Happy Chinese New Years Eve Eve For Anyone Who’s Celebrating !!!!!!!!!!!!

touya dabi isn't as smooth as he thinks he is.

the first time you catch him, you're in the parking lot, halfway from your car to the long, concrete flight of stairs outside the apartment building. whenever he would come before, when you could sit on the steps and wait for him to arrive—his lone figure would always manifest across the street.

near a convenience store, one that's been closed for years and yet still remains, on the outside of your little gated community. where exactly he was coming from, you never knew, but he would give a half-ass jog across the road and hop the fence and stand before you on the steps, arms out like he was coming home after a long stint away.

you suppose he was. at least that's how it felt to you.

it's not a coincidence that you spot him there now, leaning against the wall as the sun starts to set. hiding in the growing shadows well enough, but still visible where he stands, where he's always stood. it's only been a few weeks since you've seen him and you wish he was closer so that you could read between his lines, find the truth in them. despite everything, you ache for him, for this; it must be tearing him to bits, even if he won't admit it.

today was your first appointment. it's early, but things are as fine as they're supposed to be, you assume. nothing major to report. healthy. fast heartbeat. a little grape-sized thing.

touya dabi doesn't want you to see him, but you raise a thumbs-up high in the air anyway.

money appears under your mat a week or so after that, fat stacks of ¥5,000 bills.

it makes you angry at first; touya dabi made it very clear that he will have no part in this. with it. that didn't surprise you in the slightest, which is maybe why you avoided him once you found out. locked the doors and the windows and didn't answer any numbers that read unknown caller. at least that way it was your choice not to see him, and not because he was jumping ship.

the whole exchange was ugly. the kind of fight that makes your stomach sour, has you wanting to go back just so you could argue against whatever points he thought he was making. has your eyes watering, stinging with the memory of it all.

but this is unexpected. it. not that you don't have a support system and some savings in the bank, but being a single mother wasn't exactly predicted in your forecast and it's his damn kid, after all. if he wants to fork over all his earnings—however he gets them—to try and mitigate some of his own guilt, well, then, that's his choice.

meanwhile, you're gonna buy a bitchin' crib, one that attaches to the side of your mattress.

you start showing a little after three months, and touya dabi starts creeping closer.

he doesn't wait near the store anymore and instead moves inside the gate. he must watch you when you have your back turned because you don't see him until you're inside, moving to the window as slowly as you can so as not to alert him with your shadow.

not ever in the same spot. all you get is the flash of his coat, trailing his ghost as he turns and high-tails it, or the edge of his boot that he doesn't realize is sticking out so much. sometimes it's just the sound of a clicking lighter, the low burn of a cigarette end. a white-haired figure in the distance, gone with the low breeze.

one night, when you're feeling sick and lonely and the reality starts to bite at your edges, you open the blinds and take your time with mindless things; cleaning the glass in a tight tank-top, shuffling through mail in the clear view, poking at your belly button, trying to imagine what the little thing will look like.

you don't see him that time, but his hurt echoes inside you.

touya dabi can't stand it after the baby shower.

a friend helps lug all your gifts up the stairs, helps to stack them neatly in the office that was emptied when you found out. it's a lot of big things, like some animal-shaped-diaper creature and tons of wipes and a high-chair and an overload of stuffed animals. you go half-way down to thank them, bid them goodnight, and when you return to the room, he's sitting there.

on the floor with his legs out in front of him, facing the presents like they're his next battle. touya dabi is even wearing a pink party hat, one of the paper horns tucked between his lips like a cigarette.

you look at him and he looks at you and he blows it and the silly sound would make you laugh, if your heart wasn't beating so fast in your chest. you're stuck between a lot of emotions, but you've been picturing this moment every night for months, and the one thing you want to make clear to him is:

"if you don't want her—"

"i never said that."

it's the first words he's spoken to you in a long time, and they come out just as angry as the last ones did. a snap, furious, suddenly. in turn, it makes you just as mad.

