#anime short story

[taeetimee]

Seen

[sachinteng]

Syntax Error

After years of being asked about it, I thought I'd tell the story of my peculiar name, and explain what this little logogram I started using is about.

I don't look like my name should be Sachin. South Asian folks point it out to me all the time. If you don't know, Sachin is a Sanskrit name, and I am visibly not Desi, so people are often confused. People usually ask if I'm named after Sachin Tendulkar, the famous cricket player. And for a period of time my local Indian restaurant thought I was Indian and would give me free rice! Until they found out I wasn't and stopped. Very sad day.

So why am I named Sachin if I'm not Desi?

The name my parents gave me is 十晴. Specifically my dad. My father insisted on naming me. Spent months obsessing over it. But he never gave me an English name. And on the day I was born my dad was…asleep, didn't answer the phone which rang all day, and missed the entire birth. To this day my mother tells this story whenever I miss a phone call. So, when I was born they had no idea what to put on my birth certificate.

The pinyin translation for 十晴 is Shí Qíng. But my mom didn't know pinyin. The lawyer who drew up the paperwork for my birth certificate was Indian, and when he heard 十晴, he said, 'that sounds like Sachin. I'll just put that!' And my mother, tired and alone in the hospital, in a foreign land called Flushing, Queens, said okay. And who can blame her.

And that's how I got my name. In the most arbitrary, accidental way possible. My dad, after months and months of hyper-focusing on a name, fumbled it all right at the end. I wish I could say my name was meaningful in Hànyǔ at least but, my name is very strange to Hànyǔ speakers as well.

The character 十 means 'ten' as in the number 10. And 晴 means 'clear sunny skies.' It's the kind of word a weather reporter will commonly use in the forecast. Honestly, Ten Sunny Skies sounds like a Wǔxiá character. Like Eight Flying Lotuses or Five Poison Fists, or something. Not gunna lie, I prefer this explanation.

So my dad loves to tell this joke…about how his name is too hard to write. It has so many strokes in it that when he was in school taking tests it took him so long to write his name that when he was finished writing it the other students already finished taking the whole test. So, when he has a child he's going to make sure to give them the easiest name with the fewest strokes possible.

And that's where it comes from. Some dinner party joke he liked to tell friends. Thanks dad.

My name has a different meaning to me now as an adult. Over the years many people have heard my name and said, 'Do you know the story of Hòu Yì 后羿?'

An old folktale says there used to be 10 Suns. They would cycle one at a time, because there can never be more than one sun in the sky at the same time. But, one day the suns got lonely, they wanted to see each other and broke the rules. All 10 suns burned at the same time. To stop the suns from burning the entire world down Hòu Yì, the legendary archer, shot the suns out of the sky and left just one, the sun we have today.

It's a fable about doing too much, not thinking about the consequences, and literally burning out. Something I relate to more than I'd like. I burned out hard a few years ago and recovering was a long, painful journey that I never want to repeat.

In the end, the last Sun loses all their siblings and has to carry the burden alone. But, if they'd just had patience and paced themselves, there would still be 10 suns across 'Ten Sunny Skies 十晴.'

[stil-lindigo]

the fox god.

a comic about a trickster.

--

creative notes:

–

all my other comics

store

[atomic-chronoscaph]

The Story of Little Red Riding Hood by Ray Harryhausen (1949)

[mieluscious]

all you had to do was call sukuna

you had your head buried in your arms, sitting at the cash register of your new job, when you jumped from your chair as the doors of the convenience store opened.

“finally you are here what took you so long, fuck.” sukuna nonchalantly entered the store with his hood covering his pink hair and his motorcycle helmet under his arm.

you didn’t gave him a chance to respond as you ran to him and grabbed his hand before taking the both of you to the employee bathroom. sukuna looked down at you blankly as you pushed him against the sink. he dropped his motorcycle helmet from his hand, which echoed on the cold bathroom floor. on tiptoe, you leaned against him to rest your chin on his chest. he gently pinched your nose as his other hand went to your ass which he grabbed. he tilted his head to the side without taking his eyes off you.

“i know that look.” he mumbled, and an evil smile slowly spread across his face.

“f-fuuuck.. yes-yes-yes!-” sukuna held you by the hips as you knelt on the toilet leaning forward, hands firmly gripping the bowl as he pounded his fat cock into you. his big hands compressed your hips and you already knew it was gonna leave marks on your soft skin. a mewl escaped from between your pretty lips as he slapped your ass hard.

