#bnha reader insert

“20 missed calls. Really?" you say, crossing your arms. "I thought you were dying or something.”

He looks unrepentant.

“Dying of boredom. Come here,” he mutters when you just keep glaring at him from the doorway. He has the audacity to glare back when you don't move, as if you are the irrational one for not being in his arms already.

“Whats the point of being your second in command if you don't even let me do my job?” you grumble, trudging towards the bed but staying just out of his reach.

Part of you wants to punish him for making you run off in the middle of a meeting for nothing. Teach him that just because you two are dating doesn't mean you are at his beck and call, that you cant drop your responsibilities to go see him any time he wants. The bigger—lovesick, very stupid—part though, softens at the sight of all the bandages still covering his body, and the—deeper than usual—bags under his eyes.

“Most of those meetings are bullshit anyways.” he says. “Tell Skeptic to send an email or whatever if he wants our opinion that badly”

He offers his hand, the sight of his missing fingers still making your heart hurt. You will never understand how he didn't kill Re-destro for that. Or at least cut off both of his hands. It was only fair after all.

Tomura calls your name and pulls you out of those musings, an impatient frown on his face. You give him one last unimpressed look and give in, taking his hand and climbing gingerly on his lap—careful of his broken leg. Once you are settled, he pulls you until you are flush against him, his chin resting snug on your shoulder.

“I need you more than them anyways," he says, pushing his hands under your shirt and tracing patterns on your back. “If you are away all day, how am I supposed to entertain myself?”

You pull back, with some effort, and gesture to the handheld devices that are thrown on the other side of the bed—a beat up DS, a PS Vita, hell even a Game Boy. He scowls and pushes them all away, throwing a few blankets over them.

"Stop being dense." He nips at your ear, making you yelp. He kisses it after, trailing down to your jaw, then neck in that way he knows makes you unable to think of anything but him. "You'd rather be here too. Stay."

He's right. You hate that he is right, yet find yourself unable to argue as your thoughts get hazier by the minute—his hands slipping under your bra, the touch fleeting, teasing. Your nipples harden with the attention but he then decides to pay them no mind, his hands going back to caressing your sides and back. He takes his time, alternating between feather-like touches and pinching the skin near your hips. You bite your lower lip, try to swallow your frustration but he is relentless—taking you apart bit by bit until you can barely remember what had you so pissed in the first place.

Fuck it.

"I'm still mad at you," you say but the small whimper that escapes you right after, when Tomura swipes his tongue over your collarbones, destroys all your credibility. You can feel him smiling against your skin, the smug bastard.

He can still feel the fire of the forest. Where the smoke had clawed down his throat while he fought through flame and falling branches.

Where he'd been in the middle of training—his training—when the world decided it wanted to test him in a different way.

Shigaraki stands in front of the turned off TV with a slouch that gave off he’s both bored with the world and personally offended it still exists.

His pale blue hair catches the dim light while on his face rests a hand (that damn hand) like a parasite, fingers splayed across his cheekbones as though it owns him.

“This system has a strange way of transforming people’s lives into money or glory," The leader of the League of Villains talks like he’s reciting scripture.

“A society that sticks tight to those rules...citizens who blame the losers rather than encourage them...” He gestures vaguely as if the air itself is his audience. “Our fight is to question: what is a hero? What is justice? Is this society truly just?”

Bakugo’s glare hardens until it’s almost physical as Shigaraki’s eyes fix on him.

“We’ll have everyone thinking about it,” he says, voice dipping into something sharp and pleased. “That’s when we’ll know we’ve won.”

He pauses, slyness creeping into his tone like he’s dangling bait.

“You like winning too, right Bakugo?”

Winning

That makes the spikey blonde's stomach twist with disgust.

As if it’s the same kind of winning. As if Bakugo's winning is about watching the world burn.

The audacity of it all makes the prickling under the teen's skin surge.

Shigaraki finally stops circling his own sermon long enough to order something useful. “Dabi,” he says casually, “release his restraints.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Huh?” Dabi’s voice drags out, low and rough as he raises a brow. “You know this kid’s gonna fight.”

Bakugo’s gaze flicks toward him with dry acknowledgment. 'Yeah. No shit.'

“It’s fine,” Shigaraki answers unfazed. “We need to treat him as an equal since we’re recruiting him. Besides,” a malicious smile is heard behind the decrepit hand, sickly and self-satisfied, “he’s smart enough to know he can’t take us all and win in this situation, right? After all you U.A. students are so clever.”

Equal. The word lands like an insult causing the cuffs on Bakugo wrists to click faintly at his straining.

Dabi’s mouth twitches, unimpressed before flicking the annoyance away like a cigarette butt. “Twice,” he says. “You do it.”

Twice jerks like he’s been slapped with responsibility. “What, me?! No way.” He laughs wrong before suddenly blurting, the contradiction tumbling out in the same breath. “Absolutely!”

“Do it,” Dabi flatly orders again.

“Man...okay okay!” Twice mutters under his breath as he shuffles forward, hands working at the locks with light complaint. The moment Bakugo’s wrists are free, his shoulders roll like a predator finally allowed to stand.

Mr. Compress glides forward like he’s hosting a show, arms spread wide with a flourish.

“I do apologize for using such forceful methods,” he says, voice silky and theatrical. “But please understand that we are not just some unruly mob trying to commit crimes. We didn’t kidnap you by accident.”

Bakugo says nothing, simply flexing his fingers as the last restraint falls, feeling blood rush back through his hands. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his lip curls.

Shigaraki steps closer, voice dropping into something that tries to sound sincere. “Even though our situations differ, everyone here has suffered. Because of people... rules... and heroes who tried to hold us back. I’m sure you feel the same way—”

Bakugo lunges forward.

Hand swinging straight for Shigaraki’s face, he detonates—an explosion so close it’s a slap across everyone’s faces.

The blast blooms white-orange, loud enough to rattle the room, as the shockwave pushes dust and ash outward like a violent exhale.

When the haze clears Shigaraki’s is seen stumbled back, face still turned sideways from the impact. He does nothing for a moment, shaking eyes taking in the sight of the hand that now lays discarded on the floor, steam emitting from the severed appendage.

Bakugo plants his feet and squares his shoulders.

“I’m done listening to your endless jabbering,” he spits sharply. His eyes rake the room—taking stock of every villain, every angle, every threat—before bouncing back to Shigaraki. “Can you not get to the point or do you just like hearing your own voice?”

His lips peel back in a snarl. “Basically what you’re saying is you’re nothing but trouble and you want me to join you.” He lifts his chin, refusing to be talked down to by any of them.

“Well screw you,” Bakugo growls.

“I like to win. And I'm gonna win just like All Might. No matter what you have to offer me, no matter what anyone says—that will never change! Do you understand?!”

There’s a heartbeat where he thinks they’ll rush him. He wants them to. He can feel the fight vibrating under his skin begging to spill ou—

He stops.

It’s not dramatic at first. It’s a tiny shift: his mouth goes still mid-snarl, head angling as if he’s caught a frequency no one else can hear.

A deep distant boom rolls in from far away.

It rattles the ceiling causing dust to sift down in a soft sprinkle, landing on shoulders and hair like a warning.

Everyone freezes.

Twice blinks rapidly, voice splitting in two. “That—uh—that wasn’t us!” one voice says anxiously. “Yes we definitely did that!” the other argues louder in defense.

Spinner’s nods toward to the boarded windows. “Heroes already?”

Dabi tilts his head, eyes narrowing, listening with the patience of someone who knows what an approaching fight sounds like.

“No,” he says slowly as if tasting it. “Heroes don’t sound that pissed.”

For a second Shigaraki’s expression glitches—irritation, confusion, a flicker of something like calculation.

Bakugo’s mouth twitches from it all. A grin starts at the corner of his lips, small and mean, like a secret he’s savoring. “Heh.”

Shigaraki’s gaze snaps back to him as his scowl deepens. “What are you smiling about?” he demands.

Bakugo doesn’t even give him the satisfaction of a full answer. His grin simply widens, this time showing teeth.

“Nothing,” he says lazily.

And then, like he can’t help himself—like the thought is too good to keep in—he adds low and delightfully:

“Guess you’ll find out.”

Another boom answers him.

The old building tremors with it; a thin jagged crack spiders up the plaster near the corner as the hanging lamp swings violently on its chain casting a nauseating sway of shadow across the room.

One of the lower-ranking villains (a kind of extra Bakugo doesn’t even bother to memorize) edges toward a boarded-up window. She leans in, face pressed toward the narrow gap between two warped planks—

only to instantly jerk back as if slapped.

She blinks once. Then twice.

“No...” she shakes her head with a mutter, a short incredulous laugh slipping out of before she can stop it. “That’s—no. I’m tripping.”

She leans in again for another look. This time she stays there longer, so much the room goes quiet behind her as if holding their breath.

Shigaraki’s patience finally breaks under the pressure of anticipation. “Well?” he snarls. “Spit it out.”

The villain straightens and turns around slowly, almost as if she’s afraid the room might change if she does it too fast.

“I—I think...” Her voice comes out unsure of itself. “...I see daylight.”

For half a second no one reacts.

Then confusion ripples through the room in low murmurs and scoffs, disbelief layering over itself.

“What?” “Don’t be stupid.” “At night?”

Before anyone can laugh it off—

BOOM

The hideout seemed to flinch, boards creaking as a section of nailed wood rattled loose enough for a harsh beam of white-gold light to slice through the gaps.

It spills across the cracked concrete floor, flooding the dust-choked air in violent flashes as if the sun itself was slamming its fist trying to break in.

The surrounding villains could only stare in uneasy silenc—

Bakugo laughs.

It starts low, a sharp huff through his nose before the sound grows. Loud, wild, and gleeful—it echoes off the walls as another pulse of false daylight goes off.

“You guys really fucked up,” is all he says through the laughter, eyes blazing brighter than the light spilling in. “You know that?”

Dabi’s flames of irritation flares. “If you know what’s happening,” he steps forward intimidatingly, “start talking.”

Bakugo just looks at him as his teeth bared in a feral grin. “Nah.”

The explosions get closer—close enough that the floor quake in short angry bursts. Close enough that dust rains from the ceiling in thicker streams.

Then—

Silence.

