LOL, what if I tried to overcome my inability to write smut by writing an unimaginably self-indulgent fic based on a fucking manga series that I was obsessed with Back in the Day that nobody knows and nobody would care but it also wouldn't matter because I'd just be writing it for me and it would just be pure pornography and trashy as hell and I probably wouldn't dare show it to anyone else, let alone post it but maybe it would help me get over some of my insecurities about writing or maybe it would just make them worse and be a waste of time and what am I doing, shut the fuck up, Sam, LOL
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cw: Bakugou dies but comes back to life, “comes back wrong” trope, implied fighting, angst
When Bakugou died, you’re not sure how you went on living. Grief had taken over your life, sat you in the passenger side while it cruised off the highway into icy waters. And even then, you couldn’t find the energy to drown.
It’s why there’s a sudden uptick of energy when you’re promised to have him back. Some top scientists contact you months after his death, tell you to hurry down to the headquarters labs, come and rejoice for what you’re about to witness. And you’re horrified, to say the least.
“This isn’t my husband.” Are your first words when you walk in, watch the figure on the other side of the glass examine its own hands. It looks like your husband but—but his hair isn’t the right shade of blond all over. His nose bridge had a slight bump after a scuffle with a villain. He had a scar on his hand but—but it never looked like it was to sew a pinky beside the other fingers.
“Is that really my husband?” You ask next in disbelief, slowly entering the room. Bakugou’s head snaps up, his eyes a little brighter than you remember but—they hold so much emotion. So much memory, so much panic, so much guilt.
“I left you.” He mutters, his voice raspy and ragged, and you wonder if it’ll always be like this now. It makes you cry a little harder than it should, but you only embrace each other. He’s cold and his shoulders don’t hold the same mass and his back doesn’t carry the same scars. There’s one, jagged and rough, running down his back, and you think, you think that’s where they slipped a new spine in.
“Welcome back home.” You tell him, weeks after meeting him again, new and not totally—Katsuki. He’s stiff and he doesn’t immediately take off his boots when he enters, and it worries you. Makes you think if you’ve just let a stranger into your home, one that has stolen your dead husbands face. Makes you wonder if he’ll be as loving as Katsuki once was, or if he’ll become your monster looming over you with the guilt of not being able to rest anymore.
“I’ve missed you so much.” You whisper against his mouth one night, a little while after he’s moved back. You don’t know why you lay under him, why you let him nestle himself inside of you, why you let him hold you against his chest. Katsuki always ran his hands over your cheeks and neck whenever he held you like this, but this…man, only holds himself up with his hands resting beside your head. It’s alien, how he looks at you, how his hips are methodically measured with every thrust, how he kisses you every 8 seconds. You wonder if he’s more robot than Frankenstein monster.
“Why did you come back to me like this?” You ask him one night, barricaded in the bathroom away from him. You can hear his sobs on the other side, his pleading to be let in. He tells you he never wanted to come back if he had to be like this, that he’s sorry, please let him in, he misses the warmth of your skin, he’s never been so cold before, he’s never liked the cold.
“Is this considered cheating?” You ask yourself aloud one night, when Bakugou is forced back to the lab when he becomes too…un-Bakugou. To sleep with a man that is your husband in every way but? Your husband has been dead for a year now, and yet you stroke the chin of the man that tries so hard to be him everyday, but fails so miserably at it every time.
“I’ll come back to you right this time.” Bakugou promises to you when he’s strapped down to leave for the lab and before he’s sedated. But you don’t believe him—you never did. Your husband is dead, and this animated corpse has been nothing but a cheap mockery of everything you’ve lost and something you will never truly get back.
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i don't know how to be merely acquaintances when we used to be friends. or i think we used to be. i don't know how to yearn for a simple hello when you've been heaping your affection on me months ago, and i don't know how to talk to you when you won't say anything. when suddenly it's all about me. you know i have nothing to say, you know my brain is void of everything but horribleness and i cannot tell you about my day because i don't even know about my day. i cannot tell you about my day when i know you won't listen, when i know you'll apply your philosophy to my world and don't believe me when i say that everything is terrible. i don't know how to be the person you seem to think i am, or the person you want in your life. i don't know if you want anyone else in your life now that you're in love and sappy, found another recipient for your affections, leaving me empty and wounded and yearning.
you said you missed me. said it many times, while i was gone. now i'm back, have been back, and i wonder how you missed me, why you missed me, when you won't talk to me. i think you mistook missing for worrying. i think you mistook caring for a feeling of obligation. i think you like missing me more than talking to me.
and i think i can't breathe with how much that hurts
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i wanna share this versus slapping the link and asking people to watch it.
"one of the greatest tragedies in life is that: you'll always be loved more than you'll ever know.
someone in your class finds your presence inviting and warm. even if you've only exchanged a few words with them or maybe none at all.
someone on the street loves your smile and it brightens their path for the next few blocks. someone you used to be friends with — still wishes to fondly call your name. even someone you were friends with five years ago would give anything to be in the same room as you today.
someone who regularly comes into work is disappointed when you aren't there to brighten their day. someone missed you today. someone noticed when you were gone. someone loves you when you're there. someone loves you when you're nowhere to be found at all.
you may think you've always disappeared when you're no longer in the picture. but you've never left the frame."
i'm familiar with this way of thinking. it took a while to get myself to believe it. but i apply that to myself, how often i think of someone. a stranger, you guys here, your absence, a coworker, its true. and i don't often tell people but i try to pick up the habit of telling people. or better yet, showing them. it makes me wonder how often that's the case when the roles are reversed.
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One of my favorite Detective Conan episodes is probably episode 538, the second part of Kaitou KID vs the Strongest Vault, the banter between Kaito and Conan was so cute, and the fact he sent the police away to talk to Kaito was feeding my Shinkai/Kaishin obsession, nothing tops when Conan brought up Kaito how usually choses to dress as women, and instead of it being turned into some sort of pervert joke or the usual "people dont expect women to commit crimes" Kaito just said smth along the lines of "i think its cute"
I just love how hes comfortable in his skin and he doesnt mind (probably even enjoys) doing and wearing feminine things and not in a "this is getting me to my objective" but "why not" ykk
He seriously couldve been the secretary and yet he chose not to </333
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watching barbie makes me think about all of the moments between female friends that went unsaid but we always understood.
the lingering hand holding; i see you. the hugs that last too long but never break until we are both ready; i see you. the checking your outfit for you to make sure you are clean and still comfortable unprovoked; i see you. the late nights and the calls and the unrestrained laughter that borders on ugly by social standards; i see you. the fixing of hair and sharing of secrets and possessions and dreams; i see you. the understandings we don’t talk about—the nightmares, the sleepovers we never had, the silent conversation in which we let break us; i see you. the tears of pain too deep to give name to; i see you. the anger, the fear that makes us lock it all away, keep our heart in the dark despite the burning want for family, however it comes; i see you. the exhaustion; i see you. the darkness and the light; i see you.
the women with too small hands to hold big dreams, big loves, big hurts, big aches; i see every single one of you and i offer my hands as support beams. i see you, i see you, i see you.
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I can no longer hold the truth deep inside i fear i must say it: lando looks like something you can only find on the moist bottom side of fallen tree in the Wood i am so sorry
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