"arch more." his voice was a pure growl and a deep groan was heard coming from him as your walls tightened around his length at the sexy sound. he thrust into you harder as you arched your back like a cat in heat.

"mhm-... yess-" you mewled louder as he spread his legs and placed his hands on your lower back, holding you so that you don't escape from his powerful thrusts.

"shut up and take it." he lowered his head to look at your pussy clenching as it gushed around is cock, coating his pants in your wetness. "calling me just for my dick, huh?" he grabbed your hair tightly and reached for your ear, licking it and making you cry out even more.

"can't help it— you always fuck me so gooood.." the pornographic sound of heated flesh echoed upon the bathroom, and you closed your eyes in bliss savoring the warmth of his length as he was rocking inside you like an animal. 

and you already knew you weren't going back to work any time soon.

© 𝙢𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙘𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨. 𝙢𝙙𝙣𝙞 — 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭, 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘺 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘱𝘭𝘴 ☆

[amkyor]

hi!! is there any possibility for you to do the opposite of the mha guys getting slapped? like the boys accidentally hurt the reader when arguing, whether it be slamming a door and their hand gets caught orrr a shove that was a little too strong ya know? you obv dont have to but if you did, the same guys in the original one would be perfect!

MHA GUYS REACT TO...

READER GETTING HURT WHILE ARGUING ᡣ𐭩

Katsuki Bakugo ᡣ𐭩

The sound of the iron sizzling as it glided over fabric filled the small apartment.

You stood by the ironing board, focused on smoothing out the creases in one of Bakugo’s button-up shirts.

The room was warm, and the tension was palpable. The argument between you and Bakugo had started as a simple disagreement but quickly escalated into a heated exchange.

“Why do you always have to be so stubborn?” you snapped, your voice cutting through the hum of the iron.

Bakugo stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his signature scowl etched deep on his face.

“I’m stubborn? You’re the one who never listens!” he shot back, his tone sharp and defensive.

You glared at him, the iron in your hand moving a little faster than before.

The argument continued, words flying back and forth. Neither of you were willing to back down, each too caught up in your emotions to see the situation clearly.

“I don’t understand why you have to make everything so damn difficult!” Bakugo growled, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“I’m making things difficult? You’re impossible!” You fired back, your voice rising.

In your frustration, you weren’t paying attention to the iron. As you adjusted the shirt on the board, your hand slipped, and the edge of the hot iron made contact with your skin.

A sharp, searing pain shot through your hand, and you let out a yelp, dropping the iron onto the board.

“Shit!” You cried, cradling your hand.

Bakugo’s eyes widened, and the anger in his face was instantly replaced with concern.

He crossed the room in two strides, his hands reaching for yours. “What the hell happened?” he demanded, his voice laced with worry.

“I burned myself,” you hissed through clenched teeth, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

The pain was sharp and intense, and you could already see the angry red mark forming on your skin.

“Let me see,” Bakugo said, his tone softer now. He gently took your hand in his, inspecting the burn. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they brushed over your skin.

“It’s not that bad,” you mumbled, trying to downplay the situation despite the pain.

“Don’t be stupid,” he snapped, though there was no heat in his words. “Stay here.”

Bakugo disappeared into the kitchen and returned moments later with a bowl of cool water and a clean towel.

He carefully guided you to sit down on the bed, setting the bowl on the bedside table.

Without saying a word, he dipped the towel in the water and gently pressed it against the burn on your hand.

“Hold this,” he instructed, his voice gruff but steady. You obeyed, wincing slightly as the cool towel soothed the searing pain.

Bakugo crouched in front of you, his crimson eyes scanning your face for any signs of discomfort.

His concern was evident, though he tried to mask it with his usual tough demeanor.

“You need to be more careful,” he muttered, his gaze flicking down to your hand. “What were you thinking, waving that damn thing around while yelling at me?”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked its usual intensity. “I wasn’t waving it around. I was ironing your shirt, remember? The one you claimed I ruined in the first place.”

He sighed, running a hand through his spiky blond hair. “Yeah, well… maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I was pissed.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by his admission. “Was that... an apology?”

“Don’t push it,” he grumbled, though the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh despite the lingering pain. “You’re impossible, Katsuki.”

“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, but his tone was softer now. He stood up and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a small first-aid kit.

Sitting beside you on the bed, he opened the kit and pulled out a tube of burn ointment.

“This is gonna sting a little,” he warned, taking your hand in his. His touch was careful, almost hesitant, as he applied the ointment to the burn.

