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uravitypng · 2 years ago

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𝐈 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇: 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

pairing: kaminari denki x reader, hanta sero x reader

word count: 1.8k

warnings/contents(for part one): angst, petnames (denki calls you babydoll), written with a chubby reader in mind /// minors do not interact (in later chapters there will be smut and explicit content!!) - smut, fluff and more in later chapters !!

a/n: this is my first series! i'm not sure how many parts this will have but if you wanna be updated i could add a taglist! thank you @tsukkisloser, they suggested i post two versions, by saying that gave me hundreds ideas to where the story could go and i decided to combine all the the ending ideas into plot points, making my series more developed! i'm really excited for this fic and i hope you all enjoy it, it's going to fun! <3

summary: it's terrible when you're in love with your best friend. it's terrible that he's in love with someone else.

part two >> | masterlist (check out my poll for this chapter!)

You're Denki's best friend and you've always been since you both were little, you were attached to the hip, and went everywhere together, both of you went to UA together. Everything used to be okay, Denki was just Denki, your best friend, but luck never took a liking to you and years later you've realised you're in love with your best friend, you always have been.

You're in love with your extremely attractive and all around amazing best friend.

Denki has consistently flirted, he's flirtatious in nature, you never had a problem with it until you you both grew up a bit, until UA. Until Jirou. Denki still flirted with everyone but he always spoke about Jirou to you and it grated. Sure he'd find people attractive before and he'd have liked people in the past but with Jirou it felt never ending. Everyday he talked about her, something about how funny or cool she is, half the time you doubt he even realised he was being so obvious when talking to you about her.

You knew it shouldn't upset you, there was no reason why it should but it did. He never flirted with you, and you never cared about it before, but why did he never pay any attention? He hit on every one else. You were always right there and he never spared you a second glance.

You became bitter, and you really tried not to, you tried your hardest to smile through every time Denki gushed about her but it was so god damn hard.

After blowing Denki off one night, out of exasperation, you end up in Sero's room, he's always had a very good read on you, and can tell when you're pissed off and normally he knows what its about too. "Has Kaminari messaged you tonight?" He slips into conversion while briefly looking at you before the next match begins.

"Yeah, but i'd rather be with you," you shrug back, trying to sound as casual as you can. In all actuality you would rather be spending your time with Sero so you're not lying, just hiding your irritation. It's always so easy with Sero. It use to be that way with Denki but not so much recently, you'd prefer to spend your night relaxing instead of getting Denki gushing in your ear about Jirou again.

"Hmm, I'm flattered." He looks up to smile at you. If only you were into Sero instead. You two spend the night together, playing mario kart and watching x-files.

You take notice that the room is really bright, you swear it was dark only a second ago, and you hear yawning behind you. That makes more sense you fell asleep in Sero's room. It's not the first time it's happened, but it's not particularly frequent, Sero does keep a blanket in his room especially for you though, which you always thought was nice. What's nicer is Sero must have laid you down with the blanket after you fell asleep, you're fairly certain you fell asleep propped up against his wall as the last thing you remember is the climax of the episode you were watching, you don't remember how it ended, you'll have to ask.

"Heyo," you say, softly, still waking up.

Sero makes a noise of acknowledgement, as he starts stretching. "We'll probably miss breakfast if we don't get up soon," Sero says gravelly voice from behind you, the contrast between his morning voice and his regular is something that always makes your face heat up a bit.

This time you hum to let him know you've heard him and start getting up. A couple minutes later you're out the room, albeit tired.

You two seem like one of the last ones up and you can tell Bakugou's been up for awhile by the way he's already shouting, how does he always wake up so early?

"I have no idea how that guy has so much energy in the mornings." Thank fuck for Sero who always matches your energy and knows what you're thinking.

"Speak for yourself, he's already made pancakes and man that guy can cook," you hear Denki say from behind you. He's so enthusiastic in the morning and you can practically hear his grin, you just groan in response. You see Sero smirk from the corner of your eye.

"Do you wanna go out today babydoll?" Denki asks, still too tired to engage in full blown conversations you nod and lean back so you're leaning on him. "We can go to the arcade or something, after you've had some caffeine of course." You turn to the side to look at him and stick your tongue out. Even though you were actually waiting to get something to drink so you can properly start your day, Denki knows every little thing about and that's very comforting when you've just woken up. Safe to say you had a good time with Denki that day.

.·:·.✧ ✦✧.·:·..·:·.✧ ✦✧.·:·..·:·.✧ ✦✧.·:·..·:·.✧ ✦✧.·:·.

Seven years later, you're outside that very same arcade after patrol on your way back home. You can't wait to get back and relax, you haven't eaten all day, you slept in late which is no surprise and had to miss breakfast. Even now as an adult you are definitely not a morning person.