your face screws up, and so does his. "okay, well you heavily implied it, then, when you insisted she wasn't yours."

touya dabi throws his hands in the air and shakes his head at you, like you're dumb. "how does that make any fucking sense? even if it's not mine, i didn't say—"

"she is yours, asshole—"

"don't start with the names, baby," he's quick to shoot off the floor, even quicker to yank the hat off his head. "you don't wanna fucking go there with me."

you're stuck between a lot of emotions, but the strongest is heartbreak, and to see him yell at you and be so fucking angry is harder than you imagined it would be. you thought you'd be strong enough by now to stand your ground; instead your voice comes out as a whispered plea. "get out."

touya dabi runs a harsh hand over his face, pinpricks of blood tearing into his skin before he crushes the hat in his fist and tosses it to the floor. he opens his mouth like there's something he wants to say, but he doesn't.

he just leaves. just like last time. just like always.

it becomes routine.

the quiet creak of the floorboards is him in the middle of the night, the soft click of the door latch when he closes it as he steps into the office. sometimes he pokes around in the things you begin to unpack, sometimes he leaves his own stuff; the clean stack of bills, a princess doll you've seen advertised on tv, a gel thing you put in the freezer for her to gnaw on and—surprisingly—medical stuff.

kid's cough medicine, a thermometer, pedialyte, diaper rash cream and other skin lotions, that sucky bulb thing for snot.

"i was early."

this is the second conversation you have with him, when you're nearing six months. he doesn't turn around to look at you, just watches the mobile your mom bought as it spins, splashing little fishies onto the wall.

"and small and—sick all the time." touya dabi lets out a bitter little laugh, and the rasp of it makes your heart throb. "probably the shittiest baby ever, so—" his teeth click together hard. "good luck with that."

you shrug, even though he doesn't see it. "we'll figure it out."

"we?" like a cat, his back curls, all his hair standing on end. you never see the flame, but smoke swirls his palm. he still doesn't look at you. "we who? don't tell me you mean that fuck that's over here all the time."

the admission should maybe surprise you, but touya dabi has always been—particular about you. about sharing. you can only imagine how he feels for the baby in your tummy. probably will go nuclear if she ever calls someone else 'dad'.

you can't help but to roll your eyes. "no, we as in her and i." it only relaxes him a little bit and you shuffle on your feet, clearing your throat to make way for all the words you wanted to say to him last time. "you can't—" already, your voice breaks and your eyes sting and his back curls all over again. "you can't just pop into her life every other month because you feel bad, dabi. so, you're either in or—you're out."

that has him peeking over his shoulder at you, eyes shining in the moonlight filtering through the windows. glowing, you could say. "now you're gonna keep me from seeing my kid?"

it's—beyond the most infuriating thing you've ever heard and so you have to laugh, just once, as you wipe your eyes. "oh, so she is yours now?"

he sighs, goes back to watching the mobile, and is quiet for a long time. almost like he's considering it—but you know better. "well, she ain't here yet, so i got time before i have to scram."

and you swore you wouldn't do this, wouldn't beg for him, but the tears won't stop—even though he mutters out a quiet "i can't—just—don't cry, i can't—"—and something swells in your throat and your chest aches and—

"you don't have to be out, touya." you hate how pathetic it sounds, but you wouldn't care if it meant he would stay. "we can figure it out, together. as a—"

"this is my mom's number." touya dabi talks so loud over you, he's practically yelling. eyes on the floor as he holds out a piece of scrap paper, a name scrawled across in his neat handwriting. "if you wanna tell her, then—she'll probably wanna know, or whatever. my sister too, she'll—"

he never finishes and he never looks at you, just shakes his head at the carpet.

dabi visits one last time before she arrives.

you find him where he always is, where he was the first time he accepted what was to come; sitting on the floor of your daughter's room, smiling, almost, at the neon stars plastered to the ceiling. in his hands is a set of photos from one of your ultrasounds—nothing new, just somewhere in the middle of your pregnancy—and he holds it with the very tips of his fingers, like he's afraid of touching it anymore than he has to.

you sit beside him, heavy with a baby and standing on sore, swollen ankles. "you can have it, if you want. i have plenty."

and you'll take plenty more, in the future; he just shrugs, attempting to look indifferent and yet looking anything but. you expect him to to deny you, like he's resisted all things, but his bottom lip pouts out more than he probably means for it to, and he just fingers one edge carefully.