His thumb brushed against your uninjured skin, his movements uncharacteristically tender.

You watched him in silence, your earlier anger fading away. It was moments like these that reminded you of how deeply he cared, even if he had a strange way of showing it.

“Thanks,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t be stupid next time.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled nonetheless. “I’ll try. But maybe you could help by not being so infuriating all the time.”

“Tch. You’re one to talk,” he muttered, though there was no real bite in his words.

After wrapping a loose bandage around your hand, his shoulders relaxed as he leaned back against the bed, supporting himself with his palms.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension from earlier had melted away, replaced by a comfortable silence.

Bakugo turned his head to look at you, his fiery red eyes softer than usual.

“Sorry, by the way,” he said quietly, almost as if the words pained him to say. “For snapping at you earlier.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Wow. Two apologies in one day? Who are you, and what have you done with Katsuki Bakugo?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbled, looking away to hide the faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

You laughed, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder. “I’ll take what I can get.”

He didn’t push you away. Instead, he reached over with his unoccupied hand and rested it lightly on your knee, a subtle gesture of reassurance.

As the two of you sat there, the earlier argument felt like a distant memory.

Bakugo might have been rough around the edges, but moments like these reminded you why you loved him—and why, no matter how heated things got, you’d always find your way back to each other.

Shoto Todoroki ᡣ𐭩

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────────

The kitchen was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of a knife slicing through strawberries.

You stood at the counter, focused on your task, carefully cutting the fruit into even pieces. The tension in the air was thick, a result of the argument that had been brewing for the past twenty minutes.

Shoto leaned against the opposite counter, his arms crossed, his face unreadable.

His heterochromatic eyes were sharp, and his usually calm demeanor was laced with irritation.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just listen to reason,” he said, his voice steady but cold.

You didn’t look up, your hands working methodically.

“And I don’t understand why you always have to be so detached about everything,” you shot back, frustration creeping into your tone.

“I’m not detached. I’m just trying to be logical,” he replied, his gaze unwavering.

“Logical doesn’t always mean right, Shoto,” you said, finally looking up to meet his eyes. “Sometimes, emotions matter too.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying they don’t. But this isn’t about emotions. It’s about—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, your voice sharp. “Don’t dismiss how I feel. You always do that.”

His expression faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered. “I’m not dismissing you. I’m trying to have a conversation, but you’re being unreasonable.”

The words stung, and in your frustration, your grip on the knife tightened.

Your hand slipped, and before you realized what had happened, the blade nicked your finger.

“Ah!” You yelped, dropping the knife onto the cutting board and clutching your hand.

Blood welled up from the cut, and the pain was sharp and immediate.

Shoto’s eyes widened, the irritation in his expression instantly replaced with concern.

He was at your side in a heartbeat, his movements swift and precise.

“Let me see,” he said, reaching for your hand.

“It’s fine,” you muttered, trying to pull away, but he gently but firmly held your wrist.

“It’s not fine,” he said, his voice softer now. His thumb brushed against your uninjured fingers as he inspected the cut. “You’re bleeding.”

He guided you to the sink, turning on the faucet and holding your hand under the cool water.

The silence between you was heavy, but it wasn’t the same tense silence as before. This one was filled with unspoken worry and regret.

“You need to be more careful,” he said quietly, his eyes focused on your hand.

You let out a small, bitter laugh. “Ironic, isn’t it? We wouldn’t even be in this situation if we weren’t arguing.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but you saw his jaw tighten. After a moment, he turned off the water and reached for a clean towel, wrapping it around your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden apology. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, meeting your gaze. “I shouldn’t have dismissed your feelings. You were right.”

The sincerity in his eyes made your chest tighten. You looked up at him for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes narrowed.

You hesitated for a moment before looking away from his strong gaze. “I… I’m sorry too,” you said softly. “I shouldn’t have let my frustration get the better of me.”

He nodded, his expression softening. “Let me bandage this properly.”

Without waiting for your response, he led you to the bathroom, where he carefully cleaned and dressed the wound.

His touch was gentle, and the concentration on his face reminded you of why you loved him—his quiet care, his attention to detail.

When he was done, he looked at you, his eyes filled with something unspoken. “I hate seeing you hurt,” he admitted.

You smiled faintly, reaching up to cup his cheek with your uninjured hand. “And I hate fighting with you.”

He leaned into your touch, his hand covering yours. “Let’s try to handle things better next time. No more strawberries during arguments.”

