Latest Posts by ayatakanosstuff - Page 4
i would 100 percent try to drunk kiss him
katsuki would 100% wear those thirst trap "costumes" on halloween. "i'm a werewolf" and he's shirtless wearing a collar and wolf ears.
hi darling, when i get my break today i have updates for you on the buggy love life <3 i love you and hope you have a good day kiss kiss kiss
-love bug 🐞
omg yes i’m so excited
hinata shoyo icons
whenever I like your self ship posts, please imagine me holding up pompoms and yelling "YEAH!!!!" every time.
ANNOUNCEMENT
this rest of this month i’ll be talking abt these selfships:
Kuroo shoyo daichi iwaizumi and bakugou
selfships i want to start and confirm:
bokuto and meian also aizawa (pla help me.)
let me hop on the train
tomorrow is katsukis birthday im cooking something up
sobbing my babies
Just found out the itoshi brothers are inverted colors of each other dhmu.
drooling
Ushisaku shadowhunters 🖤
okay i just finished reading this and might i say im already addicted this is so beautiful like nana i love u this is how i pictured him so well and me and him and omgomgogm
navigation : midnight records! the moonlight album! the jjk album!
BEFORE SUNRISE ft. Zen'in Toji
synopsis : tokyo, may 1995. she doesn’t want to go home. he doesn’t have one. what starts as a strange encounter becomes a night of wandering until sunrise. and sometimes, one night is enough to remember someone forever.
contains : before sunrise au. soft angst. fluff. right person wrong time. strangers to almost lovers.
warnings : mentions of alcohol/smoking. language. themes of transience and loneliness. mentions of family trauma. suggestivity.
✷ masterlist — chapter two
✷ CHAPTER ONE. / 8:00 PM - Last Train
You left work late. Again.
One of the speakers had blown and you stayed back after close, rewinding the same ten seconds of a scratched L’Arc-en-Ciel CD until the bassline stopped rattling. It didn’t. You gave up.
The street was already leaning toward night when you stepped out, city lights blinking like they were pretending to care. You didn’t check the time. You knew if you looked, you’d start running. And running meant you still gave a shit.
So of course, you ran.
Boots not meant for sprinting. Shoulder bag slipping down your arm every five seconds. You cut through two alleys, jaywalked across an empty intersection, and whispered “sorry” to a taxi that almost hit you, though you weren’t. The wind hit your face like a reminder that you didn’t put on powder before you left. You’d gone a little heavy on the mascara this morning and now it was probably smudged. Fine, whatever.
The station came into view like a mirage of bad timing. You took the stairs two at a time. Your breath caught somewhere just behind your ribs, and right as your foot hit the platform — the train doors slid shut. You didn’t even get the satisfaction of a dramatic noise. They just clicked. Indifferent. Clinical. The train pulled away from the platform as you watched it go, hands on your hips, chest rising too fast, trying to look like you hadn’t just sprinted six blocks and lost.
Cool.
You tried to make your breath quieter. You tried not to look like someone who still cared about missing things. But your legs were buzzing and the strap of your bag had carved a mark across your shoulder and honestly, the worst part was that you ran at all. You could’ve left five minutes earlier. You could’ve not cared. But you ran. Because sometimes, even when you’ve got nothing urgent to get home to — you just want to get there first.
And now you weren’t there. You were here. Sweating slightly under your collar, trying to look normal under the flat glow of station lights. You pulled your coat tighter. Not because you were cold. Just because you needed to do something with your hands.
You decide to lean back against the wall to avoid looking awkward longer. Your shoulder bag tugs at your arm, heavy with too many little things — a mazzy star cassette tape you didn’t put back in its case, half a sandwich you forgot to eat, a receipt you didn’t throw out because it felt like proof of something. You pretend to check the next train time. It's thirty-two minutes. Which is just long enough to feel like a punishment.
The vending machine glows from across the platform — garish in a way nothing ever is during the day. You walk toward it. Not because you’re thirsty. Just because it's something to do that isn’t standing still and thinking about how out of breath you still are. You press the first button you see. A can thunks into the tray like it’s mildly annoyed with you. You open it without looking and take a sip. Lukewarm. Bitter. Tastes like shit and regret. It makes sense. You're not sure what else you expected.
You bring the can up again and catch movement out of the corner of your eye. Not movement, really — just presence. Someone standing across the platform, maybe six paces off. Leaning against a concrete column like he’s been there the whole time. Like he was built into the structure. You didn’t see him when you got here. Or maybe you did, and your body was too busy trying not to collapse in front of a closing train door to register it.
