#THIS SCENE WAS PARTIALLY YOUR IDEA BACK IN THE DAY REMEMBER

[naivesilver]

Hmmmmmmmg how about something for Leroy and Lampwick from the found family asks? You can choose the prompt :^)

😈😈😈

Found Family Prompts

I care about you and I will always care about you.

"I'm gonna kill him," Leroy snarls, with a fury he hasn't felt in what he thinks might be decades.

To her credit, Nova, his kind, shy Nova, doesn't seem particularly miffed by his outburst, and holds her ground with admirable steadiness, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. "You will do no such thing. I won't see you landing yourself a jail cell because you can't keep a cool head."

"A cool head?" The man's arm swings open, pointing somewhat accusingly at the teenager sitting on their couch. "You take a look at him and tell me how you're keeping cool right now, go ahead."

Lampwick doesn't even lifts his head at being made a topic of discussion, which is bad on many fronts, because the kid doesn't do meek and quiet, usually. He's a menace, that boy, loud and bothersome and sticky-fingered, and Leroy loves him to bits, sappy and shameful as it might sound, and his blood boils at the thought of what was happening right under their nose.

See, there's the flip side of it. All in all it's a good thing that Lampwick isn't looking up, because it means Leroy doesn't have to see more of the bruises mottling his face, which would send him into a rage with near certainty.

Not that he really needs the push, though, to be honest. "You know what? Fine," he concludes, already striding over to get his jacket. "If Emma wants to throw me in jail, I'll let her. Or maybe she'll wanna join me, who knows-"

"Don't. Please."

The voice is so soft and muted that it's a wonder Leroy even hears it over his own ranting, but it makes him freeze up all the same, hand raised halfway through the air. He finds himself frowning, puzzled, and turning to the couch again. "What?"

Finally, Lampwick glances up at him, eyes red rimmed and pleading despite the blue-black ring circling one of them. "Please, don't- just don't go. There's no point."

He sounds small, when he talks like this, small and terribly young, and it melts all the anger out of Leroy in a second, leaving space only for thick and uncharacteristic regret. "Alright," he says after a moment - he's not sure who he's even talking to, to be honest, if it's himself or the boy. "Alright."

He moves to sit down beside the kid, with deliberate slowness, and in the corner of his eye he catches Nova breathing a sigh of relief and doing the same thing, perched on the opposite armrest. He manages to conjure up a faint grin and holds a hand out to cup Lampwick's head, albeit not as roughly as he usually would. "Why, you wouldn't want to see me in a cell? Thought you might find it funny."

The boy doesn't meet his eyes, and only shrugs distractedly instead, as though it didn't really matter one way or the other. "'S not funny if it's because of me. Not worth it."

"Course it's worth it." The dwarf gestures vaguely at Lampwick's sorry state, at his split lip and swollen eye and dejected state. "Look at this. This is some bullshit. I just wanna make sure he's not doing it again."

"He's not, alright? The sheriff said I don't ever need to see John anymore if I don't want to. It's not gonna change anything, what he does next. Why do you care so much?"

"I care about you, you little idiot." Leroy takes him by the chin, gently and yet unrelentingly leading Lampwick to meet his gaze.

"Got it? I'll always care about you. We both will. So if you say you don't want me to go, then I'm not going anywhere. But if that guy ever so much as thinks about touching you again, I'm breaking all of his fingers. Understood?"

The boy doesn't reply, nor does he nod or shake his head, the barest hint of an acknowledgement. Rather, he seems almost taken aback by Leroy's passionate reaction, bewildered, really, as though he'd never witnessed anything close to it, and he didn't want to believe it in full, either.

Leroy, for his part, can't bear to look at that ruin any longer, so after a moment he relents his hold and instead pulls the kid in for a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around Lampwick. He expects some sort of resistance, from past experience, and he does get the tiniest bit of stiffening, but soon enough the boy is returning the hug, hesitantly, slowly, but still there, burying his face in Leroy's shoulder and going limp and shaking like the child he sometimes still looks like.

Better that than refusing to speak, Leroy reasons, after the rough night Lampwick's gone through. Better he lets it all out here, with someone holding him and Nova soothingly stroking his head, than going off at the man who's caused him so much grief and getting himself into trouble. That's for grown-ups to handle. That's for Leroy to handle, once he's gotten the kid settled and he's worked out a way to make John get a taste of his own medicine.

He used to be an habitual customer of Storybrooke few cells, after all, back during the curse. Not the most pleasant of places, but if he ends up there once more...well. Not that high a price to pay, if it keeps the boy from shattering into pieces again.

[swan-of-sunrise]

...Is Love, Sweet Love (Part II)

Summary: Eight months later, (Y/N) and her daughter Molly have settled in well at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, with (Y/N) teaching a Classical Literature class and six-year-old Molly taking courses while learning more about her telepathic skills. Charles, having fallen head over heels for the school's new professor, debates whether or not to act upon his feelings.

Pairing: Charles Xavier X F!Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: Yes, I know, it's slightly unhinged to write a Part II to a one-shot that I published over 2 years ago, but I couldn't get this idea out of my head and here's what I came up with! Again, "What The World Needs Now Is Love" by Jackie DeShannon partially inspired this fic, so you should totally give it a listen if you haven't heard it before :)

…Is Love, Sweet Love May 1980 Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, Westchester (Previous Chapter)

Despite living in his family’s mansion for the majority of his life and spending countless hours of his childhood eagerly exploring its sprawling grounds, Charles Xavier hadn’t truly grown to appreciate the tranquility that the estate provided until he’d re-started Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. The sight of young mutants happily playing on the playground and partaking in group sports without feeling the need to hide their differences away brought a smile to Charles’ face, and the cheerful laughter of his students paired with the beautiful spring sunshine inspired him to once again enjoy his lunch outside with a good book…although, it was difficult to deny that he spent far more time listening in on Professor (Y/L/N)’s nearby Classical Literature class than actually reading his novel.

“Can anyone tell me why the characters of King Lear worship the pagan gods and not any form of Christianity?” (Y/N), who was sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of her small class, arched a brow as she surveyed the silent group of teenagers before her. “C’mon, guys, you know this. We went over the background of the play during our last lecture, and I seem to remember some of you even taking notes…” After a moment, a timid hand went up from the red-headed girl in the front and (Y/N) smiled. “Yes, Jean?”

“The play is set in ancient Britain, long before the arrival of Christianity.”

“Very good, Jean!” Jean Grey’s shoulders relaxed and beside her, her friend Jubilee gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Now, why would Shakespeare choose to set this play in this specific time period? Think about the time period in which Shakespeare lived, and what the social and political climate in England was like.” A dark-haired boy towards the back of their group raised his hand. “Go ahead, Remy.”

Remy LeBeau lowered his hand and began fiddling with his deck of playing cards as he spoke in his distinct French-Creole accent. “Well, Professor, that was when there was a lil’ trouble brewin’ ‘tween the Catholics and Protestants over there, right? He prob’ly didn’t wanna ruffle any feathers by puttin’ a popular religion in his plays, so he had his characters worship the gods from ol’ Roman mythology; anybody who’d be offended would’ve been long dead, so Willy did what any guy’d do to keep his head on his shoulders.”

Charles smiled to himself as the class laughed and (Y/N)’s lips curved upwards into a reluctant grin. “A little unorthodoxly put, Remy, but you’re absolutely correct. In the play, Lear states that-” She was cut off when the familiar sound of the school bell rang out and her students started to pack their things away. “Remember, on Monday we’ll begin performing your assigned scenes so be sure to work on memorizing your lines with your groups over the weekend. Have a good rest of your day!”

While they laughed and talked amongst themselves, the students headed back towards the mansion for their next class and with a fond smile on her face, (Y/N) looked away from them and finished packing her binders and books into her messenger bag. The novel in Charles’ hand was all but forgotten in favor of admiring his colleague and friend, who’s effortless beauty almost always succeeded in making him stutter over his words and caused him to blush in a way that he hadn’t since he was a schoolboy; she was dressed casually in a striped button-down blouse tucked into a faded pair of high-waisted jeans and well-worn Birkenstocks, with her (Y/H/C) hair pulled away from her face by a blue headband and her reading glasses dangling around her neck by a colorful beaded chain. Charles took in all of her striking figure, but it was her content smile and the happy gleam in her (Y/E/C) eyes that made him release a lovelorn sigh and look down at his lap.

Charles was infatuated with Professor (Y/L/N). Well, it perhaps started out as a simple infatuation, back when she’d first arrived on his doorstep pleading for him to help her daughter; her kindness and caring nature in regards to Molly’s safety and well-being was touching, considering how many parents he’d met who were overly eager to pass their mutant children off to a complete stranger just to be rid of them. After hearing their story, he knew that she couldn’t bear to be separated from her five-year-old and so, he asked that she stay and teach at the school to ensure that they would remain together. That was eight months ago and since then, the infatuation had evolved into a full-blown romantic crush; Charles was captivated by (Y/N)’s capacity for compassion, enchanted by her quick wit and natural beauty, in awe of her progressive idealism in regards to mutant rights and more than appreciative of her boundless consideration in regards to his disability.

Yes, Charles was enamored by his school’s newest professor, but he was also plagued by insecurity. The last woman he was romantically involved with was Agent Moira MacTaggert of the CIA, all the way back in 1962 when he was a dashing young man who’d just earned his doctorate and possessed an egotistical streak wider than the English Channel; nowadays, his ego was tempered and his youthful good looks were beginning to give way to wrinkles and streaks of silver. While a ten-year age gap between two consenting adults was hardly an insurmountable obstacle to a happy relationship, a part of him couldn’t help but think that (Y/N) would be happier with someone younger than him. Both Alex and Hank thought that he was overthinking the situation, and perhaps they were right but whenever he started to consider asking her out, that little voice of doubt whispered on in the back of his mind.

“Hi Charles!”

Looking up, Charles’ face reflexively broke out into a grin when he saw (Y/N) approaching the bench he’d parked his wheelchair beside. “Hello, (Y/N)! Holding your classes outside today, I see?”

“It’s such a beautiful day, so you could hardly blame me for taking full advantage of it.” The professor adjusted the strap of her messenger bag and tilted her head as a teasing smile played across her cherry-red lips. “Enjoying your lunch outside today, I see?”

“Touché, Professor,” Charles chuckled, slipping his bookmark into his novel to mark his place and tucking it into his wheelchair’s saddle pack. “Hank seems to believe that my vitamin D levels are too low, so I decided that eating outside was the quickest way to get our resident worrywart off of my back. Not only did I soak up plenty of sun, I had the added pleasure of listening in on your fantastic lesson on Shakespeare’s King Lear; no offense to the Bard, but it’s refreshing to see an Classical Literature professor teach her students about one of his historical plays instead of one of his romances.”

(Y/N) shrugged nonchalantly, but the way she began to fiddle with her pendant revealed the bashfulness she was attempting to mask. “Well, I remember what it was like being fourteen; you’re around the same age as Romeo and Juliet, yes, but you don’t know a damn thing about love and it’s not easy to understand why they do the things they do.”

“As a former fourteen-year-old, I heartily concur. At that age, I could scarcely understand myself let alone an emotion as complex as love, no matter how beautifully Shakespeare described it,” Charles replied, looking out across the manicured grounds as he recited, “‘My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep-’”

“‘-The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite,’” (Y/N) finished and when their eyes met, Charles’ heart fluttered and he could feel his face beginning to warm; his brows rose in surprise when the professor hastily turned her head to try and hide her besotted smile, a flicker of hope igniting within him at the sight. “I, um, I-I should go and find Molly…”

“She’s at the playground with Alex’s second graders. Speaking of which, I need to speak with Alex about tomorrow’s scheduled book delivery…” Charles awkwardly cleared his throat before giving (Y/N) a tentative smile. “Would you allow me to escort you there?”

(Y/N)’s own smile widened at that. “Of course!”

While Charles wheeled himself along the stone pathway and (Y/N) kept in step with him, they eagerly discussed the school’s ongoing library expansion and all the new books they’d obtained for the students; any progress made at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters filled him with a sense of accomplishment, but expanding his ancestral home’s library was one of his greatest desires and he was thrilled that the children would soon have access to more knowledge than many of the country’s best private schools and universities. (Y/N) was just as excited about the expansion as he was, and he couldn’t help but admire the enthusiasm written across her beautiful features while he listened to her talk about all the lesson plans she’d brainstormed involving their new books.

They reached the playground sooner than Charles would’ve preferred, but his disappointment was set aside by the sight and sound of his school’s youngest students happily entertaining themselves on the elaborate structure; so many of them came from broken homes and were sent away without any second thoughts by families that couldn’t care less about them and while Charles couldn’t change their heartbreaking pasts, he did all in his power to give each and every one of his students a loving home and bright, promising futures. For the first time, I find myself truly understanding the blinding rage that fills Erik in regards to mutant rights, he thought with an inward grimace before glancing over at (Y/N) and smiling as the human woman affectionately watched her mutant daughter play, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve lost my faith in humanity’s innate goodness.

“Hi Mommy!” Molly exclaimed from the top of the structure, a toothy grin stretching across her face as she gave them both an enthusiastic wave. “Hi Professor ‘Zavier!”

“Hi Molly-Bear!” (Y/N) called back while a beaming Charles returned the little girl’s wave with one of his own. He’d always maintained that a good professor shouldn’t have favorites, but no one would blame him if he came out and admitted that Molly (Y/L/N) was – hands down – his favorite student; she was as exuberant and carefree as any human six year old, but her mutant abilities as a psychometric telepath meant that she was more insightful and tended to see the world around her with sage eyes. In truth, Molly reminded him so much of himself when he was a child and knowing first-hand how challenging having telepathic abilities at that age can be, he was grateful that he could help her by teaching her how to control and accept her gifts.

While Charles scanned the playground for Alex, he caught (Y/N) looking over at him and the tender expression on her face nearly took his breath away; she quickly looked away and pretended to adjust the fasteners of her messenger bag, but not before Charles noticed the glimmer of affection in her gorgeous (Y/E/C) eyes. A familiar whistle cut through his racing thoughts and when he glanced over, he spotted Alex leaning against a light pole that bordered the playground; a knowing smirk curved across the younger man’s face, widening as he brought a hand up to his temple and wiggled his fingers to signal for Charles to read his mind.

“I told you so.”

“Alex…”

“(Y/N)’s into you, Charles, and you’re clearly into her. So, what’re you gonna do about it?”

After taking a steadying breath and running an anxious hand through his hair, Charles cleared his suddenly dry throat and hesitantly spoke. “(Y/N)?” The professor looked over at him expectantly and his finger drifted upwards to loosen his shirt’s collar while he clumsily continued. “I, ah…well, I-I was wondering if I…(Y/N), would you and Molly care to join me for dinner sometime? There’s a wonderful Italian restaurant in Salem Center and a little movie theater just down the street from it that I think you’ll enjoy…”

(Y/N) blinked, looking dumbfounded but slightly hopeful as she took a moment to find her voice. “Charles, are you asking me out on a date?”

Charles nodded and offered her the barest of smiles. “Over the past few months, I’ve grown…immensely fond of you; I wake up every morning looking forward to our usual discussions over breakfast, I find myself spending far too much time styling my hair and picking out what to wear in the hopes that you’ll take note and every time you smile at me, my heart skips a beat.” The professor shyly smiled at that and he couldn’t help but lightly chuckle, the weight in his chest already feeling lighter with each confession he uttered. “Yes, just like that.”

“And you…you wouldn’t mind Molly coming along?”

The anxiety that filled (Y/N)’s eyes as she awaited his answer nearly shattered Charles’ heart; based on what little she’d disclosed to him about her past, he knew that she’s struggled with dating as a single mother and he could only imagine how disillusioned with romance she’d become as a result. “Of course not, (Y/N),” He softly replied and in a bold move, he reached forward and took her hand in his. “You two are a team, after all; Molly is your entire world, and I want you to know that I respect that more than anything. It’s also…well, let’s just say that it’s been quite a while since I’ve gone on a date, and I’d…”

“Like to go slow?” (Y/N) gently offered and when Charles wordlessly nodded, she gave him the smallest of smiles before looking over her shoulder and calling out, “Molly? Sweetheart, can you come here for a second, please?” After coming down the slide, Molly skipped over to them and the professor knelt down so that they were eye-level, her hand still holding onto his. “Professor Xavier wanted to know if he could take us out for dinner and a movie. Does that sound all right to you, Molly-Bear?”

The little girl’s head tilted to the side as her (Y/E/C) eyes studied Charles, and he was forced to mask his amused chuckle with a cough when she brought a mitten-clad hand up to her mother’s ear. “Like on a date?” Molly loudly whispered, and (Y/N) pursed her lips to keep from chuckling as she nodded; her daughter lowered her hand to reveal her excited smile and she gave her mother an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Sounds good to me!” Molly looked back at Charles with a conspiratorial giggle. “Mommy likes you, Professor ‘Zavier.”

Charles arched a playful brow as his eyes flicked between the embarrassed elder (Y/L/N) and the beaming younger (Y/L/N). “She does, does she?”

“Mm-hmm, she likes your eyes and your smile and your hair and your-”

“Okay, young lady, that’s enough out of you,” (Y/N) hastily interrupted, tickling her daughter’s neck with both hands and smiling when she shrieked with laughter and scurried back to the playground. Shaking her head in fond exasperation, she stood and glanced back at Charles, who was trying and failing to muffle his laughter. “Well, I guess that settles it. Does six o’clock this Friday work for you?”

He emphatically nodded. “Yes, of course, it’s perfect!” He felt himself begin to blush at his obvious enthusiasm, and it was (Y/N)’s turn to chuckle as he awkwardly cleared his throat and tried again. “…I-I mean, Friday at six o’clock works for me.”

“Good. I guess that Molly and I will see you then.” The professor turned to walk away but took Charles by surprise when she turned back around and bashfully smiled at him. “I’ve…I’ve grown immensely fond of you too, Charles.”

Before he could say or do anything, she’d bent down and pressed a feather-light kiss onto his cheek, an infatuated gleam in her (Y/E/C) eyes as she flashed him one last smile and left to meet her daughter on the playground. A broad grin slowly spread across Charles’ face and while he watched her walk away, he leaned an elbow onto his wheelchair’s armrest and rested the side of his head against his palm, releasing a love-struck sigh and barely taking note of the familiar figure that moved to stand beside him.

“See what happens when you actually take my advice?”

Charles straightened his posture and glanced over at Alex, who was wearing the smuggest of smiles on his faces as he stared back at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an impertinent ass, Alex Summers?”

Alex’s smirk widened. “Heard it all my life. So, when’s the big date?”

“This Friday at six o’clock. And since you and Hank have taken such a keen interest in my love life, I’ll be requiring your assistance on Friday.” The younger man quickly sobered and with a grin of his own, Charles chuckled and patted his arm. “There’s a good chap. Now, about tomorrow’s book delivery…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Although it was a far cry from the hazy evenings spent at Oxford’s many lively pubs and in the company of the college’s most flirtatious female students, Charles’ date with (Y/N) and Molly was undoubtedly the most enjoyable one he’d ever been on. He’d met the mother and daughter in the mansion’s foyer with two bouquets in his hands – daisies for Molly and vibrant pink roses for (Y/N) – and he happily watched them admire their flowers while simultaneously hiding the fact that he was studying (Y/N)’s figure; the professor was wearing a knee-length yellow dress with long billowing sleeves, a bright pink sash tied around her waist and matching high heels, and her carefully styled hair was pulled back by a pink headband. She was beautiful, far too beautiful to be going out with the likes of him, but his fears of inadequacy were quickly alleviated when she looked over at him and smiled.

Hank and Alex drove the three of them to Salem Center in Charles’ maroon 1959 Jaguar Mark IX, the pair of them opting to stay in town and catch a showing of the newly-released The Empire Strikes Back while they dined at La Mensa. Sensing Molly’s apprehension with being around so many non-mutant strangers, Charles distracted her by playing ‘tic-tac-toe’ and ‘hangman’ with her on her paper place-mat and (Y/N) threw him a grateful look as she asked her daughter about her schoolwork; while they enjoyed their food, (Y/N) entertained them with stories of her students’ antics and after some goading by Molly, she even balanced a spoon on the end of her nose much to her daughter and Charles’ delight. After dinner, they made their way down the street to the small movie theater and while many of its patrons were queued up to watch the latest Star Wars film, the three of them decided on watching the re-release of Disney’s Lady and the Tramp; Molly adored the classic cartoon and while Charles was impartial to the film, he thoroughly enjoyed exchanging enamored glances with (Y/N) over the little girl’s head.

Molly fell asleep on the drive home, cuddling against her mother’s side as she lovingly brushed her fingers through her daughter’s (Y/H/C) hair. In low whispers, (Y/N) assured Charles that Molly had a wonderful time and that she hadn’t seen the little girl so happy since before she’d come into her mutation; although aware that Hank and Alex were clearly eavesdropping from their front seats, Charles quietly asked her if she’d care for a quick nightcap in his study after putting Molly to bed, and he was thrilled when she readily accepted his invitation. When they arrived back at the mansion, (Y/N) carried the still-sleeping Molly inside, but not before giving Charles one last smile as he maneuvered into his outside wheelchair.

“So…” Hank arched a curious brow as he walked beside Charles’ wheelchair and steadied it when they reached the top of the ramp, where Alex was waiting with his motorized indoor wheelchair. “How was it?”

“Charming, but I could’ve done without the rather offensive Asian and Italian stereotypes-”

“Not the movie, Charles, the date,” Alex interrupted and when Charles chuckled in amusement at his friends, he leaned a shoulder against the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest. “C’mon, you finally ask out the woman you’ve been head over heels for and you’re not gonna give your two best friends the four-one-one?”

Shaking his head in faux exasperation, Charles shifted himself into his motorized wheelchair and arranged his legs as he airily answered, “(Y/N), Molly and I ate a truly magnificent meal at La Mensa that we followed up by watching a classic Disney film at the movie theater. What more is there to say?”

Alex heaved a sigh but moved to allow Charles to wheel himself into the mansion. “A little help here, Hank?”

“Oh, he’s having far too much fun messing with us to stop.” The scientist tucked his hands into his jacket pockets while a mischievous smirk played on his lips. “But speaking as the school’s resident genius, I couldn’t help but notice the good professor clearly checking (Y/N) out before we left and blushing when she smiled at him just now.”

A reluctant blush warmed Charles’ cheeks at that. “Don’t you two perverts have morning classes to prepare for?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, lover boy,” Alex smugly countered, nudging Hank’s arm with his elbow as they walked beside Charles’ wheelchair down the vacant hall to his study. “Well, Beast, there’s no doubt about it: Charles here’s got it bad for our lovely Professor (Y/L/N).”

When they reached his study’s door, Charles nudged it open and wheeled himself inside, but not before giving both men a look of genuine sincerity. “Thank you, for your assistance tonight and for your encouragement; the pair of you can occasionally be a pain in the ass, but tonight couldn’t have happened without you.”

Hank’s smile softened. “You’re welcome, Charles. We’re just happy that we succeeded in making you do something selfish for once.”

“Yeah, you’ve helped us both out so much over the years and it was high-time we returned the favor,” Alex added as he clapped Charles on the shoulder, his earnest expression morphing into a knowing smirk while he continued. “Enjoy your nightcap with (Y/N), and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, lover boy.”

“Oh, and don’t forget protection!”

“Goodnight, gentlemen.”

Chuckling, Alex and Hank left the study and closed the door behind them; after pausing for a moment to take a calming breath, Charles wheeled himself over to the oak cabinet near his cluttered desk and unlocked it, pulling out a glass decanter of scotch and two glasses and setting them down on the coffee table. He bit his lip as his eyes surveyed the messy state of his study, cursing himself for not tidying up earlier, but a part of him knew that (Y/N) wasn’t the type to mind a little clutter; she liked to joke that the best professors had the messiest studies because they spent all their time teaching instead of worrying about how others perceive them. It was the good manners instilled in him from birth that saw him gathering stacks of loose papers, binders and leather-bound books and unceremoniously shoving them behind his desk before lifting himself out of his wheelchair to sit on the couch; with nothing else to distract himself from the anxious anticipation building up within him, Charles plucked the maple-colored queen off the chessboard and nimbly twirled it around his fingers as he waited for (Y/N).

Minutes later, there was a quiet knock on the door of his study and after scrambling to straighten up his chessboard, Charles called out, “Come in!” The door opened and (Y/N) stepped into the room, her gentle smile widening when she spotted him seated on the couch. “How’s Molly?”

“Out like a light.” (Y/N) crossed the room and sat on the couch beside him, her fingers playing with the flowing yellow material of her dress’ skirt as Charles poured their drinks. “She wanted me to tell you that she had a really fun time tonight, and she wanted me to thank you.”

“She’s been working so hard these past few months to complete her schoolwork and training, so if anyone deserves to have a little fun it’s undoubtedly her,” Charles replied, a surge of fondness for his youngest student and her kindheartedness bringing a smile to her face as he turned to (Y/N) and offered her a glass of the amber-colored liquid. “As do you, Professor.”

Accepting the glass, (Y/N) hummed thoughtfully before holding it up and angling it towards him. “In that case…to having fun.”

“To having fun,” Charles repeated, lightly clinking his glass of scotch against hers and taking a sip, his eyes appreciatively roaming along the professor’s figure while she took a sip of the strong liquor. “Do you like it? It’s top shelf scotch whiskey, all the way from Scotland.”

(Y/N) arched a playful brow as she crossed her leg over her knee and angled herself to face him. “Expensive, imported liquor? Are you trying to impress me, Professor?”

“Well, that all depends…” Following his instincts, Charles set his glass down and rested his elbow on the couch’s back cushion, his lips curving into a playful grin. “Is it working?”

Her (Y/E/C) eyes softened and after setting her own glass down, she rested one of her hands on his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Charles, I was impressed by you before the top shelf scotch, before the fancy Italian restaurant, and before I ever laid eyes on this beautiful mansion.” His brow furrowed in confusion but she merely smiled and rubbed small circles along his knuckles with her thumb. “Eight months ago, the letter that I sent you asking for help with Molly was my Hail Mary; I had nowhere to go and no way to protect my daughter from the people who hated her for who she was, so I decided to write to the one person I knew could help her. And when you sent me a letter back – that incredibly kind and empathetic letter – you gave me hope, hope that I hadn’t felt in so long. So, you see? You managed to impress me before we’d even met, Charles Xavier.”