You laughed softly, the tension finally breaking. “Deal.”

He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Come on. Let’s finish making those strawberries together.”

And just like that, the kitchen felt a little warmer, and the argument felt like a distant memory.

Izuku Midoriya ᡣ𐭩

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────────

Izuku Midoriya stood in the middle of the kitchen, his arms crossed, and his expression was unusually tense.

The air between you was thick with frustration, the kind of tension that turned casual conversations into heated arguments.

“I just don’t get why you didn’t tell me,” Izuku said, his voice louder than it usually was.

“You shouldn’t have to handle things on your own when I’m right here!”

You sighed, turning away from him as you wiped down the counter, trying to keep your focus on the task at hand. “I didn’t think it was a big deal, Izuku. I didn’t want to worry you over something so small.”

“Small?” he repeated, his green eyes wide and incredulous. “You were stressed out, overworking yourself, and you didn’t think I needed to know?”

You glanced at him, your jaw tight. “I was handling it just fine. Not everything needs to be a team effort, okay? I’m allowed to deal with things on my own sometimes.”

Izuku’s fists clenched at his sides, but he took a deep breath, clearly trying to steady himself.

“But we’re a team. That’s the point of being together, isn’t it? Supporting each other?”

You could feel your own temper rising, and you turned toward the fridge, needing a moment to compose yourself. “I’m not saying we’re not a team, Izuku. I’m just saying I didn’t need help with this.”

Your words hung in the air as you opened the fridge, reaching in for a carton of eggs to finish preparing dinner.

The argument still buzzed in the back of your mind, and your movements were quicker and less careful than usual.

As you grabbed the eggs and swung the fridge door shut, your finger got caught between the heavy door and its frame.

A sharp, searing pain shot through your hand, and you yelped, dropping the carton of eggs onto the floor.

The sound of the eggs cracking was muffled by your hiss of pain, and you instinctively clutched your injured hand, tears springing to your eyes.

“Ah, crap!” you muttered, trying to shake off the pain.

Izuku was at your side in an instant, his earlier frustration completely replaced by concern. “Are you okay? Let me see!”

“It’s fine, Izuku,” you said, wincing as you tried to wave him off.

“It’s not fine,” he insisted gently but firmly taking your hand.

His fingers were warm and careful as he inspected the injury. The skin around your finger was already red and swelling slightly.

“Why were you moving so fast?” he asked, his tone softer but still laced with worry.

“Because we were arguing, and I wasn’t paying attention,” you admitted, feeling a pang of guilt as you looked at the mess of broken eggs on the floor.

Izuku sighed, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he held your hand. “This is exactly what I mean. You don’t have to keep everything bottled up and push yourself like this.”

You glanced up at him, his emerald eyes filled with concern and just a hint of exasperation. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I know you didn’t mean to. But I hate seeing you like this—hurt, stressed, or trying to carry everything on your own. It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to us.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you felt your shoulders slump. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I wasn’t trying to shut you out. I just didn’t want to add to your plate.”

Izuku shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. “That’s what I’m here for—to share the plate. Even if it’s overflowing, it’s better than you carrying it all by yourself.”

You managed a small laugh despite the lingering ache in your hand. “You and your metaphors.”

He smiled wider, his thumb tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. “Come on. Let’s clean up this mess and get some ice on your finger.”

Together, you cleaned up the broken eggs, Izuku insisting on doing most of the work while you held your injured hand under cool running water.

When the floor was spotless again, he led you to the couch, sat you down, and disappeared into the kitchen to grab a bag of frozen peas to use as an ice pack.

When he returned, he crouched in front of you, carefully placing the makeshift ice pack against your finger. “There. Keep this on for a while, okay?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you, Izuku. For everything.”

He looked up at you, his eyes soft. “Always.”

As he sat beside you, one arm slipping around your shoulders, the argument felt like a distant memory.

The only thing that mattered now was the quiet understanding that you didn’t have to face anything alone.

Eijiro Kirishima ᡣ𐭩

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────────

The sun had long set, leaving the apartment illuminated by warm overhead lights.

Dinner dishes were still on the table, and the faint scent of grilled chicken lingered in the air.

You were on your way to the kitchen, carrying the plates from the table, your footsteps brisk. Behind you, Kirishima’s voice followed, sharp with frustration.

“I’m just saying you could’ve told me before making the plans!” he said, his tone a mix of exasperation and hurt.

You turned your head slightly, your own irritation bubbling over. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal, Eijiro! It’s just a dinner with some friends!”

