dependence life

it doesn’t feel like much. the familiarity of the irate walls of your mind, though confining, isn’t difficult to navigate. all thoughts aren’t reoccurring, all sensations, too. it was just a matter of, could you handle them, or would they rule you?

you want to avoid the news. not that you’d be a headline anymore—but your months of ignorance had been blissful. the notion that the world was progressing without you was one you would rather not subject yourself to.

for all the time you had been there, you only really sat on the couch twice. you decide it was suitable for taking long naps on; not that you’re in the mood to sleep. in the basement, that was all you ever did…

but you’re not there now. you aren’t sure if that was a gentle mercy or another punishment in itself.

you pluck the remote from the coffee table, weighing it in your hand. you press the power button and the screen brightens to life.

the local news station is broadcasting; that must’ve been the last channel the tv was switched on to. villain attacks are rampant, it seemed. you blink lethargically at the wobbly camera footage from some definitively foolish reporters—was a scoop worth dying for?

your gaze flickers to the shiny patches of scar tissue that bubble up like something parasitic had burrowed into your flesh. hypocritical, maybe, given what you were.

somewhere along the way, the sardonic resignation and indifference had become this profoundly hollow cavity, where quiet whispers of hope reverberated against the encasement that was your body, only to dissolve as if you’d never breathed in the first place. it’s easy to be combative—albeit verbally—to strengthen your mind from the rot that was boredom.

an abrupt slam shatters your thoughts. you whip your head around in alarm: katsuki had barreled through the door. the doorknob was scorched, and you doubt the wall behind it was in any better condition. he extended the same aggression while closing it.

his expression’s pinched. you know that face. at one point, it would have had you drawing into inward and prepared to oblige. but then it softens. he was looking at you. the muscles in your face are devoid of tension, and you give him a vacant gaze.

and what a pathetic expression it must be. a display so utterly deplorable, that all other whispers of that which had scorned him moments prior had been extinguished, and dissipated into the floorboards by very the curvature of your features. you wish you could sink into the foundation and rot, too.

he sighs, deciding to circle over to where you sat on the couch, and sits a cushion's length away, facing you.

you regard his sullied costume. where the fabric frays around singed skin framed by ash.

"what'd you do today?" he tests with great hesitance.

you blink, hands grasping your knees with white knuckles.

"nothing." you mumble. but it wasn’t defiance or intended to scorn.

his hand slides over, pinky prodding your hand, touch almost nonexistent as though the smallest extra bit of force might have you shrinking back.

“what about your book? the one i brought from home?” his voice is tinged with an unexpected tenderness that’s almost tentative. it might’ve coaxed you to answer more responsively, had his previous neglect of your wellbeing not been so immense.

the book in question is your worn copy of _______. you loved it dearly. you’d reread it every so often, jotting down things that stand out to you in the margins and highlighted. it smells like home still. maybe that’s why you have to digest it in increments. it’s the only type of used you tolerate.

“i finished it.” you lie, and don’t feel guilty. but deprecating questions that slash your mind were torturous: where was that razor bladed tongue? what was that terse, bleak answer that betrayed your tightly wound uneasiness? maybe your mind’s working against you, having deduced it’s easier to bare your throat, rearing the head of your blunt self preservation. some meager last ditch effort.

his lips purse, but he doesn’t push. not vehemently, at least. like what you were both accustomed to.

“you wanna new one?” he offers gruffly, ruby gaze slinking across your profile.

you wonder if this placidity is as prickly for him as it is for you. katsuki isn’t gentle. he conquers. he seizes and subjugates you to his ardent whims. is this *turning over a new leaf*, as they say? considering your comfort despite his aching desire?

you nod once. “yeah.” then, you amend, “please.”

the soft exhale through his nose eases some of the rigidity burrowed in your shoulders; approval of your timid response.

“alright. i’ll get you one. you can choose. i’ll give you my laptop.”

you nod again, hoping to placate him enough to have him retreat elsewhere.

there’s a beat of silence. your eyes are still trained on a scorched section of the coffee table’s leg. one he afforded it the midst of one of your fits, a teary and violent demand to let you go. let you live. it still stood steadfast, an indicator that he’d uncharacteristically held back.

