#autumn spiral notebook

[worldcolorexplorer]

Autumn style spiral notebook, autumn diary theme

[alohajix]

Marked by Midnight [1]

Main Masterlist

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Summary: in the fog-drenched town of Willowridge, [Y/N] has always felt the pull of the supernatural. She doesn’t know why—only that it thrums beneath her skin, whispers in her blood, and haunts her dreams. She’s spent her life searching for answers, for meaning in the symbols and shadows that call to her… and then she meets him.

Harry Styles is the last living heir of a bloodline the world believes to be extinct. A hybrid born of vampire and wolf, he’s lived in silence, hidden behind the iron gates of Styles Estate, a crumbling estate thick with history, power, and curse. He doesn’t take mates. He doesn’t fall in love. Not anymore.

But fate doesn’t care for rules.

When she stumbles into his world, a bond awakens between them—raw, ancient, irreversible. What begins as curiosity spirals into obsession. And as secrets unravel and darkness rises, one truth becomes terrifyingly clear: she was his long before they ever met, and now… she may never leave.

[Chapter One] Warnings: this chapter contains mild psychological unease, including feelings of being watched, supernatural elements like a mysterious sigil and unseen presence, implied tampering with personal belongings, a subtle fear of the unknown, and emotional isolation as [Y/N] navigates these events alone.

[Chapter One] Words: 4,519

***

Chapter One — The Sigil

The house was quiet. It usually was in the mornings, especially before my aunt woke up, but today it felt different—like the walls were holding something in, or maybe waiting for me to notice. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and maybe I wouldn’t have, if everything else hadn’t felt so normal.

I wrapped both hands around my coffee, the chipped mug warming my fingers. The glaze was cracked near the handle, but I couldn’t bring myself to use anything else. I made it when I was a kid—my aunt still had the matching one, though hers didn’t have the lopsided base or the faded blue streaks that never quite came out right. It was one of those things I held onto, like the books on the shelf or the music I played through the same half-broken earphones. Little things that didn’t matter to anyone else, but kept me steady.

I moved through the morning like I always did, careful not to make too much noise. My aunt liked to sleep in when she could, and I liked having the house to myself for a little while. I opened the window just a crack, letting the cold air curl in and wake me up more than the coffee did. It was colder than yesterday, with that edge of late-autumn that always made the mornings sharper. Familiar. Easy.

I sat where I always did, tucked into the corner near the bookshelf, legs curled under me, notebook in my lap. The pages were half-full of notes, scribbles, thoughts from class or things that stuck with me after reading too long at night. I studied what most people didn’t take seriously—occult sciences, old symbols, the kind of history no one talked about out loud. But it never felt strange to me. If anything, it made more sense than the rest of it.

I didn’t open the notebook right away. I just sat there, earphones resting in my lap, letting the morning settle. The house was still, no creaks from the floorboards or sounds from the street. Just quiet.

But it didn’t feel right.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, or maybe I was just listening harder. I glanced over at it, then to the small table by the window. The photo frame was still face down, exactly where I’d left it. I didn’t need to flip it over—I knew the picture by heart. My aunt, younger then, standing next to my mom. My parents. It’s the only photo I have of them together. I never met them, not really—just stories and that one image, frozen like they’re still here. Like the world hadn’t already taken them before I had the chance to know them.

Some days I wondered if they’d get it—the way I was drawn to things that didn’t make sense to anyone else. The symbols, the old texts, the strange pull I couldn’t explain. My aunt didn’t talk about them much, not more than she had to, but I always felt like there was more she wasn’t saying.

I shook the thought away and finally flipped open the notebook.

It wasn’t where I’d left off.

There, in the corner of the page, just beneath some half-finished notes from class, was a mark I didn’t remember making. Sharp lines, layered in a way that looked deliberate, too precise to be random. I stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the paper, like maybe it would feel familiar if I touched it.

It didn’t.

But still, there was something about it—something I couldn’t pull away from.

I stared at the mark, waiting for something to click. It wasn’t the first time it had shown up—this wasn’t new. I’d seen it before, tucked into the margins of my notes, half-formed in dreams I couldn’t fully remember when I woke up. Sometimes, I thought maybe I’d drawn it without realizing. A nervous habit, a strange piece of something I’d read that stuck. But it wasn’t just a doodle. It never had been.

This time, it felt sharper. Closer.

I ran my fingers over it, slower now, tracing the edges without meaning to, like I was trying to pull something out of the paper. It was still ink, still flat—but it didn’t feel like it. Something about the lines felt… deeper, like they weren’t just written. Like they’d been waiting.

Why now?

I didn’t remember putting it there, not today, not ever. And it wasn’t just the mark. It was the feeling that came with it—this low hum in the back of my mind, steady and constant, like a sound just out of reach. It hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had, and I was only hearing it now.

The air shifted. Not cold, not sudden. Just… aware. Like the room wasn’t empty anymore, even though I hadn’t heard a sound.

I looked up, eyes flicking to the hallway, then the window. Nothing. Just the same soft light, the same stillness pressing in from all sides. But my skin prickled, and I held my breath without realizing it, waiting for something to move.

Nothing did.

I glanced back at the notebook, but the sigil didn’t change. It just sat there, dark against the page, like it was watching me. Like it had been waiting. Like it knew me.

A sharp pulse ran through me—not fear exactly, but something close. Recognition, maybe. Or the edge of it. Something about the mark stirred a memory—not a clear one, more like a feeling. Like I’d seen it somewhere else, maybe before I ever picked up a pen, maybe in one of those half-formed dreams that slipped away the second I opened my eyes. A place I’d never really been. A voice I couldn’t quite remember. I didn’t know what it meant, but I felt it. Deep. Heavy. Like a name I’d forgotten but was still mine.

Maybe I was overthinking. I did that sometimes—let my mind get ahead of me, especially when things didn’t add up. I wasn’t one of those people who believed in fate or signs, not really. But the longer I stood there, the harder it was to believe this was just… nothing.

The air felt heavier now, pressing against my skin like humidity, though it wasn’t hot. A tightness coiled at the base of my neck, the kind that came just before a storm. The light through the window seemed duller, like the house itself was holding its breath.

My aunt used to say that some things don’t make sense until they already matter. That by the time you ask why, it’s already too late. I’d always thought she meant people, choices. But now I wasn’t so sure.

I shook my head, trying to break the weird weight that had settled over me. This wasn’t anything. It couldn’t be. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I needed to get out, get some air, shake it off before I lost the whole day to whatever this was.

But part of me didn’t believe that. Not really.

I told myself I could leave it here, forget it, just walk away like it didn’t matter. But the thought sat wrong, like a stone in my chest, too heavy to ignore.

I closed the notebook, slower than I meant to, and stood. The floor creaked under my feet—normal, expected—but the sound still made me jump. I told myself it was fine. Just nerves. Just the quiet getting to me.

Still, I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door, the old denim one I always wore when I didn’t want to think too hard about what I looked like. The notebook went into my bag without a second thought, the page still burning in the back of my mind, even with it closed.

I lingered by the door longer than I meant to, hand tight on the knob. If I left now, it would be easy to forget. Pretend it didn’t mean anything. But part of me knew, as soon as I stepped out, that nothing was going to be the same when I came back.

I tightened my grip on the doorknob, heart knocking louder now, as if leaving would answer something I wasn’t ready to ask. One step, just one, and I could forget the way the mark still pulled at me from inside the bag. But as I stood there, the house seemed to shift again—not loud, not obvious, just a faint creak behind me, like it had exhaled.

Or like something in it had finally let go.

I stepped outside before I could change my mind.

The air hit me differently than I expected. It wasn’t colder, not exactly, but it bit sharper against my skin, curling down my spine like it was looking for a place to settle. I paused at the edge of the porch, pulling my jacket tighter around me, the weight of the notebook pressing against my hip through the canvas of my bag. It didn’t feel distant now—it felt like it was still open, still pulling.

I hadn’t meant to go anywhere. I told myself that as I took another step, and another. I just needed air. Just a little space. But the pull didn’t ease up. If anything, it got stronger the further I moved away from the house.

I followed the narrow path that curved around the back, past the old fence that never stayed upright for long, and into the edge of the woods. My feet knew the way, but nothing about it felt familiar now. The trees seemed taller, like they’d grown overnight, their branches heavy and close enough to scrape against each other with every shift of the wind. Only… the wind didn’t follow me here. It stopped somewhere behind me, like it wasn’t allowed past the line I’d just crossed.

I glanced back, half-expecting to see something, but the yard was still. The house stood quiet, exactly as I left it, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to me anymore.

I turned back toward the woods and kept walking.

The sound changed first. My footsteps didn’t crunch like they should have—not on the leaves, not on the soft dirt that had always marked this trail. Everything dulled, like the world was closing in around me, muffling every step, every breath, every reason I had to turn back.

I didn’t know where I was going, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The path wasn’t clear anymore, but my feet still found it, like it had always been there, waiting for me to follow.

I passed trees I should have known, the ones I used to see every time I came this way, but now they looked older. Worn in a way I couldn’t explain, like they’d been watching for a long time. The air thickened as I moved deeper, the kind of weight that didn’t press from outside but from within, settling into my chest with every step.

I tried to tell myself this was nothing. That it was just a walk, just a way to clear my head. But I didn’t believe it. Not anymore.

A memory flickered—something I’d read once, a line from one of the old texts I kept meaning to return to. “Paths chosen by the heart, not the eyes.” I didn’t remember where I’d seen it, but it stuck now, sharper than before, like it belonged here.

The deeper I went, the quieter it became.

No birds, no wind, not even the rustle of leaves beneath my feet. Just the steady beat of my pulse in my ears and the low hum that hadn’t left me since I’d seen the mark. The kind of quiet that felt deliberate, like something had made it so.

I stopped, hand resting on the rough bark of a tree, trying to catch my breath. I could turn back. Right now, before I went any further. Nothing was stopping me. But even as I stood there, the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Like I’d be missing something. Like I’d already gone too far to pretend I hadn’t.

The trees ahead shifted, pulling back just enough for the path to open wider, and there—just beyond the line where the light didn’t quite reach—I saw it.

The gate.

It wasn’t grand, or new, or even fully intact, but it rose from the ground like it had grown there. Twisted iron, dark and worn, wrapped in ivy and shadow. My breath caught, not from fear, but from recognition. I didn’t need to see the center to know what was there. I could feel it already, humming through the air the same way it had in my notebook.

Still, I stepped closer.

The vines tried to hide it, curling tight through the bars, but the sigil was there. Carved into the metal, sharp and perfect, like it had been waiting for someone to see it. For me to see it.

I reached out, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t have a choice. My fingers brushed the iron—cool, rough, alive—and the hum deepened, wrapping around me like a second skin. It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t comfort, either. It was knowing. The kind that didn’t need words.

Something was waiting on the other side.

I stopped again, this time longer, my breath catching in my throat like something wanted to push its way out. The air around me was thick, the kind of thick that made it hard to move, like I was wading through something invisible, heavy. I pressed my hand against the nearest tree, grounding myself, trying to shake the feeling that I was being drawn forward—not by choice, but by something older than thought.

The path ahead darkened slightly, not with shadow, but with stillness. Like light didn’t want to go there. Like sound had already given up.

I could still turn back. My feet hadn’t crossed yet. I could leave this—all of it—pretend it was a mistake, a strange dream I hadn’t fully woken from.

But I didn’t. Because even though I didn’t know what was ahead, part of me already knew it was meant for me.