“Yeah, friends I barely know,” he shot back, following you into the kitchen. “You know I like to plan things. I hate feeling blindsided like this!”

The plates clinked loudly as you set them on the counter, your movements a little too forceful. “It’s one night! You don’t have to go if it’s such a problem!”

Kirishima ran a hand through his hair, his usually soft expression hardened by the argument. “That’s not the point, and you know it. Why do you always do this? Make decisions without even talking to me?”

You spun around to face him, your hands gesturing wildly. “Because not everything needs a full-blown discussion, Eijiro! Sometimes, I just want to do something without overthinking it for hours!”

The tension in the room was thick, your words bouncing off each other like sparks flying in a forge. Neither of you were backing down, your voices overlapping in a heated exchange.

As you turned to grab something from the counter, your hip collided with the edge of the kitchen island. Hard.

The sharp pain took you by surprise, and you let out a yelp, instinctively clutching your side.

The impact sent a dull ache radiating through your hip, and you stumbled slightly, leaning against the counter for support.

Kirishima’s anger evaporated in an instant, replaced by concern. “Babe, are you okay?” he asked, rushing to your side.

You winced, blinking back tears of pain. “I’m fine,” you muttered, though your voice wavered.

“Let me see,” he said, his hands hovering near your waist as if unsure whether to touch you.

“It’s nothing, Eijiro,” you insisted, though the way you clutched your hip betrayed your words.

“Don’t give me that,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re in pain. Sit down, please.”

Reluctantly, you allowed him to guide you to one of the kitchen chairs.

His hands were gentle as he helped you sit, his worry evident in the furrow of his brows.

“Where did you hit it?” he asked, crouching in front of you.

You hesitated before lifting the hem of your shirt slightly to reveal the reddening spot on your hip.

Kirishima winced at the sight, his expression softening even more.

“That looks like it hurts,” he said, his voice filled with guilt. “I’ll get some ice.”

He stood quickly, rummaging through the freezer until he found an ice pack.

Wrapping it in a towel, he returned to your side, kneeling in front of you as he gently pressed the ice pack to your hip.

You hissed at the sudden cold but didn’t pull away, the pain already beginning to dull. “Thanks,” you said quietly, avoiding his gaze.

Kirishima sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick with regret. “I didn’t mean to get so worked up. I just… I hate fighting with you.”

You looked down at him, his crimson eyes filled with sincerity. “I’m sorry too,” you admitted. “I should’ve talked to you about the dinner. I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I overreacted. I know you weren’t trying to. I just… I like being included, you know?”

“I get it,” you said, reaching out to brush a hand through his hair. “And I’ll try to be better about that. I promise.”

Kirishima leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. “And I’ll try not to blow up over little things. We’re a team, right?”

“Always,” you said, a smile finally breaking through the tension.

He stood, helping you to your feet as well. “Come on,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get you comfortable on the couch. I’ll clean up the kitchen tonight.”

You laughed softly, leaning into him as he guided you out of the kitchen. “You’re really trying to make up for this, huh?”

“Damn right I am,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I screwed up, and I’m not letting you think for a second that I don’t care.”

As you settled onto the couch, Kirishima brought you a blanket and a glass of water before sitting beside you, his hand resting gently on your leg.

The earlier argument felt like a distant memory, replaced by the warmth of his care and the quiet understanding that no matter how heated things got, you’d always find your way back to each other.

Denki Kaminari ᡣ𐭩

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────────

The evening had started off normally enough. You and Denki were at home, trying to enjoy some downtime after a long week.

The living room was dimly lit, the faint hum of the TV filling the silence as you moved around, trying to organize the tangled mess of chargers and wires behind the entertainment stand.

Denki sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone, his usual carefree demeanor noticeably absent.

A small disagreement earlier in the day had left a lingering tension between the two of you, and neither had made the move to resolve it.

“You’ve got too many things plugged in back there,” Denki said, breaking the silence.

You sighed, crouched behind the TV as you worked to untangle the mess. “I know, Denki. That’s why I’m fixing it.”

“It’s not just about fixing it,” he shot back, his voice sharper than usual. “You’re always leaving it like that, and it’s dangerous. I’ve told you a hundred times.”

You rolled your eyes, the frustration bubbling up. “I don’t need a lecture right now. I’m handling it, okay?”

His phone landed on the coffee table with a thud, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Handling it? That’s what you always say. But you never actually—”

“Can you not right now?” You interrupted, turning your head to glare at him. “I said I’ve got it under control.”