He’s tall. Really tall. Black jacket a little too heavy for the weather, dark jeans that are not too large but not too tight. Cigarette between his fingers, not smoked so much as held. You can’t see his eyes from here, but you feel them. Not in a creepy way. Like he’s not looking at you. But he’s not not looking, either.
He doesn’t shift. Doesn’t even seem bored. Just stands there like someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill silence. Or maybe someone who’s too used to it to bother anymore.
You glance away. Sip again. Grimace. The coffee still tastes like shit.
You wonder what he’s waiting for. If he’s waiting. If he even missed a train or if this is just where he ended up tonight. You think about saying something. Then think better of it. You haven’t had enough sleep this week to make decent small talk. You haven’t had a full conversation in three days that wasn’t about a refund, a release date, or which side of the sleeve is supposed to face out on a display rack.
Besides, he looks like the kind of man who doesn’t answer questions. Not because he’s mysterious, but because he doesn’t see the point.
You exhale through your nose and shift your weight again, not because you’re uncomfortable — just because standing still makes you feel too obvious. You glance over one more time. He hasn’t moved. You don’t know what makes you finally speak. Maybe boredom. Maybe impulse. Whatever it is, the words come out before you think them through. “You always look this constipated?” It comes out low, flat, not even trying to be funny. Just something to toss into the space so it doesn’t keep swallowing you whole.
He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his gaze slightly, enough to let you know he heard. His face doesn’t change much — except for the smallest twitch near the corner of his mouth, like something pulled tight out of habit is deciding whether or not to let go. “You always talk this much to strangers?” he asks, tone dry, almost bored. Just matter-of-fact.
You shrug, turning your attention back to the can in your hand like it might give you an excuse not to answer. “Only the ones who stare. And see me lose.” You walk back toward the bench without looking at him. You sit, cross your legs and sip the coffee again just to make your mouth stop moving. Still disgusting. Still better than being alone with your thoughts.
He doesn’t come closer but he doesn’t leave either.
“You always smoke that slow?” you ask, watching the red tip of the cigarette hover near his fingers. “Only when I’m not in a hurry.”
“Well shit, guess I ruined your vibe.”
Still nothing. Or maybe silence is just how he answers when he doesn’t feel like lying. You don’t push. But you don’t stop too. “I thought I had more time,” you say, like that’s something normal to admit to a stranger. You keep your eyes on the machines across the track. “I didn’t, apparently.”
He flicks ash without looking at you. “Can’t tell if you’re making conversation or confessing something.” You smile, faintly. “Why not both?” That’s the first time he really looks at you. Not long or searching. Like something about the way you say it doesn’t match what he expected. You sit with that. The station hums in the background. One of the lights overhead buzzes like it’s threatening to die.
“You live around here?” he asks after a beat. It’s not casual, but it isn’t probing either. You don’t look at him when you answer. Just tilt your head, eyes still on the vending machine like it might give you an exit. “Far enough to miss the train. Close enough to pretend I didn’t mean to catch it.”
Another pause. Then you add, softer, because it’s true, and you’re too tired to lie about small things: “Not that I was rushing to get home.” He doesn’t react. But that doesn’t surprise you. He’s got the kind of face that probably doesn’t shift for much. You wonder if that’s something he learned, or if it just grew that way.
You lean back against the bench, feeling the cold press of metal through your coat. The coffee can’s almost empty, and you can’t decide if you’re disappointed or relieved. “It's not that I hate it,” you say, mostly to yourself. “The place is fine. Small. My first appartment.” You swirl the can once before setting it on the ground by your feet. “But sometimes it feels like the walls get closer when I close the door behind me.”
He doesn’t say anything. You weren’t expecting him to. That might be part of the reason you said it. It’s easier to speak when the other person doesn’t try to fill in the blanks. He drops what’s left of his cigarette and crushes it under his boot with a slow, clean scrape. Doesn’t rush the motion. Doesn’t say anything for a while after.
Then: “Let’s walk.”
Just like that. Not a question. Not a command. Just a line drawn across the platform, and you’re the one who has to decide whether to cross it. You look at him. For the first time, fully. And he meets it — not challenging, not inviting. Waiting, like he’s already on the other side of the choice.
You cross your arms, weight shifting to one leg. “You could be a serial killer.” He nods, like that’s reasonable. “I could.” There’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t feel dangerous. He's ridiculously honest. Which is maybe worse.
You look toward the exit, then back at him. “You’re not gonna smile and say ‘I’m not that kind of guy’?”
“No.”
You let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. “Points for consistency.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t gesture for you to follow. He just starts walking. Like the night was already his and you’re just deciding whether or not to step into it.