For a moment the only sound is the faint crackle of something burning somewhere outside, the LoV’s own breathing suddenly too loud.

It's a quiet that makes the room loosen a fraction—shoulders drop, stance weakens, quirks idle.

A smaller villain near the door scoffs under his breath, courage returning now that the noise has paused.

He steps forward, swaggering into the space between Bakugo and the exit like he’s going to reclaim control with words.

“See?” he starts smugly. “All that talk and nothing. Just a little few b—”

The door doesn’t open.

It implodes.

Wood splinters into a storm of shards, the entire frame bursting apart as a thick spike of debris spears straight through the villain’s torso, lifting him off his feet in a grotesque second of shock—eyes wide, mouth open, no sound coming out.

He doesn’t even finish dying before a wave of fire surges in, swallowing him into an inferno that incinerates flesh and fabric so fast it leaves nothing human behind.

Stench from the steam hits hard—burnt wood, burnt hair, burnt meat—enough to make even hardened criminals recoil.

The League staggers back as one. Even Dabi’s flames reacted, the heat flooding the room feeling nothing like his.

Bakugo stands in the chaos like he belongs in it, soot and dust catching in his hair, eyes locked on the ruined doorway with a predator’s focus.

His laughter is gone now, replaced by the cold certainty of a bastard King watching his enemies finally understand the price of a mistake.

A figure steps into view through the smoke—silhouette carved out by the bright flare behind them.

The voice that follows is calm—almost emotionless—and that lack of emotion makes it worse.

“Who fucking thought kidnapping my bestfriend was smart?” 

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Before it all began...

The sun is warm enough to make the air feel thick.

Not hot. Not oppressive. Just that soft golden light that settles over quiet neighborhoods when the day is almost done and everyone assumes nothing bad can happen anymore.

You hate it.

You sit cross-legged in the grass, arms folded tight over your chest, jaw set so hard it aches. The blades of grass itch against your calves as a tiny pebble keeps pressing into the soft part of your foot, but you refuse to move.

Because moving would feel like giving in. And giving in would feel like losing.

Bakugo Katsuki is doing the exact same thing across from you.

He’s sitting with his knees up, arms crossed, face twisted into a scowl that looks permanently carved there despite how young he is. His blond hair sticks up in uneven spikes, catching the sunlight like sparks frozen mid-blast.

He keeps glaring like you personally offended him by existing in his space (apparently you did).

Near the small garden patch off to the side of the yard, your mother and Bakugo Mitsuki are deep in conversation. They sit in mismatched outdoor chairs, leaning toward each other in conversation, hands moving as adult laughter drifts over loud and unaware.

Your mother’s voice is calm but animated, her posture straight even when she relaxes. She listens more than she speaks, sharp eyes always flicking back toward you even when she’s smiling.

Mitsuki, on the other hand, laughs with her whole body. She slaps her knee once, completely unapologetic about the volume of her joy.

“So you’re telling me,” Mitsuki wipes at the corner of her eye, “they have to burn dinner at least once or it doesn’t count?”

Your mother hums in amusement. “It’s practically a requirement.”

You glance over at them, irritation bubbling low in your stomach.

Well...they’re having fun. Meanwhile you’re stuck on another forced playdate.

This was supposed to be a polite and civil affair. Reasons for exposure and socialization and he’s around your age.

You didn’t care about any of that. 

But your mom told you to put your shoes on anyway. She always has a way to tell you to do something. A voice that doesn’t rise, doesn’t waver, or doesn’t argue back no matter how hard you push so you might as well stop fighting.

You fight anyway. You always do.

“What’re you pouting for?” Bakugo breaks the tension with aggression, “You gonna cry again or somethin’?”

“I’m not crying,” you shoot back, heat flaring in your chest. “You’re just annoying.”

He scoffs. “Annoying? You’re the one who won’t even play.”

“I don’t wanna play your dumb games.”

“They’re not dumb!” he yells, springing to his feet. “You’re just bad at ‘em!”

Your face burns. You stand too, movements jerky as anger sifts through your limbs like static. “I am not!”

“You are!” he shouts back, pointing at you like that settles it. “You don’t even try!”

“I try harder than you!” you're screaming at this point, voice cracking with the force of it. You hate the way your feelings always spill out too big—like you can’t keep them inside where they belong.

Your mom glances over then at the commotion causing you to clamp your mouth shut.

Bakugo notices. “What, you gonna tattle?” he sneers.

“I don’t tattle,” you snap. “I don’t need to.”

He snorts. “Yeah right.”

The silence settles back into place, heavier now. You both stand there, breathing hard, staring each other down like this is a battle neither of you know how to walk away from.

This wasn’t supposed to be permanent.

You and your mother were supposed to leave. Japan was just another stop—another borrowed house, another almost-home.

Then your father didn’t come back from war.

You don’t understand all of it yet. You just know that your mother stopped packing boxes and started planting roots. That she speaks Japanese more often now, keeps her voice steady even when her eyes go distant. That everyone else seems to accept this life faster than you do.

Japan still feels strange sometimes—too many rules, too many looks that linger too long on your skin, on your hair, on your mom.

Your dad used to say it didn’t matter. He used to pick you up and spin you until you laughed so hard it hurt, until the world blurred into color and nothing else existed.

You don’t remember his voice very well anymore.

Only the way the house went quiet after he was gone, and how your anger got bigger to fill the space.

From the garden Mitsuki calls out without looking, “Hey Katsuki! Show her that hero thing you’re always bragging about.”

Bakugo freezes for a beat before his chest puffs out in reflex.

“Tch. Fine,” he says, already turning away from you and stomping toward the back step. He digs through a plastic bin, tossing aside rocks and broken crayons and something that looks suspiciously like a chewed-up glove.

When he straightens again, he’s holding it up triumphantly like a trophy: an All Might toy.

It’s scuffed and worn, paint chipped at the edges, one arm a little looser than it should be—but it’s unmistakable: the pose, the grin, the cape frozen mid-sweep.

Your eyes follow it without permission.

“This is All Might,” Bakugo declares, thrusting the action figure toward the sky like he’s presenting evidence. “He’s the strongest hero ever. He always wins. And I’m gonna be like him.”

You take a good look at him; at the confidence, the way he says it like it’s already decided. “I know who All Might is.”

His glare jumps back to you. “Then why are you acting like you don’t care?”

“I do care,” you counter, pride flaring hot and fast. “I just don’t brag about it like an idiot.” You step closer despite yourself. “You don’t even hold it right.”

“What?” He jerks away from you when you get too close. “Yeah I do.”

“No you don’t. He stands like this,” you insist, mimicking the stance with your own small body, feet planted wide, chin lifted. “He’s strong, not sloppy.”

Bakugo stares at you for a beat. Then he laughs—sharp and disbelieving. “You think you know All Might better than me?”

“I know him just as good,” you say curtly. “Maybe better.”

The blonde child's fingers tighten around the battered plaything. “No way! You don’t even have one.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“It does matter,” he insists haughtily. “If you don’t have one, you don’t get it.”

“I get it!” You lunge forward before you can stop yourself, grabbing the plastic's arm. “I'll show you. Give it to me!”

“No!” He yanks back, and suddenly you’re both pulling, feet digging into the grass, the toy stretched between you like a fuse about to snap.

The adults are still talking...laughing. Unaware of what's conspiring.

Bakugo’s face is red now, teeth clenched. “Let go!”

“You let go!”

“I had it first!”

“That’s not...FAIR!” you scream as you pull harder, and then—to both your surprise—you begin to gain ground.

You’re stronger than he expects, and Bakugo doesn't like that.

“You—!” His face twists, voice cracking with fury. “Fine!”

A sharp crack of sound snaps against your hands and arms. You stumble back with a cry, the figurine slipping from your grip allowing the toy to jerk free into his hands.

Bakugo looks shocked for exactly one second before pride takes over. “I won,” he says breathless.

You could only stare at him as your eyes began to sting—not just from the pain, but from the realization settling in too fast for you to dodge it:

He hurt you...on purpose.

Something inside you breaks loose.

You feel it crawl up your spine, pooling thick and sour in your stomach. Your hands tremble as the air around starts to feels wrong—thick and buzzing, like it’s holding its breath too.

“No,” you snarl through tears. “You didn’t.”

The ground under your feet shudders causing Bakugo’s smile to falter.

Pressure bends close to your skin, a deep vibration thrumming through your bones. It’s not clean nor controlled; instead a wave of rage, hurt, and humiliation crashing together with nowhere to go.

You look at the miniature All Might in his grasp and you hate it.

You hate that he had it. You hate that he used it. You hate that it mattered so much.

Your cry turns sharp as the heat continues to spike. “You cheated! So—”

Bakugo yelps at the sudden temperature making him drop the toy with a flinch.

“Nobody wins!” you finish through sobs.

The action doll begins to melt just as it hits the ground before shattering into fragments. Plastic warps as the force of the explosion scatters it across the yard; bits of cape, a broken grin, an arm uselessly in the grass.

The sound is enormous.

Your mother moves faster than Bakugo has ever seen an adult move. She’s there in an instant, hands on your shoulders, pulling you back against her chest.

The world drops into quiet like someone pressed a palm over reality itself as the pressure collapses inward. Vibration dying mid-thrum, the energy disperses harmlessly into nothing.

Your knees buckle as your power vanishes leaving you shaking, exhausted, and furious all at once.

“I’ve got you,” your mother murmurs as she holds you steady, one hand firm between your shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of your head. “Breathe.”

Mitsuki is already up, eyes wide. “What the hell—Katsuki! What did you do?!”

Bakugo doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

He could only stare, watching the ruined pieces of the All Might figurine across his backyard. At the scorch marks on the green grass.

Your mother turns, already apologizing, posture composed despite the tension in her lips. She bows deeply. “I’m so sorry. I should have kept a closer eye on her. I’ll make sure to replace the toy.”

Mitsuki waves it off reflexively even as she grabs Bakugo by the collar. “Didn't I tell you about using your explosions on people?!” Then softer to your mother, “It's fine, kids will be kids. Guess they both got tempers huh?”

Your mother nods with a tight smile in place, already steering you away.

You don’t look back the entire time. Your fury still simmers within as you leave the yard, heat lingering in your wake like a memory burned into the air.