“(y/n),” he began, voice low and gruff, with a twinge of tenderness he had recently taken to coaxing you with, “i’m… here. for you. ‘m not gonna hurt you anymore, just—please. please try. talk to me.”

if the bleariness swelling in your head wasn’t as immense as it was, you might’ve harbored some guilt, offer some pitiful half-promise to make an effort as he pleaded. though, it isn’t stubbornness or vindication that immobilizes your tongue, it’s your incapacity to generate an assuring response, along with the apathy that stains your insides like bleach to cotton.

“kay.” you mutter, gnawing on your bottom lip unforgivingly. “sorry. i’m… really tired.”

his hand, which had tentatively lingered by yours with admirable, measured restraint, suddenly breaks from its sensible distance. he clutches your hand ever so slightly, thumbing desperate circles into your knuckles. you’ve long learned to anticipate sudden, and certainly unwelcome touches from him.

“katsuki… please.” you plead—his softness fills your lungs with water like a newborn’s. it’s a fitting comparison; you’re having to rewire your survival instincts, as shitty as they were. your brain is fucking fried, and you wonder if this 180 he flipped to would be lasting. maybe then you could return to normalcy—if it could even be replicated in captivity.

his sigh is balmy and heavy. it burns you like a brand.

“let’s do something.” he suggests. his grasp turns more assured and firm, and he beams despite his weary expression. you blink tiredly.

“we can—i dunno, see a movie or somethin’. make a day out of it and grab dinner.” he lists, fervor growing with each syllable. he gives a gentle squeeze. “what’dya think?”

you knew he was exploiting your dazed resignation, confident that you won’t cause a scene in public. that you won’t have the urge to bolt as soon as you stepped out the door. fuck. when was the last time wind had stroked your skin? when you’d had a lungful of cool, fresh air?

“sure. yeah.” you blurt, a sore, forced smile crossing your lips. “sounds—sounds fun.”

he’s pleased, invigorated by the taut stretch of your lips. “hell yeah. let’s look at what’s out.”

it’s somewhat of a mutual decision—the movie selection. katsuki read out titles and their synopses and you found yourself nodding along absentmindedly. you settled on a romantic drama; not something he’d ordinarily choose, but a thriller or horror might trigger you somehow. at least that’s what he thinks.

he dresses you in something soft against your skin. it doesn’t make you want to swing at the mirror at the sight of yourself. (you try not to imagine glass shards embedded into your knuckles, split open to the bone, adrenaline surging through you like an electric current.)

a black cotton skirt with built in shorts hugs your waist, the hem skimming the middle of your thighs. around your torso is a pretty, floaty spaghetti strap blouse. it’s pink and printed with darker pink peonies. it’s… jarring. it’s jarring. he must’ve dug the number out from a box stored in a muggy room. it smells musky. you don’t mind it.

his eyes slide over you. it’s not heated or judging, but it still knots your insides into a knot you could never begin to untangle.

finally, he breathes, his gaze bearing affection that’d lost on you for weeks… for months... “fuck, you’re… you’re so beautiful.”

it’s unadulterated. your hands cling to one another, white knuckled. your lips move before you can discern what you’re saying.

“thank you.” your mouth is sticky and lumpy.

he steps forward, with tentative arms hanging lowly in the air. suddenly, he lurches forward and pulls you into his arms, a quivering gasp leaves his throat at the contact.

your eyelids flutter shut, and you go slack against him. you needed it. even if it was from him. even if he’d pry your jaw open and force chunks of food down your throat again, if he added onto the lighter patches of your skin he burnt in response to your violent defiance, if he dragged you back down to that fucking basement. collared and short chained to the pole as you fought not to split your skull open against the metal.

a beat passes, and you’re muttering, “w-we need to go. we’re gonna be late. movie starts soon.”

he withdraws in surprise, before nodding quickly. “right. right. yeah. forgot. i just…”

he darts forward and cups your head, kissing your forehead. he allows his lips to linger there for a few seconds.

“i love you. god. i love you, (y/n).” he whimpers, “i promise. i promise it’ll be different. i’ll be different. give me a chance. i’ll make you happy again, shit, i—i just wanna see you smile.”

something hot and wet rakes across your cheeks. your hands fly to your face, scrubbing at the foreign sensation aggressively. you’re crying. you’re… crying.

his face crumbles. “don’t cry. please don’t cry, baby. we’re gonna have a good night. gonna see that movie and eat damn good.”

he presses his forehead against yours, thumbs swiping at your tears gingerly. “s’okay. it’s okay. you’re okay.”

you gasp, reeling yourself back in. “n-no, ‘m—‘m fine. promise. i just need a sec.”

he watches you compose yourself, with this sickly sweet countenance of love and concern. eventually your tears slow, nose clearing. why? why was he acting like this? it felt like a test, wrong wrong move promising instantaneous punishment.