And for a few seconds, you stay still. You think about your apartment. About the cold floor, the quiet, the leftover curry you didn’t finish last night. You think about how the silence there doesn’t even echo — it just lands. You should stay. You should wait for the next train. You should go home. But you don’t want to go home. So you move.
The doors hiss shut behind you. You step into air that’s cooler than it felt five minutes ago. City air, late air — the kind that smells like warm metal and leftover ramen and just enough night to make you feel like maybe something’s still possible.
You stand there for a second. On the curb. He’s a few feet ahead of you, not looking back, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t ask if you’re coming. He already knows.
You shift your weight. The vending machine buzz follows you out. A cat darts across the street and disappears between buildings like it’s got somewhere more urgent to be. You glance toward him, then forward again. “If I end up in a missing person’s case,” you say, mostly to the sidewalk, “I really hope they use a decent photo.”
He doesn’t turn, but you catch it — the ghost of something near his mouth. Not a smile. Just a suggestion of one. “Guess that depends on what gets you reported missing.” You shake your head, drag your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “You’re really not big on comfort, are you?”
“I don’t sell anything I can’t afford.”
That gets a small exhale out of you. Not a laugh. But enough to loosen the knot in your chest. You both stay still for a minute. Not walking yet. Not really standing, either. Then, without looking at him, you ask: “So, we just gonna walk until sunrise?”
His voice doesn’t shift when he answers. “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.” You don’t but you don’t say that. You just stay where you are. The street humming somewhere behind your left shoulder. The sky half-closed. A taxi slows but doesn’t stop. And the night — strange, quiet, almost patient — lets you be undecided.
2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.
TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @buckcherried @andysteve1311 @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @angelkiyo @stargazsblog @seren-dipitt @loverofthingsnsuch
it was me….
do my two truths and a lie pleek
I DID THIAT NSHIT NKW
next theme for pomeloblush is gonna be tomatoes btw, if anyone sees any cute tomatoes things send em my way
next theme for pomeloblush is gonna be tomatoes btw, if anyone sees any cute tomatoes things send em my way
i so intensely crave this
someone needs to write a restaurant au where yn is a waitress and kyotani is a line cook
navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! the mha EP!
"TELL ME NOT TO" — Bakugo Katsuki
a/n : being a girl means rewatching your childhood tv shows when you’re depressed, I missed one tree hill sm
warnings : alcohol, everyone is 18+, inspired by one tree hill
content : 3rd year Bakugo. f2l. mutual pining. fluff
Graduation night feels like the end of the world—but in a good way.
The Class 3-A dorms are packed, the air thick with heat, music, and the bittersweet kind of joy that comes when everything is about to change. Everyone’s too loud, too drunk, too alive. Mina’s dancing on the couch. Kaminari’s spinning a bottle like it’s a roulette wheel. Someone’s passed out on the stairs.
Truly, you love your classmates and you love this chaos. But right now, you need a breather.
You slip outside barefoot, still warm from the inside out, the bottle in your hand nearly empty. The grass is cool beneath your feet, soft and wet with the tail end of spring. You take a deep breath of it all—the quiet, the dark, the distant hum of music behind you—and smile to yourself.
Then the door opens. You don’t turn. You don’t have to, because you know it’s him.
“Took you long enough,” you call out, voice light, teasing. “Didn’t know I was supposed to babysit your ass all night,” Bakugo mutters. You spin around, walking backward now, grinning at him over the top of your bottle. “You weren’t. But you always end up doing it anyway.”
His eyes narrow, but his expression is too relaxed to be annoyed. He’s got that lazy look he only ever gets after two drinks—when the sharpness of him softens just enough to show the version he keeps hidden. His skull shirt is rumpled, damp with something spilled, his hair more chaotic than usual. He looks like he’s halfway through pretending he doesn’t want to be near you.
You raise your brows. “You’re tipsy.” He scoffs. “I’m fine.”
“You’re drunk aren’t you.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You love it.”
His mouth twitches—and for a second, you think he might actually smile.
But then you hear it. A low hiss. The faint hum of pressure building in the ground. You freeze just slightly, eyes flicking to the sprinkler heads lining the edge of the lawn. Your grin spreads like wildfire. “Oh my god,” you murmur. Bakugo blinks. “What?”
And then—You shove him right into the spray.
PSHHHHHHT.
Cold water explodes out of the sprinklers, nailing him straight in the chest. He stumbles back, half-jumping, half-growling, already soaked. “What the fuck!”
You double over laughing. “I told you you were drunk, your reflexes didn’t work !” you say to him. “You’re dead,” he snaps, and then he’s coming for you.
You shriek, laughing too hard to run properly, skidding across the grass as the sprinklers rotate, catching you both in random bursts. You dodge one spray just to get nailed by another, and now you’re soaked—your dress clinging to your legs, hair stuck to your forehead, mascara probably halfway down your cheeks.