You don’t see Bakugo standing there watching you go. He ignores Mitsuki's scolding as she drags him inside the house. Hell he barely even register her threats of 'taking away his games' or 'no hanging out at the arcade after school'.

All he sees is the aftermath.

The broken toy... The heat... The power...

It has been some time since you first arrived. You’ve grown accustomed to both life in the forest and life with Touya. The seasons have since changed. All of the trees have shed their leaves and a thin blanket of snow covers the ground. Usually, around wintertime, you’d struggle to stay warm and heat your shop while you drowned in needlework. But now? Touya’s home -no-  your home is never cold, the fire always alit with his glowing blue flames. The only struggles you truly face are from attempting to understand runic language and from trying to stay awake with how cozy your home is. Which brings you to now, finding Touya has lost that battle and slumbers peacefully. It’s a sight that makes you smile, seeing him so serene. 

He must not have intended to fall asleep, as he’s still wearing his hat. The pointed hat is now crumpled against the chaise. You’re able to really look at him like this, to fully drink in his features; the slope of his nose, his pretty white eyelashes, the contour of his lips… You try to push down these thoughts of yours when they come around, but you can’t help but think he’s quite attractive. It’s becoming increasingly distracting lately. Just the other day, when he was so close to you, attempting to help you understand a particularly confusing spell from his books, you couldn’t stop staring at his lips and thinking about what they would feel like against yours. You can’t even remember what he said then, it’s gotten to be that troublesome for you. 

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when he seems to stir in his sleep, brows pinching together as he mumbles incoherently. You knew of his troubles sleeping, but you never had the chance to see what he was talking about, as the two of you slept separately. It seems to you as if he’s having an unpleasant dream. The thought of him having nightmares while you stand there and do nothing doesn’t sit well with you. You don’t want to disturb his slumber, so you decide against awakening him. Instead, you choose to soothe him. 

You sit next to him on the available space of the chaise. Your fingers deftly trace the runes on his skin. The contact seems to calm him, as his brow slowly relaxes and his mumbling subsides. You wonder if he has bad dreams often, silently carrying that burden all on his own. The thought makes you determined to get to know him better. You want to become someone he trusts, someone he can rely on. You’ve been grateful for his help in understanding yourself and your new abilities, but you can’t help but worry the relationship has been one-sided, with you disproportionately benefitting while he gets nothing in return. You want to help him too, you’re just not sure how. 

You must have been too enamored in your own introspection to notice he had awoken. His eyes flutter open and drearily peer at you. You feel frozen in place. 

“Y-you’re awake,” you stutter. Your cheeks feel hot. You turn away as you apologize. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he dismisses. His voice is raspier and deeper than normal. Hearing him speak this way sends a tingle down your spine. Your eyes are magnetically drawn to him despite your embarrassment and you glance over at him. He gives you a soft smile as he rubs the remnants of sleep from his eyes. It seems the dregs of drowsiness are wearing off of him, as he flirts, “I wouldn’t mind waking up like that more often.” 

“Waking up like what?” you ask, inquisitively. 

He merely smirks at you, before clarifying, “To you.” His sweet words make you feel even more flustered.

“You tease me too much, Touya,” you huff.

“I do not,” he defends, sitting up as he denies your accusation and closing some of the distance between you. “I don’t think I do it enough, actually.” 

“Well in that case…” you start, before trailing off at the end of your sentence. Touya looks at you expectantly. You snatch his witch’s hat from his head and dodge his reaching hands by leaping up from your spot on the chaise. “Until you stop teasing me, this will be mine.” 

You place the hat atop your head. He’s staring at you with a shocked expression. His stunned demeanor makes you a little nervous, causing you to question if your attempt at playfulness has instead insulted him. You try to maintain the lighthearted mood by asking, “What, does it not suit me?” 

His mind is flooding with thoughts of you wearing more of his clothes. Or better yet, you in nothing but his hat. 

He’s gotta get that damn thing back. 

“As much as it does, I’ll be taking that,” he says. You give him a mischievous smile.

“You’ll have to catch me then,” you challenge. And with that, the chase begins. Touya is much quicker than you expected, as he gains on you quickly. You duck and dodge his efforts to snatch the hat from your head. It’s after a particularly close call that you think of a devious idea. You still have the rune marks on your skin from practicing earlier, the letters temporarily stained onto your skin with simple ink. It’s nothing more than a simple spell, something you learned from him, in fact, but maybe it’ll help you prolong this little game. A chair is pulled out ahead of his path, so not as to cause him to trip and hurt himself but to serve as an obstacle, in an attempt to buy yourself a few more seconds. He catches it with his hand and pushes it out of his way. 

“It’ll take more than a cheap trick to stop me,” he brags, before resuming the chase. 

You maneuver carefully and quickly through the halls. You’re nearing the end of the hall, so you have to make the quick decision to dive into a room. You choose to bolt into your bedroom. It’s rather small and a dead end, but maybe you could figure out a way to dart past him and win this little game. His pace is slower as he enters your room, knowing full well that you’re cornered with nowhere to go. You attempt to run past him, but his arms circle around your waist. He grabs you and spins you around in his arms. You let out a surprised squeal. 

“Alright, alright, you win,” you concede, speaking in between giggles. He gently places you down on the ground. You reach up and place his hat back on his head. Your arms seem to hesitate. You don’t want to stop touching him just yet, so you rest one of your arms on his shoulder, like a faux embrace, while your other hand adjusts his hat. He doesn’t seem to mind, as he leans into your touch. One of his hands rests upon your waist, pulling you slightly closer to him. You feel more secure in your gestures, and you drape your arms behind his neck. 

You’ve been afraid of overstepping by touching him all this time, but his reactions make you realize he really doesn’t mind. It’s as if he’s been starved for touch. The thought of him being so deprived of human interaction makes you a bit saddened. You remember what you were thinking about on the chaise, how you wish to understand him more. How can you expect to learn more about him if you never take the chance to ask? 

“Touya?” You ask, unsure. You’re curious, but you don’t want to make him uncomfortable.

“Hm?” He hums.

“Please forgive my prying and my sudden question, but… did you ever feel lonely?” you ask softly. “I just… I can’t help but wonder what it was like for you, to be alone all these years.” 

“Even before,” he starts, referencing his time as a royal. “I never was much of a socialite. Being alone is natural for me.” 

“Hm, is that so?” You hum, before continuing in a softer, almost somber tone, “I hope my presence hasn’t ruined that for you.” He’s quick to deny it, dispelling your worries.

“No, not a chance. I…,” he pauses. There’s a slight flush that begins to creep upon his cheeks as he hesitates to speak more. Your eyes catch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, before his next admission falls from his tongue. 

“I have enjoyed your company,” he admits. His other hand finds itself on your waist and the two of you hold one another. Your heart seems to stutter. 

“But would you continue to enjoy it?” You challenge. His gestures get bolder, as he pulls you flush against him, his arms wrapped around your torso. “You’re stuck with me now. Would that ever be tiring?” 

“I don’t think such a thing is possible,” he reassures. 

“I sure hope not,” you murmur. He gives you a soft smile that you find yourself returning, lifting the mood. The two of you embrace comfortable silence, gazing into each other’s eyes with enamored expressions, until he seems to be lost in thought. You don’t notice how his eyes flick from your eyes to your lips. 

“Can I…” he trails off, shyly. You raise an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue. His face reddens more when he finally rushes out, “Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” you breathe, responding almost embarrassingly fast. A quick flash of relief crosses his face upon hearing your enthusiasm before being replaced by a loving smile. The space between the two of you closes as his face draws closer to yours. Instinctively, your eyes flutter shut and your lips part. 

You can feel him fighting back a smile when your lips finally touch. The feeling of his lips on yours is everything you imagined and more; soft and sweet, loving yet passionate. Despite finally feeling his lips on yours, satisfying your desire, you find yourself yearning for more. You want to feel more of him, all of him. The thought fills you with a fire you’ve never felt before. You throw yourself to the flames and kiss him back with fervor as you card one of your hands through his soft, white hair. 

He holds you tighter against him as his lips work against yours. Your heart feels like it could just burst when he deepens the kiss and runs his tongue along your lip. His tongue brushes against yours when you part your lips further. The action makes you sharply inhale. You’re intoxicated by him, drunk on every sensation he gives you, to the point it feels almost dizzying. The desire you feel makes you weak in the knees and your arm tightens around him in an attempt to not sway on the spot, but this task seems almost impossible when you feel something hard pressing against you. 

Reluctantly, you part for air, trying to catch your breath before your knees really give out on you. He rests his forehead on yours as the two of you both pant in unison. Your stomach flutters when you lock eyes with him, noticing the way he looks at you, eyes half lidded. The sight of him like this… and all for you. All because of you. 

It fills you with desperation.

A desperate need for more.

 After the two of you catch your breath, he moves to give you space, taking your choice to part for air as a sign to stop, but you pull him closer and cling onto his shirt. You don’t want to stop anytime soon. 

“M-more,” you whisper, want apparent in your breathy voice. He lets out a soft, airy chuckle at your neediness and leans in for a kiss, but gives you nothing more than a quick peck on the lips before pulling away.

“Why don’t we take this somewhere more comfortable, hm?” he suggests.  “Is the bed okay with you? 

You instantly agree, maybe a little too eagerly, much to your embarrassment. He doesn’t tease you about it, something you’re silently thankful for. In fact, he seems to reward your honesty and enthusiasm by pressing a few heated kisses to your jaw. His bold actions make your knees nearly buckle and a soft gasp escapes your lips.

Bastard.

Your steps are now clumsy, thanks to his flustering, as he leads you down the hallway. But now in your room, the magnetism between the two of you pulls you together once more. His lips find yours and he kisses you with renewed fervor. It’s equal parts passionate and desperate, carrying with it unspoken feelings of yearning and long awaited closeness. You return his feelings through your own actions, as you coax him forward by gripping his shirt collar. 

Your movements are less than graceful as you both move. It’s a distracted waltz towards the bed, your minds too busy on the feeling of one another to focus on making controlled movements to your destination. Though, it doesn’t take too long, as after a few shared, airy laughs at your clumsiness, the back of your knees touch the bed. You yield to the furniture, lying down on the mattress and parting your legs. He soon joins you and kneels over you on the bed, his body tucked in between your thighs. 

