dee-writes-anime

[dee-writes-anime]

The Art of Homemade Gloves

FEATURING Choso Kamo x Reader

SUMMARY When you handed him a heat pack and told him to get some rest, you didn’t think anything of it. But Choso had never really been given warmth before and now he doesn’t know how to stop bringing it back to you.

CONTENT WARNINGS choso is awkward (!!!), not much other than cute fluff :D

AUTHORS NOTE some cute choso fluff I wrote to break up some request posting. Sometimes, you just gotta let those creative juices flow freely. ;)

It starts with a mission and a sore back.

The fight hadn’t been brutal, but it left everyone scraped raw—too much cursed energy in the air, too many small injuries that didn’t need a healer, just rest. By the time Choso finds a quiet hallway in the safehouse to sit down and breathe, the adrenaline’s long gone and a strange stillness is settling into his bones. Not peace. Not exactly. Just quiet.

You find him there, sitting against the wall like an abandoned shadow, elbows on his knees, head lowered. You don’t say anything right away. Just sit beside him with a soft grunt and stretch your legs out. Close, but not too close. It’s that subtle kind of closeness he’s noticed about you—natural, like you belong where you are without needing to ask permission.

You’re both quiet for a moment. Breathing in the same air, letting silence do what it does best: make space.

Then, you nudge something into his lap.

He looks down.

It’s a heat pack—one of those soft, microwavable ones, stuffed with rice or seeds, a faint trace of lavender clinging to the fabric. It’s warm. Still holding the heat from your hands.

“You looked tense,” you say. “Helps with the soreness. Just pop it in the microwave for like thirty seconds.”

He stares at it, confused. “You’re giving me this?”

You shrug. “Yeah. You didn’t look like the type to grab one for yourself.”

That’s… true. He wouldn’t have.

You stand, stretching your arms overhead, the hem of your shirt lifting just slightly. Choso looks away.

“Rest up, Choso,” you say over your shoulder, and then you’re gone.

He stares at the heat pack a while longer before pressing it to his chest like it might teach him something.

The next day, you find your favorite bottled tea sitting on your desk.

No note. No explanation. Just a single can, placed neatly beside your papers.

You glance down the hallway in time to see Choso disappearing around the corner.

The day after that, it’s a bag of spicy chips—the exact kind you’d mentioned craving once after a mission, in passing, weeks ago.

You open the bag and pop a chip into your mouth, chewing slowly.

“…Huh.”

When you see him again in the common room, you raise an eyebrow.

“Choso,” you say, arms crossed. “Are you… bribing me?”

He freezes mid-step, holding another drink can in his hand. You’ve caught him in the act. His eyes dart to the tea, then to you.

“No,” he says immediately, too fast. Then he pauses. “…Is it working?”

You try very hard not to laugh. “Maybe.”

He nods, completely serious, and sets the can down carefully before turning and walking away with the stiff posture of a man fleeing a crime scene.

You’re still laughing ten minutes later.

The gifts don’t stop.

They’re not flashy—never flowers or jewelry or anything extravagant. Just little things. Snacks. Canned drinks. A fresh roll of wrist tape after a tough training session. A pair of soft socks when the weather turns colder.

One day, it’s a neatly folded cotton scarf. You recognize it from the vendor stalls near the school—simple but warm, and in a color you once said you liked. Choso doesn’t even stick around to see you open it.

You don’t know what to do with it all, exactly. You try to give things back. He refuses every time.

“No,” he says, like it’s obvious. “It’s for you.”

Sometimes he hovers after dropping things off, pretending he’s not hovering. He doesn’t talk much, but his presence fills up the space slowly, like steam curling through the air.

Eventually, you stop pretending you don’t enjoy it.

One evening, after a mission with a few too many close calls, you sit outside the safehouse, elbows on your knees, cooling off under the open sky. The stars are just starting to emerge—faint and flickering. You rub your thumb over a small cut on your palm, mind wandering.

Choso appears quietly beside you, holding something wrapped in a soft cloth.

You blink. “Another peace offering?”

He sits without answering and sets the bundle in your hands.

You unwrap it carefully.

Inside is a pair of gloves. Hand-stitched, soft, warm. The seams are slightly uneven in a way that makes your chest hurt. Not messy—just… real. Like someone had done their best, even if they weren’t used to doing things like this.

You slip them on. They fit perfectly.

“You made these?” you ask, voice soft.

He nods once.

You flex your fingers and stare down at your hands, searching for words. Before you can find them, Choso speaks first.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the horizon. “After you gave me that thing.”

You look up at him.

“The heat pack,” he clarifies. “You gave it to me and… didn’t ask for anything. You just did it.”

He pauses. His voice is low and steady, but you can hear the tension underneath, like a bowstring drawn tight.

“No one’s ever done that before,” he says. “Just… gave me something. Because they wanted to.”

Your heart pulls, slow and deep.

“I didn’t know how to say thank you,” he adds. “So I started… bringing things.”

You swallow, touched in a way that’s hard to describe.

“I noticed.”

His hands twitch in his lap. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you say gently. “It’s… really sweet, actually.”

He turns to look at you—cautious, uncertain.

“You didn’t have to do any of that,” you continue, “but I’m glad you did.”

He’s quiet. Then, after a long pause:

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you say immediately.

He exhales, quiet and almost imperceptible.

“…Good.”

Things shift after that.

Not dramatically—just slightly. Like a door left cracked open. Choso starts lingering more. Sometimes he doesn’t bring anything at all, just sits with you while you read, or trains quietly nearby.

He doesn’t speak much. But when he does, it’s careful. Intentional. Like he weighs every word before offering it to you.

And sometimes, he watches you.

Not in a way that feels heavy or uncomfortable. Just… watchful. Soft-eyed. Like you’re something he’s trying very hard to understand. Or maybe memorize.

You don’t push. You just let it be. And quietly, you start giving back.

You bring him little things, too. Not out of obligation—just instinct. His favorite onigiri. A new set of hair ties. A small bottle of eucalyptus oil for his aches. The first time you brush a leaf out of his hair after a mission, he goes so still you think he’s stopped breathing.

Then he thanks you in a voice so quiet it barely makes it past his lips.

One day, you find a new heat pack on your bed.

It’s handmade. Soft fabric, the same color as your favorite hoodie. There’s a note tucked underneath, the handwriting small and oddly careful:

For when you’re sore. Or cold. Or both. —Choso

You press it to your chest, smile, and feel warmer than the pack itself.

You don’t realize how normal it’s become—this strange rhythm between you—until you wake up one evening from a post-mission nap on the common room couch and find Choso sitting on the floor beside you.

He’s reading. His legs are crossed, and there’s a mug in his hands. The book’s upside down, you realize after a moment.

You blink groggily. “How long was I out?”

He glances over, calm as ever. “Not long.”

There’s a blanket draped over your shoulders.

You frown, tugging at it. “Did you…?”

He looks vaguely guilty.

You smile. “Thanks.”

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. Choso sets the book aside (right side up this time) and watches you for a moment. Not saying anything. Just… looking.

There’s something in his gaze tonight. Something quiet and vulnerable and very, very present.

You decide to ask the thing that’s been sitting in the back of your mind for weeks now.

“Choso,” you say, “are you courting me?”

He freezes.

You swear you see his soul leave his body for a full three seconds.

“…I don’t know,” he says finally, voice small. “Am I?”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

“I think so,” you say gently. “And if you are—I don’t mind. In fact, I kind of like it.”

His eyes widen slightly, like you’ve just handed him the moon and asked if he wanted to keep it.

Then—slowly, like a cloud parting—he smiles. Just a little.

“…Okay,” he says.

You reach out and take his hand.

It’s warm.

So are you.

[dee-writes-anime]

A Sock, a Spoon, and Three Feathers

FEATURING Keigo 'Hawks' Takami x Reader

SUMMARY apparently his idea of “providing for you” is pre-cooked poultry and stealing all the spoons in your apartment.

CONTENT WARNINGS hawks is a bird I fear, fluff, slight angst at the end, but it ends in comfort, a dearly treasured spoon and a store bought rotisserie chicken, new relationship, nesting behavior, heat instincts, mild confusion, gift-giving, affectionate weirdness

AUTHORS NOTE god, someone get me a feral bird man. I fear I am desperate.

You’re not really sure when your apartment stopped looking like your apartment.

Maybe it was the third day in a row you found one of Keigo’s feathers tucked under your pillow. Or the moment you opened your silverware drawer and found it missing every spoon—except for one, singular, bent one—because, apparently, that was the “shiny one” he liked best.

You blink at the spoon now, lying sideways on your desk like it belongs there. You didn’t put it there.

There’s also a sock. Not yours.

“…Keigo?”

Your voice echoes down the hallway. You don’t get an answer right away, but you do hear a rustle from your bedroom, then the faint sound of a box being moved. When you poke your head in, you find him kneeling on the floor, surrounded by what might be your throw blankets, a hoodie you haven’t seen since March, and at least two of your favorite plushies.

And right in the middle of that chaotic pile: Hawks. Smiling. Nestled like a smug bird in a cloud of fleece.

“You’re home early,” he chirps, clearly pleased with himself. “Don’t worry—I cleaned off the table so we can still eat dinner like civilized people.”

You blink.

Then blink again.

“…What are you doing?”

Keigo looks around like the answer should be obvious. “Building a nest.”

There’s no irony in his voice. No teasing smirk. Just that bright-eyed, sunlit warmth that always makes your brain short-circuit a little.

You open your mouth. Then close it. “A… nest.”

“Yep.” He plucks something from beside him—a keychain you thought you lost—and holds it up. “Look! I even added your stuff, so it smells like you. That way I can feel safe.”

You’re silent for a long beat, staring at him.

Keigo tilts his head. “You okay, dove?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, just… trying to figure out if this is, like, a bird thing or a Keigo thing.”

He laughs, but it’s a little too sharp, a little too strained. You watch his wings fluff up behind him, fidgeting with little shivers of motion.

That’s when it hits you—he’s been acting weird for days now. Clingy, but not in a bad way. Just… hovering. Twitchy. Bringing you little trinkets—some feathers, a shiny ring pop, a cool rock. He even gave you a piece of tinfoil once that was folded into a perfect triangle.

“Is this like… instinct?” you ask gently, stepping closer. “You’ve been doing this since Saturday.”

He hesitates. Then shifts, like he’s bracing for judgment.

“…I think I might be going into heat,” he mutters, voice muffled by the hoodie he pulls over his face. “It’s early this season. Thought I had another week.”

“Oh,” you say.

You’re not sure what the correct response is to my bird boyfriend is nesting in my bedroom because his instincts are telling him I’d be a good mate, but you settle for sitting down next to him in the pile of blankets. One of his feathers sticks to your shirt. You don’t brush it off.

“So, uh,” you say, “does the spoon have special meaning, or was that just your favorite?”

“Shiniest one you had,” Keigo says immediately.

You nod thoughtfully. “Fair.”

He peers at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re not freaked out?”

“I’m confused,” you say honestly. “But not, like, bad confused. Just… bird confused.”

He makes a helpless sound, flopping back dramatically into the pile. “God, you’re perfect.”

You reach over and pluck the feather off your sleeve. It’s a brilliant red and soft at the edges. You hold it up.

“This one’s mine now,” you say, tucking it into your hair like a headband.

Keigo freezes. His eyes go wide.

“…You’re killing me,” he whispers.

You grin. “Better make room in your nest then.”

He beams.

You wake up to the sound of wings flapping.

Not like—outside, bird-in-a-tree flapping. No. You’re talking full-blown helicopter-grade flapping right in your living room, paired with the unmistakable sound of your front door clicking shut.

You groggily sit up, blinking against the sunlight. Your nest—sorry, bed—still smells like Keigo. Not surprising, considering he’d spent the night wrapped around you like a living space heater. The blanket pile he started building last night has only grown, and you’re 90% sure he rearranged your throw pillows in the shape of a heart before you fell asleep.

There’s another rustle.

Then a thud.

Then—

“Babe!” Keigo’s voice, muffled. “Do you like rotisserie chicken?!”

You squint and shuffle out into the hallway. “…What?”

Keigo rounds the corner with three grocery bags, feathers ruffled and windswept like he flew full-speed across the city and dive-bombed the store. His hair is a mess, shirt slightly askew, one glove missing, and his expression so absurdly proud that your heart does a traitorous little flip.

“I brought food,” he says, holding out a warm, fragrant box with both hands like an offering to a queen. “Protein. Omega-3s. Bird-safe. Mate-safe.”

“Mate-safe?” you echo, because you cannot let that one slide.

Keigo hesitates. “…I said that out loud, huh.”

He does this thing where he laughs and coughs at the same time, like maybe he can distract you from the fact that his eyes are laser-focused on your face for any trace of disapproval.

You take the chicken.

You also take a moment to process that this man—this pro hero—is trying to prove his suitability as a mate with grocery store poultry.