And that scared me more than anything.

The gate opened without a sound.

No creak of iron, no rust flaking off the hinges—just a slow, smooth shift, like it had never really been closed to begin with. The vines pulled back as if by their own will, loosening their grip just enough to let me pass, then settling again, wrapping tight around the bars like they hadn’t moved at all.

The air on the other side was different. Heavier, but not oppressive. Warmer, like the sun had reached here even when it hadn’t touched the rest of the forest. I stepped through before I could think too hard about it, and the moment my foot crossed the threshold, the quiet deepened. Not empty, not hollow, but full. Like I’d entered into something alive.

Ahead, through a thin mist that clung low to the ground, the manor came into view.

It wasn’t ruined, not like I expected from something buried in the woods. The stone was dark, but whole. Vines crawled along the outer walls, creeping up the sides as if the house had grown up through them, not the other way around. The roof was steep, shingled in black slate that shimmered faintly even in the muted light, and the windows—tall and narrow—were intact, though most were clouded over by dust and time.

It stood waiting.

Not abandoned, not forgotten. Just… paused.

I took another step, my boots sinking slightly into the softened path, no longer gravel or dirt, but something in between—stone worn smooth by years, maybe centuries, of footsteps just like mine. The trees here were set back, their trunks arching like ribs over the path, and the air didn’t move. Even the mist seemed to hold still, wrapping the ground in quiet.

Every instinct I had told me to be cautious. But something else—something older, something deeper—told me to keep going.

The front steps were worn, but solid, leading up to a heavy wooden door framed by black iron hinges that spiraled outward like roots. I paused at the bottom, eyes tracing the carvings along the edge of the doorframe—symbols, almost like the one I’d seen, but different. Older. More complex.

I didn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Instead, I stepped off the path, moving slowly along the side of the manor, my fingers brushing against the stone wall, cool beneath the ivy. The silence followed me, but it wasn’t empty. It was expectant. Like something was waiting for me to reach a place I hadn’t yet found.

The windows here were lower, some of them open just a crack, as if someone had left them that way on purpose. I leaned in closer to one, trying to peer inside, but the glass was too warped to see through, just shapes and shadows behind the smear of age. Still, I felt something stir beyond it—a shift, faint, like breath.

I pulled back, heart thudding harder now, but not in fear. Not exactly.

It felt like I was supposed to be here. Like every step I’d taken had led to this, even if I hadn’t known it until now.

A faint sound caught my ear—a rustle, soft, like fabric brushing against stone, just beyond the corner of the house. I didn’t move at first, listening, holding still as the air seemed to pull tight around me. The sound came again, a little closer, a little more deliberate.

I rounded the corner, careful, eyes scanning the garden that opened behind the manor. Overgrown, but not wild—flowers still bloomed here, though faded, their colors muted beneath a layer of dust and time. Stone benches sat in a half-circle around what must’ve once been a fountain, now dry, its basin cracked but not broken.

The air thickened again, almost humming. The sound came again. I turned toward it, breath caught, and froze.

A figure—just for a second—half-seen through the mist near the edge of the garden. Tall, still, watching.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The figure didn’t move.

Then, like smoke in the light, it was gone.

I stood frozen, the silence roaring back around me, but it wasn’t empty anymore. It pressed in, full of something I couldn’t name.

I stepped forward, slowly, into the garden’s center. My hand brushed the edge of the fountain’s stone lip—it was cold, rough, but whole. The moss that clung to its sides felt damp, alive, as if time had passed differently here. As if this place had never truly been abandoned.

A breeze lifted, soft but insistent, carrying a weight with it, curling around my shoulders like it meant to turn me back. And then—the voice. Not loud. Not whispered. Just there.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

The words hit like stone, dropping into the silence between my ribs, heavy and sure, like they belonged to this place more than I did.

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t fear. It was something older, deeper—inevitable. A truth I hadn’t known I was walking toward, but now that I’d heard it, I couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t step away from it.

I turned, breath tight, searching the garden’s stillness—but there was no one. No shadow. No shape. Just the weight of knowing I’d crossed into something I wasn’t meant to touch. But it had touched me now.

The silence stretched, thick and full, long after the voice faded.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every part of me felt like it had been caught in something unseen, held tight not by force, but by the weight of knowing—something old, something certain.

The air shifted again. It wasn’t just around me now. It was behind me. I turned slowly, every breath sharp in my throat, eyes scanning the space I knew was no longer empty.

He was there. Not in the shadows this time. Not half-hidden by mist or distance. Just… there. Standing at the edge of the garden, where the stone met the trees, his frame still, his gaze fixed—on me. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. It was him. I knew it, somehow, the same way I’d known the mark, the same way the gate had opened for me like it was always meant to.

He stepped closer, not fast, not threatening, just enough to pull the space tighter between us.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said again, softer this time, but no less heavy.

I swallowed, breath catching. “I didn’t mean to.”

A flicker of something—pain, regret, I couldn’t tell—crossed his face before it settled into something harder.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The wind stirred behind him, catching the edge of his coat, pulling at the leaves that lay scattered across the stone path. But he didn’t move. His eyes never left mine.

“Who are you?” I asked, the question barely more than a whisper.

His jaw tightened. “That’s not what you need to know.”

“Then tell me what’s happening. Why I’m here. Why—why this keeps pulling me back.”

He looked past me then, toward the manor, toward the trees that held the garden in their grasp. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, threaded with something almost like sorrow.

“You were supposed to stay away. You were supposed to stay safe.”

I took a step forward, heart pounding, the cold of the air forgotten now beneath the heat rising in my chest. “Safe from what?”

He didn’t answer—not right away. He only watched me, as if searching for something in my face, some reason to turn away. But he didn’t.

“They’ll know you’re here soon,” he said, quieter now, as if the trees might listen. “And when they do, I can’t stop them.”

I stared at him, heart racing, every nerve screaming for me to move—to run, to speak, to do anything but stand here waiting for the rest of a warning that didn’t make sense. But I didn’t move. I didn’t want to.

“You keep saying I shouldn’t be here,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “But I am. I didn’t plan this—I didn’t even know this place existed. So stop talking in circles and tell me why it’s pulling me. Why you are.”

His eyes flickered, something behind them sharp and sudden, but it wasn’t anger. It was something heavier.

“I don’t want this for you,” he said, the words barely more than breath, but I felt them, like they landed beneath my skin.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

I took another step toward him, the space between us narrowing. The closer I got, the more real he became—not just a figure in the mist, not a voice out of nowhere. Flesh. Breath. And something more.

“Then tell me,” I pushed, desperate now, the weight of everything pressing in. “What is this?”

His gaze dropped for a moment, his hand flexing at his side like he might reach for me, but didn’t.

“It’s already started,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The mark wouldn’t have called to you if it hadn’t.”

My throat tightened. “The mark… you know what it is?”

He nodded once, slow, reluctant. “It’s not just ink. Not just something you dreamed up. It’s a bond—an old one. One that shouldn’t have touched you.”

“But it did.”

“Yes.” His voice hardened, like it hurt to admit it. “And now, you’re part of something you can’t walk away from.”

The silence stretched again, thicker now, not just between us, but around us—as if the air itself was listening, waiting for me to understand something I hadn’t yet seen.

“I might not have a choice,” I echoed, voice lower now, steadier. “But neither do you.”

His jaw tightened again, the muscles working like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to deny it—but something in his eyes shifted. A flicker of something raw. Familiar.

For a breath, we just stood there, caught in the tension that wasn’t fear, wasn’t curiosity. It was something else. Something deeper. Something that felt like it had always been there. I didn’t know him. But I knew him. And he felt it, too.

I stepped closer, the space between us barely there now. The air pulsed once, low and strange, like it recognized us before we did. He didn’t step back. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for me—but still, he didn’t. His eyes never left mine.

“Why does it feel like this?” I asked, the question no longer about the manor or the mark or the warnings. Just this. Us.

His breath hitched, barely.

“Because it’s not just starting now,” he said, voice rough, like the truth cost him. “It’s been happening longer than you know.”

A shiver ran through me—not from the cold, but from something deeper, something I couldn’t name yet. I could feel it in my chest, in my hands, in the air between us, like a string pulled tight. Like I’d waited a lifetime to find him. And maybe… he’d been waiting, too.

The space between us felt fragile, like one more word, one more breath, might tip it into something we couldn’t take back. I could feel him, not just near me—but in the pull that hummed low under my skin, in the way the air seemed to bend around us, waiting. His eyes darkened, like he felt it too. Like he didn’t want to.

“I don’t know what this is,” I whispered, the words falling between us, unsteady but true.

He did. I saw it in the way his hand finally lifted, hesitating, hovering just near mine—but not touching. Not yet.

“You’re not ready to know,” he said, voice barely there.

But just as the air tightened, just as the moment stretched too full—the ground shifted. A sound cracked through the trees—sharp, wrong. Like something tearing through the quiet that had held us.

His head snapped toward it, eyes narrowing, body coiled.

“They’ve found you.” And just like that, the pull between us snapped. “Run.”

***

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[orphicarchives]

For The Glory of Rome

MARCUS ACACIUS X READER

You're finishing your senior year at Orpheus University when your history class is chosen to give an evaluation on one of the professors. Why does he feel so familiar?

⚠️ Past lives AU! Reader is Geta and Caracalla's sister! Reader is also 22 years old, Pedro is older. ⚠️

The mountains were just visible through the window you were sitting next to; their peaks reaching toward the sky above, almost as if in embrace. They were beautiful at this wintry time of year, with the snow cascading down their formations and painting them white. Bare trees that flanked them transformed into branches of green where the cold hadn't hit just yet- your eyes traveling further down the scene. It was that transitory period of the merging seasons, where autumn became winter and left everyone with an odd illness due to the changing weather patterns. Both snow and leaves were tracked inside the bustling classrooms that were alive with the excited chatter amongst the students. Everyone was excited for the upcoming break that would mark the end of the semester. For you, it would mean the midway point of your senior year at Orpheus.

You'd gone to Orpheus all three years of your college career so far, immediately entranced by the large stone pillared building it was. It was so different from your usual pace in the rainy countryside, with its suburban feel and authentic restaurants. It wasn't immediately that you felt the urge to explore the grand halls of the place and to make it your home, but that feeling came soon enough. One glance at the psychology department and a sip of coffee from the bistro down the road were enough to convince whatever part of you left unsure this would be the place. Even with how far you had to uproot yourself and make such a move, you'd made the connections you'd needed and the friends you'd always wanted.

Lee had sat himself next to you this morning with a coffee cup in hand and his phone in the other. He was addicted to that screen- any video that would appear around his recent interest in Danish pop music would be enough to send him down a spiral of excitement. The coffee, however, was for you.

"Morning!" He said, way too chipper for an 8:00am class. He usually went to Starbucks way too close to the time you were meant to be seated with only a minute left to spare. How he didn't have crippling anxiety around his time management, you'd never know. But he did bring you a drink.

"Hey, Lee." You said, with as much energy as you could muster at the moment given how tired you were. "Thanks for the coffee."

Lee threw his bag onto the ground under the long tables in the lecture hall. His spot had been on the other side of the room for the majority of the class as he'd argued he couldn't focus if seated next to you for laughter purposes. However, today he plopped himself down into the one next to you with his notebook open to the most recent material from last week. His hair was a mess as he'd most likely not had the time to brush it but at least his pants matched his shirt today.

"Yeah, 'course."

You took a sip of the drink, wincing slightly at the heat on your tongue. He'd remembered you liked your coffee black.