"I'm home!" You call out, Denki must not be in due to the fact he hasn't called back to you as loud as he can like normal. He's probably at Kirishima's or something. When people ask why two successful, up and coming heroes are living together, they normally fill in the blanks themselves. 'They have enough money to buy their own place, so they must be dating, they're choosing to live together.' Crappy tabloids and internet sleuths are always jumping to conclusions.

They're technically not completely wrong about the fact that you both are quickly jumping the charts every year and have plenty to spend on your own places but you have chosen to live with Denki in this warm, comfy little flat but you are just friends, even if you wish there were something more.

After graduation it made the most sense for you to live together, according to Denki, and you'd much rather live with Denki than by yourself so you agreed, years flew by and you still lived together. The idea of moving out never crossed your mind, you like living with Denki, you love it, even if sometimes he forgets to take clothes into the bathroom when showering and he walks out with just a towel on or comes into the living room late at night drinking orange juice from the carton, only leaving a drop left and not buying another one.

He's your best friend and you love him, You've matured together and seen each other grow and you're so proud of the people you've become. Whenever you praise Denki too much though it definitely gets to his head.

After leaving UA it's been a hell of a lot harder to keep in contact with everyone, there's a group chat but it's pretty dead, and even then you haven't opened the last three messages that came through last couple weeks, if it was important Denki would mention it, you'll get round to it eventually. He's always been on top of communicating with everyone, he's always been the more sociable one. Now everyone's gone pro it's harder to find time for each other and have schedules that match up with others. That's why you're so lucky you have Denki.

Although it's not just Denki you've stayed in contact, luckily Kirishima lives close by and so does Hanta so that's good. You're fairly certain you and Denki are the only ones from your class who are living together, every other hero you know lives separately that's makes you pretty special in your eyes. It must be pretty lonely having no one to come home at the end of the day, you know you definitely would be lonely if you didn't have Denki.

You make yourself some dinner and message Denki after asking where he is. You're not ready to call it a night yet and it would be nice to spend some time with people after a tiring day. Denki's at Kiri's, so twenty minutes later you're at Kiri's too.

When you get through the door, you're immediately greeted by Denki's voice accompanied with Kirishima's and Hanta's laughing, and in ten more minutes you're all squished together watching some shitty show in the background that you have no interest in, listening to Hanta and Denki passionately argue about what star wars film is better, they're absolute idiots. According to Hanta, Phantom Menace is the best one because Jar Jar Binks makes his first appearance but Denki says its return of the Jedi because it's the one where Leia has the gold bikini on.

Even though it sucks that you don't see all your friends as often as you like, you feel like you, Kiri, Denki and Hanta have grown even closer, which is weird because you honestly didn't think you could grow closer with them. They were both some of the closest friends you made during your time at UA. Half the time you still end up falling asleep next to Hanta even now, years later, when you're shattered after work, with Hanta by the side of you. That's where Sero's been for years, by your side, that's where Kiri's been too. It dawned on you one day that not only do you have Denki right beside you always, they've been there too and you're very thankful for them.

"Anyway, Kirishima can I turn this shit off and put something actually interesting on?" Hanta turns to asks Kirishima, how does this man always know what you're thinking.

"Go for it, dude."

"What's the point, it's just background noise anyway," Denki complains.

"Yes, but highly annoying background noise. I suggest anything other than this," you say back.

Denki shuts up after that and they let you pick something.

You must have fallen asleep for a some time as Denki's crouched down beside you, tucking some hair behind your ear, whispering to you, "let's go babydoll, let's get you home." You mumble something unintelligible and start closing your eyes again. "I know babydoll, you're tired but you gotta get up. You can't sleep on Kiri's floor again, you're going to hurt your back. I would carry you but I don't want to hurt you while climbing any stairs. Can you get up for me?" He helps you up and and wraps his arms around your soft waist. "Good girl, we'll be home soon, I promise." you're too tired too think, and too sleepy, not even acknowledging Ejirou and Hanta on your way out, they're used to your hazy states and find it rather endearing. Walking home is a blur, Denki's got his arms around you, keeping you warm and stable. You trust Denki to get you home safely as you close your eyes again, not looking where you're going, pulling yourself even closer to him and burying yourself in his neck, his warmth and smell keeping you cosy and relaxed.

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summonedglory · 1 year ago

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Headcanon — On rage, sadness, and daughters

No proofreading, I will die on the hill of my grammatical mistakes. So I mentioned a while back that I wanted to write a drabble/headcanon about Fiora's conversation with her father, on the night before his execution. This is this headcanon. It's over 2,100 words long and not particularly well written (dialogue isn't my forte), so read at your own risks and while putting yourself in the shoes of an 18-year-old Fiora :') Trigger warnings for mentions of death, mentions of execution, mentions of death by poison, as well as dysfunctional family relationship and medieval misogyny.

