#❛ the world is so big & you’re so restless / ans. memes.

[blstys]

tomorrow  /  @shockpop​​​  ——   ans.  ask  meme  ——  one  word  prompts  ;  accepting.

are  you  sure  that  was  a  good  idea?  kirishima  had  prompted  the  night  before,  as  kindly  as  humanly  possible.  bakugou  had  shrugged,  placed  an  empty  glass  on  the  table  top  and  replied  what’s  a  little  heartbreak  between  old  friends?

the  answer  did  not  need  to  be  given,  it  was  known  plainly.  kirishima  had  served  it  to  him  piping  hot,  drenched  in  that  same  kindness,  anyway:  it  isn’t  just  a  heartbreak  and  it  wasn’t  exactly  little,  bakugou.  the  two  of  you  didn’t  even  try  to  stay  friends  and  now  you’re  going  to  live  together?

he  hadn’t  known  it  yet  but  the  words  would  bruise,  darkening  over  the  span  of  the  next  day;  become  sore  to  revisit,  even  at  the  surface  level.  grossly  out  of  character  to  the  person  he’d  been  trying  to  be,  he  was  defensively  hopeful  and  still  littering  swears  between  meaningful  sentiments,  in  parting;  money  tucked  under  the  rim  of  his  empty  glass  enough  to  cover  both  parties:  since  when  has  there  been  a  god - damn  statue  of  limitations  on  fucking  trying.  it  will  be  fine.  we’re  not  stupid  kids  anymore.

now,  standing  in  the  doorway  to  the  life  denki’s  lived  without  him,  katsuki  comes  to  the  crispy  realization  once  again  that  he  was  probably  wrong  about  where  his  own  limits  exist.  he  shoves  them  down,  steps  inside.

denki  beats  him  to  it,  already  tucked  toward  the  television,  coiling  wires  for  gaming  consoles  before  katsuki’s  shoes  are  toed  off,  respectful  habit  ingrained.  eyes  size  up  the  place.  cozy,  but  not  unkempt.  a  decent  size  for  a  single  person  and  a  sushi  roll  but  terribly  overpriced  for  its  location.  chipped  paint  and  ancient  light  fixtures.  unlike  the  apparently  empty  expanse  of  his  industrial  penthouse  that  intends  to  house  them  both  starting  tomorrow,  denki’s  small  space  appears,  well,  lived - in. 

where  his  walls  have  lain  bare - brick  and  white  paint,  only  the  necessary  furniture  and  katsuki’s  previous  belongings  having  dwindled  down  to  the  span  of  a  couple  bookshelves  and  a  too - large  bedroom;  there  is  hardly  an  inch  of  denki’s  place  untouched  by  well - loved  belongings.  it  has  the  clutter  of  an  actual  life  lived.

it,  too,  appears  so  painfully  denki  in  appearance  that  for  a  terribly  ( nostalgic )  second  katsuki  swears  they’ve  stepped  right  back  in  time  to  denki’s  u.a.  dorm  room.  the  second  passes  onto  the  next,  as  it  always  does,  and  divorces  the  dream  from  reality.  it  is  a  process  that  he  has  nearly  forgotten  how  to  do  outside  a  hungover  morning.

a  blink,  the  gentle  clink  of  dog - tags  getting  in  the  way  of  a  quick  collar - pull,  another  glance.  steady  breath  reveals  the  obvious  truth:  familiar  items  are  there  but  much  fewer  and  further  between  than  unfamiliar  ones.

a  flannel  he’s  worn  before  hangs  off  an  open  door  handle;  at  least  three  more,  unknown,  lay  over  unoccupied  corner  surfaces.  one  is  tucked  under  the  coffee  table.  there  is  one  potted  cactus  that  katsuki  remembers  giving  a  name  and  several  unrecognizable  plants  spilling  out  of  their  terracotta  homes.  light  folds  in  where  it  can,  sunlight  spilling  from  the  single  bedroom  window  into  the  living  space  to  turn  the  place  pale  yellow.  there’s  a  corner  of  a  bed  visibly  unmade  illuminated,  too.  a  small  laptop  lays  atop  the  least - mussed  end  like  a  silver  cat.  the  kitchen,  for  all  its  lack  of  breadth  is  haunted  by  only  ( as  far  as  he  can  tell )  a  graveyard  of  kirby  drinking  glasses  that  do  not  appear  to  be  of  any  particular  matching  set.  memorized  licence  plates  hang  on  the  wall  like  the  eyes  of  doctor  t.j.  fucking  eckleburg  while  faces  that  are  familiar  but  distinctly  not  his  peer  at  him  from  their  strung - up  photographs.

crimson  eyes  glaze  over  a  guitar  with  fret  spacing  his  fingers  remember  and  stick  to  a  red  cassette  tape  player  before  flitting  quickly  away.

purpose  remembered,  katsuki  moves,  as  originally  tasked,  to  the  god - forsaken  skateboard  bookshelf  to  assist  with  the  packing.  he  scans  titles,  new  and  misplaced,  as  he  puts  them  into  the  open  mouth  of  the  box  that  waits  at  the  shelf  base  and  aches  to  think  of  the  box  of  mixed  tapes  collecting  dust  in  the  top  shelf  of  a  closet  in  his  guest  room.  he’ll  have  to  move  them  sometime  today  before  denki's  un - strewn  flannels  can  lay  claim  to  the  space.

even  meticulous  hands  have  difficulty  shaking  off  the  odd  tremor  when  they  reach  for  a  haphazard  tower  of  miscellaneously  stacked  things.  it  sears  through  the  center  of  his  chest  like  an  arrow  re - sunk  into  an  old  wound  to  disassemble  it.

