, Mitsuki laughs good-naturedly. “Surely there has to be something, right? Please, indulge this old lady!”

You chuckle along with her, albeit rather awkwardly, before clearing your throat.

The only way to make it out of this conversation alive and relatively unscathed is by lacing your answers with the truth.

And so you do.

“Ba—” you start, catching yourself in the nick of time, “K-Katsuki—” you pause again, hating the way you uttered his name so tentatively like it’s something obviously foreign, “—is the most dedicated person I know.”

Mitsuki only nods in encouragement, as if urging you to go on.

And right now, you find that you’re nothing if not a people-pleaser.

“He’s admirable—there’s a reason why he’s risen to the top this quickly and stayed there,” you nod, pleased at what you think is certainty bleeding into your tone. “I don’t have any problems at all leading the HR department, what with him being the best example of what an outstanding work ethic looks like.”

The room falls into a lull, and as the seconds tick by with no one saying anything, you’re starting to think you said the wrong thing when Mitsuki finally speaks up.

“That—that’s great to hear, dear, really.” She seems to hesitate for a moment before holding your gaze again, and you brace yourself for what she’s about to say next.

“…But what about outside of work?”

There it is.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Uh—” you parrot again, mentally slapping yourself for stuttering when you can just keep your mouth shut while you think of an acceptable reply like a normal, sane person.

You glance at Bakugou, who’s now looking at you in what you think is anticipation.

Despite yourself, you feel yourself flush.

Yet you’re unable to break away from his gaze when the words finally come to you.

“…He cares,” you manage to miraculously get out while Bakugou’s crimson eyes bore a hole into you. “…Deeply. And, he makes sure it shows in his actions.”

You watch as Bakugou studies you for a few more seconds as if he’s searching for something—you don’t know what—hidden amidst your features, eventually averting his gaze back to his plate.

You follow suit, looking down at your half-finished ebi tempura, suddenly feeling too self-conscious and oddly vulnerable.

It’s Mitsuki’s soft voice that causes you to look up again.

“That’s… everything I wanted to hear,” Mitsuki almost whispers, and you think if you squint hard enough you can see tears pooling in her eyes.

You shoot her a tight-lipped smile, sensing an unusual sense of uneasiness blooming in your gut.

Thankfully, and to your relief, Mitsuki doesn’t ask any more equally humiliating questions after that, the conversation having been steered to more shallow and light-hearted topics, primarily by Masaru. Without you noticing, dinner time reaches its conclusion and it’s now time to clean up.

You stand up from your chair and start gathering leftovers to stack the plates right after when Mitsuki reaches across the table and pries them off your grip. You look at her in confusion, but she only shakes her head.

“We’ll handle the cleaning, dear.”

Behind her, Masaru nods in agreement, and you’re about to open your mouth to protest but Bakugou beats you to it.

“No use arguing with the old hag. Just give it up.”

At that, you sag in disappointment—you really wanted to pay them back, even if it’s just through helping out with cleaning—but obey nevertheless, putting down the cutlery you were just about to gather into a bunch.

Now with nothing to do with your hands, you stand at the edge of the table awkwardly, watching the couple swiftly clearing out the area. Masaru seems to notice your discomfort because he speaks up.

“Hey, Katsuki,” he starts, “why don’t you show her around your bedroom?”

Almost immediately, Mitsuki beams at her husband, evidently enthralled by the proposition. You fight the strong urge to furrow your eyebrows in worry. “That’s a good idea, honey. I bet she’d love to see your childhood knickknacks, Katsuki!”

You steal a glimpse of Bakugou—or his back, really—who’s now seated on the couch with a leg propped on it.

He’s not saying anything.

Why isn’t he saying anything?

You gulp despite yourself, shifting to face Mitsuki with a grimace-smile. “It’s okay, I don’t want to make him uncomfo—”

“Come on.”

You almost get whiplash from how fast you turn to look at Bakugou, who apparently isn’t giving you a chance to argue, already walking up the stairs to the second floor. You look back at his parents, who only gesture you to go on.

Well.

You guess you’re going, then.