He moves on from your lips and slowly presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He kisses a particularly sensitive spot on your skin along your collarbone, earning a whine from your throat. The sound of you keening for him only further spurs him on and he sucks the skin into his mouth, leaving behind a faint mark. Soft pants escape your lips as he continues marking your neck and chest, painting reminders of him on your skin, all the while he’s overcome with the need to hear more of your sweet moans. 

You feel his hard length press in between your legs, now tantalizingly close in the new position. Your breath hitches and your heart leaps in your chest upon feeling his hips rut against you, grinding against your core. The feeling nearly drives you to the edge of blind passion, as you battle the desire to rip both your clothes off and feel his hot skin against yours. But as much as you’d love to throw caution to the wind and sleep with him now, there’s a gnawing worry in the back of your mind. 

“W-wait,” you stammer between panting breaths. He freezes at your request and pulls back slightly.

“What is it, my love?” He asks. You can hear a faint twinge of worry in his voice. His hand finds your knee and traces circles through your skirt fabric, his own way of soothing both you and himself in this moment. He looks at you, expectantly, not wanting to move until you speak your mind.

“Maybe…” You start, before trailing off. A soft curse escapes your lips as you grapple between your desires and your relational mind. Your chest is heaving and you bite your lip. When your words finally find you, they’re hesitant and hushed, “Maybe we should stop.” 

“Is that what you want?” He questions. 

“Well, no, but… I don’t wish to have a child yet,” you explain shyly, insinuating what would come next. Touya raises a brow, as if he knows something you don’t.

“That?” He questions. “Something so simple is solvable with an easy spell, done after.” 

“It is?” You ask, voice pitched an octave higher in surprise. 

“Yes,” he assures you with a soft smile. Your amazement at magic is always so endearing to him. But, despite this problem being easily worked around, he knows such a revelation is sudden. He’d love to take you now, but he doesn’t want to push your boundaries. “Though if you’re unsure, we can just-” 

“No,” you interrupt, quickly cutting off his next words. You tenderly cup his face. “It’s okay, I want to.”

 “If you are sure…” He whispers. His eyes flutter close as he leans forward and presses his lips against yours in a soft kiss, before picking up where he left off. Only this time, he starts a new trail down your neck, adorning you with more marks suckled into your skin. You’re painted in his colors as he works over your neck, occasionally soothing over the now bruising skin with his tongue. Both the feeling of his mouth over your sensitive neck and the thought of him laying claim to you like this has you squirming underneath him.

His lips inch closer to your hemline, and you find yourself wanting to rip off your own clothes if it means you’d feel the sin of his lips grace more of you. He seems to sense your frustration and he pulls himself away from you. As he’s now sitting up, his greedy eyes admire the sight of you below him. 

Through his eyes, you look absolutely irresistible like this; your eyes opium blown with lust, your neck mottled with love marks, your dress slowly slipping off your shoulders, and your lips parted and kiss-swollen. If you look this alluring to him still fully clothed, he wonders just how much more he’ll want you upon seeing your bare skin. 

The thought spurs him on. His hands snake under your skirt and grip your thighs. The fabric hikes up your legs, exposing your skin to the cool air and to his gaze. Bit by bit, his hands ascend up your thighs and onto your hips, tracing the curves of your body along the way. 

Even with your inexperience, you understand what he wants. You reach for your metal girdle belt and unlatch it, allowing the chain to pool against the bed. With your belt no longer in the way, he helps you pull your dress and chemise over your head. You lift your hips and he rids you of the rest of your underclothes. 

You’re now fully undressed in front of him. The realization makes you feel insecure, only further worsened by his gaze on your body. You try to cover yourself with your arms out of reflex, but he tuts at your insecurity and grabs your arms, pinning them to the bed. 

“Feeling shy, are we?” he teases, his husky voice only serving to worsen your embarrassment. You avert your eyes from his and worry your bottom lip in between your teeth. “Love, what is there to be shy about?” 

“It’s just… I’m sure you’ve seen more appealing women than I,” you answer, speaking softly and unsure. “I’m worried I’m… disappointing.” 

“Not a chance,” he assures. His voice drops an octave and he compliments, “Had I not already known you were a witch, I’d have taken you for a succubus.” He dives in for a passionate kiss on your lips, soothing your insecurity. When he pulls away, he breathily reaffirms, “You are heavenly.”

He punctuates his point by pressing a kiss in between your breasts. Both his actions and words fluster you, but you’re not able to hide your face from his gaze with your arms pinned to the mattress. His lips begin to roam the expanse of your chest until he reaches your nipples, where he places an open-mouthed kiss on them before taking your bud into his mouth. His tongue draws circles around your nipple. You moan and arch your back at the foreign sensation. Wetness pools in between your legs with every flick of his tongue. 

“So sensitive,” he teases, speaking against your skin after pulling away from your breast. 

“How can I not be when you’re-“ you start, before he latches onto your other nipple and chokes off your retort. You shoot him a glare, to which he smirks at upon releasing your chest with a wet pop. 

“‘S not a bad thing, my dear,” he says. “It’s flattering.”

“Ugh, you’re so unfair,” you groan.

“How so?”

“You keep teasing me and…”

“And?”

“And… you’re still…” you struggle to say the rest, trailing off at the end. This situation on its own is embarrassing for you, much less speaking your mind. He looks at you expectantly, urging you to continue. You swallow down your shyness and avert your eyes from his intense gaze when you speak again. “It’s easier for you to fluster me when I’m unclothed and you’re not.”

“So you want to see me naked? How naughty,” he chastises, though his words lack any true admonishment and are instead laced with amusement and cockiness. 

“Oh shut up,” you shoot back. You groan at his taunting. “I just want to touch you, all of you, without your clothes in the way.”

“Then let me give you what you want,” He obliges with a smirk. His warmth leaves you momentarily for him to shed his clothes. You prop yourself up on your forearms to watch him.

First, his loose robe is lazily guided off of his shoulders. Then, he pulls his white shirt off, allowing you the full view of his stomach. It flusters you more to see a modest set of toned muscle along his abdomen, hiding underneath swaths of his torso adorned with more runic tattoos. His arms flex slightly as the shirt is completely pulled off and thrown elsewhere. 

You push yourself off of your arms and sit upright, now closer to his bare upper half. Your hands trace over the now bare skin of his arms, trailing along the tattooed runes, and eventually making your way to the planes of his chest. He shudders slightly as your fingers dance further and further down his body. His breathing significantly picks up when your twitching fingers dare to graze the beginning of his pelvis. 

You look up at him and bat your lashes. It’s a silent demand. He hasn’t fulfilled your wish yet; there’s still clothing between the two of you. His hand caresses your jaw, tenderly, before acquiescing to your request. He withdraws from you and stands to undoe the fastening of his pants. And with that, he’s now bare before you.

Your eyes travel down the contours of his abs and to his pelvis. Much like the hair on his head, there’s a patch of white at the base of his hard length. You’ve not seen much of the male anatomy, but from what you can gather, he’s rather large. You start to worry, just how is this supposed to fit? 

You must have said what you were thinking aloud, and he answers your worries. 

“It will. I’ll make it fit, my love,” he promises.  He sees your apprehension and reaches for you. His knuckles tenderly strokes your cheek as he reassures you with a gentle voice, “I’ll go slow, just relax for me. Trust me.” 

He gazes at you with an expression nothing short of adoration. Your heart swells at how softly he’s treating you, how he has never once through this interaction pushed you farther than you were comfortable with. With him, you know he’d treasure this part of yourself that you’re giving to him. You take a deep breath in to steady your nerves. 

“Okay,” you answer. You look at him, reflecting back his look of love and smile. “I trust you.” 

He closes the distance between you, bare bodies now touching, and presses a kiss to your lips, loving and soft at first. His tongue slips into your mouth and you moan at the intrusion. His hard cock brushes against your thigh at the sound, twitching all because of your moan. 

His warm fingers slowly trail down your body, soothing over the goosebumps that pebble your bare skin. The pads of his fingers graze between your breasts, down your stomach, and over your mound. Your heart begins to race with anticipation when he drags closer to your core. He finally touches where you’re most desperate and your breath instantly hitches upon the contact. His fingers trace up and down your slit, drawing soft whines from your throat with every pass over your clit. 

A few deliberate, harder presses against your clit sends soft waves of pleasure through you. The teasing, slow touches have you growing wetter for him, coating his fingers in a sheen. Seemingly satisfied with your evident arousal, he alters his goal, his touch now descending from your clit and focusing elsewhere. His fingers prod at your entrance before he slowly inserts one finger into your hole. You gasp at the foreign intrusion. His fingers feel so long yet delightfully thick. The feeling of makes your hips squirm. 

He tests the waters cautiously first, pulling out of you at an agonizingly slow pace. When his digit has nearly slipped out of you, he searches your reaction, and upon seeing no traces of discomfort, slides back inside. His fingers then pump in and out of you, setting a comfortable pace. You let out soft gasps intermittently, finding pleasure in his movements. 

Though, he seems to be looking for something, altering the angle of his fingers as they dive in and out of you. His gaze is affixed to your face. He’s searching for some sort of reaction. When his fingers press against the spongy bundle of nerves in your walls, you instantly keen. Your toes curl at the shockwaves of pleasure that scatter through your core at the feeling of his touch against your g-spot. He smirks at the sight. 

“That’s it,” he cooes. “Feels good?”

“Y-yes, oh god, Touya,” you moan loudly, with a drawn out keen of his name. Your walls flutter around his finger as he continues to bully into your most sensitive spot. The feeling of you pulsing around him clouds his mind and he enters a lust filled haze. 

“Yeah, keep saying my name like that,” he breathes. His eyes are half lidded as he starts to imagine the way you’ll feel around his cock. Fuck, the thought has him realizing he needs to get you properly prepped and stretched for him. “Think you can take another?”

Your legs instinctively part wider for him, at the thought of being stuffed full on his fingers. You nod at his question. You’re eager to feel more of him. He sucks in a breath and pulls out until just the pad of his middle finger is nestled in your cunt. His tattooed ring finger collects the beads of wetness slipping out of your core, before slowly pushing in alongside his other finger. The delicious stretch has you moaning and arching on the bed. And with the new position of his hands, the palm of his hand grinds against your clit with every slow thrust of his fingers. The surprise of the new sensation has you throwing your arms around his neck. 