“…You’re doing the bird thing again,” you murmur, trying not to smile.

“I know,” he says, completely unashamed now. “My heat’s in full swing. I’m lucky I can still think straight.”

You raise a brow. “Can you?”

Keigo shrugs. “Define straight.”

You throw a piece of bread at him. He dodges it effortlessly, like the bastard bird he is.

Usually, Keigo’s presence is… everywhere. Not in an overbearing way, just—felt. Like a breeze under your skin. Like laughter waiting in your throat.

But today?

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your spine prick.

You pause mid-bite of your sandwich and glance down the hallway. The nest—the mess of blankets, stolen socks, and whatever he’s dragged in this week—is undisturbed. There’s no feather trail on the floor. No spoon migration. No commentary from the windowsill about pigeons “loitering” on the fire escape.

Just silence.

“…Keigo?” you call softly.

No answer.

You set your food down and move toward the bedroom, heart ticking up just a notch. The air feels heavy—like a storm waiting to break.

You find him in the corner, half-curled into the nest. His wings are drawn tight against his back, shivering faintly. His head’s tucked into the crook of his elbow like he’s trying to hide from something.

Your chest aches instantly.

“Hey,” you whisper, crouching beside him. “There you are.”

He doesn’t look up. His voice is quiet. Muffled.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink. “For what?”

He exhales shakily. “For being weird. For… hoarding your socks. For the chicken. For making your house smell like me. I just—my instincts are screaming and I can’t shut them up today and everything’s too loud—”

“Keigo.”

You reach out and gently touch his wing.

He stiffens for just a second—but then melts.

Collapses, really. Feathers slumping, breath hitching. He leans into your touch like it’s the first thing that’s made sense all day.

“I just wanted to be good,” he whispers. “Like—like a good mate. Someone who deserves to have you around. But now it just feels like I’m being too much. I’m not thinking clearly and it’s all heat and feathers and I—”

You shift closer, hands running slowly through the soft curve of his wings. “Hey. Breathe.”

He does. Because he listens to you. Always has.

“I like your feathers,” you murmur. “And your ridiculous spoon. And the stupid sparkly rock you left on my pillow.”

Keigo groans quietly. “That was a gift. From the heart.”

“I know. That’s why I kept it.”

He lifts his head just enough to glance at you, eyes glassy and golden, pupils blown wide with exhaustion and heat and instinct. You brush a bit of hair from his face.

“You don’t need to impress me, Keigo,” you say gently. “You already have me. Nest and all.”

He blinks.

Then suddenly, he’s curling into you. All warmth and feathers and barely-restrained shivers. He tucks his face into your shoulder and lets out a noise halfway between a sigh and a sob.

“I love you,” he mumbles, voice cracking, “like—a lot.”

You smile and kiss the top of his head. “I know.”

You settle there for a while—him buried in your side, wings twitching with aftershocks, your hand stroking gently through his hair. You hum something soft and tuneless, the way you do when he’s too deep in his own head.

Eventually, his breathing slows. His wings loosen. He starts mumbling nonsense again.

“…gonna build you a bigger nest,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, amused.

“Mmhm. For our future chicks.”

You pause.

“Keigo, we’re not even a month into dating.”

“I’m planning ahead,” he huffs, voice thick with sleep.

You laugh, long and soft. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m in heat,” he mumbles, pressing closer. “Let me bird in peace.”

You let him. Because the truth is, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here—with your weird, soft, instinct-driven bird of a boyfriend curled up like the world only makes sense when you’re touching.

And honestly?

Maybe it does.

[dee-writes-anime]

Oh boy, i got smt for yo ass

If you write for toumura (?) can I request

A angsty fic where he and reader are in a secret relationship, and during a big fight or smt reader DIES!!!!

That mother fucker breaks down, and the heroes truly start to see he was manipulated from a young age. But he doesn’t care because the one person who truly saw him for him is now dead? Bleeding out on the hard pavement, getting cold, pale.

Do as you please with this your honour

Dust to Dust

FEATURING Tenko 'Tomura Shigaraki' Shimura x Reader

SUMMARY the only thing keeping Tenko Shimura, the human, tethered to the world was you. Now that you're gone all that remains is Tomura Shigaraki, the weapon.

CONTENT WARNINGS major character death, violence, death, grief, this is some sad shit gang, tomura crashing out

AUTHORS NOTE oh monty you are in for a fucking TREAT! (I am a chronic Tomura apologist, never hesitate to request fics for him, that's my pookie)

There were never supposed to be survivors in his story.

Tomura grew up learning that hands could only destroy—that if you held something too tight, it would crumble, rot, turn to ash. His quirk made sure of it. His trauma guaranteed it.

So when you came into his life, soft-spoken but unafraid, he thought it was a trick.

You weren’t a villain. Not by profession, at least. You weren’t with the heroes either. A smuggler, maybe. A courier. Someone who slipped through the cracks with a false ID and a neutral stance. The kind of person who could trade with the League if the price was right.

He watched you the first time you made a deal with Kurogiri. Head held high. Voice steady. Smart eyes that didn’t tremble at the sight of his face, or the itch in his neck when he lost his patience.

That night, when you left, you handed him a candy bar.

“No offense,” you’d said, “but you look like you haven't eaten in two days.”

He stared at the wrapper in his palm for an hour after you were gone.

You weren’t supposed to come back.

But you did. Again and again. Deals turned into conversations. Conversations into late nights. Quiet laughter in the corners of safehouses and stolen moments between missions. It was slow. Unexpected.

Intimate.

You never asked about the scars. You never flinched when he touched your skin—barehanded, even, once he’d mastered restraint. You only ever looked at him like he was a man. Not a monster. Not a mistake.

So he loved you in silence. In pieces. In ways he didn’t know how to name.

And you loved him back—messy, dangerous, fucked-up and real.

So when you died, everything else died with you.

The battlefield reeked of scorched flesh and boiling asphalt. The skies were a churning bruise of smoke and superheated air, clouds split open with distant fire. Hero and villain clashed in chaotic tides, a city block crumbling beneath the weight of too many powers unleashed at once.

But Shigaraki didn’t see any of it.

He only saw you.

Crushed under a collapsed building, a chunk of rebar piercing through your side. Blood soaked your clothes in a sick, rippling bloom, and the light in your eyes was already dimming.

“Tomu,” you choked when you saw him, and that fucking nickname—only you called him that—it snapped something inside him.

He ran.

He forgot the heroes, forgot the war, forgot his orders.

He dropped to the ground beside you, cradling your face with hands that trembled, that shouldn’t be touching anything living. His gloves were gone.

But you didn’t flinch.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he lied. “We’ll get Toga—she can—she’ll fix it—”

“You know she can’t,” you whispered, a smile ghosting your lips. Your blood painted his fingers. “It’s okay.”

“No. No, it’s not okay.”

He was breathing too fast. His chest was a cage, his ribs knives. “You said you weren’t gonna leave me.”

“I meant it,” you said, voice thin. “But… I’m not scared, Tomu. I got to love you. Really love you. You let me in.”

His grip tightened. He was shaking so hard it looked like convulsions.

“And now you’re leaving,” he said, voice breaking like glass. “They took you from me.”

You reached up with what little strength you had left and touched his face—thumb brushing a tear he didn’t know had fallen.

“I’m glad I found you,” you whispered.

And then your hand fell.

And you were gone.

He didn’t remember screaming.

He didn’t remember the sound he made when he realized you weren’t breathing, or how he clutched your body to his chest like it might keep you warm. Like it could drag you back from wherever you’d gone.

But the heroes remembered.

Because they’d never heard a sound like that before—not from him. Not from the Symbol of Villainy. Not from the man they believed was incapable of mourning.

He sobbed. Ripped at his hair. His nails clawed down his neck, tearing skin, his blood dripping onto your body like a failed offering.

“She loved me,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “And I couldn’t even save her.”

All For One’s voice buzzed distantly in his mind, trying to pull him back. But the tether snapped. Severed.

He’d failed. Failed you.

He laid you down carefully—so, so gently—and turned to face the battlefield with empty eyes.

“She was good,” he said to no one. “She never should’ve been part of this.”

Heroes had started to surround him. The League was frozen behind him.

“She never killed. Never lied. She just… wanted me to be better. Me. Not him. Not the weapon they made.”

His eyes lifted.

And they were wild.

“You fucking killed her.”

No one spoke. No one moved.

And then—

The world cracked.

A tremor split the street as Shigaraki unleashed himself.

Dust and ash consumed buildings. Asphalt buckled. Concrete vaporized under his scream of grief as decay spiraled outward, uncontrolled. His body surged with borrowed power—rage, agony, everything he’d ever buried beneath hate now set free.

The League barely escaped.

Heroes scattered.

But the image that haunted them—the thing they never forgot—wasn’t the destruction.

It was the way he collapsed afterward, kneeling beside your broken body, whispering your name like a prayer, or maybe a curse. His hands cradling your face. His thumb tracing your brow.

And the tears. So many tears.

Later, when it was over, and the dust had settled, the world asked:

“Was he ever the real villain?”

And no one had an answer.

[dee-writes-anime]

Hi! I love ur writing if u can't already tell😭 Can you do a dadzawa one where he misses his daughters middle school graduation ceremony? Like he can tell she was super excited when she first mentioned it to him but tries to play it off the day after he misses it, trying to tell him she's ok when she's very obviously not😭

He saw a villain on his way there but didn't realize just how strong he was and ends up missing it. Uncle Mic goes tho and he's sort of blowing up his phone the whole time, but he ends up having to drive her home since aizawa never comes.

Please and thank you! 🧡

You Didn't Miss Much

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY you just graduated from middle school, you can hear the caws of Uncle Mic in the crowd, but... your dad isn't there.

CONTENT WARNINGS aizawa being a shitty dad, disapointment, uncle mic is trying his best, a damn erasure charm, and a middle school (wince) graduation

AUTHORS NOTE That little erasure charm now lives in my head forever.

The worst part wasn’t even that he didn’t show up. It was that I kept waiting.

Every time the big gym doors opened, I looked up. Every time a parent came in late, I sat a little straighter in my folding chair, fingers squeezing the edge of my program so hard it got crinkled. My eyes hurt from trying not to cry. My cheeks ached from smiling too much.

My name got called. I walked across the stage. I smiled at the teachers and the audience and Uncle Mic who had his phone camera up and both his arms in the air like he was cheering at a concert.

And I still looked for him in the crowd.

I still kept hoping.

I still wanted him to be there—to see me, to say I looked nice, to ruffle my hair or give me that small half-smile he does when he’s proud but too tired to say it out loud.

But the seat next to Uncle Mic stayed empty.

Even when all the clapping was over.

Even when we were walking out into the hallway with all the other families and their balloons and flowers and hugs.

Even when the sky was turning pink and gold and everything smelled like summer and sweat and cafeteria cupcakes.

Even when it was just me and Uncle Mic.

Even then—I still waited.

The car ride home with Uncle Mic is quiet at first, like neither of us knows how to start peeling off the Band-Aid. My dress itches, the cheap fabric clinging to the back of my thighs where sweat stuck it down during the endless ceremony, and my curls have gone limp from the heat. I keep tugging at the sleeves of my little white cardigan, trying not to cry.

Not because he didn’t show up.

Because I really thought he would.

I twist the charm bracelet on my wrist—silver, clinking softly, a gift from Uncle Mic before the ceremony started. One of the little pendants is shaped like an eraser. I think he meant it to be funny. I almost laughed.

Instead, I stared at the empty seat next to him.

Instead, I watched everyone else’s parents stand, clap, take pictures, and wave.

I don’t ask where he is. I already know.

Uncle Mic's phone kept buzzing in his hand the whole time. He would look down, eyes darting over the screen with the kind of tight frown he only gets when he’s really worried. He tried to play it off, kept clapping extra hard and snapping photos with one hand. But I saw. I heard the words villain sighting and on his way when he leaned over to whisper to the teacher helping organize everything.

And when it was all over… he drove me home.

Just like that.

No “Hey, your dad’s meeting us,” no “Let’s wait a little longer.”

Just silence. A quiet car. A soft "I'm proud of you, kid."

And then later, before I got out, “You were incredible,” his voice tried really hard to sound upbeat. “You walked like a total pro! I swear, you had the best posture outta everyone in that row. Way better than that Natsuki kid who kept chewing gum like a cow.”

I smiled, small. “Thanks, Uncle Mic.”

“I mean it,” he said. “Proud of you. Real proud.”

“…Thanks.”

It’s not his fault.

It’s not anyone’s fault, really.

Except maybe mine—for still hoping.

When the door creaks open the next morning, I’m sitting at the kitchen table pretending to eat cereal I never poured milk into. The front lock clicks and the sound of boots on hardwood makes my shoulders flinch before I can help it. I keep my eyes glued to the half-soggy cereal as I hear the low grunt of exhaustion.

He’s home.