Bakugo’s chasing you across the lawn like it’s a damn battlefield. “You think you’re funny?” he yells.
“I know I’m funny !”
“You’re an idiot !”
“But I’m your idiot !”
His laugh slips out before he can stop it. It’s low and surprised, like he didn’t expect it himself. You catch it—catch the exact second it happens—and it hits you harder than the water.
Because it’s real. Because Bakugo never laughs like that. You slow a little, just enough for him to catch you.
Your laughter cuts off as his arm hooks around your waist, dragging you backward, off balance, legs slipping in the soaked grass. You’re weightless for half a second before you crash down into the lawn, the cold seeping through your clothes instantly—but it’s not harsh.
He lands half on top of you, one arm braced beside your head, the other still around your waist, holding you steady like the ground might give out. Water from the sprinklers mists over you both in waves. Somewhere, someone’s still shouting from the party. But here? It’s quiet.
His chest is rising and falling against yours. His shirt is soaked, clinging to every line of muscle, and your fingers are curled into the fabric without realizing. His hair is dripping, blonde strands stuck to his forehead, water trailing down the edge of his jaw.
You’re both breathing hard. And for once… he’s not pulling away.
His eyes find yours—narrowed just slightly, like he’s still caught somewhere between disbelief and something much deeper. His scowl is gone. In its place is this bare awe that steals the air from your lungs more than the fall did.
Your voice comes out low. Playful, but softer now. “I win.” He huffs, barely a laugh. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
“You like it though"
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicks down—quick, instinctive—to your lips. And then right back up. But you saw it.
And the way he’s looking at you now, it’s like he’s finally letting himself see you. Not just as the friend he’s joked with, sparred with, stayed up too late with—but as the person he’s been falling for slowly but hard. The one thing he never let himself touch.
Until now.
You whisper it before you can second-guess, “You’re gonna kiss me or what?” His eyes flicker, and for a beat, he just stares. Like he’s trying to memorize everything—your soaked dress, your flushed cheeks, the way you’re not pushing him away.
“Tell me not to,” he murmurs. It’s not a threat. It’s a warning. A plea. You don’t say a word, you just lean up. And that’s what he needed to meet you halfway.
The kiss is urgent. Messy in the way only first kisses can be—especially ones that have been waiting way too long. His lips crash against yours with no warning, no hesitation. He tastes like cheap liquor and rainwater and something you’ve been craving without even knowing it.
There’s nothing gentle about it—at first. It’s heat and release and finally, all tangled into one moment that feels too big for your chest. But then—he softens.
His hand moves from your waist to your cheek, fingers brushing water off your skin like he wants to memorize the shape of your face. His mouth slows, moving over yours with more intention now, like he’s realizing he gets to have this. That you’re real. That you’re not pulling away.
And you kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for this since day one. Because you have.
His thumb brushes the corner of your jaw. Your hand slides up into his wet hair, tugging gently. You can feel the way his body melts into yours, feel the sigh he lets out against your lips like he’s been holding his breath for years.
He pulls back, just far enough to breathe, and for a long second, neither of you says anything.
His forehead is still resting against yours, breath hot and uneven, fingers still curled tight around your waist like letting go isn’t even an option. Your lips are swollen. Your pulse is loud in your ears. You can still taste him.
You open your eyes—and he’s already looking at you. Not like your best friend. Not like a maybe. Like someone who’s been drowning in almosts for a year and finally—finally—got air. “Shit,” you whisper, because that’s all your brain can manage.
He exhales a soft laugh, eyes dropping to your mouth, like he’s thinking about kissing you again. Like he might never stop.
One more second. One more heartbeat. Then he murmurs, voice rough and quiet: “Took you long enough.” You smile. “Shut up.”
And you kiss him again.
2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.
TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @g-h-o-s-t-b-a-b-i @andysteve1311 @feelya
throws myself at a wall
"... it is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. and as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual."
- excerpt from the two-headed calf by laura gilpin
tw bllk manga spoilers, hurt/comfort
you see seishiro cry for the first time when he returns to you.
you're sure he must have let out all the tears, all the sorrow, when he saw his name up on that big screen. when the whole world did. but you're not entirely sure what it is that makes the dam break again.
"missed you."
and therein lies your answer.
you're not sure what to say to him. you can't really hear anything he's saying, either, what with his face being buried in the crook of your neck. his melancholy is new, and it is contagious. it renders you speechless, even more so.
somehow or other, the two of you find yourselves on the couch in the living room. it matters not whose feet were guiding and whose following, because in this moment you are practically one entity.
hearts beating as one. hearts aching as one.
neither of you speaks for what feels like en eternity, until seishiro finally pulls away, turning his head to look up at you.