This morning, you had your history course which was conveniently in the building furthest from your shared apartment. Deciding the added three minutes to your walk would mean a warmer outfit for the day, you wore a white button down with fleece tights under your skirt. You had to substitute your usual leather jacket in favor for a heavier coat but still opted to wear the full face of makeup you had on every day. Eyeliner was your saving grace and you swore you'd never be caught outside without it on. You weren't much of a "girly girl," but that beauty product was the one exception.

Your shoes were still a little damp from the snow and the water had melted into the bottom of your bookbag, to your dismay. Your notebook was mostly fine except for the bottom edge, where the pen ink had run together, ruining your script.

"Did you hear about the evaluation today?" Lee asked, with his arm outstretched, offering you one of the Starbucks napkins to dry your notebook.

You hummed in a quizzing tone, signalling you didn't hear about it as you got to work cleaning up the mess before class started. There wasn't much you could do about the few pages that had been destroyed, but thankfully it wasn't the topic you needed at the moment.

"Well," Lee went on assuming you wanted him to continue, "Professor Klotsbach had to officially go on maternity leave so they're giving us someone else for the duration of this year. Apparently they're having this new guy come in today and we get to decide whether we like him or not." Lee said, rustling through his own belongings. "The history majors are saying this is the fifth one this semester."

"Oh? that'll be interesting. I didn't realize she was out already." You stated, throwing the napkins into your coat pocket. At least that meant this class would be easy today and you wouldn't have to worry too much about the notes. You took another sip of your coffee and turned your attention back to the large window to stare at the mountains again. The sun was really starting to come up now, which would hopefully make the walk home warmer. The sunlight shone over the leaves and made its way into the classroom, turning the wood paneling into that comforting auburn color you loved. Even with the weather outside, the inside felt like summer.

You directed your attention back to Lee, who was now back on his phone. You decided you weren't too tired for a conversation.

"I wonder why they're so particular about a professor for a general education course?" You asked, inquiring Lee as though he'd know the ins and outs of how the administration worked. Orpheus was always a semi-prestigious university; you wondered if they did so many evaluations for all the subjects.

"No idea," he said, taking a sip of his own drink, "I guess they wanted insight from other majors as well."

"Ah." You said, thankful that it would at least be some form of deviance from your usual schedule. After this, you and Lee had plans with the rest of your roommates to go to the bistro down the road so you considered today an easy one. A listening lecture followed by a sweet treat was a great morning.

As you were thinking of your plans, the door on the right side of the room finally opened, meaning the professor had officially walked in and class was about to start. Lee put his phone in his pocket although he didn't turn it off, so you assumed he was listening to music. You scavenged in your case for a pencil that wasn't broken and directed your focus to the front of the room, where the evaluated professor would begin.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

This man had to have been about ten years older than you but he was gorgeous. The brown in his eyes and his hair shone under the sun with such elegance; he appeared to be a painting. His brown leather jacket placed stylishly over his buttoned shirt- save for the two at the top- and his dress pants neatly drawn with a belt. An expensive one at that. He looked less like a professor and more like the cover of a teenage romance novel. Even his facial hair was properly trimmed and accentuated the angular curves of his face, which widened into a heartthrobbing smile.

"Hello, I'm Mr. Marcus." He said, turning around and writing it onto the chalkboard with whatever chalk was left in the tray from the class before. He then wiped his hands against each other and stood in front of the desk, leaning against it in an effortless grace as he stared at the class. His eyes scanned the room before they fell on you. It was only for a moment before he looked elsewhere, but you were starstruck and your stomach flipped.

Lee snickered quietly at the face you were making which took you out of your trance. "Dilf season, huh?"

Your cheeks were flushed and your whole body felt hot. It was unlike you to immediately be so caught off-guard. You shook it aside and attributed it to intimidation. That had to be it, you were just nervous of a new professor and at this guy's confident yet inviting demeanor.

"Shut up, Lee." You said with a small smile, so he'd know not to take offense although you were serious. You didn't want to draw any attention to your heart beating wildly in your chest.

As he continued talking, however, the burning in your abdomen only got stronger. There was something to this man, some sense of familiarity that struck you defenseless, although you were unsure as to why. You were certain you'd never seen the man before in your life, yet there was an undeniable pull that rendered you speechless for the rest of the class. He was wonderful at explaining everything in full detail and perfect when it came to answering questions. One thing was for certain though, and that was there'd be no way you could focus on any topic if Mr. Marcus was the professor. Despite how well he performed his job, you just couldn't concentrate. So, when the papers came around at the end of the class for the evaluation, you checked the box stating your disinterest in Mr. Marcus as your professor. How would you be expected to learn in a place where he was the teacher if you were so flustered? All you wanted to do was go home and decompress.

You submitted your paper to the front of the room, Lee in tow. You placed it face down on the desk even though the evaluations were anonymous; you felt awful for the decision you made. How was it fair for him to do everything perfectly and to not be granted the occupation?

As you were about to turn towards the door, you locked eyes with Mr. Marcus. They were a golden honey brown, very similar to the warmth of the room you were in, and they had you entranced. He smiled at you and raised his eyebrows as invitation for conversation, which was when you realized you'd been standing there in front of him with open eyes for longer than you meant to.

"Miss (Y/N), did you enjoy the lecture?" He asked, calm and composed. He must've read your name off the seating arrangement sheet and pieced two and two together.

"Uh, yeah-yes. Yes, I did. I find Rome pretty fascinating." You said, trying to regain your own composure. You smiled back at him in a last effort to appear normal and then walked out of the room and into the large hall where Lee followed close behind.

Alone in the Lecture Hall once all the students had departed, Marcus let out a hitched breath. You must have noticed it too? There was something so off about you and he was immediately drawn to your presence the minute he'd entered the room. It was as if he'd bumped into you before, only this odd feeling of familiarity was far more intense than anything he'd encountered before.

He learned against the desk for support and reached for the evaluation papers. He remembered exactly which one you'd placed down as he counted the number of sheets placed on top. He was unsure as to why he needed this clarification so badly, as if the evaluation was going to be enough insight as to how you truly felt about him.

You'd written that he performed everything perfectly. Checked all the boxes showing the administrators that he'd done as he should. But, at the end of the form, you'd written you didn't want him to have the job.

He smiled to himself, just slightly. He must've been overreacting.

...

It was with disdain that his eyes followed yours, the vituperative look etched into his skin. He appeared no older, even with the worry lines becoming apparent as he frowned; kohl seemingly molded into the flesh of his face with its darkness around his eyes. His tunic adorned with goldened jewelry held his red cloak fastened at his shoulder, which swiftly moved side to side as he walked about the palace floor. With his domineering personality and flamboyant demeanor, one could argue he very much belonged here. But those who truly knew him, such as you, would argue the complete opposite. A child in the body of man, ruling over the Roman Empire with the ability to kill any one of the men who'd built the imperial palace with the flick of his wrist.

And to think, he was your brother.

Emperor Geta manically moved back and forth, his steps echoing in the greatness of the hall where the two of you stood. Your other misfortune of a sibling somewhere entranced by his monkey, you presumed. Even with neither of them being much too intelligent, Geta was definitely the force to be reckoned with. This flurry of anger he felt was often of your own doing and today was no different- although the situation was more dire than previous mishaps.

What was usual sibling banter had turned into something fierce, unforgiving. It seemed as though the two of you no longer stood on the same plane and no words could be spoken to alleviate the tenseness between you two.

"There's a traitor-" He began, voice laced with more anger than anything else now that the shock had subsided. "Someone is helping the Senate to conspire against us. A traitor within the castle?" Geta dramatically flung his fingers over his heart and buried it into the fabric of his dress, steadying himself from falling as if he were intoxicated.

"I've heard nothing of the sort, brother." You let out, hardly above a whisper. It felt wrong for the secret to spill past your lips after all this time of keeping it. Although this had been going on for nearly five months, to speak it aloud even partially breathed it into existence. You, who had no family other than Geta and Caracalla, were plotting the demise of both of them. Rome was a collective and you'd been appointed to preserve the democracy of the people- something your brothers had turned into tyranny under their rule. However, it seemed as though they'd just caught wind of the plot without knowing who was leading the rebellion. Of course, Geta would eventually figure it out but the best thing you could do would be to deny anything that would lead to you or Acacius. He would have his head by morn and yours by the next.

Geta focused his eyes toward the nearest column so as not to look at you, forcing himself to tongue over the idea as it repeated within his head. His ornate laurel wreath crown he wore glistened in the light from above, casting a radiant glow on the floor. He was beautiful, if undeservingly so.

"Geta." You started, still fighting the fear that was always prevalent when conversing with your brother, "You are the emperor. Who would dare conspire against you?" you asked, knowing you had to do damage control. It all felt too real and too sudden for anything to happen just yet, this was unplanned. There was still so much more to be done and now that Geta had heard, Caracalla would be next to be informed- potentially halting the senate from being able to make a proper move. Your brothers would behead them all and force you to watch.

There had to be an informant within the Senate, someone who sided with your brothers in hopes of some grand reward for ratting you out. If they told Geta of the uprising, there's no telling how long it would take until they knew you and Acacius were leading it.

Suddenly, it was as if the color returned to Geta's white painted face. The creases that had formed out of worry now resumed with a smile so horrid and vile that your stomach seemed to drop to your toes with dread. The redhead inched closer to you until he was standing directly before you, inches away from your faltering breath. Smug look upon his face with his hands placed behind his back, he whispered in your ear the one thing you never wanted to hear from him.

"Make sure to relay this message to the Senate. If I hear of any further plans or catch the name of anyone involved within the operation, I will make sure the streets of Rome run red with their excrements."

Your veins turned to ice. It was as if your body had become as still as the marble statues surrounding the two of you. The sunlight hitting your brother's hair was not a warm and comforting light, but the light of a thousand fires ready to destroy anything within its path. You could smell the antimony from his makeup, and it was churning your stomach the longer you stood next to him. And then, he pulled you into a forceful embrace.

"You're my brethren, (Y/N). But bloodshed triumphs over blood. My mercy doesn't spill out of my fingertips such as the weak do. I am to carry on the tree of my lineage and I will do so from the seed of my power. Don't let me ever hear my dear sister has fallen into the conspiracy of the people."

Then he left, and a piece of your soul died with the slam of the door behind him.

...

General Marcus Acacius, still clad in the paludamentum from the evening's dinner, gathered himself after a lengthy conversation with some of his troops. He was fortunate for the day's conquer, but he was entirely ready to return to his chambers to meet with his love; hoping she could soothe the grievances that emanated from his soul. A slight glance into the reflection of the gate showed a man worn down by war. Physically and spiritually he felt beaten and old. His face, which had appeared so bright when he'd first started his efforts, had now succumbed to the weight he felt inside. He was duller than the man he'd always been. A light had been extinguished and would never again be set aflame. His body felt as though it were an empty chamber, hollow with only the sounds of the maternal screaming he heard from war. Mothers calling home their only sons that would stay calling for the remainder of their lives. Praying for the boys who'd become soldiers, fallen under an empire that prided themselves on greatness.

The Romans were cruel murderers. And he did their bidding.

Trying his best to push his stressors aside, he stepped into the small garden flanking the back perimeter of the palace, knowing that was your usual place upon nightfall. The fountain seemed to hum as the water rushed down into the basin. The sounds of bugs chirping filled his ears. The calmness of the fire tamed within the confines of the torches made flickering shadows upon the stones beneath his feet.