“ so  you’re  still  stacking  things,  huh ?  —  sootball's  gonna  love  that. ”

[blstys-a]

‘ baby you’re a vision ’

amrit brar’s queer teeth  /  ac.  /  @unbreakbl

        kirishima’s words halt him two steps into the room, a stop sign. the pause turns into a full breakdown in the time it takes for bakugou to register any of the words after baby. hazard lights flicker somewhere behind his eyes; a car pulled over on the side of the road at night, he exhales a stalling exhaust.

 “ i’m a what-the-fuck? ”  taillights are dull compared to the red of his cheeks, “ how the hell do you just — say things… like that? what the fuck does that even mean? ”

[blastyexplodo-blog]

💟

💟 — a delicate kiss / ac. / @creatied

IRON  &  WINE  spins  on  the  record  player  —  the  soft  sound  of  flightless  bird,  american  mouth  spilling  into  an  otherwise  quiet  room.  bakugou  misses  a  lot  of  the  words  in  translation  but  there  is  something  about  this  particular  song  that  always  reminds  him  of  her.  (  plus !  there’s  a  mention  of  a  house - cat  and  thus  persimmon  is  easily  brought  to  mind,  as  well.  the  two  tend  to  come  hand - n - paw,  after  all.  it’s  something  bakugou  has  been  happy  to  leave  his  door  cracked  open  for.  )  the  melody  is  something  easy  for  the  feet  to  move  to,  which  never  hurts.

they  sway  to  it  now.  (  though,  if  pressed  bakugou  couldn’t  say  exactly  when  they’d  traded  their  reading - date  for  dancing  or  whom  offered  their  hand  first.  )  more  accurately  they  WALTZ  —  slowly  and  as  much  as  two  people  in  a  dorm  room  can  perform  something  meant  for  a  full  floored  ballroom  comfortably.  steps  come  in  their  rightful  one - two - three,  one - two - threes  but  neither  of  them  push  to  lead.

it  causes  his  mind  to  wander  over  to  all  the  little  things  that  lead  him  to  this  particular  moment  ;  connecting  the  minutes  and  smiles  and  kindnesses  and  hours  as  the  dots  of  constellations  in  his  mental  note - pad.  bakugou  hadn’t  really  noticed  that  human  connections  grow  the  same  way  plants  do  —  so  slowly  over  time  that  you  hardly  notice  a  difference  from  sprout  to  bud  until  it’s  fully  in  bloom.  he  wonders,  too,  if  she’s  noticed  that  they’re  still  moving,  though  the  song  has  ended.

he  comes  to  a  stand - still  slowly,  the  static  of  a  record  spinning  without  a  needle  oddly  fitting  a  soundtrack  for  the  yellow  light  that  floods  in  through  the  balcony.  curfew  will  be  upon  them  soon  and  with  it  another  night  sleepless  but  he  can’t  find  any  fucking  reason  to  mind  when  the  amber  glow  settles  warmly  in  the  glint  of  her  eyes  as  she  smiles.  momo  says  something  sweet,  a  thank  you  for  the  dance  that  brings  a  bout  of  déjà  vu  and  bakugou  feels  a  fondness  in  his  chest  so  grand  that  it  almost  feels  sad.

he  wonders  after  a  question  that  he  still  hasn’t  gotten  an  answer  for:  how  do  you  tell  a  girl  you  want  to  kiss  her ?

hands  pull  away  from  their  proper  placement  only  for  one  of  them  to  find  its  way  to  her  cheek  ;  a  strand  of  hair  that’s  fallen  loose  from  her  usual  up - do  that  bakugou  tucks  gently  back  behind  her  ear.  his  fingertips  linger  there,  accidentally  brushing  against  the  thrum  of  her  pulse  point  as  he  moves  to  pull  away.  cheeks  flourishing  with  a  shade  of  pink  that  has  no  busy  being  there.

he  feels  ridiculous,  suddenly  ;   as  if  he’s  just  become  aware  of  how  cliché  the  whole  afternoon  would  seem  if  he  had  seen  it  on  a  movie  screen.  this,  however,  doesn’t  lessen  any  off  the  fluttery  feelings  nor  the  grand  fondness - that’s - almost - sadness  lodged  in  his  chest.  he  drops  his  hand  to  her  jaw,  determined.

it’s  a  total  shot  in  the  dark  (  or  at  least  an  aim  in  the  dim - light  )  —  one  that  he  reckons  might  get  him  slapped  —  but  he  RISKS  it  anyway.

lifting  up,  JUST  barely  onto  his  toes  to  better  reach,  bakugou  presses  as  delicate  a  kiss  as  he  can  to  the  corner  of  her  lips.  because,  really,  he  is  the  one  who  owes  her  the  thanks.  for  the  dance  and  for  EVERYTHING  else.