“let’s go.”

“(y/n), it’s completely fine if you wanna stay home—“

“no.” you assert. “i want to go. please.”

the movie was cheesy. you could predict the conflict and resolution from a mile away like a mediocre nicholas sparks novel. still, it proved to be a nice distraction. you forgot yourself briefly, sinking into the leather with brighter eyes and a minuscule smile on your lips. katsuki's eyes had rampantly darted between the side of your face and back to the screen, heart swollen at the sight. it didn’t bother you as much as you thought it would.

as promised, he takes you to a restaurant after the movie. it’s dimly lit, and the patrons’ hushed exchanges brush your ears like low tide. a year ago, you would’ve declared that the place was too pretentious and stuffy, that you’d look like you snuck in after being turned away at the host stand. now, you elect to succumb, let yourself be spoilt.

a short notice reservation wouldn't be difficult for Dynamight to secure. what establishment would turn their nose up at the potential of endorsement from one of the top pro heroes in the country? plus, this place looks like its steak priced in the hundreds. after reaccustoming yourself to life above the basement, your belly could only endure bland, salty soups and bananas. a slab of wagyu would be worth the stomachache.

the smiley and giddy host guiding you to your table is almost unable to uphold his professionalism. as katsuki’s mood is soaring to unprecedented levels, that snarl almost engraved on his mouth never arises. instead, he’s grinning toothily at you, arm stretched across the tablecloth to hold your hand.

“you havin’ fun?” he asks, and if you don’t know better, you might say he’s insecure.

“yeah.” you nod, truthful for once, and he can tell. he’s glowing, like your honesty had blotted away the somber and dreary past couple weeks since your homecoming upstairs.

your eyes fall on the menu. thick pieces of parchment are wedged into metal brackets. you scan for the wagyu, and opt for a ten ounce piece. though your saucer eyes outmatch the size of your stomach, you’re cautious enough to pace yourself appropriately. besides, you don’t know if you’re able to vomit on your own anymore.

a minute passes before your waiter introduces herself, and her eyes continuously fall on katsuki far longer than socially acceptable.

he only affords her his order, tone terse and apathetic. she’s less than invigorated to take your order, but you’d rehearsed your order enough to where you were able to wholly pronounce your words with normal pauses. she didn’t deter you.

katsuki pinches the stem of his glass pensively. its transparency is swallowed by maroon liquid.

he flicks gaze to you, his crimson irises are swallowed whole by dilated pupils.

“why don’t you order somethin’?” he implores. “look at the drink menu, i’ll get ya bottle of whatever you want.”

you furrow your eyebrows, the invitation marinating in your mind. your lips part and your admission stumbles out. “i don’t know what’s good. vodka’s usually my go to, but… that’s, like, a bar drink. you choose. i just need it to be sweet.”

he smiles something adoring and gentlemanly, then nods. “i think you’d like champagne. it’s smooth, won’t burn a hole in your stomach.”

“sounds good.” you hum, mirroring your behavior to expressions and tones befitting the atmosphere he’d created.

katsuki didn’t seem like the type to impress you with his wealth; though you suppose for what he lacks in words, he displays through action. your scars are a testament to that.

you shake your head, dissolving the thoughts with wry acid.

your waiter, at katsuki’s domineering wave, returns to the table with a silver bucket slick with icy condensation. the bottle is white, the loopy black writing indicates its french origin.

curiously, you drag your finger down the lines of wines and cocktails and stop at the name which matches the bottle.

“jesus fuck.” you murmur lowly, eyes flicking back to katsuki’s “22,000 yen?! it’s—it’s a bottle of wine—“

“and?” he scoffs like your shock is unfounded. “you’re my girl. i ain’t giving you that cheap shit.”

but you’re not. you’re not his girl. pathetic coward. open your fucking mouth.. all you can do is bring the rim to your lips, careful not to clank it against your teeth, and half-sip.

sweetness grazes your tongue, as he’d assured. it’s not syrupy, it’s something more raw and organic. you decide you like it— a lot. so much so, that you’re babbling nonsense after three glasses. absolutely giggly and blitzily cheerful. you readily accepted katsuki’s hushed, lewd flirtations, allowing his sleek loafers to draw vertical motions against your calf.