You trail behind Bakugou in silence, your footsteps echoing through the stairway as you go up, one step at a time. Once you land on top of the staircase, you follow him as he turns to the right, down to the door at the end of the hallway, which you now identify as his bedroom.

He pauses a few feet away from the entryway, reaching forward for the knob and turning to face you right after, an indiscernible expression etched on his face.

“Don’t fuckin’—nose around,” he grumbles, voice gruff, “or some shit.” Despite his half-hearted warning, he opens the door, leaning back against it so you can squeeze in and enter.

Typical of the King of Consistency, Bakugou’s childhood bedroom is as impeccable as every other personal space of his that you’ve got the honor of visiting. The gray walls are pristine and are only disrupted by posters of pro-heroes, mostly of All Might, but also like that of Best Jeanist and Endeavor. Piles and piles of books line the shelves at the room's corners, speckled and lightly decorated with figurines and what you think are older gaming consoles. You study the rest of the arrangements, and before you can think against it, you find yourself smiling as you survey the room, feeling a paradoxical sense of comfort blanket you.

“…What’re you fucking smiling about, dumbass?”

At the call out, the expression on your face immediately falls. You glance back at the man who’s now leaning against the doorframe, arms once again crossed in front of his chest.

“N-nothing,” you immediately retort. “It’s just that your room is so clean and well-kept.” You pause, hesitating to say the next thing, but ultimately decide to go for it. “It’s very… you.”

You don’t know what you expected him to say or do in response—an eye roll, or a lazy scoff, or a challenge, daring you to expound on what the fuck you mean “it’s very him”, maybe?

But again, Bakugou doesn’t say anything; he simply grunts.

Against your will, you feel a wave of disappointment course through you.

“…Your parents seem like such great people,” you muse, finding yourself wanting to salvage the conversation as you continue to take in the endearing details of your boss’s childhood bedroom.

Bakugou grunts again, only this time you think it’s in agreement. “They’re alright,” he grinds out, “can get a bit overbearing at times, though.”

You hum in reply, sensing a seed of happiness blossoming within you at the thought of him opening up. “I get that. But I can clearly see they love you very much.”

The man hums back, sounding deep in thought.

Your fingers absentmindedly trail the backrest of his desk chair. “Your mom said you don’t really visit as much. Is that true or was she just pulling your leg?”

At that, Bakugou heaves such a heavy sigh, that it catches your full attention. “I haven’t been here since around early this year.”

You gawk, “Seriously?”

He shoots you a glare, although there’s not much bite to it. “Don’t look at me like that. You know how it is at work.”

You nod, “…You do put in an alarming number of hours.”

“Well, it’s not like I have a choice, do I?” he immediately retorts, although the question seems more rhetorical.

Despite that, you steel yourself to answer back this time. “I think you actually do. I know of so many heroes who treat their jobs like the typical 9 to 5. Believe me, I hear things at work, too.”

“…What are you trying to say?”

His voice is so uncharacteristically small, it catches you off guard.

In return, you try to make your voice as gentle as possible. “I’m saying I meant what I said earlier during dinner. It’s admirable—the work that you do. I think that’s what really sets you apart from all the others, putting aside your flashy ass quirk.”

You take a gamble and toss a smirk Bakugou’s way.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the man was at a loss for words.

Well, there is a first for everything.

Suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed over the bold move you just pulled, you take advantage of the silence, walking a few steps towards the other wall. You carefully brush your hand against what looks like a vintage-looking All Might poster above the headboard of his bed.

“I didn’t know you liked All Might this much.”

His reply is almost instantaneous: “He’s only the best hero to exist ever.”

You, again, fail to restrain the smile that breaches your face. It’s adorable how defensive he’s become in a split second, having transformed into the diehard fanboy that he apparently is.

“Is he the kind of hero you aspire to eventually become?” you ask, curiosity bubbling in your head.

He shifts on his feet, taking a few steps in your direction. “Yeah,” he pauses, before continuing, “the kind that always wins.”

“Oh, now I know where that line from before came from.”

As if immediately knowing what you're talking about, Bakugou flushes in what you think is anger, but the more you stare at him, it becomes clearer that it’s more akin to embarrassment.