[blstys]

@shockpop​  said:  ❝ tell  me  how  all  this,  and  love  too,  will  ruin  us. ❞  &  ❝ if  you  love  me,  katsuki,  you  don’t  love  me  in  a  way  i  understand. ❞  

he  senses  a  fight  for  weeks  before  it  happens.  hasn’t  had  the  words  to  stop  it.  scrambles  to  pump  the  brakes  in  anyway  he  knows  how;  offers  all  the  scraps  of  honesty  he  has  to  give.  you  know  how  i  feel,  you  know  me.  nothing  has  changed,  he  don’t  understand  how  they  got  here.  not  really.  

                it  has  been  months  of  splintering.  physical  distance  first  -  the  loss  of  tactical  response,  the  quicker  pull  back  to  all  touch.  it  was  like  their  language  changed  before  they  ever  stopped  talking.  that,  too,  happened - but  slowly.

                individual  disappointments  stack  up,  haphazardly,  to  build  towers.  to  topple  them.  then  silence.

what  was  expected  of  him  except  to  be  who  he  already  is?  he’d  always  been  more  action  than  conversation  until  the  words  were  pulled  out  of  him.  hadn’t  denki  known  the  whole  time  that’s  who  he  was?  the  effort  it  takes  for  him  to  string  together  anything  without  a  swear  in  it.

denki  keeps  asking  and  he  doesn’t  have  an  answer,  has  even  less  to  give,  tapped  dry.  denki  stops  asking  for  him  to.  it  seems  like  progress  at  first.  an  understanding  reached. 

                he  doesn’t  say  the  words  simply,  never  has  really.  they  don’t  exist  that  way  for  him  but  isn’t  it  enough?  shouldn’t  it  be?  it’s  love  all  the  same.  it’s  everything.  he  hasn’t  learned  to  recharge  his  own  battery  -  but  he’s  still  learning  how  to  redirect  denki’s;  to  prevent  catastrophe.  it  seems  like  a  step  toward  rebuilding.  he’s  doing  all  that  he  can  -  surely  denki  can  see  all  this.

 katsuki  had  thought  they  were  solid.  he  would  have  bet  the  strength  of  them  to  stand  on.  which  one  of  them  pulled  the  carpet?  maybe  it  still  rested  underfoot  and  this  was  just  a  stumble.

                 if  you  love  me,  katsuki,  you  don’t  love  me  in  a  way  i  understand.

                or  not.

katsuki  becomes  the  one  with  questions:  are  you  still  mine?  do  you  still  want  this?  are  you  bored  yet?  how  do  i  fix  this?

                he  doesn’t  ask  any  of  them  simply;  does  his  best  to  dodge  and  dip  around  them,  not  brave  enough  to  look  it  in  the  face.  there  are  answers  he  fears  suspects  though  —  the  possibility  that  there  isn’t  anything.  he  feels  like  a  struck  match  over  an  oil  spill.

❛  then  fucking  leave.  ❜  it  falls  exasperated,  the  bite  of  bitterness  that  comes  from  frustration  —  but  doesn’t  feel  like  he  means  to  say  it;  like  it’s  a  real  option.  he  doesn’t  expect  this  of  all  things  to  be  taken  seriously  at  face  value.  ❛  no  one  is  forcing  you  to  stay.  ❜

                            richard  siken  starters  extended  —  accepting

[blstys]

❝ do you love yourself? ❞  /  @shockpop​​​  ——  richard  siken  starters  ;  accepting.

BLINDSIDED,  katsuki  sits  back  against  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  drops  his  hands  to  his  knees,  the  picture  of  a  man  receiving  bad  news.

“ what  kind  of  question  is  that? ”  trust,  believe,  respect  himself,  sure.  know  his  self  -  worth?  absolutely.  love?  well,  katsuki  hasn’t  been  given  the  prompting  to  think  of  self  love  until  now.  leave  it  to  denki  to  ask  the  questions  that  everyone  else  leaves  on  the  table  to  collect  dust.  

without  answer  readily  apparent,  he  mulls  over  the  line  of  tracks  that  have  been  built,  brand  new,  to  carry  this  train.

it  must  be  easy  to  assume.  bakugou  katsuki,  prideful  as  the  sin  it  was  created  to  be,  harbors  great  regard  for  his  personal  being.  care  is  given  in  troves  to  appearances  and  further,  to  the  health  of  his  body  —  least,  to  the  best  of  his  teen  ability.  some  things  fall  through  the  cracks.  mentality,  for  one.  though,  even  sleepless.  even  terrorized  and  dropped  by  the  wayside...  who  else  has  shown  him  true  compassion?  who  would,  if  not  himself,  declared  self - important,  painted  narcissist.

well,  who  else  beside  himself  and  denki.

oh,  from  the  outside  cathedrals  wear  the  facade  of  holy !  katsuki  bars  no  exception.  wipe  him  clean.  peel  back  the  wallpaper,  the  curtains,  smudge  off  the  eyeliner  and  soot  stains.  change  the  hole - y  sheets  and  the  bared  teeth,  wet - stone  sharpened  into  a  smile  that  bites  before  he  even  opens  his  mouth  for  the  word's  actuality.  (  and  he  does,  annoyed,  nick  denki’s  knuckles  with  his  canines,  to  prove  some  sort  of  point. )

he  doesn't  have  to  think  about  the  question  to  know  the  answer.  it  is  so  simple,  so  painstakingly  plain  to  see.