"hope you got a name picked out."

"i do," you lean into him and he lets you, even accepts the tiny kiss you press into his warm shoulder. "do you want to know what it is?"

"no," he sighs and makes a face, though you can't be sure if the annoyance that flashes over him is meant for you, or himself. "best not to."

a set of tears stings your eyes that you know will show in your voice, so you just nod, letting your head fall to his shoulder. it draws out another heavy breath from him, a shaky one that he holds too long, before he finally rests his mouth against your hair. you can feel the flare of his nostrils, the grind of his jaw; if he could cry, you think he would be. he would have, since the beginning.

very quietly, you tell him, "she won't be anything like you," and when he nods and grits his teeth and clears his throat, you capitalize, take advantage of all the affection he'll show by taking one of his hands in your own. "she'll know love and patience and kindness, and i promise i won't ever try to make her into something else."

she won't know fear, not until she has to, not until you can help it. she won't ever have to know what it's like to grow up without a roof over her head, or food in her little belly. you won't let her be a tool, a stand-in, something you throw away in place of someone else.

all that he had to go through. all that's made touya dabi.

she'll never know that hurt.

"yeah," he whispers. "good."

when he moves his head, you move yours, propping your chin up to see him better. touya headbutts you lightly, squeezes your hand in his own, pinches at each of your fingers.

"is there anything...you want her to know about you?"

he doesn't bother to hide his frown now, though he shakes his head at the floor and looks away. it pulls on what little holds him together, tugs on him in ways that shouldn't, that you wish wouldn't, and he stares at the set of photos in his hands and tells you, "i never said that i didn't want her."

milf (motivation i’d like to find)

uh hi so!

i wrote this webpage that walks u thru looking after yourself when you know a thought is making you spiral. deployed it publicly bc i wanted it on mobile and i thought other people might like it too

check it oot

if the chara and trope thing is still open ... for a lil thing

can i maaaaaybe ask for a lil thing w atsumu and mutual pining or idiots to lovers LOL

send in a character + trope for a blurb

...

“oh my god, look at your hair!”

atsumu’s gaze follows your finger to where it eagerly points at a photo in your old school yearbook. after visiting his childhood home and finding the artifact practically shoved under his mattress, the two of you have spent the last hour giggling at all of the embarrassing old pictures from your teenage years. 

he scoffs at the humor laced in your voice, the one that’s poking fun at his messy dark brown mop from middle school. 

“oh please, that’s ‘samu,” he deflects. 

but growing up with the pair, you know better. he can’t fool you that easily. 

“no it's not,” you scold before cooing back at the little ‘tsumu in the picture, “look how cute you look.”

and at the compliment, atsumu directs his attention back to the book, turning it slightly his way to get a better look at the photo. “cute? lemme see that, oh yeah, that’s me. definitely me.”

a light slap is felt against his shoulder and god, he wants you to touch him again. you'd think he would’ve gotten over this by now—the giddy high he gets every time your skin brushes against his. but here he is, grown and successful and yet still putty in your soft, unknowing hands.  

he points to a candid photograph of you in the cafeteria.

“you always wore those stupid shoes,” he notes, eyeing the big clunky white sneakers that made you about three inches taller. he remembers liking how they made you eye level with him.

you hum, remembering how you’d practically worn the pair into the ground. “they were it back then.”

atsumu looks in the background of the photo to find his younger self sitting a few rows behind you, and while hidden by the camera’s blur, he knows he’s looking at you. he’s always looking at you, stupid shoes or not. 

“can i tell you a secret?” he almost whispers, and it’s unsettling how out of character it is for him. 

with a nervous laugh, you nod. atsumu smiles to himself before returning his attention back to the photo. 