Aizawa—Dad—drags himself into the kitchen like a man two seconds from collapsing. There’s blood crusted in the crook of his elbow, a tear in the side of his capture weapon, and dark rings under his eyes deeper than usual. His whole body is a stitched-together sigh.

He pauses in the doorway when he sees me.

“…Hey,” he says.

I glance up. Force a smile. “Hey.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, trying to read me. His eyes flick down to my clothes—still wearing the white cardigan over pajamas—and then to the photos Uncle Mic left on the table. He picks one up. I watch his fingers tremble just slightly.

“You looked nice,” he says after a beat.

I shrug one shoulder. “Thanks.”

He swallows. “I meant to—”

“I know.”

Another smile. Another lie.

I shove a spoonful of dry cereal into my mouth. It scratches on the way down. Silence hangs like mist, thick and clinging. He finally pulls out the chair across from me and sits. His posture is more slumped than usual. I think he knows he shouldn’t talk yet.

But then he does.

“I didn’t think the villain would put up a fight like that,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Figured I could handle it, be there on time.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

I meet his eyes for real then. And he looks so tired. Like he didn’t sleep. Like he didn’t breathe until now. There’s something breaking behind his eyes—guilt, or grief, or maybe just that kind of deep regret he never says out loud.

“I saw your messages,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Heard Hizashi’s voicemails. I wanted to call. I just—”

“You were saving people.”

“I was missing you.”

My throat tightens. I push my cereal bowl away. He watches the gesture, eyes narrowing a bit like he knows I’m about to shut down. I always do. Always have.

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, standing up. “I mean… you’ll be at my high school graduation, right?”

He flinches.

I wince.

I didn’t mean to say it like that.

I wrap my arms around myself, tugging the sleeves of my cardigan down over my wrists again. It’s silent for another long second, and then—

“Come here.”

His voice is quiet. Almost unsure.

I hesitate. And then walk over anyway.

He pulls me into a hug. Slow. Gentle. Not the usual half-hearted one-armed thing he does when he’s tired. This one is full, wrapped all the way around me, arms pressing tight like if he lets go, I’ll vanish.

“You’re allowed to be mad at me,” he says into my hair.

I nod against his shoulder. “I know.”

“You’re allowed to be hurt.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

His voice breaks a little. And mine breaks right with it.

“I waited the whole time,” I whisper. “Even after everyone left. I kept thinking… any second now… you'd come around the corner or call my name or—”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to walk off that stage alone.”

“You didn’t,” he murmurs. “Hizashi was there.”

“But he’s not you.”

He swallows again. I feel it. The way his breath hitches. The way his hand presses the back of my head just a little tighter, cradling it. Like he’s scared I’ll fall apart completely.

“I’ll never be able to take it back,” he says. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel that way again.”

My fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt. I nod against him.

“I just wanted you to be proud.”

He pulls back to look at me. His hand finds my chin, thumb brushing the corner of my eye where I didn’t even realize I’d been crying.

“I’m proud of you every single day,” he says. “Even the days I don’t say it. Especially the days I should’ve.”

I laugh a little—wet and wobbly.

“…Even when I spill cereal and cry about it?”

He exhales something like a laugh, something like a sob. “Especially then.”

[dee-writes-anime]

(TW for ED in case you want ignore this)

Can you do another dadzawa one where he finds out that his daughter hasn't been eating properly in weeks? She's like him who only ever eats when absolutely necessary but usually forgets and is stumbling out of training wondering "why do I feel so dizzy?" And maybe he finds out when she finally passes out during one of those team exercises/training (he sees her pass out through the screen so he can't do anything ohh👻).

Please and thank you! 🧡

Running On Empty

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY Your dad watches you pass out during training, an emotional heart to heart ensues.

CONTENT WARNINGS MENTIONS/DESCRIPTIONS OF PAST AND CURRENT EATING DISORDERS (guys, please please please make sure that you are in a good head space to read this. It is mostly fluff, but I don't want to trigger anyone, your mental health is more important!), minor character death, greif, loss

AUTHORS NOTE I hope this is what you were looking for anon! Please read at your own discretion and make sure you are also eating well and staying healthy <3

Your legs were shaking again.

Not from nerves—those had burned out after the first week of combat training—but from something deeper, buried under the surface. Your vision danced at the edges. A soft, pulsing blur. Like heatwaves rising from pavement.

Stupid, you thought. You’re stronger than this.

The drill was almost over. Just a few more seconds. One more move.

You blinked the sweat out of your eyes and hurled yourself toward the final marker, body sluggish but obedient. Your quirk sparked at your fingertips—your aim true, your strike clean.

But something was off.

The moment your feet hit the ground, they didn’t stop moving. The earth spun beneath them. Your knees bent without permission. You pitched sideways, arms reaching for nothing as your chest clamped tight like it had forgotten how to breathe.

Why do I feel so—

Your thought never finished.

The world tilted, then blackened.

And your body hit the mat with a soft, sickening thud.

Aizawa didn’t move at first.

In the observation booth, he stared at the feed like he’d forgotten how to blink. You were on your side, unmoving. The simulation paused itself automatically, but none of the other students dared approach. It was as if the whole training ground knew something had shifted, deeply and dangerously.

Then he moved.

“Training’s over,” he snapped into the comms. “Everyone out. Now.”

Panic had no place in his voice, but it stormed behind his eyes. He was through the booth door and halfway down the corridor before the last camera feed cut.

You woke to the sound of beeping.

Steady. Calm. Rhythmic.

The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, but the blanket tucked under your arms was soft, and the air was sterile in a way that could only mean infirmary. You blinked once, the light stabbing into your skull like a hot needle. A groan slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.

And then, there he was.

Your father. Eraserhead. Aizawa Shouta.

Sitting beside your bed like a shadow, arms crossed, one leg bouncing in that slow, agitated way that only happened when he was holding too much inside.

His hair was tied back. His scarf was draped over his shoulders like a loose bandage. He looked… wrecked. But not surprised.

You swallowed.

“Dad…?”

His eyes flicked to yours. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah.”

A long silence settled between you.

“I’m fine,” you added lamely.

“No, you’re not,” he said. Calm. Absolute. “You collapsed. In front of your entire class. You didn’t trip. You fainted. You hit the mat so hard I thought—”

He stopped.

Didn’t finish the sentence.

You stared at your hands. They felt like someone else’s. Heavy. Numb.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t just scare me.”

His voice cracked.

You looked up. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper now. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You could’ve hit your head. You could’ve had a seizure. If your quirk had fired while you were unconscious—” He cut himself off again. “You weren’t just dehydrated. You were starving. Recovery Girl said your blood sugar was so low she’s surprised you were standing at all.”

He stood abruptly and turned away. Pacing. That was worse than yelling.

“You’ve been skipping meals.” It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer.

“How long?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Try.”

You stared at the blanket. “A few weeks. I think.”

Another silence.

You dared to look up again. His back was to you now, shoulders tense. One hand running through his hair.

“Why?”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

You blinked hard. Your chest ached. Not just from the fall—but from everything. The shame, the exhaustion, the way your body felt like an old house ready to collapse.

“I just… forget sometimes,” you whispered. “And then it’s easier to keep forgetting.”

He turned slowly.

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well,” he said, deadpan, “that worked out great.”

His tone wasn’t cruel, but it landed. Sharp enough that your lip trembled.

“I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, softer this time. “Be honest.”

You broke then.

The tears came hot and fast. “I just—didn’t want to be in my body,” you choked out. “It feels like everything is too loud all the time. Like I’m either invisible or in the way. And eating felt like admitting I existed. And I didn’t want to.”

Aizawa didn’t move for a long time.

Then he crossed the room and sat back on the edge of your bed.

And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—you let him reach for you.

His arm slid gently behind your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You leaned into him, sobbing quietly, and he let you. No lectures. No scolding. Just a firm, protective presence that held the shape of you like he’d memorized it.

His chin rested atop your head.

“You know I used to do the same thing,” he said quietly.

You froze.

“After Oboro died. I didn’t eat for almost two months. Not properly. Not enough. I told myself I was just busy. That it wasn’t important. But I didn’t want to exist either. Not in a world without him.”

You looked up at him, shocked.

“Yamada noticed,” he said. “Started packing me meals. Dragged me out of the house. Sat with me while I stared at my food for an hour. I told him to stop. He didn’t.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I’m glad he didn’t.”

A small, dry smile. “Me too.”

Silence. Then:

“I never thought I’d have a kid who inherited that part of me,” he murmured. “But I did. And that means I have to do for you what he did for me.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“We’re eating together from now on. No arguments. You don’t have to eat a lot. Just enough. Just something. You sit at the table with me. We do it together.”

You nodded, eyes blurry.

“And if you’re too tired,” he added, “I’ll bring it to your room. I’ll sit on the floor if I have to. I’ll wait until you’re ready. But you’re not doing this alone. I won’t let you.”

“…Okay,” you whispered.

His hand brushed your hair back. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said.

“I know.”

“You don’t get to do that again.”

You managed a small smile through your tears. “You gonna put me on food patrol?”

“Damn right I am.”

You both laughed, quiet and shaken, but real.

That night, he made you miso soup from scratch in the teachers’ lounge.

It wasn’t perfect—it was a little salty, and the tofu had fallen apart—but he brought it to you in a thermos with a thermos cap as the bowl, sitting cross-legged beside your cot while you drank slowly.

When you finished, he handed you a warm rice ball with a tiny, crooked smiley face drawn on the seaweed.

“Mic’s idea,” he muttered, looking away.

You laughed softly.

[dee-writes-anime]

THIS IS SO THEM

[dee-writes-anime]

For my request, can you write a oneshot featuring All Might in an Aladdin AU please? I imagine him as a street rat who tries his best to help the poor community of Agrabah however he can. This would involve stealing from the rich and defending the innocent from the palace guards. You can decide on other deeds he would do or who else would appear in the story. What do you think?

The Light of Agrabah

FEATURING All Might (Aladdin AU)

SUMMARY in which Yagi Toshinori takes on the role of Aladdin

CONTENT WARNINGS power dynamics, violence (?), descriptions of people in poverty, imprisonment

AUTHORS NOTE this was really fun to try out, I hope you like it!

The desert sun rose like a burning coin over Agrabah, baking the sandstone streets long before midday. Its golden light glared off the palace towers that loomed high above the city — domes plated with shimmering gold, flying banners of crimson and black, their tips curling in the dry wind. The Sultan’s palace glittered like a jewel, but its shadow fell long and heavy on the streets below.

In the labyrinth of the lower markets, where the walls crumbled and the stalls leaned together like gossiping neighbors, life was harder. Children darted barefoot between baskets of fruit and hanging bolts of fabric, the air thick with the scent of spices, sweat, and roasting meat. Merchants barked prices over one another while customers haggled for handfuls of dates or single cuts of cloth.

And above it all, a shadow moved across the rooftops.

Toshinori Yagi — though the people called him many names: street rat, thief, outlaw.

To most of Agrabah’s poor, he was something else entirely.

A hero.

With his long legs and wiry frame, he ran like the wind itself, vaulting from rooftop to rooftop, the wind tugging at his sun-bleached tunic. His wild blond hair shone beneath the merciless sky. Over one shoulder, a leather satchel bounced — its contents heavy with stolen coin, bread, and sacks of dates. Another day's haul meant another day’s meals for people who would’ve otherwise gone hungry.

But the guards had seen him.

“There! The street rat!” came the bellowing voice of Endeavor, Captain of the Guard. His crimson cape billowed like a flame behind him, the harsh sun reflecting off his polished armor. His heavy boots slammed against the stone as he gave chase, a pack of guards at his back.

Jeanist followed in smooth, measured strides — eyes calculating, every motion perfectly composed.

Mirko moved with sharp, explosive bursts of speed, bounding across crates and vendor stalls, her white hair streaming behind her like a banner.

Above them, Hawks circled on broad golden wings, scanning for Toshinori’s next move, eyes glinting with playful sharpness.

And at the edge of it all, Aizawa moved like smoke in the alley shadows, scarf loose, eyes never blinking.

"You can’t run forever, Yagi!" Endeavor roared.

Toshinori only grinned through his breathless sprint, heart pounding. "Funny," he shouted back over his shoulder, "you’ve been saying that for years!"

The streets erupted with life. Vendors yanked their carts aside as Toshinori slid beneath awnings, flipped over barrels, and darted between panicked camels.

Present Mic leaned from behind his vibrant bird stall, throwing a hand in the air. “YEAH, BABY! RUN ‘EM IN CIRCLES!”

Midnight, fanning herself lazily behind her perfume stand, smirked. “Charming as ever, darling.”

With one final vault, Toshinori hurled himself off a crumbling balcony, twisting midair to land in a narrow alley. Dust kicked up behind him as he vanished once again into Agrabah’s twisting maze.

By the time the sun dipped low and Agrabah’s sandstone walls glowed with soft amber light, the heat had eased, but the dust still clung to everything.