"are you disappointed?"
"of course not." your reply is quick, and somewhat dazed as you gaze into his eyes - eyes that are soft moonlight streaming in through gauzy curtains. "never."
he averts his gaze just as quickly, body twitching away from your careful touch.
"let reo down. let you down."
and you have nothing to say to that. nothing that sounds sincere enough, nothing that can capture what you want to say to him.
finally you settle on: "is it selfish that i just wanted you back here with me?"
"of course not."
"really?"
"never."
seishiro exhales slowly, and when his head dips, it’s not in defeat, but in quiet surrender - to this moment, to you. he leans into your touch this time, lets his forehead rest against yours like he’s grounding himself.
"i missed you," he repeats, as if it’s a secret meant only for the space between your breaths. his fingers find yours, hesitant at first, but when you don’t let go - when you squeeze gently, just once - he does too.
you both sink further into the couch, the world outside forgotten. the moonlight wraps around you like a blanket, binding your bodies and souls together, and though nothing is better, nothing is perfect -
this is enough for now.
and sometimes, enough is everything.
a/n: heh... i am Coping Well i think
IRISS YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNdYdrSBq/
Saw it on my fyp and thought of u 🫶
OMGG YES IVE SEEN THIS I HAVE IT SAVED N REPOSTED LMAOO
namris thanks u 🙏🏻
will you be the mattia to my kairi
Omg i thought you’d never ask 🤭
WILL BE READING SOON OMGOMG
navigation : midnight records! the moonlight album! the jjk album!
BEFORE SUNRISE ft. Zen'in Toji
synopsis : tokyo, may 1995. she doesn’t want to go home. he doesn’t have one. what starts as a strange encounter becomes a night of wandering until sunrise. and sometimes, one night is enough to remember someone forever.
contains : before sunrise au. soft angst. fluff. right person wrong time. strangers to almost lovers.
warnings : mentions of alcohol/smoking. language. themes of transience and loneliness. mentions of family trauma. suggestivity.
✷ masterlist — chapter two
✷ CHAPTER ONE. / 8:00 PM - Last Train
You left work late. Again.
One of the speakers had blown and you stayed back after close, rewinding the same ten seconds of a scratched L’ArcenCiel CD until the bassline stopped rattling. It didn’t. You gave up.
The street was already leaning toward night when you stepped out, city lights blinking like they were pretending to care. You didn’t check the time. You knew if you looked, you’d start running. And running meant you still gave a shit.
So of course, you ran.
Boots not meant for sprinting. Shoulder bag slipping down your arm every five seconds. You cut through two alleys, jaywalked across an empty intersection, and whispered “sorry” to a taxi that almost hit you, though you weren’t. The wind hit your face like a reminder that you didn’t put on powder before you left. You’d gone a little heavy on the mascara this morning and now it was probably smudged. Fine, whatever.
The station came into view like a mirage of bad timing. You took the stairs two at a time. Your breath caught somewhere just behind your ribs, and right as your foot hit the platform — the train doors slid shut. You didn’t even get the satisfaction of a dramatic noise. They just clicked. Indifferent. Clinical. The train pulled away from the platform as you watched it go, hands on your hips, chest rising too fast, trying to look like you hadn’t just sprinted six blocks and lost.
Cool.
You tried to make your breath quieter. You tried not to look like someone who still cared about missing things. But your legs were buzzing and the strap of your bag had carved a mark across your shoulder and honestly, the worst part was that you ran at all. You could’ve left five minutes earlier. You could’ve not cared. But you ran. Because sometimes, even when you’ve got nothing urgent to get home to — you just want to get there first.
And now you weren’t there. You were here. Sweating slightly under your collar, trying to look normal under the flat glow of station lights. You pulled your coat tighter. Not because you were cold. Just because you needed to do something with your hands.
You decide to lean back against the wall to avoid looking awkward longer. Your shoulder bag tugs at your arm, heavy with too many little things — a mazzy star cassette tape you didn’t put back in its case, half a sandwich you forgot to eat, a receipt you didn’t throw out because it felt like proof of something. You pretend to check the next train time. It's thirty-two minutes. Which is just long enough to feel like a punishment.
The vending machine glows from across the platform — garish in a way nothing ever is during the day. You walk toward it. Not because you’re thirsty. Just because it's something to do that isn’t standing still and thinking about how out of breath you still are. You press the first button you see. A can thunks into the tray like it’s mildly annoyed with you. You open it without looking and take a sip. Lukewarm. Bitter. Tastes like shit and regret. It makes sense. You're not sure what else you expected.