And then, there was you. Turning to face him once he'd entered the palace and meeting his gaze. He'd sworn he never understood the meaning of goddess until he'd met you. From the first encounter at the palace, Acacius knew he was in love. Every statue and painting couldn't compare to the beauty that radiated off you, he knew. Your eyes were pools of mystery and your skin softer than the sheets lining the bed you shared, fragile under the callouses of his hands that were worn by the hilt of his sword. You were a delicacy. He thought you were more striking than the sun itself.

The word love would never be enough to describe the power that flowed through his veins upon the mere mention of your name or the gentleness of your kiss.

You were here in your usual palla, the purple dye of the fabric shimmering under the soft glow of the fire. Your face was hardened into a concerned expression and your lips were downturned. What was usually a gleeful expression when your fiancé returned home safely seemed to be just a little short of animosity.

Acacius immediately went to place his hands gently at your sides, pulling you in slightly with a quizzical look, assessing for any physical ailments. "What troubles you, my Lady?"

You wanted to cry, to scream, to let out all your frustrations through vile words such as your brothers did, but you felt so beaten down you couldn't even formulate the words. Acacius had done nothing wrong but be within your proximity. And now your lover would be subjected to the unforgiving wrath of Geta.

"My Lady?" He asked once more, softer this time. He had a rough day, you could tell, and his forehead lines became more apparent as his brows furrowed. His beard was trimmed but not shaven, so as not to flaunt off some of the scars he'd gathered below his nose. He had one on his cheek and one on the back of his hand that you would run your fingers over in an intimate embrace. He was beautiful, even with the years of war embroidered into his skin. He was your heart.

"It's Geta," you finally mustered, holding Acacius's hand to your cheek and letting a tear fall, "he's enlightened to our uprising."

It was the General's turn to express his worry. "How was he informed?" Hs asked, pulling you in for a stiff hug as he was still wearing his breastplate.

"Macrinus must have caught word after last night's gathering. W-we were so careful, I-"

"Shh." Acacius said, slowly rubbing circles into your back, "We'll be okay, we'll find a way." He said this almost so convincingly you wanted to believe it yourself. But you knew Geta would do his best to punish you in every way humanly possible. There would be no escaping.

"We can run away before they find out its us-"

"To where? We both have the faces of those known in Rome, we'll never even make it past the gate without our identities being revealed. And then what? Where will we go that has no promise of being conquered?" He asked, holding onto you as though your arms alone would ground him. "And (Y/N), you know my heart belongs to you and the people. I couldn't leave one in place of the other."

Any form of democracy was going to be dead if your brothers continued to be the ultimate monarchs the were. Their reign had caused nothing but horrors to the people .

"Geta may want my head when he finds out, but he'll never kill you," Acacius said, looking into your eyes, "He'd never kill our kin." At this, his hand dropped to your stomach, caressing the top of it gently.

"You will not die without me." You said, knowing what he would suggest in the hopes of keeping you safe. "I will not allow it."

"And then what? You die and there will be no hope. Not for the people or politics or our son. My work to free us from the grasp of Rome will be for nought."

Your tears started to cascade down your face as quickly as they came, taking your kohl along with it. This was unfair. All of it was unfair. You wanted nothing to do with your brothers or ruling or Rome or anything. All you'd hoped for was to live peacefully in a world without it- how foolish.

"I love you, Acacius. You know this." You said, burying your face into his shoulder. You took in the metallic scent of his breastplate, trying to ease yourself. You knew as a general that he would never leave Rome defenseless.

"As I love you," he said, moving you gently so you were facing each other, "You know what has to be done."

You composed yourself and met his eyes, trying to find solace in them. He felt more like family than the insufferable gingers you shared a bloodline with. And you knew you'd do anything to protect the family you made for yourself, even if that meant sacrificing the birth one.

"We have to kill them." You said. You found the words didn't trouble as much as you thought they might.

[jujutsukgojo]

Budding cherry blossoms

katsuki bakugou x reader

Summary: In three days, the man who spent your innocent years with will be executed. tw: grooming, kidnapping, inappropriate relationship NO SMUT a/n: this is inspired by Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, but not exact. Katsuki is not the 'Humbert' in this and there is a happy ending

On the television screen is a face you haven’t seen in years. How long has it been now? Eight or nine years? 

 The reporter explains how that face with a new name will be executed in three days. Flabbergasted, you get up from the couch and go to your library. In a section are several journals you’ve written through years of your life. You feel the spine over the older ones. The oldest is an old spiral yellow notebook written during your trip to this country and how you met the man who will die soon.

 Pressure builds behind your eyes as you pick every journal since then. You haven’t seen him in eight or nine years. Now, you are carrying notebooks, the story of your life, into your living room to read.

He’s going to die. 

You don’t remember much of your life before him. It is like life started when you met him. He was funny, kind, and wasn't awkward with you. Right off the bat, he was like an old friend. When you first met him, he was wobbling as he walked. You couldn't help but call him Uncle Waldo, the drunk goose from the Aristocats. Amazingly, he understood your reference and acted out the scene with you. The sun was setting, the air was light, and the Autumn breeze was gentle as he walked you away into the sunset. 

 Every page in the notebooks is filled with a rush of nostalgia. The reporter keeps going about how this person, your oldest friend, whom you traveled all over Japan with, is going to die. Suddenly, your home phone rings and flashes an old classmate's name. You pick it up and put him on speaker. “How ya doin’?”

 Katsuki’s voice has always been gruff and aggressive; it softens when he talks to you. Reading these diaries makes it all the more wrenching since he has always been kind. You take a deep breath. “I’m ok. You?”

“(Y/n).”

“Huh?”

“Where are you?” You blink several times. “I’m at home, Katsuki. Aren’t you on patrol?” The two of you graduated together despite you being a little younger than him. Uncle Waldo was furious when you told him you took the early assessment for U.A. rather than the school he suggested. If it weren’t for your sneaky ways, the false documents, and sloppy handwriting, you’d never have been able to graduate with Katsuki; especially since Uncle Waldo never denied your age. If he did, he’d have to pull all types of shit up. It was already bad when you put your hideout’s address down.  

You had walked into a place he couldn’t just snatch you out of. Either way, it was impressive that you got accepted early and then went again to try for the hero course’s test. Neither you nor Uncle Waldo could imagine that you got accepted into the hero course as well.

 He was pissed and it got worse when you got your license. 

“Yeah, but I’ll be off in an hour.”

“Anything can happen within the hour, Katsuki.” You keep feeling the journals. You sniffle. “Did you know it was him?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” There are millions of reasons why Katsuki, who has met Uncle Waldo, wouldn’t tell you that he is on death row. “I don’t know.” Pitiful.

 He isn’t the only classmate who met Uncle Waldo. It is different with him, though. Silent tears stream down your face. Your lip wobbles as you speak, “Remember when I first met Miss Mitsuki and Mr. Masaru?”

“You don’t have to call them that, (Y/n).” You can hear his heavy boots stomping as he walks. You sniffle, “I-I was so happy that someone wanted to be my friend. I thought I had gotten another one,” You wipe your eyes. “Someone that was my age, y’know?”

 Katsuki doesn’t say anything. “I want to thank you for that but don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.”

 His heavy boots stop. “I’m getting off early. I’m coming over.”

Half-assed, you reject, “No, no, I’m fine.”

“Don’t give a shit.” 

----------

Katsuki is on his way over and you still haven’t gotten up from your spot. If the door is locked, he can unlock it himself. In the open composition notebook, begins your time at U.A as a freshman during the warmer months. How often have you wondered where your relationship with your former classmates went wrong? Not nearly as much as the question of where your fondest person went. 

The paper is thin and worn from age and handling. The more you touch it, the more you see the images of your history. Meeting the man on the screen, bouncing from hotel to hotel then finally settling in a plain and modest house he probably stole, wearing frilly dresses and dancing to soft jazz with him or for him with graceful moves of ballet; entering U.A at a younger age than your peers then going back for the hero course test; the wars, all of the conflicts with villains and your classmates; everything from your youth to now as a pro hero and writer. 

Your foot taps against the wood floor and your finger goes to your mouth for you to bite. Thankfully, the reporter changes the subject. The heaviness begins to lift until another reporter goes back to the subject of him. The horned reporter sits at the desk and talks in a haughty and firm tone. He taps a thick pack of paper on the table. Every paper he holds in his green hands reads of the man you once knew. Listed are all of his crimes that go from his past to his capture. You bite your finger harder. Desperately, you want to defend him and refute these claims or at least reason them. Even during his time with you, for several years, you rationalize them. Because you can; the bond between you was special.

He was never violent as the news show him as. He got angry with you only a few times. They weren't significant or harmful. He scolded you but never hit you. The years together were joyous with a hint of confusion on your part. You didn't think anything of it. Now you are looking at his face on the screen and wondering where it went wrong. Why did he leave you? Nothing was the same when he left. He said he’d be back but never returned. A gaping, agonizing hole was left in your heart. Alone in the world you were never taught about was a brutal punishment. 

How could this have happened? How did you not know that your biggest adversaries, the League of Villains, had him in their ranks? Not just in their ranks, but an original member? The magic man himself, Mr. Compress.

All this time you never suspected it was Mr. Compress, a man of magic, who kidnapped both you and Katsuki in the Summer. Whereas Katsuki was compressed, you walked into the mist since they ensured that you were safe and that they’d help you clean up. At the time, you were doing the test of courage and were plagued by horrible stomach pains. Right there in the middle of the forest, you had your period for the first time. So, you went with them out of shame and embarrassment.

You chuckle as you remember how nice they had been and how Himiko cleaned you up and gave you a change of clothes. You were kept away from Katsuki at first, not seeing him chained to the chair until you were cleaned and changed. If you faced him before Himiko calmed you down, you wouldn’t be able to handle that. Especially since the front of your pants had a big red stain on them. Come to think of it, there were many times that you weren’t faced with the same challenges as others when it came to villains. 

 When you went home from being held at the League’s hideout with Katsuki, you found the man you spent your childhood with, angry. You hoped that it was an irrational reaction and misguided anger at your predicament rather than the truth. He straight up yelled that he was angry that you had your period. His anger fizzled out when he chose a beautiful sundress for you and a loose white button-up and sleek slacks for him to wear when you two hung out together. 

 It was a wonderful day with joy, laughter, and magic. It was so sweet that you can still remember what the air smelled like and how his cotton button-up felt between your fingers. You remember the flowers that decorated your dress and how creamy the ice cream you shared with him was. 

 It is a memory you think of with fondness and longing. Despite it all, time with him was simple from when you were around seven to eight years old to your teens. Remembering the ages have never mattered to you. What mattered was how adventurous and sweet your years with him were. Hell, he occupied so much of your mind, that you don’t really remember your life before him. And you didn’t care. That issue completely slipped your mind. 

 Now he is on death row and will be executed in a few days; possibly sooner, depending on how the judge or whoever feels. He was a part of the League the whole time. Katsuki knew and never said a word about it. Katsuki had met him before when he would visit U.A. It was only a handful of times. Maybe three in total? No wonder he was mad that you enrolled in U.A. You literally went into the lion’s den. 

 He’s going to die. The pressure behind your eyes emerges. A shuttered breath is taken in as you realize that he didn’t abandon you; he was taken and never meant to leave permanently. An ache of heartbreak caused by the disappointment of how dumb you are buds in your chest, right where the hole he left when he disappeared is. How could you doubt him?