“Shut up.”

You snort, “So the philosophy you gleaned from All Might—that applies to all aspects of your life? Including being your underling’s fake trophy boyfriend?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You can’t help the giggle that erupts from you as you watch Bakugou stew in what you think is shame, squirming from where he’s standing as if he’s itching to jump and strangle your frame. The man, once again, glares at you, but if anything, you can tell he’s more frustrated with himself than with you.

Still, you find yourself feeling bad. “Sorry,” you start, fighting the urge to chuckle, “I was just kidding.”

“You’re a fucking handful, you know that?”

At that, you pout, the words tumbling off your mouth before you can rein them in. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t—” Bakugo splutters, “fucking—stop calling me sir, dumbass. And,” he frowns, “stop calling yourself as my underling. That shit sounds fucking demeaning.”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, flashing him a grateful smile. He doesn’t return it, opting to roll his eyes and look away instead, but the corners of his lips are twitching like he’s fighting them from curling upwards.

An abrupt thought crosses your mind at that very sight of him.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, you blurt it out.

“I’m glad.”

Bakugou meets your gaze, an eyebrow raised in question. “You’re glad what?”

You shrug, fighting down the self-consciousness. “I’m glad to see you seem more relaxed and comfortable. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’ve noticed you’ve been extra scowly lately—if that is even a word.”

“I have not.”

“Yes, you have. The other workers at the agency have noticed, too.”

“Who the fu—”

“I’m not dropping any names,” you interject, “but some have approached me asking if we were, you know, okay?”

You peer at the man, who’s now refusing to look at you. You brace yourself for what you’re about to ask. “Are we? Okay?”

Bakugou, again, conveniently decides to be mute.

“Did I do something wrong to slight you, or something? Or have I crossed a line during that get-together with your friends that one time? Because if I have, I want you to know that I really didn’t mean t—”

“I thought you didn’t want to come over,” he cuts you off.

You freeze. “What?”

He finally meets your gaze, a frown now seemingly permanently etched on his face. “Here. To my parents’. And you’ve been acting all weird around me, stuttering and stuff.”

Shit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Bakugou huffs, “Am I making you uncomfortable, or some shit?”

You can only gape at the man who looks so pained, as if this conversation is physically hurting him, which, it probably is, knowing him. You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

He seems to notice this, because his frown grows even deeper. “What, am I?”

“No!” you exclaim, thankful to finally have your voice back. You vigorously shake your head, “No, please don’t think that. I—just—I just have a lot on my mind lately, that’s why. Explains why I’m all jumpy and stammering and all over the place.”

To your relief, Bakugou doesn’t prod any further, although you can sense a bit of suspicion emanating from the man despite your answer. He stares at you for another beat before shaking his head in resignation, opting to check his watch instead.

“It’s getting late. Let’s go downstairs and tell them we’re leaving.”

And just like that, Bakugou turns his back towards you and exits the bedroom.

Right after you followed Bakugou down to the living room where Mitsuki and Masaru were enjoying a glass of red wine, you informed the couple that you were leaving. The brunette immediately got to work, packing viands into Tupperware for you to take home despite your silent protests. Mitsuki, on the other hand, tried to convince you to stay for another hour or so, but Bakugou wasn’t hearing any of it. After finally accepting that she was getting nowhere with her case, Mitsuki called on her husband to see you out by the front porch.

With a bag of aromatic dishes in one hand, you stand in front of their doorway, not knowing what to say for the nth time in one night. You chance a glance towards Bakugou’s direction, the man having entered his car already, starting up the engine in preparation for the drive back home.

But you apparently don’t have to say anything because it’s Mitsuki who fills the air.

Her smile is so gentle and motherly that you can’t help the painful throb your heart makes at the sight. It’s quickly followed by the now-familiar feeling of uneasiness that has been revisiting you again and again since the evening started.

Still, you manage to smile back. At the sight of it, Mitsuki’s expression grows even brighter.

And her voice is low when she finally speaks.

“Don’t tell Katsuki this, but I’m glad you’re the one he’s decided to finally come meet us.” She reaches out to rub your shoulder, her smile not faltering, “I can see why.”