“T-Touya,” you whimper. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much, yet not enough at the same time. There’s a pressure that’s building up inside of you, a white hot pleasure that threatens to spill over. It’s a foreign feeling, yet it’s something you find yourself chasing. 

“M-more. Please Touya,” you beg sweetly. Your eyes are welling with tears, all from the sexual frustration. It makes his heart stutter when you bat your lashes at him, now damp with tears threatening to spill over. The hands behind his neck now card and tug through his hair. 

You’re driving him fucking crazy. 

He surges forward and captures your lips. His pace quickens. The pleasure drives you crazy, especially when the fingers delving into you keep curling up and hitting that delicious spot inside of you. It doesn’t help that now his palm firmly presses against that sensitive bundle of nerves with every inward thrust of his fingers. You moan and whimper into his mouth desperately, to which he eagerly and greedily swallows by tangling his tongue with yours. Your fingers harshly tug his white locks as you find the pleasure coiling up your spine. You let out a salacious, sinful sound as your release dances on the edge.

 He pulls away from the kiss to whisper a warning against your lips, “If you keep moaning like that I won’t even last.”  

True to his words, you glance down at his cock, instantly feeling flustered upon seeing his tip leaking precum and his whole cock throbbing. It just barely brushes against you with each furious bob up and down. 

You bite your lip and swallow down your sounds, wanting him to last. Despite your release so close, you find yourself wanting something else instead. 

“Please take me, Touya,” you blurt out. His pace falters and he releases a curse under his breath. 

“You temptress,” he hisses. He groans and squeezes his eyes shut. His jaw clenches as his chest heaves slightly. “What did I just say about me not lasting if you keep…” He grits his teeth, a shaky, tense sigh slipping past. 

Who is he to deny you though? He’ll cave to your wishes every time, giving as much of himself as he can before falling apart. He scissors his fingers inside of you, the sudden movement accompanied by a mild twinge of pressure. 

“Are you sure you’re ready for me?” He asks. His crystal blue eyes stare at you intently, half lidded yet still searching for any hint of hesitation in you. 

“Yes,” you reply. “Take me, please Touya. Make me yours.” 

He sucks in a breath. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear that,” he admits. 

He takes himself by the base and aligns with your slit. It’s teasing how he runs himself up and down your lips. You feel as if he’s still torturing you with pleasure, not realizing he’s gathering up your slick. He’s staying true to his words that he’ll make it fit. 

With his head now coated in a layer of sheen, his cock head pushes into your twitching hole, inching in slowly. You feel a slight pinch at the intrusion. The pain makes you gasp and whimper. Unwittingly, your nails also dig into the back of his neck. 

It reminds him to go slow with you, despite the intense pleasure he feels upon your tight walls clamping around his head. Seconds drag on as he pushes himself further inside of you, every inch stretching you beyond what you’d think physically possible. It’s dizzying how full you feel. 

With one more slow cant of his hips forward, he’s nestled into you to the hilt, his pelvis meeting your thighs. He sighs at the feeling of your body wrapped around his full length. His forehead rests against yours as the two of you take a moment to breathe. He soothingly runs his thumb over your cheek, silently acknowledging your initial discomfort. 

When your breathing normalizes and the traces of pain leave your expression, he pulls his hips back, allowing his shaft to almost slide out of you until only the head remains. A whimper escapes your mouth as he slowly slides back in. It elicits a strange feeling inside you, bordering between not quite pain, but not quite pleasure yet. 

“Shh,” he coos. He’s reassuring and gentle as he speaks, “I’ve got you. You’ll feel better soon, my darling.” 

Soft praises consisting of ‘you’re doing so well’ and ‘I’ll take care of you’ spill from his lips with every slow, deep thrust of his hips. His praises make you dizzy, and the feeling of his length pressing against your cervix doesn’t help. You feel so full. You’re sure you’d see the outline of him inside of you if you looked down.

 A particular thrust seems to brush against that gummy spot inside of you, and the initial discomfort gives way to blissful pleasure. Upon seeing your relaxed and lustful expression, he sets a faster rhythm. Every drawn out drag of his hips against yours starts to build up. 

A thick sheen of sweat coats his pale skin and his thrusts become faster, more purposeful. You’re writhing underneath him, arching your back and dipping your hips to meet his thrusts. It’s clear you’re becoming desperate for more.  

He hooks his hands under your knees and presses your thighs to your chest. You gasp at the mating press he pushes you into, feeling the burn of your thighs and a burn in your ears from the embarrassment of being splayed open. His cock seems to go deeper in you and is angled at the perfect spot. Your walls clamp down on him as his head nudges against your g spot. He feels your reaction to the new angle and lets out a groan. 

His hips snap forward harshly, causing an audible smack between your bodies. The contact taps your clit and has you instantaneously keening. Eager for more of the feeling on your bundle of nerves, your hand snakes between your legs to toy with the hood of your clit. He catches sight of your sneaking hand. His eyes go dark at seeing you chase pleasure. 

“Hold these for me, will you?” He requests, guiding your own hands to the back of your thighs. Words of protest, regarding how indecent you feel, die upon your lips. With his hands now free, his fingers find his way to your clit now, rubbing tight circles. 

He feels you tighten up around him, your walls contracting in an impending orgasm. His eyes focus on you in this moment as he’s attuned to your every reaction. You look so beautiful to him in this moment, with your face contorted in pleasure, your lips parted from panting and moaning, your pupils opium blown and dilated. He just knows you’ll look even prettier when you fall apart under him. 

“‘S too much,” you whine. Despite your assertion of overstimulation, he ignores your protest. His movements on you clit fasten and he pushes harder against your bundle of nerves.

“Shhh, you can take it. I know you can,” he assures. He slightly quickens his pace and continues to rub your clit. “You’re close, I can feel it. Just let go. Cum for me.”

“Fuck, Touya!” You scream, his words urging you to come setting you off. Your legs shake and convulse with the intensity of your orgasm. A flood of wetness escapes your hole, allowing his thrusts the lubrication to work you through your climax, despite how tightly your walls attempt to suck him in.

He steals a quick glance to where your bodies meet, seeing a ring of cream coating the base of his cock. His eyes nearly roll back at the sight and his hips slam into you harshly out of impulse. 

“God, you’re so tight. ‘M gonna-” he warns, before he lets out a punched out sound, the words dying on his lips. His hips stutter as he reaches his end. You feel his hot release spill over inside you, filling you with warmth. He continues to pump shallow thrusts, working himself through his own climax. Your ears burn upon hearing the sound of faint squelching coming from your hole. 

You relax the grip on your thighs and allow your legs to relax. He takes the hint and slowly pulls out of you, causing a trickle of your shared releases to gush from you. 

“Wait here,” he whispers. “Let me get something to clean you up.”

You nod at his command and wait for him on the bed. He returns quickly with something to wipe you down with. Soreness starts to settle between your legs, your body now aching from the stretch of him. A sharp hiss escapes your lips when he touches your cunt with the fabric, and in reaction, mutters a soft apology. He gingerly runs the dampened cloth against your folds, wiping away the flood of your shared releases. 

“Touya?” You ask. He hums in response, urging you to continue with your words. “The spell?”

“Don’t worry, that can be done within the day. You deserve some rest now,” he assures. You sigh in relief and motion for him to come closer. A chuckle escapes him, along with a playful tease of ‘so needy for me’, but he happily obliges your request.

He lays behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. The two of you lay like this, in harmony together, basking in the closeness. Your breathing steadies as one, and you’re sure your heartbeats begin to sync. The love you feel for him threatens to spill out of your soul.

The tenderness of the moment turns humorous as he shifts and grumbles behind you. “Mm, this bed isn’t very comfortable,” he complains. You instantly bark out a laugh. 

“And you just now realized that? Now you know what I have felt in this bed,” you agree. He shakes his head.

“Apologies for that, my darling,” he apologizes. He seems to think for a moment before his voice deepens suggestively, “You know, mine has room for two. Why don’t you stay with me in mine from now on?” 

You reach behind you and crane your neck to kiss his lips. “I’d love to,” you answer. He smiles against your lips and goes to move for another kiss, but you pull away to add. “But later, ‘m too sore to move.”

Countless trips to the kid psychiatrist, two years of therapy and everything had pointed to the same thing.

“It’s quite common for kids to have imaginary friends. This is just an extreme case brought on from the traumatic response due to losing the grandmother.”

Your parents had been tiptoeing around you ever since that last summer with Granny. She’d been your everything, a massive chunk of your childhood spent with her.

Every year you’d go to live with her when school ended, enjoying the coastal life and getting peace and quiet away from the city. Summers were the busiest time for your parents and your granny was more than happy to spend any moment with you. She made that private beach a home to you, practically raising you on the ocean. You became a great swimmer at a young age and went into the swimming team in middle school because of her.

That last summer had been rough. Her health had taken a dip, your mother coming to help take care of her while your father worked. You remember being so lonely because you’re imaginary friend wasn’t around anymore. He’d just vanished and then so did Granny.

“Sometimes, our brains are really good at making things seem real,” one doctor had explained to you, shuffling through all the art you’d drawn of your imaginary friend. “You have such an active imagination. That’s not a bad thing. We just have to make sure you know the difference.”

Every single picture had stared back at you, that red, scaly tail burnt into your eyelids.

“You know mermaids don’t exist, right? That they’re just fairytales?”

So much time—it had taken so much time to get you to see the truth. Healing from the trauma of losing Granny and getting your head on straight, it put a dent in your social life. The swim team hadn’t treated you all that well when the rumors continued to spread about your so-called imaginary friend. That’s what you got for trusting kids with secrets.

Luckily, college was going well. You settled in a small local school on the coast where Granny had lived. You were excelling at classes and winning your swim competitions. There was a real future in the works. Three more years and you’d graduate.

After freshman year, moving out of the dorms had you finally facing Granny’s house. Your parents had been meaning to clean it up and sell it, but you’d pitched a fit. She’d left it to you in the will. It was your choice, and you’d chosen to keep it, eventually move in.

It was your first summer back in ages and just pulling into the driveway had been a punch to the gut. There had been so much to get done, but it distracted you from the resurfacing grief.