 Wait, is this wrong? There have been many cases where you've worked, and you’ve told those people the same thing time and time again. How come you’re not accepting it? Why is it so hard to swallow and digest and understand? You’re a hypocrite and should smack yourself from judging others when they don’t take your advice. Then again, your situation is different than theirs. 

 You slide to the floor in front of your couch. You throw your head back. The back of it hits the soft sofa. He’s going to die. Who will look at the cherry blossoms with you? You haven’t been to see them blossom since he left. It isn’t right for you to. Not when he isn’t there to comment that they’re red and not pink like you see. With a smile on your trembling lips, you remember the debates you’d have with him and how he always encouraged you to never turn to the internet, always go to a book to see. You didn’t have access to the internet until high school and didn’t have a phone until you graduated. It didn’t feel right to have that. 

 The door’s lock sounds and heavy footsteps enter your home. The sounds of shuffling footsteps come closer to your living room where you sit. From around the corner, Katsuki emerges. He’s out of his hero costume and in a pair of baggy sweatpants and a skull-printed shirt. He crosses his arms and stares down at you with a soft expression. When he first met you, he glared and frowned. Now that he knows you, he hasn’t looked at you that way since. Especially when he met the villain known as Mr. Compress, who hid his identity and gained the one you gave him. 

 “What’re you reading?”

“My old diaries. It’s amazing. I just now noticed I document everything in my life. Imagine I die-”

“Not for a long time.”

“Yeah. Imagine I die and people publish all of this. That’d be cool, right? Just read it when I’m dead, okay?”

 He slumps on the cushion by your head. His eyes go to the TV. Katsuki taps his finger on his arm and decides to shut it off. The blond sucks on his teeth and side-eyes you. Once again, his face lacks a hard expression since he has grown since his angsty days. What was once baby fat chiseled away into something more defined, there is a thin smile line on the left side of his mouth, and his vibrant red eyes remain sharp.

 He wipes his hands on his pants and places one on top of your head. The heavy hand stays on you when he asks, “Are you okay?” Katsuki has never been one for affection. He doesn’t know what to do most of the time. However, he finds it with you in different ways. 

 “You’veasked me that already.”

“I know.”

 After a few beats of silence, you nod. The comfort of his warm hand reminds you of how he came to know the man you lived with for a long time. “Remember when you first met him? As Uncle Wally, at least.”

 He scoffs. “You want to talk about him, huh?”

“Katsuki.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember. My mom saw him with you at school and wanted you to spend the night. She spent all night trying to pry a confession out of you. I knew something was off but I wasn’t sure. She knew right off the bat.”

 “There was nothing off. It was just a different situation. We were just living together; traveling and enjoying each other’s company. Friends, Katsuki.”

“You both had a different understanding of what friends are.” he cracks his neck. “His idea started to warp yours.”

 You ignore him. “I remember thinking that you were going to be my first friend other than him. Everyone in our class hates me-”

“No one hates you.”

“Pfft! You should’ve heard the girls. At the summer camp, I got into a fight with Mina because she did something with my plush toy. She hid it as a joke and I just wailed on her. All of them hated me after that.”

 “You were just a child, (Y/n).” Katsuki knew your true age when you told Mitsuki. His eyes were round as saucers. You got close to him after the abduction. Once he knew your age and met the man, he grew protective of you. The girls, the whole class, didn’t make fun of you much after that. Sometimes they did but Katsuki squashed it. 

 You shake your head. “Mrs. Mitsuki is a good one. She is so nice to me, and so is Mr. Masaru.”

 His hand rubs your head. “My pop is usually timid. When that fucker came to pick you up, that was the first and only time I have seen him lose his cool. The old woman was just as shocked as I was.” 

His father had shown complete rage against the one known as Mr. Compress. Mr. Masaru jumped on him and beat him so badly, it left permanent scarring. Because of the physical reaction, Mr. Masaru sweated a lot, and sparks flew with every hit. Seeing your dearest person attacked frightened and enraged you. 

“I was so mad at you. And Katsuki,” You turn your head to him. “I’m mad at you again. Why didn’t you tell me he was Mr. Compress?”

You have only seen that man with a mask on. From what you could tell, Mr. Compress’s voice and personality were flamboyant, something that was different from your dearest.

 “I won’t apologize for protecting you from that bastard. Not telling you was the best course of action.”

 You whip your head around. “No, it was not! He’s going to die because-”

“That’s another reason why I didn’t tell you. Right there! Right there, you are defending a murderer, a kidnapper, and a pedo-”

“Enough!” You turn to him completely. “Damn it, Bakugou! I’m just saying it’d been nicer to learn about who he was from you than the damn TV. And no, not your opinions of him, but that he was Mr. Compress!”

 You slump. “I thought he didn’t want me anymore. That he abandoned me. Katsuki,” you frown. “I had no one. I still don’t. You should’ve told me so I wouldn’t have felt that way.” It was awful. Who knows what you would’ve done if you knew? At least you would have had answers. 

 His hand moves from your head to your face. It cups it for a few seconds then pulls your cheek. “I don’t regret it. I am sorry for hurting you, honest to God, that was never my intention. What I did was to get you to let him go. Being away from him was safer."

 “Had U.A. not had the dorms, Katsuki, I would have been alone in that house. No money to pay bills, nothing. So, no, it’s not okay.”

“I never said it was. And if you believe I would leave you homeless means you don’t know me. Even back then, I would have made sure you had a home. Hell, my parents made up an extra room for you whenever you came over. You thought I’d let you go homeless? Tch, Eijrou would kill me if I did anyway.” 

 You shrug. “That’s my house, Katsuki. It’s bad enough that I lost it.” 

“Good riddance.”

You don’t bother to scold him. You just close your eyes and turn away, still reminiscing about what once was. 

“Hey, what color are cherry blossoms?”

“Pink, why?”

You smile to yourself. You won’t tell him why. At least not yet. Not when you think of all the times when you needed that answer. Walking hand in hand with Uncle Wally, looking at the magnificent beauty and arguing about the color. A single tear slips out. 

 “He’s dying, Katsuki. They’re gonna kill him.”

He doesn’t respond. Katsuki’s eyes remain on yours intently. The air is thick with tension and with dread reserved just for you. You shake your head and shrug. “It’s just as well. Maybe now I can date.” Your hand begins to shake. “Y’know, he said I wasn’t allowed to date. I did try once or twice in school.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. Some random guy in general studies and Shouto.” Katsuki’s eyes bug out. “Icy Hot?! You chose that guy-”

You hold in your smile at his reaction. You interrupt him before he goes on too long. “We only went on a date. We didn’t do anything.”

 He huffs and crosses his arms. His foot taps to a rhythm on the floor. It is a little quirk of his that you noticed years ago. Kacchan’s foot is always tapping, just like he is playing the drums. He sucks on his teeth and growls. “So, Half n’ Half was your choice?”

 “Kacchan, I was mad at you around that time, remember? Your dad put him in a chokehold.”

“He’s not a guy; he is trash. My old man was taking out the trash.” He scoffs and takes his hand off your head. 

 You look down at the old notebooks. The paper is a little worn since they haven’t been touched in about a decade and were well loved then. Each line is scribbled in ink of different colors on the pages. The pens pressed hard on certain ones, showing the emotions you had. 

“It doesn’t mean much anyway. He rejected me so harshly.” If you remember right without reading your notebooks, Todoroki put his fingers to your lips when you went to kiss him. Back then, you viewed it as him pushing you away. No...no, that’s not what happened. He was gentle and concerned. His eyes were soft as was his touch. He wasn't being mean at all. Actually, he might not have even seen your time together as a date. Why didn't you remember all this right?

“(Y/n), he didn’t reject you like that. He was suspicious of your age. Him and Deku, after a while.” 

“What?” You face him fully. Midoriya is one of the people who kept his distance from you. It hurt a lot being at U.A. because you were a pariah. Except for Katsuki, no one liked you. It was comforting to know that someone in the world loved you. And he was at home.

“And Kirishima. Which is why he offered for you to stay at his place. His moms even made a spare room for you.” This is the first time you have heard of this. Kirishima did offer for you to spend the night, but you took it as him trying to flirt with you and you pushed him, asking how could he do such a thing without asking the man at home. 

Kacchan takes a deep breath. “Can I see?” He reaches for one of the notebooks, the blue composition one that was written around your first few days at U.A. 

 He grips the paper tighter. “I noticed how he held you when our parents came to visit. I thought you were immature and acted like a big baby. You even went so far as to wear those frilly dresses.”

 “I never did like them. He always picked out my clothes until high school,” you chuckle. “When I bought makeup and a bra for the first time, he flipped!”

Kacchan stares at you for the longest. You break the silence with a smile. “We went everywhere. I don’t think there is a place in Japan I haven’t seen.” Your smile drops when you see his frown. “The Summer camp was the first time I had been truly without him.” Your voice is low and trails off. “It was weird, y’know?”

 Kacchan takes a deep breath. “I think that was the day Icy Hot picked up that something might’ve been wrong. Him and roundface.”

“I don’t think so. Uraraka never mentioned it. No one did.”

“Shouto asked if that was a normal relationship-”

“What?”

“The way he hugged you! How he glared at every boy there and looked at you was off, (Y/n). What did he say, ‘beware of boys’? The way he held you was wrong. It was hard not to fucking notice.”

You went to school with these people for years and not a single one other than Kacchan, Kirishima, and Aizawa, showed any type of concern, or inkling of your fondness with the man on the screen. The man who is sentenced to death, the first in years. Everything Kacchan is telling you is brand new and must be false or misinterpreted. 

"He only said that because of an incident before we went to camp..." It wasn't just a boy he was worried about. One of the most humiliating moments of your life had to do with your teacher. 

 Whereas you liked Todoroki and had a feeling of attraction with a boy close to your age, Aizawa was different and that was brought up to Nezu. Being at the office with Eraser and Nezu was more humiliating than not being able to kiss your teacher. That was the time when the teacher and Nezu spoke with your friend and confronted him about your behavior. After that, Eraserhead made it known that he did not trust him. Not to his face, but with the principal. You sat at your desk, the only student in the room, when he asked if something was wrong. The rage you felt that day knew no bounds. 

“It’s not like anyone cared, Kacchan. Everyone hated that camp, especially me. No way were they thinking of me.” Why would they? There was nothing special about you. Back then, your world revolved around him. Nevertheless, it would’ve been nice to have someone else. “Besides, the only reason they saved me was because it was a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone thing.”

He runs his hand through this fluffy hair. “They wanted to save you. It wasn’t because of convenience, (Y/n). I wasn’t gonna leave you either.”

Your face is warm. “I don’t know how I didn’t piece it together, Katsuki. I know his voice and build. How could I not have figured out it was him?”

“You were in a stressful situation. Every time we turned around we were being attacked and the only time you came into contact was when he abducted you for the second time.”

“I was never abducted! I went willingly, Kastuki!” You jerk yourself away from his thick, warm hand. His eyes narrow. “You were a child both times. You were tricked, both times, (Y/n). We’ve talked about this.”

 You freeze. You hate this. And you hate him for not telling you that Waldo was Mr. Compress. 

Kacchan stares at you, knowing there is something on your mind. You gently tap his thigh. “He’s going to die, Katsuki. And I didn’t get to say goodbye.” Your person is about to die. After the war, you went home for just a second to see him, only to find a letter from him telling you he’s going to go away for a while and the house is yours in the meantime. He told you not to trash it or allow big parties since he’ll be back. On the paper written in calligraphy, he reinstated some rules that you still subconsciously live by. No internet or traceable phones, don’t visit your special places without him; keep to yourself, and never tell anyone about your wholesome, and loving connection. You’ve broken a few of these but have kept the majority. It wasn’t all completely strict. Some were kind of silly, like how to water his fern or wait to make a new dinner recipe so he wouldn’t miss it. 