Denki scoffed, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “Yeah, sure. You’re so ‘in control’ that you’re probably going to end up shocking yourself.”

Your temper flared at his sarcasm. “At least I’m doing something instead of sitting there complaining!”

The tension in the room thickened, your voices rising as the argument escalated.

You were so focused on getting the last charger plugged in and proving a point that you didn’t notice the faint crackle of static building up in the air.

“Maybe if you actually listened—” Denki started, but his words were cut off by your sudden yelp.

A sharp jolt of electricity shot through your fingers as you plugged in the charger, making you jump back and wince in pain. “Ow!”

Denki was on his feet in an instant, his earlier anger replaced with concern. “What happened?” he asked, rushing to your side.

You cradled your hand, your face twisted in discomfort. “I got shocked,” you muttered, trying to shake off the stinging sensation.

“I told you!” Denki exclaimed, though his voice was more panicked than accusatory. “That’s why I said it’s dangerous!”

You shot him a glare, still cradling your hand. “This isn’t the time to say ‘I told you so,’ Denki!”

His expression softened as he crouched beside you, gently taking your hand in his. “Let me see,” he said, his voice quieter now.

You hesitated but allowed him to examine your fingers. His touch was gentle, his thumb brushing over the spot where the jolt had hit.

“It doesn’t look bad,” he said, his golden eyes scanning your hand for any signs of burns. “Does it still hurt?”

“A little,” you admitted, your earlier anger fading as you saw the genuine worry on his face.

Denki let out a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. “You scared me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden vulnerability. “I’m fine, Denki. It’s just a little shock.”

“Yeah, but it could’ve been worse,” he said, his brow furrowed. “I shouldn’t have let you do that by yourself. I should’ve just helped instead of being a jerk about it.”

You sighed, the weight of the argument finally settling over you. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you, either,” you admitted. “I was just frustrated, and I took it out on you.”

Denki’s lips quirked into a small smile, his usual lightheartedness beginning to return. “We’re both pretty good at being stubborn, huh?”

You chuckled softly, nodding. “Yeah, we are.”

He stood, offering you his hand to help you up. “Come on. Let’s take a break from this mess. I’ll get you some ice for your hand, and then we can figure it out together.”

You took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. “Thanks, Denki.”

As the two of you walked to the kitchen, the tension between you began to ease.

Denki rummaged through the freezer, pulling out an ice pack and wrapping it in a towel before handing it to you.

“Here,” he said, his grin more playful now. “And for the record, you look cute when you’re stubborn.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re lucky I love you, idiot.”

Denki laughed, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Love you too, spark plug.”

The argument was forgotten, replaced by the warmth of your shared laughter and the promise to face things together, no matter how tangled or messy they might be.

FANFIC RECOMMENDATION ᡣ𐭩

Adult Bakugo x Female Reader Fanfic

[insomniac-dot-ink]

It's Raining in Portland

PART I

It rained in Portland for 45 days straight. They say this might still be normal—even for the off-season. I’ve gone out wandering, as I have every day of summer since I was a kid. My house was empty and the days dragged. I insisted on my green rain boots with frogs on them, showing them off was as good as a downhill bike ride. My bike was broken by then. The other kids were sometimes around, but the days grew longer. They went off to summer camps and vacation and YMCA soccer programs and it was still raining.

I began to bring the lady things on the tenth day. The puddles were turning into little lakes and I needed to make sure to move the car every five days–so I counted. I found her the day Liz left for camp. She was lying face down in the old Target parking lot. Target was supposed to come back to the building but it never did and the place was good for wandering. She was filthy. Hair tangled, coat an unnamable color, gnarled long skirt, and skin rash-y and fever-bright. She was also beautiful, like a fairy tale princess. A storybook face.

The woman had to be middle-aged at least, a weather-beaten kind look about her and silver hair; her high cheekbones and vivid dark eyes captured the soul as my dad might say. She moaned the first time thunder cracked across the sky. She dragged herself across the parking lot and rolled over into a puddle. I circled the area, pointy stick in hand, peeking out behind trees and heel-toe-ing around the cement.

I kept my distance during the first few visits, pretending we were strangers on the bus or like my childhood cat when she followed you into the same room. The woman remained like a corpse on the ground.

The first present I gave her was a can of soup. Everyone needed soup when the weather was bad. I placed it above her head, inching as close as I dare and pushing the can the rest of the way with my stick. Her liquid dark eyes flickered up, searching and wide. She returned to lying face down on the pavement. I frowned. Sure, I didn’t expect a thank you, but still.