You bring the can up again and catch movement out of the corner of your eye. Not movement, really — just presence. Someone standing across the platform, maybe six paces off. Leaning against a concrete column like he’s been there the whole time. Like he was built into the structure. You didn’t see him when you got here. Or maybe you did, and your body was too busy trying not to collapse in front of a closing train door to register it.
He’s tall. Really tall. Black jacket a little too heavy for the weather, dark jeans that are not too large but not too tight. Cigarette between his fingers, not smoked so much as held. You can’t see his eyes from here, but you feel them. Not in a creepy way. Like he’s not looking at you. But he’s not not looking, either.
He doesn’t shift. Doesn’t even seem bored. Just stands there like someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill silence. Or maybe someone who’s too used to it to bother anymore.
You glance away. Sip again. Grimace. The coffee still tastes like shit.
You wonder what he’s waiting for. If he’s waiting. If he even missed a train or if this is just where he ended up tonight. You think about saying something. Then think better of it. You haven’t had enough sleep this week to make decent small talk. You haven’t had a full conversation in three days that wasn’t about a refund, a release date, or which side of the sleeve is supposed to face out on a display rack.
Besides, he looks like the kind of man who doesn’t answer questions. Not because he’s mysterious, but because he doesn’t see the point.
You exhale through your nose and shift your weight again, not because you’re uncomfortable — just because standing still makes you feel too obvious. You glance over one more time. He hasn’t moved. You don’t know what makes you finally speak. Maybe boredom. Maybe impulse. Whatever it is, the words come out before you think them through. “You always look this constipated?” It comes out low, flat, not even trying to be funny. Just something to toss into the space so it doesn’t keep swallowing you whole.
He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his gaze slightly, enough to let you know he heard. His face doesn’t change much — except for the smallest twitch near the corner of his mouth, like something pulled tight out of habit is deciding whether or not to let go. “You always talk this much to strangers?” he asks, tone dry, almost bored. Just matter-of-fact.
You shrug, turning your attention back to the can in your hand like it might give you an excuse not to answer. “Only the ones who stare. And see me lose.” You walk back toward the bench without looking at him. You sit, cross your legs and sip the coffee again just to make your mouth stop moving. Still disgusting. Still better than being alone with your thoughts.
He doesn’t come closer but he doesn’t leave either.
“You always smoke that slow?” you ask, watching the red tip of the cigarette hover near his fingers. “Only when I’m not in a hurry.”
“Well shit, guess I ruined your vibe.”
Still nothing. Or maybe silence is just how he answers when he doesn’t feel like lying. You don’t push. But you don’t stop too. “I thought I had more time,” you say, like that’s something normal to admit to a stranger. You keep your eyes on the machines across the track. “I didn’t, apparently.”
He flicks ash without looking at you. “Can’t tell if you’re making conversation or confessing something.” You smile, faintly. “Why not both?” That’s the first time he really looks at you. Not long or searching. Like something about the way you say it doesn’t match what he expected. You sit with that. The station hums in the background. One of the lights overhead buzzes like it’s threatening to die.
“You live around here?” he asks after a beat. It’s not casual, but it isn’t probing either. You don’t look at him when you answer. Just tilt your head, eyes still on the vending machine like it might give you an exit. “Far enough to miss the train. Close enough to pretend I didn’t mean to catch it.”
Another pause. Then you add, softer, because it’s true, and you’re too tired to lie about small things: “Not that I was rushing to get home.” He doesn’t react. But that doesn’t surprise you. He’s got the kind of face that probably doesn’t shift for much. You wonder if that’s something he learned, or if it just grew that way.
You lean back against the bench, feeling the cold press of metal through your coat. The coffee can’s almost empty, and you can’t decide if you’re disappointed or relieved. “It's not that I hate it,” you say, mostly to yourself. “The place is fine. Small. My first appartment.” You swirl the can once before setting it on the ground by your feet. “But sometimes it feels like the walls get closer when I close the door behind me.”
He doesn’t say anything. You weren’t expecting him to. That might be part of the reason you said it. It’s easier to speak when the other person doesn’t try to fill in the blanks. He drops what’s left of his cigarette and crushes it under his boot with a slow, clean scrape. Doesn’t rush the motion. Doesn’t say anything for a while after.
Then: “Let’s walk.”
Just like that. Not a question. Not a command. Just a line drawn across the platform, and you’re the one who has to decide whether to cross it. You look at him. For the first time, fully. And he meets it — not challenging, not inviting. Waiting, like he’s already on the other side of the choice.