Toshinori slipped easily through the winding alleys of the outer quarter, his long shadow stretching along cracked stone walls. Here, beyond the reach of the Sultan’s wealth, the air smelled of lentils cooking over small fires and the faint sweetness of blooming jasmine creeping along worn doorways.

The house he approached was humble — the stone cracked in places, the wooden shutters old but carefully patched. Smoke drifted gently from the clay chimney. This was home.

He rapped lightly on the door before pushing it open.

Inside, Inko Midoriya stood by her small clay stove, humming quietly as she stirred a pot of stew. She looked up the moment she heard his steps, a mixture of relief and familiar worry crossing her face.

“Toshi,” she greeted softly, her voice both warm and tired. “You’re back safe.”

"As always," he smiled, easing the heavy satchel off his shoulder. “Though Endeavor nearly got an extra workout today.”

She sighed, wiping her hands on her apron, though the corner of her mouth twitched at his humor. "You're tempting fate, Toshinori. One of these days…"

“One of these days," he interrupted gently, "the people won’t have to live like this. Until then, I’ll keep running.”

He opened the satchel onto the wooden table — several loaves of fresh bread, dried dates, a small pouch of coins, and even a bundle of colorful cloth scraps for Inko’s mending work. Carefully stolen, carefully chosen.

“Toshi!”

The familiar small voice came from the corner of the house, and in an instant, Izuku appeared, rushing forward like a spring wind. His tiny feet padded across the floor before he launched himself toward Toshinori.

Toshinori caught him easily, lifting him up into strong arms as the boy wrapped around his neck with the natural ease of long practice.

“There’s my brave boy,” Toshinori chuckled, voice warm. “Have you been keeping your mother out of trouble for me?”

Izuku giggled, cheeks flushed. “I’ve been helping with the water today! And Mama let me stir the stew!”

“Ah, very responsible.” Toshinori pressed his forehead gently to Izuku’s, holding him close for a moment longer than usual. His hand settled at the back of the boy’s messy hair, fingertips lightly brushing in a soothing rhythm. “You’re growing stronger every day.”

Inko watched them with a soft, bittersweet ache blooming in her chest. There were nights — more and more lately — where she caught herself imagining what life would have been like if Toshinori had truly been Izuku’s father.

She could see it in the way Izuku looked at him — not just with admiration, but with trust, as if the man were a steady pillar keeping their world from collapsing.

As if Toshinori was the only man in Agrabah worthy of such trust.

“You spoil him, you know,” Inko said gently, her voice teasing but touched with quiet gratitude.

Toshinori lowered Izuku gently to the floor. “A boy should be allowed to dream. One day he’ll grow into a man strong enough to protect others.”

Izuku beamed, looking up at him like he hung the stars himself. “Like you, Toshi!”

The words hit Toshinori harder than he let show.

If only the boy knew how heavy that promise truly was.

He ruffled Izuku’s hair again, his smile soft. “Better than me.”

“Come,” Inko called, her voice warm but fragile. “Dinner’s ready.”

They gathered around the table — small, simple, but rich with care. The glow of a single oil lamp flickered against the stone walls as they ate, sharing the food Toshinori had risked his freedom to bring. They spoke in soft voices — of the market, of strange rumors, of stories whispered in the dark corners of Agrabah.

But beneath it all, an unspoken truth remained.

As long as Toshinori drew breath, they weren’t alone.

Night had fully settled over Agrabah, draping the city in a blanket of deep blue. The air cooled as stars blinked into view, and the moon carved pale light along the narrow alleys. In the lower quarters, oil lanterns glowed behind tattered curtains, while distant music hummed faintly from the merchant quarter.

In a secluded corner near a broken stone fountain, the children gathered.

This was their usual place — a hollow tucked safely away from the palace guards, where the children of Agrabah’s forgotten could steal moments of laughter, food, and stories. And at the center of them all sat Toshinori Yagi, cross-legged, his tall frame somehow folding itself comfortably among them.

A small fire crackled at the center of their circle, the warmth chasing back the desert night’s creeping chill.

“You should’ve seen him today!” Izuku burst, wide-eyed, practically vibrating with excitement as he retold the morning’s chase for what had to be the third time.

“He jumped clean over three market stalls and outran Mirko!” he exclaimed, hands flailing as he tried to recreate Toshinori’s movements.

Kirishima leaned in eagerly, his mouth full of bread. “For real?! That’s so manly, Toshi!”

Toshinori chuckled, his voice rich with amusement. “I assure you, my form was much less graceful than young Izuku makes it sound.”

Ochako grinned, hugging her knees. “You’re being modest again! Nobody’s faster than you.”

Off to the side, Bakugou crouched low, arms crossed, his sharp eyes darting between them. “He’s just lucky the guards are idiots.”

Toshinori laughed softly, raising a hand in mock surrender. “Luck plays its part, but quick feet help.”

Kirishima clapped his hands together. “One day, we’ll be fast like you too, Toshi! You won’t have to do everything alone.”

The words stirred something heavy in Toshinori’s chest. He glanced around at them — faces still young but already hardened by the streets. Their clothes were patched, their hands calloused, but their eyes still burned with something precious: hope.

"One day," he said softly, "none of you will need to run anymore. None of us will."

The firelight danced across their faces, casting long shadows on the stone walls. For a brief moment, it was easy to imagine a different world — one where these children grew up safe, with full bellies and warm beds, free from fear.

“But until then," Toshinori continued, his voice steady but warm, "we protect each other. Always."

The children nodded in unison.

“You’re a real hero, Toshi,” Izuku whispered softly, gazing up at him with those wide green eyes full of stars. “Just like the stories.”

Toshinori’s throat tightened at the words. He reached out, resting a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Heroes aren’t made from stories, my boy," he said quietly. "They're made from small acts of kindness, even when the world isn’t watching.”

Ochako blinked, thoughtful. “Then you’re the biggest hero of all.”

A flicker of sadness passed through Toshinori’s eyes, but his smile never wavered. These children didn’t need to carry his burdens — not yet. They had enough weight on their small shoulders.

For now, it was enough to give them one more night of safety.

Above them, the palace towers glowed in the distance like golden beacons, glittering beneath the moon.

And for a little while longer, the streets of Agrabah belonged not to the Sultan — but to Toshinori Yagi, the man who refused to stop running.

The morning light hadn’t yet burned away the desert chill when it happened.

Toshinori had gone early — before the streets filled, before the market stalls opened fully. He moved carefully through Agrabah’s maze-like alleys, his sharp instincts guiding him as they always had. The palace’s outer vault had been lightly guarded last night; he’d planned the route well. The coin pouch under his sash was heavy with stolen gold, enough to feed half the quarter for weeks.

But today, something felt wrong.

The streets were too quiet. The usual rhythm of Agrabah — merchants shouting, camels grumbling, children laughing — was off. Like the city itself was holding its breath.

He reached the intersection near the broken aqueduct when the trap closed.

Steel-tipped spears blocked the alley ahead. Boots slammed behind him. Chains rattled.

Endeavor emerged from the shadows like a predator stalking its prey. His red cloak billowed as though it carried its own heat, his armored gauntlets glinting in the morning sun.

“Finally,” the Captain of the Guard growled. His voice echoed off the narrow walls. “After all these years.”

Toshinori spun, calculating his exits, but they were already closing.

Jeanist stood to his left, composed as always, hands clasped behind his back like a judge ready to pass sentence. “You have nowhere left to run, Yagi.”

Mirko was already bounding along the rooftops above, every muscle taut, ready to strike. “Don’t bother, street rat.”

From above, Hawks hovered low, his wings spread wide, golden feathers slicing lazily through the air. His usually playful eyes were sharp now — not cruel, but resolved. “Gotta say, you made it pretty far. Longer than most would’ve.”

Toshinori’s breath came steady despite his racing heart. The alley walls felt too close, the guards closing like jaws around him.

And behind them, stepping out from the shadows of the main road, came Aizawa.

His scarf swayed slightly with each step, but his expression was unreadable. Those tired eyes locked onto Toshinori’s, not with malice — but with something far heavier: resignation.

"Enough running, Toshinori," Aizawa said quietly. "It’s over."

The ache in Toshinori’s chest tightened.

"I suppose," he said softly, "even a desert shadow runs out of places to hide."

With a practiced calm, he raised his hands and let the heavy leather pouch slide from his sash, the stolen coins spilling across the ground in a dull rain of gold.

"Take it," Toshinori added. "I won’t resist."

Endeavor’s lip curled in satisfaction. “You’ll resist plenty once you're in chains.”

The guards moved forward. Hawks landed lightly beside him, while Jeanist gestured to Mirko, who leapt down with brutal grace.

Cold metal bit against Toshinori’s wrists as the cuffs snapped into place. The weight of the chains settled over his shoulders like iron hands.

He allowed them to restrain him.

But as they dragged him forward, his eyes lifted once more — catching Aizawa’s for just a flicker of a moment.

A silent exchange passed between them. Not words. Not even hope.

But understanding.

Word spread like wildfire through the quarter.

“They caught him!” “They have Toshinori!” “They’re taking him to the dungeons!”

By the time the news reached Inko’s small home, the streets were already buzzing with restless fear. Whispers slipped like smoke through every alleyway. Windows shuttered. Mothers pulled their children indoors.

Inko gripped the edge of her table as her breath caught painfully in her chest. The worst had finally come.

Across from her, Izuku stood frozen, his face pale. His wide eyes brimmed with tears as his small hands curled into fists at his sides.

“They… they took him, Mama…” he whispered, his voice trembling. “They took Toshi.”

Inko tried to steady her voice, but her own tears threatened to rise. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

“We have to help him,” Izuku choked. “We have to save him!”

Before Inko could answer, sharp knocks echoed at the door. Three short raps.

She froze.

The door creaked open — and there stood Aizawa.

He stepped inside quickly, glancing down the street before pulling the door shut behind him.

His voice was low, steady, but tense. “There isn’t much time.”

Inko stared at him, confused but hopeful. “You— you’re here to—?”

“Yes.” His eyes moved to Izuku for a moment before returning to her. “I can’t free him from inside the palace. But I can buy you enough time to get him out.”

Inko’s chest tightened. “How—?”

“The children,” Aizawa said simply. “They’ve already begun.”

The marketplace burned with energy that night.

As the guards marched Toshinori’s chained form through the main square, torches flickering around them, the tension in the air was thick enough to choke.

“Keep moving, street rat,” Endeavor snarled. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “You’ll be chained beneath the palace where the people will forget your name.”

Toshinori stumbled slightly but kept his chin high. His eyes flicked briefly across the crowd — searching.

And then—

It began.

A sudden burst of smoke filled the far side of the square, followed by a loud CRACK that rang like fireworks. Colorful sparks exploded into the air as startled guards turned toward the sound.

“What—?!” Jeanist barked, drawing his blade.

Another blast followed — Bakugou, tucked behind a cart, his palms still smoking from the small explosions he’d rigged.

“That’s for Toshi, you bastards!” Bakugou shouted.

From above, Kirishima swung down on a knotted rope, landing hard on a nearby wagon. “Come on, Bakugou! Move it!”

Ochako darted in from the opposite side, her nimble fingers tossing small sacks of powder at the guards’ feet — clouds of choking dust filled the air, buying precious seconds.

“They’re distracting them!” Toshinori whispered, heart racing. "The fools… they’re risking everything…"

“ENOUGH!” Endeavor roared, flames crackling wildly from his gauntlets. “Get them under control!”

At that moment, Izuku slipped out from the shadows.

He ran straight for Toshinori, tiny arms outstretched. “Toshi!”

Toshinori’s breath caught as Izuku reached him. The boy tugged desperately at the chains.

“You shouldn’t be here!” Toshinori rasped, his voice tight with both panic and awe. “It’s too dangerous—”

“We won’t leave you behind!” Izuku cried, tears streaking down his cheeks. “You always save us. Now it’s our turn!”

A flicker of movement.

A scarf lashed out from the shadows — Aizawa’s scarf — snapping around the chains, yanking them apart with one swift, practiced motion.

The chains snapped free.

Aizawa’s voice cut through the din. “Go. Now.”

The children regrouped, pulling Toshinori toward a side alley. Hawks swooped down from above to block several guards with a wall of feathers, buying them precious seconds before retreating.

“Get them out!” Hawks shouted to Aizawa. “I’ll cover you!”

Jeanist and Mirko attempted to pursue, but the smoke was too thick, and the crowd surged chaotically as the quarter’s citizens began to push back — shouting, throwing debris, creating further confusion.

Toshinori, barely able to keep up through his exhaustion, stumbled as Kirishima and Bakugou each grabbed an arm to steady him.

“We’ve got you, old man,” Bakugou growled, voice shaking with equal parts fury and relief.

“Almost there!” Ochako shouted from ahead. “Inko’s waiting!”

By the time they reached Inko’s home, the city’s uproar echoed behind them.