Three weeks passed before you conjured up enough strength to visit the beach. The wooden stairs descending to the sand was in need of repairs, though it was sturdy enough to get you where you needed to be. The small pier was the same, aging but made to last.

It was high tide now, the waves just barely hitting your calves as they rolled in. You sat at the end of the pier, sunbathing and reminiscing. There had been a time you’d swim under these wooden planks and pretend to be hiding from pirates or searching for sunken treasure. Your imaginary friend had always helped you find the prettiest shells, even a clam on occasion, though you never found a pearl. He’d also had a bad habit of scaring the shit out if you and pulling you off the edge when you’d wait for him.

“Overactive imagination,” you huffed, another wave lapping over your feet. Maybe if you’d dreamt up a talking pink dolphin or some shit, you’d have gotten through that dark period a bit quicker.

Sighing, you laid back on the pier, closing your eyes against the sun and listening to the waves. Maybe you’d finally get to relax now after facing everything again.

A splash. It sounded way too big and way too close.

Immediately, you’re yanking your feet up onto the walkway and scrambling back, searching the water for any shark fins. The golden hour was at its peak now, reflecting off the ocean and hiding anything you’d normally spot in the waves.

You waited but there wasn’t another splash. No signs of anything.

Sighing, you rubbed at your chest from where your heart had sprung loose and got to your feet.

“Thought that was you.”

You squealed, almost face planting into the ocean. Your hands stabilized you against the deck as you stared out just a few feet away from the pier. There was a man swimming, thick blonde hair plastered to his head and bright eyes staring up at you.

“What the fuck?” you said, heat working up into your face. “Hey, this is a private beach—”

“No shit,” he snorted, moving closer.

While this was a terrifying scene—some stranger on your Granny’s beach and you, alone—you were quick to realize he was quite possibly the most drop dead gorgeous man to ever speak to you.

He just stared as he floated closer. You were too shocked to say anything. Most of your brain power was being used to remember if you had any bars down here to call the police. Did you even have your phone?

“You not recognize me?”

“Huh?” you mumbled.

“It’s a clear fuckin’ question,” he scoffed.

“Okay, first off, no need to be so fucking rude,” you snapped, crossing your arms. “Second, why the hell would I…I…”

Your words trailed when you noticed movement behind him, red gleaming in the water. For a moment you’re scared it’s blood or some animal about to attack the man, but then it breaches water again.

A tail. A scaly, red tail.

No. Fuck this. You couldn’t lose your mind when you promised your parents you were over the imaginary friend thing and you’d be totally mentally prepared to clean up Granny’s house and live by yourself.

Over a decade and you spend a couple weeks here and you’re back to being a nutcase.

“You remember me now?” he asked, way too nonchalant as he grabbed the edge of the pier and began hoisting himself up. It’s no problem for him, he’s sitting right in front of you now, all rippling pectorals and gleaming mermaid tail. “Pretty insulting if you didn’t.”

You exploded. “You’re an imaginary friend! No, this is not happening. Nope!”

You went to turn, start pacing up and down the pier or maybe you were going to run, it didn’t matter. All thought left you as his hand grabbed your ankle. Warm and wet and real.

“Fuckin’ hell. Take a breath, yeah?”

“Are you real?” you gasped and he just scowled as you slowly lowered yourself to touch his shoulder. “Am I dying and this is some weird way of me trying to pass on?”

“What the fuck are you even saying?”

“What’s your name?” you asked, poking his shoulder. He growled, snatching your hand into his.

“Did you just go and forget everything?”

“Mermaids don’t exist,” you whispered. “You don’t exist. You’re just something I made up as I was grieving Granny.”

“Would you please shut up and breathe? You’re gonna blackout at this rate,” he said, tugging on your hand to get to sit. “Take some deep breaths and I'll remind you what my fucking name is.”

“I remember!” you hissed. “I'm just trying to get my facts straight here.”

And the world was spinning. He was quick to grab your shoulders, anchoring you as you sucked in a few lungfuls of air. With each one, things got a bit clearer and the pressure and warmth of his hands didn’t change. You waited for him to disappear, for something to show he was just a figment of your imagination, but there was nothing.

“Y-you’re real?” you said, calmer. “I didn't make you up?”

“I told you not to tell people about me. Figures they went and brainwashed you,” he grumbled, looking off towards the ocean. “Guess I should’ve expected it. We were just kids.”

“It’s Katsuki, right?” you asked and those eyes were cutting through you. Red, just like his tail.

“Good job, you fuckin’ remembered,” he murmured, but there was something hiding there. Relief, maybe.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, body heavy. “I thought I was going insane.”

“Yeah, yeah, crisis averted. What’re you even doing back here? Thought you’d left for good.”

“Well, where the hell were you?” you snapped back. “Do you know how long I waited for you the last time I was here?”

Your parents had dragged you away from this beach screaming. They’d been searching everywhere after Granny had been taken away, only to find you out here. All summer you’d been there, waiting, and he hadn’t shown up once.

“Our migration ended up offtracking because of some stupid divers and a pack of orcas. It was a rough season,” he said. “By the time we got back to this coast, you were gone. It’s been years, so I thought you moved or something’.”

“My granny died,” you cleared your throat, “and, uh, I dunno. We just ended up avoiding this place. My parents were trying to get me help.”

“Thought you went crazy, huh?”

“We’ll you’re not exactly supposed to exist,” you huffed.

He rolled his eyes, tail fin flicking up from where they hung off the pier. “Well, I fuckin’ do. Get used to it.”

You’d have to. You were going to be living here for the rest of your college career, if that.

“You still cool?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Do I need to worry about you running off and telling people about me again? Or worse?” he reiterated.

“If I mention you ever again they’ll send me away for good,” you huffed.

“How long you staying this time? Just the summer again?”

“Longer. Until I finish school,” you said, marveling at the sunset reflecting off his scales. “When do you guys migrate?”

He shook his head, ocean drops breaking free. “Only kids migrate with their families. Mine settled down a while back.”

“And you?”

He scoffed at you, raising an eyebrow. “I'm here, aren’t I?”

There’s silence for a while. You could feel his gaze on you, but you’re still staring at his tail. It would take some time to accept the truth you’d been beating out of yourself all these years.

“It’s good to see you.”

You smiled, meeting his eyes, suddenly remembering why it’d been so hard to accept he wasn’t real. You’d harbored the fattest crush on him as a kid, now he’d grown into a young man.

“Missed you, too, Katsuki,” you murmured.

He’s wearing plain black tee, unwrinkled and too-tight around the arms. That, and a deep-set scowl that radiates down towards whatever textbook he’s got spread out in front of him. 

It’s so perfectly unfair.

The universe seems to be dead-set on screwing you over. Maybe it‘s payback for the time you stole matches from the chem lab in undergrad (in your defense, it was 10 PM on a Monday and it was your last “hoorah” before you dropped). Maybe you shouldn’t have hogged the library scanner so often copying chapters out of textbooks you didn’t want to pay for, should’ve maybe been a little kinder in your end-of-course review for that one physics TA. Regardless, you don’t deserve your fate. 

Not the exhaustion. Not the stress. Not the burden of ending up in the same year as a piece of trash like Bakugo. 

Katsuki Bakugo. Second-year medical student in the top 10% of the class. Also a grade A jackass whose jackass-ery is only supported by the fact that he’s sitting in your spot. 

Now, you knew assigned seats were a thing for middle schoolers, not 20-something year-olds training to learn to manage actual human lives. Still, when a person occupies the same place in the library for a year and a half, there’s a basic human decency that overrides the need for seating charts and nameplates. Maybe the great Katsuki just can’t grasp that concept. Surprising given the fact that he seems to be picking up on literally everything else with inhuman speed. Genetics. Cardio. Derm. Renal. 

Even MSK. Fucking MSK. He was positively thriving in the very musculoskeletal hell that had you retreating to the library for 8+ hours every afternoon after lecture. Which only aggravates the acidic heat you feel brewing in your belly when you see him and Eijiro Kirishima living it up in your study carrel. Kirishima seems to have made himself comfortable standing, resting both of his (positively beefy) arms along the partition dividing to tables. He’s yammering up a storm: something something pen light something no way it’s enough time for a full history. Katsuki is at least seated in his (your) chair, but his eyes are glued to his phone rather than his friend. Or his textbook. Or the laptop open right in front of him. 

There’s not a glimmer of productivity in sight. It’s been like this for the past 15 minutes. You know because you’ve been watching, waiting (semi-) patiently in hopes that they’d just pack up and carry on elsewhere. But no, they’re still there. Wasting their time and your space. 

What little patience you had left dwindles to nothing in the span of seconds. You gather your things up in your arms and march across the library towards them. 

Kirishima sees you first, greeting you with a megawatt grin and a chipper “how’s it goin’?” You hadn’t really interacted with him one-on-one aside from the occasional confused looks you shared during lectures or simulation sessions. All you really know about him is that he and Bakugo are practically joined at the hip, which, up to this point, has been enough to make you keep your distance. Still, Kirishima seems so genuinely kind (unlike his friend who still hasn’t so much as looked at you) that it makes it very hard to stay pissed at him. Which is fine. He isn’t the one in your chair. 

I’m doing good. Now, respectfully, I ask that you and your friend vacate the area so I can study in my usual spot, please and thank you. 

“You know how it is, same old, same old. School, sleep, repeat.” It’s better than what you want to say. You tug your bag further up your shoulder.

“Ain’t that the truth. At least we have a little bit of a breather, huh?”

“Huh?” Breather? The last “breather” you’d had was when the pulmonology professor coerced you into demonstrating proper technique with an inspiration spirometer. Somehow, you don’t think that’s what Kirishima is getting at. 

“You know, in this class.” He clarifies. “It’s pretty easy compared to renal.” 

You snort, “yeah, that’s a good one.”

Kirishima blinks.

“MSK…the musculoskeletal system. Being easy. That’s funny.”

Kirishima lets out an awkward  sort of laugh, and an uncomfortable silence falls over the study area. The shrill ding of the elevator rings from the other side of the floor. Your classmate’s smile goes deliberately apologetic. You sigh. 

“I’m guessing you’re not getting your ass kicked by this class.” You say, placing extra emphasis on the you’re bit. Kirishima scratches at the back of his neck. 

As if things aren’t already bad enough, you feel them then.  The extra set of eyes settling on you.