You cross your arms, weight shifting to one leg. “You could be a serial killer.” He nods, like that’s reasonable. “I could.” There’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t feel dangerous. He's ridiculously honest. Which is maybe worse.
You look toward the exit, then back at him. “You’re not gonna smile and say ‘I’m not that kind of guy’?”
“No.”
You let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. “Points for consistency.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t gesture for you to follow. He just starts walking. Like the night was already his and you’re just deciding whether or not to step into it.
And for a few seconds, you stay still. You think about your apartment. About the cold floor, the quiet, the leftover curry you didn’t finish last night. You think about how the silence there doesn’t even echo — it just lands. You should stay. You should wait for the next train. You should go home. But you don’t want to go home. So you move.
The doors hiss shut behind you. You step into air that’s cooler than it felt five minutes ago. City air, late air — the kind that smells like warm metal and leftover ramen and just enough night to make you feel like maybe something’s still possible.
You stand there for a second. On the curb. He’s a few feet ahead of you, not looking back, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t ask if you’re coming. He already knows.
You shift your weight. The vending machine buzz follows you out. A cat darts across the street and disappears between buildings like it’s got somewhere more urgent to be. You glance toward him, then forward again. “If I end up in a missing person’s case,” you say, mostly to the sidewalk, “I really hope they use a decent photo.”
He doesn’t turn, but you catch it — the ghost of something near his mouth. Not a smile. Just a suggestion of one. “Guess that depends on what gets you reported missing.” You shake your head, drag your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “You’re really not big on comfort, are you?”
“I don’t sell anything I can’t afford.”
That gets a small exhale out of you. Not a laugh. But enough to loosen the knot in your chest. You both stay still for a minute. Not walking yet. Not really standing, either. Then, without looking at him, you ask: “So, we just gonna walk until sunrise?”
His voice doesn’t shift when he answers. “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.” You don’t but you don’t say that. You just stay where you are. The street humming somewhere behind your left shoulder. The sky half-closed. A taxi slows but doesn’t stop. And the night — strange, quiet, almost patient — lets you be undecided.
2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.
TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @buckcherried @andysteve1311 @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @angelkiyo @stargazsblog @seren-dipitt @loverofthingsnsuch
𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍
pairing: deaf!katsuki x gn!reader
warning: collage au, swearing, softsuki, pure fluff, all words italicized are meant to be spoken in sign language
notes: this might be my fave thing ive written so far
632 | Bakugou’s never needed words to tell you how he feels. The only problem?You never understand what he’s been saying.
Bakugou signs alot.
At first, you thought it was just muscle memory, like how someone might talk to themselves under their breath. He’d move his hands with sharp, purposeful flicks, his fingers quick and angry, like he was arguing with the air.
But he always signed to you.
You noticed it when he’d glance your way mid-conversation, hands spelling out something with too much intention for it to be coincident. You didn’t understand a word, of course, and he never explained himself. He’d roll his eyes or scoff when you asked. Saying something like figure it out if you’re so interested, but even with his dismissal— he kept doing it.
When he was annoyed with you, his fingers moved fast.
On the rare chance you made him chuckle, he’d sign something slow and subtle, hidden behind his dumb smirk and eye roll.
When he looked at you too long, he’d blink, sign, and look away.
It wasn’t until weeks later, when you finally decided to take a crash course in ASL at your campus library that the words finally started to come together.
“Thanks for saving my seat,” you said softly, placing your bag down beside him. He hums, nodding, red eyes never leaving your own and it’s enough to make your face heat. You’d always thought Bakugou was good looking, but for the longest time, you kept your distance. That is, until he showed up to the lecture one day reading one of your favorite books, and something about that felt like an opening. Since then, sitting next to him became a habit you looked forward to more than you’d admit.
Your other friends liked to joke that you’d worn him down. That you annoyed him into a friendship.
But every time you walked in and found his bag already nudged off the chair beside him, saving the seat just for you, it felt like the smallest kind of miracle.
He never said much about it. Never made a show of saving your space, but he did it every time.
Bakugou shrugged, his hands move fast. You look… tired?
You blinked. “Wait, I— did you say I looked tired?”
He froze. His brows furrow, eyes narrowed. A tiny break in the confidence that was so Bakugou it practically had its own gravitational pull.
“What the fuck," you heard him mumble. It makes you laugh.
He’s quick to sign again. You understood that?
You bit your lip, suppressing a grin. “A little. I’ve been uh—“ You cut yourself off, your own hands coming forward. Learning.
Bakugou scowled, but his ears were tinged red. He signs again, how? you stalking me now?
“No,” you said, laughing. “I took some classes in the library. Besides you're the one who’s been talking at me this whole time. I finally decided to catch up.”