Charles, touched by her sincerity and feeling a little emotional, reached forward with his free hand and carefully cradled her warm cheek in his palm. “Oh, my darling (Y/N)…you’re not the only one who’s had their hope restored; I gave up any hope for romance not long after I lost my legs, choosing to focus my attention on the school and my fellow mutants. Over these past several months, however, you helped me to see that there was still hope.” His thumb traced along her cheekbone as he smiled and slowly began to lean in. “And now, I would very much like to kiss you, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

(Y/N)’s smile widened. “I’d like that very much as well, I just…” He could feel her cheek flush beneath his touch, and a look of embarrassment flashed across her face. “God, it’s been so long since I’ve done anything like this. Would it be silly to say that I’ve got butterflies in my stomach?”

“Not at all, darling. Truth be told, I’m a little nervous myself,” Charles murmured, his eyes flicking away from hers to stare at her enticing lips before glancing back up. “The last time I kissed a woman was in 1962, so you’ll have to forgive me if my technique has gotten slightly rusty over the past eighteen years.”

“Well, we won’t know unless we give it a go, will we?” (Y/N) breathed and her (Y/E/C) eyes burned with desire as they both inched closer. “Charles, dear…please kiss me.”

Wanting nothing more than to please the professor, Charles’ eyes fluttered closed as he tentatively brushed his lips against hers. (Y/N) wasted no time in returning the kiss, kissing him softly and sweetly as her hand left his to rest on the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair and eliciting a blissful groan from him; with one hand still cupping her cheek, he rested the other on her waist but soon found himself winding his arm around her in an effort to bring her closer. (Y/N)’s lips were soft and oh so addictive, slowly but firmly caressing against his as her fingers carded through his locks, and Charles surrendered himself over to the woman wrapped in his embrace.

Eventually, they were forced to separate for some much-needed air, the both of them out of breath and almost dizzy from their impromptu make-out session; Charles felt a surge of pride as he took in (Y/N)’s kiss-swollen lips, heaving chest and the dazed smile on her face, and he couldn’t resist leaning forward to lightly rub his nose against hers. When he pulled back, he huffed out a breathless chuckle at the incredulous look that she was giving him. “That’s a rusty technique?”

“Mm-hmm. Dreadful, wasn’t it?”

(Y/N) giggled at his joking question and pretended to consider it. “You know, I think I need another example before I can definitively say.” They both laughed but when Charles moved in for another kiss, a sharp twinge in his lower back caused him to recoil with a hiss of pain. “Charles, are you okay?!”

He mutely nodded, his eyes squeezed shut as he straightened his posture and leaned his back against the plush couch cushions. “I’m fine, it’s just a muscle spasm.”

“Is it…?” (Y/N) trailed off and when Charles finally opened his eyes as the pain began to fade, he could see the worry written across her face. “Is it because of your spinal cord injury?”

“That, and I’m afraid that I’m getting on in years; I’m not as young and spritely as I was in 1962.” Instead of stammering out a string of apologies and getting up to leave as Charles feared she would, the corner of (Y/N)’s lips curved upwards into a lopsided grin that left him slightly confused. “(Y/N)?”

The professor shifted closer to him. “Did you know that Molly’s father was fourteen years older than me?” Charles’ brow rose in surprise and he silently shook his head, watching as she reached over and brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. “You could say that I’ve always had a thing for older men…” Before he could think of something witty to say, (Y/N) swung her leg over his to straddle his lap and rested her hands on either side of his face; Charles couldn’t help but grin and, inspired by her delectable boldness, he placed his hands on her waist to hold her securely to him, his grin widening as her breath hitched. “Go ahead and read my mind if you don’t believe me, but it’s true.”

Shaking his head, Charles rested his head on the back of the couch so that he was staring up at her, softly smiling as one of his hands traveled upwards to cradle her cheek. “I believe you, darling. Would it be too sappy to say that I don’t want this night to end?”

“Not at all, dear,” (Y/N) shook her head before closing the distance between them and captured his lips in another passionate kiss; when they finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against his and returned his blissful smile with one of her own. “We can make this work, can’t we? Balance the two of us with running the school and raising Molly?”

“I believe that you and I can do just about anything, so long as we’re together,” Charles replied, his thumb and forefinger moving to guide her chin forward and pouring all his emotions into another kiss; there was no place on Earth he’d rather be than in the arms of the lovely Classical Literature professor who’d captured his heart and judging by the way she kissed him back, it was clear that she was thinking something along the same lines.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I had so much fun dipping my toes back into the Fox X-Men Universe (I still have a massive thing for 80's Charles Xavier and his flowing brown hair lol) and I loved that I finally resolved Charles and (Y/N)'s mutual attraction with this cute Part II! I may or may not have a few ideas for a possible Part III, so let me know if you'd be interested in reading more! Thank you all so much for reading and enjoying!

Story Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl @holb32 @f1uveryysblog Marvel Tag List: @brooke0297​​​​ @deadlymistletoe Permanent Tag List:​ @momc95​​​​ @crowleysqueenofhell​​​ @groovy-lady​ @yasmin12312

[yooglefics]

Reveal — Part one: recording

Pairing: Yoongi x fem!reader ( camboy!yoongi x camgirl!reader ) Wordcount: 2,198 words Genre: smut. 18+. mdni. don't use fanfics as your only source of sex ed, pls. Summary: your friend convinced you to record an audio for your OF, but doing it alone is nerve-wracking so you turn to your favorite creator for help.

Includes: Mentions of selling sex content. Mentions of sexual activity ( doing things and also talking about doing things ). Implicit masturbation instructions. Masturbation ( f and m ) ( wash your hands before putting them anywhere, folks ). People filming/recording sex acts. Use of pet names? ( baby, doll ). Dirty talk. Mentions of Jungkook x fem!reader but they are just frieeends. Author's note: I started writing this with hopes of it just being alright because I wanted to write something quick but then it got longer and here we are. Hope you like it! If you do please remember to leave a comment, reblog, ask, follow and what not. Thank you for reading <3

It's been six months since you started this side job. At first, it was a combination of curiosity and a little desperation since money was tight after your roommate and best friend decided to go back to live with her parents. You didn't complain too much about it because you didn't want her to feel bad, and besides, you actually missed having your own space. 

But lonely nights with insomnia thanks to the stress at work, let you to explore sides of the internet you had only heard about in bathroom conversations. Curiosity got the best of you and so, here you are, going through comments on your last onlyfans post.

You've been able to grow a decent-sized audience, it may be a bit small to others but it’s manageable and you like that. Some of them are people you followed before, during your investigation stage, and now became your mutuals. You truthfully see them as your friends, like Jungkook.

He was the first person with quite a big audience who followed you back and you truly believe half your followers came from his page, even though he denies it and tells you it is all your doing. He really has a way of lifting your confidence and that's why after a few months you meet in person to shoot things together, nothing too spicy, just a shoot with Calvins and denim jackets. You were surprised when he didn't suggest something more than that, but Jungkook said “You're too sweet to fuck in a first meeting, but maybe later”.

You thought he was just partially joking, although a few meetings have passed and he hasn't tried anything. To be honest, is a bit disappointing since he is so attractive, but at least he is still willing to help you with fun photoshoots in your apartment.

A comment in the picture where Jungkook’s hand is around your throat caught your eye. When you suggested it, it was funny. A silly little joke about what people thought actually happened behind the scenes and a way to hide your face from the camera.

When you saw it after, it was less funny and much hotter. Even if he wasn't applying pleasure on your neck, the muscles on his forearm were visible under the ink, the lighting and shadows reflected on the skin of your chest that wasn't covered by the cami top you were wearing that day, and your gold babygirl collar sat perfectly on top of your breast.

You couldn't be mad at the people saying they wished to be in your place. You were jealous of yourself, damn it.

That's why the comment popped out between the others, because it was jealousy of Jungkook they were talking about.

[ JustADude: “Fuck. He is the luckiest man alive if he gets to hold you and listen to all your pretty sounds.” ]

Cheeks blushing, you giggle thinking about how Jungkook hasn't done those things. But you have to admit that the idea of people being interested in hearing is a turn on. And maybe it shouldn't be a surprise considering taking pictures for others does but… could you… ?

Your phone rings, indicating a text and interrupting your thoughts.

Kookie: told you, a voice reveal would be amazing!!

You laugh at the attached image been of the comment you were just reading.

Y/n: but i'm shyyyyy

Kookie: you can just record a masturbating session Kookie: and review it and decide if you post it or not

Y/n: if i review it i’ll not post it lol

Is true. You'll get too much in your head and shy away.

Y/n: i barely go over pics before posting because of it

You remember him as if he didn't check your newest pictures for you.

Kookie: i can help too! Kookie: i mean Kookie: no pressure, ofc Kookie: but it would be SOOO HOT

Not sure if it's for the idea of recording yourself or the fact that Jungkook is encouraging you, but your pussy reacts to the words on screen and is settled. You are doing it.

Following the suggestion of just recording a session, you prepare as usual, sitting cross-legged on your bed, laptop in front while looking for something… inspiring.

You think about maybe looking through Jungkook’s page, rewatching his last video, but at the end get too paranoid about him listening to himself in the background even if your mic is hooked up in your bra strap, as closest as it can to your mouth.

So, you think of something else. The image of a hand around your throat still fresh in your mind leads you to the page of someone whose hands you've been thinking about in many other sessions. SugaD.

A few taps on your keyboard and his page is flashing on your screen, those exact veiny hands greeting you on his last post.

“Oh, well… here goes nothing.” 

Embracing yourself, you turn on your mic, giving a few taps to make sure it’s working, “hi,” a nervous giggle echoes your room, suddenly making you aware of the silence and glad you'll have noise beside your own.

Inspecting better Suga's post, you realize is an announcement for his last video, and the line “for all those asking for more hand porn, i got you ;)” feels like is calling you out, but you can start feeling the need between your legs so there's just so much shame and fucks to give left.

A few more clicks and the video is on full screen, starting with an empty black leather chair and then Suga coming into frame and sitting down. His face is not visible as in any other video, but following the movements of his hand, you realize his neck is. Pale skin in contrast with black t-shirt.

“This angle is kinda…” he trails off, soft laugh at the end.

“Hot,” you complete, confident Jungkook will, after laughing at you, delete it from the final audio. 

“You can't tell me I'm mean anymore. I'm spoiling you,” Suga continues in the video, “I'm giving you this view and I'm giving you what's probably the thing you all ask the most for: hands.”

And there they are. His goddamn hands. Close frame and adorned with silver rings in a few fingers. And when he turns them around you can admire how veiny and manly they are.

“I hate him. I'm gonna sue him,” you murmur, because in the month you have been following him, something you've come to find out is that Suga always knows what he is doing. He knows that jiggling his fingers and making the accessories click, paint a picture on people's minds. He knows how to dirty talk without making it cringe. And, more than anything, knows how to tease and keep his audience on their toes. 

You turn the volume down a bit more to make sure it really isn’t audible through your mic.

“Are you sitting, doll? Imagine you're on my lap right now,” he pats his tights and finally you move, positioning yourself on your knees as if you were, as he suggested, straddling him.

“That view would be amazing. You right here,” he pretends to hold someone by their hips in front of him and yours play pretend on your own body, moving them up and down as he does. “Maybe I'd tease you first, play with your tits, your nipples first. Why don't you do that, baby? Touch yourself for me.”

Letting out a groan is your way to express frustration against the fabric covering your chest, unable to remove your bra so the mic stays in the right place. Controlling your breath, you focus on the video again. Suga is playing with himself, hand against his chest just like yours, “How does it feel?” 

“I want you to touch me,” you whisper. And clearly, you know he is not able to hear you, and you're scared you'd sound like an idiot at the end, but you figure this is your chance to experiment being a bit vocal. After all, this whole thing is supposed to be a voice reveal, not just moans. 

Although, it's quite difficult not to do it with the sight on screen. “Look what you do to me,” he complains, voice raspy and hand traveling south to the bulge on his joggers.

“Are you hard?” You cringe at that one. Shaking your head to not let it get to much on your head and sending everything to the trash. Breathing, your right hand mirrors his actions and travels down your body. 

He gropes himself with a groan and you moan just at the sound. Imagine a smirk on his face as you cup yourself through your underwear. The lace is so thin is impossible to hide the fact you're already so wet. 

Another moan and you debate on skipping a few seconds on the video since you need him to do something. Give you anything.

But he is a teaser. 

He strokes through layers of fabric even when his own noises let it be known is torture for him. “I wonder…” he breathes, “how much clothes do you have? Are you dressed like I am, or are you completely naked?” His hips thrust up, into his hand and he pulls it away. “Would you come by just grinding on my cock?”

“F-fuck,” you moan when he intentionally bucks his hips upward, veins on his hands popping up when he holds into the chair. You hate him, you really do. Because he is holding back and you just want to see him.

“Please, please,” and as if it were even possible he hears you, he takes his dick in one hand and out of his pants.

You moan in appreciation and finally allow your hand to sneak into your panties too. The much desired contact makes your legs feel like jelly for a second and you have to sit back on your heels while the guy on screen keeps driving you insane.

His hand moves up and down his length, thumb collecting precum at the tip and using it as lubricant, but when that is not enough, his hand disappears off the frame, up to his face. The sound is enough to help with the imagination and quickly he is back in business.

Your eyes are fixed on every movement, every sound. Your hand matches his speed and you don't know what is hotter, the wet skin sounds or the bracelet on his wrist? Because the silver chain moves as fast or even faster and makes a sound of its own. Ah, it is so impossible for you not to imagine what it would be to look at it from your perspective. If the fingers in your pusy were his.

You push into yourself, your breath caught at the sensation before adding another one, “ooh… oh.” 

Can't master more than a few sounds, your mouth dry, it has been open since he uncovered himself. Oh, what would you do to have him in your mouth at least once. 

“The things I'd do to you.” The recording continues, “And I bet you would let me, no questions asked, right?”

“S-so good,” your knees dig into your bed and you're glad you follow Jungkook's advice of protecting your duvet with a towel. “It feels so good, oh god.” 

“Are you using your fingers? A toy? Would you like my dick instead?” He laughs breathlessly, “I would like to feel your pussy too. F-fuck, I'd fuck you so good, baby. Don’t you think so?”

“Uh uh,” short moans leave your lips, the palm of your hand rubbing on your clit before going back to back and forth motions. Fingering yourself and your eyes close as you enjoy the pleasure, and let more noises flow.

When you open them again Suga on screen has his other hand around his neck, head tilted back. Is not choking him, but you assume he is into that. “Oh… f-fu… pleasee,” he is going to be the end of you. How can you not imagine being on top of him, riding him, your hand on his throat or maybe his on yours. “I'm… oh, I'm…” a loud moan interrupts your announcement as you cum practically riding your hand. 

There's silence. Well, your breathing is fast and the mic most likely will pick it up, but you try to compose yourself for a few seconds while looking at the blank screen that indicates Suga finished too. He never shows it on camera and the only indication he did is the aftermath, this time, on his black t-shirt when he says his “you did great, kitten” to sign off.

The next day Jungkook sends you the audio archive as promised. And is up on your page as fast as possible, it doesn't matter if it doesn't get attraction for a few hours because it's too early on the day, but if you think about it too much, you'd scratch the whole idea.

But not a minute passes and you have notifications of a new follower and a comment.

[ SugaD now follows you ] [ SugaD: the cutest. ]

➪ Part two. | ➪ Part three. | ➪ Updates for this verse | ➪ Ko-fi

➪ Main masterlist. | ➪ Updates in general | ➪ Request & chats ♡

Edit: i forgoooot! If you want to be tagged on part 2 or future projects let me know <3

Edit 2: I made a post with different options for tag lists in case anyone is interested. You know, for future projects and stuff. But don't feel preassure to request it, and thank you for following this mini series.

[megamindsecretlair]

So Full of Love

Pairing: Dom!Big Stunna x Sub!Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. SMUT. PWP, cursing, PIV, oral (female and male receiving) fingering, (female receiving) , use of sex toys, orgasm control, teasing/mocking, cum play/swallowing, size kink, dirty talk, praise kink, all consensual. ONE SHOT!!!

Summary: Stunna comes home late one night and finds out that you haven't eaten all day.

Word Count: 5,208k

A/N: I could not get this out of my mind. Maybe it's the full moon, maybe it's Maybelline. I'm definitely exposing myself and this is definitely self-indulgent, but I hope you enjoy! How'd this taglist get so long??? LOVE YALL! Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!

Taglist: @planetblaque @blackerthings @melaninpov @browngirldominion @we-outsiiiide @thecookiebratz @iv0rysoap @notapradagurl7 @sevikasblackgf @miyuhpapayuh @xo-goldengirl @kindofaintrovert @flydotty @judymfmoody @slippinninque @soufcakmistress @henneseyhoe @westside-rot @twocentuar @blackpinup22 @babybratzmaraj @theyscreamsannii @kiabialia @thedonsfactory @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @nworbaij @hopefulromantic1 @lesbiantreehugger @longpause-awkwardsmile @badassdoll @kholdkill @cardi-bre91 @jay-mach

You backspaced on the draft you were currently working on, not liking your word choice. Had you used it too many times in a short span of time? Probably. 

You groaned. You were probably thinking too much but it couldn’t be helped. You needed it to match whatever scene was playing in your head between your two characters. You could see it so clearly. But it lost its luminesce by the time it traveled from your brain to your fingers. The edges weren’t shiny, they weren't perfect.

“Baby?” 

“Room!” You called out. You hadn’t heard the door opening and closing but that wasn’t unusual. When you were in the middle of one of your writing fugue states, you had no sense of your surroundings. A burglar could rob you blind while you were writing and you would be none the wiser. 

Stunna’s heavy footsteps traveled down the short hallway to your room. He stopped in the doorway. You glanced at him with a smile. “Hey baby,” you said.

“You are so damn cute, you know that?” He asked.

You giggled and shook your head. There was a burning need to continue. To keep going and ride your train of thought to the very end. However, it was hard to focus once Stunna was in the room. He occupied your thoughts on a near obsession level. He took up the whole room even when he was partially in it.

You glanced at him again, wearing a white polo and jeans, gold chain around his neck. He looked good enough to eat and your thoughts naturally drifted to what he had in store for you tonight. 

“You’re cute,” you said with a yawn. You rubbed your eyes. Now that you weren’t in a fugue state, your check engine light came on.

Your body creaked as you stretched, rolled your neck, cracked your knuckles. “Shit,” you groaned as you stretched again. Your muscles protested from sitting for so long. A random ache in your foot from laying it on its side. 

“You been writing all day?” He asked.

“Yeah, I had a dream that, like, completely fixed my plot hole!” You said. You grinned at him, excited about your idea. 

Your stomach grumbled, you had to pee, and your wrist was starting to burn. Everything you ignored for the past few hours was coming back to bite you in the ass. 

“You drink some water?” Stunna asked. He leaned back against the door frame, cocking his head to the side. Your body instantly reacted to how fucking fine he was. Your mind went on a little trip, imagining peeling his clothes off of him.

Stunna chuckled. “Babe? Water,” he said, his voice getting deeper. 

You pouted. “I promise I’ve had water. All sixty-four ounces like we agreed,” you said. You grinned, proud of yourself for remembering to take your breaks and get some water. You were even able to pick up your train of thought after and continue with your writing. 

He grinned, showing off a set of grills that were solid gold on his canines and hollow across his top row. It gave the illusion of a vampire and now your mind offered images of being underneath him while he sunk fangs into your neck. 

“Good. How was your lunch?” He asked.

You opened your mouth, ready to tell him that the ravioli he made for you was absolutely perfect like always. But then you got a furrow in your brow as you thought about what you did today. And eating was not one of them.

You looked away from him, sure the guilt was written all over your face. In the downturn of your lips and the widening of your eyes. 

“About that…” you said slowly. 

Stunna made a dissatisfied grunt and you continued to look everywhere but at him. Did you eat it? You would have remembered? 

You chewed on your bottom lip as you tried to remember what you did today. During your breaks, you refilled your water and you did some light stretching. Really, you were just too anxious to return to the idea. You had been proud that you remembered the water, that he wasn’t going to be upset with you about it. 

Hell, sometimes it was just hard to remember to eat. Your relationship with food was tumultuous at best. Toxic at worst. 

“Did you or did you not eat your lunch?” Stunna asked. 

You sighed. “No,” you admitted. Shit. You were on track to do everything right today. 

“Look at me,” he commanded.

It took you a couple of tries, but you turned your gaze towards him. Oh, he was pissed. His nostrils were slightly flared and his grin was gone, replaced with a disapproving look that you didn’t like to see. Well, at least when it was aimed at you. 

“I’m sorry! I forgot!” You said. Your eyes turned round, bottom lip poking out. “I’ll eat it right now!” You said.

“I know you will. What did we say about you eating?,” he said.

“I didn’t think about it,” you said. 

His face didn’t change. He continued to look at you like he didn’t know what he was going to do with you and your lack of self-preservation. You truly didn’t do it intentionally. Sometimes, you didn’t want to eat. Or feel like eating. Your screaming stomach told you that you needed to. But you always had something more interesting to do.

“Go handle business and meet me in the kitchen,” he said. He left without another word. No parting pleasantries or insights to what he was thinking. This punishment was going to be worse than last time. You could feel it in your bones.

You took care of business in the bathroom, washed your hands, and then came out to the kitchen. The smell of ravioli filled up the kitchen and Stunna stood in front of the microwave, watching the plate spin round and around.

You stood next to the table, nerves skittering throughout your body. His shoulders were sloped, head cocked to the side, and hands resting behind him on the tile countertop. You studied his profile.

Sometimes you had to pinch yourself that he was yours forever. There usually wasn’t certainty when it came to relationships. But not yours. There were zero doubts between you. Like your souls were written in the heavens before you found each other in this life. 

The microwave beeped, pulling you from your poetic mind. Stunna grabbed the plate from the microwave, a paper towel, and a fork and came into the room. He didn’t smile when he noticed you were in the room. 

Guilt tore your tummy up. He went through so much trouble to make you delicious meals every day, sometimes snacks and dessert as well if he had time, and you couldn’t remember to eat it. 

He placed the plate onto the table and pulled out the bench seat that sat against the wall. He sat down, leg extended off the edge of it, and turned to look at you. 

“Off,” he said. 

You suppressed a whine as you began to slowly take off your oversized gray T-shirt, some ratty thing that you stole from him. But it was soft and smelled like him and you practically lived in it. Your shorts were next, panties as well because you knew that was going to be his next command. Before long, you were completely nude while he was fully dressed. 

He patted his knee and you sat down on it. Stunna grabbed a box that had been sitting on the table that you didn’t see. Your heart rate spiked seeing the plain blue wicker box as he slid it across the table. 

He opened it, making noises with his mouth as if this were a simple dinner. As if he were waiting for you to sit down beside him and discuss the weather or latest TV show. He rummaged around in the box and you wondered what he would bring out. 

He waved his fingers, deciding. The anticipation tore your insides to shreds. Your breathing increased watching his hand skate over various sex toys. He finally plucked the nipple clamps out. Shit. 

You played with your fingers while he kissed your neck. “Relax,” he said.

“I can’t! You’re killing me!” You said.

“Punishments ain’t supposed to be fun, baby,” he said. 

“It was an accident!” You said.

“Once is an accident. You conveniently forget too often to not be on purpose,” he said. 

He hummed while he put the nipple clamps on you. You sighed as the clamp put pressure on your nipples. A chain dangled in between, lightly knocking against your chest every time you breathed. You instantly felt it echo as a throb in your pussy. You gripped your thighs trying to get used to the pain. 

You took deep breaths. Steam rose from the ravioli and the smell was making your mouth water. No, punishments were not supposed to be fun but you couldn’t help wondering if Stunna didn’t secretly enjoy it when you skipped meals. If he wasn’t sometimes hoping that you did so he could try out all kinds of different punishments on you. 

Next, he selected a pair of handcuffs. “Aw, baby no!” You said. 

“What?” He asked. He turned your head towards him by pinching your chin. He forced your eyes towards his. His cold, cold brown eyes, like a hibernating bear, merely stared at you. 

“Please! I’ll do better,” you pleaded with him. 

“I wish I could believe that. Hands,” he said. 

You pouted some more while you pulled your hands behind you. He leaned back and secured the handcuffs to your wrists. The fuzzy inside tickled your skin but you weren’t in a laughing mood. You wanted to touch him while you ate. You hadn’t seen him all day. 

He yanked on the chain in between the handcuffs, making sure they couldn’t come off. Then he pulled on the nipple clamps and you hissed at the tug of pain. “How you feeling?” He asked and kissed your shoulder.

“I’m good,” you said. 

Stunna nodded and picked up the fork, grabbing a piece of food. He blew on it lightly to cool it off more and brought it to your lips. You opened your mouth. It was easier to obey him now than face his wrath later. 

“Tell me about your day,” he asked you while you ate.

While he fed you, you had to concentrate on not cumming and telling him about your day. You ran some errands, you took your breaks and drank water, and did some laundry. He listened to it all as if it were his favorite news program. That your little mundane life meant the world to him.

It was a small act that only made you fall more in love with him. He didn’t have to do all that. He could be happy with the simple version of events. But he once told you that he liked listening to the sound of your voice. The way you lit up when you got on the subject of your writing.

“What was the plot hole you fixed earlier?” He asked. He fed you another bite and waited till you finished chewing. You told him how your dream helped you fix it. That it wasn’t a problem with the character’s actions, it was the setting. You were married to the setting, but sometimes you had to kill your darlings. It hurt, but it was needed.

Stunna licked the corner of your mouth and you moaned, pussy throbbing from the swipe of his tongue. “Almost done, you’re doing so well, baby,” he said.

The praise made your heart soar. You shifted on his thigh and he yanked on the chain between the handcuffs to keep you in place. You were eager. Restless and too ready to feel him. You were needy for his touches. You couldn’t touch any part of him like this. 

He was clothed so you couldn’t feel his skin on yours. Your hands were tied so your fingers couldn’t search for his. 

There was a nice little wet spot growing on his jeans underneath you. You felt it every time he bounced his knee to help you concentrate. 