“how the fuck are you wasted from those skinny ass portions? they weren’t even full.” he snorts teasingly. his eyes are half lidded and trained on your features, slinking from one to another appreciatively.

your lips twist into a pout—what are you doing?—and you huff, “i haven’t had alcohol in a year, thanks to someone. it’s prob’ly normal for this much to make me a lil drunk.”

he’s too tipsy to interpret the duality of your jest, an oblivious smirk rests on his cheeks, chuckling. “a little? that’s pretty generous, don’t you think?”

“with the way you are right now, you’ll get all pissy over nothing and burn the building down.” you hiccup, eyes playfully narrowing. “asshole.” you add.

he rolls his eyes, shaking his head as though he wasn’t enjoying your mutually flirtatious back and forth.

the steak’s filling; it sits against the walls of your stomach satisfyingly. you hold your belly, protruding an itch more than usual, and sigh blissfully. “so yummy.”

katsuki barks a rare laugh. “i can tell, you got meat juice on your cheeks.”

you blink, lifting your hands to your cheeks. your fingers smudge the wet thickness and saturate it further into your skin.

“lemme just—“ he’s at your side, kneeling and dabbing at the grease slathered across your lips and beneath the apples of your cheeks. his touch is light, the new norm you refuse to trust. he’s thorough, lowering the cloth napkin to tap at your skin and test if the slickness remains.

unwittingly, your face flushes. there’s no doubt he notices, but he resists the temptation that was whispering vulgarities into your ear that’d make your cheeks steam.

by the time you return home, your sensibility is still muted by the buzz pulsing throughout your whole body. katsuki’s gentle hands float to your hips, hooking his chin over your shoulder as his chest rumbles with a content hum. he slots you against his torso like he’s trying to sear the shape of your body into his memory until he dies.

you convince yourself he loves you. that the touches are exemplary of the promise he made to you, that it’s okay that you’re not shoving him off of you; jaw voluntarily hinged ajar, obscuring the temptation to clamp down defiantly.

his fingers slide beneath the elastic of the black skirt, where he massages the skin tentatively. he moves across a rough, raised patch, a misstep he takes in stride, instead caressing it with purposeful affection.

“(y/n).” he murmurs, his bottomless stare bores into your own fervidly, breath uneven and faltering. you can’t place how he calls your name; if it’s a statement, a plea, or a silent request to bridge the distance.

he leans in, face hovering above yours. with a sudden lurch, he thoughtlessly shoves his mouth against yours, kissing you with an intensity that reveals how nobly he had reeled in his hunger.

you don’t want it. you don’t want it. you don’t—you don’t.

your lips match his pace clumsily, and as your eyes blink open, you revel in the surprise that spreads in his gaze. you feel… powerful, somehow, in controlling the disgust and opposition; hindered, in part, by the champagne, and this twisted notion rears its head.

you want to hurt. more than any burn, bite mark, slap, kick or punch ever could. the kind of pain that would enshroud your mind and body from any further contemplation—sever your spiderweb nerves into splintered fibers. you want to compress yourself until your bones melted, coagulating into the sherpa carpet.

the kiss escalates—his hands sink farther beneath the waistband and travel to the curve of your ass. with your modesty’s last line of defense are your white lace-trimmed panties. you don’t feel maidenly—your mind’s bubbling, sifting between numbness and the desperate need to relive the gut-wrenching terror that had once presided over you like a film of sweat.

his own skin is perspiring, hot like burning oil as it lathers onto your skin menacingly.

he draws back when he needs air, his staggered breaths fanning your face. something ominously familiar and rigid pokes your inner thigh, and your mask slips faintly.