His hands lifted. It is then that the piece start clicking. If you had learned what he was saying than that means... his eyes narrowed.
What else have you seen?
You pause. Beautiful, he had signed once. You’re beautiful.
Another time: I like your laugh. It sounds like wind chimes. The words 'Wind chimes' was a hard one to figure out for sure.
Once: I wish I could kiss you without making things weird.
You shook your head gently. “Beautiful a couple times... but that's all I remember."
Bakugou exhaled sharply. That's all you remembered!? He's going to fucking explode, dear god. He can feel the heat traveling down his neck. His fingers twitched like he wanted to deny it, like he wanted to scream just to redirect the attention.
Instead, he groaned. Looking away before signing something slowly— hands pausing just enough to make sure you’d catch it.
I can help you remember the rest.
You smiled. Yes. I'd love that
gimme a minute. i’ll cook it up rn LMAO
so Who is gonna make a bodyguard!iwaizumi x a lowkey spoiled!reader who’s father is like idk a businessman i’ve got no clue but💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗 pls hmu 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗 thank u 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗
this is so me n him coded especially with twilight ty for the food meeya
— meian shugo ⋮ 03 / 17 / 25. ❝ 𝓞𝑳𝑫 𝓜𝑨𝑵 ❞
content warnings ⨾ smau. implied age gap, but not too big of one. jealous!v-league player!meian. profanity. please don’t pay attention if there are mistakes, thank you ! word count ⨾ n/a.
FOR YOU ｡｡｡
↳ 「 osamu miya 」 ␥ 宮 治 .ᐟ
⤦ wc ⨾ 611
⤦ cw ⨾ no pronouns used, mentions stress baking, kind of hurt to comfort, i forgot how to write.
“what‘s wrong?” his voice, a soft murmur peppered with specks of concern, loud enough to be heard above the monotonous whir of the white fridge placed in the corner of the kitchen.
He rushed to your side, dropping everything, and calloused hands came into contact with your clothed back.
Despite wearing a thick jumper adorned by a delicate dusting of pills, an attempt to protect your skin from the sad bite of the cold, you could feel his fingertips surging small waves of heat through the dense material of your jumper.
Osamu had just come back from work. It was 12am—fridays are always busy for him. A thin layer of salty sweat coated his skin, reflecting a slight glow. He did not expect to come back to find you, a flushed face graced by a sad trail of tears, standing in front of a tray of burnt cookies.
You took in his smell—a subtle sweetness seasoned with the aroma of roasted seaweed—while you let out a soft sniffle.
Within his presence, the previous sense of panic has dissipated into thin air—every breath he drew out matched the melodious rhythm of your heart.
“Stress baking again?” he asked, his head leaning in closer as his eyes trailed the cookies spread out atop the counter, an ugly black furnishing the uneven edges. His hand never left the small of your back.
Your lips pursed into a thin line as you shook your head in agreement. Stress baking, again.
Osamu was tired. Every muscle in his body yearned for sleep—screamed for it. Anyone would be after working a 12 hour shift in a busy restaurant on a Friday.
The hand previously stitched onto your back removed itself—and you felt naked in the aftermath. Your head turned, eyes trailing his figure. He made his way to the fridge.
“What—what are you doing?”
“What do you think?” he turned around with a toothy grin, his arms hugging a few ingredients. “We’re baking cookies,”
You blink at him, furrowing your brows. “But you—“
“I’m craving some cookies,” a tired smirk etched on his lips as he approached you once again. He handed you the butter and sugar and went off to get the rest of the ingredients.
With a confused sigh and a soft sniffle, you measured out the ingredients into the mixing bowl previously laying in front of you and began whisking.
It was quiet for a while, until you felt warm breath fanning your neck and a pair of big arms wrap around your torso. His nose, now brushing the crook of your neck, sent shooting stars down your arms. His toned chest was against your back.
“Hey—“ You began, but he cut you off right away.
“We’re about to make the best cookies—ever” he mumbled into your neck, his voice carrying a hint of exhaustion. It was genuine.
Your eyes soften with a bit of water dampening them, guilt seeming to make its way into your chest, almost swallowing your heart whole. Making cookies after a 12 hour shift wasn’t the best way to wind down.
“I’m sorry you’re…you shouldn’t have to come from a busy day at work to bake some cookies“
He raised his head from your neck, arms still lazily wrapped around your waist, fingers intertwined and resting steadily in front of your stomach. “Hey, you better not be crying! I don’t want salty cookies,” he replied, pointing at the bowl in front of you with his head.
Osamu miya loved you dearly, and he was willing to prove that—even if it meant making cookies at 12am—because if it’s with you, he’d do anything. If it’s for you, he’d do everything.
@kameyyy