He kissed your cheek and began to tell you about his day. About all the bullshit he had to put up with. He figured that you were writing when you didn’t text him back and he told you that he’d been dreaming about getting back between your legs. 

“The things I was gon’ do to you tonight,” he purred in your ear, sealing it off with a kiss. 

“You still can,” you said. 

“Naw, we gotta do better about eating. I worry about you,” he said. The fork scraped against the bottom of the plate as he grabbed the last bite. He brought it to your lips and you opened your mouth. Your tongue dashed out to lick up every drop of sauce. Out the corner of your eye, you saw Stunna’s eyes zero in on your mouth. A quiet sigh escaped him. 

You looked down and could see the imprint of his dick straining against his zipper. If only your hands were free, you could help him out with that. 

You swallowed your food and nodded. “I don’t mean to make you worry,” you said. 

“But I do when you don’t eat or take care of yourself. I need you here with me,” he said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

“You gotta eat consistently,” he said. He shook his head. He placed the fork back on the plate and faced you. He wrapped his hands around your waist, linking his fingers together. 

You didn’t know how he did it. How he made you feel so small and dainty in his arms. You were a big girl, proud of it. You had your issues, but you ain’t get this tummy for no reason. You liked to eat and enjoyed food. It just wasn’t a priority to you. 

He leaned in and kissed you properly. His big lips covered yours and kissed you slowly, methodically. He treasured you with sucking your bottom lip and tongue delving inside, tangling with yours.

Each kiss turned you on more and more. You would never look at ravioli the same. Every time you’d run across it now, you’d think of this. Of the burning neediness in your veins. 

As he kissed you, he untangled his fingers and drew his right hand across your belly. “You nice and full?” He asked.

You nodded. Breathed him in. “Yes, Daddy,” you said. His fingers moved lower, in between your legs, and lightly drew his fingers around your clit.

You gasped against his lips. A few more swipes of that and you’d cum on the spot. You moved your hips, trying to get him to keep playing with your clit. To tell him without words that you were close. 

He licked his thumb and returned it to your clit, drawing tight little circles that made your mouth drop open on a strangled moan. He kissed along the length of your neck, swirling his tongue every so often. It tickled, but you were far too focused on what his hand was doing. You hissed as your pussy throbbed, so close. So close. Almost. Your body tensed, ready for it, ready for the pleasure.

Stunna moved his hand. “No!” You cried out. Your pussy ached and you panted, brain not comprehending that you weren’t about to cum. 

“It’s cute that yo ass think I was gon’ let you cum,” he said. He continued to kiss along your neck. You felt your orgasm retreating, backing away from the edge. You sighed and dropped your head back. 

“I’m sorry!” You said. 

“Mhm, I know you are,” he said. He continued about his business, kissing and licking against your skin. There was nothing you could do. Nothing you could say. He would not listen to your apologies. He was only about action. 

You’d have to set alarms or some shit. As much as you loved the way he played with your body, you loved it more when you could touch him back. You wanted to run your hands across his scalp. You wanted to twist your fingers between his. Or unzip his pants and wrap your lips around his dick. 

You couldn’t do any of that with your hands behind you. He knew it too. He knew how much you loved giving him pleasure. 

He licked his fingers and then tugged on the chain of the nipple clamps. You hissed at the bite. The ache had retreated to the back of your mind until he yanked like that. “Still good?” He asked.

“Yes, Daddy,” you said. 

“That’s my good girl,” he said. He kissed your cheek and then helped you stand. “Go wait for me in the living room.” 

You walked to the living room and then knelt on the paisley carpet. It was soft beneath your knees. You heard Stunna as he moved around the kitchen, washing the plate and fork. He moved towards the bedroom, you think, until he emerged in his soft gray briefs. 

Your mouth watered taking in his body. He worked hard on it, ensuring that he looked good and felt good. Narrow hips. But a round ass that you loved to grab. He had legs for days with his tall ass. He towered over you like a skyscraper from this vantage point. 

He petted your head while he walked around you carrying the box from the table. He sat down on the couch and widened his stance. He took his time turning on the TV, flipping through channels. You bit your lip as you watched him. 

This was so damn unfair. This punishment was worse than watching him get himself off without you. You had to listen to him groan and grunt and close his eyes while he painted his cum on your body like a canvas. 

He found a sports program, getting invested in the game while he rubbed the back of your neck. You didn’t know who was playing or what the fuck the announcer was saying. Your eyes were glued to his dick. 

You rubbed your cheek against his knee, light hair there tickling your face. He didn’t stop you from moving closer, settling against his leg more fully. He turned his attention to you with a little smile. You saw a hint of his grill. You were so fucking wet. You needed him to make his point so that you could cum. 

“This wouldn’t entirely be part of your punishment, but you are too damn cute sitting there,” he said. “You gon’ look cuter with my dick in your mouth.”

“Please,” you whispered. 

He licked his lips as he took in your prone form. His eyes dropped down, down, down as if he could see straight to your pussy. He grabbed his briefs and lowered it enough to free his dick.

You smiled. He was hard as a brick. Thick head leaking precum already. He stroked himself a few times and groaned softly. “Come here and please Daddy,” he said.

You moved between his legs, leaning up onto the couch. He guided his dick into your mouth and groaned at the contact. You sucked him down as far as you could, moaning a bit at the taste of him. That salty and spicy mix of his scent. The feel of the tip of his dick against your tongue. 

You looked up at him and he finally grinned. “Don’t look at me like that girl, gon’ make me nut early,” he said. 

You continued to look at him, moving your head up and down. You drooled on him, getting his dick wetter and wetter. Your slurps began to compete with the sound of the game. You sloppily sucked him down, licking underneath the head, and then swallowing him down.

“Fuck, look at you being so good for me,” he said.

You moaned. You kept bobbing your head, wanting to fit all of him inside. You hadn’t managed to do so thus far in your relationship but practice made perfect. Your eyes flicked from his veiny dick to his eyes as he watched you please him.

You watched for any variation on his face. Any hint that he was close to busting. He licked his lips when you took him deeper. He hissed when you played with the tip with your tongue. The chain that dangled between your titties cold against your chest, blasting you with awareness every time it slapped your skin. 

He groaned, cursing under his breath. He moved his hips, fucking into your mouth. You moved closer. His dick poked the inside of your mouth, your cheeks, and threatened to make you gag. 

“Fuck, baby. Needed this. Needed you,” he moaned. 

You watched the muscles in his chest and arms contract. Watched his stomach rise and fall in quick bursts. He grabbed your neck and squeezed. You groaned. You licked his dick like a lollipop before suckling him back in. 

He jerked and then laughed. “Fuck, I’m finna bust,” he groaned. A second later, his dick pulsed as jets of cum filled your mouth. You swallowed him down with a moan. Some escaped your mouth. He gathered it up with his thumb and pressed it into your mouth. You suckled his thumb too as if you were still sucking his dick. 

“So fucking sexy,” he said. 

He kissed you. Big, wet, sloppy kisses. He bit your bottom lip and you groaned. “Please, let me cum,” you begged. 

“Not done with your punishment yet,” he said. 

You whined. “Please! I need you inside me, Daddy,” you said. 

He nuzzled your nose and placed tiny kisses all over your face. You sighed with a small hum. Why was he so damn cute? And hot? And just gorgeous all around? Sometimes it felt like you were so full of love, you could survive off of it like sweet nectar. You didn’t want for anything as long as love filled you and surrounded you. 

“I can be nicer when you start being nicer to yourself,” he said. 

“I will! I promise!” 

“I know you will, baby,” he said. He told you to take deep breaths while he took the nipple clamps off. You were prepared for it, but it still hurt like a motherfucker. You hissed as he released each one. He discarded the clamps onto the coffee table, ready to be cleaned later. 

He helped you stand and then sit in his lap, facing him. His dick rubbed against your folds and you groaned. You straddled him, putting your titties directly in his face. 

He leaned down and began to lick away the sting from the clamps. “Oh fuck!” You moaned. 

Waves and waves of pleasure suffused you. Your whole body shivered from the delicious, torturous swipes of his tongue on your aching nipples. He moved back and forth, getting both nice and wet. The sting from the clamps began to dissipate. But the roaring fire deep in your belly only got worse and worse.

He tugged and pulled on your nipples, hands gripping onto your ass and squeezing. Was it possible to die from too much pleasure? You felt like you were going to pass out if he kept this up. 

You were making desperate, wild sounds as he took his pleasure from your body. His hands moved up and down your back, wiping away goosebumps. He kneaded your skin all over. He touched as much of your body as he could. 

“How you feelin’ baby?” He asked.

“Feel, ah, so good,” you whispered.

“How’s your arms?” He asked.

“Good, they don’t hurt,” you said. There was enough slack between them that your arms didn’t feel like they were about to fall off. Stunna smirked against your skin. 

He stood with you in his arms. You yelped. “I got you, I got you,” he said into your chest. He helped you onto the couch, onto your knees. You couldn’t hold yourself up, so your face was mushed against the couch cushion opposite where he sat.

You heard him rummaging around the box until he made a satisfied sound. There was a soft click and then he pushed the vibrator against your clit. You cried out, ass lifting higher as if you could escape him, as he pushed the vibrator closer. 

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” you cried. Your legs shook. He placed one hand on your back and pushed you down, pushed you to stay still and accept what he was doing to you.

“Yo ass gon’ eat from now on, right?” He asked.

“Yes! Yes! I promise!” He pressed the vibrator into your clit and you were shaking in earnest now. You were..so…close…

He moved it away and you screamed out. Tears gathered in your eyes. Your lower belly hurt at this point. You couldn’t take all this damn edging. 

Stunna leaned down and pushed his tongue into your entrance. “Oh SHIT!” You moaned. Stunna slapped your ass, moaned, and then moved his tongue to your clit. He flicked it and you began to drool on the couch. 

The sounds you were making were low, soft, and like you were in pain. Shit, you were! You were out of your mind. Desperate, needy. You’d sell your left titty if he’d let you cum at this point. However, you were too far gone to plead now. 

Tears escaped your eyes and you sniffled. You were leaking everywhere. From your eyes, nose, mouth, and pussy. 

“Making such a mess, baby. Tasting so fuckin’ good. Hmmmm,” he said and rolled his whole head with how he ate you out. 

Your whines increased in a crescendo, reaching higher and higher. Fuck, you were about to cum. You didn’t have enough air in your lungs to tell him. To warn him. 

You should’ve known. He stopped eating you out and you whimpered. “Please,” you breathed. 

Stunna chuckled. He rubbed your body and your body relaxed in increments. You weren’t going to survive. He was going to have to make funeral arrangements for you. Your body shivered painfully and you moaned while he massaged your body. 

“Now what did we learn today?” He asked.

“Eat m-m-more,” you said, your teeth chattering. 

“That’s my baby,” he said.

He got behind you, pulling your hips back against him. His dick brushed against your pussy and you whimpered. He moved his hips, trying to line himself up. It didn’t quite do so, so he moved his hand to guide himself inside you.

Once the tip pushed into you, he shoved inside and you cried out. “Shit, Daddy!” You screamed.

He slapped your ass. “Bounce that shit back,” he said.

You moved, bouncing back on his dick. Your ass jiggled every time you made contact with his thighs. 

“That’s it. Work that sexy ass on this dick. You took your punishment so well. I’m so proud of you,” he said. 

He moved his thumb to your clit and soaked his finger. He then pushed it into your ass and your hips jerked, dropping forward as any remaining strength left you. His thumb wiggled into your ass and you cried, fat drops of tears streaming down your cheeks. 

He took over slamming and pounding into you. “Oh fuck, Daddy! Daddy!” 

“Go on and scream my name, baby,” he said. “You feel so damn good squeezing Daddy’s dick. You missed me, huh?” He asked.

“Yes, Daddy. Fuck,” you moaned. 

“You missed me, baby?” He asked. His voice was soft and sweet but his strokes were deep and punishing. The dichotomy made your pussy flutter. He groaned, feeling it. 

“I missed you, Daddy. I missed this dick,” you moaned. 

He moaned and seemed to get even deeper. As if he had been giving you shallow strokes before. Fuck, he was so big. Stretching you out and giving you exactly what you had been craving. You were going to be sore as hell after this. 

You squeezed him more. It felt like he was truly in your guts. As if you could feel him moving in your tummy. His thick head rubbed your inner walls and your eyes crossed. More drool escaped you.

“Daddy, let me cum. Let me cum,” you begged.

“You can cum baby, you deserved it,” he said. 

You screamed as your body released on his command. Your body spasmed and flopped on his pounding dick as an intense, earth-shattering, soul-cleansing, full body meltdown erupted inside of you. This orgasm rivaled any other he ever gave you. 

You may have passed out. You may have died a little. You may have entered the fifth dimension somewhere. But a moment later, he was joining you. His loud grunts infiltrated your foggy thoughts as he climaxed, stuffing you full of his cum. 

He pushed into you and stayed there, plugging it inside you. You twitched and jerked on his dick and he finished with a deep, rumbling moan in his throat.

“Love you so fuckin’ much,” he said.

“Love you so fuckin’ much,” you said. 

He slowly left you and you groaned. Already your pussy ached. He removed the handcuffs from your wrists and rubbed them. His fingers felt heavenly as he moved to rub your shoulders as well. 

He kissed your cheek. “Catch your breath, baby,” he said. 

“Yes, Daddy,” you said. You’d agree to anything right now. Absolutely anything. 

The next thing you knew, you were being lifted in his arms. You made a soft, questioning sound as he kissed your cheek. He carried you bridal style towards the bathroom.

It smelled like sweet vanilla and he lowered you into the tub. The hot water made you sigh with pleasure. He climbed in behind you and pulled you against his chest. He put your bonnet on first followed by your shower cap, carefully tucking your hair inside without getting it wet.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you murmured. You were so sleepy. Between the thorough fucking and the bath, you would likely sleep through the night and well into the morning. 

He whispered softly to you as you bathed together, washing away all the nasty shit he did to you. You talked more about his day, your plans for tomorrow, and any other random things on your mind. He tickled you in between kisses to your neck and you giggled as you wiggled your ass against his dick.

He rolled your ear between his teeth and warned you to quit while you were ahead. Afterwards, you dried each other off. You lotioned each other up with your respective lotions. You stole kisses. You breathed each other in. 

Then, he carried you to the bedroom because you said your legs felt like noodles. He chuckled and scooped you up, laying you under the blankets and tucking you in. He kissed your forehead before joining you in bed. 

He scooted closer, his chest warming your back. His hand caressed your belly. He placed a final kiss on your neck and you fell asleep feeling like you were on top of the world and never wanted to come back down.

THE END!

WHEW! Need more? The Secret Big Stunna Files

[genderfluid-insomniac]

Hear me out!

I had an idea

So remember where Wukong had some memory loss of the present and thought he was in the past? And that he drank a love potion right? Well while tang and pigsy was helping him out, he saw the shy yet sweet female reader ( who was just waiting for them to come back since she was on a look out for thier stuff ) took off her hair tie and does that hair flip and shook her hair alittle before seeing them coming back.

I got this idea by listening to this song called “ might start singing ” by wuvv . I thought the part where wukong just caught her on time doing that sexy hair flip and looks at him smiling ( yes I’m going for those movie scenes where the character falls for the other by a song that plays in the background if that makes sense lol ) I hope this was okay!

This totally makes sense and I love this idea! I hope you like it!

“Love bound” Amnesiac!Wukong x reader (love potion)

This whole mess you were in felt like a fever dream and the cherry on top was amnesiac Wukong who went to retrieve the kidnapped Tang with Pigsy like the routine shenanigan on Wukong’s Journey. When you, Tang, and Pigsy were trapped in the van and Pigsy shoved the dangerously hot pepper in the sage’s mouth you opted to sit on the edge of the van while the others were getting used to being seen as their reincarnations.

You sighed and put your head in your hands, hoping that Mk and others were having better luck with finding the rings or making progress on your mission. Through one of the little cracks of your hands, you saw movement and lifted your head to pull back in surprise to see Wukong staring at you puzzled. His face focused and his nose scrunched up like he was trying to figure out if he knew you. Probably what the hell some random woman that wasn’t there yesterday was doing on the journey of his.

“Who are you? I don’t remember you being here last night or before that and you’re not a demon.” he trailed off and his eyes glowed gold as if to double-check that you weren’t in fact a demon before going back to their regular shiny gold. Wukong’s head tilted and you snapped out of your trance. “Yeah, I’m Name. I came from a nearby village to help with a mission to save your master,” you said hesitantly and partially lied since it wasn’t entirely false.

He hummed and nodded, looking you up and down before smiling a bit. All of them went back to their attempt at finding Tang, looking at Pigsy and whispering that you were going to stay here with the van and their stuff. He nodded and looked like jealous since he was suddenly snatched by Wukong’s tail and ran off.

You let out a breath and ran a hand through your hair, failing to suppress the blush painting your face and replaying the adorable personality of Wukong’s past self. His lack of attention and similarity to an energetic child was cute. Your crush was pretty evident given you all had been in the van for the past couple of days and your interactions were mostly quiet short ones.

That didn’t mean he didn’t make small teases and small conversations that flustered both of you a tad. It was a while until they got back and you guessed that more than one problem had happened. Tang and Pigsy were arguing while Wukong was looking more affectionate and soft. You took your hair out of your band and flipped it, massaging your roots to fluff it up and ease the strain of the tightness.

You tossed your head back up and made a noise of surprise when Wukong was close to your face, both of you smiling widely with flustered expressions and noticing that your crush had heart-shaped pupils. This only confirmed your suspicions and laughed softly when Wukong wrapped his tail around your arm. Nuzzling your chest and cheeks as he ran his claws through your hair and was seemingly fascinated with it.

“Pigsy? Can you explain why Wukong is suddenly a cuddle bug and lovey-dovey?” you asked and walked over with the mystic monkey still clinging to you. He turned rubbing his eyebrows and sighed. “While we were rescuing Tang Monkey King was eating the scorpions on the table and accidentally ate a bottle of what is probably a love potion. Probably to make Tang stay with the Scorpion queen and all,” he said and groaned, packing up the camping stuff and failing to get Tang from running up the hill to find a bolder for something.

Meanwhile, you and Wukong were cuddled up with each other just outside the van, taking advantage of the situation by snuggling with him and smiling when he started purring. However, it all ended when Pigsy yanked you from getting crushed by a bolder that was meant for Wukong because of “amnesia rules” and thanked him for saving you but couldn’t help the disappointment when he returned to normal.

[platrom]

One Last Chance.

Midoriya x F! Reader, Bakugou x F! Reader (partially/eventually)

WORD COUNT: 20.7k words

NOTE: Here is the ending to OLT. What do you all think? Please leave me some comments!!

If you guys would like to see side stories to this or have some questions, please send some asks! My inbox is always open. And if you have any other story ideas, please request as well.

TW: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, flashback scenes, hospital setting, mentions of prior and current injuries, death, talk about perceptions of death, mentions of suicide attempt/suicide, fluff, therapy, Bakugou has undergone therapy, childhood best friends, toxic friendships, unrequited love, happy ending, the voice leaves, a new voice appears (is personified), reader has a panic attack in a fancy restaurant, reader and Shoto are friends, Bakugou has genuine friends, the reader is loved, kind of ambiguous parts in the ending (must read first part to understand it), reader confronts Midoriya, reader kisses Bakugou

THIS STORY MUST BE READ WITH THE FIRST PART— IT IS NOT A STAND ALONE.

PART 1 / PART 2 (HERE)/IMPORTANT ASK

BAKUGOU OBSERVED your shaken figure as it faded into the distance, head hung low and fists clenched in agony. When you first pulled away from him and continued onward, your feet tapped lightly against every slab of concrete you trekked on, until after a few yards your brisk walk bursted into a hurried sprint. Nobody nor anything was spared a second glance as you fled from his presence.

Candidly, he couldn’t blame you. Bakugou had overstepped your boundaries and attempted to plow through the brick walls you had built around yourself for the sake of your welfare. He understood how you felt and how overwhelming such an invasion of privacy was, notably with his straightforward approach. Bakugou was notorious for diving headfirst into situations, but that didn’t mean it was invariably appropriate.

For instance, now.

Howbeit, he didn’t know what else to do. Bakugou may have gone through years of therapy and anger management courses (thanks to that spiky-haired idiot), but that didn’t mean he knew how to confront everyone about their personal endeavors.

Tackling his own issues differed from helping others address theirs. He had friends, family, and a therapist to talk him through his problems and conjure solutions with. Even his fellow colleagues wouldn’t mind lending a comforting shoulder for Bakugou to lean on; the people around him had read countless books on how to support loved ones who were struggling.

Bakugou had a support system that took years to discover, expand, and wholeheartedly trust. With thousands of hours of therapy under his belt, he was blessed with tools to aid him in the gloomiest and sunniest of days, with or without his therapist by his side.

In comparison, you were not armed with the same lessons and techniques as he was.

Not yet, at least.

Bakugou wanted to change that.

For all of his years of friendship with you, he analyzed your growth and development as a person: how you went from an adorable and frivolous child who was insouciant to the prying eyes of others into a beauteous, percipient young lady who shied away from any unforgiving glares. He remembered how decades ago you, him, and Deku would tussle around in your childhood playground’s decrepit sandbox playing Heroes.

Bakugou had invented the game when you and Deku had been laying against one of the thick blue poles that held up a patent yellow slide incised by impetuous teenagers that lurked around the park at the perturbing time of midnight. To his dismay, despite being in front of you both, none of you batted an eyelash at him. He wasn’t even aware of what you two were discussing, but all he cognized was that the ongoing chatter between you and the freckled nerd was irritating him and he wanted your attention instanter.

Looking back, Bakugou could admit that it was an impulsive suggestion and injudicious decision. In contrast to what any other sensible child or person would have done, as soon as the words ‘Let’s play heroes, Deku and (Name)!’ escaped Bakugou’s lips, the green-haired idiot accepted the request instantly, so eager to please Katsuki. On the other hand, you simply watched in silence as Bakugou beamed in pride with his hands on his hips and Deku enthusiastically pumped his arms in the air, jumping and squealing in both anticipation and delight.

Years after, Bakugou eventually understood why you sat quietly that day and made no move to even consider rejecting the idea. Exactly like Midoriya, you shadowed Bakugou’s footsteps and obliged to his every whim. Yet, unlike Deku, you didn’t quite concur with his exclamations even inside your head and heart. Cleverly, you chose to keep your mouth shut and follow in step because it caused you less trouble than if you voiced your opinion.

That didn’t exactly mean you always emulated that similar action and thought process. There were at times you spoke against Bakugou when you knew you would be reprimanded the least or experience little to no consequences.

Bakugou couldn’t deny that he didn’t enjoy those quirks of yours: your fight, your spunk— your tactical and logical thinking. They all were your qualities that Bakugou internally commended you for.

As children, whenever you three played Heroes, Bakugou forced you to take the role of the damsel in distress. Due to your bestowed position as a distressed maiden, the ash blond referred to you as “Princess” often, both during and outside the game. With every fictional mission the two boys conjured, they intended to save you from villains (which happened to be figurines of heroes with a small piece of dark cloth draped over it).

When Bakugou wanted to impress you (and spite the green-haired bastard), after he and the nerd rescued you, he would hoist you off your feet and carry you bridal style, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. Boastfully and vaingloriously, he would exclaim to the other boy with a smug grin, “This is how a real princess should be treated, Deku!”

The young boy would stare in awe, analyzing how Bakugou kept a firm grip on you and refused to let you take a step on your own, despite your occasional protests.

And the times when a small giggle would be heard near Katsuki’s chest, widened vermillion eyes would snap to your face and watch as you grinned up at him, eyes sparkling, glowing, and filled with adoration. Your ridiculously sweet and unfaltering smile never failed to make his chest puff out in pride, cheeks warm in fluster, and heart pound faster.

Katsuki craved to see that expression on your face again.

He yearned to be the one who flipped your entire world upside down and set you anew. Like a festering disease, that ardent desire plagued his heart. It urged Bakugou to be the hero in your life and pillar of strength- the one you were able to lean on for stability when your walls of welfare began to crumble and crash.

When you were merely arm’s reach away, at times in that freckled-dork’s arms, an unremitting voice rung remorselessly in his ears, imploring for him to pull you into his chest and conceal you from the world, to cradle your supple face between his callused palms and tenderly stroke your cheek in hopes his actions could describe an ounce of his perennial love for you. The vexatious voice begged Bakugou to press his lips against yours to convey all the unspoken emotions he could not fathom formulating into lucid and complete sentences.

Katsuki wanted all of the pieces of you: brain, body, and soul.

In bed, during the hours of dusk until dawn, Bakugou’s mind conjured vivid imaginations of a domestic life with you. In many of the scenarios, Katsuki would already be at home in the spacious kitchen, preparing dinner for you both before you returned after a strenuous day at work. Whatever meal he was cooking didn’t matter; you would love his cooking anyway.

He would be so absorbed with cooking that he wouldn’t hear the sound of the door lock clicking open, or the rustling of your clothes as you stripped off your coat. Your lethargic steps would fall on deaf ears as you snuck behind Katsuki, the corner of your lips curling in satisfaction and glee at the aromatic fragrance wafting throughout the house and at the sight of him cooking, no less in the apron you had gifted him for Christmas at the start of his hero career. The apron was black and had the words “THE BOMB” splayed across his chest in thick, white cursive.

Without hesitation, you would pounce onto Bakugou and smush your face into his back, wrapping your arms around his waist. He would quietly hum as you sighed and relaxed into his cozy warmth, mumbling a word of greeting.

After, small bits of chatter would be exchanged between you two until your voices died down and a comforting silence would permeate your shared home.

Eventually, when Bakugou would feel your eyelashes flutter shut as you fruitlessly essayed to stay awake and on your toes, he would lightly smack the top of your head with a wooden spoon and chide you to get your oil-stained arms off his apron and shower before he finished dinner.

The dopey grin that would spread across your adorable face would leave butterflies flittering in his stomach and blood rushing to the tips of his ears. When you noticed his bashful expression, you would raise your calves and wrap your arms around Bakugou’s neck to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, before escaping his clutches as he processed your actions.

Irritatingly, he would wave a wooden spoon in the air menacingly at your retreating figure, screaming, “You shitty woman, if you’re going to kiss me, do it properly!”