“ no  —  but  i  really  don’t  know  why  it’s  such  a  big  deal,  though.  my  love  —  or  whatever  —  has  more  important  things  to  tend  to  than  me. ”

[blstys]

Pochemuchka

pochemuchka  ( russian ):  A  person  who  asks  too  many  questions.  /  ac  /  @halfhim

hatred  is  an  emotion  bakugou  has  no  shortage  of  in  the  wake  of  certain  events.  one,  particularly,  that  itches  at  the  back  of  his  skull.  a  pressure  headache  every  time  a  certain  pair  of  brothers  cross  his  path.  what  wounds  heal  regress  back  to  open,  throbbing  tattoos,  etched  into  the  fabric  of  who  they  mistake  him  to  be.  flowers  die  in  the  winter  but  oh,  katsuki’s  rage  blooms.

he  sharpens  his  teeth.  fingers  curl  so  that  sweat  pools,  deadly,  in  the  palms  of  hands.  right  where  the  nails  would  be.  he  will  not  martyr  for  sins  mistakenly  tacked  to  his  personality.  to  his  affiliation  with  a  white - haired  bookstore  clerk  that  took  his  heart  and  ate  it.

WHAT  DO  YOU  WANT  FROM  ME?  an  ally?  ideals  un - moving.  well,  he’s  got  that.  someone  less  heroic?  BE  CAREFUL  WHAT  YOU  WISH  FOR,  bakugou  can  be  that.  but  no,  not  for  anybody  else’s  purpose.

“ you  ask  too  fucking  much  with  no  leverage !  don’t  assume  you  know  all  of  me  based  on  a  fraction  of  the  information !  what  do  i  owe  a  half - baked  todoroki.  i  have  no  business  with  you. ”

[blstys]

        @shockpop​​  said:  ❝  tell  me  you  love  this,  tell  me  you’re  not  miserable.  ❞  

are  you  happy?  it  comes  one  of  the  first  few  days  after  denki  moves  in:  follows  him  like  a  shadow  around  the  apartment,  feet  slow  to  carry  him  to  the  sofa.  hands  brace  weight  against  the  back  of  it.  he’s  just  noticed  that  his -  their  -  living  room  is  set  up  like  the  common  area  of  the  u.a.  dorm  building.  if  thoughts  weren’t  so  busy  churning  over  the  question  at  hand,  maybe  he’d  wonder  why  happy  had  triggered  that  observation;  why  it  takes  denki’s  presence  in  it  to  draw  realization  out  of  his  subconscious.  

        are  you  happy?  it  is  a  casual  ease,  curious  more  than  anything  else.  the  cast  line  of  denki’s  more  serious  questions  always  are.  (what  happened  last  summer?  what  am  i  to  you?  do  you  love  yourself?  are  you  happy?)  katsuki  is  a  deep  sea  fish,  too  keen  to  bite  the  bait  right  off  the  hook  and  keep  it  for  himself  instead  of  climb  upward  toward  where  light  reaches  his  secrets.  

are  you  happy?  it’s  never  that  simple.  katsuki  doesn’t  have  the  wherewithal  to  put  the  puzzle  pieces  together.  fingers  dig  into  the  upholstery  in  a  way  he’d  scold  the  cats  for.  

❛  what  are  you  actually  asking  me? ❜  

      are  you  happy?  it  had  been  a  question  like  this  that  ended  them.  that  had  been  the  beginning  of  it,  anyway.  today  it  is  lighter.  perhaps  a  reflection  of  the  white  walls  and  white  light,  an  ugly - greyish  hue  on  the  apartment  floors  because  it  is  mid - morning  and  that’s  the  reality  of  it.  not  everything  is  sunrise  and  sunset  and  starry  skies  and  golden.  sometimes  it’s  just  dreary,  regular,  business  hour.

        work  —  being  a  pro,  you  know?  breaking  top  five  —  is  it  everything  you’d  hoped?  tell  me  you  love  this,  tell  me  you’re  not  miserable...  cause  this  apartment  is  cool  and  all,  bakugou  -  but  it  looks  like  the  home  of  a  miserable  person.

❛  i  picked  it  for  the  view.  it’s  the  closest  to  a  mountain  top  within  the  city  and  i  do  still  love  being  at  the  top.  ❜   it  is  supposed  to  be  a  joke  but  it  is  true.  least  the  part  about  the  city  view  is.  the  relationship  with  hero  work  is  a  little  more  complicated.  his  expression  is  not  quick  enough  to  seal  that  in.  the  smile  is  a  ghost  on  his  lips.  it  doesn't  quite  answer  either  question.

      ❛  i  still  love  it.  i’m  not  miserable  —  just  busy.  ❜  (amd.  re:  the  originial  question:  he  is  not  happy,  just  busy.)