“He’s the president of the orthopedic surgery interest group.” Bakugo says. “Bones and the meat attached to them are the only things he actually cares about.” When you fail to respond, he lets out a puff of air from his nose and it’s a wonder the desk doesn’t burst into flames right then and there. “Besides, he isn’t wrong. This class is a cakewalk.” 

You stand there, seething. You’re being perfectly polite, keeping the daydreams of concussing him into Glasgow 3 with the underside of your boot securely in your skull. 

“Well,” you say, slowly, “I guess everyone has their strengths.”

Bakugo doesn’t take the hint; he pushes.

“How is this harder than renal where things are microscopic?” He rises in one quick motion, resting a knee on the seat. As he leans forward, he lays an arm over the wooden back. He’s nowhere near as toned as Kirishima, but you can see the muscles shifting beneath his skin. Pronounced, like some real-life anatomical model. Triceps, biceps, coracobrachialis—you list them off silently because fuck him.

“Renal is pure physiology,” you say. “Everything has a when and why that you can logic through. MSK is just memorization.”

“Because there’s absolutely no memorization when it comes to nephrons.” His lips pull back into a mocking sort of sneer as he begins to count off on his fingers. “Sodium-hydrogen antiporters, sodium-chloride symporters, Sodium-potassium-chloride—”

“There’s a charge gradient driving that shi—” Not worth it, not worth it and you know it. 

What would be the point of attending all those school-mandated mindfulness sessions where you sat in a dark classroom meditating (rather than taking the half-day to do literally anything else) if you let this conversation ruin your day? You had to refocus. Think about the sensation of breathing—in, then out. Your hands, the weight of them hanging at your sides. Your feet and the way they feel sitting within your shoes… aaaaaaand yup, there’s a crinkle in your sock. Now that’s all you’re only going to be able to think about until you can fix it. Thanks meditation.

“You know what, nevermind you guys.” You take a clearing breath. “Everyone has their forte, and I know mine is not muscle origins and insertions. Anyway, I just remembered I have a thing at a place, so I’m going to be heading out.”

And that’s exactly what you plan to do. You ignore the hushed muttering behind you as you trudge towards the elevator, because none of that is actually your problem anymore. You’re mindful and centered and—

And a hand latches onto your shoulder. You lurch forward as momentum does its thing, only spared from a faceplant into the however-many-decades-old carpet by the sheer strength of your assailant's grip. You spin, already expecting who you have to blame and planning out the venomous rant you’ll spit their way (library “quiet please!” sign be damned). But rather than meeting Bakugo’s gaze, it’s his palm that floats mere inches from your nose. 

You open your mouth, but he’s quicker to speak than you are.

“I fall on an outstretched palm and fuck up my hand. Four days later I come to you and tell you it still hurts like hell—I can’t move it anymore. What tests do you order?” 

There’s silence for a good long moment. Then your senses return to you in one quick rush.

“What the actual hell Katsuki?” A couple other library-goers flinch and shoot your sharp looks towards your outburst, but who even cares anymore? 

“Answer the question.”

“No, because like what the actual hell? We already established I’m an idiot, so can you please just leave me alone?”

Bakugo’s grip on your shoulder tightens and you swat it off with a loud smack. His eyes widen as both you and he cast glances towards his hand, now floating off in dead space beside the pair of you. He purses his lips. 

“Nobody called you an idiot.” He tries to be casual about lowering both of his hands to his sides, tucking them into his pockets.

“Maybe not using those exact words, they didn’t.” You say, soft but firm. “But the implication was clear.” 

Then you stare. Bakugo does too, his eyes wider than usual, lips pulled back in a tight line. You’re no expert in reading people, but he’s also no expert in keeping the emotion from showing plainly in his expression. Surprise, which gives way to confusion, which gives way to something else.

“You’re not an idiot.” He finally says. Neither of you speak, letting the words hang in the space between you. Even as you’re both extremely aware of Kirishima is edging his way towards your spot by the elevators.

You let out a heavy sigh, folding your arms.

“X-Ray.” You say. Bakugo flinches, going so far as to take a full step backwards. Which is rich, given that with all the sucker punches you’ve imagined striking him with, a single word is enough to catch him off-guard. But even Kirishima freezes, mouth caught in shape somewhere between goofy grin and catching flies.

They both stand there, and you roll your eyes and say, “I’d order an x-ray first.”

Bakugo’s gaze narrows, and like that he’s back to his usual self. You swear you even see the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Why an x-ray?”

“Why not?”

“You’re the doctor—what are you gonna say to your patient when they ask the same question?” He scratches at his head, mocking, all evidence of remorse wiped from his system. “Geeze, I dunno, ‘x-ray’ is 14 points in Scrabble so I guess I’ll order that.”

You should be angry, but something feels…different about the bickering this time. That and—

“How do you know how many points ‘x-ray’ is in scrabble?” You ask, half-mocking. Because while you’re sincerely wondering if Katsuki Bakugo spends his Saturday nights playing Scrabble, you also want him to squirm a bit.

“Why do you want an x-ray?” He repeats the question. There’s a dusting of red across his cheeks creeping towards his ears. 

Nice, you think.

“Because an x-ray is the first thing you get when someone comes in after a hand injury.”

“Why’d the patient wait four days to come in though?” You open your mouth and he cuts in with “don’t say ‘because it didn’t stop hurting.’ This is a vignette, not real life.”

“But what’s even the point of all this if not to prepare for real life?”

“Will you just—” He clenches his teeth tight and takes a deep breath. “Think for a second. What’s on your differential?”

You chew at your lip. “Fracture.”

“But which bone?” You hesitate, your mistake, and he shakes his head. “Just think. This is a classic presentation. On every test you’ll ever take. What bone in the hand is supplied by a retrograde blood flow?”

And you don’t know. Shit, you’ll have to look that up when you get home. Still, you’ll swallow a jar of thumbtacks before you ever admit that to Bakugo. You shoot Kirishima, who’s standing over Bakugo’s shoulder now, an exasperated look. He starts to say something, but then he’s getting cut off. 

“Don’t help, or they won’t learn.” Bakugo snaps. His red-hot gaze fixes between your eyes. “And you, don’t look at him. This is basic anatomy.”

Anger wells in your chest again. “Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was in lecture right now.” 

You were furious at Bakugo, true. But…but also at yourself. You should know this. You’d had a lecture on the hand last week, which was practically a year ago in medical time. Your classmates were soaring through, already on nerve innervations while you struggled to learn the building blocks. School used to be fun, tests like a mini-competition you were guaranteed to win. 

You’d never struggled like this before, had never had to grapple with the fact that even after days of forgoing sleep in favor of studying, you were still floundering. Something in your brain was wired wrong, you were sure. Medical school is like trying to drink out of the ocean with a straw, everyone said. It’s the hardest thing you’ll do, they said. Then how was it that nobody else seemed to be struggling like you were? 

But again. You could be studying now, could be working on figuring out exactly the shit Bakugo is rubbing in your face. But no. Instead you’re stuck in a pissing match with Mr. Perfect. Mr. Top-of-the-class, God’s-blonde-gift-to-humanity. The conversation isn’t even worth it anymore. You’d meant to leave before and now you were going to follow through. You scoff and start to walk off—

And he’s in front of you. Bakugo has taken one step to his right and effectively placed himself between you and the elevator. 

“Move.” You demand.

“Just answer the damn question.”

“No. You’re not my professor.”

“I’m also not failing the only class where you are the cheat sheet.”

You wince. The truth in it stings something fierce.

“Enough, Katsuki.” Kirishima finally cuts in, his normally-cheery voice harder than you’ve ever heard. “You’re being a real jerk right now.”

Bakugo opens his mouth like he’s going to say something sharp, but the words die on his tongue. He looks between you and his friend.

“It’s a scaphoid fracture, Eijiro. They’ve only mentioned it like a thousand times, so imagine how much harder the rest—”

“That’s enough.” Kirishima says it again, louder. He grabs Bakugo by his upper arm and drags him out of your way. The lines between his brow are deep when he looks toward you, making him look years older than he had only minutes before. “I’m sorry about…well about all of that.”

About Bakugo? you want to ask. Or about the fact that he’s actually right for once?

You say nothing and hurry into the elevator. You don’t even try to hide the way to tap hurriedly at the door close button. The sooner you get out of here, the sooner you can get home. The sooner you get home the sooner you can get in bed and wallow, pretending you actually belong—

There’s a loud scuffle, a shout, then something slides between the elevator doors just as they bolt. You stagger, your back pressing flush to the metal wall behind you as a menacing presence invades your space.

“I carry mace.” You sputter, reaching for your keys as Bakugo slams the button for the first floor. The medical library was on the twelfth.

“Meet me in the dry lab on Saturday.” He says, mere inches of space separating his chest from yours.

You blink. Bakugo doesn’t. He stares, not at the neon aerosol pointed directly at his face, but at you in all your terrified glory. 

“I’d rather not.” You say, slowly.

He grits his teeth. “Why not?”

“Because you’re kind of an asshole. And I’d rather not spend my free time with assholes.”

“You’d rather fail?”

“I’m already doing that.” You purse your lips. “As you so astutely pointed out before.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but then the elevator door opens on the ninth floor. A shorter boy takes a step as if to get on, but freezes as soon as he catches sight of the pair of you. Bakugo twists to look back over his shoulder. You can’t be sure exactly what he does in that moment, but whatever it is has the other student taking several slow steps backwards. The elevator door shuts and he makes no attempt to get back on.

Bakugo’s attention shifts back entirely towards you. 

“Will you put that away before you blind us both?” He asks as he gestures towards your mace with his chin. He asks in the way that exasperated parents ask questions that aren’t really questions. Would you like to play nicely with your sibling, or would you like to explain to the emergency room staff how reenacting ‘Lion King’ ended up with one of you spraining your neck? 

“I don’t like the way you talk to me.” You say, the words are more honest than you intend. They’re not what he expects, based on the way his eyes go wide. “I’m an idiot when it comes to most things, but I already know that and I don’t need you drilling the point home every five seconds.”

He grabs at his hair with both hands, tugging as he lets out an exasperated groan. “What is with you?! Nobody is calling you an idiot, so will you stop calling yourself one?”