The door flung open as Inko rushed forward, helping steady Toshinori as he was pulled inside. His breath heaved, sweat running down his temple, but his smile was still intact.

“You brave little fools…” Toshinori rasped, gazing at the children who circled him, eyes wide with worry. “You shouldn’t have—”

“We had to,” Ochako whispered, tears welling. “You saved us first.”

Aizawa stepped into the doorway, breath calm but eyes heavy. “They made their choice, Yagi. Just like you’ve made yours every day.”

Inko wiped at Toshinori’s bloodied temple with shaking hands, her voice cracking as she whispered, “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

The children gathered close, surrounding him in a protective circle.

And for the first time in days, Toshinori allowed himself to breathe — leaning into the warmth of the people who refused to let him fall.

The people he lived for.

The sun crept slowly over Agrabah, its first rays bathing the worn rooftops in gold. The city stirred back to life — merchants raised their stalls, camels groaned, and the guards roamed the main streets, barking fresh orders in the Sultan’s name.

But beneath the palace’s glittering spires, something had shifted.

In the outer quarter, behind cracked stone walls and faded curtains, quiet voices whispered the story before the dust had even settled.

The street rat escaped. The children saved him. The people are rising.

Inside Inko’s small home, the air was still heavy with exhaustion. Toshinori sat hunched against the far wall, bandages wrapped around his ribs, his breath steady but slow. The dim light of a single oil lamp danced across his worn face.

Inko sat beside him, carefully spooning fresh broth into his hands.

“You should be resting properly,” she whispered.

“I will,” he rasped softly. “After I know they’re all safe.”

“They are,” Inko assured him gently. “The children are hidden for now. Aizawa’s watching them.” She paused, voice lowering. “The guards have pulled back… for the moment.”

Toshinori nodded, eyes half-lidded. Even through his pain, he smiled faintly.

“They were brave,” he whispered. “Far braver than I ever wished they’d need to be.”

Across the small room, Izuku sat curled beneath a blanket, fast asleep against Ochako’s shoulder. Kirishima dozed nearby, while Bakugou sat upright by the door — awake, scowling faintly at every creak outside.

“They're stronger because of you,” Inko said, voice thick with quiet emotion. “You gave them hope.”

Toshinori looked at her then — truly looked — his eyes shining in the soft glow.

“I’m only one man,” he whispered. “But maybe… maybe even one man can be enough.”

Inko reached forward, placing her hand gently over his. “You are enough.”

Outside, the sound of the morning bells rang across Agrabah, marking the beginning of another day under the Sultan’s rule.

But inside that tiny home — for now — there was peace.

And far above, in the high towers of the palace, All For One stood at his gilded balcony, his black robes fluttering like shadows behind him. His pale eyes narrowed as he gazed toward the lower districts.

“The street rat lives,” he murmured.

Endeavor stood behind him, jaw tight.

“Not for long, my Sultan.”

All For One’s thin smile never reached his eyes. “We’ll see.”

The game had only just begun.

[dee-writes-anime]

I am requesting the saddest most gut wrenching deku x reader angst ever

So imagine reader with a transformation quirk right? And every time she shifts she gets more tired? And one day after the war she just never wakes up again.

Do as you please with this

Can’t wait for deku’s reaction 🫩😈

MONTY! Eat sleep drink!

We Did It, Didn't We?

FEATURING Izuku 'Deku' Midoriya x Reader

SUMMARY for the world, the war against All for One is over, but inside a hospital, a war still rages for Izuku against time.

CONTENT WARNINGS hella angst, major character death, greif and loss, pain, descriptions of war

AUTHORS NOTE medical related fics just seem to keep finding me these days, hope you enjoy this gut wrenching angst monty! Remember, you asked for this MUAHAHAHHAHA

The war was over.

That’s what they kept saying. Like it was some kind of comfort. Like it meant anything at all.

The world outside was already beginning to rebuild. Streets once leveled by destruction were now lined with scaffolding. Windows gleamed again. Flags waved in the summer wind, bright and proud, as if plastering over the ruins made the scars disappear. People cheered in the streets, called him the Symbol of Peace.

But none of them were in this room.

In here, the war still lived. In here, it refused to end.

The hospital room was cold and sterile, the soft hum of machines filling the stale air. An IV ticked steadily beside your bed. Monitors blinked with quiet indifference, beeping rhythmically as if mocking the fragility of life.

Your life.

You laid so still.

Your skin was pale under the fluorescent light, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in careful, mechanical rhythm. Not your breath. The machine’s breath. A steady imitation of life.

Izuku sat beside you, slumped forward in the chair he rarely left, his broken frame a stark reflection of the price paid.

His arms—what remained of them—rested awkwardly in heavy prosthetic braces that clamped around his shoulders and torso. The metallic frames gleamed under the lights, still unfinished, still temporary. His real arms were gone. Torn away in the final battle, shredded beyond anything Recovery Girl or even Eri could fix. His body had been salvaged. His heart… less so.

Even now, months later, he still woke up forgetting they were gone—only to try moving them, only to feel nothing but the weighted pull of the harness, the dull ache of phantom pain.

He stared at your face as if he could will your eyes to open.

You hadn’t opened them since that day. Since you collapsed in his arms on the battlefield.

Your quirk had been a double-edged sword from the beginning—a transformation ability with near-infinite potential. You could shift, adapt, mold your body into weapons, shields, whatever the battle demanded. You were brilliant. Fearless. Terrifyingly strong. But every shift drained you. Every transformation took something you couldn’t get back.

And in that final fight — when everything was ending — you gave all of yourself to shield him.

He replayed it constantly, that final moment.

The way you threw yourself in front of him, shifting your body into armor as a blast tore toward them. You screamed through the transformation, muscles shredding, cells breaking apart under the strain. He could feel your heartbeat weakening as you braced against the blow that would’ve ended him.

You smiled through the blood.

"We did it, didn’t we?" you whispered, right before your knees buckled.

And you never woke up again.

Izuku exhaled shakily, the movement making the prosthetics hiss softly as the internal servos adjusted. His breath misted slightly against the chill of the room.

"You didn’t have to do that," he whispered, voice raw. “You didn’t have to protect me like that.”

His voice trembled, eyes burning behind red, sleepless lids.

"You always did this," he continued, his words cracking beneath the weight of guilt. "You always pushed yourself further. You took on more than anyone ever should’ve asked of you… and you smiled like it was nothing."

He tried to swallow the lump building in his throat, but it caught and burned.

"You promised me you'd stop pushing yourself so hard." The words slipped out like a prayer. "You promised me you'd rest after this."

He shifted forward slightly, the braces creaking with effort as he leaned toward your hand. His shoulder tensed under the straps as he tried to raise his prosthetic to touch you but failed. The weight of his ruined body mocked him again.

His head dipped instead, his lips brushing against the back of your cool hand. The small contact was all he could manage now.

"You saved everyone," he whispered. "You saved me."

The machine's steady beeping filled the silence like a cruel metronome, counting down seconds that stretched endlessly.

Sometimes, he still talked to you like you were here.

"Maybe tomorrow," he always told himself. "Tomorrow she'll wake up. Tomorrow it'll change."

It was foolish, childish even. But hope had always been his curse.

Outside the window, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the floor. The world kept moving. People kept living. The war heroes were honored. Statues raised. Newspapers printed stories of victory.

Victory.

But what did victory mean if you weren’t here to see it?

Izuku’s breath hitched sharply, and the tremor in his jaw returned.

"I was supposed to protect you," he whispered. "I swore I wouldn’t lose anyone else."

His shoulders shook as silent tears fell freely now, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into your blanket. The cold steel of his braces dug into his sides as his broken frame curled tighter into itself.

"I wasn’t strong enough," he sobbed. "Not for you."

Then— A sharp, piercing tone filled the room.

The monitor flatlined.

Izuku froze, blood draining from his face. His stomach hollowed out instantly.

"No," he whispered. “No, no, no, please—please—”

The door burst open as nurses rushed in, calling out orders, moving like a well-rehearsed dance.

“Code blue!”

Hands tried to gently pull Izuku back, but he fought them weakly, stumbling against the bed with the awkward weight of his braces pulling him off-balance.

“She was stable!” he gasped. “She was stable—!”

The nurses didn’t answer. Their eyes said everything.

He watched them work—compressions, shocks, the frantic movements—while something deep inside him shattered completely.

He saw the doctor glance at the clock. Then the slow, painful shake of his head.

"Time of death — 5:42 PM."

The words struck like a blade to the ribs.

Izuku collapsed, knees hitting the floor beside your bed. His body trembled as he fought to breathe, as if his lungs refused to keep going without you.

His broken, prosthetic-wrapped frame hunched over as his forehead pressed against your lifeless hand.

"I’m sorry," he sobbed. His voice broke into nothing but raw, breathless sound. "I’m so sorry… I couldn’t save you."

The weight of his failure bore down heavier than any injury he'd ever suffered.

The nurses stepped back, leaving him alone with you. The world outside faded entirely. All that remained was the quiet hum of the machines shutting down, the fading warmth of your hand under his trembling lips.

Victory meant nothing.

The war was over.

And yet, here he was.

Alone.

Izuku stayed long after the room grew dark.

And though the world crowned him as its Symbol of Peace, though monuments bore his likeness, though people spoke his name with reverence—

He carried you inside every shattered piece of him.

The battle was over.

[dee-writes-anime]

It’s me. I’m fighting the job market. Send help.

sending love to those fighting the job market

[dee-writes-anime]

[dee-writes-anime]

This is a man I would gladly impregnate given the opportunity.

Cute

Support mo_nu666 on Twitter

[dee-writes-anime]

You're Safe, That's Enough

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY you had emergency surgery and it leaves you feeling.. off

CONTENT WARNINGS hospitalization, mentions of post surgery sluggishness, mental health struggles, fluff with darker undertones, comfort

AUTHORS NOTE this was a request from the lovely sassysweetsfan. First of all, I’m really proud of you. Surgery (especially emergency surgery) is scary and disorienting, and it’s so normal to feel weird and lost after. I wrote you something nice and soft to hopwfully help with your recovery, I'm sending you lots of love <3

The sharp scent of antiseptic clung to the air, blending with the faint hum of machines that beeped in slow, steady intervals beside your bed. The light above was dimmed, casting a soft, golden haze across the sterile white room. It smelled like cold metal and bleach — not entirely unpleasant, but clinical. Detached.

You blinked sluggishly, your eyes heavy as if they had weights tied to them. The hospital sheets felt too stiff, too smooth against your skin. Even the rhythm of your breathing didn’t feel right. It was as if your own body belonged to someone else — distant, unfamiliar.

You vaguely remembered the flashes before surgery — rushed voices, the bright hallway lights above you as you were wheeled on the gurney, the sudden cold of the operating table beneath your back. And then: nothing.

Now you were here, floating somewhere between waking and sleep, your body sore but your mind foggy.

The door slid open with a soft hiss.

A familiar shape entered the room, moving quietly like a shadow cast in human form.

Aizawa.

He stepped closer, his long hair unbound, the loose ends falling around his tired face, the scarf coiled neatly over one shoulder like second nature. His expression was neutral but not cold — steady, as always. He approached without speaking, his presence alone steadying something loose inside your chest.

He stopped beside the bed, observing you carefully.

"You’re awake," he said softly, voice low and even.

You tried to nod but your head barely moved. Even that small action made you dizzy. Instead, your lips moved, dry and barely audible. "Sensei…"

His gaze sharpened slightly, reading the faint tremble in your voice before you even needed to explain.

"You don’t need to say anything right now," he said gently, pulling the chair closer to your bedside. "You're still coming out of the anesthesia. That fog will take time to clear."

He sat down, folding his arms loosely as he settled into the chair with a sigh that sounded more like relief than exhaustion.

"You made it through the surgery," Aizawa continued after a pause. "There were some complications at first, but the doctors handled it. You're stable now."

Stable. The word sounded both comforting and hollow. You swallowed against the dryness in your throat, your breathing shallow but steady.

"I feel… off," you whispered.

Aizawa nodded once, as though expecting the admission. "That’s normal. It’s your body recalibrating." His voice was calm, unwavering. "Don’t overthink it. Just focus on breathing. Let your body do the rest."

The simplicity of his words grounded you, like always. No sugarcoating, no unnecessary platitudes. Just solid truth, offered like an anchor.

You exhaled slowly, your fingers twitching slightly against the blanket. It still felt surreal, like waking up inside a dream that hadn’t decided if it was a nightmare yet.

"You’re allowed to feel strange," Aizawa added, voice quieter now. "You went through something difficult. You don’t need to be strong right away."

Your throat burned at the unexpected kindness behind his words.

You barely managed a small, fragile smile. "Thank you… for staying."

His expression softened only slightly. "You didn’t think I was going to leave you alone after that, did you?"

The faintest flicker of warmth curled in your chest. Of course not.