“i had the biggest crush on you in high school.”

you snort, and while it's not the exact reaction he wanted, you’re smiling so he’ll take it. 

“yeah right,” you don't believe his confession for a second so he whines. 

“m’serious.”

and at his sincerity, your laughter fades and your eyes grow like saucers in disbelief. you’re looking at him like he has three heads, like he’s fourteen again and has that atrocious haircut back on his head.

“you’re lying,” you try to call his bluff, but his smile grows even wider. 

“imma lot of things,” he shakes his head at your amusement, “but a liar isn’t one of ‘em.”

“you had a crush on me?”

he watches as excitement slowly brews in your veins while you practically bounce with the need to know more. 

“the biggest crush,” he corrects with a knowing finger in your face. you swat it away as your tongue prods against your cheek in a grin. 

“so you're telling me that i could’ve bagged the atsumu miya.”

you still can, his heart aches. you always can. because it's the truth. he could be halfway across the world doing god knows what with god knows who, and he’d come home to you in a second if you so much as asked. 

but he can’t say that, because you're his friend. so he does what he does best, and he deflects.

“m’just saying! you were funny and pretty,” his voice drifts as the sentence goes on, and you’d think he was being sincere if he didn't suddenly perk up with a sarcastic, “and you gave me your homework sometimes.”

your eyes fall to the way his cupid’s bow bobs as he laughs. it makes you feel sixteen again, having a crush on your best friend and wanting to kiss the smug smile off of his stupid face.

but you can't, because he’s your friend. so you bite your tongue and passively let the moment falter. 

“yeah,” you scoff, “i’m the reason you passed geometry.” 

“and look at me now,” his head plops onto your shoulder in pride, “a genius.”

your eyes fall back on the photo. atsumu doesn't know if you see him in the background, but he hopes you feel him, hopes you know he was there. 

“i never would’ve known,” you whisper carefully. “i mean, you act the same way now that you did back then.”

exactly, atsumu wants to scream, because i still want you. i’m always going to want you. 

he can practically feel the weight of the words balancing on the tip of his tongue. he can say them, he’s sure of it. he's older now—stronger, more mature, and actually capable of being a man worthy of you. 

he opens his mouth to speak, and just as he does, your head turns and your eyes meet his. and feeling like the little boy in the picture, atsumu cowers. 

“maybe i should add acting to my long list of talents.”

Nothing just angry sex w/ Bakugou

Not even really angry sex, more like jealous sex cuz that got me- •/////•

GODD, YES. Gonna pass out, this idea is just ... yum. sorry if this isn't coherent/good, I wrote this with very little sleep

I imagine Bakugou is actually quite secure in his relationships, he knows you have eyes for no one but him so it doesn't bother him so much.

But what if this was before you guys got together?

He hadn't made his feelings clear to you, yet, and when he sees that sleazy guy from the floor below in the agency chatting you up at the coffee machine. It has his stomach twisting uncomfortably, his heart dropping to his stomach and he's actually jealous. Jealous of the way you smile at the guy so easily, laugh along with his jokes and he wonders why you're not like that with him.

Bakugou knows it probably looks sketchy when he's cornering you after hours of work, everyone but the security guard who works on the ground floor is gone. He could see the surprised look on your face when he manages to get you pressed against the corridor wall, both his hands pressed on the wall on either side of your head to really cage you in. Didn't even give you the chance to speak, all he could think about is the way you were smiling earlier.

His lips are on yours, and he fully expects you to slap him and push him away but you don't, which only confuses him more. You moan into the kiss and it's all the permission he needs to hoist you up to his height, keeping your back to the wall with your legs tightly around his waist. It escalates pretty quickly, his feelings spilling freely whilst yours finally bubble over the edge.

Bakugou would've never known you felt the same way about him, that you were pining for the grumpy boss. It has him full of excitement but that lingering caress of jealousy has him being a little more forceful in his kisses. It's as if he's trying to imprint himself on you, to make sure you never forget the way his lips feel on yours. Or how his hands fit perfectly on your thighs when he's finally laying you down across his desk in his office after having walked you there.