Footsteps fell on the cobblestoned path that led to the jail, treading lightly and precisely—Far more lightly and precisely than the woman these footsteps belonged to felt.

You could have cut her anger with a knife—Eighteen years of itemized frustrations and grievances tended to do that to a person. Fiora had thought her wedding would be the culmination of it all. There were, truly, nothing more earth-shattering that she could do than to stand up for herself then, so close to the altar, and loudly proclaim she was her own person and would not be sold off as a political pawn in her family’s games or the Crownguards’. These hadn’t been her words exactly, but this was her resolve. At the time, nothing could have been a worse humiliation for her family than that, but it should have given her the chance to prove her worth. Her worth, not her father’s, not her family’s. After eighteen years spent stealing Cassian’s rapiers and making him teach her everything he knew, eighteen years of her parents’ attempts at moulding her into what a proper lady of House Laurent should be, it had felt vindicating to finally get something that would be entirely hers. Fiora might have pondered on the selfishness of this had she not been so angry. This was meant to be hers—Her fight, her chance at redeeming the family honour she had broken. She was skilled and confident enough in herself and her own abilities to know, whoever House Crownguard could throw at her, she would have come up on top. She would have won, her family honour would have been saved, and no one would have dared try to force her in a role she had no interest in playing ever again. Yet even that had been taken away from her, and by the very people who had tried to raise her to be someone she was not. Another event to add to the long list that fuelled Fiora’s seething anger.

Worse than her father taking her place in the duel had been him trying to poison his opponent—And her anger turned to rage.

Demacia had been built on principles of honesty, honor, and justice. Lord Sebastien Laurent, in his despair to save his family’s honour, had broken all these values. The fact he got caught was unsurprising and did not phase her—A just if humiliating consequence of his actions. Fiora had wanted to see him one last time before his execution in the morning—As if talking to him would somehow satiate her anger and placate her soul. Mostly, she wanted to look at her father’s face and let him understand the weight of the mistakes he had made. The man she finds in his cell is, however, not her father. Sure, he looks like Sebastian Laurent and his voice is the same it had always been when he calls her name, but he looks pained and small, and the sound of her name in his mouth feels strained, and lost, and hopeful—A far cry from the imposing head of the household she had always known, the man who hired a personal seamstress for her in the hopes she would take an interest in clothing, and who had spoiled his only daughter rotten, though with all the material things Fiora did not want or aspire to.

The realisation that he might have been the most amazing father to an entirely different child, just not to her, is a sour one and Fiora stills herself and stands in it for a moment, taking a deep breath in. The next step forward she takes feels shaky and uncertain, but she nods in acknowledgement more than in invitation. A few short steps had taken him closer to the bars, and he now rolls his shoulders back and seems to regain some of the composure of the father Fiora used to know. The familiarity of the gesture is enough to restore her confidence—and her anger. “How could you? Death by combat would have been a far better outcome than poisoning someone. I would have welcomed it, but you let your own pride get in the way of my skills and determination, and now—” A pause. “—now everything is ruined.”

Sebastian’s brows furrow in pain and hesitation, but Fiora cuts him off before he gets the chance to speak. “Don’t bother with lessons now. I know I was reckless. That was the point. You and Mother have always thought about House Laurent first, as a collective unit, and in your children as human beings second, and I was done entertaining that misogynistic ideal. Did you know I am a better, more capable fighter than both Cassian and Ammdar combined? I’m more sharp, more precise. I bothered to learn the actual theory and art of sword fighting, instead of just the moves, and—”

“I did not do it for House Laurent.” His voice cuts her off, loud, stern, and authoritative. Before she gets the chance to continue, he follows: “I am still the Lord of House Laurent, at the very least until tomorrow morning, and you will show me the respect this title is owed, instead of this childish emotional outburst. This said, if you have quieted down, I did not do it for House Laurent. I did it for you.”

“I could have stood my own ground.”

“You’ll have no choice but to do that now, yes.”

“No one of importance will ever trust or associate with House Laurent again. If you had let me fight, my success would have at least granted you all pity, and it would have been an honourable fight.”

“No, Fiora.” His voice grows soft again, and he extends his left hand through the bars. Fiora eyes the gesture cautiously, her own hands remaining firmly by her side. She had come here unarmed—a gesture of good faith, in case the guards questioned her presence—and felt impossibly small and vulnerable without her blade, a pale impression of herself. “People of importance will respect you now.”

“Nonsense!”

His lips thin and, for a second, Sebastian Laurent is not the Lord of one of the most important noble houses of the Great City of Demacia, but a father, frustrated that his daughter yet again refuses to listen to him, like she had always done.

“They will. But for that, you must be my opponent tomorrow. You must ask that a Laurent yield the blade that will take my life, and that this Laurent should be you.”