Katsuki Bakugou was a selfish man; he knew that just as well as anybody else. All of his life, he took everything he could and prospered with whatever resources he had. Everything he did was done in his favor, to his advantage. The cost of his actions and behavior was never significant to him. Even presently, as a hero, he didn‘t bat an eye to his brash language on television or crass attitude. He never spared a second thought about what he did or was going to do.

Until now, when your life, your fate, was placed directly into the palm of his destructive, blood-shedding hands.

If he pursued the direction of which you ran and found you, what would happen to the two of you? To him? To you?

What were the rewards and the risks? Would possibly risking your life be worth it? If push came to shove and you threatened your life, could he save you?

His quirk wasn’t built for the typical rescue training; Bakugou was trained to ward off villains and allow the official rescue heroes do their work. He could handle the battle— the blood, the deafening blasts and shards of glass and slabs of concrete that would fly at him, the blazing ache in his muscles, the adrenaline from fighting and the reality of his eventual, impeding death.

Yet, he wasn’t created to dive into the murky and freezing cold water of the ocean and pull civilians from the bottom. Bakugou Katsuki, Dynamight, wasn’t the one who was meant to lift fissured buildings off of civilians to allow them to escape.

Of course, Bakugou could blow things up. Though, was it really the smartest for him to possibly detonate an already ticking time bomb?

Perhaps, he wasn’t the man for this rescue. But there was somebody else who he knew was.

Bakugou whipped out his phone, scrolling past hundreds of unobtrusive contacts, most lacking a personalized profile picture. Swipe after swipe, blurs of gray passed his vision before his eyes caught the name of a man he would never willingly speak to, not even for work.

You were an exception.

Always and forever.

Tapping the telephone icon with hasty fingers, Katsuki lifted the device up to his ear and began to trace your footsteps.

In his wildest dreams, never did he picture himself dialing one of his biggest rivals over a girl he loved for decades— over a girl they loved for decades— since as long as he could remember.

A confused voice answered on the other end. “Kacchan?”

“Deku,” Bakugou sighed, teeth gritting and fists clenched.

Hopefully, the world would reward him for not being selfish this once.

“I need your damn help.”

For the first time.

Contrary to popular belief, there were countless disparate ideas and thoughts of what death was like. For numerous individuals, it was foreseen as a riveting and transfixing experience. On the other hand, many voiced death to be an ongoing horror that terrorized them in the back of their minds. The twisted thoughts would trickle past the cracks of the mind, seeping into the limelight of their thoughts.

Certainly, there were opinions that fell between the lines and even strayed far from the common and classic perceptions of such an inevitable fate all would face.

Though, you had a rather specific conclusion about death.

Your declaration was that it was quite dull; banal even, considering everything to your vision (more so lack of it) was pitch black, akin to as if you had your eyelids shut— just permanently.

To be fair, you were dead. What did you expect? No one wanted to see the eyes of a rotting corpse, so it made sense that they would shut them.

You prayed your body was being prepared for your funeral. If they even found it, deep down below the surface of the ocean’s beguiling, glossy droplets of liquid transparency that lured innocent strangers to explore what was another’s liquid death.

Your death would also explain why you were frozen like a corpse. Your mouth remained clamp shut, your limbs stayed in place no matter how much you fruitlessly shrieked at your brain to move the lifeless limbs, and every inch of your body felt stone cold despite that if you were alive, warm blood would be flowing through your veins to keep you functioning.

However, there was one minor issue that made you question your predicament and if you were truly dead— you could still hear. What you were able to hear in the oblivion of black that surrounded you was debatable, but it vaguely reminded you of muffled chatter, similar to if cotton stuffed your ears.

Perhaps, if you focused enough you could distinguish the words, possibly even the syllables in hopes of discovering whether or not you had truly met death face-to-face.

All you had to do was listen- stay silent. Just like a dead person. You were dead. You could do just that with ease.

So, you let your conscious fade into the abyss of surrounding black, let the hold you had on the remnants of your soul slide lower and lower, the tight grip of your finger slipping so only the tips of them could reach the sole part of you that held you inside your body— your prison. You let the comfort of your humanity rest and the blaring silence of death deafen your ears.

Unexpectedly, the small, high-pitched voice of a child is what you hear first whose words die at the end of their sentence.

“If you need help, you can just ask for it.”

You want to ask who they are and what they’re talking about, and you try— you pull your dangling humanity closer and repeat the questions like a mantra until you’re screaming them, but they never exit your throat.

When your soul slips from your fingers again, the child remains quiet. Light footsteps begin to echo in the abyss of darkness, faintly reminding you of the days you used to spend in your room listening to rain splattering against your window, the atoms of hydrogen and oxygen splitting as they made contact with the clear surface.

This all seems like a sick, cruel joke from the universe.

Was this the voice messing with you?

Was the voice that haunted you still here with you, even in the after life?

But it didn’t sound the same.

That ominous voice in your head was your own voice. It had the exact same pitch, the same quirky pronunciations you had, even down to the accent. Possibly at first, it had been the voice of others and the words that were spat at you were theirs.

To begin, they were theirs; their crude thoughts, their deleterious words, their abhorrent statements and opinions.

Not yours, not at all.

Those noxious words laced with the deadliest of poisonous toxins gradually infiltrated your mind, the traces of their presence faint. As time passed, the once small stains became vast and covered the expanse of your once kind thoughts, turning each present one bitterer from the last. Once upon a time, the voice in your head was the voice of others.

Until it became yours.

In contrast, the speaker in the pit of eternal darkness had a voice of a naive young girl whose heart was just as pure and innocent as it was when the day she was born. It was filled with glee and utmost care, one that most lost to their greed for coin and success. Genuine people— those who constantly gave back and assisted others out of the goodness of their heart had long gone extinct, or were an endangered species. Those who got ahold of these rare beings either sunk their canines into their flesh for a finishing blow or kept them safe under their thumb, a primordial part of them vocalizing their need to keep someone so precious in the safety of their arms.

The girl moved closer to you.

“The attempt to escape pain is what creates more pain. At least, that’s what my parents tell me.”

That voice . . . It was once yours. The little girl who was speaking to you was you, or the shell of who you once were.

Although the memories of your childhood had lost their precision of detail overtime and existence as the years trudged by, you had always considered them the apex of the years you spent alive. The naivety of being a child and the blanket of being sheltered protected you from the corruption of the real world was a sensation you missed dearly.

“Instead of trying to avoid your troubles and problems, they say to resolve them so nobody gets hurt anymore!”

Your recollection of this particular encounter as a child was not the most prominent, as the once vivid and animated details of that day slowly evanesced from your brain with time.

The interaction had occurred nearly two decades ago in the commonly favored season of saccharine spring in Japan, when the sun’s rays gently kissed your skin and the soft gusts of wind weaved through your hair and brushed it back. You were there solely because the mothers in the city of Musutafu always met up during the spring to gossip about their husbands and children and revel in the scenery of blossoming Sakura flowers that swayed gingerly in the wind from their delicate stems that connected to the branches.

It hadn’t been the first time your mother had dragged you to an event like this with the enticing promise that you would be able to make new friends; that had been the deal-breaker for you. Hence, it had led you to the park funded by the richest of the local heroes and civilians.

The place could only be described in one word: perfect. Gossip from the mothers of the town declared it was kept in pristine condition by countless gardeners who would sweat over every blade of grass they sliced. The shrubbery was luscious, vibrant, and full of life. One would say it was just as youthful as the children that roamed every acre of the greenery.

The mothers had stationed themself near the entrance of the park, where the benches that were bolted into the ground to set down the dishes, snacks, and desserts they brought for everyone to snack on. Further in was the actual playground, which contained the children of the many attending mothers.

After kindly asking your mother for permission to go to the playground by yourself, you waltzed your way over.

That was where the interaction began.

You weren’t sure how you even noticed this peculiar person— nothing about them stood out. Not their hair, not their eyes, not their face.

Absolutely nothing differentiated from the rest.

That much you remembered.

Maybe it was a stroke of luck that brought you to them, that fate decided to pull your strings together and wrap a knot around you both for a moment.

They had been sobbing uncontrollably, their arms hugging their knees and small hiccups of desperate gulps of fresh air had reached your unsuspecting ears.

It was odd how out of all the children there, you were the only one who could hear their muffled cries of pain.

The background, your surroundings, the calls of the other children to return to their side as they watched you step towards the outcast was all a haze to you. You couldn’t recognize or process anything other than the child that sat alone in tears.

It was a complete blur from there.

“Forever doesn’t exist, that’s why you should apologize before it’s too late!”

Why am I remembering this now?

Tears fell that day.

When have they not?

Unspoken words lingered in the air, thick and heavy on your tongue.

How many days have been like that? How many days have I lived like them?

Your mind answers for itself.

In the past, you had labeled them minor inconveniences. They didn’t matter to you.

They were minor inconveniences, you tried to convince yourself like so many times before.

Were the tears you shed over so many lost ones just minor?

Would you just toss them away?

Would you belittle the memories of one of your former closest elementary friends, years of friendship washed away in the downpour due to a nasty little rumor spread about you? Erase the little drawings and cards they made for you, each one describing how you would be by each other’s side forever?

Would you forget about the best friend that got away, the one that was forced to move away at the end of your primary years? The walk around the field, the stories you both wrote together, the secrets you entrusted with one another— were you going to toss that all away?

Would you forget about the one who you worked vigorously to build a friendship with when everyone was forced to split ways in junior high? Did you really think so little of the late night conversations, the occasional but rather spontaneous (and sometimes one-sided) heart-to-hearts, the long hours spent chatting away, learning about a love that stemmed deeper than the plants whose roots dipped beneath the soil under your feet? What about when they had chosen to push you out of their lives— manipulating you to keep you attached?

Would you be willing to forget when the empire you had fought endlessly to build and protect collapsed on you after quakes so powerful the once granite walls fissured and crumbled right above your head when you were at your weakest?

Would the scars that remained from the knives that were stabbed into your back, your chest, your heart, finally heal? Would the nasty and discolored marks fade from your skin like water slipping down a drain?

Would you forget about your family? The ones who raised you, who were by your side, near your side, even when it felt like they were miles away?

Would you forget about those who loved you unconditionally— for every one of your flaws, mistakes, and imperfections? The loyal ones who stood close enough to catch you if you fell, even when you didn’t deserve it. Even when you took them for granted.

What about Izuku and Katsuki? The ones that at one point in your life or another, meant the world to you?

Could you erase the memory of Katsuki’s passionate carmine eyes, irises the colors of the ripest of strawberries in the patch, filled with unspoken emotions that only the most observant and attentive of people could detect? The number of fingers on your hands could not come close to totaling the indefinite amount of days you spent staring into his eyes, (e/c) piercing through the thin panes of glass behind his eyes that sheltered his heart and soul, learning lessons that words could not formulate, that he would never dare let leave his mouth.

Would those minuscule yet intimate moments with the blond escape you at last?

Ironically, your calmest and most content moments resided with the boy from your childhood who always claimed one day he would be the greatest hero in the world. These tranquil times didn’t stem from your days as kids in primary school or pre-teens in middle school, but rather when you both were studying at UA.

Unbeknownst to Midoriya and nearly the entirety of Class A, Bakugou would constantly sneak you into his room late at night when neither of you could sleep or only wanted to bask in the the other’s presence. He always grumbled and complained about the unruly times you chose to sneak out of your room and how dangerous it was for you to risk injuring yourself just to see him, but every time you countered his argument with a simple smile and a “I missed you” before proceeding to hug him tightly.

The first few times you told Bakugou this, audible explosions began to crackle from his palms and immediately he shoved you off of him (after wiping his sweaty hands on his pants) and barked curses at you. Eventually, he welcomed you silently with open arms.

During those quiet nights, you both would lay on his bed, limbs intertwined. At first, you and Katsuki sat at a distance, until he began to lay down on his bed and hissed at you to follow suit. Then, you made the first move to cuddle Bakugou after he called you over because of a nightmare— the rest was history from there.

Brushing fingertips was your first taste of intimacy with Bakugou, until he gained the courage to hold your hand. Afterwards came the long hugs. Then, those hugs transformed into Bakugou pulling your head to rest on his bicep. Next came intertwined legs and gentle caresses. And the cherry on top was when his walls finally came down and he allowed you to be his rock, the shoulder he cried on when his studies and hero work caught up to him and left him doubled over in hopelessness, desperate to put himself back together.

But what about Izuku?

What about the boy you spent practically every year of your life with, the man that plagued your mind in the early hours of dawn and the late hours of dusk?

Were you ready to remove him forever? Were you truly ready to give up on the one you loved fearlessly for all those years, even in the face of adversity?

For ages, Midoriya was your beacon of hope. When the world felt like it was caving in, when you shoved everyone out and suffered in solitude, he stood unwavering and unrelenting to listen to your command; he defied your expectations and exceeded them.

Though, good things cannot survive for eternities.

At one point Izuku Midoriya, the one who claimed your heart long ago, slowly began to fade right in front of your eyes. He prioritized his work— he made saving others the reason why he breathed.

When that realization dawned upon you and you understood that he would never fawn at you the same way you did with him, you drowned yourself.

It felt like death.

You didn’t want to think about this anymore.

I want the pain to finally end.

It was pointless to clutch onto the minuscule semblance of mortality you had left before you completely rested in the grave. If you accepted the hand the reaper held out to you, sleep would be eternal.

That’s what I always wanted, right? So take it. It’s not like I ever had anything to lose. Whatever I once owned will never be mine again.

Succumbing was always easy. Succumbing to desires always rewarded you, albeit only temporarily. It was simpler that way— to fall under the umbrella of constantly accepting demands.

“Let go.”

You did; you drank every night until you were blackout drunk.

“Hide.”

You did. You pushed everyone away and isolated yourself.

“Suffer.”

You did. You never sought out help when your thoughts became too grim and dreary to bare alone.

“End it.”

You did. You jumped off the cliff and into the ocean.

“Accept it.”

Slowly, you were.

Slowly, you let your thoughts disintegrate into the dark, emptying your mind of coherency. Of rationality, of humanity.

That lifeless feeling of iciness within you traveled across the expanse of your body until you wholeheartedly believed you had always been a glacier of ice and not once a living being.

Like a sinking boulder, you slipped from consciousness to never resurface.

And like a gentle kiss, a speck of warmth formed on your skin before disappearing.

“Please don’t leave me, (Name). I love you.”

“Don’t do that again, idiot.”

The voice is warm like apple cider on a winter day, mixed with a twinge of sweet, sugary cinnamon that permeates the expanse of your tongue. It feels so welcoming, so safe despite the harshness lingering in the undertones of the voice— akin to if a thick and heavy spoonful of honey coated your tongue like syrup flowing off a stack of fluffy and golden-brown pancakes. You craved to have the sugary sap reach the back of your mouth and slide down your throat before it saturated your system with the sticky sweetness.

A tepid and sweaty hand enveloped yours, coarse callouses sheltering the dry and peeling skin of your knuckles from the bitter cold breeze blown from the air conditioning.

More words fall deaf on your ears as the strings of consciousness tie themselves back together in effort to push you out of your drowning slumber. The soothing and homely voice continues to repeat broken and fractured phrases that you try to reach, pushing yourself out of the sinister hold of the tendrils.

Enraged by your defiant behavior, the obsidian tentacles wrap themselves around the tied strings and tug harshly in an attempt to tear you apart, to send you back to where the worst of your melancholy and despondent thoughts resided.

“Come back, don’t leave me here!” the voice cried. “You and I, we’re both the same. Wherever I go, you come with. We are one.”

Were you the same as that evil voice that had plagued your mind like a virus, worming its way into your bloodstream in hopes of controlling your body and fatally killing you?

Would you ever do that to someone?

You’d like to think not.

“You better not leave me behind. You need to be there when I become number one.”

There was that familiar voice again— it was so warm. It felt like hugging a toasty bag of freshly baked bread in the chilly morning, or sitting down on your couch with a steaming cup of hot cocoa on a rainy day, slowly sipping at the aromatic and creamy chocolate that made your stomach squeal in pleasure and delight.

You craved to feel like this forever.

With the threat of betrayal, the tendrils furiously tightened their bruising grip on your limbs, unwilling to part ways with you.

“I was there for you when nobody ever was! I stuck by your side when you isolated yourself and had nobody— when everyone ignored you!” the voice reminded you, enraged by your defiance.

Why couldn’t you just submit to it?

But weren’t you the one that caused it? If it wasn’t for you, would I really be here now?

The idea is a sudden one that sends you reeling, heart pumping and sweat beading at the top of your head. The once cozy heat that flooded your body boils, burning hotter than the fiery and explosive stars above. An audible sizzling sound can be heard where the tendrils meet your skin.

“You better fight back, damn nerd. Everyone’s been waiting for you out here— they dropped everything to come see you.”

Everyone? Your classmates and friends?

But weren’t they the ones who knew of your suffering and still refused to extend a helping hand to you?

“They all come and go, you know that. Why would you go back to them? Don’t go back on the promise you made. Just for Midoriya, remember?”

Promise? Midoriya?

Your mind was too muddled to comprehend the voice’s words.

“That dumb Deku is here too. He’s worried sick about you, wouldn’t stop blubbering like an idiot the minute he saw me.”

The sight of emerald eyes filled with tears flashes through the darkness of your mind, a blur of a murky white, lifeless black, and a faded green.

You should react— you should feel something. Anything.

But you don’t.

The imagery fades as fast as it arrives, leaving you to reside with the black of your mind. There’s no fluttering of butterflies or red rose petals swirling in the air out of the corner of your eyes. The thought of Midoriya doesn’t warm you further— it only leaves you colder than before.

In the pit of death, it’s just you and the last of your humanity.

“He never liked you anyway. You never mattered. You knew that, didn’t you?”

A meek part of you wants to disagree, argue that he had to have appreciated you at least in the slightest to have stuck around you for as long as he did. But the majority of you solemnly nods in agreement, aware of the countless times where you blindly reached out to Izuku Midoriya.

He simply tolerated you because you constantly suffocated him with your presence. Midoriya never had a mean bone in his body, he would never speak up if someone was a nuisance to him.

“Yes!” the voice hissed, delighted. Slowly but surely, you were falling prey to its hold; to the negativity it had spread wide throughout your mind.

It was only a matter of time before you succumbed.

“Wake up, (Name). Please.”

It isn’t worth it, is it?

“I know I haven’t been the best, but I’ll make it up to you. Promise. Just please, please don’t leave me.”

The warm voice cracks, its words quivering, and there’s a shaky intake of breath. It sounds pained.

“You caused that pain.”

You did, didn’t you?

“Just let it all go,” the voice sung. “Come with me and it’ll all go away. Everyone will be okay. You will be okay.”

You should.

You know you should.

You know you should finally let go. You’d lost everything. You’d lost your life and were trapped in this bottomless pit of black.

If you just let go, you could be free.

“Then do it. Stop listening. Ignore it all. Let me take over.”

There’s words that are being spoken to you from the voice beside you, some louder and intenser than the last, but you block them out. You ignore and let the ferocious tendrils wrap around you and pull you down.

The thin string that holds you together snaps.

And finally, finally, it all stops. The noise, the voices, the thoughts, the feelings, the aches and pains.

At last, it’s all over, you tell yourself.

But do you really believe it?

You would never know.

You don’t think you’ve seen this many people crowded into a single hospital room.

For you, no less.

All of the former Class A students from your years in high school have flooded your room, some of them even stuck in the doorway. From Grape Juice to Creati, the space is absolutely cramped.

Beside your bed are mountain-high piles of gifts and letters from your friends as well as others who could not attend in time for the visiting hours. Without a doubt, some of those presents contained articles of lavish and luxurious gifts you could only afford in the wildest of your dreams if you had the money of a top pro-hero. (Money that these heroes had, considering some had been born into wealthy families while others had become filthy rich after making bold headlines as heroes in the media.)

Not to mention, all their attention had been focused entirely on you since the moment you awoke.

Uraraka had been the first to pounce on you, spewing words that flew past her mouth with such vigor and rush that you could not keep up. Like a koala, she clung to you— arms wrapped around your neck in a vice and warm grip as she sobbed uncontrollably into your shoulder. Tsuyu had pried her off apologetically, but you merely continued to stare in a daze, the countless medications that they had pumped through your blood still in effect.

One by one, each visitor came up to your bedside and sat down beside you to speak while the others watched. Each interaction differed from the last.

Mina had buried your head into the crook of her necks as she brokenly whispered words of endearment and utmost adoration into your ear, rubbing your back softly as salty tears spilled from her eyes and onto the pillow behind you. Eventually, Mina clasped your face between her hands and grinned through tears at the sight of your face between her hands, further cementing the fact that you were alive and still with her.

After a couple more shared moments with some of the others, Todoroki had stepped up to you with an indecipherable expression painted onto his features before sitting down and opening his arms in a silent offer of a hug. You lifted yourself up and leaned into his hold and he held you delicately like glass, murmuring a gentle “I’m so sorry” and “Thank you for not leaving us.”

Once Todoroki left your side, Momo immediately took his place and buried your head into her chest. At that point, your eyes had begun to sting in response to the endless tears your friends had shed and you were sure they were just as red as Momo’s bloodshot ones.

After Yaomomo came Eijiro Kirishima, your personal golden retriever.

He had lunged at you, scooping you into his arms. Squeezing you tightly, Kirishima could not help but sob into the crook of your neck, shaking while doing so. Apologetic words were whispered brokenly, his voice cracking and changing pitch every syllable.

For someone so sturdy, so stable, you never thought the unbreakable Red Riot could crumble quite so easily.

At the hands of your own, no less.

Finally, the tears began to flow from your eyes, overpowering the dam that stubbornly refused to budge whenever it splintered. Wrapping your arms around Kirishima’s back, you clutch on for dear life, crying into his shoulder.

You almost died.

You did die.

The horror of your situation finally settles.

Your behavior and actions, it really did matter. It affected others, not only yourself. If these people were barely holding it together from seeing you now, alive and safe in a hospital, how would they have reacted if you did indeed die?

If the voice had truly beaten the odds, what would have happened to those around you?

You’re glad, you conclude, that you’ll never know and they’ll never really experience it either.

Death may conclude your story, but it doesn’t end theirs. You just close the book of their life and stop reading their story.

Glancing up from Kirishima’s quivering shoulders, you inspect the body language of everyone there. Some are hunched over, hands clasped over their mouths with tears staining their face. Others comfort each other, tenderly rubbing their backs.

However, there’s one person in particular that catches your eye.

He broods alone in the back, carmine eyes staring daggers into the ground. Dressed in his infamous black skull t-shirt and black sweatpants, his ash-blond hair stands out like a sore thumb.

You know that hunched figure like the back of your hand, even despite his immense growth over the years.

“Bakugou?”

It’s a quiet croak, a frightened whisper. But like the hawk he is, his head whips up, eyes widened in surprise.

And it is then, you see the true damage you’ve caused.

The rims of his eyes are a soft red, like the powdery light red of blush. Below his eyelashes lay streaks of fallen tears, their traces as evident as a bear’s footprints in still snow. His eyebrows are pulled together, wrinkling the space between his glassy eyes. It’s uncanny seeing Bakugou showing an emotion besides anger or neutrality, especially one akin to despair.

You’ve never seen such a hopeless expression visible on his face before.

You’re a monster.

For doing that to someone like him, you know you are.

Kirishima raises his head up and gives a small grin, glancing back at his companion. “Bakugou’s been here since you arrived at the hospital. He was the first person to contact us all about . . . this.”

You wince, pursing your lips at his not-so-subtle tiptoeing around your attempt. He means no harm, but the sting is just as intense at the reminder of your breakdown.

He moves off you and motions Katsuki to move towards your side, patting the blond on the back as he trudged over.

His steps are hesitant and slow— like a zookeeper approaching a wounded, rabid animal. Vermillion eyes inspect the tears that cling onto your eyelashes, the trembling at the corner of your lips, and the shallow intakes and exhales of breath from your throat.

The air between you is thick, but no matter how tense, you open your arms for Bakugou, staring at him teary eyed. He hovers above you, unsure of closing the distance between you both.

“Please?” Your arms tremble mid-air, and the tears on your face stream down faster. You don’t look decent— no one would look their best in such a weak, raw, and vulnerable moment, but you don’t care.

You don’t care because you know surviving is worth so much more than a presentable exterior.

Bakugou swallows thickly before moving into your embrace. His warmth contrasts the iciness in your bones and brings the blood rushing to the rest of your body. Your heart pounds rapidly and your lungs expand further and further, desperate to inhale all of Bakugou Katsuki in.

You stay like that for a few moments before he breaks the silence. “You idiot.”

Your breath hitches in your throat.

“If you need help, you better ask for it next time.”

And then, a small bit of warmth blossoms in your cheeks.

“Yeah, I know.”

MIDORIYA IS FRAGILE.

Midoriya is weak.

No matter how much time had passed and no matter how strong he became, he would always be that same helpless kid he once was. It was an innate part of him— Defenseless Deku would always be the child that existed in the corners of the Number One, Symbol of Peace Pro-Hero Deku’s mind.

Those thin, shaking arms and glassy, red-rimmed eyes all sewn onto a young boy would always be the reflection of Midoriya whenever he stared at the mirror.

Years of scars, fractured bones, and matured features would always fail at hiding the truth about the soul that lived within the body of the greatest hero in all of Japan’s history.

It’s something that lingered in his mind at the late hours of dusk and early hours of dawn— the harrowing truth about the Symbol of Peace.

How could one man be so strong, so powerful, yet be so weak, helpless, and vulnerable?

The thought bounced in his mind as he sat tiredly in the rickety chair of the hospital after receiving a panicked, cryptic worried message from Kacchan.

“‘She was tired. Bleak— dull. She wasn’t herself. She needs our help.’”

His words floated in Midoriya’s head, crashing into the sides of his mind once they resurfaced ashore, only to slip from the sandy outskirts of the beach and back into the rippling waves of the ocean.

“‘She needs you, Izuku.’”

(Name), his (Name), was in danger. You needed help- his help.

He wondered why Kacchan hadn’t just followed you himself. He had always loved you, long before Midoriya even did (or knew he did, for that matter). Midoriya had always known that.