He leaned back slightly, one hand resting easily on the edge of the bed — not touching, but close enough to feel reassuring.

"I’ve already spoken to Recovery Girl," he continued. "You’ll be monitored for a few days, but your vitals look good. The worst part is behind you."

You stared at him for a long moment, eyes stinging. You hadn’t realized how much you needed someone to tell you that.

There was a soft knock at the door. Aizawa glanced back over his shoulder.

"They’ve been waiting out there all morning," he said quietly. "I told them to give you some space, but…" He let out a breath that almost resembled a sigh of amusement. "You know how they are."

You couldn’t help the small, weak chuckle that escaped you. Even now, your classmates were probably lined up like a row of anxious puppies.

"Should I let them in?" he asked softly.

You gave a slow nod.

Aizawa stood, moving to the door. The moment it slid open, you saw them pile into the room like a clumsy parade of nervous energy.

"Okay," Aizawa warned them calmly. "Quietly."

Class 1-A filed in, voices hushed but eyes wide with barely restrained emotion.

Uraraka was the first to reach your bedside, her hands clasped tightly in front of her chest. "You’re okay," she whispered, eyes glassy. "We were so scared—"

"I told them you’d pull through," Midoriya added quickly, standing just behind her, his hands twisting nervously. His voice wavered slightly, betraying how much he had worried. "I—I kept reading about recovery times, I just—" he stopped himself, swallowing thickly.

Iida stood ramrod straight, hands stiff at his sides. "We were deeply concerned, but we knew you were in the best possible hands!" His voice was quiet, but the energy beneath his words vibrated through him.

Momo smiled gently, stepping forward with a carefully arranged bouquet. "We all made sure to keep you in our thoughts," she said softly, placing the flowers on the side table.

Kirishima gave you a weak grin, eyes slightly red-rimmed. "You scared the hell out of us, you know that? But you’re tough. You’ll bounce back in no time."

Even Bakugo was there, lurking near the back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed but faintly guarded. He didn’t say anything, but the fact that he was even standing in the room spoke volumes. His silence was louder than words.

You blinked rapidly, your throat tightening again. You didn’t realize how much you needed to see their faces.

Aizawa remained near the doorway, observing quietly as your classmates gathered around you like a protective barrier of warmth.

He didn’t need to say anything else. His job — protecting you — didn’t stop at the battlefield or the hospital door.

After a few more minutes of soft chatter, Aizawa finally raised his hand slightly, signaling the group.

"Alright," he said, voice gentle but firm. "That’s enough excitement for today. Let her rest."

The class obeyed immediately, offering final smiles, encouraging words, and careful waves as they filed back out of the room.

When they were gone, the room fell back into soft stillness. Aizawa reclaimed his chair beside you.

"You’ve got people who care," he said simply.

Your lips trembled, but this time, you managed a stronger smile. "I know."

He nodded once, settling back. "Rest now," he repeated softly. "That’s all you need to worry about."

And as your eyelids grew heavier again, you drifted back into sleep — anchored by the steady presence of your teacher beside you.

You weren’t alone.

Not now. Not ever.

[dee-writes-anime]

REF ARE YOU SEEING THIS?!

Love these kiddos

[dee-writes-anime]

Heyyy, I just finished reading ur Dadzawa fic, and I fear I crave more😞 So if it's not too much trouble, can u do one where his daughter is a student at UA in his class and during that one building collapse training thing, she's completely caught under the debree and nearly (or does) die when she pushes one of her classmates out the way. Not only that, but Aizawa has no idea any of this happened until almost half an hour later, when most of his students have left the building, and one of them has to tell him about her condition. By the time he gets there, though, she's already unconscious, and the student next to her is just as packed as he is.

I hope this isn't too dark?? 😭 Because yes, I love Dadzawa, but I also love angst 😛

All I See is Dust and Lasting Memories of You

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY a training building collapses and his daughter doesn't make it out.

CONTENT WARNINGS yooo this is just straight angst, injury, near-death experience, implied PTSD, blood, grief, mention of character death

AUTHORS NOTE Ahhh yes anon, I have found my people. You see, I am also a lover of pain, I hope this is what you were looking for hehe <3

The building had come down in a roar of concrete and steel.

Dust still hung low in the air, like smoke after a battlefield. Sunlight filtered through it in pale ribbons, sharp enough to cut. Students coughed and murmured in clusters, shaken but largely unharmed. The rescue teams had done their job quickly. Too quickly.

It was quiet now.

Too quiet.

Aizawa stood near the edge of the wreckage, arms crossed, his eyes sharp beneath the fall of his hair. His capture weapon was slack over his shoulders, half-forgotten in the stillness.

He was counting.

Team Two—intact. He made eye contact with Midoriya, gave a slight nod. Team Four was limping, bruised, but walking.

Team Three…

His eyes scanned the group again. Automatically. Methodically.

Team Three had four students.

He saw Iida—bandaged arm, favoring one side. He saw Uraraka—smudged with dust, lips trembling. He saw Sero—shirt torn, muttering about how close that had been.

That was three.

Where was—

A thread of unease coiled in his stomach.

She should’ve been with them. She always was. Always at the center, keeping the group moving. Always the one asking what’s the fastest way out? Who needs help?

Where the hell was she?

A voice cracked over his shoulder—Present Mic’s, low for once. “Yo, Sho—Team Three all good?”

Aizawa didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept the field again, slower this time. Not just scanning now—searching. He took a step forward, then another, pacing toward the gathered students.

He grabbed Iida’s shoulder, eyes narrowing. “Where is she?”

Iida stiffened, eyes widening in realization. “I—I thought she was behind me. She—she shoved me out of the way. The floor was collapsing and I didn’t see where she—”

“She pushed you?” Aizawa’s voice dropped to a rasp. Controlled. Barely.

Iida nodded, guilt blooming across his face. “I told her not to! She said someone needed to move faster than her.”

He heard the rest of the sentence even if it wasn’t spoken: She chose to fall instead.

A beat passed. One heartbeat. Then another.

Uraraka stepped forward, voice quiet. “We tried to get back to her. But there was too much rubble. We thought the support team would…” Her sentence dissolved into dust.

They thought someone else had pulled her out.

No one had.

Aizawa didn’t shout.

Didn’t flinch.

He just… went still.

Like a spring pulled so tight it couldn’t move.

And then, suddenly—

He ran.

Present Mic’s voice cracked behind him. “Shouta—wait—”

But Aizawa was already leaping over debris, his coat flaring behind him like smoke. He didn’t stop to explain. Didn’t stop to breathe.

She was under there. His daughter. Buried, hurt, alone.

And he hadn’t noticed.

He prided himself on being vigilant. On reading every situation, every movement. But this—

This had slipped through his fingers.

Again.

The wind whipped past his ears as he darted through the remains of the training zone. Part of the upper structure had caved in. The entire northwest corridor was now a tangle of twisted steel and dust-choked air. Support crew were still assembling. Still moving too slow.

“Damn it,” he hissed. “Damn it—”

His throat closed around the curse. It tasted like ash. Like blood. Like regret.

The air inside the ruin was suffocating.

Every breath pulled in dust and rust and that sickly scent of blood. The wreckage groaned above him as he weaved through the collapsed corridor, boots thudding against the slanted floor. He heard his name—someone calling for him—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t blink. His gaze was fixed forward, sharp and wild.

Then—

“Sensei—!”

A voice from the rubble. Tokoyami’s.

Aizawa darted toward it, stepping over a shattered beam, then another—until he saw her.

Pinned beneath what had once been a ceiling support, her body limp. Her arm was stretched outward as if she’d been reaching for someone—or pushing them. Her hair was caked with dust and blood, clinging to her forehead in thick strands. Her face was turned just enough for him to see the bruising along her jaw.

For a moment, Aizawa couldn’t move.

His heart didn’t race—it stopped.

His legs locked, breath catching in his throat as a horrible, horrible déjà vu sank its teeth in.

UA STUDENT MISSION, YEARS AGO

There had been too much blood.

He’d known Shirakumo was in the building when it exploded. The blast had come like a thunderclap. Flames first. Then rubble. Then silence.

They found him under the wreckage of what had once been a rooftop access.

Still breathing—for a moment.

Then not.

Aizawa had been the one to dig through the wreckage. To uncover a hand. Then an arm. Then half a face caked in blood.

He remembered the texture of his best friend’s hair, wet with ash and crimson. Remembered how limp Shirakumo's body had been in his arms.

Remembered the look on Hizashi’s face when they couldn’t bring him back.

He blinked—and he was back in the present.

No. Not again. Not her.

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands moving on their own. One slid under her head gently, the other to her wrist.

Pulse.

He felt it.

Faint. Barely there. But there.

Tokoyami was hunched at her side, breathing hard, arms trembling from holding pressure to a wound on her ribs. “She shielded me,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Didn’t even hesitate. The beam caught her across the back. I couldn’t get her out.”

“You did enough,” Aizawa said, voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

He brushed the grit off her face with shaking fingers, jaw clenched. Her lips were parted, slack. The kind of unconscious that was too deep. The kind that threatened not to wake.

“Don’t do this to me,” he whispered, leaning over her. His hair curtained their faces, damp with sweat. “You were supposed to be smarter than this. You were supposed to survive.”

The comm crackled near his hip.

He pressed it. “She’s alive. I need extraction now—west corridor. Beam pinning torso and legs. Student’s unconscious. Hurry.”

His voice didn’t break—but only just.

Support teams were yelling somewhere behind him. He didn’t care. He stayed beside her, fingers wrapped around her wrist like he could will her heartbeat stronger with the heat of his palm.

And still—

His mind flashed again to another day. Another ruin.

Another body under rubble.

Another friend he couldn’t save.

He shut his eyes tight, forehead brushing her temple.

“Not again,” he whispered. “Please. Not again.”

UA STUDENT MISSION, YEARS AGO

It had been a mission. A villain raid. A collapsing building that never should’ve gone down.

He didn’t remember the call.

Didn’t remember running.

Only the sound—an earth-cracking blast that left ringing in his ears for hours. And the way the world turned red.

He remembered Hizashi screaming.

“Oboro was in there—he was still inside—!”

He remembered the smoke. Acrid. Dense. Coating his tongue and throat like poison. Rescue workers shouted back and forth, but their voices barely cut through the chaos.

And then—

A piece of the ceiling shifted.

Someone called for reinforcements.

Aizawa had moved before anyone else. Vaulting over fallen beams, ignoring orders. He dropped to the ground and clawed through the debris with bare hands, concrete tearing into his skin.

And then he saw it.

A hand.

Pale. Slack. Dusty knuckles curled toward the sky.

“No—”

He yanked away a slab of broken flooring, then a half-melted support rod. What emerged beneath was not Shirakumo as he knew him.

Not the loud, sunny boy who made jokes at funerals and laughed at the worst times. Not the boy who always got between Hizashi and Aizawa when they bickered too hard, smiling like he had all the time in the world.

This boy was still.

Half his face was gone under ash and blood. His body was crushed at the hip. His eyes—

His eyes were open.

Aizawa made a sound he didn’t recognize.

He dropped to his knees and touched Shirakumo’s cheek.

It was warm.

Still warm.

“I need a stretcher!” he barked, voice cracking. “He’s still breathing—HIZASHI—he’s alive—move!”

But he wasn’t.

By the time the medics reached them, the warmth had already faded.

Shirakumo’s chest didn’t rise.

His pulse didn’t return.

And Aizawa just sat there. His fingers curled in the blood-drenched collar of Shirakumo’s uniform, his jaw trembling, his throat locked around a scream he never let out.

Hizashi collapsed beside him, sobbing. Clinging to Oboro’s hand like he could anchor the boy to this world.

“We were just talking,” Hizashi rasped. “He said he was gonna cook dinner tonight. He said—he said—”

But Aizawa couldn’t speak.

He just stared down at what was left of his best friend.

The concrete beneath his knees. The sky overhead. The smoke in his lungs.

All of it pressed in.

And somewhere deep in his chest, a part of him snapped and never healed.

The sounds came back in pieces.

First the scrape of steel, then the static of radios. Voices barking orders. The mechanical whine of stabilizers and bracing lifts being wheeled in.

But Aizawa didn’t move.

He was still kneeling beside her, hand wrapped around her wrist, thumb rubbing absently against her skin like he could will her back awake.

Blood soaked through the shredded edges of her jacket. There was a deep gash just beneath her ribs, where the beam had caught her—he could see it even with Tokoyami still crouched over her, applying pressure until his hands shook from exhaustion.

“Good work,” Aizawa said quietly, without looking up. “You stayed with her.”

Tokoyami nodded once, chest heaving. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave.”

Neither could he.

The support team began to descend. Cementoss had already reinforced the surrounding rubble to prevent further collapse, and Mandalay was coordinating movement from above.

“Eraserhead,” one of the medics said, carefully. “We need space.”

“I’m not leaving.”

They didn’t argue.