 Even as an adult, you’ve held onto a lot of these. Waiting for him is a foolish notion that you abandoned after high school. After he left, you looked for him and then after a while, considered the possibility that he was dead. After all your time together, it was hard for you to think he’d just leave. 

 He’s dying. All this time, he was right there in front of you and you missed it. “What do I do, Kacchan?”

“Go to therapy. I’m serious.” He runs his hand through his hair again. He continues, “You wanna see him, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches. “Is that wrong of me?”

------------------

 Katsuki promised to stay on the other side of the door. Walking into the room where you will be separated by glass is nerve-wracking. What will he say? Did he abandon you or didn’t plan to get caught? Did he miss you?

You sit down on the blue chair in front of the glass. There is no reason for a phone since you will be able to hear him perfectly without it. The door on the other side of the glass sides opens, making a whirring noise. You close your eyes and gulp. 

“Oh my, look how you’ve grown!” Your eyes fly open once you hear the familiar voice. It’s so weird, such a tug on your mind and emotions. He looks a little different. There are some wrinkles around his eyes but nothing prominent. His hair is the same as well as his physique. Nothing has outwardly changed except for his eyes. They look darker than what you remember. In your head, they’re warm; not this cold and dark shade. 

“(Y/n), dearie, look at you! You…you still…look the same. You’ve grown some, but you haven’t aged a day.”

Why is your stomach churning? 

“Mister,” You start to say. His eyes widened to be as round as saucers. “ Mister? You haven’t called me that since I first met you. Precious, it’s me. Uncle Wally.”

“I remember.” You remember everything. He was, is, so dear to you. Now, there is something wrong. Is it Katsuki? Did he get to you?

He sighs in relief. “I’m so, so happy, my love. I’d inject myself if I’d lost you. I could never live.”

“But you have.”

“No, I’ve been surviving, hoping for the day when I would see you again. Then again…” His eyes study your face. “Do I deserve to see you? Years have passed, and you are still divinity. You’re a woman now.”

“Does that disappoint you?” Your heart speeds up. Does he hate you now and is just being friendly? He’s a villain, lying is his nature, right? “No, not at all. I just wish I went on that journey with you.”

You scoff. “You did, remember? When I was in the woods? I started my period right then when you found me. When Mr. Compress found me.”

After the Summer camp, you went home and told him what happened. He was proud and pampered you. It was a drastic difference in behavior than it was when you bought your first cupped bra and makeup.

“That was only the beginning, darling. Seeing you grow, now that is so special. And they took it away from us. God, that has to be the worst thing. I’ve missed you so much, darling.”

Your lip wobbles and your eyes water. His face lights up a little. “There goes that pouty lip of yours!” 

You chuckle. “Stop that.”

After a moment, he tilts his head. “I wanted to experience all your firsts with you. Watching you become a young lady, then the lady you are now, was the dearest wish of mine. Then it came to just see you. To smell you,” He presses his hand against the glass. Your hand twitches to do the same. “They took you away from me. They’re animals, baby, animals! I know you wanted to go to that school, but please, my darling, don’t become like them!”

You shake your head. “I’m not like them. I mainly write. I’m a part-time hero.” 

“You still write? Do you still write in journals like you did before?”

“I, um, haven’t written in a journal, but I’ve published a few things.” It’s your bread and butter. You’re more of an emergency hero or requested. Writing is your release and passion. You just happen to make money off of it. Not a gross amount, but with the addition of being a hero, you live comfortably. 

“When’s the last you’ve written in them?”

“I don’t know, late teens? Late teens, maybe?” 

“I’d love to read them. You were always such a eloquent writer.” He read your journals all the time. He’d praise you for your writing and descriptions. Particularly when you wrote how you felt. But that would change if how you felt was towards another person.

You shrug. “I don’t know. Besides, you may not have time to read them all.”

He raises an eyebrow and taps the table. “There are that many, huh?” You nod. “Yeah, when you left me, I wrote a lot.”

It was supposed to sting him. He ignores it. “Your style was always so smooth and deep. Enticing like a noir enchantress with the grandiose of a classic,” He rests his head on his hand. “And written from a poetic lover,” he whispers. "Grandiose. What is it?” 

You frown and think. “Means splendid, or magnificent, would be your word to describe it.”

“Splendid and magnificent, just like you.”

You sigh. “Why do you describe my writing like that? From a poetic lover?”

“You have a way with words, my dear. From the very moment I met you. You've always been lovely.”

Your hands tremble. Something is wrong, you can feel it. Right on the tip of your tongue, you have the word for it. This feeling has been there under the many layers laid in your history. Years ago, you asked him a question and he gave you an answer that was, to you at the time, innocent. Now, you ask him again. “What am I to you?”

“You’ve never been a ‘what’.” 

“Then, who? I’m old enough for you to speak frankly.”

“You’ve grown so much that I can now. You’ll understand. My beloved,” he touches the glass again. “You’re the love of my life. Always have been. It started as fondness, then when you grew into a young lady, I knew. If I hadn’t been caught, if we had a few more years, nothing could have stopped us. The world always tears at the innocent.” 

“Times up!”

Atsuhiro Sako looks around. He opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t get the chance as he is dragged away. Shakily, you get up, waddling to the door. A guard sees your struggle and helps you. She doesn’t say a word. All she does is rub her hand along your arm calmly.

Right as the door slides open, you spot Kacchan sweating and furious. His nostrils are flared, eyes ablaze, and growling, demanding for him to see Atsuhiro Sako, for a very obvious reason. Immediately, he stops once he finds you. 

“I’m ready to go.” 

Kacchan holds you up, walks out of the prison, and puts you in the car. He drives you home and makes sure you’re in bed. “I’m staying the night.” He leaves your door cracked. You hear him plop on the couch.

All the little things Atsuhiro Sako had done with you add up now. He never touched you in a sexual way, but it got closer and closer, now you can think about it. His touch was normal, so the alarms weren’t sounding. 

Everything that happened in those-what, fifteen minutes?-rush through your mind. Nothing is the same now. Once again, he has left you in a whirlwind. This is so wrong. This pain in your heart as you finally accept the vile relationship between you, and how dirty you feel. Not just because of that, but because you are also flattered. You know for a fact, that small part of you is that child speaking. As an adult, you are now aware, and can say, that the word that had come to your mind when you talked to him was: disgust.

Your innocence was long gone. It had been stripped away little by little since you met him. Everything you’ve been through is now humiliating. You tried to kiss Todoroki and Eraserhead. You threw a fit about your doll and attacked Mina during a temper tantrum since she played a joke about a doll he gave you. All of the little things are adding up. The scars run so deep that you still abide by some of his rules. You don’t have a computer. You type on a typewriter. You haven’t seen the cherry blossoms without him and you haven’t done a lot of things people your age normally do because you’ll be doing it without him. 

Your hand flies to your chest in an attempt to stop the ache, while the other rushes to cover your mouth. Not able to handle it for another second, you run down the hall, whimpering as you go. Next to the couch, Kacchan stands. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong or tease you. He’s been waiting for you like he’s always done. 

You run into his arms, crying about how it isn’t fair. Bawling your eyes out from the embarrassment and memories. You mourn that child who never stood a chance. Atsuhiro Sako never sexually touched you. But he was waiting to. He thought about hurting you for years and tried to justify himself with the excuse of ‘I waited for you to grow’. Hoping that he’d be blameless because of it. 

To be molded into an infantilized doll due to your youthful beauty is enough to have your knees buckle. Tricked into a fantastical world he created with your adventures and constant bouncing at motels, hotels, and inns; his version of ‘school’ and the magic tricks he always did never ceased to amaze you. Although, you never did notice his quirk. Never. Maybe if you did, you’d know he was Mr. Compress and would have been driven to destroy him like Shigaraki’s touch. 

Kacchan, even Kirishima, hell, Aizawa, tried to tell you. And that little fact hurts. 

“I want to die!” You sob in Kacchan’s chest. Young (Y/n) is crying inside you as the love and care for him slowly fade away. You want to hate yourself and your ignorance, but you are blameless. Which is another thing that hurts to accept. 

Katsuki doesn’t say anything. He only holds you tightly, letting you soak his shirt with tears and snot.

------------

All around are beautiful flowers and trees. The branches stick up, and some curl down. It is a fantastic wonderland of cherry blossoms. The one important detail, other than their beauty, stands out. You see a small bud on the ground. Its petals are poking through even though it has fallen. Your fingers caress the silk. On your new phone, you Google what color cherry blossoms are. You smile at the results and secretly take the bud. You gently place the flower in your pocket. 

-

 The doors open once more. You enter the same room you had days prior. Tomorrow, he will be executed. 

“Beloved! A magical sight.” He sits down with an eager expression. He’s practically shaking with excitement. “A beauty, you are.”

“I just wanted to say something.”

“What is it?” 

You hold up the printed paper to the glass and bring up the bud that seems too pretty to be in front of him. “This is a cherry blossom, remember?”

He sighs dreamily and puts his head in his hand again. “Who would forget? That was a magical time.” His eyes narrow. “Where did you get it?”

“The place you think.”

“Without me?”

You nod. “What color do you think it is?”

“Red, darling. I told you that when we went. It was our place, dearie.” His voice deepens at the end. 

“Look at the paper,” He leans forward to the glass. “It says it’s pink. I got it from the internet and even asked people what color it was. It’s pink. You’re colorblind.”

 You stand up and leave the bud and paper in front of him. “That’s it.”

You turn to leave. He calls out to you. “Will you be there?”

“Yes.”

-------------

You fiddle with your new cell phone while you wait for Kacchan. The door of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant opens up with a bell. You hear his heavy footsteps before you see his imposing figure. He sits down in front of you with his usual frown softening. “You okay?”

You genuinely smile. “Yeah,” you clap your hands. “I ordered for you.”

“What?” he frowns again.

“I ordered their spicy challenge and in case you are a big baby, I got you mapo tofu.” You snort as you see the beginning of his demon face form. “You think I can’t handle it?!”

You put your hands up. “I’m just taking precautions.” He crosses his arms. “You watch. I can handle it, punk.”

The second the waiter came out with gloves on their hands and a mask, you knew it was Kacchan’s dish. They set it on his side of the table as well as the mild mapo tofu. The waiter turns to you. “I’ll be back with yours.”

Once they leave, you see Kacchan dig in, with no sign of him feeling the heat. Not a flush or a gasp, trembling, anything. How hot is it? You can smell it from across the table. This is bull. 

 You get yours and start to eat as well. Kacchan looks at you intently. “He’s going in a few minutes.”

“I know. I visited him yesterday.” Kacchan’s noodles drop from his chopsticks. They land on the peppered chicken next to it. “Why?”

“I wanted to tell him that he’s colorblind.” Kacchan scoffs. “Colorblind?”

“Mhm. He always told me that cherry blossoms were red. Made me seem that I was the one at fault. Finally, I went there and saw them again. I Googled it and asked around and I was right: they’re pink.”

He hasn’t taken another bite. “I told you that already. Why go to that thing?” 

You take a bite of your food, savoring the flavor. “I wanted to show him that I talked to others without his permission, and I did that at ‘our’ spot. Like I tainted it.” 