Why didn’t he just play hero as he always would (just like when they were kids and Bakugou always wanted to be the one to only rescue you), and take all the glory for himself? It would end as it always did in those Hollywood films— the hero would save the girl and get her, and they would live happily ever after.

Isn’t that what Kacchan wanted? To live happily ever after with you?

At least, that’s what Midoriya had always concluded whenever his thoughts would trail back to the rather confusing relationship between you and his biggest rival.

Kacchan had always held a soft spot for you. Although the brashness of his actions and pointed words would’ve pierced anyone (like they soon did with him), those icicles simply melted before they could touch the surface of your skin.

And at first, that love was platonic (he believes, but Midoriya is unsure. He may have been able to read Kacchan like a book after years of knowing him, but he could never grasp his concept of romantic and platonic love. He didn’t know him like that.)

Gradually, however, it blossomed into something deeper than just a friendship. In the soil of his greatest rival’s heart, the roots of that love penetrated the layers of dirt before it overtook his heart and became something much stronger than either of them could have fathomed.

Kacchan would deny it all, though. Even to Midoriya.

Distinctly, Midoriya recalled watching Bakugou walk off to your dorm when you both were in your second year at U.A. He hadn’t thought much of it then (as it wasn’t until months afterwards did he begin to suspect Bakugou’s true feelings for you), but it became a frequent sight as the weeks passed.

In due time, Midoriya realized that Bakugou had been meeting up with you more than just those moments he saw Kacchan heading to your dorm room.

A polite voice snapped Midoriya from his spiraling thoughts.

“Mr. Midoriya, you are free to see (Last Name) (First Name).”

He gave a kind smile, bowing his head before he rose. Mindlessly, he walked down the hall until he found your room number the nurse gave.

Your room is secluded off into the end of the hall, beside nothing but a sterile white wall. It’s lonely out here— there are no people or gifts waiting outside the patient’s doors; just sterile, white walls and tiles.

You don’t belong here.

When Midoriya entered your room, the sight of your still body laying unceremoniously on the thin white bedding of the hospital greeted him. Not even a paper blanket had been thrown on you.

An IV drip is lodged into one of your arms, with wires of other sorts filling out the rest of the space on your forearms. Your hair is tangled and matted together by the salty water that once absorbed your body whole. There are fresh, pink cuts laying all over your body, no doubt sterilized by alcohol.

The scene reminded Midoriya of the many times he had landed himself in the hospital critically injured and on the verge of death.

You shouldn’t be in his place.

Never should you be in his place.

He loved you too much to stand seeing you so injured. You were a support hero— you stayed in the background to make the heroes of the public stronger. You belonged in an office where you would be safe and protected. Midoriya made sure of that when he requested you work for him.

But he let this happen.

It’s an unfortunate truth he doesn’t want to accept.

Midoriya knew about your feelings the whole time. He had seen the lovesick, dazed expressions you gave him. He saw the way you would grin happily after each passing interaction with him, how your eyes would light up whenever he stepped in the same room as you.

He knew because he would do all the same for you.

Every time he stepped into the office, his eyes would search for any semblance of you. It had always been like that.

He had always sought out for you, even as kids.

That’s why as he got older and realized the grasp you had on him, Midoriya attempted to flee his emotions. The longer he was around you, the deeper he spiraled in his endless pit of love for you. Butterflies would erupt every second he thought of you— they covered every inch of his being until he became a colorful mess of emotions.

And as he neared the number one spot, he realized the danger that came with such feelings. He would place a target on both your backs. Any villain looking for revenge against him would find you first as a means to get to him. And if they did— if they hurt you— he would have shattered

He would shatter.

That’s why he fled from your life: to protect you.

And himself.

Selfish Izuku.

But he failed to realize the affect it had on you. He never cared to look back and see how you took his sudden disappearance.

Look where that got you both, he tells himself.

You, in a hospital bed barely alive and him, guilty and torn apart at the seams.

Izuku Midoriya may be a hero, but he is a villain all the same.

Whether or not you’re aware of it, he is the villain in your story.

But he is— and that is enough to send the strongest man alive sprinting out of your hospital room and into the night, far away from you, his emotions, and the reality of your lives. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision as he soars in the air, pouncing from rooftop to rooftop.

The world will always remind Izuku Midoriya that while your worlds were meant to meet, they were meant to collide together and cause destruction.

He just never meant to damage yours as much as he did.

But Midoriya is weak. He is as fragile and helpless as they come, even if he is trapped in the body of the most powerful and capable being known to man.

The cruel universe continued to laugh at him, bathing gloriously in his misery.

Dumb little boy, it condescendingly cooed.

Helpless Izuku, it reminded him.

And he let it torment him, as he always had. Because while he may be the closest thing to God, even he cannot defy fate.

The world doesn’t welcome you with open arms after you’re discharged from the hospital.

When you step outside of the hospital doors, the weather isn’t warm and sunny with a gentle breeze that kisses your skin in those Hollywood movies. The ends of your clothes and hair don’t flutter majestically in the wind. Birds don’t swoop down and tweet enthusiastically at you, hopping to inch near you. There aren’t people happily chattering as they trek down the sidewalks and kids squealing as they sprint freely across the street.

Instead, it’s a sweltering kind of heat that causes sweat to form in every crevice of your body; it’s the kind that burns your skin the moment you step outside, tearing apart your dry, AC-adapted skin. Hair sticks to your face at unflattering angles and your wrinkled clothes are impossibly uncomfortable with every step you take. The polyester of your shirt rubs uncomfortably against the cuts and bruises located all around your body, making you wince. Animals and critters skitter away into the shade in hopes of cooling down. There are no pedestrians on the street or giddy kids. All you can see and hear are cars honking at each other, angry drivers, and speeding motorcycles.

Life is hideous, unfortunate, and cruel. Life is reality. Life is the truth and the truth was never meant to be kind or forgiving. It was meant to kick you off your high horse and humble yourself. It was meant to remind you no matter the strength you possessed, no matter how perfect you were perceived, you would always have to bow your head to the hand above. It was meant to teach you to never bite the hand that feeds you, or else dire consequences will come from those who are disobedient.

And you disobeyed it. You defied fate. You chose your own death, against the death the world had planned for you. You sunk your canines into the hand of life and tore its fingers off, letting the blood spurt over your face.

Now, you are paying for it by living through misery.

Before and after death.

Always and forever.

“Pathetic,” the voice whispered. “How pathetic, (Name). You can’t do anything right, can you?”

A sleek black cars rolls to the curb and a tinted window is rolled down. Ash-blond spikes stick out of the window and you are met with Bakugou’s gleaming eyes.

“You getting in, Princess?”

He sticks a thumb behind him, signaling for you to go to the back. Nodding your head, you step into the back of the vehicle and shut the door behind you, buckling your seatbelt.

You’re right, you agreed with the voice, I can’t do anything right.

Beside Bakugou in the driver’s seat is Todoroki, who sends you a charming smile when he looks back at you. Bakugou turns over as well.

“Hello, (Name).”

You softened at the sight of his body’s tension melting under your gaze. “Hi, Shoto. How are you?”

“Better now that you’re here.”

A bright laugh escapes you— it’s abrupt and loud— the kind that makes you roll around in your bed rethinking your every choice at the crack of dawn.

Yet, somehow for the first time in months, nearly years, you feel a little bit lighter.

The world seems a little brighter.

The voice boils in rage.

“Aren’t you just a charmer, Todoroki?” your hand waves teasingly as you press your head to the glass, swooning to the side. “I always knew your were my Prince Charming waiting to sweep me off my feet!”

Bakugou sucks air through his teeth, huffing loudly. Shoto’s eyes twinkle in amusement as he peers over at Katsuki, his eyes crinkling as his smile grows wider and the pearls of his teeth begin to show.

“If you have something to say Bakugou, you should communicate with us,” Todoroki stated matter-of-factly, glancing behind him before reversing out of his spot. “We’re friends, after all.”

Bakugou scowls, rolling his eyes before turning back and staring at you from the dash mirror. “You got all your stuff, (Name)?”

You nodded, watching as he turned to look off into the distance.

Bakugou had changed drastically from the teenager he once was in UA and even though you saw his development each year, never did you focus on each of his features as he matured.

Your mind wanders to the memories stored of the nights you continuously spent with Bakugou, drinking in his features. The images of the moonlight glowing on his skin like a gentle kiss from a loving mother. The slight curl of his eyelashes, always so long and full that the girls in middle school would jealously whisper over how pretty he was. The deep carmine of his eyes that resembled the reddest of apples, so shiny and perfectly polished that even the fruit trees strewn across Japan enviously would turn away, swaying their branches in the opposite direction just to look away from his breathtaking features.

Those features remained as an adult. Though, the only difference between younger Bakugou and your current one were their builds. Katsuki was taller, bulkier, and somehow even leaner to the point every angle of him appeared sharp. His jawline, the outline of his shoulders, his calf muscles, and everything inbetween. You had gotten accustomed to hearing the fangirls and fanboys of Dynamight ramble about his striking appearance, but you never noticed it properly until this moment.

He’s healthier.

Happier, too.

The once permanent scowl on his face has toned down to a stoic expression and his eyes seem purer than they ever had been before. His soul is kinder, his intentions are gentler. It’s evident with the way he interacts with the world around him, how his touch is less sudden and rough.

You’re glad to see him flourishing in life.

He deserves nothing but the best.

“You don’t,” the voice sneered.

A catchy tune permeates the air and you snap back to the present to find Shoto fiddling with the radio. Slender fingers twisted the black knob back and forth, lingering on each different station for only a moment before moving onto the next.

Shoto cleared his throat. “Are there any radio stations you both like?”

Bakugou shook his head. “I only listen to music from my phone.” He tilts his head back to look at you, cocking an eyebrow.

“Not really,” you tugged at your shirt, trying to distract yourself. “I’m kinda like Bakugou.”

Todoroki lets go of the knob and returns both hands to the steering wheel. “Well, I suggest one of you pull out your phone because we have a long way to go.”

His head bobs in Katsuki’s direction and Bakugou whips out his phone.

Quizzically, you peer at the two. Raising an eyebrow, you reiterate, “. . . A long way to go? My home isn’t that far from the general hospital. It’s not more than 10 minutes driving.”

Immediately, you look outside, reading the names of the streets that pass by. Street names you’ve never heard before pass by and you are met with unfamiliar roads and scenery. Instead of the usual shrubs you’re used to walking by, there are blossoming trees on every corner. This part of the city is far nicer than what you’re used to.

They aren’t taking you home.

“Hope you like animals, princess,” Bakugou chuckled, patting Shoto on the shoulder.

“Road-trip,” Shoto said in the most monotone voice possible.

You gulp.

Geez, maybe I shouldn’t have gotten in this car in the first place.

You grumble, pulling your legs to your chest.

Bakugou cackles loudly and Todoroki emits a small chuckle.

You crack a grin and close your eyes. The voice fumes.

Your smile brightens.

Life gradually begins to slow down as the months pass.

Time doesn’t go as fast, memories don’t escape your mind as much, and moments seem to last long enough to engrave themselves into you. No longer do you live life through your eyes as a spectator in your own body, but as an actual human being present in the moment.

In short, you’re recovering.

At least, that’s what your therapist says. Your friends too.

Not everyday is perfect. You’re not productive every morning, afternoon, or night. Sometimes, you can get out of bed with ease and settle into the little routine you’ve built for yourself. You can wake up, make your bed, change your clothes, wash your face, perform a skincare routine, make breakfast and commence with the day. You might be productive the whole days and run errands, make phone calls, book appointments, and catch up with friends and family. In other instances, your day is much more mundane. You lounge on the couch, hangout with friends, or treat yourself to some nice takeout or a nice walk to that local cafe or bakery. You end the day with a nice movie and popcorn, and even desert if you’re feeling something sweet. Then, you go to bed and the process repeats.

Other times, it feels impossible to even crack your eyes open. You can’t bring yourself to break through the state of slumber. All you can pray for are for those black tendrils to pull you back under into a dreamless world to distract you from reality. Getting out of bed is nearly impossible; it requires hours of coaxing yourself, frustrated tears, frantic thoughts, and maybe a pair of helping hands. The distance from your bed to your bathroom is infinite and the idea of even picking up your toothbrush has you collapsing on the spot. The tears bleed from your eyes and pile onto the sink and your pained sobs echo throughout the halls. The water of the shower is too much and you have to just sit there and wallow until a nagging feeling, a sliver of an authoritative voice reminds you there are bills to pay and there is a life to live. The day is filled with long hours of work and unrest and agony, but it only takes one text to guarantee a pair of warm arms will pick up the pieces of your pain when you get home.

Those days are the hardest, but you’ve survived each one. That in its own is a feat that you’re reminded of everyday you stare in the mirror. You imagine the faces of those who remain with you today whenever the thought dwells and you continue on.

Guilt sparks in your chest when you think of all of those who had suffered in the way you had but received no support and were left to suffer. Your heart cracks, but you know you must do this.

If not for you, for them. For those who were not as fortunate. You will live to tell the tale they could not.

You will remember them in life while they are remembered in death.

Your therapist says trial and error is how you succeed in life. Learning from mistakes is how you grow into someone greater than you were before.

To conclude each session, she reminds you consistency is key. Each time you tell her, “‘Frankly, that’s the hardest part about recovery.’”

It’s hard to be consistent because nothing is consistent in your life. Nothing is consistent in life. The world is ever-changing. Everyday, the Earth spins and something changes around you. A child grows a year older. A baby is born. A loved one is lost. Life dies. Life is reborn. Love blossoms and love dies. A new creation is discovered while another is destroyed. A heart is broken while another is mended.

Someone changes. And at one point in time, you were that person who changed.

Without a beat, she sends you that wistful smile of hers and that one sentence that leads you snorting out of her office.

“‘You like to surprise the world, (Name).’”

For the longest time you had thought she was going mad listening to you, but you eat your words now.

“Did you love him?”

A voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

Slender fingers wrap around the end of the teaspoon, digging the head into the cup of sugar. Another few reach for the China teacup placed in the middle of the table, gently moving it forward to meet the now full spoon of sugar. The grains of white tumble out of the rounded metal and into the warm water, sinking to the bottom until the same spoon hits the water and stirs them around, dissolving them.

The fresh cup of tea is handed to you.

“Who?” The ceramic’s temperature is a favorable kind of warm— the type that spreads from your fingertips into the rest of your body until you’ve melted in a comfortable pile of goo that brings a content feeling swelling in your chest.

The tea is even warmer, steam hitting your face as you go to sip it. The liquid slips past your lips and over your tongue, coating every crevice of your mouth. The hints of mint and Jasmine blend perfectly with each other, the sweet floral balances out the spice of the mentha.

It reminds you of him.

“Don’t be coy, (Name). You know who I’m talking about.” You want to decline her assertion— to argue that her generality is misleading and she should specify who the man she suspects you have fallen in love with is. But this lady is one you have known for your whole life, one who you believe may just know better than all the rest despite your drastic differences. She was always there to keep you in check between reality and fiction.

Finally, you look up.

Astute and inquisitive eyes the color of carmine align with yours. Mitsuki grins slyly, her eyes twinkling in amusement. “There’s those pretty eyes. Glad to see you’re still in tact, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not fragile, Mitsuki. And you’re starting to sound like Katsuki.”

The woman’s eyes soften at the sound of her son’s name and crinkle at the edges in thought. “He got his language from me, y’know. I was the one who called you all those sweet things when you were young. I mean, you were just the cutest little girl!” She wears an adoring smile on her face as she gazes at you with so much motherly love that you can only fidget under her gaze, lowering your eyes in embarrassment.

You never got used to the fireball known as Mitsuki Bakugou, nor her affections. From your earliest days, you could recall the way she would just coddle you. Whenever her son seemed to be talking your ear off or you were overwhelmed, she would simply pluck you out of Bakugou’s reach and walk away from his vicinity, cradling you in her arms cooing quietly at you. No matter how much he would protest, Mitsuki would be your getaway from any situation you couldn’t seem to defuse yourself.

On the weekends, she would take you out shopping with her as if you were her own kin, doting on you like a second mother. She would buy you clothes, books, get you icecream and take you out to eat. Your parents liked to joke that she was their own free babysitter, to which she would always exclaim that you would always be the daughter she never had.

As you got older, that powerful kind of love Mitsuki possessed was one you saw less and less of. That growing rift between you and her son was greater than ever, and the chances you had of seeing her was minimal, minus the outings she would frequently invite your folks to. Even then, she would always be mingling with the crowd.

Sometimes, you wondered if she was there with you through your hardest years would your life have turned out differently. It’s a thought to entertain, but the consequences of misery and despair flare at the idea.

You push the concept down whenever it pops up.

She continues.

“Katsuki simply followed suit. He’s my boy, after all.”

“Your own personal carbon copy,” you agree, stroking the intricately painted patterns of the fine China. The thought of Mitsuki’s question lingers in your head, prodding at a hidden part of your mind you had tucked away for ages now.

The topic of Izuku Midoriya was one you stopped entertaining after the night at the cliff. You had ripped it from the forefront of your mind, shoved it deep inside a metal vault, locked it shut, and tossed the key away.

The relationship between you both was messy— it was a lack of communication, a tangled mess of emotions and one-sided care. The bubble of your affections was filled with mistreatment, betrayal, selfishness, and greed. It was take, take, take from Midoriya and give, give, give from you. It wasn’t healthy for you nor Midoriya.

After you had opened the can of worms that was the man you once loved with your therapist, it wasn’t possible for you to ever see him in the same light. You could never stare at Midoriya with that blindly lovestruck gaze through those rose-tinted lenses. All that flashed before your eyes at the mere mention of him was the horror, sympathy, and guilt that swirled in her eyes as she listened to you. The shaky hug she had given you made you quiver in your shoes and the tears that fell from her eyes made your own slip past your hold.

That was the first time you had seen her professional facade break.

The thought that even the most experienced and knowledgeable of people in the world breaking at the seams from your supposed love story sickened you to your core.

“Was it that obvious?” Truthfully, you’re curious. Did everyone around you know how you used to feel about him? Were your affections for him that palpable?

“Very,” she nods, bringing the cup to her lips once again. “None of us saw it at first when you were kids. Not Inko, myself, or your family.”

Mitsuki sets the cup down, leaning her head on her hand. “But as you all grew up, we all realized that whenever you were with Izuku, you lit up in a way none of us had ever seen before. It was puppy love in our eyes, so we didn’t think much of it at first.”

A noncommittal hum leaves your throat and you inspect Mitsuki as she speaks.

“I mean, you were obvious. It was sweet,” Mitsuki laughs, the vermillion irises of her eyes shining in glee. Suddenly, she placed a finger to her cheek in thought. “Have you spoken to him as of late, (Name)?”

“Midoriya?” you blink, surprised. She doesn’t know, (Name). Stay calm.

You shake your head before going to down the rest of your tea. Mitsuki waved her hand in the air, her face morphing into an indecipherable expression.

“The brat told me about how worried the both of them were over you when you were still in the hospital,” she begins, and she looks down, lowering her voice. “He . . . He was scared.”

You still.

“Scared?” you parrot. “Why? He’s seen worse, hasn’t he?”

The eyebrows of Mitsuki’s face furrow and she sets her teacup down, clasping her hands together. It’s as if the air around you stills and time begins to freeze, pausing the orbiting of Earth itself.

Mitsuki hesitates. “He called me in tears when he was waiting for you to wake up— he was terrified. And when your heartbeat flatlined?” Mitsuki shakes her head. “He couldn’t hold himself together anymore. That Todoroki kid and Kirishima had to take him outside to console him.”

She stares at you, smiling sadly. “The last time he was that petrified was when he was a child, (Name).” A small exhale leaves her lips. “If he lost you that day, he would have lost everything.”

“Huh?” you sweat-drop. “Katsuki has a lot going for him in life, Mitsuki. I don’t think my . . . disappearance would be the end of him.”

Mitsuki shakes her head with a solemn smile, the low curl of her lips hinting at a secret unbeknownst to you. “You just don’t know how much you mean to my boy, (Name).”

She sighs. “I wish he would just tell you already. But I suppose now isn’t this time, is it?”

Mitsuki stands from her position, moving over to pat your head affectionally before leaving the kitchen.

A small part of you claws at your throat, screeching at you to stop her fading figure. It itches at you, desperate to scratch at the surface of your curiosity.

What does Katsuki need to tell me? And why won’t he?

“Curiosity killed the cat, (Name),” the voice giggles in glee. “You don’t want to meet that same end again, do you?”

A booming voice cuts through the clouds in the sky, sending you falling back to the ground.

“You ready to go?”

Leaning against the frame of the hall in all his glory is Katsuki Bakugou, dressed nicer than you’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing a fitted black polo from a brand far too expensive for you to name off the top of your head and a pair of tailored khaki pants. Placed on his right wrist is a black Vacheron Constantin watch with intricate carvings and stones within the clock that looks far too expensive for you to even fathom purchasing or even browsing through.

Like a moth to a flame, Mitsuki steps over to her son, fussing over him like a mother bird with her chick. She huffs as she adjusts the collar of his shirt accordingly, and he groans as his mother who was nearly a foot shorter than him pranced around and fixed his appearance.

The sight was heartwarming, sending a wave of nostalgia through you.

“You expect to go out with (Name) looking like that? I raised you better than this, Katsuki! You’re the son of a fashion designer!” Mitsuki scolds, combing out his hair.

He grumbles, swatting her hand away. “You hag—! I look fine!”

The bickering between the two continues, both of them going back and forth. She swats at his shoulder, even going as far to beat him with her slipper.

Bakugou takes each hit, not moving to fight back. You know he could stop her if he wanted. After all, he was the second strongest hero of Japan and pure muscle. No woman or man stood a chance against him.

Though, when you see Bakugou wince as his mom smacks him for the nth time, you’re left thinking that maybe Mitsuki might be the exception to the rule.

The thought bubbles a giggle in your throat that leaves you chortling to the point of tears. It’s a sound that hasn’t escaped you in ages.

Your chest feels full. Your body feels warm— not the restricting kind, but the comforting one.

They both turn to the sound, their expressions softening as you doubled over in joy. You look up and find Bakugou’s eyes swirling with an emotion that sends your heart fluttering and a brighter grin growing on your face against your will.

The expression reminds you of one you always stared at Midoriya with.

Could it be . . . ?

Heat spreads across your body and your heart skips a beat.

“No one could ever love you, (Name). No one ever will. You’re unlovable,” the voice smirked. “Foolish little (Name). Lovestruck already for another man you’ll never get? How humiliating.”

You recoil back into your timid shell, causing Mitsuki to give Katsuki a look.

The look.

It shouts at him, “Go comfort (Name)! How else are you going to win her heart?”

The one Katsuki returns barks, “What do you think I was going to do?! You’re bothering me, hag!”

Mitsuki rolls her eyes before slapping his shoulder with a huff. “Well, you better go now Romeo, or else I’ll whisk her away from you first!”

He breaks eye contact first, rolling his eyes as he nears towards your hunched figure. From the lowering of your head, he suspects your eyes are trained on the table in front of you. Though, his vision is obscured by the hair that falls in front of your eyes that he so desperately desires to tuck behind your ear.

Be selfish, his mind screamed. Take what you want the most.

But for you, he swore to never bite the hand you fed him from. He would always be grateful for the attention, affection, and care you gave him. You were always so generous with him and the twerp.

Perhaps this time, he would become the hand that did not feed you, but pampered you. Loved you. Took care of you. He would prove that he was not a man greater than the world when he was on his knees beside you. You were his equal, his other half.

He would treat you better than Midoriya ever did. While the Symbol of Peace was blessed with countless chances to end as yours, to take off running with you into a never-ending fairytale, he always left you to eat dust and dirt. Even when Bakugou sacrificed the one chance he had for Midoriya, he refused to atone for his sins. Instead, he only ran further.

This time, Bakugou would not wait for the world to give him a chance. He would create his one last chance with you.

He would love you right. Properly, fully, and unconditionally.

Unlike Midoriya.

A calloused hand gently pushes a few strands behind your ear before cupping the side of your face, bringing your eyes back into focus. Rough palms lovingly caress the apple of your cheeks and instinctively you lean into their hold.

From their touch alone, you know who this is.

Kneeling beside you is Katsuki Bakugou in all his glory, vermillion eyes and all trained on your face. Delicately, you move your hand to wrap around his wrist, giving him a small grin at his delicate behavior. It reminded you of the nights you spent back at UA together.

The syrupy feeling in your chest swirls faster.

A sudden flick smacks your forehead and instinctively you grab your head, face morphing into a glare. “You done prancing with your head in the clouds? We got a reservation to meet.”

You playfully scoff, standing up. “You can’t be nice for once, can you Katsuki?”

He laughed. “Never, Princess.”

The two of you head towards the front door, hugging Mitsuki as you leave. As you both enter Bakugou’s car, she waves you off with a “stay safe name! And protect her Katsuki!”

“We will, Mitsuki!” you shouted, waving. Bakugou grumbles and affectionately, you ruffle his hair. “He says he will, too!”

Mitsuki emits a hearty laugh as she walks back inside the comforts of her own home.

“So where are we headed to eat?” you trace the end of your dress, twirling the loose fabric. “You said to dress nicer than normal, but I’m not too sure what to expect with you pro-heroes.“

Bakugou snorts. “What makes you say that, sweetheart?”

You side-eye Bakugou, cocking an eyebrow. “Take a wild guess.”

“Half-N’-Half took you to one of those rich restaurants in Tokyo?” Bakugou doesn’t even glance over. He’s right and he knows it.

As always.

You grimace, melting into your seat. “I wish I could have evaporated into thin air the moment I stepped inside.”

The occurrence had happened not even a week ago. Only hours before you were meant to hangout with Todoroki, he had sent you an ominous text to simply dress well. When he picked you up, all he would tell you was that you both were attending somewhere nice to dine for the night. And as clueless as ever, you assumed it would be a slightly more upscale restaurant than you both typically frequented.

But boy, were you wrong.

The restaurant was at least fifteen stories tall with clear panes of glass covering every inch of each wall. Chandeliers covered each foot of the high rise ceilings and the floors were glassy, gargantuan tiles that were a pale color of hessonite. The furniture in the establishment were expensive— mulberry silk, plush cushions, bocote wood and all.