“Once you stop making me feel like one, then maybe I will.”

“Listen,” he says through gritted teeth, “I’m gonna give you a piece of advice here—”

“Not asking for it.”

“I don’t give a shit, you’re gonna listen because you’re an adult and apparently nobody has told you this much yet.” He holds his arms out wide at his sides, leaning forward. “Not everyone is thinking about you all the time. Sometimes, when people are talking about classes they find easy, it’s because they think they’re easy! They’re not calling you stupid because you don’t—they’re just talking.”

“Yeah? And throwing a dozen questions my way that you know I can’t answer, is that ‘just talking?’”

“How am I supposed to know what you can and can’t answer?”

“Because it’s obvious! How the hell am I supposed to be able to diagnose a scaphoid fracture if I barely know where the scaphoid is?” 

“You passed renal!” Bakugo says, like it means something.

“Like that changes the fact I’m flunking a class with a built- in ‘cheat sheet,’ as you so deftly put it.”

“Which is why I’m telling you to meet me in the dry lab tomorrow, so I can show you how to not flunk.”

The tears are hot at the corners of your eyes. “Like I said before, you’re an asshole.” 

“That’s right, he shouts, “I’m an asshole! The sky is blue! But sometimes, just sometimes, I don’t mean to be one. It just happens. I say the first thing that pops into my head because the alternative is sitting there agonizing over all the ways I should be saying things. Everyone says ‘think before you speak’ like that’s supposed to fix everything. Well that’s great until you think yourself into a fucking hole. So instead, I say stupid asshole-ish things then chase classmates into an elevator to try and make up for it after the fact.”

The air is heavy with the weight of too many uncomfortable truths. You’re both breathing heavy—him from his rant, you from trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill out. 

You will not cry in front of Katsuki Bakugo. It’s a vow you never thought you had to make up until this very moment. 

“Are you coming tomorrow or not?” He asks. The elevator doors open, and when you make no move to scurry out, he reaches back and presses another button. The floor lurches upward as you begin your ascent.

“What if it isn’t enough?” You say, just barely.

“What do you mean?”

“What if studying with you isn’t enough?” Your words are clipped, full of the emotion you refuse to express otherwise. “What if I show up and put in the work and I still suck at all of this.”

Bakugo shakes his head. “Why are you worrying about that now? Just deal with what’s in front of you.”

“Because what’s even the point of trying if it’s all gonna go to hell anyway? If I’m just wasting my tuition trying to do something I’m not able to do?”

He sighs, scratching at the back of his head. “Listen, I help you out, but I can’t fix that.”

“Fix what?” 

“That.” He gestures absently towards you. “The self-pitying bullshit.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “Well, fuck me I guess.”

“I—you just—goddammit.”  Bakugo shuts his eyes tight and groans long and deep. “How the hell am I supposed to say it without pissing you off. I just told you about how I’m no good at this.

You open your mouth to retort, but he continues before you can.

“You were probably told all about how smart you were growing up, right? How special you were? Big fish in a little pond. Then you get into medical school and suddenly you’re surrounded by hundreds of special people just like you. And somehow their talent makes yours feel a lot less real. The first time you actually have to struggle for something, you find yourself wondering if you were even smart in the first place—if you coming here wasn’t one big accident.” He pauses, half his mouth tilts upward into a knowing sort of smile. “That’s how it was for me, at least. I swear, every other day I get this feeling at the back of my neck like someone is just waiting for me to mess up so they can tell me to pack my bags.”

He looks your way and scoffs. “Well, try not to act so surprised.” 

It’s then that you realize your eyes must be the size of dinner plates.

“You hide it well.” You say softly.

“Do I really? Eijiro says I’m like one of those chihuahuas that compensates for his size by acting like the biggest thing in the room.”

“I mean, I’d call it a Napoleon complex, but I think something about the chihuahua fits better.”

“Either way,” he says, “you’re in a rut now. You’ve had to struggle at school for the first time in your life and now you have to deal with all the insecurity it entails. I’m not gonna promise you that if you study my way you’re gonna pass. I’m also not gonna lie and tell you that once you’re through MSK, it’ll all get better. It probably won’t. You’ll keep struggling and feeling stupid, and everyone has their own way of dealing. You’ve gotta find your own reason for pushing through despite it all.” He presses a finger into the left side of your chest as if to emphasize his point. “If it’s that you wanna graduate to be a badass physician, fine. You wanna do it to learn as much as you can, regardless of the grade? Great. Wanna do it just so those idiots back home have to look you in the eyes and call you ‘doctor?’” He grins wide and moves his hand so it rests on your shoulder. “I’d say that’s the best reason there is. But nobody in this field is gonna take the time to tell you how special you are and why you should push through. You’ve got to do it for yourself.”

And that’s it. For some reason that stupid speech, given in an elevator that smells a little like weed soaked in gasoline is what sets you off. What lets loose the insecurities you’ve been clinging to since first-year. You start blubbering like a baby and Bakugo, the six-foot-something grown man that he is, looks absolutely horrified at the fact. He squeezes your shoulder once, a caricature of comfort. Then he thinks better of it and pulls you into something vaguely resembling a hug. His back is rigid and his shoulders raised practically to his ears, but by god, he’s trying if the hand patting at your back every couple seconds or so is any indication. 

It’s after a long moment of this (and another confused student peering into the elevator then making the wise decision to wait for the next) that you finally speak.

“It’s just so much sometimes.” You say, giving voice to the thoughts you’ve held for so long. “You have to be practically superhuman to balance everything we do—studying, sleeping, eating, breathing.”

“How do you eat an elephant?” Bakugo asks in the quiet that follows.

You pull back quickly to cast him a confused look, “Wait, why are we eating elephants now?”

“Because that’s the way the saying goes, I don’t know.” He gives you one more pat on the back. “Anyway, how do you eat an elephant?”

“Aren’t they endangered—.”

“One bite at a time.” 

You stare at him. Bakugo stares back. Then he throws his head back and groans, long and loud. “God, now it sounds a lot dumber to say out loud. Why do you have to ask stupid questions like that and ruin everything?”

“There are no stupid questions, Bakugo.”

“Yeah, well I disagree.”

“And that’s why you’re going into general surgery.” You punctuate the statement with a quick tap of your finger against his nose.

He swats away your hand and jerks back from you like he’s been shot. “Did Eijiro tell you?”

Despite your goopy eyes and still-snotty nose, you throw back your head and laugh. “Dude, it’s obvious.”

“Just like it’s obvious you’re doing internal medicine?” He says it with a scowl, like it’s supposed to be an insult. One you can’t take seriously given that’s like saying ‘wow, I can’t believe you’re only interested in being a rocket scientist.’ Which only leaves you laughing all that much more.

“How’d you figure?” You ask, playing along.

“Ignoring the fact that you suck at basic anatomy?”

“Yeah? Well check out this metatarsal.” You flip the bird.

Something in Bakugo’s face changes then. He’s smiling, but it’s nothing like Kirishima’s cheery grin. In a practiced move, he thrusts both middle fingers out towards you. He uses one to point at the lower part of the other, right where it joins with his palm. “Metacarpal,” he points to the joint just above it, “and phalanges.” The words are arrogance and acid swirled together. His stare is no better. “Unless you’ve got feet attached to your wrists, that is.”

You knew that. Shit, mega-shit, proving-his-point-shit. That was the easiest crap in the world and you knew that. But in your rush to be a smartass, you’d made a dumbass of yourself. You rush towards the elevator door, poking hurriedly at the ‘open the door nownownow’ button. You don’t care if you’re between floors. You don’t care if that’s not how elevators work. You want to throw yourself into the elevator shaft abyss now, please and thank you.

“So,” Bakugo, that super-mega-awful human that he is drawls as he leans a shoulder against the wall opposite to you, “what we can finally agree on the fact that you’re missing so much of the fundamentals that it’ll be useless to try and drill pathology into you.” 

You can’t even look at him. If you do, you will smack the ever-loving-shit out of that self-righteous mouth of his. 

“We’ve gotta start from the ground up. And that means I better see you in the dry lab,” He leans in and, close enough that he must not fear the consequences of your rage, “starting tomorrow.”

The door opens. You sprint out onto the sixth floor of the library like some crazed animal, ignoring the looks of utter bewilderment from the other students on the floor.

Even so, you know. God, you know you have to show up.

~~~~~

And that brings you to your current predicament on Saturday, 9AM, in a near-abandoned campus classroom.

With Katsuki Bakugo in his signature back tee and gold chain blocking your only exit, a dismembered anatomical arm slung across his shoulder.

You can practically smell the danger in the situation, especially when he bares his teeth like some kind predator.

“What, were you expecting someone else? Kirishima has lacrosse, so he’s not coming to save you anytime soon.” His grin widens, cruel. “Are you ready to learn?”

And just like that, you begin to regret every life decision you’ve made up to this point. But hey, at least it’ll be worth it to not fail MSK, right?

Stain is going to get FUCKED UP, not only for harming his students, but for also harming you. He’s lucky Aizawa wasn’t there to deliver a blow to his face like he did with dabi, Aizawa has always been the type to never show much of his emotions. The only time he did is when he was around you, you could literally kiss the scar on his face and he’d automatically melt into you.

So it was definitely a scary event to the person who had to break the news to Aizawa of you being near the area, in which stain was attacking pro-heroes. Aizawa didn’t hesitate to quickly jump into action and go find you, if you got angry at him then he could handle it. He’d rather not sit there and grade papers knowing you’re somewhere not safe, or probably getting attacked by stain.

Yet once he did find you, his stomach sank. He could see the blood oozing from your arms as you had your back against a brick wall, a few pro-heroes surrounded you as some of them tried to stop the bleeding. Aizawa felt like he failed you, he wasn’t fast enough if he was here sooner he wouldn’t have to see the scene in front of him unfolding. He pushed by and kneeled beside you, he hand gently brushing against your forehead. You only shifted, but didn’t open your eyes.

He felt like he’s going to have a panic attack, how long did it take the ambulance to come?! Once they did arrive and took you to the hospital he didn’t leave your side once, even while he had to be grading school work he waited in the lobby. Until the nurses told him where your room number was, he stayed at your bedside. Only leaving to get coffee from the cafeteria and occasionally food, he didn’t want to leave your side for too long in case you woke up.