STARGIRL.

When you watch Katsuki Bakugo slip away through the backdoor so that he can avoid crossing paths with you, you hesitate in returning back to your desk.

The fight you've been having with him is dumb, really. Honestly, you barely remember how it started, but now it's petty. Seriously— does he keep having to leave the building every time he sees you?

You huff out a breath before taking the same door out, heels tapping on the ground as you quicken your pace to catch him.

Surprisingly, he's in the alley, leaned against the wall, scowling at the phone in his hand. The bang of the door forces him to snap his head up, eyes widening.

"Okay, fine. I'm sorry." You burst out before he has the chance to leave. "It's my fault. And yeah, you were right, and you can yell at me about it, and I'll take it. Go ahead. I'd honestly rather have you do that than avoid me."

Silence fills the void between you, and it makes you uneasy. Damn. Silent treatment too?

Katsuki sighs. When he does, a plume of smoke leaves his mouth. Only then do you notice the cigarette in his other hand, the cherry lit and the stick half turned to ash.

"What the fuck."

"You weren't supposed to follow me." He snaps, pocketing his phone before running a hand through his hair.

"I take back my apology. God, Katsuki, what the fuck."

It's all you can say. He drops it, letting the heel of his boot crush it.

"I know, alright." He nearly hisses, more angry that he was caught than anything. "I just... fuck. I hate myself for it too."

"You quit." You say it as if you are trying to convince yourself.

"Old habits." He glances at you. He means more than the cigarette.

Gojo Satoru rests a key on your desk.

You hardly glance up, but when he clears his throat and taps his foot, you give him a small lift of your head.

“What’s this?”

“A key.”

You blink. “To what.”

“My apartment.”

Finally, you lift it from where it rests. It’s nothing special— an ordinary gold key, looks new from the look of it. You flip it, looking for any inscription that will give you more clues. Nothing.

You feel your brow twitch. “But your apartment has swipe access?”

Satoru sighs dramatically. “Yeah. I know. But I wanted this to be more momentous than sending you an email.”

Gojo Satoru rests a key on your desk.

You hardly glance up, but when he clears his throat and taps his foot, you give him a small lift of your head.

“What’s this?”

“A key.”

You blink. “To what.”

“My apartment.”

Finally, you lift it from where it rests. It’s nothing special— an ordinary gold key, looks new from the look of it. You flip it, looking for any inscription that will give you more clues. Nothing.

You feel your brow twitch. “But your apartment has swipe access?”

Satoru sighs dramatically. “Yeah. I know. But I wanted this to be more momentous than sending you an email.”

"i won't be able to see you for a while."

the tokyo streets slip past outside your window, but your eyes aren't quite following the scenery. you feel a little dizzy thanks to the wine satoru kept pouring over dinner—filling only your glass, as usual. it was a vintage you could never have dreamed you'd get the chance to taste only a few short months ago; a luxury so distant that you'd never once even thought about what it might be like to try. now it lingers on your tongue, stains your lips slightly, feels familiar in ways you still struggle to reckon with.

you tilt your face towards the man sitting beside you in the back of the car that's taking you home.

"a while?" you ask him curiously, though that's perhaps not the most important query.

satoru hums, smiling a little to himself as his fingers press against the pulse point on your wrist. he's been toying with your hand ever since you left the restaurant, but you've hardly paid it any notice.

satoru's touch used to be limited to the spectacle. his hands only reaching out for you when someone was there to witness it. at one time, satoru would have changed cars before his driver took you home. at one time, he would have dropped your hand the moment the door shut behind you. but he doesn't now.

you've grown strangely used to this, too.

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

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

And perhaps his best friend was right.

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

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

Replies:

cum here

Warnings: spit, dub con

A Bakugou Birthday collab read the intro on the ML first!

A notification pulls your attention in your tipsy stupor as you collapse half dressed in your bed. Another successful night out with your girlfriends when your favorite pro hero posts a picture.

A thirst trap no less making you pop up in bed, the room spins delightfully as you stare down at the picture, screen shooting it without a care that he may get a notification for it but you were sure that you wouldn't be the only one.

Bakugou Katsuki, THE Dynamight with his shirt up exposing his abs, his Adonis belt and the vein that leads down to what has to be his fat cock.

still intact

the itadori house always smells faintly of clean laundry.

it's not because the two boys who live there are particularly diligent about staying on top of their housework—the towering pile of recyclables in the corner of the kitchen is proof enough of that—but it's because the first time yuuji had tried to do his own laundry, he used way too much detergent. the ensuing tsunami of soap suds had flooded nearly half-way across the tiny apartment—coating the floors, the baseboards, and anything else in its path, in a slippery (though pleasantly fragranced) froth that took DAYS for the two brothers to clean up. it must have sunk in to the floorboards, or there must still be traces of it lingering in nooks and crannies that they couldn't reach, because even now, years after the catastrophe, the scent still lingers.

even though the mere mention of the incident still makes a vein of irritation throb in sukuna's forehead, and makes yuuji hang his head in shame, you don't mind the smell. it's familiar after all these years. it reminds you of this place.

you burrow your face down into the cushion of the living room sofa. it's raining today, and a bit humid, so the scent of detergent is particularly strong.

you're nearly asleep when a voice interrupts your quiet moment of relaxation.

"i should start charging you rent, y'know."

thinking about taking in villain!bakugo, finally catching him in cuffs and dragging him into questioning.

you haven't seen him since his hero years. he's bigger— much more than he ever was. his muscles bulge under his full-black suit, the cuffs looking like mere toys around his wrists. but the look in his eyes is the same, a sharp red glare filled with confidence and determination.

you stand behind the one-sided glass, analyzing his bored expression. he scans the room lazily, scoping silently, before looking up at the mirror.

he can't see you. but somehow, he meets your eyes and grins.