                                richard  siken  starters  extended  —  accepting

[blstys]

endless.

one  word  prompts    /    A C C E P T I N G    /    @shockpop

time  does  not  yield  to  grief.  hour  still  folds  evening  back  into  itself,  the  clock  keeping  track  in  endless  circular  rotation.  katsuki  still  has  to  keep  moving  with  it  and  he  does.  morning  comes,  sleepless,  to  remind  him  again  what  a  piece  of  shit  he’s  been.

cats  get  fed,  kissed,  a  note  for  care  ( a  vague  text  message  to  kirishima  ensuring  that  they’ll  be  fed  in  case  their  other  human  refuses  to  resurface  in  the  next  three  days )  placed  high  on  the  fridge  where  sootball  can’t  hoard  it  away.  

an  overnight  bag  sits  packed  by  the  door.  dog  tags  chime  as  they’re  returned  to  their  place  around  his  neck.  denki’s   key  stays,   untouched,  where  he  left  it.

it  goes  like  this:  work  becomes  hyper - fixation,  too  closely  related  to  the  fall  out  to  be  the  hardy  scapegoat  it’s  always  been;  becomes  less  distraction  and  more  outlet  the  way  electrical  training  used  to  be.  get  through  it,  succeed,  get  passed  it.  this  is  the  new  loop  for  the  two  days  of  preparations.  the  new  intrusive  that  katsuki  slathers  over  the  i  look  at  you  and  see  nothing  old  one.  it  equates  to  chap - stick  on  a  second  degree  burn.  relief  exists  with  immediate,  irrevocable  brevity,  the  memory  of  how  his  previous  attempts  to  solve  problems  this  way  forgotten  in  the  face  of  desperation.  he  keeps  applying.  

force  focus,  force  sleep,  rinse,  just  repeat.  get  through,  succeed,  get  passed.  review  recon,  plan  strategy,  get  some  sleep.  through,  finish,  passed.  the  argument  at  the  apartment  becomes  background  noise,  a  bad  dream.  a  pestering  sense  of  discontent  that  he  does  not  have  the  mental  capacity  to  tend  to. 

by  the  third  day,  the  numbness  of  repetition  sets  in.  wake  up,  did  he  wake  up,  did  he  really  sleep?  it  gets  hard  to  tell,  when  he’s  ignoring  all  facets  that  catch  the  sunlight,  which  ones  actually  demand  attention.  this  is  his  second  mistake.  

it  goes  like  this:  action  arises,  planned,  anticipated.  before  bakugou  can  blink,  he’s  already  in  the  thick  of  it.  which  is  the  thick  of  overwhelming  nothingness,  really.  things  go  well  beyond  expectation.  even  better.

it  goes  so  well,  in  fact,  that  katsuki  skips  right  over  pride  into  unease.  he  makes  it  behind  the  enemies  lines  alone,  without  incident.  no  need  for  improvisation  or  to  call  his  reserve.  without  a  single  confrontation.  without  a  single  instruction.

eyes  watch  him  from  a  forest.  not  the  maze  of  alleyways  he  currently  navigates  but  the  distant  memory  of  a  similar  feeling.  a  training  camp  ambush.

he  presses  at  his  ear  piece,  something’s  fucked,  half  n’  half.  i’m  falling  back.  a  long  pause.  hands  curl,  defensive.  maybe  he  imagines  it  to  be  longer  than  it  is.  he  presses  again.  todoroki?  i’ve  got  a  bad  fucking  feeling.  you  held  up?

there  is  no  answer  on  the  other  end  of  his  com - piece  —  but  for  the  faint,  far  of  ringing  of  interference.  shit.

blood  runs  frigid,  sweat  cooling  where  goosebumps  rise  on  his  skin.  the  temperature  has  dropped  unnaturally.  measures  are  taken  to  keep  him  on  the  useful  side  of  sweaty  under  unfavourable  conditions  but  his  body  isn’t  regulating  heat.    the  work  of  a  quirk  unaccounted  for.

unease  shifts  to  disbelief.  improvisation.  think,  run.  keep  running,  think  quicker.  sudden  clarity  says  there  is  no  difference  between  where  the  forest  ends  and  his  escape  begins.  the  interference  is  disorienting  him  on  purpose.

katsuki  rips  it  from  his  ear  and  crushes  it  in  a  fist.  keeps  running.  back - tracks  through  the  wrong  route  without  guidance.  through,  through,  through.  finds  the  crushed  com - piece  under  foot  twice  before  he  realizes  he’s  circling.  a  mouse  in  a  maze.

it  is  three  minutes  after  cut  communication.  the  first  building  quakes  to  pieces.  shatters  ?  it  seems,  the  rumble  nearly  half  glass.  a  skyscraper’s  corpse  collapsing.  uraraka’s  comets  have  trained  him  for  this  —  hands  raise  instinctual,  but  cold,  they  don’t  detonate  cleanly  —  half  strength,  panicked.  he  maneuvers  well  enough  to  stay  on  his  feet.  the  rumble  further  disorients  him,  the  ringing  returned  to  his  ears  from  his  own  explosion.  a  mouse  in  a  maze  with  no  exit.