The second day I brought her one of my mom’s old raincoats. Everyone needed a raincoat in the freaking rain. I placed it on top of the untouched soup can and didn’t wait to let her groan or moan or look at me with her spooky eyes. I ran off.

When I returned, the campbells can was standing proud and untouched but the lady was covered in my mom’s bright orange raincoat. I bounced on my heels.

“Is it a good fit?”

She didn’t answer. 

I thought of telling someone about the lady in the parking lot. Afterall, she probably needed help and if she took the coat, she might need more. But I stopped in the same breath. Bethany and Liz were at summer camp, the sleep-away kind, and they are the only ones I would trust to not start tattling immediately. If anyone else came, an adult or anyone with a badge, they might start asking questions about my situation. Why am I out wandering? What am I doing all the way out there on my own? You have to cross the big highway to reach the abandoned Target and really it was such a headache to explain the drainage ditch-crossing.

The lady might get in trouble too. What’s with all the headless pigeons in the parking lot? They’d say. That didn’t have to be my lady, though. She just didn’t like soup.

We were on day 20 of the rain and day 10 of me bringing her things. I had to move the car that morning and Miss Maudlin was giving me the stink eye the whole time. I arrived early, bird-early since that’s when I’m supposed to move the car, and didn't even bother to pick up the sharp stick. The mud was thick as honey and the lady dragged herself to a different spot face-down next to the biggest puddle.

“Hey!” I called out like I always do. “Don’t get up or anything. I brought you some socks . . . sorry they’re not shoes or boots or whatever, but they’re dry. I bet you’d like something dry.”

I set the pair of my mom’s good woollen socks next to the soup and backed up, still feeling bad I didn’t have boots. Good boots made a world of difference—my frog ones were testament to that. The lady didn’t even look up this time. She just lay there. I rubbed the back of my neck.

“Are you asleep?” My heart squeezed in my chest. I was going to feel awful if I didn’t tell Miss Maudlin about the corpse-like lady and she became an actual corpse on my watch. Though, Miss Maudlin would be impossible about the pigeon-thing, I already knew.

I sat cross-legged under my umbrella and started munching on my oreos, waiting for her to moan or groan or twitch. “Do you want, uh, something other than soup? I realize I didn’t even leave you a can opener.” The corpse-lady made a valiant effort of acting like a real corpse.

I scooched closer. “I won’t be able to come around every day soon so you’ll have to speak up. Want some Oreos of your own? Blanket? I’ve got some bottled water too, so much bottled water,” I chuckled, “but you’re probably sick of water by now.” The hand at her side appeared to twitch and a part of me relaxed. That was a good thing. I could leave now. But the thing was, I didn’t really want to go. Miss Maudlin wouldn’t even be on her porch giving me the stink eye and I’d already been to the grocery store twice yesterday. I brought out my book.

“I have this summer reading—did you ever do summer reading?—I’m already finished,” I puffed out my chest just a little bit, not enough for the lady to notice, but enough, “but the IB teacher grades like a motherfucker, I hear,” I giggled. The lady’s hand twitched at her side but she didn’t say anything about the swear word which was good of her. “So, I’m, like, reading this one again before term starts.” Which was not entirely true, we wouldn’t be reading One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich until the second semester. She didn’t have to know that. The book was short and punchy and made me say things like, “well, at least I’m not eating rocks in a gulag this fine morning,” which was something. I situated my umbrella, opened the book on my lap, and began reading. At first, I read silently to myself, but the lady had stopped so much as twitching and it worried me all over again.

I flipped to the beginning and read out loud. 

Her big dark eyes dragged up from the pavement. They were red-rimmed and wide as coins. My skin crawled and I cleared my throat. “Did you like it? It’s my favorite of the books.” She, of course, did not answer.

I decided to finish reading the first couple pages to her because I started this whole thing and I didn’t want to bail just because her eyes were big and weird and staring. We got through the opening sections. I left, like I always did, when I got bored.

I avoided the parking lot for the next few days. I wasn’t really in a place to keep bringing her stuff she didn’t want, I told myself, and it had to stop raining eventually. After nearly a month of rain, I went to our basement and knocked hard on the door. I had another note in my hand, this one mostly about the lady and how super done with my summer homework I was, but I found the last three notes still jammed under the door. I glared at the folded pieces of paper until I gave myself a headache and shoved the fourth one in after it. 