A mirthless chuckle escapes Fiora’s lips as she shakes her head. Her father had well and truly lost his mind, the plans he conjured up vile punishments for her going against the family. Here, however, he was behind bars, and she was not. This false semblance of power, mixed with the anger that had not yet subsided, emboldened her next words. “Haven’t I been disciplined enough already? You took away my opportunity to be heard, and now you would have me fight you? This is some new kind of cruelty.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, as if this would get the young woman to listen. “There is cruelty in being the head of a household, and even more in loving and raising children.”

She had not expected him to agree. Hatred was easier when the object of one’s loathing was not reflecting on their wrong doings. In her silence, her father saw an opportunity. “You will have to learn about this now that this will become your role, but first you need to hear me. Volunteer to fight and execute me tomorrow. It is the only way for you to get what you want and preserve the family—The only way you stay alive and prosper.”

“No. You don’t mean that, there has to be another way.”

“There are plenty. This is the only one which will give you the power you seek.”

She wants to say that this was never about power, but about freedom—about her own agency—something which she is uncertain her father could understand. In Demacia, however, freedom and agency rarely went without power—At least not for noble families, not for her.

“All you need to do is win a fight. If you are truly an exceptional fighter, this should be an easy feat for you.”

“Of course, it would be. This is not about that, father.”

“What is it about, then?”

Fingers clasp against his still extended hand, as if she were suddenly pleading—Though what she is pleading for, Fiora is not quite sure. For her father not to die, for her to not be the one to execute him, for the heavy mantel of head of household to be passed on to someone who craved it more than her. Contrary to what everyone thought of her, her rebellion had never been about power—It had not had that foresight. In all the near-sightedness of her youth, Fiora had reasoned that she was important enough in her own rights, and had wanted the agency to act as such without pondering on the responsibilities that went with it. Pride, however, prevented her from admitting any of this, at least not in such blatant terms. Perhaps holding his hand could be enough.

“You are my father. It would hardly be appropriate for me to hurt my own family in this way.”

“Disavowing me is the only way this will work, Fiora.” Still his hand squeezes hers, a support far too slim for the task at hand, but the only support Fiora has in this moment.

“If you are so desperate to protect our family, why didn’t you consider it before poisoning your opponent?” And just like that, Fiora extirpates her hand from the man’s, away from the uncharacteristic warmth of his support. His lips thin again, this time in disappointment.

“Despair, child, is a situation I pray you never have to face, though you might ought to earn a few lessons in self-sacrifice in case you ever do.”

Fiora rolls her eyes at his tone, suddenly back to being the father she had always known but that had never known her, and he scoffs at her attitude.

“I am trying to protect you. Your victory and my death is the surest way to guarantee that.”

“No. You were going to fight instead of me.”

“I had hoped this issue could be resolved this way. When it became clear it couldn’t, I had a lapse in judgement, but I am thinking clearly now, Fiora. You must yield the blade, you must become the new head of House Laurent, and you must ensure our name remains respected.”

It is a poisoned gift. Meeting her father’s request would unequivocally tie her to the processes and protocols that had robbed her of her agency to begin with, placing a heavy burden on her small shoulders. Though perhaps she could beat them at their own game, make her family a better and more empowered one. And if she did not meet her father’s request, Sebastian Laurent would die anyway, the glory would go to someone else, and all honours would be lost. The reality of her lack of options left a bitter taste in her mouth, copper clinging to the back of her throat as she difficultly swallowed. Her anger tasted like bile and her sadness like blood.

“I’ll do it—For the sake of Mother, Ammdar, Alarick, Cassian, and Damian.”

Sebastian nods, solemn, but then Fiora is the one who reaches past the bars to squeeze his hands in hers, fingernails almost digging into his skin. He will have to forgive his daughter; she is trying not to cry. Copper, as it turns out, was the taste of tears.

“Where do I start? What must I know?”

“First, that I love you, child. You at least must be certain of that.”

Fiora thinks back to her childhood, and to everything that has led her here. She thinks of the countless trainings in secret, of the family that had never seen her, of the love and care they had had for a version of herself she would quite simply never be. She thinks that even now, in his last moments trying to protect her, her father is still bestowing her with insurmountable responsibilities. She thinks that she likes a challenge, and is grateful for the possibility to go through these responsibilities her own way. But most of all, she thinks of fathers and daughters as two ships in the night, struggling to see one another and yet crossing paths. She thinks of honour, duty, and justice, and how family can twist the meaning of these words.

For once, Sebastian was the right father, and she was the right daughter.

#there's more to the conversation but I cut it here to avoid it being long #please enjoy these Fiora feels #sharp blade sharp mind — fiora/gen #they dare not strike back — fiora/headcanons #dysfunctional family //#death //

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