cages,  restraints,  hands  made  half  useless.  the  ringing  grows  louder,  not  a  fault  of  his  own.  outside  source.  two  quirks?  fight,  flight,  freeze  argue  for  first  place.  there  is  no  clear  target,  no  clear  escape.  dread  rises  up  the  back  of  his  throat,  the  forgotten  fear  of  something  purely  unknown.

another  building,  further  out  crumbles  —  there  is  no  sound  but  the  pressure  of  it  reaches  his  ears,  delayed.  reverberates.  he  moves  away  from  it,  trying  to  get  his  bearings.  through,  through,  through.  debris  crumbles  from  over - head,  to  close  to  detonate  at  his  current  capacity.  fear  creeps  higher,  brighter,  a  feral  thing.  not  quite  terror  but  rising  ever  closer  toward  it  as  the  next  round  of  ruin  throws  him  off  his  feet.  explosions  flare  and  are  smothered  underneath.

pinned,  arms,  chest,  gasping.  wind  wiped  clean  from  his  body.

it  belongs  to  another  body,  knees  biting  into  wrists,  weight  centered  on  his  chest,  hand  curling  around  his  throat.  wind  moves  above  them,  cold,  colder.  katsuki  shivers,  dry  palms  flickering  out.

“ come  on !  did  you  think  it  would  be  so  easy,  blasty ? “  confirmation  is  only  half  retained.  bakugou  biting  out  curses  in  exasperation.  “ fame  comes  with  a  price,  you  know.  when  everyone  knows  who  you  are  it’s  harder  to  hide  your  weaknesses.  you’ve  been  in  the  limelight  a  long  time  now,  haven’t  you,  katsuki ?  spend  weeks  researching  things  about  us  that  we  already  know. ”  this  is  obvious  information  he  doesn’t  need  a  villain’s  speech  to  tell  him  that.  tries  instead  to  weasel  fruitlessly  out  of  the  clutches  in  before  he  realizes  he’s  losing  too  much  oxygen.  crimson  eyes  blink,  brows  creased  with  agony.  breaths  stutter,  sputter,  gasp  again.  

villain  hooks  their  fingers  through  the  chain  on  his  neck  and  steals  his  identity  from  him  in  the  same  way  he  stole  his  breath,  instantly.  

“ who’s  going  to  come  to  your  funeral,  bakugou  katsuki ? ”

panic.  flash  flood  of  a  fear  he’d  never  considered  rushing  to  the  forefront  of  a  oxygen  deprived  mind.  denki.  he  gasps,  not  to  answer  but  in  the  desperation  to  breathe.  he  would  go,  wouldn’t  he?  hating  me,  angry,  always  wondering  what  i  died  without  confessing?

the  villain  covers  his  mouth.  “  ah,  that  was  a  rhetorical  question,  actually,  katsuki.  ”  

anger.  that  name  is  not  his  to  repeat. he’s  only  given  it  to  one  person.  denki.  he  would  get  the  stupid  fucking  dog  tags.  katsuki  never  changed  his  emergency  contact  information.

he  stops  listening;  has  trouble  focusing;  can  taste  his  own  blood  in  the  back  of  his  throat,  pooling.  

panic,  again,  again.  denki.

worse  for  being  comprehensible,  his  threshold  for  terror  maxes  out.  there  is  nothing  he  can  do  becomes  the  immovable  force  to  the  unstoppable  fact  that  if  he  doesn’t  force  something  to  happen  in  his  favour  he  will  die  here.

panic.  it  was  your  mistake.  live  with  it.  hands  struggle,  weak,  to  reach  the  one  obstructing  his  air  passages.  wrists  ache,  threaten  fractures.    it  was  your  mistake.  die  with  it.  teeth  gnarl,  barely  able  to  bank  the  fabric  of  his  gloved  assailant.  proof  the  cold  comes  from  a  separate  entity.

a  new  rumbling,  this  one  familiarly  shindou’s  —  but  far  off  in  the  distance,  indication  that  his  own  back - up  is  not  far  away.  are  they  close  enough,  though?

is  this  what  jeanist  felt?  he  chases  that  rabbit  for  a  beat,  too  long,  tastes  the  charred  lack  of  hope  in  it.  chokes  on  it.

no,  that’s  real.  katsuki  forces  his  focus  to  resurface  to  the  hand  on  his  throat.  if  he  goes  under  it’s  all  over.  his  mistake.  one  he  wouldn’t  get  to  live  with.  vision  blurs,  freckled  with  the  painless,  endless,  terrible,  silence  that  promises  to  take  hold.  that  offers  relief  from  his  predicament.  who  will  come  to  your  funeral,  bakugou  katsuki?  hands  grapple  again,  pinned  down,  ice  cold.

the  vision  of  a  back,  turned  away  from  him.  leaving,  leaving,  leaving.  katsuki  motionless,  doing  nothing  about  it.  if  i  die  here  i  will  never  see  him  again.  he  passes  the  threshold  for  struggling,  senses  overwhelmed.  the  villain  pinning  him  down,  a  cinder - block  shackled  to  a  sinking  boat.  denki  will  never  get  his  apology.  will  never  know  that  it  was  misguided  love  and  not  pride  that  got  in  the  way  of  things. 