Kacchan chuckles and chews on his food. You add, “I also told him that I’d see his execution.”

 He nearly breaks his chopsticks. “What? Why?! It’s bad enough you visited him at all after everything he’s done to you.”

 “I’m not going. I know he’ll look for me and freak out when he doesn’t see me. He’ll panic that the one person he wanted isn’t there. And it'd be the last time I saw him; I told him that he was wrong. It’s not much, but it is something I did.”

 “So, this is a celebration? I’ll drink to that.”

“No. This is an average day. He doesn’t matter anymore. I'll remember this as an average day, and when he died, I was enjoying myself without thinking about him.”

He softly smiles. “You got it.”

You cross your arms as the owner takes a picture of Katsuki, who finished the challenge with no problem. He dramatically sighs. “And one of the sore loser.”

“Bastard…” The owner snaps a couple of shots of you frowning and Katsuki Bakugou smiling, which is a rarity. And not a single thought about what the meaning of the clock striking three meant.

-

 You were right. Atsuhiro Sako, AKA Mr. Compress, panicked when the clock struck 2:59 PM since you were nowhere in sight. Your name was a whimper, prayer, and a memory. You were freed at 3:00 PM. 

[autumnshowell]

Excerpts from Autumn’s Journals

Aria finds them as Autumn had left them in her manic spiral; left out, exposed, and disheveled. Some of them are old, roughed up - clearly having spent time at the bottom of a backpack or bent from the weight of having been slept on, but they're all packed with memories, thoughts, musings and some poems that are so selfish or intimate or indulgent that she'd never put them anywhere near another set of eyes. They're all hand written - mostly in pencil, sometimes in ink, and some are purpose built, and others are raggedy old comp notebooks and wire spirals. Photos are tucked into some of them - some of them clearly of a younger Autumn with one or both of her parents, others are old pictures printed out on inkjet paper and stuffed into pertinent passages. Usually they're left locked away, but in the heat of the moment, they were left sitting out for anybody who walked in to find and pry into.

[in-search-of-a-fallen-star]

track 01- butterflies by fiji blue; shouto todoroki/reader

content warnings: none. nothing but fluff. a meet cute/first date, very selfship coded.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

The bus hums steadily under you, the fluorescent lights washing over your notebook as your pencil scratched over the pages. The same song played on repeat over your headphones, and occasionally you tapped your headphones to pause or replay sections of it as you wrote.

A hand startled you out of your reverie, gently shaking your shoulder. You jumped at the touch, and pulled your headphones away from your ear as you looked up at the stranger.

He had broad shoulders, covered in a simple denim jacket with a fur lined collar to guard his neck against the late autumn chill. A plain black mask covered half of his face, and you caught a glimpse of mismatched eyes underneath a hat pulled low on his face.

"Sorry to startle you," he murmured, low voice loud in the quiet air of the empty bus. "Your stop is coming up, I think you missed the announcement." He makes a gesture on the side of his head, mimicking the headphones that are still blasting music around your neck.

A quick glance to the display confirms that he is right, your stop is the next one up. "Thank you!" you say, standing up and beginning to pack away your things in the tote slung over your shoulder.

As you stand up, the bus lurches to stop, and you feel your balance shift. You reach for a grip to steady yourself, but it's just out of reach and you feel yourself start to fall. You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact, but instead of falling to the floor of the bus you feel a strong arm wrap around you, pulling you to a firm chest.

You crack open one eye, and above you you see the face of the stranger. You think he's smiling, even if you can't see his mouth under the mask. "Thanks for the save, " you stammer, righting yourself.

"Any time," he says, and you're sure he's smiling under the mask. You can hear it in his voice. Eager to escape your embarrassment, you bob your head to him in thanks and scurry off the bus, the strap of your tote held firmly in your hands as you thank the bus driver and disembark.

You're still thinking about him, even days later as you sort through records at work. You remember the twinkle in his mismatched eyes, and the campfire-in-winter smell that had clung to the denim of his jacket.

Your friends had laughed at your embarrassment when you told them the story, and had slapped you on the back and told you to ask for his number the next time you tripped and fell on your way off the bus (which, unfortunately, happens often).

What you didn't tell them was that the embarrassment was twofold- you'd almost fallen on your ass in front of a hot guy, but you'd also lost your notebook with all of your thoughts and lyric drafts.

You flipped sadly through the pages of your new notebook. They smelled too new, and were too stiff to lay fully flat as you turned the pages. Most importantly, they were blank, and you despaired at the thought of trying to recreate months of work in a few short days before your friend's band was due to start rehearsals for their new songs.

Your forehead made a dull thump on the wood of the front counter as you slumped forward, only to be pulled out of your spiral by the tinkling of the bell at the front door. You snapped up in your seat, a smile pasted on your lips as you prepared to greet the new arrival.

You see the green and black of a Deku hoodie, and the stranger's face is covered in a black mask and they have a Chargebolt hat pulled low over their eyes. It's not till they step forward, door falling shut behind them, that you recognize the blue and grey eyes.

"I-it's you," you stammer out, half rising from the stool behind the counter.

"I'm glad I found you," he says, stepping up to the counter. He reaches into the pocket and pulls out a familiar battered notebook, offering it to you on slender fingers.

You gasp in disbelief, taking the notebook and leafing through it. Everything is there- not one page is missing. You feel tears of relief welling up in your eyes, and you hug the notebook close to your chest.

"How did you even know where to find me?" you ask, voice tinged with disbelief.

He points to your tote bag, hanging on the back of your chair. "I know the logo on your bag. This place is on my patrol route, so I see it pretty often. I'm sorry it took me so long to bring it back," he apologizes, looking sheepish under his mask. "I tried to get it back to you earlier, but I've missed you the last few times I've stopped by."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am that you brought it back," you say, putting the notebook on the counter. "Is there anything I can do to thank you?"

He shakes his head, just as his stomach lets out a loud rumble. You brighten, and pull out your bag of snacks. "Please, let me give you something. It's the least I can do for you."

He nods, and leans over the counter to choose a neon wrapped snack from your hoard of treats.

"I wanted to ask you," he says, pocketing a treat in his hoodie. "What was that song you were listening to on the bus?"

"Oh, that was the demo for a song my friend's band is working on. It's not out yet, but I can give you their band's name if you want to listen to some of their other songs!" you say excitedly. "Better yet, I have a record of theirs here that you can listen to, if you want."

He cocks his head to the side, looking like a confused and very handsome cat. "Record?"

"Yeah! The Midnight Hour has a library of records and CDs that you can listen to with studio quality equipment," you explain. "This record is very limited edition. Only about one hundred were ever made. Come on, I'll set you up in a booth. Oh, unless you have to go," you say, snapping yourself out of your train of thought.

He shakes his head. "I just got off my shift. I don't have anywhere to be."

You smile and make your way around the counter, grabbing the ring of keys for the listening booths. You stop in the record section on your way, flipping through the sleeves until you find a familiar one. The stranger follows you obediently, bright eyes watching as you unlock the booth.

"I totally forgot to ask your name, I'm so sorry, you say, slapping your palm against your forehead.

He laughs, and you think it might be the most gorgeous sound you've ever heard.

"Don't worry about it," he says, taking a seat on the stool next to you. "My name is Shouto."

"Oh, isn't there a pro hero named Shouto?" you ask, adjusting the audio equipment. "I thought I heard about someone with that name debuting recently."

"Do you follow heroes?" he asks, picking up the record sleeve and opening it to look at the tracklist.

"Not really," you say. "I don't hear about heroes often, I don't have cable at my apartment and there's no radio in here, so I miss out on most of the news."

"Not to say that they're not important though," you correct, sitting back on your stool. "I know a few of the sidekicks who patrol around here at night, they've helped me out of a few sticky situations before."

"That reminds me," you say, turning to him. "Didn't you say that you patrol this area? Are you a pro hero too?"

"I am. I'm helping out a friend for the next few days, covering his route in this area."

"Sorry, one more question and then I'll leave you to listen, I promise. I've been wanting to ask you since the night we bumped into each other- how did you know that was my stop?"

"I think we take the same bus home," he answers, putting the record sleeve down. "Usually, I get on a few stops before you get off, and most of the time you're the only other one on the bus."

"Oh, that makes sense," you say. "My friends were worried you were some kind of stalker, but I imagine there's not many buses running when you get off of a night shift. Anyway, thanks for letting me pester you. I'll let you listen in peace now."

You get up, but he gently grabs your wrist before you can leave the booth. "If you can, I'd like it if you'd listen with me," he asks, looking up at you with serious eyes.

"Are you sure? I have to keep an ear out for the front door, and that means you'd have to keep the booth door open. The music really sound better with the door clos-"

"I'm sure," he interrupts you gently. "It's your friend's band, right? I'd like to hear more about them."

"Oh, I'm sure I've already talked your ear off at this point," you protest, averting your eyes. You don't pull away though, letting him gently tug you back down to the stool.

"I like your voice," he says plainly, taking your hand loosely in his. Shouto's grey and blue eyes meet yours, his gaze intense.

You can't help the laugh that leaves you. "You're a charmer," you wave your free hand in front of your face. "If you're sure you don't mind the door being open, I'll start the album."

He nods, and you start the music, the quiet sound of the needle landing on the record coming through the speakers. He's very attentive through the whole album, listening intently and occasionally pausing the music to ask questions about the lyrics.

You're sad when it eventually ends, and you both have to get up and leave. He moves to help you clean up the booth, but a beep from his pocket demands his attention.

"Go," you shoo him out of the booth. "This is my job, don't worry about it. You have places to be."

He looks conflicted, but another beep rings from his pocket. "I have to go," he says. You still can't see the lower half of his face, but it almost sounds like he's pouting.

"Go be a hero," you say, smiling up at him. "Thank you for bringing back my notebook, and letting me talk your ear off."

"I'll see you again?" his voice lilts, the question sounding almost hopeful.

"You know where to find me. I'm here almost every night," you promise.

He looks like he wants to say more, but his phone beeps insistently and he pulls it out of his pocket, stepping outside to take the call. You see him take off down the sidewalk, and you watch until he's out of sight before you return to your post behind the desk.

You open your notebook, but the words on the page blur together in front of your eyes. Your hand tingles, and you flex your fingers. You can't help but think about how he had held your hand through the entire album, and how warm his palm had been against yours.

[artistictouches]

Autumn Leaves Spiral Notebook - Ruled Line

[erissheiress]

Ooo birthday prompts! I’m not sure if I can do more then one but I’m gonna try. If nothing else pick your fav.

The first ones Autumn Court cuz I love my moot privileges!

But the second one is Winter court. And I want a unbiased report! Just because you know my fav means nothing!

I genuinely try to stick to a goth pixie look as my friends call it. I’ve got the split dye hair and the tiny black dresses with fishnets vibes. But! I also like to read and draw and sew. Basically If a grandma would have it as a hobby so would I.