He wants you to know how expertly he can take care of you, so his hands move precisely yet his touch is still soft when he settles between your thighs finally. It's the only real calm before the storm, his lips murmuring praises against your cheek whilst he works you open for him on his fingers.

The sex itself does start out softer, he's still overwhelmed with the fact that he really has you underneath him finally. Your moans are sweeter than anything he's ever known, your hands soft against his shoulders when he hunches over you to lay delicate kisses along your neck, up along your jaw until he's next to your ear so you can hear the low groan leaving his lips when you squeeze around him.

That's until he again is hit with the remembrance of that fucking idiot at the coffee machine, he had almost forgotten about the incident until you smiled up at him and he's fucking into you a little harder, subconsciously squeezing his hands at your hips a little firmer to make sure you don't escape from his grasp. Manhandling you into a different position, has you bent over his desk on your tiptoes and a hand splayed across your lower back. His eyes locked onto the place where the two of you are joined, and it has him nearly snarling like some wild dog.

"Hah, knew you wanted me, sweetheart." He comments, a pretty moan leaving his mouth when you flutter around him at the sound of his voice. "I knew you'd never go for that fucker from accounting."

You can't even really reply or think of just what the fuck he might mean when he's pushing his hips forward more, towering over you to really push his cock deeper into you at an angle that has you moaning sloppily against the mahogany desk. "Oh," you moan, eyes rolling into the back of your head when his hand joins in between your thighs to pinch and swirl against your clit. "Oh fuck, 'm gonna—"

Bakugou fucks you through your orgasm, prolonging the pleasure until you're writhing beneath him. Your hips bucking back into him and he has to use both his hands on your waist to keep you pinned beneath him whilst he drives his cock into you until he's spilling deep inside of you. He knows he shouldn't have, but it was like some primal desire. A carnal need to mark you as his, and what better way than filling that pretty pussy with his cum?

No man will ever make you feel that full again.

different viewpoints

"You're taking fucking forever in there."

You ignore Levi's irritated comment as you fiddle with the buckles on your shoes, too tiny to clasp easily and at a part of your ankle that requires your legs to be both tilted and bent to access them. A lethal combination in opposition to your dexterity.

"Are you sewing that dress by hand or what?"

His voice is nearer to your bedroom door now, a little bit more difficult to tune out with only the thin wood between you.

"No, my little mice helpers are doing that for me while I sing to them," you call back, but your words are light and flippant where his were heavy with the weight of his impatience.

"It wouldn't surprise me if you did have your own army of vermin with the amount of junk you've got in this apartment." You can't see Levi's face but you know he's looking around your living room with his nose crinkled in the particular way he does when he finds something distasteful.

You scoff as you finally succeed in doing up your second buckle. You lift your head so you can snap your rebuttal directly towards your closed door.

"Sorry we can't all live like minimalist monks!"

Levi snorts in reply. "I'm hardly a minimalist, I just don't accumulate needless things."

"You only own one bowl, one plate, and one mug."

You've known Levi since college, and you're fairly certain he has the same amount of possessions filling the entirety of his one-bedroom apartment that he did in his one-room dorm a decade prior. Probably the same ones, too.

"That way no one ever tries to come over for meals, it's clever."

"It's spartan."

There's a light thump on the other side of your door, and you wonder what it may have been.

"Didn't you ever read those Marie Kondo books?" Levi's voice is impossibly close now, like he's got his forehead pressed to your door. The thump makes a little more sense.

You laugh a bit to yourself as you imagine the way he's slumped against the expanse of wood, long-dressed in his suit and ready to go where you've taken your time getting ready. It's not your fault Levi showed up thirty minutes earlier than he said he would to pick you up for the company party your shared workplace was throwing that evening--though you should have expected it, given he's never been tardy to anything in the entire time the two of you had been friends.