The patrons appeared to be just as wealthy, if not more. Dressed in the finest of suits and dresses, adorned with flashy and gauzy jewelry, each and every one of them burned brighter than last.

Shoto too, fit right in. Elegant and classy, they all gawked at the Number Three Pro-Hero.

And you, in comparison to them, stood out like a sore thumb. Meek, humble, and intimidated. You could hear their whispers about you, that night. But you chose to suck down your raging emotions to enjoy the night and tasty dishes.

Well, for as long as you could.

“Was the food good? Shit like that is either hit or miss,” Bakugou commented as he took a right turn, peeking at the GPS set up in the car. “We’re almost there.”

You nod, watching as the once filled roads of the highway cleared into empty streets of residential neighborhoods. “The food was fantastic, but the portions wouldn’t have even fed an infant. I don’t think I’d ever go back, though.”

“Why not?”

You blink, scratching at the skin of your arm to distract yourself from Bakugou’s question. Maybe, just maybe he would ignore your silence—

He repeats his question, opting to now stare at you. You shrink further back into your seat.

There’s no point in lying now, is there?

“I kind of freaked out,” you admit, leaning against the window. The glass is cool against your skin and you let your eyes close momentarily. “I was thrown into an unknown environment and I could feel all their eyes on me. They weren’t trying to hide the fact that they were talking about me.”

You kicked off your heels, sitting your legs up on the seat. “Halfway through, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I told Shoto I had a call to take and nearly sprinted outside to get some fresh air.” You open your eyes, looking at the dashboard in front of you. “It’s humiliating to think about it now, but I left for nearly an hour trying to calm myself down. I must’ve looked insane to anyone walking by.”

The imagery of you sitting on your bottom in front of a Michelin star restaurant with your head in your hands breathing erratically and on the verge of tears made you cringe at the idea. You definitely got some dirty looks, even if no one approached you.

Timidly, you peered at Bakugou. His expression was blank and his lips formed no response.

Your heart constricts itself in your chest.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut, you chastise, curling deeper into yourself. Dread filled your stomach. Why did I even open my mouth?

“Why did you?” the voice taunts. “Everything is easier when you just stay quiet.”

Tears bud at the corner of your eyes and you curl deeper into yourself, focusing on the scenery flying by outside.

Despite the two of you entering residential roads, the area looks familiar. The quiet streets eventually delve into a busy intersection filled with grocery stores and small businesses. The scene looks familiar, but you can’t quite place your finger on it.

“Stupid, little (Name),” the voice coos patronizingly. You grit your teeth. The dread that once resided in your stomach transforms into a festering anger that dribbles into your bloodstream, spreading like pure poison.

The voice beams, spinning circles around your mind eagerly. “Didn’t we go over this last time, (Name)? I’m always right. You’re always wrong. That’s just how it is. That’s life.”

That’s not true— you’re nothing but a filthy liar! you seeth, digging your nails into your skin. I believed you and look where I am—

The thought freezes you. As soon as it comes, it dies. You can hear the voice giggling in delight. Horror creeps into your chest. You tremble in return.

I thought I was getting better. That hopelessness you thought left your system months ago seeps into your bones, attempting to crack the wall of sanity you had spent months building. I thought I was supposed to be healing.

The mantra that rung repeatedly in your head that evening at your office plays again, mimicking that dull little tune. I can’t, I can’t, I—

“We’re here,” Bakugou turns off the ignition of the car. Swiveling your head, you are met with carmine irises and narrowed eyes inspecting your features.

You gulp.

Choke it down, (Name). You’re ruining it for him. Don’t cry, don’t cry. You’re okay. You’re fine. You’ll be okay. Just get out. Just leave. It’s only a few more hours and then you can kiss the bed goodnight and never wake up again.

Finally, when you turn to see where you arrived, your heart plummets.

To your side lay swaying blades of grass, swinging to the current of the evening breeze. They dance in the wind, luring the unknown to enter their arcane kingdom. In between the luscious planes of evergreen grass is a dirt road, soiled with muddy tracks from those who had come before you two.

The idea that some of those tracks could have been yours sends you reeling.

I can’t do this. This has to be some sick joke the universe is playing on me. A nightmare.

Suddenly, Bakugou is in front of your door, unlocking it for you. No words are said, except for the calloused hand he has laid out for you. You can’t see his eyes, but you’re sure he must think you’re insane.

If he didn’t before, he surely did now.

Just get the night over with, (Name). It can’t be that bad, right? You’re just overthinking it. It’s not that big of a deal.

“You’re too naive,” the voice sings. Slowly, the inky tendrils of despair emerged from the crevices of your mind, circling your brain. Latching onto any expanse of mind, they pulled and pushed. “You’re hopeless. Why do you even try? You failed once. You’re nothing. You’re worthless.”

I’m not worthless, you argue back, taking Bakugou’s hand. He’s saying something that you can’t pick up, but you don’t care enough to. Rage bubbled beneath your skin. I’ve made it this far. I survived. I can do this.

Storming off, you walk on the trail. Each step you take is filled with fury and steam, gallons upon gallons of boiling emotions that you can’t wait to scream into the night.

When you walk along the curves, twists, and turns of the trail, you don’t picture the nights you spent running up the path with Midoriya. You don’t envision locks of green rooted with black bouncing with each step, galaxies of freckles or the craters you call dimples. Those stupidly bright red shoes the color of maraschino cherries aren’t what form in your mind as you stare at the ground, watching one foot go in front of the other.

Instead, those memories are replaced with the days you spent drinking yourself into oblivion, desperate to drown your sorrows. Flashes and flickers of empty beer bottles strewn across patches of damp, crushed and curled grass play in your head. The sight of filthy and grimy white tiles and a pair of shoes dragging themselves repeat in your head like a broken tape, the beep of a scanner continuously breaks each train of coherent thought that attempts to enter your head.

“‘Would that be all?’”

Thousands of voices ask, some more feminine, some more masculine, some exactly in-between or strewn off into the left or right. Their faces are blurs and unrecognizable blends, obtuse and acute shapes. Their noses are thin, thick, long, short, stout, round, curved up or down, broken or centered perfectly. Their faces are long, round, slender, puffy, soft, rough, bony, or chubby. It’s angles and curves, proportions and disproportions. There’s marks— dots, lines, squiggles, blobs— imperfections in their eyes, but they’re just shapes in yours. Their strands of hair are slicked back, falling forward, parted down the middle, sides, sticking up, down, left and right, or to the side. Their eyes come in different shapes— circles, ovals, diamonds, almonds, pistachios. The outlines are round, big, small, sharp, soft, thin, delicate, tough.

There’s billions of them.

But you never cared enough to truly study their features, instead opting to let a hum and snatch the alcohol from the counter, disappearing in the night.

Now, you wonder if you had cared to stare them in the eyes for a moment longer, to peer past the veil of darkness before your eyes, would you have been saved? Would you have been stopped in your tracks, staring at glistening eyes filled with life, youth, and humanity, disturbed at your disgusting, reckless behavior?

“No one could have saved you,” the voice reminds. “No one can save you. No one will save you.”

Your blood boils and the sense of reconciliation shatters, leaving you sourer than before. Frustrated, you stomp faster, ignoring Bakugou.

The only thing audible is the blood pumping in your veins, the angered huffs from your mouths, and the stomping of your heels against the trail. Each step causes the ends of your shoes to stick further into the soil, making each motion more exerting than last. At the rate you storm up the path, sooner or later fate will bring you down on your knees to kiss the dirt.

With every few feet, the soil beneath your feet hardens. The layers become dryer, returning every step with enough abrupt force to keep you resurfaced. No longer do the pebbles littering the ground sink in; instead, they slide with the specks of dirt, tumbling up and down with the breeze of the wind. You ascend further and further, rise higher and higher. No longer do you fall to your surroundings.

Instead, you rise above them.

“Just like the waves,” the voice beams. “But this time, will you fall below them?”

Time seems to slow to a stop, and you are brought back to reality, frozen in your tracks.

The sea sings its song, the one it always has— the lullaby that sailors fall asleep to and creatures far below the surface awaken for. Each wave crashes against the rocks littered around the cliff wall, the impact of every hit resonating in the air. The droplets of salty water fly high into the air, dropping as fast as they bounced from the cold stone.

The once comforting noises of the deep blue haunt you, seeping into your ears and drowning your heart.

“Don’t step too close to the edge, or you’ll fall off, Princess.”

A sudden warmth blooms on your wrist and when you turn your head, your gaze meets Bakugou’s. Carmine meets (e/c), the two melting into the other.

He wears a cocky grin, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It looks forced, dare you say, nothing like the bright and deadly grin that adorns his face on the battlefield or when he jokes with friends.

You want to ask, “Are you okay?” But your mouth is glued shut and your body is too heavy to move, so you opt to stand in silence with your wrist in his rough palms, allowing the heat of him to bleed into the coldness of you.

“You’re missing the main attraction, sweetheart,” Bakugou nods his head to the side and your gaze follows suit.

Laying a few feet away from you is a picturesque picnic, straight out of any girl’s Pinterest board. There’s a large black blanket laid out with fairy lights spread all around it, lighting up a pathway for you to enter its soft kingdom. Plates of pastries, fruits, and different foods rest around each inch, goading you to come and take a bite. There’s a wooden basket woven to create the finest pattern, a heart, centered in the middle filled with ice and two bottles of what you believe are champagne and wine.

Your stomach lurches and the tea you had earlier churns in delight to make a reappearance from your gut. You swallow thickly.

“Wow,” is all you manage, but you see the corners of Bakugou’s lips turn just a little bit higher at the words. He doesn’t seem to notice your inner turmoil.

“Did you really think he would? After he hid the fact that he knew you were suffering all this time?”

You answer with memories of going out with friends, with him distracting you from your crumbling life after you escaped the hospital. The voice scoffs at each one and with every noise of disappointment, you hole yourself further and further into your mind.

Bakugou gently tugs you forward, leading you to the picnic. Moving to the side, he guides you to sit down, to which you curl your legs into your side. Carefully walking around the fairy lights, he takes a seat, crossing his legs.

The air between the two of you is tense, awkward. None of you make the first move to speak or eat. You just sit in silence with your hands in your lap, fiddling with your fingers. Never once do you dare to peer up and see how Bakugou reacts to the feel of the room.

Selfish.

He makes the move to pick up a piece of food, and you follow suit by grabbing some mochi. At least that would keep you busy.

Bits of conversation fall between you two, but no sparks fly. It’s lifeless and dull— the fireworks that once blew up beside you two now blew up between the two of you, creating a rift greater than the Nile River.

The mochi is soft as it is sticky, refusing to tear from its body. Though, when it finally breaks, it resists your teeth as you chew it slowly, fighting to keep itself whole. The doughy inside burst into your mouth, sweetening your tastebuds.

Though, the saccharine goodness does little to cancel out the bitterness in your heart and the sourness on your tongue.

“You should see the water. Looks gorgeous when you’re up close,” Bakugou sets down a piece of strawberry cake he had bitten through, nearly halfway done. Rising from his position, he extends a hand to you, goading you to follow in his steps. You mindlessly take the bait, allowing him to drag you like a little girl with her dolls.

Each step closer is painstaking. A nasty feeling latches itself onto your mind, eating through the walls of your sanity. Long, thick, silver drills press into the cement, chomping with all its might to destroy the structure.

“Isn’t it just nostalgic?” the voice prances, jumping back and forth in ecstasy. “You and me, just like from day one.”

You wonder if the glass shards from the broken beer bottles remained spread across the plains of grass, nestled deep between each patch of blades. Had others whom trekked these hills let the glass crunch beneath their feet, shattering the sticky, translucent material? Did they ever consider the story behind the pile of broken bottles, wondering if a soul was suffering the way you were? Or did they merely scoff at the sight, commenting about how reckless others were at the sight of haphazardly tossed glasses with the image of a group of teenagers drinking and giggling into the night?

Did they treat it kindly, lifting each individual piece and storing it to toss away? Or did they kick it to the side with a huff, stepping around any other messes nearby?

Would they have believed a soul if they told the story about a woman drowning in her own agony, her own lovesick foolery? Would they have empathized with the lost soul tethered together by a vile voice, haunting her every living moment?

Would they have listened to the soul beneath their shoes and the sky above their heads sing the tale of misery?

“Would you believe them?”

No, you answer, now peering at the water that soared to the edge of the cliff. I wouldn’t have even listened.

The salty liquid crashes against the boulders, flooding every crevice until the dips overflowed, spilling back into the ocean. Algae resurfaces with every wave, creeping further upon the cliff. Different creatures slip from the holes, desperate to escape the vicious cycle of life and Mother Nature.

Some drown, some drift off into the abyss of black, and others survive. It’s as beautiful as it’s painful and horrific.

Life is cruel. Life is unfair. Life is unforgiving.

Life is a rose— deceptively gorgeous with its bright lights, warm skies, cool breezes and pretty organisms. But with every creation comes its thorns— its threats and consequences for such beauty.

Life is you. You are life.

You are living.

Your throat constricts and your fists clench.

The sky is no longer a melting pot of warmth. There are no hues of burgundy, honey, or marmalade. All that lingers in its tracks are the sinister obsidian, with streaks of berry blue and a deep indigo that looks nearly the same as the vantablack that permeates the entirety of the atmosphere surrounding you. It is freezing cold and frigid.

The twinkles of fluorescence in the air are the only symbol of warmth left, but they are just as cold as the world around you is. They never lit up in the cozy tones of color. They were overshadowed, for they thawed under that gentle glow it emitted.

Static trickles into your ears, blocking out the noise of your surroundings. The control of your own body slips from between your fingertips, tipping into the ocean below. The sight of the world around you blurs and finally, you are rendered helpless.

Bile comes up instantly.

The world seems to nearly tip over as you hurl, coughing up all the liquids and food that had once churned within your stomach. Thick, corded arms wrap around your waist, stabilizing you and soothing your pained body.

Choked coughs escape your throat as you are forced to expel all the contents of your stomach, burning your throat. A tang of bitterness is heavy on your tongue and your mouth is impossibly dry. Grabbing at your throat, you perform a poor hand motion of drinking and instantly Bakugou hands you a glass.

It’s clear— it looks close enough to water. You down it.

It’s sweet, bubbly, and nothing like water. Once again, you vomit. It rushes back through your nose and out of your mouth, leaving you shuddering in place. A surprised “Shit!” leaves Bakugou’s mouth and he tugs you to him, rubbing your back with those large calloused palms of his.

You cough, inhaling every bit of air. “You— god— you gave me champagne?”

Bakugou hissed. “I didn’t realize that we didn’t have water— I was trying to help!”

It burns, stings. Your throat is on fire, your chest is constricting on itself and your heart is pounding. The heat of Bakugou only adds to the coldness of your skin, the iciness that seeped from your insides to your skin. Your eyes demand to fall shut, the lids drooping with every breath. The world feels dead around you, your head is heavy, and you are limp.

You are dead. You are a dead man trapped in a living body.

Bakugou shifts. “Are you . . . okay? Fuck— that’s a dumb question but—”

The thumping of Bakugou’s heart brings your eyes to shut. “I thought I was. Yanno, I thought I was recovering and all that. I was making progress. That’s what everyone said.”

A warm finger slides under your eye, brushing the puffy skin gently. “But?”

“I guess I didn’t. Or I did and I fell backwards. Took one step forward and six steps back.” You push your head further into his chest in a poor attempt to allow the exhaustion of your body to seep into the heat and disappear. “Lately, it feels like I’m back to before the hospital. I don’t reach for the beer like I did before, but that misery and hopelessness still lingers within me.”

Does it ever go away? you want to ask. Do I ever heal?

Nobody can answer. Time can only tell. Life can only smile.

You glance up at Bakugou and watch as his face contorts into a confused expression, lost at your words. A sad smile graces your lips. “You know, it was here where it all happened. I don’t think you even knew— I don’t even know how you knew about this spot— but I guess that’s what I get. I mean, it’s what I get for not telling you the entire truth, I guess. The world likes to make people pay for their actions, huh?”

Bakugou remains silent.

“I hate this place. It reminds me of him.” You both are aware of who you’re referring to. “We found it together. When we were kids in UA. Maybe even before, I don’t really remember.”

Bakugou shifts the two of you so you’re both laying down, inching away from the cliff and back to the cloth. He brings his hand to your back, rubbing soft circles and figure eights. You bury your head into his chest, words muffled by his shirt.

“There’s so many memories here. Good and bad. And I kept coming back all this time to relieve them because of him. But he never cared. It’s stupid now— I can’t believe I never saw it. I was holding onto something that had died long ago and I was dying because of it. I think I’m dead now, anyway. I don’t feel alive.”

You choke on your words. “I want it to all go away, Katsuki,” you say plaintively like a child, clutching his shirt. “Please.”

The waves smash against the cliff and you curl closer to him. He’s warm, so impossibly warm, but you can’t seem to seek equilibrium and match temperatures.

The noise won’t be drowned out.

Stop, please. Stop, stop, stop.

“I can’t save you,” he begins.

Your heart falters in your chest. The dam in your eyes splinters, the wood that held the water behind your eyes begging to flood.

“‘M a hero, but some battles aren’t meant to be fought by all.”

You whimper.

“I can try to help you, (Name), but no one can save you. You have to want to get better to heal. It’s not going to be easy and you won’t be alone, but you have to be willing to hold yourself together. We can only support you, but you have to be the change you want to happen.”

He tilts your head to him, pointer finger under your chin. The soft carmine bleeds into the blurry (e/c). “I know you can do it. You’re strong and you flourish even when everyone around you tells you you can’t. You’ve outdone the best of the best in your fields.”

You sniffle. “That was once. Hatsume just made a dumb mistake.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re capable, (Name). But you need to trust and believe in yourself. It’s hard; I know. But you’ve gotta if you want to move on.”

Your lip quivers. “Did— did you know?”

His eyebrow raises.

“About Midoriya?”

His face falls into a neutral expression and you swallow thickly. He nods.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“If I did, would you have listened? I think you knew but refused to accept it.”

You sigh, wiping your eyes. “I guess that’s true.”

Silence settles before he breaks it.

“(Name).”

You look at him and watch as he hesitates, looking away from your eyes before speaking.

“I—”

The words fade into the steady sloshing of the water, drowning into the night.

“Don’t give me that look.”

Kind, cerulean eyes follow the twitch of your fingers as you twirl the ends of your hair between your fingertips, until you let it fall back to its original spot.

She lets out an amused hum, spinning her machina fountain pen between the area where her thumb and pointer finger connected. The expensive pen had a pointed tip with edges sharper than the tip of a freshly-shaven knife, curving beautifully into a fine line. The body of it was a gooey, deep decadent chocolate brown mixed with a tint of crimson and carmine that left a particular shine when placed into the light. Thin strips of white and a blush, baby pink spilled onto the body, twisting and curving until it wrapped around the top of the pen.

Wealthy people, you shiver.

“If you continue to burn holes into the pen, it might as well explode.” She tosses the pen up for good measure, showcasing a number of spins before it slips right between her middle and index finger, securely settling it in a perfect pencil hold. “My late husband bought it for me.“

Your heart twists. “Oh.”

She chuckles, lowering her gaze to the pen held in her right hand. “He always spoiled me with lavish gifts. I was so frugal and stingy when I was younger, but he wanted nothing but the greatest for me. Everything I own now is all from him.”

A thin glaze coats her eyes, the pale sapphire flooding into a deep, engulfing azul. The flecks of silver seem to brighten against the cerulean tint, the blacks of her pupils tracing the intricate lines carefully. Long sections of white hair fall around her face, covering nothing more than the corners of her eyes and the highest end of her cheekbones.

“Is that your quirk?” The question jolts her out of her mind, eyebrows furrowing at your directness. You swallow, peeking at the window to protect your mind from her piercing eyes. “You’re young— or at least you look like it. Your husband passed away. Your quirk must stop you from aging, right? Because you don’t look older than 26 at most.”

There’s shifting in front of you, but your eyes refuse to look back ahead. Embarrassment burns in your cheeks and the fear of overstepping swirls within your gut.

“You should have stayed quiet,” the voice reprimands. “You’re so dumb, (Name).”

I was so dumb, why did I say that? She probably hates me now. She’s going to kick me out and I’m going to be stuck here forever and it won’t stop and—

“You’re more observant than you let on. But you also like to avoid confrontation, don’t you?” It’s not condescending or patronizing; it’s a factual statement— the truth. There’s no tone other than neutrality and genuinity. “That’s why you’re here today. A bit earlier than I expected you to come around, but you did nevertheless.”

Your lips purse. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She picks up the clipboard, flipping through some pages. “You weren’t completely honest about your past when we first began chatting, were you?”

The silence that lingers answers her question.

“Why not?”

You sigh. She smiles.

“I just . . . didn’t want to.”

“You’re not a burden, (Name),” her hand grabs the delicate pen and begins to trace unintelligible shapes onto the paper. “I understand why you closed yourself off. I read your file, you know. Spoke to Dynamight and Deku about you.”

You still.

What?

The knife of dread, fear, and panic slices it’s way into your heart, carefully tracing the outline of your aorta, atriums, and ventricles. The pointed tips glides over each ridge, caressing the soft tissue and flirting with the idea of piercing its way inside, only to send blood spurting everywhere and leave you cold inside out, once again.

She continues. “They both care for you a lot, in their own ways of course. Deku is much more vocal about his concern, but Dynamight is the silent, brooding type. He expresses his concern through his actions and behavior.”

She spoke to them? To him? Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?

Why didn’t Bakugou tell me?

“Yeah,” you breathe out, averting your eyes to the window outside. Your heart palpitates inside your chest. “That, uhm, really sounds like them.”

The sky is a bright blue today, with not a single cloud in sight. Buildings decorate the slopes of blue, with light shades of gray and dark shades of a hybrid of obsidian black and white.

“What a shame,” the voice pouts. “The view is obstructed. Wasn’t it just so lovely?”

The collar of your shirt is suddenly a tad bit too high, too tight, and suffocating. It clings to your throat, wrapping its fuzzy tendrils around the base, before slowly gliding across the expanse of your skin.

“Doesn’t it just remind you of those beautiful waters? The one near the cliffs, you know. Don’t you just want to go for a swim?” the voice purrs. “I, for one, think it sounds refreshing.”

The tentacles speed their movements, rushing their efforts to close their tendrils around your throat. The inky black swallows your throat, leaking into your lungs. Faster, they move. Tighter, they squeeze. Together, they suffocate you.

“It’s not fun when you’ve gone right back, y’know. Takes the fun out of your misery. Now, you’re all lifeless like a doll. You have no hero to save you. Just what will you do, (Name)?”

The sight in front of your eyes fades from a lovely sky and high rise buildings to a murky, endless bank of water screaming at you to fall below. Like a siren’s call, the kelp sings to you by teasingly waving its green body, luring you down below.

Sweat pools on your forehead, threatening to drip down your neck and onto your shirt. You can see it all now.

You remember it all now— vividly.

The beer. The cliff. The staff worker. The evening sky, the water, the spray of the salty sea, the stabs of the grass. The incessant nagging of the voice— the reminder of him, everything about him and how little you meant to him.

It all washes over you like a tide, overflowing with the means of drowning you to snap you back to reality.

“‘Wake up!’” it screams.

“—(Name)?”

Virdescent eyes bore into yours, pupils dilating as they continue to hold your gaze. The flecks of obsidian and rim of a deep, mysterious amethyst capture your attention.

The kelp twirls.

“(Name)?” A gentle, unnatural hand places itself upon your shoulder. The aroma of distilled rose water permeates your nostrils. “(Name), are you okay?”

The toxic green melts, burning through to reveal a set of pure, bright ruby red eyes.

The sky glimmers.

You blink.

She grins.

He doesn’t react.

You don’t know if that’s good or bad, really.

But the words continue to tumble.

“I— I loved him. That’s what hurts, Katsuki. I loved this man who returned an unobtainable love and I was too blind to see it.”

How foolish am I? How stupid do I have to be to not have seen this further?

“How stupid are you, (Name)?” the voice parrots.

It hurts. You’re tired. Everything is dark. The sky, the grass, your vision, your mind, your thoughts.

The stars in the sky are so faint, so dull. You miss their shine.

You miss the bright lens that were placed above your eyes, lighting up the sky.

Slowly, your world crumbled. Now, it was tumbling, shattering into millions of pieces.

Your chest tightens, and it feels as if you are back in the office, curled into a ball on the verge of suffocation.

You can remember the warm traces of tears spilling from your eyes, trickling down your cheeks. If you close your eyes, it feels as if you’re there, in those stuffy office clothes with the haphazardly thrown stacks of papers and splayed out tools, shattered pieces of glass, and a throbbing heart.

You’re dying. Lifeless. Hopeless.

I just want it all to end, please, please, please—

Warm hands snap you out of your thoughts. Large, calloused hands cup your face, tracing the dull tips of its fingers along the outline of your jaw, thumbs circling comfortingly under the bags of your eyes.

It’s cozy and loving, like warm cider on a chilly autumn day. Your heart pounds in your chest in excitement. Goosebumps erupt on your skin, and an older, kinder voice whispers at you to simply open your eyes.

When you feel the tickling of hair against your head, your eyes flutter open. A warm head bumps against yours, resting itself in the very center of your forehead, as if it fit there. The remedial hands of warmth continue their trek of tracing the outline of your features, encapturing your face in their hold.

Boring into your eyes are Katsuki’s, in all their cherry red glory.

“Bakugou . . . ?”

A hint of doubt flickers across his features. The corners of his eyes crease, and the middle of his brows furrow.

“You’re a cruel monster, (Name).”

“Always hated when you called me that, y’know,” is all he replies with.

He’s close.

“Too close,” the voice reiterates.

Despite the warmth radiating from Katsuki, goosebumps erupt on your skin like a volcano’s molten lava bursting through the surface to cover the earth’s surface in its flames.

Is it from the cold?

“No,” a foreign voice answers.

Red eyes flit to your lips and a shaky exhale leaves your nose.

Is it anticipation?

“Yes,” it responds again.

“Lean in,” it goads. “Give in. Don’t hold back.”

“You’ll hurt him, just like you hurt yourself,” the voice chimes. Your heart plunges into your stomach

The quiet lull of the other voice drowns out the terrors of the voice. “Be his. Just for tonight, let him have you.”