Thankfully, Mitsuki scoops you into another hug, sparing you the embarrassment and burden of having to react and respond with some intelligible reply to such a groundbreaking statement one can receive from any guy’s mother, no less.

At the couple’s request, you promise to visit again soon, and before you get to break character and admit to your mountain of lies in a crying heap, you beeline to the car and hop into the passenger seat.

Voice gruff, Bakugou nods at you. “Ready?”

You swallow thickly.

“Ready.”

The car ride home was silent. It felt long—longer than an hour, at least, your brain buzzing with unpleasant thoughts and stomach churning with anxious feelings the entire duration of it. You couldn’t seem to fall asleep no matter how much you tried. Eventually, you gave up trying to mid-way, opting to stew in whatever the fuck is going on with you instead.

You were so engrossed in your brooding that you didn’t notice Bakugou pulling into your apartment complex’s driveaway.

At the sound of his voice announcing your arrival, you sit up in your seat in alarm before promptly gathering your things, saying your usual quick goodbye and thank you, and stepping out of the car.

To your surprise, however, he puts the car in park and follows suit, stepping out of the vehicle himself.

You hesitate for a moment before starting the short trek toward the entrance, acutely aware of Bakugou trailing behind you.

When you get to the entryway, you finally turn to regard the man, whose eyes dart down to look directly at you, hands in his pockets.

In spite of yourself, you gulp. “Thank you… for today, Bakugou.”

He merely shakes his head, expression neutral. “I should be the one thanking you. You didn’t have to come with and suffer through all that with me, yet you did.”

“I didn’t suffer,” you’re quick to correct him because you didn’t. “I actually had a really nice time. Your parents were so kind to me, and I just—I…”

“What?”

You shake your head, unsure how to accurately phrase what you’re feeling. “I just feel bad, you know? You could be bringing home a girl that you actually like to meet your parents who they can fawn over instead of me, yet here you are presenting a decoy and fooling the people who raised you all because I—”

“Hey—”

“I roped you into pretending to be my boyfriend and now look at the mess we’ve made. And I know—”

“Stop it.”

His voice comes out so commanding that there’s nothing you can do but obey.

Bakugou frowns. “You didn’t ‘rope’ me into doing this, okay? I— We—” he hesitates, mouth opening and closing then opening and closing again before he finally just shakes his head in defeat. “I entered this arrangement willingly. You don’t have to blame yourself for anything.”

“But—”

“End of discussion.”

At that, you huff in irritation, but you know better than to argue with your notoriously stubborn boss. Nevertheless, and despite yourself, you can’t help but feel the gratitude that blooms in your chest at Bakugou’s reassurance.

“Now get in there,” he gestures to the apartment, “It’s getting way too fucking cold.”

As if on cue, you involuntarily shudder, which grants you a wordless ‘See?’ from the man. With a final nod, you reluctantly follow his orders and enter through the doorway, although you don’t immediately go to the elevator hall. Instead, you stand by the windows, finding yourself wanting to make sure Bakugou doesn’t get jumped on his way back to the car.

And as you watch Bakugou’s receding backside, the guilt that you’ve been tirelessly suppressing the entire night finally breaks free, threatening to swallow you whole.

This can’t go on.

tagging. @kitthepurplepotato @katsukis1wife @brunnetteiwik @bunnysaursushii @beab19 @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @lovra974 @chelbyisbord @k0z3me @meeeepsworld @asura-rose @dragonscribble @moonz33 @citrustsuki @deadhands69 @lemuhr @rosemarygalaxy @iluv-ace @eyesforbkg @carpe000diem @shushbruv @matchat3a @ttalgi @bakunianadecorazon @the2ndl @keiscwsz @onlyisaa @aizawa19 @471323 @bakugosgothhoe

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 they make such a huge, huge difference! have an awesome day ( ˘ ³˘)

[babacontainsmultitudes]

RIP Will Campos the only person who was murdered this episode.

[nataliescatorccio]

RHAENYRA TARGARYEN & MYSARIA House of the Dragon, Season 2 'Rhaenyra the Cruel'

[mischievous-thunder]

Some things never change even across the multiverse