the  voice  above  him  promises  a  quick  relief.  a  pathetic  death  for  a  disappointing  opponent.  katsuki  barely  hears  over  the  echo  of  ringing,  returned  brain  interference.  it  buzzes  softly,  almost  golden  through  streaming  tears  and  blotched  vision.  at  least  it’s  me  instead  of  him.  thank  fuck  i  made  one  good  mistake.  heat  rises,  too  close  to  his  face.  hands  removed  for  a  startling  —  sharp  shock  of  cold  air.  his  body  racks  with  the  swell  of  lungs  still  compressed  under  the  weight  of  a  human.

the  heat  blares  as  hands  return,  either  side  of  his  face,  confusing,  ringing,  glowing  golden.  the  interference  is  electric.

there’s  no  room  for  repeat  here.  get  through  it,  or  don’t.  there  is  no  certainty  that  passed  it  exists.  crimson  eyes  flash,  the  carved  stencil  of  a  laugh  traced  over  a  forgotten  expression.  his  voice  doesn’t  exist  but  a  rasp,   barely  spoken  through  the  jolt  of  a  body  reawakening:  “  uno,  bitch. ”

and  he  lights  up  the  reserve  switch,  sweeping  the  flash  of  searing  pain  through  his  nerve  endings  and  up  through  freezing,  up - turned  palms.  a  flash  flare.

katsuki  doesn’t  know  how  he  gets  to  his  feet  —  but  it’s  just  in  time  to  see  back - up  ascend  over  the  rumble,  shouting.  he  can’t  hear  them  clearly  over  the  crackling  of  electricity.

he  points  in  the  direction  of  his  half - seared,  unconscious  assailant;  lets  todoroki  do  the  dirty  work  of  apprehending  them  while  his  lungs  kick  up  an  old  fight  to  function.  finally  pulling  in  full  breaths,  limbs  trembling.  he  tries  to  assess  his  own  condition.  his  head  swirls  at  the  edge  of  fading  consciousness.  hands,  still  steaming,  lift  to  his  throat  just  to  be  certain.  blood  drips  over  his  lips,  unobstructed.  ribs  plea  for  less  gasping.  

good  enough.  he  can  make  do  with  that.  i’m  still  here.  a  silent  plea  sent  out  that  whatever  happens  next  denki  can  sense  how  fucking  grateful  he  is,  that  none  of  the  love  was  wasted.  that  he’s  coming  home,  so  fucking  help  him.

i’ve  got  unfinished  business.  denki  is  owed  the  common  decency  of  an  apology,  at  the  very  least.

[blstys-a]

‘ your failures are just what happened — they don’t have to be who you are ’

amanda lovelace’s the princess saves herself in this one / ac / @jeanvogue

conceding his fears makes them real and that’s usually enough to keep his jaw clenched shut.“ it’s not my failures i’m worried about! ” bakugou bites with his bark but he doesn’t intend to barb jeanist with them; the injures are inward. 

molars meet to scrape together, tension bleeding into the way even his body refuses to accept defeat. he doesn’t know how to be anything else. there is something that’s been unsettled in him after all the recent events that he doesn’t know what to do with though…

“ i don’t want to be a hero like endevour, chasing the coattails of my rival, defined by my success not being enough. i want to — i want to save people and be happy with that. why isn’t that enough? what kind of person does that make me, huh? ”

[blstys-a]

‘ don’t allow the world to take your kindness ’

amanda lovelace’s the princess saves herself in this one / ac

KIND is not a word that has ever been attached to his name or person by anyone before today and now he ticks off two tallies on the mental chalk board. it seems so absurd that to defend it either way would solidify something definitively that he’s not sure he believes. this is a realization that comes too late, though — words faster out of his mouth than his mind would have liked: “ what kindness are you referring to? did you hit your fucking head or something? ” 

something shifts not quite into place — a rectangle in a square hole — like a cosmic almost. two is a coincidence. 

bakugou reminds himself, briefly, firmly, that he doesn’t believe in fate anyway. hands stuff into pocket depths, closer to shaking than they are to forming fists. frustration, maybe, flares in the back of his throat. it might as well be the wet heat behind his eyes. guilt, he recognizes; bitter on the back end of his tongue and rising in his chest. a swelling sensation. whether directed toward his previous interaction with all might or for the sudden brick wall he’s thrown up between himself and kirishima is uncertain. he doesn’t know how to break it down; adds another stone.

“ as if i’d let it take anything from me, ” (you can’t lose something you don’t have, is what it sounds like. ) believing this is the only way he manages to cope. he’s snappy as ever, the edge in his voice sharpened a little by a knee-jerk reaction that hasn’t been kicked yet.he’ll find a way to be sorry later. for all of it.

[blstys-a]

‘ you’re not a bad person for being angry. ’

light hearted suggestions   /   ac   /   @crystace

again anger edges its way to the surface of their conversation, plucked from the quiet as if touma can unearth the newly minted fear of it inside bakugou as easily as they can glittery red crystals. 

everything about their face says believe me. bakugou wants to. he wants to. fists clench at his sides only to uncurl again, pleased at their state of freedom. it’s not the anger that gets the better of him, it’s the fear disguised as such that does. 