“please.” katsuki’s groveling hoarsely at your fleeting disillusion, eyebrows pinched and more immense than his usual desperate endeavors. “i promise—i fuckin’ swear i’ll make it about you. i just want to touch you, please. please, (y/n).”

your throat thrums before your brain can catch up. “okay.”

he shudders at your faux consent, nostrils flaring. he plants his palm on your nape as his lips, callous from the gnawing stress that was carefully traipsing along the line of your slipping sanity, half-scrape across the length of your neck. next, his teeth descend, lips suckling firm purple-red kisses.

your eyelids drop almost completely, but there’s still a trained wariness that allows a visible crescent of sclera. your breath shutters as pain and pleasure begin to bleed together like watercolor, blending a hideous hue.

in seconds, he abandons what were his disciplined advances and unceremoniously splits your skirt down the middle, your panties following. the motion startles you, and your rapid blinks skew your sight like a view-master. your alertness is too dull to preserve chasity with your hands, because he’s prying them away and cupping your sex brazenly.

your insides tremble, teeth grit. you’re stronger than this. than his everlasting vehemence—that carnal drive to stake claim to a being far beneath him and indulge in their dispirited struggles, especially until the moment their final flail slackens their body entirely.

are you worse than a villain? is this how he deals with crooks and crime lords? or are you below them, too?

“look at me,” he grunts, lips glistening from their sloppy union with yours.

you drag your vision from his wound jawline to his bloody eyes, searing your retinas with the intensity of raw sunlight. your heart is on the cusp of failure.

his hand is imbued with a musky earthiness as his index and middle tap your bottom lip. you unhinge your jaw immediately.

the taste is empty. his fingertips hadn’t gathered any of your essence, if it had even come to fruition. so his blunt nails traverse the expanse of your tongue, to stimulate your arousal himself.

soon, he deems them slick enough to bully inside of you, and he does, refusing to glance away from any quirk you features may give way to. he makes sure to nudge the knuckle of his thumb against your clit.

i fuckin’ swear i’ll make it about you.

your face squints at the intrusion, albeit slower and more considerate than you were used to. no outright cry of pain or contrite fuels his fingers to curl into slow, shallow pumps. your hands jump from your sides to his shoulders, circling his neck.

his grin is smug and lopsided, like the moments before a wolf’s descent. an unwitting whimper escapes you.

“you know how pretty you look right now?” he groans, he’s scissoring his digits slowly, keeping them agape for a pause then resuming his ministrations.

your breaths match each hammer of your heartbeat, brows twitching into a wobbly bridge.

katsuki slumps to his knees, hands latching around the backs of your thighs with an insatiable growl. he anchors you there, blowing a cruel, hot breath onto your pussy. finally, your body gives way to involuntary twitches, and it’s then his clammy tongue laps a stripe from your core to your swollen clit. you can’t stomp out the low whine that races out of your mouth.

you feel enamel graze your flesh before you see him smiling.

“it didn’t have to be like that.” he starts and parts his lips, tucking his head back in between your legs in order to suckle at that tiny little nub flushed a reflexive red—treacherously welcoming the embrace. his tongue flicks cloyingly. your icy hands move despite the inadequate blood flow, and borrow themselves in his unkempt pale strands, and he pulls away with a sleek chin, continuing, “how we were before. when you… were hurting yourself. wouldn’t eat. wouldn’t talk to me.”

how optimistic you’d been. how callow and stupid.

your will had never been relinquished to you at all.

he must’ve decided that you’d been pried open enough, because his arms dive beneath your knees and back to carry you like a bride, whisking you back to the bedroom, onto the bed that he softly smiled and laid a pillow in the middle of the first night he brought you back upstairs at your pathetic plea. he’s not smiling anymore.

“i showed you how nice i can be, right?” he implores, heated gaze emitting expectancy. “gave you space, let you do what you want, took you to dinner and made you feel pretty…”

there’s nothing quiet or modest about katsuki, and you’re overly acquainted with how this feature also includes the dark, swollen length that bobs against his stomach upon release.

he’s lining it up to your hole when he groans, “I want us to be like that all the fucking time,” then his eyes snap shut as he impales you, “you just gotta help me out here.”

the announcement of your marriage added a few years of life back onto katsuki’s publicist.

the ceremony was televised briefly, but you could tell his beaming is true. that the tears he blinks back into his eyes isn’t some crude theatric. he doesn’t care about his reputation improving—he’s fucking enraptured. he has you right where he wants you, forever.

he grasps your hand, bearing a silver ring that physically signifies his ownership. it might as well have been microchipped and nailed into your bone.

the venue’s exterior is crawling with reporters and diehard Dynamight fans, inhibited only by a velvet rope.