I like sweets over sour stuff and eat way to many cosmic brownies. And I’ve been described as a black cat or a “scary chihuahua “ whatever the hell that means.

hiii! of course you can do more than one <3 you def have moot privileges lol

🍁 Autumn Court - (moots only please) I'll tell you some things i associate with you + some things i love about you/your blog &lt;3

(get ready for some really specific associations that probably only make sense to me)

cherry blossoms ~ freshly baked cake/buns ~ journaling in spiral notebooks ~ tattoos ~ the feeling when you get a new haircut and you feel really confident with yourself ~ white chocolate ~ bustling cities

and things I love about you/your blog:

the colour scheme/theme fr ~ your interactions with my works literally make me so happy ~ i love how you've been on my taglist for ages and somehow still have faith in me and my posts 🥺 ~ your sense of style after that description 😍

❄️ Winter Court- ships! description of any length and ill ship you with an acotar character!

first of all i love your aesthetic omg

i genuinely spent ages mulling this over but I def ship you with Amren 👀

I truly believe you'd be a perfect power couple, for plenty reasons; I think Amren would love your style and your hair, and of course she's very much a "black cat" character as well so ye would compliment eachother well!

also I think she'd find your hobbies endearing and fascinating, I can imagine lots of quiet evenings together just sitting in comfortable silence doing your own things <3 idk if this is a headcanon or not but Amren def has a sweet tooth sooo that works well!

hopefully that's an okay ship!! thank you for the ask!!!!

[saiyukiitaliaandinternational]

"Deeply, quietly, cheerfully Gently, coldly, warmly, caring For everything in this world. He took the form of the moonlight"

Relatively quick b-day tribute to Koumyou Sanzo (it took me 3 days, mostly because of details, choice of colours and private life).

Koumyou's face is heavily referenced from Minekura-Sensei's work since it was first time I drew him, unlike Ukoku, Sanzo and Hakkai which I am more used to:

In the original sketch I did on notebook I planned to put in the corners of the draw several tea olive (Osmanthus fragrans) since it is closely associated with the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival. Chinese mythology holds that a sweet osmanthus grows on the moon and was endlessly cut by Wu Gang, a figure in traditional Chinese folklore known for endlessly cutting down a self-healing osmanthus tree on the Moon. Here you can see the sketch, on Krita I adjusted proportions of the face, but then I decided not to put it because the image would have become too crowded.

I added the three hare symbol (the hares are not realistic in proportions since I wanted to focus more on the symbolic aspect). Like the triskelion, the triquetra, and their antecedents (e.g., the triple spiral), the symbol of the three hares has a threefold rotational symmetry. Here you can see the map where the symbol is found. The earliest occurrences appear to be in cave temples in China, dated to the Sui dynasty. The iconography spread along the Silk Road, and was a symbol associated with Buddhism which fits perfectly a character like Koumyou both as religious motif and animal motif. Guan Youhui, a retired researcher from the Dunhuang Academy, who spent 50 years studying the decorative patterns in the Mogao Caves, believes the three rabbits—"like many images in Chinese folk art that carry auspicious symbolism—represent peace and tranquility". Again it fits perfectly him.

Here a website about this symbol.

As for the writing on Koumyou's sutra I took some poetic licence to turn what it's possibly a mix of seed-syllables and mantras into an actual sentence taken from Vajracchedikā Prajñāpāramitā aka Diamond Sutra one of my favourite Mahayana sutras among Prajñāpāramitāhṛdaya or Heart Sutra. Specifically the sentence is the Chinese translation made by Xuanzang monk during his journey to India in order to retrieve and translate Buddhist works. The original Chinese sentence is:

不住聲香味觸法應行布施

English translation by Harrison, Paul (2006):

He should not give a gift while fixing on sounds, smells, tastes or objects of touch, or on dharmas.

I chose his translation because Xuanzang will be the main inspirational source of Journey to The West, hence all pop culture derivative works like Saiyuki. I chose this particular passage because I think it well represents Koumyou's gently detached nature. The sutra's major themes are anatman (not-self), the emptiness of all phenomena, the liberation of all beings without attachment and the importance of spreading and teaching the Diamond Sutra itself.

The sutra is a fine example of apophatic theology, a form of thinking and religious practice which attempts to approach God, the Divine, the Absolute by negation, to speak only in terms of what may not be said about the perfect goodness that is God in the case of Christianity. This applies to Buddhism too, and in this sutra some examples are:

"As far as 'all dharmas' are concerned, Subhuti, all of them are dharma-less. That is why they are called 'all dharmas'."

"Those so-called 'streams of thought', Subhuti, have been preached by the Tathagata as streamless. That is why they are called 'streams of thought'."

"'All beings', Subhuti, have been preached by the Tathagata as beingless. That is why they are called 'all beings'."

I'll leave here the sutra in case you are interested. Colours are intended to trace those of the moon, which is first time I draw and paint digitally. Koumyou is a very relaxing character to draw, I felt at peace while stroking his hair, a great character too bad he got killed. Always the best leave this world. Anyway I hope you enjoy it and happy b-day, Koumyou! May your gentle look guard us like the light of the moon during a lonely night.

Credits:

Saiyuki Reload Burial © Kazuya Minekura, Discotek Media, 2007-present

Art by me

[a-queer-query]

Thank you @aixabi for the tag.... back in February. Honestly I don't even know atp, but hey, I did it??? Twas fun??????

1. What's the origin of your blog title?

I never use the queue. That's it, not much to it! I never have in my entire life on Tumblr, and I'm not about to start now.

2. OTP(s) and shipname?

Natsu and Lucy (NaLu) from Fairy Tail! Don't talk about them much, but they're so special to me. Shaking them and their (Natsu's) communication issues like a snowglobe.

3. Favourite colour?

Pthalo green.

4. Favourite game?

A Date With Death (a visual novel chatsim)(I love it so much) or Horizon Zero Dawn.

5. Song stuck in your head?

I don't really have any songs stuck in my head, but I do usually have a rotating cast of songs that I can play in my head when I want to or don't have headphones. Right now, it's Lighthouse Keeper by Shayfer James.

6. Weirdest habit/trait?

Ever since I was a child, I've played with my ears. Just twisting and turning them, it's unconscious at this point. I especially do it when zoned out.

7. Hobbies?

I keep several (for enrichment purposes). I crochet, read, every once in a while I'll write, play video games, and stream.

8. If you work, what's your profession?

I'm currently a cashier (ugh). But I want to go into art - probably character concept design or storyboarding! I'd also be chill with art restoration, art history, or astrophysics.

9. If you could have any job you wish, what would it be?

Honestly? Teaching. I enjoy helping people learn things, but I'm not cut out for it as a career, so it's not in my actual plans.

10. Something you're good at?

I'd like to think I'm good at drawing and painting. Failing that, nonograms.

11. Something you're bad at?

Statistics. Those are devil numbers.

12. Something you love?

I love a lot of things!! My cats, my friends and family, hiking trails, the smell of pine, autumn, typewriters, my dogs, reading...

13. Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff?

Hm. Probably game lore for Honkai Star Rail or Genshin Impact, or my typewriters.

14. Something you hate?

I find it hard to hate a lot of things. Discrimination is one of them, obviously, as is capitalism, but on a smaller level... notebooks that aren't spiral bound. I can't write in them properly.

15. Something you collect?

Typewriters. I have a whole list of them on my rarely used sideblog, @tell-tale-typewriter and will happily go into detail if asked. Please ask me about them. Please. Please. Please.

Also, botanical lego sets.

16. Something you forget?

I have ADHD, if it's not in sight, it is not in my mind.

17. What's your love language?

Dunno tbh. I enjoy gifting things to my friends when it's not socially expected so maybe that? Also doing Activities together.

18. Favourite movie/show?

My favourite movie is Howls Moving Castle, favourite show is Doctor Who or The Disastrous Life of Saiki K.

19. Favourite food?

Shepherd's pie or pomegranates.

20. Favourite animal?

Cats in general, but I really like Pallas's Cats. They're just so fluffy.

21. What were you like as a child?

Quiet, shy, easy to cry. Quite frankly, I think they could've diagnosed me with anxiety much sooner than they did.

22. Favourite subject at school?

Art or English.

23. Least favourite subject?

Physical Education. I especially hated the health classes, because the work was always incredibly tedious.

24. What's your best character trait?

I try to be kind, I suppose. Hate questions like these, because how am I supposed to know?!!

25. What's your worst character trait?

I tend to isolate myself and take a long time to respond to people trying to contact me. Also, forgetfulness.

26. If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be?

It's a tie between being on T and having several million dollars, so my parents and I never have to worry about money. Actually, I think being comfortable monetarily would solve a lot of problems.

27. If you could travel in time, who would you meet?

I'd like to talk to my grandmother one more time, I think. I miss her :)

Not tagging anyone bc oh my god.

[violettesiren]

Again September, like the swarms of seasons past, and toward evening the youthful cold grows to manhood. I suspect the garden of having secrets: it always seems—someone is there walking about.

I'm not more frightened, but only more merry, that a ghost inhabits the neighborhood. In the benevolence of my autumn days I will take no one's footsteps as the gait of a friend.

I have no one to ask: but isn't it time to copy in a notebook—with the last dew, the grass and the air, into a visible spiral that's twisted by a frenzied wasp.

And also: the attention of whose eyes, perceived betimes by the moon, made the return path of the rays and on the earth, was seen with me?

Anyone whose field of vision the moon absorbs is free with the adoration or reproach of other people, in other seasons, to look about with a posthumous eye.

Is that not why in radiance and beauty her barren stones torment us so? Oh, I know who, with two staring pupils, more intent than everyone else, made her silver!

So I sit, listening to the garden, having left a chink in the window for eternity And the unavoidable stare of Pushkin roasts my cheek throughout the night.

Again September...by Bella Akhmadulina (Translated by Albert C. Todd)

[libnadalex]

Information (top shelf) has been reshelved at last and all library books are back to the library. That Goonatilake book went on a new section, to the right of Containers, that Im calling Eclectics for now.

Eclectics includes Julietta Singh's "No Archive will Restore You" and one of those Shaun Usher books (check them out at your library if you haven't come across them before) as well as a pair of rare and unusual spiral bound books by peace activist Kristin Christman called Overview and Guide to "The Taxonomy of Peace."

The taxonomy applies classification toward the establishment of a "science of peace". Christman aimed to be comprehensive and her project is a massive and relentless collection of texts. These are all published online and the spiral notebooks serve, litwrally, as an overview of the project and guide to its contents. The table of contents is 171 pages, listing off Roots of Violence, Escalators of Violence, and Solutions to Violence.

The original website has been preserved by the Internet Archive.

One page of the guide leaps out to me -- "Skewers: Mental Escalators that Bend the Truth." This describes the exhaustion I feel when looking at most social media posts that pertain to war and conflict. (Upper left corner in photo below.)

I tried to follow the links in the website on archive.org to get into Mental Escalators of Violence to see the classification tools and citations, but their snapshot only preserves the homepage.

I looked for other online repositories of Christman's texts and did not find anything. Wonderful, as always, that Internet Archive has preserved the homepage. While searching, I learned that Christman has been active in writing and speaking about de-escalating in Russia's war with Ukraine. She started a youtube channel in 2022 has written several articles on the topic. In recent monthsz her youtube channel and her writing have looked at the roots of violence in Israel-Palestine.

[designbykimprut]

Hello fall spiral notebook

[axi35]

Happy Thanksgiving!

Mouse Pad: https://www.redbubble.com/i/mouse-pad/Thanksgiving-Holiday-by-Axi35/94861940.G1FH6?asc=u

Travel Mug: https://www.redbubble.com/i/mug/Thanksgiving-Holiday-by-Axi35/94861940.V33QC?asc=u

Spiral Notebook: https://www.redbubble.com/i/notebook/Thanksgiving-Holiday-by-Axi35/94861940.WX3NH?asc=u

[elmuchachondesigns]

Fall Timeless Change

A comparison through time, the past and the present, autumn is always beautiful every year

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