"Can't say I did," you reply as you cross your bedroom, leaning over in your mirror to get one last close-up look at your face. You run your thumbnail against the edge of your bottom lip where your gloss was slightly ill-applied. "Why do you ask?"

"S'all that," Levi sighs, "'spark joy' bullshit. Don't keep things in your space if they don't make you happy or whatever."

You smile at your own reflection, eyes flickering to the image of your bedroom door you can see in the glass.

"And what if all my 'junk' makes me happy?"

There's some shuffling, and a moment later Levi mutters: "How can an issue of a magazine from 2010 make you happy?"

You suspect he's plucked an old copy of some fashion magazine off the stack resting on the bookshelf beside your door. You've actually been meaning to throw those away for a while, but you don't tell him that.

"How can you manage to not find happiness in anything?"

"That's not true," he argues.

"Oh yeah?" you counter, adjusting the way your necklace is resting against your collarbones. "Name something that you keep around just because it makes you happy."

"My kettle."

"Nope," you answer immediately, grabbing your purse off the end of your bed and heading towards the door, "that serves a practical, utilitarian purpose. I mean something useless that you just like. Just something you think is pretty."

You grasp the handle and pull it open, and you take Levi by surprise--he barely catches himself with a hand on either side of the door frame to keep from crashing into you.

There's a little pink mark at the centre of his brow where he'd been leaning against the door, and his eyes are wide.

"You ready to go?" you ask him, tucking your bag under your arm.

He's frozen, his expression still a little taken aback.

"What?" you ask him, suddenly self conscious. Your hands tug at the material of your dress nervously. "Should I change?"

"No," he says, soft but sure. "You look... fine."

Your face pinches.

"Fine?"

"Nice," Levi corrects himself, finally looking away. He fiddles with the stack of magazines he'd been complaining about moments prior. "You look nice."

"Wow, Ackerman, with compliments like that it's shocking that you have to take your best friend as your date to the company party and not one of the countless women I'm sure are knocking at your door."

Levi narrows his eyes, tossing you a withering look.

"You're the one who said we should go together."

"That's because I want to blackout at the open bar, and you're the only person I know who turns down a drink on the corporate dollar," you say with a bright smile.

Levi tuts in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes wandering away from you again. "Charming."

A beat of silence passes.

Levi sucks in a little breath.

"You."

"Pardon?" you ask, and not even because he said it so quietly you barely understood him, but because it doesn't quite make sense.

"Something I keep around just because I like it," Levi says, his eyes fixed so intently on the outdated magazine stack that you're surprised the pages don't burst into flames. "Just because it makes me happy..."

Your heart stutters in its rhythm, a sudden weakness in your knees you can't chalk up to the height of your heels as easily as you may have liked to.

"...Just because it's pretty."

You swallow thickly.

His eyes meet yours.

The time and space between the two of you is thick and sweet like honey, and you wade through it slowly as you fight to find your words. You swear you can almost taste it as your tongue peeks out to moisten your already glossy lips.

"We should probably go," you say quietly, reaching out to adjust the lapel of Levi's suit. If your touch lingers a moment longer than it ought to, if your fingers brush against him in a way that friends' shouldn't, neither of you says anything about it.

Levi nods and clears his throat, taking the slightest step away from you towards your front door. "We gotta get you back before midnight after all, Cinderella."

You blink, a little confused, a little dazed, a little bit of a head rush still clouding your thoughts.

"The mice, remember?" Levi offers when he sees your curious look, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Oh," you laugh, letting your head hang as you nod slightly. "Right."

The two of you make your way down to the parking lot outside of your apartment building towards Levi's car, and you watch as the lights flash when he unlocks it.

"I've got two mugs, by the way," Levi says as he pulls the driver's side door open, and you pause with your hand on the handle of your own. He looks at you over the roof of his car, his eyes suddenly firmer than you'd seen them all night. More insistent. More sure.

You tilt your head, confused.

He ducks down to slide into his seat, but not before calling back to you one last time:

"The other one is yours."