“ easy for you to say — the people training you to be a hero don’t bind your hands and muzzle your mouth like a criminal because of it. ”  his voice is constructed to be cold and void of anger purposefully because he can control himself ; he isn’t the loose canon he’s made out to be. he just has limits. oh, baby, does he have limits. he sprawls out on the ground, starfish, curling hands into tufts of grass. 

“ you know the league did the same thing... bound my hands because i was threat. except they didn’t muzzle me. funny how that works. funny, really, that because of my anger they thought i was more cut out to be on their side. ” 

he’s rambling now, the thoughts tumbling out of his mouth like secrets— things he’s never had the opportunity to talk about. 

“ guess they got what they wanted because it was the reason all might retired, that fight. if i hadn’t been angry, if they hadn’t taken me - everything would be different. maybe that doesn’t make me a bad person but... fuck if if doesn’t make me feel like i should have been a better one. ” 

the silence that follows, however brief, chokes him ; a hand lifts to loosen the ghost of a tie that he hasn’t worn in over a year.  “ thanks, anyway. you know. for not thinking i’m rotten. i think maybe you were the only one that didn’t ever doubt my intentions and that’s. thanks. ”

[blstys-a]

❛ maybe i could have loved you in any life but ours. ❜

poetry   /   ac   /   @heromight

why not ours? how unfair the question his heart asks, midoriya’s words smacked across the flesh of his cheeks and leaving them pink. guilty. 

bakugou knows why. to forget would to lose all sense of accountability. there’s not a day that goes by where he doesn’t remember the mistakes he’s made in attempts to cling to the childish idea that he was better than him. 

still— it smarts right through the center of his chest, a sunken arrow from apollo’s bow. truth hurts. further, still— his heart amends the question: could it be ours?

he doesn’t ask either of him ; can not find the words to string into the prerequisite sentences. there needs to be forgiveness before there can be anything else and bakugou can’t locate within himself any actions worthy enough to deserve it. he leaves the arrow in his chest ; amends mirdoriya instead. 

“ may be. there’s always room for the impossible, deku. you of all people should know. ”

[blstys-a]

that one where the number of ⭐️s equal headcanons about our muses.   /   ac.

bakugou & usagi headcanons  /   @prettyguard

no. 1 — when bakugou bakes sweets ( especially ones he has an inkling she might like ) he will purposefully set aside a plate with her name on it ( and a warning to all his other classmates that should they touch what does not belong to them they will perish more unfavorably by his hands ) so that he can bring it to her after school the next day when they walk home together.

no. 2 — he sleeps better if he falls asleep while talking to her on the phone, especially if she falls asleep before him when they’re talking the phone because the sound of her breath relaxes him and he knows that she is !! safe.

[blstys-a]

💘 — a static shock kiss  /  ac.  /  @eletriq

a summer moon dulls the blacks of the evening shadows into something softer;  charcoal in nature.  they linger in the corners of his room,  clinging to the spaces where the light doesn’t quite reach.  silver pools around them though;  the beams turning the ash of his hair silver,  the yellow of denki’s cream.  

seconds spread wider than they ought to,  minutes last for forever.  if someone had asked him the time or date,  his mind would be slow to recall.  the sliding door has been lazily closed,  left ajar,  and window whistles off-key through the space provided.  it’s not fair to,  but he blames the goosebumps on the draft.

unknown words attach themselves to the way bakugou’s fingers hesitate to brush over denki’s wrist. not as if he’s scared—  just that it’s delicate.  bombs tend to be a bit pressure sensitive.  their words don’t make an appearance but that’s fine—  lips speak louder pressed against the pulse point of denki’s wrist.

this,  is a soft shock—  one that jolts a little sharp to the softer side.  the equivalent of pressing a 9-volt battery to the tip of his tongue.

he pulls back quick,  the gentle surprise of fingertips lifting to assaulted lips.  he isn’t sure which of them had been the offender,  really.  a pause— a mere second of soft-violence like the static zap had been— and then laughter explodes out of him and with it time seems to remember it’s a thing that moves forward instead of standing still.  bakugou,  suddenly aware that he too can move forward decides to chase it.

“ guess i’ve been static-kissed ? ”

[blstys-a]

bakugou & ooc tags.

[blstys-a]

“ do not leave. “

the song of achilles   /   ac.   /   @eletriq

       “ huh? ”  crimson eyes flutter open, head turning slowly as he searches for clarification. though— bold as it might be to assume anything about denki— it doesn’t seem that he’ll be receiving any. bakugou wonders after it: the reason. what sparked the need to say those particular words without an actual departure for context. 

       bakugou shifts back against the wall and unfolds his legs from underneath, eyes darting to the clock and then back again. it is verging on the time he would usually call it a night and recede to his own room but for some reason, it feels like denki means something more than sticking around for the evening. something about the way the words are pulled apart instead of pressed together in a contraction. maybe he’s overthinking it; maybe it’s not that deep. 

         regardless, he settles in for a long night of pretending to sleep. his head lulls back against the wall, gaze dragging away from denki fully before eyelids flutter closed again, lashes just resting against his cheeks.

       “ don’t worry about me. i’m not goin’ anywhere. ”