“mr. and mrs. bakugo!” the reporter selected by his publicist laughs, “gosh, you two look so great together!”

katsuki’s smile wavers imperceptibly, but you knew better. he hates interviews, but he hates dodging the opportunity to openly assert his possession of you more. “yeah, i know. she’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”

a chorus of cheers erupts behind her, varying words of praise and devotion delivered with passion befitting the occasion, or hoots about your appearance that make your gut turn in on itself. you swallow and twist your wedding band with your thumb.

“absolutely! now, tell us how you’re feeling, mrs. bakugo?”

the night before, katsuki had perched you on his lap, and helped you rehearse absent answers to her questions that your mind would never even begin to conjure on its own.

“i feel so blessed.” you inject warmth and life into your words, the smile you spent hours perfecting in the mirror surfacing. “katsuki makes me… endlessly happy.”

“what can we expect in the future from the newlyweds?”

he winds his arm around your waist, and cradles his balm against your stomach. your eyes widen in alarm and acidic dread. he promised you. he swore that it would be kept under wraps until—

“as a matter a’ fact, baby bakugo’s on the way.” he declares, now smooching your cheek in a showy manner.

one time is a coincidence, twice is… an oddity?

your door is open again— well, you’d left it open, but it was acute angularly. you only leave it open a crack.

was there a draft? you raise your hand in the air, and unwittingly activate your quirk, heightening your sense of touch. the flow of air is ordinary, breezing around your hand slowly, and with a cheap low pressure.

there’s nothing, as such. it wasn’t as though you could afford a better ac system.

everything was in its right place. the knick-knacks cluttering your windowsill, your bedsheets creased in the corners, comforter balled in a misshapen lump in the center— everything was eerily correct… to your knowledge, at least. as if time had never raked across it. your stomach tightens, and you shift your gaze to the bathroom door, equally as ajar.

your scale is still slotted against the toilet, and while the occasional meeting of the porcelain and the glass did make you wince, it was more accessible in that position. upon further analysis, even the curtain was drawn back and the fabric ripples. it might’ve been a touch juvenile, but the ever-present fear of a form appearing shadowy from behind the polka-dots was stifling.

still having been equipped with your quirk, your gaze becomes more intent, hardening with each blink. it’s still bunched to the left, and is just that. still.

your quivering hand hovers in the air for a pregnant pause, suspended by uncertainty and fright. you inhale, which does nothing to quell your rampant heart, and seize the curtain—but when you pull it toward yourself, nothing is there. just the protective plastic and cheap design.

but when you drop your head on your pillow that night, your head encounters some light difficulty committing your habitual tossing. you lift your head, and peer down. bemused, your fingers ghost over your bare pillow… where’d your silk cover gone?

there’s a new girl at work.

company policy, which you’ve been forced to commit to memory, states that hair must be a solid color, and a natural color at that. her hair is anything but. there's raccoon tails and pastels melting together, done indisputably by her hand, but adds to her charm and absent-minded character.

seniority rules, and so, it's decided she spends her first day with you. Initially, she begins her introduction by informing you the cheese danishes in the store's cafe were her drug, proceeded to mime snorting a line of coke. your laugh is ungodly at best, and your throat airily expands with the sound. clarity hit her seconds later, where she meekly asks you not to tell your superiors she said that.

"don't tell me you're an op, y/n." she murmurs to you with pressed palms.

"umm... i'm not?"

she proceeds to make small, correctable errors, and hits it off with the customers. you study her rapport with apt awe. every so often, she runs her fingers along the glossy spines of moby dick and war and peace whenever we pass them, and she remains there for a pregnant pause.

your breaks aligned, as she would be shadowing you for the day. the break room is desolate, save for her and you, and a shade of white that elicits a vague memory of TV static before your eyes. in your periphery is the equally disconcerting bright phone screen in yuka’s hands (nails a collection of color that don’t compliment the other in any particular way) that stains your side view. but you can make out the familiar formatting of the tumblr website. her phone ringer is on, so as her thumbs flit across the bottom of the bright glass, it goes something like ‘pcka-pcka-pcka’ but you’d have to produce a sound with your mouth that required you to press your lips together and suck them in, in order to replicate it correctly.

you like her.

you might’ve assumed kinship due to her appearance— it's anything but conventional. or maybe it's her manner. quick, blunt, but doused with sweet sincerity;

“so, it turns out that’s not how you pronounce it–I think that’s where the disconnect occurred.” she’d stated matter of factly, but there wasn’t a trace of animosity.

with darkened eyes, the customer’s mouth protrudes. his upper lip furls into a snarl.