“Okay,” you breathe. The doubt and hesistance leaves you.

He press his lips against yours.

The kiss is a warm caress, one that lets warmth blossom on your own. It’s soft but so sweet, so gooey like maple syrup dripping down your throat. A tinge of cinnamon bleeds into your mouth and the smell of caramel floods your nose.

You pull away first, but Bakugou’s hand keeps your head touching his, staring into the other’s eyes.

Am I going to hurt him? Is this fair to him? Am I using him?

“You’re a horrible person, (Name),” the voice says. You want to agree.

The foreign voice speaks up. “Listen, (Name). Stay quiet and listen, please.”

“I know you still love him.”

His voice breaks and you feel your heart follow.

No, I don’t. You want to answer.

“But how much of that is true?”

You’re not sure.

“I know how much he matters to you. Izuku matters to me too.”

You want to cry.

“But I won’t give up on you. I never have and never will. Not— not unles you want me to. I won’t chase you if you don’t want me to. But if you’re willing to have me, even just for a bit to let me love you whole, I’ll stay.”

“Katsuki,” your voice breaks. The tears flow. Calloused fingers rub off the tears.

“He may have been your first love, but I intend to be your last.”

You panic. “But what if it takes too long? What if I take too long to lose feelings and you have to try again to make me fall in love with you?”

A warmth envelops you. “As long as you want me, I’ll work as hard for as long as I have in this life to be your final love.”

The heat is familiar and gentle; it doesn’t set your skin aflame, but instead adds a slight increase with every second, adjusting you.

It’s accommodating and loving.

It feels like home.

“It’s him, isn’t it? It always was.”

I was just too blind to see it.

The new voice whispers, “He could never hold it against you; he would always forgive you. All he wants and needs is you. Remember what Mitsuki said? You’re his everything.”

And he is the same to me.

——————————-——————————————

Midoriya is kind.

“Are you sure that’s all you want to order?” A large, scarred hand settles itself upon your smaller one, rubbing the area of your wrist with slow, gentle strokes.

Midoriya is kind in the way that he would help an elderly lady cross the street with her hand wrapped around his arm, guiding her safely to the other side. He is kind that when a child cried in the middle of the sidewalk all alone, he would approach them with nothing but a gentle smile on his face and kneel down to their height, offering his help.

Midoriya Izuku is a good man with a big heart and a bright smile. He is the sickly saccharine type of person— a man who despite being made of hard muscle, is truly all marshmallow and gumdrops.

He is a glorious man who chose to devote his life to saving the world— but that in itself is what made him so utterly selfish.

“He loves you, (Name).” the soft voice whispers. “Do you know that?”

His love is not enough for me to stay any longer.

“I ordered a whole bowl of pasta, Midoriya. I think that’s more than enough,” you grin, sliding your arm out of his grasp. He pouts like a kicked puppy who was just scolded by their own for eating one too many dog treats.

Maybe long ago, your heart would have squeezed at the expression. Now, no butterflies erupt in your stomach. No heat spreads to your neck and to the tips of your cheeks. All that churns in your stomach is the acidic sips of a mocktail you had and the glass of water you downed before going to meet Midoriya.

“You know, you can still call me Izuku,” Midoriya begins, retracting his hand from your side of the table. You dig your fork into the pasta, swirling it around in the plate. “I’m still your Izuku, right?”

What am I supposed to say to that?

You peer up, watching as his emerald irises swim with a fondness and intimacy you could only picture thousands of women would die to see Izuku Midoriya, Japan’s greatest hero, to gaze at them with.

But to you, it is meaningless.

“Do you pity him?” the gentle voice asks. “Do you pity yourself for how blindly you behaved as him, too?”

In front of you, you hear a group of girls squeal, “Oh my gosh, it’s Pro-Hero Deku!”

A big bite of pasta with a pointed smile is all you offer Midoriya as he turns to face the approaching group of gals murmuring in excitement, asking to take photos.

At least the pasta is good.

——————————-——————————————

“Say it,” the voice utters.

The city lights at the ripe time of midnight are a beautiful sight, filling the world with a plethora of icy and earthy tones. Giggly couples stumble down the street, hand in hand, high off of joy and young love. Teenagers skate down the sidewalks, hollering profanities and excited cheers into the night sky.

The whole world is bright and alive around you, despite the pit of black surrounding it.

“Will you let this moment slip? After all you’ve gone through?”

Midoriya’s hand once again reaches for yours, scarred fingers entangling themselves with yours. The pupils in the greens of his eyes seem to shrink as your palms make contact, and a faint blush sprouts on his cheeks.

In the moonlight, Midoriya Izuku is alive.

He is glowing brightly in the light of the city, with his unruly mess of curls draping over the tops of his eyes.

But beside him, you stand in the darkness of his shadows. In the presence of the Symbol of Peace, Izuku Midoriya, you are nothing more than the spirit that he is championed to destroy.

Once again, you are nothing more than a lost soul falling into the hands of death.

“Is that all you will ever be? Will you let all of your hard work dwindle to waste? Will you fall back into his arms only to repeat this same miserable cycle?”

Tips of blurry blonde spikes materialize in the depths of your mind. The crashing of waves against rocks bleeds into your ears and the pricks of blades of grass send tingles exploding across your skin.

“How much will it take until you truly break, (Name)?”

A pair of loving carmine eyes stare back at you, a bright twinkle in the corners of its pupils. They are a reminder of the gentle kiss and the tender love you had experienced only days before.

‘I want you, Katsuki.’

He had cried, when he heard those words.

‘Please, will you let me love you the way you loved me?’

You never thought you could reduce a man as powerful as Bakugou into a mess of joyous tears. But life has a habit of surprising people in the most unexpected ways.

I’m sorry, Midoriya, you long to say. I’m sorry you are slipping down the path you forced me to tumble down. But I’ll save you in the way you failed to save me in before. I’ll right your wrongs.

Not for you, but for me.

“I can’t do this,” you rip your hand out of his grasp, stepping back. “I can’t do this to you, Midoriya.”

He jumps, startled by your abrupt movements. He opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt.

“I can’t live with you in my life— not anymore.”

“(Name), what? What are you saying right now?” Midoriya reaches his hand out to anchor you— or himself— but you widen the gap between you two.

“I’m talking about you— I’m talking about us,” you gasp. The waves slosh in the bottomless pit of the sea. “You can’t tell me you didn’t see it like everyone else did. You can’t lie to me and say what you did wasn’t purposeful!”

Boots smush into the wet mud, slipping off the bottom of your foot. “_____________!” Midoriya exclaims.

The beating of your heart smashes against your ribcage and blood rushes to your face. “You were given so many chances, Izuku,” you cry as the tears finally slip. The bottle fissures and the dam explodes; the beast is unleashed. “You gave up. You gave up on yourself, you gave up on me, you gave up on us. You always have— you always will. You never took a single chance because you never cared enough!”

There are tears streaming down his own face, distorting the sight of those freckles you once adored so much. You had once believed them to be kisses from the gods themselves. Now, they seemed nothing more than a painter’s deception of beauty.

Midoriya weeps. “________________!”

No longer do you crumble under the weight of Midoriya’s tears. You stand proudly under the pour of your own.

“You’re forgetting someone, aren’t you, (Name)?” the voice curls around you, peering at you gleefully. She giggles. “You should go and surprise him, (Name).”

Katsuki. Your heart shines, despite the pain of the tears.

You turn away from Midoriya, sparing nothing more than a turn if your head. “Thank you for giving me the story of a lifetime, but this is the end of us. Our chapter closes today, Izuku.”

Around you, the city blurs. “The story of us wasn’t meant to last a lifetime. It was meant to be for only a moment.“

And slowly, so does Midoriya. You laugh, “But it is one I’ll never forget.”

Stuffing your hands into your coat, you move away, preparing to cross the street. But you pause before your foot meets the pavement.

“Midoriya,” you murmur, glancing side-to-side as the cars fly by, before looking back at him.

He stares at you, petrified, as if you were a ghost of his past.

Maybe, you are.

Maybe, you have truly become another ghost in his world.

“Do you remember me?”

The Symbol of Peace stares at you like a deer in headlights, frozen and lost. For the first of many times, Izuku Midoriya is clueless.

A smile plays on your lips.

“Who knew you could bring the most powerful man to his knees?” she pinches your cheek affectionately.

Fractured excuses and phrases of rambles slip past his lips, sending circles spinning upon circles.

You know the truth.

So does he.

“Don’t think about it too hard, Izuku.”

As you step onto the street, the moonlight falls upon you, covering Midoriya in its pit of dark.

Finally, you burn brighter than the stars above.

——————————-——————————————

The clock reads 2:37 AM.

You remember this road and the corner where Bakugou caught your arm.

You remember running and running until you got to the convenience store, pouring liquor while sitting on the hill. Downing bottle after bottle, bleeding away into a pool of water.

You remember the lights flashing, the salty spray of sea against your skin.

But you don’t remember the feeling or the pain of your broken heart.

It’s all gone.

It’s over.

The memories remain, the sleepless nights, the sober-less dreams.

But the pain does not.

For the first time, it’s gone; the wound has healed. The rift in your heart has shut.

“Call him.”

Frozen fingers reach into the depths of your purse, unlatching the metal clip to reach your phone as you trek down the street. With a few swipes, you press the call button.

Two rings pass before you hear a click and a groggy, gruff voice. A warm grin plays upon your lips.

“Hi, Katsuki.”

You chatter into the night, walking with a pep in your step. Muffled groans can be heard on the other side.

The voice sighs wistfully, resting her head on your shoulder. “Young love,” she twirls her hair around her finger, lips curling into a pleased smile. “How romantic it is, to be so young and utterly in love.”

Unwrapping her limbs from yours, she slips away into the dark, melting into the shadows of the moon. The wisps of her hair fade into a glimmer that twinkles in the streams of light and her body blows away with the breeze of the night.

You check the time in your phone.

2:37 AM, the clock reads.

The edges of your eyes crinkle.

He knew.

——————————-——————————————

#© platrom, plot / writing / banners & headers. do not repost, reblogs are appreciated! please consider leaving a comment and a heart! <3

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

(Somewhat disorganized thoughts to follow…)

So I’m sitting here thinking about Good Omens, as usual. And I’m wondering. What if Aziraphale hadn’t gone to chat with the Metatron?

Because it’s easy to say “awww yisss there would have been love confessions and kisses and everything would be better.”

But would it?

Because as the great Bildad the Shuhite said, “Nothing has to change.”

If there’s anything this 6000-year slow-burn has shown us, these two are content to remain… not exactly the same, but changing in glacially slow ways (and also not really content, but they’ll fucking do it anyway).

I think watching Gabriel and Beelzebub go off together got them both to realize that things could be different. But would that be enough to get them talking? Or would they have just gone off to their alcoholic breakfast, made a few jokes about whatever the hell’s just happened, then wind up back at the shop drunkenly talking about dolphins and bird space ships again, the needle on their relationship barely moved? And stay that way until the Second Coming finally arrived to shake things up?

Because it’s not a question, really, of them realizing something or revealing something. They both know.

Crowley knows what he wants, but he’d rather spend the next thousand years scowling from the sidelines and watching his angel be a happy idiot than actually put his feelings into words.

And Aziraphale—well, he has ideas, more than we give him credit for, he isn’t wholly oblivious, but his ideas are happy little dream worlds he can play out in his mind. He’s waiting for a better deal—not better than Crowley, obviously, but better than the precarious balance they currently exist in. A perfect shiny happy ending where everything is Good and Nice. And he’s willing to wait basically forever, just thinking about how nice it will be when it happens.

They need nudges. They need excuses. Especially Aziraphale. He sets up this whole ball for Nina and Maggie (partially) so he can ask Crowley to dance for the first time, but he’s there every day! You can just ask him to dance any time! He still denies having a “special” person to amnesia Gabriel. He doesn’t remember anything! Literally everyone in Heaven and Hell and also Earth think you’re an item now anyway! Just say the words!

The nudge for him was the Metatron’s offer. Taking charge of Heaven. Crowley at his side. They can make the Good guys truly Good. No one to question whether they belonged together. Happy ending.

Crowley’s nudge, of course, was Nina and Maggie telling him to goddamn say something. And I don’t think any of them realize it, but that had to be his conversation. If the two ladies had come over and talked to Aziraphale the same way (solo), he’d throw all his defenses back up and that would have been the end of it. If they’d talked to angel and demon together, well. These two are idiots. Aziraphale and Crowley would have refused to take the conversation seriously, talked circles around their guests, and left for their breakfast, laughing together over those humans and their ideas.

So for Crowley to get his nudge, he had to be alone when they visited, and for that to happen, Aziraphale had to go have his talk with the Metatron. Aziraphale had to get a perfect enough option to overcome his anxiety, and for that he needed his chat.

Now, am I saying that without the Metatron’s interference they never ever would have moved forward? Maybe. They’re complete idiots, your honor.

Maybe not, though. As I said, they just watched another angel and demon go off together. Would that be enough for Crowley to realize that, hey, actual communication sometimes has good results? Would that be close enough to a perfect ending to assuage Aziraphale’s fears?

I don’t know if we can say for sure. But I’ve been trying to play out that last scene in the bookshop differently to find where the path to the happy ending was, and I think this is the answer. Aziraphale needed to not go to the Metatron at all. They needed to be on their way before Nina and Maggie decided to visit. And then… somewhere in the talking and drinking that followed, one of them would have to take a risk.

And like, have you met these two? They’d be dooooooomed…

[igotanidea]

Christmas party: Aaron Hotchner x reader

christmas bingo day 2 : christmas party

***

Third annual BAU Christmas party was supposed to be the most important thus far.

Partially because Y/N could not attend previous two, due to her shot injury in year one and some family matters in year two.

But the other reason why it was so crucial, was that she was going to go with Hotch. And not just as BAU colleagues and team mates.  

No.

They were going as couple, though Hotch with his reserved persona and everything that happened in his love life before, was fairly reluctant to use this tag to describe them.

And Y/N understood this perfectly.

But Hotch’s harshness and skin deep coldness was not going to take away her excitement and holiday spirit.

Especially not after the little shopping spree with Emily, JJ and Penelope.

Y/N found just the right dress, fitting her body like a glove and was trying it one once again in the peacefulness of the house spinning around in front of the mirror, admiring how good it lied down, when a single sound of throat clearing threw her back to reality.

„Haley is sick.” Hotch said as if that was explaining everything. He had his signature unreadable expression and slight frown on the face, but for a second even the chief of the BAU couldn’t cover the tiniest glint in his eyes as he noticed Y/N’s new purchase.

„Hm. Okay....” she muttered in response. She really didn’t like it when Aaron mentioned his ex-wife. „Thanks for the information, but I think you missed steps 1-5 of why does this concern me.”

Maybe it was a bit heartless and cruel of her to say it, but truly no one could blame her for getting a bit possessive and jealous. After all, Haley was the woman he had a son with - oh wait, a son. All of a sudden she realised what this was about and looked at Hotch with poorly hidden disappointment in her eyes.

„I have to take care of Jack.” he just said and she filled in the rest.

They were not going to go.

She opened her mouth and closed them almost instantly. There were so many ideas in her head of how to remedy this sudden emergency. Jack’s grandparents, who would most definitely love to have the little boy over for a few hours. A babysitter. A night kindergarten. Or maybe they could left Jack sleeping through the night hoping he would not wake? Besides, was Hayley really so sick that she couldn’t have her son around her? Maybe she was just doing this on purpose cause she wanted Hotch back in her life, despite being the one to divorce him? There must have been a way for Aaron to still attend the banquet...

 And that’s when it hit her.

She was being a terrible person having thoughts like that.

Jack was just a little boy, not a bargaining chip. And trying to come up with a plan to get rid of him (in some way,even if just temporarily) was straightforward cruel and completely heartless. Honestly, at this point Y/N was ashamed of herself and of putting her own needs and wishes to show off as couple before standing by Hotch’s side.

„Y/N.” he said again with that deep, calm voice letting her know that he already analised her behaviour and face expression enough to know what was going on in her head.

„I’m sorry...” she muttered

„I can’t go the Christmas party.” he stated

„Oh, cause you wanted to attend it so much, right?” she rolled her eyes and chuckled causing him to lift the right corner of his mouth.

„But you wanted to.”

„Doesn’t matter.” she shook her head „three time’s the charm, maybe next year I’ll have more luck to actually get drunk and make a scene legitimately.”

„Y/N. You can still go by -”

„Nope.  Not a word Hotch. Not going without you. We’re a team remember. Not just as work. Not leaving you. Besides, I got a feeling it’s time for me to properly meet your son, don’t you think?”

***

Hotch didn’t say a word of objection and even though he never showed it, he was melting (inside) watching Y/N playing with Jack next to the Christmas tree. They were both splayed on the warm blanket on the floor, their happy faced illuminated by the Christmas light making them look like home. And when they both fell asleep on the couch, Jack holding onto Y/N with his little fingers wrapped around her midsection Hotch was pretty convinced that no fancy party could be better than this view in front of his eyes,

@somest1

[bunny-lou]

(Can't get this idea out of my head)

Phayu is taking a slow sip of his drink as a man, slightly older than him, approaches the table. Phayu stands and wais. "You must be Vegas?"

"My reputation proceeds me." He has an angular face, sharp cheek bones, but a gentle smile as he wais back. "But I've been told my reputation is why you contacted me."

Phayu takes his seat again. He's a little intimidated by a dom like Vegas Theerapanyakul, someone with enough experience to be known, rather prominently, in their lifestyle. "You're a professional dom?"

"Retired." Vegas says with a shrug. "I have only one pet these days." The way he says it sounds like he's enjoying retirement.

But Phayu is hung up on the word 'pet'. He's never referred to Rain as his pet, but the title isn't unappealing. "Well you came highly recommended from everyone I asked. I..." Phayu hesitates. "My sub is asking about kinks I don't have experience with."

Rain had been so sweet and curious when they met last year, but Phayu is partially to blame for awakening Rain's inner brat. The way Rain's eyes roll back when Phayu barely touches his throat is a sight he will never forget.

"I have experience in..." Vegas hesitates as he thinks, lips pursed for just a moment, "all of them, I think? At least the big ones. I can't remember the last time I came across a kink that both Pete and I were unfamiliar with."

Phayu knows that name too, Pete is just as infamous as Vegas in some clubs. "Your sub?"

"And my partner." Vegas corrects in a way that makes Phayu smile. "He has just as much experience in the scene that I do. Maybe more."

Phayu has never has a sub as experienced as he is, but he hasn't had a reason to try more intense kinks before now. "Rain is my partner. He's" a brat "new to kinks in general. I'm his first dom." Phayu has the sudden urge to stress how much he understand the responsibility he has to Rain. "He looks to me for a lot of guidance. I want to make sure I do well by him."

Vegas grins and it's a little less friendly and a little more feral. "Perhaps my Pete and your Rain would enjoy a play date."

(This is my first ever mood board so please be super nice.)

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

Hi!!

I'm so excited for this event - I love seeing your writing, and this theme is so cute!!

For my request, may I suggest the combination of Jade with prompt 8 ("by the babbling brook"), and the emojis 🖌,🤝 and/or 🍵?

Best of luck (and have fun!) with your writing!!

*.ﾟ+ヽ(○^▽^○)ﾉﾞ +.ﾟ*

By the Babbling Brook; Jade Leech

Content; Fluff, gender-neutral reader, I allude to romance but you get to choose your ending ;)

Word Count; 700+

AN; The first of three Jade requests. I have no idea where all the Jade kissers came from, but I'm THRILLED to see it. Hope you enjoy your request! As a reminder, do not put my work — or others for that matter — into AI as it steals. Link to Masterlist

It was a pleasant day, both in the weather — being not too hot, with a gentle breeze and fluffy white clouds dotting the sky — and in today’s activities. It was picturesque. For you see, you spent the majority of your day painting plein air by a quaint brook. You don’t really know what compelled you to grab the easel, brushes, and most likely expired paint that was just collecting dust in some random closet in Ramshackle, but you didn’t regret it. It was nice, just sitting under the shade of an aging birch tree and painting the scene in front of you. Just you, the sounds of nature, the gentle warmth of the sun, and your paints and easel.

Well, it was just you for the majority of the day. Seems like someone else had a similar idea.

“Prefect,” a familiar voice called behind you, “this is quite a pleasant surprise. I was not expecting to see you here.”

Looking behind you, you saw none other than Jade Leech carrying a wicker basket partially filled with mushrooms and a thermos bag slung across his chest. “Jade? I could say the same about you.” You would have thought that he would spend his summer in the sea with his family, but the mer-eel was very much still on land. At least for today, judging from his rather decent fungi haul. 

Jade let out a soft chuckle and chose to ignore the rather large chaga growth on the birch tree in favour of enjoying your company. He could always get it later, your company was far greater worth to him than the fungus anyhow. “I enjoy stretching my legs every so often, plus it serves as an opportunity to explore new places and-”

“Was Floyd getting on your nerves,” you ask, closing the cap on the paint you were using.

A small smile graced his face, and his eyes glimmered. “Hmm, perhaps. Why are you here, Prefect? May I see what you’re painting?”

He leaned over your shoulder and inspected your work. He was so close that you could smell sea salt, the earthy smell of mushrooms, and the scent of matcha. He hummed to himself and stepped out of your personal bubble, giving you a nod. “A rather lovely piece.”

You blinked, “Thank you.” And then you remembered his question. “Wanted to get out, get some fresh air. It is a lovely day, after all, would be a shame to spend it cooped up inside… Would you like to walk for a bit?”

Jade raised a brow, “Fair enough. And where to?” He looked at you with curious eyes, waiting for your answer.

“Wherever we please,” you answer. Painting could wait for later. “We can see where the brook brings us.”

So the two of you walked together beside the brook, an easy quiet with each other. But it was comfortable, and you knew that he would share eventually, so you felt no need to push or fill the air with awkward attempts at small talk. Until you reached a steep hill in which the brook ran under, eroding the soil to form an underground system.

Jade offered you his hand, “Looks like it ends just on the other side.” He looked back at you expectantly, his hand still outreached.

You grabbed it, and Jade helped the both of you get up the steep embankment. Upon reaching the top you saw a small pond, full of water lilies and looking like it was plucked out of a Claude Monet painting. The very setting of a fairy tale.

“Wow,” you breathed out and looked back to Jade.

But Jade wasn’t looking at the quaint pond, he was giving you a soft look instead. “I take it you’re happy with how this trip unfolded.”

You were still holding hands, but neither of you made any move to separate them. Screw it, you don’t get this chance every day. Take your shot! And you brought Jade’s hand to your lips, placing a kiss to his knuckles. You had wanted to do that small, yet world-shifting, action for what felt like forever, and so, you took it. “Beyond happy.”

His eyes widened before he let out a soft breath of air, bringing your hand up and placing a kiss on your wrist. “That’s wonderful… you’re wonderful.”

“You’re wonderful too, Jade.”

[hop-a-lot]

Just want to let you know (and maybe you know its me bc i always reblog your art or like it) that your bidwell and saxton changed my course of life *screaming fighting to take mic from stage hands* and its my fanfic au bedtime-story replay-in-head so much so that in my jogs from morning to hobbies at home I think of absolutely bidwell getting demolished emotionally or physically. His hole could be de atomized by saxton and re arranged his brain cells to be another au personality for god know whatever dice roll a man of flaws contains- but I will think of him almost without fail in your art style if fic or mental or trying to remember the og comics. I see them and im like ugh hell yeah.

If youve ever posted bidwell in a pose ive probably cinemagraphed already the trilogy for a bed time story. 🥲❤️The human lion of a man(hale) with ferocity of dominating the situation or endangered animal but inner integrity decency to not punch a little girl getting romantic with a man (biddy) detaining audience with the excitement of colgate toothpaste and sterilism of a white glove after a forensics crime scene taking up affection as his husband has my trope heart bang on pots and pans on the kitchen floor. Literally reborn with them. A delicacy Im never going to write so!! I mentally pass away lol!

I keep going back and forth on this ask after it dropped in my inbox bc this deserve a proper reply however here just me being delulu over these two lol, but this truly made my day.

Bidwell is like, an utter thrill-seeker although he might put a deadpan face but he knew he never get bored if he works with Saxton, lore-wise speaking he can just stand nearby a brawl between a muscle man and a yeti while holding his video camera filming his boss, since Bid can't bring himself to destroy all of Saxton's works after listening his (crime) confession when they supposed to return to the company hq during the robot assault. Then Bidwell came up an idea of an announcement film, for one he can *partially* solve the problem by sending it to Miss P and mercs, for two, at least he pampered Saxton and have yeti steak dinner with him (and if that's not gaylove then idk..)

[theminecraftbee]

"Pick 2 fics and I'll combine them somehow"

Attempt 33 and solving counting sheep?

(was going to ask scs + boatem roadtrip, but that was answered by a crystal clear mental image of the meme "gee Three, how come you get two crises of selfhood after being changed into something eldritch by forces beyond your control")

okay so there are two directions to take this one--actually no hold on make that three:

three stuck in a time loop, we write about the thirty-third attempt to escape this time loop. interestingly, i think that while three wouldn't have the SAME neuroses about it as joe hills (fewer groundhog day references, for one, but also three has less of a painful need to help people to its own detriment), it would have a similar problem of "constantly approaching the goal line and refusing to entertain getting off of that path". this would be a fic in which three has a few brand new existential crises, for sure! i think that three would like... be less transparently SAD about everything? but also would be a lot more. this would be a fast way to get three to descend into mission mode. it'd be fun!

joe hills turned into a watcher weapon. to be honest, i don't know where, exactly, to take that one; i knew what i wanted from three because i was playing in the territory of a bunch of existing tropes. i knew what a typical watcher!grian looked like, i knew what a typical winter soldier fic looked like, and i knew what themes of identity i wanted to play with. joe hills would be a bit more uncharted, partially on the front of "there really aren't as many joe hills whump tropes for me to play around with unfortunately" and partially on the front of "well, three ISN'T grian, and i'm not sure what shape i'd make the person who isn't joe". so, there you go there.

but then i remembered another old fic idea i could mention that, in a literal plot sense, doesn't combine these two fics that much, but in a THEMATIC sense, very much does. anyway a while ago i had this fic idea i never wrote out where, one day, traffic!cleo wakes up in hermit!cleo's place, in a universe where we assume those are two different people who live two different lives, and the fallout from that is Messy To Say The Least. this is one of those fics i have a title from a song for in my head--"To a Poet"--and a few VERY STRONG scenes in my head. for the record the themes here that combine are "joe's inability to stop helping people even to his own detriment", "dealing with people seeing you for someone you aren't and expecting you to remember things you don't", and "oh my god all of these people have so much trauma and that affects their relationships so bad". man i should pull this fic out of the back burner again sometime, it really was a good idea...