They worked around him instead—lifting the beam first, inch by inch, carefully sliding boards beneath her to stabilize the weight. A dull groan came from the metal as it was finally moved away. Aizawa’s hand never left hers.

He looked down at her face—pale, slack, eyelashes barely visible under the grime and sweat and soot.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing the hair from her temple. “I never said you were allowed to be this reckless.”

His voice cracked at the end.

“You were supposed to be the one that walked away. I was supposed to yell at you later. Ground you. Take your damn phone.”

There was no answer.

Just the steady, wet-sounding rasp of her breath through bruised lungs.

“Why’d you do it?” he whispered. “You knew the risk. You knew better.”

But of course she did. She always knew better.

That’s why she did it.

Because she thought like him.

Because she’d been watching him since she was five, since she scraped her knees on pavement trying to copy his stances, since she learned to control her quirk not for show—but for survival.

Aizawa swallowed hard.

“I should’ve kept you out of this,” he said, barely audible. “I should’ve said no. Should’ve told them no when you applied.”

But she’d looked him in the eye, years ago, and said:

“If I’m gonna be in danger either way, I’d rather be trained for it. You taught me that.”

The medics began lifting her onto a gurney. A collar was fastened around her neck. One of them adjusted her breathing mask.

He kept his grip on her hand until the last possible second—until they moved her just far enough that he had to let go.

His palm hovered in the air for a breath longer.

Then dropped.

He stood, slowly. Bones creaking. His knees ached. His back burned. His hands were filthy with dust and blood.

As he turned to follow the gurney, Hizashi was there.

Silent for once. Eyes wide and hollow, mouth drawn tight behind his yellow scarf.

He didn’t say anything.

Just reached out and placed a hand on Aizawa’s shoulder.

And Shouta—who never leaned, never crumbled, never let himself—didn’t shake him off.

SHIRAKUMO'S FUNERAL

It was one of those early spring days that tricked you with a sliver of sunlight, only to cut through your jacket when you breathed too deep. The grass was still wet with frost, soft underfoot. Rows of white folding chairs had been set out beside the casket, but most of the attendees stood instead—unable to sit. Unable to stay still.

The casket was dark wood. Clean. Polished.

Too small.

Too final.

Aizawa stood a little apart from the others, his coat buttoned to the top, scarf tucked neatly. His hands were in his pockets.

He hadn’t said a word since the night they’d called it.

Hizashi was beside him. Dressed in black for once, his hair pulled back. Red-rimmed eyes. Shoulders trembling under the weight of silence.

He kept looking over. Waiting.

Waiting for Aizawa to say something. Anything.

But Shouta just stared.

Not at the casket—but at the space just above it. Like if he didn’t look directly, it wouldn’t be real.

They said a few words. Someone from the agency. Then a former classmate. The words all blended—“hero,” “bravery,” “gone too soon.”

Aizawa heard none of them.

He remembered—

How Shirakumo used to tilt his head when he laughed.

How he’d clapped a hand on Aizawa’s shoulder before every mission and said: “Don’t get all doom-and-gloom. We’re coming back, alright?”

How the last thing he’d done was raise a shield to protect civilians—because of course he had. Because Shirakumo was always the one who believed in saving people even when the odds were impossible.

The world didn’t deserve him.

And now it had taken him anyway.

“You should say something,” Hizashi whispered, his voice cracking like thin ice. “You were his best friend.”

Aizawa didn’t answer.

Because the truth was: He didn’t have words.

There was no speech that could undo the way Oboro’s blood had looked on his hands. No sentence that could replace the way Hizashi had screamed his name when the medic’s heart monitor flatlined.

So he stayed silent.

Because if he started speaking, he wasn’t sure he’d stop. Wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand.

PRESENT, OUTSIDE THE SURGURY CENTER

He sat in one of the cheap hospital chairs, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor.

Hizashi was beside him again.

Still here. Still breathing. Still not Shirakumo.

And if—

If the door opened and Recovery Girl walked out with the wrong expression—if he had to do this all over again, had to watch another piece of his heart vanish under six feet of earth—

He didn’t know if he’d survive it.

He clenched his fists.

Took a breath.

Didn’t speak.

Just waited.

LATER, HOURS AFTER SURGURY

The world had gone quiet again—not with the sharp, stunned silence of crisis, but the dull, heavy kind that follows it. That strange stillness hospitals always held in the dead hours of the morning, where machines hummed low in the background and fluorescent lights buzzed too softly to acknowledge. Outside, the sky was a deep, bruised purple, fading into black where the stars didn’t reach. The sun was still hours away.

She lay motionless in the bed, her chest rising and falling in shallow, mechanical rhythm. Bandages wrapped around her ribs like fragile armor. An IV line fed into the crook of her arm. The corner of her mouth was cracked and dry beneath the oxygen tube.

Aizawa hadn’t moved from the chair since they brought her in. His coat was still covered in dust, the cuffs stiff with dried blood. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded beneath his chin—not out of prayer, but the posture of a man who didn’t trust his body to stay upright if he let go of his thoughts for even a second.

The room smelled like antiseptic and old fear. Underneath it, faint but still familiar, was the scent of her shampoo—the one he never remembered the name of but could pick out of a crowd in an instant. It grounded him more than the walls, more than the weight of the chair.

At some point, Hizashi had brought him a cup of vending machine coffee and set it quietly on the nightstand. He stayed for a while, one hand resting on the back of Aizawa’s chair, the other loosely folded over his chest. They didn’t speak. They never needed to.

Eventually, Hizashi left, with the promise of returning soon. He didn’t want to crowd him. Just wanted to be there, in case.

Aizawa hadn’t touched the coffee.

Instead, slowly, like thawing from the inside out, he reached forward and took her hand in his.

It was cold. Not deathly so—just hospital cold, blood-thinner cold. But it was enough to make his stomach twist. Her fingers didn’t curl back. Didn’t twitch. She was breathing. She was stable. She was alive. But her hand didn’t move.

He held it anyway.

“You’re lucky,” he said, and his voice scraped low in his throat. “Or maybe you’re just stubborn.”

He exhaled through his nose and rested his cheek briefly on the back of her hand. “I keep thinking I’ve seen the worst of it. That after Kumo… after everything… nothing could hit harder than that.” His voice was steady, but there was something brittle underneath—like ice too thin to walk on.

“But then I saw you. I saw you under all that wreckage, and it was worse. Because you’re mine. Because I raised you. Because I thought…” He swallowed hard, forcing back the tremble in his jaw. “I thought if I taught you everything I knew, it would be enough.”

His thumb moved rhythmically over the edge of her knuckle, tracing the ridge like it was sacred.

“I should’ve said no when you applied to U.A. I should’ve told them I couldn’t be your teacher. I should’ve kept you out of all this.” He shook his head once, bitter with himself. “But you were always going to find your way here. You didn’t want to be safe. You wanted to be prepared.”

There was a long pause. The kind that ached. The kind that never meant peace.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye to Kumo,” he said at last, and now his voice did break—just slightly, just enough. “One minute he was here. Joking about ramen. And then he wasn’t. I didn’t even get to tell him to stay.”

He leaned forward again, curling over her hand like a shield. His forehead pressed gently to her fingers.

“Please…” he whispered. “Don’t make me do that again. Don’t make me bury someone else I love.”

The monitor beeped steadily. The IV clicked once.

Then—

A twitch.

Tiny. Barely there. But her fingers shifted under his.

Aizawa froze. Looked up.

Her eyes fluttered once. Then again.

Slowly, painfully, they opened.

“…Dad?” Her voice was rasped and raw and hoarse, but it was hers.

His breath caught. Every defense he’d built over the last twelve hours cracked in that instant.

She was awake.

Not fully. Not for long. But awake.

Still here. Still fighting. Still his.

He let out a breath that shuddered on the way out. It wasn’t quite a laugh. Wasn’t quite a sob either. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured, brushing her hair back gently. “You absolute menace.”

Her lips twitched. It could’ve been a smile. Could’ve been pain.

“Did we… win?” she breathed.

He shook his head, shoulders trembling with the force of holding it all in. ��Only you would ask that.”

The door creaked open behind him. Hizashi’s voice cut through the hush like a sunrise. “She’s awake?”

Aizawa didn’t look away. Didn’t move.

He just nodded.

Still holding her hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She’s okay.”

And for the first time in what felt like years, so was he.

[dee-writes-anime]

Second Move Syndrome

A/N: Let's give this a shot! I would be absolutely delighted to hear what everyone thinks of this piece, it is one I am genuinely considering getting published if all goes well. This piece is one of my babies so I am very excited to share it with you all, I really hope you enjoy it!

Oh! And before I forget, HAPPY PRIDE MONTH EVERYONE!!! <333 This one is for my LGBTQ+ baddies, you make the world go 'round, I love you all!

Koshi knew Dorian had arrived before he heard the door.

The air shifted— pressurized, like a storm turning over in the belly of a mountain. The room tensed with it, thickening as if smoke had returned to a long-dead fire. The scent of cedar still clung to the velvet drapes, mingling now with something colder, something metallic beneath the old tobacco ghosts. A single lamp glowed from the corner, bathing the study in that bruised-gold hue that made truth look softer than it was. Shadows stretched like long fingers over the walls and pooled around the chessboard between them— untouched but humming with memory. It was an antique piece, older than either of them, carved from onyx and bone. A museum relic Koshi once swore he'd never use for anything but real games.

But that was before Dorian. Before Marseille. Before a thousand cigarettes smoked between half-laughed plans and blood-wet promises. Koshi reclined in the worn leather chair, bourbon in hand, the rim of the glass resting loosely against his bottom lip. His fingers curled slightly at the sound of the door opening— no knock, of course. Dorian never knocked. Not when he arrived. Not when he left.

Not the night he disappeared.

And like nothing had changed, Dorian dropped into the chair across from him, wearing that same carelessly elegant sprawl. Like years hadn’t stretched between them, like there wasn’t a graveyard of unfinished conversations rotting between the floorboards.

He looked sharper now. Hollowed out around the edges. His shirt hung open at the collar, sleeves shoved up to reveal black ink bleeding down his forearms in sharp, foreign script, fresh additions. Trophies. Wards. Armor.

They hadn’t been there when he left.

Koshi nodded toward them, tone dry. “New ink. What’s it say? ‘Regret nothing’ in Latin?” Dorian offered a lazy smirk. “Something like that.”

“Fitting,” Koshi’s gaze dropped to the board. “You always did like your souvenirs.”

Dorian didn’t look at him. “You kept the board out.”

“It was never about the game,” Koshi murmured, lifting his glass.

“No,” Dorian agreed. “It never was.”

There was always a weight to their silences. This one pressed on Koshi’s ribs like a boot. Outside, thunder pressed against the windows like a held breath. Rain whispered across the glass in soft, persistent fingers.

“You said you’d burned this place,” Dorian said, voice almost amused.

Koshi gave a bitter little laugh. “Thought about it. Couldn’t find the right kind of flame.” He didn’t say: This place has roots in me. And most of them trace back to you.

Another silence. Dorian leaned back in the old velvet armchair, legs crossed, fingers tapping against his chin as if the game—this ridiculous, quiet little game—mattered more than the man across from him. He looked around like the room was a place he used to own in another life. In some ways, it was.

Koshi didn’t move. He rarely did unless he meant to. Dark curls hung loose around his face, framing brilliantly colored eyes– eyes that had stolen Dorian’s breath the first time he’d caught them. Koshi looked older than he had the last time Dorian saw him, but only in the eyes. The rest was still clean, composed, tight-lipped. Typical Koshi, always the master of restraint, always the quiet storm.

Dorian’s gaze drifted to the chessboard again. “You always start with white.”

“You always cheat,” Koshi murmured.

Dorian grinned, unapologetic. “It’s only cheating if I lose and I distinctly remember you liking that about me.”

Koshi set the glass down on the side table with a soft clink and reached for a pawn. The motion was slow, practiced. Like muscle memory. He moved it forward two squares.

Dorian mirrored the move, his pawn sliding into place. The board breathed between them, absorbing tension like a sponge.

“I thought you were done with this place,” Dorian said. “Done with the life.”

“I was,” Koshi replied, moving his knight. “Until you dragged me back in with your disappearing act.”

“Dragged?” Dorian echoed. “Come on. You followed me willingly. You wanted out of your tidy little office more than anyone.”

A flicker of something sharp crossed Koshi’s face. “I had a future before you.”

“A boring one.”

“A safe one.”

Dorian tilted his head. “That ever really suit you, Koshi? Sitting behind a desk in a suit, proofreading government contracts while dreaming about setting them on fire?”

Koshi didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

There had been a time, years ago now, when he’d worn clean shirts, kept files alphabetized, and lived in daylight. Then Dorian showed up with a busted smile and a duffel full of stolen documents and said something like “I need your brain and your hands. Preferably both.”

And Koshi, fool that he’d been, said yes.