“No. It’s accor-di-ance.” he insisted.

“accordance.” she said with a gentle smile. “but it’s alright–we found it! I hope you enjoy it.”

he left contentedly, despite his earlier erroneous insistence. flummoxed, you remained silent during the exchange. selfishly, you didn’t feel the need to interject. that, and you deduced that yuka capable enough to sort out the issue herself.

either way, it's difficult not to acquiesce her boba tea date request. you have some leftover money from making rent early, and it's not like you had anyone to call a friend.

it could be a safe change. hopefully. you’d take the leap. what could go wrong?

"if you were boba–with the pearls–you would be taro. just because I like the color. It's pretty. just like you." yuka says in the midst of alphabetizing and brain-racking. you’d been section detailing fiction. yanking out titles that didn't belong in the various shelves, or were in the wrong order. tedious, but it wasn't hard.

the warm flush that encompasses your cheeks is alarming— you hold them in your hands dazedly.

"oh." you utter stupidly. "thank you."

she giggles, and you’re instantly envious of its melodiousness.

“what section is this in?”

you pull out the device that displays inventory and genre, and twist the book around, where the scanner is particularly blinding, and survey the tiny print.

“social sciences.” you answer, watching the screen illuminate her gentle features.

she bites her bottom lip—it’s plump and full, swollen with color and life. “where’s that again, (y/n)?”

the shelves stood half way to the ceiling, and it was difficult to see around them. but you could navigate the labyrinth with ease. and so you weaved your way through the bays and yielded to a few elderly patrons, before halting upon the social sciences section.

“remember that the subsections aren’t labeled. you’ll figure it out by eyeballing the titles carefully.” you say. something about her charisma and unconventionality brought you solace, and a smidge of relaxedness.

she raises her wrist and inspected her watch.

“it’s time for our break now, isn’t it?” she asks fervently.

you crack a tentative grin at her. “it’s 5 already? then yeah, go on.”

“y/n!” a barista calls out with plum crescents under her eyes. you stand from your ornately ivory wired seat— you have angry red imprints on the backs of your thighs— and retrieve your sugary boba tea.

admittedly, you’d never really liked that herby-earthy taste. but something about the sparkling excitement in yuka’s eyes made you inclined to spend a minute amount.

she watches you earnestly, waiting for you to slurp up the pearls and taro. you do, and you unsuccessfully suppress a cringe.

“it’s not bad.” you lie, still working on chewing the onslaught of saccharine.

she studies your face for a few seconds, before leaning back in her chair with a pout. “you hate it.”

you nod solemnly. “i do.”

her chest heaves with a hearty laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners and mouth falling half open. her teeth are aligned perfectly. you wondered if she’d had braces.

“i appreciate you trying to spare my feelings, but don’t force yourself to drink it. i can give you the money back for it—“

“no.” you interject, pausing when you realize the harshness of your tone. “no.” you soften. “don’t even worry. i got it.”

she didn’t seem deterred by your insistence, but relinquished anyway with a sigh.

“alright, y/n.” she huffs. “you win this time. next time, i’ll treat you.”

you smile small. “okay.”

you fall into light conversation about your boss, who flirts with all the girls staffed.

“when i was taking out a book off of the bookseller favorites display, he told me he’d ‘fill my hole.’” you scowl. “fuckin’ weirdo. why would he say it that way?”

yuka giggles, hiding her smile behind a heavily ringed hand.

“i can’t believe there’s so much drama at my new workplace! you have to keep me updated, y/n. i’ll let you know if he says any pervy shit to me.”

you marvel at her words. this was an invitation. to friendship? you weren’t positive. but it was the start of something new. and for once, the potential of change didn’t frighten you.

words flowed with great ease past your tongue, much to your shock. her very character assuaged your nerves, briefly, and you’d spoken more than you had in months.

out of nowhere, your hair stands on the back of your unexpectedly. you throw your chin over your shoulder, attempting to glimpse the cause of your paranoia. but besides the bustle of patrons, there was nothing you could pick out.

“you okay?” yuka asks concernedly, eyebrows pinched at the middle.

“yup.” you answer unconvincingly. “just fine.”