[sea-owl]

So I'm listening to An Unhealthy Obsession and I just imaging Violet and Edmund saying some parts of the song to Portia. So I have a whole scene based off of it too. Because I'm delusional for Portia x Violet x Edmund at the moment. But in this one I would like the say Archibald is very much still alive and Edmund too but Penelope and her sisters are married. Now you can absolutely add onto this! and I wanna hear you out on the idea of them all together

Violet trapped Portia in a corner of her own house. Most people will call it creepy but she calls it love. She couldn't disturb the peace of the household.

"Lady Bridgerton, what has gotten into you?!" Portia nearly exclaimed, she held some parts of her dress in her hands. Most of the servants would be in the servants quarters and hardly anyone would likely catch them at the end of the hallway close to Portia's personal quarters.

"I've got a million reasons why I'm acting the way I do right now." Violet's breathed roughly and harshly as she reached her hand out to the woman before her and tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

"Violet, please. You're just drunk and your utterly scaring me." Portia tried to look beyond the brunette for some help. "You just don't know it yet, but you love me and we love you the same." Violet's eyes dilated as she gazed over the woman before her. The way her hair was partially down and how her lips parted at her words as if she was going to retort something to the lady.

"Violet. I think it's best to take a few breaths and we can talk about everything in the morning. I'm pretty sure your husband needs you back home before dark." Portia tried to move past her only to be pushed against the wall and she let out a surprised gasp.

"One day we'll have a pretty wedding, and we'll be your everything. We'll be together, yes forever, we will never ever part." Violet took Portia's hands into her own and kissed them gently as she stared down the woman who shivered.

"Edmund is your husband. You must make haste before my husband sees you are still here." Portia harshly whispered.

"Oh, you don't know it yet but baby we've already got your heart." That's when it dawned on Portia. The flowers she's received every day when they first moved in. The pieces of love letters that she hid from her husband when the flowers arrived. The way she started noticing very recently that some of her things were starting to go missing.

"It's the both of you?" She whispered more to herself than to the lady before her.

"Some call it stalking, I say walking just extremely close behind. I'm sure if I sat down and asked you, well, you really wouldn't mind." She heard another voice down the hall. Loud enough for the two women to hear but quite enough just for them to hear.

Edmund and Violet craved for the attention of Portia Featherington and they were going lengths to achieve it.

Oh, I haven't heard about that song in a minute. I remember that being on almost every yandere playlist. I still remember that reverse gravity falls video that introduced me to the song.

Since I am forever a believer in Irish Portia, I like to think she thought some fae bs was going on and she's been secretly wearing protective items. Like her iron bracelet she's been wearing under her sleeves and gloves. Or the rowan berries she had made into hair pins. The red of the berries hiding among the red of her hair.

Even when Violet pinned her against the wall, Portia thought maybe it was a changeling thing and was getting ready to pull her glove off to press the cold iron of her bracelet into Violet's skin. But when Edmund appeared, Portia began to realize the fae weren't involved at all. Edmund and Violet were two humans who were obsessed with her.

Portia was starting to wish it was some fae bs, least then she knew how to deal with them. This she didn't have the first clue on what to do.

[neofeliis]

Tracing the Scars

Tiefling!Tav/Astarion

Note: a Rewrite of the scar reveal scene, in which I wish we were just able to touch him. Like everyone else I was listening to a lot of Sleep Token when I wrote this. Takes place after allowing him to feed, but before trying to seduce Tav.

----

"What are you doing?"

Her voice, sudden but soft, made the typically composed man jump. Astarion whirled on her, face bewildered and ready to defend himself. As those red eyes landed on the shorter tiefling, her gaze nothing but gently inquisitive, his expression shifted faster than he would have liked. But despite himself she was the least offensive person to have caught him feeling blindly at his back.

In as fast a recovery as he could muster, he slapped on that face of haughty annoyance and responded sharply, "Trying to decipher these blasted scars. I can make out partial lettering, but nothing else." He turned from her again, torn from being able to see that terrifyingly calm face and showing her his old wounds.  

Astarion had expected her to look disgusted, thrown off, or even to have some form of pity. But none of that was on her face, only curious concern. 

Seeing that on her was so very, very frightening. It was a taste of fear that he had not known, or perhaps remembered. Still, she seemed like she was waiting, allowing him to speak first.

"Centuries these have been here and I can't even use a BLASTED mirror!" he shouted, tossing the tunic he had balled in his other hand onto the ground. No, he would not be afraid.  He was angry .  Anger was familiar, anger was self-preserving, and Astarion had anger in excess. An endless well to pull upon when no other emotion made sense.

Tav did not flinch, only tilting her head slightly at him.  She wanted to know more, wanted him to open more to her, but she had to also weigh the possibility he might recoil from that.  A wounded beast, where every hand extended was a threat. He may have thought he hid that hurt well, but his mask was one she knew well.  "Where are they from?" She asked instead, her tone tentative. A hundred other questions lingered on her restrained tongue.

Astarion sneered, looking to the ground. "Cazador. Lovingly, painstakingly carved for a whole night. Quite the artist, didn't stop until it was just right. " He paused, his body tensing as a new memory assaulted him, "He would start over if I made too much noise."  The strength in his eyes guttered, something she had been catching more in recent days.  The man worked hard, very hard to keep those moments covered.  Whether she could see him better, or he was losing hold on his walls, she couldn’t be sure. But in the firelight, she could see how tight his muscles were coiled. Like preparing for a fight but with no idea when it would even begin.

Against his will, she thought, like everything else. 

"And for all of that, I don't even know what it says, or why–," his voice cracked, so soft she almost missed it, "why he did this to me. Other than for his own sick enjoyment." His hand returned to feeling the raised markings, barely able to reach half of them. "Ever since they healed, I've been tracing them trying to decipher what it says, to understand it, but I've never even seen it. I don't even know what language it is."

Tav furrowed her brow, tilting her head slightly. So much mutilation, and he wasn't even given the grace of knowing the tongue. "It's infernal," she finally said matter-of-factly.

"I don't need your–" Astarion started a rehearsed snap, but stopped short, whirling once more on her. This time he did not try at all to school his surprise. "You…you can read this?" Something alive glimmered in that voice, something crawling up from beneath the bitter anger.

She tilted her head, lifting a single brow, and then motioned to herself as her tail swished behind her. 

He looked abashed, knowing it was obvious, and bobbed his head, "Fair point," he conceded, "but why in the hells would it be in infernal?"

Her brows knit together, and he squirmed under her stare. The vampire wanted to flee from it, never look back, while also knowing he likely couldn't if he tried.  "I can't help you with that part, but would you like me to read it to you?"

Astarion balked, thrown off that she would even offer. "I–,” he had played in his head how the rest of this conversation would go, and this wasn’t it.  He had to think faster on his feet with her, and he hated it. But still, she was offering something to him he'd never imagined being given, and that was hard to pass up. “This isn't your problem," he replied, voice soft again. Why the hell hadn’t that come out with the ice he wanted?

Tav smiled.  Smiled, so gentle it cracked something in his chest.  It was the kind of smile you give someone who is hopelessly missing something obvious.  "I know, I'm helping you anyway, Astarion. Turn around," she mimed a small turn with her finger, "please."

The vampire hesitated, doubt flashing across his features. It was an act of trust, to turn his back on her at her request.  But no one had ever done this for him, and two centuries of not knowing was enough motivation. If nothing else, he could convince himself this was just another way he could use her to his gain.

Slowly, carefully, he revealed his marred flash again. 

Tav stepped closer to him, and she watched him tense, peering sidelong over his shoulder at her underneath silvery lashes. If she didn't know better, she'd almost think he stopped breathing, a single ruby eye trying to read her every intention.  It was the look of a predator admitting to a truce, but not betraying a single ounce of the danger to anyone who would violate it. He was on the defense, always, and she couldn't help wondering how exhausting that must be.

The tiefling lifted a clawed hand, but stopped and pulled it back just slightly.  She met his gaze again and held it, making him feel worlds more exposed than he already was.  Mortals were meant to look away, to buckle under that eye contact, but she did not. Still, there was little confidence in her stance now. The moment at hand was tenuous at best, and both felt they were teetering on the edge of shattering it. 

"Have you even been able to touch all of it?" she asked, finally breaking that silence. 

A beat of quiet consideration, a small guttering of his gaze, "No, the last person to touch it was Cazador."

She knit her brows, considering. Considering her present relationship with him; everything they had been through so far, how she felt about him. How she hoped, foolishly, he might have felt about her beneath all that bravado. Hells, he'd already fed on her…but somehow this felt leagues more intimate. 

"Can," the words almost died in her throat, fear trying to claw them back inside. "Can I touch you?"

Something unrecognizable flashed in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He quickly flashed that terrible, wonderful, dangerous grin at her. "How sweet of you to ask, darling." That word. He'd used it before, far more than once. It felt like a lie every time, the kind you tell to hide something carelessly broken. It was sickly sweet with an acrid aftertaste. Mostly because she found herself wishing it was sincere the more he said it. Like a fool. "Please do," he all but begged, turning away from her completely. To hide his face or to let her work, she couldn't be sure. 

But regardless, this was as close to permission as she would get.

The writing on his back was fragmented, like a part of a greater whole; something that barely made sense. Regardless, she moved to where she believed was the beginning of the inscription.

Her first touch, featherlight, sent a shock through him that took every ounce of his control to stifle. To give no indication of.  He could try with everything he had, but there was no hiding the tense in his jaw and the way his fangs ground together. He honestly thought she might hear it.

At first, the memory of his old master crashed into him like thunder, an explicit recollection of that pain, the screams he swallowed down that night, the gleefully authoritative tone in Cazador's voice as he carved into his flesh. Mutilating it, claiming it, defiling it.  The man, the monster that had done this to him was still out there, and regardless of how far Astarion ran, Cazador was waiting to take him back, to correct his mistakes. 

His mind whirled, submitting to the maelstrom that awakened with the contact on his wounds, spiralling down into the open maw of the past. It was a hungry beast, an etherious thing that needed to only be patient for the inevitable. It was going to swallow him whole sooner or later; he was a fool to think otherwise or that he had gained any shred of freedom.  Freedom was a lie. Freedom was as foolishly dangerous as hope. He needed only wait for it to be snatched away.

"Breathe."

The images shattered instantly; that simple word banished the darkness from his vision. A sunrise, more spectacular than any he had reclaimed since the infection, warmed over his thoughts. The fears and the horrors of the night found themselves held at bay with one word. 

Oblivious to the magnitude of her sway on him, she began to read his markings out loud, moving slowly to find the words in Common.  With every word, every syllable, her fingers traced across their respective marks, taking care not to touch him with her claws. 

It felt like a banishment.

She was rewriting it. 

The tiefling didn't know it, she might never know it, but every new mark she touched eclipsed the last soul to have touched it. The glide of her fingertips, hot to the touch, and the slow, reverent recitations of his markings awoke something.  Something deep, entombed , hidden in his chest stirred and brushed against old, rusty bars. He should have balked from it, checked the locks that held it in place.  Instead, he found himself deferring to it and his head lolled back, white curls cascading backwards.

Tav finished long before he wanted her to; he would have given her forever to stop. Astarion reveled in his delirium, stoking the feral hunger in his belly. 

He wanted more. 

More of the woman, more of her touch. Her scent. Her presence. Every inch of her, he wanted it.  The hunger made his throat sting, a hunger that should have been familiar, but this one had a different taste.  A long-forgotten flavor that had been tainted. How would it have tasted now?  Now that it would have only been for him?  Now that it was of his own volition, no one else’s?

For so long touch had been soured for him, something he wielded like a weapon for someone else's benefit. He had no value but what he could lure back with everything his body could offer.

But truthfully, Astarion could not recall the last time he had been touched in a way he enjoyed. In ernest rather than lust. In a way that reached beneath the mask to touch the raw, starving creature hidden there.

Perhaps he took too long to snap out of it, because her next word was not one engraved upon his skin. 

"Astarion?"

The beast rumbled within. His name, on her lips, was ecstacy reborn. 

But she couldn't know. And he couldn't trust himself, either to make himself vulnerable or to hurt her…it wasn’t clear.  The only thing that was, was that one of those options was more revolting to him than the other.

With every ounce of his willpower, Astarion swallowed the burning lump in his throat and schooled his face back into control.  Slowly, trying not to tremble, he picked back up his discarded tunic and shook the dust off of it.  He looked over his shoulder again and produced a small grin that he wanted to be a lot more theatrical than it was. "Thank you. I don't know the slightest bit of what that may mean, but it seems we will have no shortage of time to figure that out."

She smiled at him, easy and effortless.  A quiet agreement without an ounce of hesitation. The breath left his lungs, and he saw her how he had not seen her before.  For a brief moment, she looked like something more than a means to an end. Which could just as easily spell his own end, and if he knew what was good for him, he would perish the thought. He would keep her at bay, just enough to get what he needed, he keep himself and only himself safe.

But oh, when did Astarion ever know what was good for him?

I am a winged insect, and you are my funeral pyre. 

[educatedsimps]

01 Affettuoso

≪ our last summer masterlist | fics masterlist

[it.]: tenderly Written in the form of a letter.

August 2021

Dear Tōru

I distinctly recall the first time we had met each other. It was the second year of middle school, and I was doodling in my sketchbook, seated at the grandstand in our school's sports stadium. I was enjoying my time of solitude, because I was a shy introvert who only spoke when spoken to.

I was in the middle of my sketch of an unknown male, partially because I did not have the inspiration nor a muse to get my creative juices flowing.

Well, that was until you entered that indoor stadium. It was really more like a scene from a high school drama.

The bright afternoon's sunshine shone down onto your being while your smile rode high across your face. You had your favourite turquoise volleyball bag slung across your shoulder, and your hair was slightly tousled - like you had just ran your fingers through it after a shower.

You really made my jaw drop, and from then on, I always referred to you as My Golden Boy.

I had found my muse, and I ended that day with a sketch of your face, even though I never found the courage to show it to you.

Isn't it amusing, though? Now, upon reflection, I still have no idea why you chose me back then. I was far from the ideal match for someone like yourself.

What we had shared, however, gave me a brief taste of happiness. I think schoolmates to lovers would be the most apt way to describe us. And yet, as we grew and matured even more in high school, we realised that our goals were gradually diverging from each other. And that, I suppose, was what pushed us away from each other.

You had always wanted to become a professional volleyball player, and I had always wished to eventually pursue my artistic endeavours. The more time we had away from each other resulted in an irreconcilable chasm between us. We ended up cancelling our dates because something always popped up at the last minute, and it only became worse when you got the offer to work in Argentina. I was left behind in Japan, and I don't think you know just how agonising it was for me to not be able to see and touch you for months on end.

I know it was never something we wished for, but our split was ultimately inevitable. I remember crying my guts out, wondering why and how we had reached such a low point.

I never thought that I would lose myself, when I lost you.

Seeing you today, however, made me feel nothing but pride and joy and hope. You had accomplished your lifelong goal, your dream, as a star player in the Argentinian volleyball team. And amazingly, more and more brands were lining up to get you to endorse them.

For me, well, I had ventured into the unknown for a while, but soon I was given the rare opportunity to work as an Art History Professor in The Juilliard School in New York. My specialty is now art in the form of words, rather than my original drawings and paintings.

I arrived in Argentina several days ago on a self-care vacation, only to see your once familiar face plastered all across Bueno Aires. I see you've become quite a household name.

It first came as a shock to me, since you had decided to relocate to Argentina, but I soon realised that you had finally found so much joy in this country. Much more than you did in middle and high school, in hindsight.

Perhaps, our breakup had been kinder to you, and allowed you to find yourself in both volleyball and in your soul.

I don't regret that we have ended, I only regret not letting you go sooner. I could have propelled you to an even better position in life had I done that earlier. I only see that I was holding you back from your dreams.

Penning all of this down now, at the age of 27, is perhaps too late.

I would never have the chance to give nor mail this letter to you now, since we've lost contact. Additionally, seeing you on practically every billboard and screen prompted me to do some research on you.

It seems that you are now happily engaged to an Argentinian-born Japanese badminton player, who attained her first Olympic medal when she was only sixteen.

So yeah, this letter will be mine to keep until I'm gone.

I just wanted to use my words - the ones I never said - to tell you that I truly loved you then, and to this day, I still do.

Love always Y/N

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[batrachised]

just reread the curious case of walter blythe................ i trust you with my blorboy. any other thoughts on him?

(referring to this post - highly recommend digging into the reblogs as well because there was a lot of interesting discussion!)

Thoughts on Walter Blythe? Do I have thoughts on Walter Blythe? My home-boy, my rotten soldier, my sweet cheese, my good-time boy? He's hard to analyze because the tears make it difficult to see the screen to type, but I will assuredly try my best.

Gah, it's hard to know even where to begin with Walter. Walter is difficult to poke at it in one sense, because (as I read somewhere once), he's more of an emblem than an actual character. He repeatedly represents WWI in the text, and WWI's impact on his generation. Like Emily, he seems to have a connection to a "second sight" of sorts, but unlike Emily, this isn't in your local neighborhood witch way - it's in a 'terminal and aware of it' way (to borrow the phrase from gogandmagog). Both Rainbow Valley and Ingleside mark him for death; a rather abrupt shift from the sunny childhood tone of the novels. What's more, this sometimes comes from Walter himself. In Rainbow Valley, he's the one to say they'll follow the Pied Piper, while also being the one to sense the horror flickering underneath the idea. In Ingleside, we have the shadow of his cross over his bed, breaking the placement of the story for a moment; it pops forward to a future Anne, looking back and wondering if that were an omen in her grief (a chilling vignette in an otherwise idyllic, literal 'tucking children into bed' scene). Then, of course, there's this poppy passage I'll never stop thinking about:

"Look at that wave of poppies breaking against the garden wall, Miss Cornelia. Susan and I are very proud of our poppies this year, though we hadn't a single thing to do with them. Walter spilt a packet of seed there by accident in the spring and this is the result. Every year we have some delightful surprise like that." "I'm partial to poppies," said Miss Cornelia, "though they don't last long." "They have only a day to live," admitted Anne, "but how imperially, how gorgeous they live it! Isn't that better than being a stiff horrible zinnia that lasts practically for ever?"

As posted before, it's a subtle foreshadowing of Walter's short life, while also referencing his fate - poppies are its enduring symbol of WWI.

So, in the midst of this repeated foreshadowings, we have actual child Walter. Extremely sensitive, bullied, a misfit, a misfit to the point that he doesn't even look like his family (a hop out of kin, as the book says), and someone who is ruled by fear yet has a iron moral backbone. He hates violence in all forms, and yet can savagely beat another child when called for. He's implied to have a gift for poetry that's exceptional, the same gift that leads to derision and confusion from everyone around him. He's asexual in the text, as the article I cite in the original post would say, never displaying an interest in women (besides one person suspecting he liked Faith) in a way unlike every other LM Montgomery hero. He's very earnest - see this passage from Ingleside, which is probably one of my favorites from LM Montgomery, just look at our helpful boy:

"Did you hear what happened to Big Jim MacAllister last Saturday night in Milt Cooper's store at the Harbour Head?" asked Mrs. Simon, thinking it time somebody introduced a more cheerful topic than ghosts and jiltings. "He had got into the habit of setting on the stove all summer. But Saturday night was cold and Milt had lit a fire. So when poor Big Jim sat down...well, he scorched his..." Mrs. Simon would not say what he had scorched but she patted a portion of her anatomy silently. "His bottom," said Walter gravely, poking his head through the creeper screen. He honestly thought that Mrs. Simon could not remember the right word. An appalled silence descended on the quilters. Had Walter Blythe been there all the time?

Then we have adult Walter, whose character focus has been tightened to the war entirely. Walter's arc as an adult is facing his fear of violence, but also, of himself - of not being good enough. Walter has been looked down his entire life for who he is, including by his loved ones (both Gilbert and Susan imply or explicitly state disapproval of Walter at different points, although Gilbert's is very understandable in context). Wrapped into this has to be the self-knowledge of what he was like fighting Dan Reese, and knowing that he'll be expected-encouraged-required to tap into that part of himself. It's a pressure cooker situation, with societal pressure, moral pressure, moral censure, and self-censure all thudding down on him at once.

And Walter goes, and Walter dies. His arc as the "other" is complete; his poem and letter to Rilla speak to a hope for the future; he even sees his death as a mercy, because he couldn't have lived after the things that he'd seen. Jem will come back to work as a surgeon and marry Nan; Nan will wed Jerry; Rilla be a mother and wife to Ken -- Walter will forever be "Somewhere in France."

A grim ending, but LM Montgomery is deliberate in highlighting its hope. Walter writes of the poets of the future, and his death is understood to be both a pointless tragedy and a necessary, noble sacrifice.

What interests me is how this changes in the TBAQ. This book...it's raw. It's just raw. There are notably moments when the importance of Walter's death is emphasized, and this importance is intertwined with a steady hope - see the following line from Gilbert...

...but repeatedly, it's raw grief. Walter's siblings rarely refer to him dying; instead, they describe it unsteadily as "when he went away." Anne especially - the main character of the series, a cultural cornerstone synonymous with optimism and joy - is a far cry from how we've seen her before. It's repeatedly mentioned that Anne has not been the same since Walter's death, and whenever we hear Anne speak after the war in this book, it's almost always--if not always--something downcast and hopeless. It's her children and her husband who are the ones trying to comfort and find meaning; Anne herself is broken. The book reflects the themes of Walter's arc in Rilla - his noble sacrifice, the violence of his passing, its inevitability as deemed by the text - but it is also a blunt, uncushioned statement that Walter's death left a wound that will never be healed. Unlike with other major character deaths in the Anne series - Matthew, Joyce, eventually Marilla - there is no acceptance here. Anne of Ingleside mentions how Anne still mourns Joyce, but that's one beat of many in her life filled with babies and laughter. Here, Anne's grief is the only one. Everything we learn about her in this book indicates that Anne is not okay, and will never be okay again. It's a picture of a woman so deeply sunken in her grief it becomes her primary characteristic. She finishes Walter's unfinished poems, she reads them aloud to her family, she is disconsolate in every paragraph, and the book ends with her finding a poem of Walter's he wrote on the front where he imagines viciously bayonetting a teen soldier to death, resulting in her saying she was happy Walter had never come back.

I'm getting offtrack from the subject of Walter here, but the point of these very rambling paragraphs is that Walter's inherent textual purpose is to illustrate the horrors of WWI. Normally, LM Montgomery's strength lies in the slice of life approach that deftly handles the reality of life's bittersweetness. With Walter's fate, it's just bitter. There's no uplifting message, or character growth--the characters are crushed (at least in TBAQ, vs in Rilla, where its tied to the defeat of evil and Rilla's arc as mentioned above).

This inherent purpose is impossible to separate from Walter, or at least very difficult [trust me, as someone who is writing a fanfic on a no wwi walter]. What would a Walter who survived WWI been like? Would he have been transformed into a darker version of Dean Priest? What about a Walter who never went to war at all? Would he have married Una? Would he have married at all? Was part of his tragedy realizing the reality of romance (ala Anne in Anne of Avonlea) too late, quite literally the night of his death? How would that play out if he had survived? If WWI had never happened at all? Would he have been a famous poet? Or was this only achievable through war and his Piper poem? WWI is the fabric of Walter's character, and so answering these questions - while definitely possible and reasonable - can turn into a bit of a guessing game. The implication in Walter's tragedy - in this sense, tragedy meaning what he himself lost with his death - is that he never achieved his dream of being a poet, and he never married Una/didn't see her until it was too late. This provides us with the implication of what his life would have been like if he had survived, but the war also serves as his mechanism for achieving them. Walter becomes a famous poet because of the war, and realizes his [??????] for Una only once he realizes his death is inevitable.

Then, as seen in the post you brought up, Walter's intended character arc inadvertently doubles as an unintended character arc of his sexuality. A lot of Walter's "terminal and aware of it" characteristics double as signals for the potential truth of his sexual identity. I think this is seen most sharply in the short story from TBAQ where Patrick, also unlike other boys, also censured by society, says he loves Walter with all his heart - meant to pair them due to their brushes with death, but the secondary reading here is inescapable. [i recognize they're related, but this was the time of cousin marriages so]

This post has become a sprawling behemoth, but it visually demonstrates my overall point: I think Walter Blythe is one of the richest and most complex characters LM Montgomery wrote. It's fun to tease out the other characters' beliefs and habits and depth, but Walter is a universe of implication and tragedy. There are endless questions to be asked here: what did Gilbert think of Walter, as almost polar opposites? How did their relationship change as Walter grew into a man? What about Walter's nephew, who is said to also love poetry? What sort of relationship would they have had if Walter had survived? How do you grow up dealing with censure from all sides? How do you grow up dealing with censure from all sides, and with a popular and well-liked older brother who is everything you are not? The war serves as a christening of Walter's courage and therefore his masculinity - how would Walter's struggles with his perceived masculinity have played out had the war never happened? Would it have taken international success for him to gain respect? What if he never did? How would Walter's capacity for savage violence have played a role in his life, if it all? Why is Walter so capable of savage violence compared to his siblings? If Walter had survived, would this part of him become more prominent? On the flip side, Walter is extremely sensitive to ugliness and violence - how would this impact his life if the war had never happened, because life inevitably brings this everyone's way?

Most importantly of all, can Walter as an emblem be separated from the thing he is the emblem of? What do you do with a symbol that loses its meaning?

In the end, Walter's character has the unavoidable tension of a tragic figure for the reader. His story compels us because of its end, and yet wanting to change the end is what compels us. Separating Walter Blythe from his death in the text is nearly impossible- but also irresistible.