“You left,” Koshi said now, moving a bishop with surgical precision. “Right after that job in Amsterdam.”

“Someone had to,” Dorian muttered.

“You didn’t even say goodbye. Just a train ticket and a dead drop with half the payout missing.”

“I told you not to wait.”

Koshi’s eyes lifted, slow and heavy. “And you knew I would.”

Dorian moved a rook, slow and deliberate. Not flashy, just enough to stake space. Then, he leaned back, the chair groaning under him. “I need something.”

“There it is,” Koshi said, voice thin and cutting. “The real reason you came.”

Dorian’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t deny it. He rarely did. “You’re the only one I trust to get me what I need.”

“That would be flattering if it weren’t so pathetic.”

Dorian’s lips twitched into a half-smile— cocky, charming, but void behind the eyes. “You’ve changed.”

“No,” Koshi said. “I just stopped being yours.”

That hit something, but Dorian didn’t let it show. Outside, the storm deepened, rain smearing the windows into blurred streaks of yellow and gray. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and cut off too fast.

“You still work with—what’s his name? Cormac?” Dorian asked, like he was asking about the weather. Koshi’s brow twitched upward. “You know I do.”

“He’s got access to the old ledger books. The offshore registry. Shells built off Langston’s routes.”

“So do Interpol,” Koshi said. “What’s your point?”

Dorian didn’t flinch. “Someone’s moving contraband through his channels. Old codes, old ports. But the paperwork doesn’t add up. Shipments with no origin, fake manifests that almost look real. Almost.”

“Almost,” Koshi echoed, folding his arms.

“There’s something buried in the Lyon registry—Langston’s old reach.” Dorian’s voice lowered. “And someone else is sniffing around too close.”

Koshi studied him. “This about Langston?”

“It’s about whoever she’s protecting.”

A small silence fell. Koshi sat still, eyes narrowing.

“You think she’s folding?”

“I think she’s carrying something too hot for one person. And if it breaks, a lot of people go down. Including me.”

Dorian’s tone had changed. Less flippant now. Sharper. But Koshi couldn’t tell if it was urgency or just another carefully rehearsed act.

“You want to make the trail vanish,” Koshi said.

“I want it to vanish without it landing on me.”

Koshi’s expression didn’t change. But his hand slid toward the decanter—poured another inch of bourbon. He didn’t drink it.

“You know what Cormac said about you after Amsterdam?” Koshi asked.

Dorian didn’t answer.

“He said, ‘Don’t play poker with a man who cheats at chess.’”

That earned a smile, but Dorian didn’t take the bait. “You gonna help me or not?”

“I’ll reach out,” Koshi said slowly. “See if I can pull the manifests. But Cormac doesn’t do favors.”

“Neither do you,” Dorian said. “But you still came when I called.”

A beat.

“No,” Koshi said, voice steel. “You came. Uninvited. Again.”

They stared at each other. The chessboard was still between them, but now it felt like more than memory. It felt like something alive. A countdown.

Behind Koshi’s stillness, a message notification pulsed on the screen of a burner phone tucked into the drawer beneath the chessboard.

W. House cleared. Empty crate marked “Vermilion.” Dummy batch delivered. Eyes in position.

Koshi set his glass down, his voice hard. “You left me to rot when your last ‘game’ fell apart.”

Dorian shrugged again, too casual. “I had to go. You knew that. You were the clean one. You always were.”

“No,” Koshi said, lifting his gaze. “I just hadn’t gotten my hands dirty yet.”

There it was.

The echo of a truth they never said aloud.

Dorian didn’t respond. His fingers hovered above the board, but he didn’t move.

The silence that followed was different— slippery, unsettled. The kind that made the walls feel smaller.

“You remember Marseille?” Koshi asked, voice quieter now. “The little café with the crooked sign and the orange cat that always tried to steal your sandwich.”

Dorian’s smile was small and sudden, like it slipped past his armor. “You ordered mint tea just to annoy me.”

“I ordered mint tea because I liked the way you looked when you pretended to hate it.”

The memory hovered between them like heat off asphalt.

They’d lived in borrowed flats and safehouses with peeling paint and windows that never quite shut. They’d laughed under counterfeit IDs, moved cash through dead-drop laundromats, made love in the shadows of freight yards. It had been reckless. Addictive. Every moment tightrope thin.

And Koshi, fool that he was, had thought it could last. That the kind of hunger Dorian fed could be sustained by something real.

“You don’t get to play that card now,” Koshi said, standing. “Not after you disappeared. Not after I spent six months sleeping with a Glock under my pillow waiting for the wrong name on the right envelope.”

“I never meant for it to follow you,” Dorian said.

“But it did,” Koshi snapped. “You brought fire to everything I touched. My work. My friends. You made me a liability. Then you vanished.”

Dorian stood now too, eyes dark. “I didn’t vanish. I went underground. And I stayed gone to keep both of us out of the crosshairs.”

“No,” Koshi said, stepping closer. “You stayed gone because it was easier. You never had to face what you broke.”

Dorian’s voice dipped, low and dangerous. “What did I break, Koshi?”

“You,” Koshi said. “You broke me.”

The chessboard waited, caught mid-battle. Koshi’s bishop still hovered near Dorian’s king—threatening but not yet striking.

Koshi turned his back and walked toward the hearth, resting his hands on the stone as if it could cool him.

“You know what the worst part is?” he said. “It wasn’t even the running. It was the silence. Like I’d been erased.”

Dorian didn’t answer. But his posture had shifted—more rigid now, shoulders pulled tight. “You think I came back for some heart-to-heart?” he finally said.

“No,” Koshi scoffed. “I think you came back because you’re losing.”

“You think I came back because I’m losing,” Dorian repeated, something cold blooming behind his voice. “You still believe I play games to win.”

Koshi turned around, the firelight catching the edge of his jaw. “I think you always forget the cost.”

They stood there, facing each other like two halves of a broken blade—once whole, now only sharp in opposition.

Then Dorian pulled back. Sat down. Moved his rook.

Business resumed.

“I’ve got a location,” Koshi said at last. “Warehouse near Rue d’Étienne. Dock access. No eyes on it—at least not recently.”

Dorian didn’t look up, but something in his shoulders unknotted. “You can meet your contact there,” Koshi added. “Cormac’s men will be… cooperative. Temporarily.”

Dorian’s gaze flicked up. “You’re giving me a window.”

“I’m giving you a choice.” Koshi’s tone was dry. “You want the trail gone? Go erase it yourself.” He moved a bishop. It slid into position with an audible clack.

“Does Langston know you’re involved?” Dorian asked, watching him. Koshi’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “She knows better than to ask.”

There was a long pause.

“You always were good at making people disappear,” Dorian murmured.

Koshi said nothing, but beneath the surface, the game was already over.

Lyon, Six Months Ago

A woman with iron-gray hair and frostbitten knuckles sat across from Koshi in a cramped Lyon café that smelled like burnt espresso. She wore a charcoal coat with a velvet collar and smoked clove cigarettes like the war hadn’t ended. Her lipstick bled at the corners of her mouth— not from mess, but from wear. She didn’t believe in reapplying.

“You want out, Koshi?” she asked, dragging a nail across the edge of a manila folder. “Then you’d better start thinking like someone who survived him.”

Koshi didn’t flinch. “I want it to mean something.”

“Meaning’s for poets and dead men.” She blew smoke over the table, into the cold. “You want redemption? Dig a hole for what’s left of him and bury it deep.”

He looked down at the file. Photos. Surveillance logs. One of them was Dorian—blurred, but unmistakable.

“You think he’ll run?”

“Not at first,” Marseille said. “But eventually. He always does. It’s in his teeth. In the way he leaves doors half-open like he’s never finished with anyone.”

Koshi’s hand curled into a fist.

Marseille leaned in. Her eyes were sharp as a scalpel, tired in a way only killers and saints ever were. “You want him gone? Clean his name before it hits the papers. Erase the trail. Make it neat.” She tilted her head, almost soft now. “But don’t pretend he didn’t dig the hole first.”

Koshi’s voice was barely a whisper. “He won’t come quietly.”

Marseille lit another cigarette from the dying ember of the last. “No,” she said. “He never did.”

Dorian glanced at the board, frowning slightly. “You moved too fast,” he said. “You never move fast.”

Koshi poured the last of the bourbon into his glass. “Maybe I’m tired of dragging out the inevitable.”

For the first time, Dorian hesitated. He looked toward the door— not fear, exactly, but calculation. Reading the air like a man realizing the building might already be on fire.

“I go to the warehouse,” he said, voice careful, “and?”

“You find what you’re looking for.”

“That simple?”

“No,” Koshi said. “But it’ll feel like it at first.”

Thunder cracked overhead—close enough to shake the glass. A sound like something splitting open.

“You always had a flair for drama,” Dorian muttered.

Koshi studied him. “And you always thought the worst people wouldn’t catch up.”

Dorian stood. Adjusted his cuffs. “What are you, now? A ghost hunter?”

“No,” Koshi said quietly. “Just someone tired of being haunted.”

Dorian stared at him a second longer, jaw tight. Rain clung to his collar as he moved toward the door, movements fluid but just a fraction off. Like he felt it now, not the setup, not the whole picture, but the shape of something closing.

He didn’t ask for the address again. He wouldn’t. That wasn’t his style. Dorian didn’t double-check, didn’t confirm. He just walked into things— jobs, beds, betrayals— and expected the world to bend or break around him.

Before he reached the threshold, Koshi spoke. “She’s in Lyon. Changed her name. Took the cat.”

Dorian paused.

“She’s expecting you,” Koshi added. “But don’t worry. She has friends now.”

There was a long beat. Dorian’s back remained turned. “So do I.”

And then he was gone.

The door closed like the lid of a casket.

Koshi stood alone, the chessboard still between them, pieces half-played, smoke curling from the glass of bourbon he’d never finished. The king was cornered. The queen already gone. He walked to the drawer beneath the board and pulled it open. The burner phone glowed in the dark. A message blinked once, then again.

Contact in position. Lyon team holding. Signal at your mark.

He didn’t respond yet.

Instead, he sat. Let his fingers trace over the bishop, the knight, the empty square where the queen had once stood.

A storm still rolled over the city, but it felt smaller now. Contained.

The Night Before Dorian’s Disappearance, Amsterdam

The bathroom was dark. Power had gone out hours ago, and no one bothered to fix it, not in this part of the city. The only light came from the cracked window, gray and flickering like a dying television screen. The sink gurgled as Koshi scrubbed at his hands, water running red, then pink, then clear, then red again.

It wouldn’t come off. Not the blood. Not the weight.

He gripped the porcelain until his knuckles went pale. The mirror above him was fractured through the middle, a jagged line slicing his reflection in two.

Behind him, through the half-open door, Dorian was laughing. On the phone. Some disposable burner, some contact with a voice like rot and old money. His laugh was careless. Detached. Alive in a way Koshi hadn’t felt in weeks.

Koshi stared at himself.

His face looked older. Or maybe just hollowed out, eyes rimmed in gray, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He looked like someone he wouldn’t have trusted a year ago.

He leaned over the sink, water still running. Droplets clung to his eyelashes like sweat.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered.

His voice cracked on it. Pathetic. Thin.

He mouthed the words again, lips moving around them like a prayer he didn’t believe in. He didn’t shout. He didn’t cry. He just stood there, watching his breath fog up the broken glass and fade.

I can’t do this anymore.

He thought about the job that had just gone sideways — the man they left behind, the noise in the alley, the gun still warm when Dorian pressed it into his hands. He thought about the client’s daughter. He thought about how easy it had been for Dorian to smile through the cleanup.

And then he turned off the faucet.

Walked into the other room.

And stayed.

Message received, Koshi moved back to the board and reset it with care.

This time, he started with black.

And finally, he answered Marseille’s message.

Let him walk in. No gunfire unless he touches the crate. Then bury the signal. I want the last thing he hears to be silence.

He set the phone down.

The queen was gone. But the game?

The game was still his.

[dee-writes-anime]

MY ORIGINAL WORKS MAIN MASTERLIST

WARNING KEY

| A - angst | F - fluff | H/C - hurt and/or comfort | S - smut | D - dark content |

The Sun | a, h | a short story following a piromaniac son and his desperate mom.

Second Move Syndrome | a, h, d | When Dorian resurfaces years after vanishing, Koshi agrees to one final meeting—a conversation played out across an old chessboard haunted by memory. But beneath the familiar moves, Koshi is already playing a far deadlier endgame. In their world, nothing moves without cost.

MORE COMING SOON!!

[dee-writes-anime]

Unless there is a massive change in events during the next hour, it looks like I’ll be sharing some more of my serious writing tomorrow!!

As much as I love writing fanfiction, posting work of mine stemmed in my own worlds is kinda scary, but I’m actually really excited to share it with everyone!

Keep an eye out tomorrow, fun things are coming!! 😉

A poll because it’s fun!