When I went back to the lady, I brought the book and a cushion to sit on. Let her find the damn house empty. I sat on the kitchen chair cushion, letting it sink into the soggy ground and not really caring, and cracked open the book. The lady rolled over onto her back and her big dark eyes were focused on the clouds.

“PAGE FOUR,” I said loudly and began reading. Her eyes dragged over to me in a molosess-drip and I offered her a tin of oreos.

Over the last few days, I stuck to my summer reading list, but by the time the weekend arrived I decided there were only so many pages of eating rocks and being mad at guards you can stand. The lady was already out in the rain. I switched over to one of my favorite books. My friends would have made fun of me for a baby book, but I was sure the lady had never read The Tale of Despereaux, and everyone needed to read that once in their life.

She liked it, I thought. I was sitting, as usual, doing what I was going to be doing at home anyway, and introducing the mouse that got me through a lot of boring classes in elementary school. Her hand jerked out in a blur. I jolted and the woman had a bird by the throat. My mouth fell open. The pigeon.

Her teeth were sharp as fish hooks and gently curved. They dug into the neck of the bird in the same way I imagine sharks dug into seals. My mouth fell open. The woman gobbled down the head and belly of the creature and it didn’t have time to make a sound.

“Woah,” I said. In a flash, she tossed aside her meal. You have to admire anything with that kind of efficiency. She scrubbed her face down with the back of her hand, moaned, and rolled over a second time. I scooted to the edge of my cushion.

“Um.” I gripped the book in both hands, raising it like a shield. “Do, uh, you only do that to, uh, birds?”

I didn’t really give her a chance to answer to be fair. I ran off so quick I imagine a little puff of dust came out of my heels. I spent the rest of the day with the curtains down and the door locked like my mom wanted. 

And I would have stayed gone too. However, the next day I got up, got dressed, put on my rainboots, and went to the door. It was another grocery day. My umbrella was missing. My one good umbrella–that also had a frog on it–was gone, and it was still raining. Thirty days of rain and no umbrella!

At least I knew a little more about the parking-lot lady. This time, I brought her a good cloth napkin. Everyone needs a napkin no matter where they live. I should admit I arrived late, very late since I had to spend most of the day talking myself in and out of going. She ate a bird right in front of me! Raw! And probably wasn’t too fond of mice, I had to bet, so The Tale of Despereaux was really not going to be her thing.

Birds cawed and the setting sun broke through the haze. Bits of orange light turned the puddles into watercolor splashes and set the misty air all to golden dust. Some things can be too beautiful–abandoned Targets and grungy puddles cast in orange.

I darted between the pine trees, keeping my head down and eyes wide. Crows, not knowing to fear for their lives, pecked at the ground. The Target stood unlit and empty, surrounded by piles of trash like a noble dying king. There was no one else in sight. I crept toward the largest puddle, eyeing the ground and wishing my lost umbrella wasn’t green. It could have flown off anywhere by now and blended in with the trees.

The light drained out of the world and the first meager stars popped out. I recounted my steps, one, two, three, and swept the area. At least, on the other side of the lot my umbrella was resting at the base of the Target. The top was weighed down by water, and the handle sticking up like a new plant growth. I sped into a run. Without breaking pace, I grabbed the handle, flung the water out, and sprinted into the foliage. My chest heaved and I glanced around, maybe also to check if anyone had seen that.

A shriek split the air. I dug my heels in and teetered to a halt, animal fear shoving its way into my higher functions. Apparently, I was a freeze kind of girl between the fight-flight kinds. My heart pounded dangerously close to being a medical problem and my ears rang. The shriek had the quality of stone against stone, grating and sharp. Sweat dripped down my temple and a long, dark shape dragged itself across the ground in the corner of my eye.

I swallowed a painful lump. She heaved herself across the space and I wished for the life of me that she remembered those wool socks fondly. The lady moved more quickly than I imagined, belly scraping the concrete and face contorted. I took a step back, she really didn’t need socks, actually.

Out from under the long skirt and dirty coat and much cleaner and nicer orange raincoat, was a thick black tail the color of oil spills. Dark as night and shiny, little rainbows catching the last of the light, a muscled tail whipped back and forth. The mermaid dragged herself across the cement and my mouth gaped.

She moved in the way of dreams: unearthly and fast–much faster than expected. A puddle the size of a small minivan pooled near the base of the Target. The mermaid planted her hands on either side, let out a fantastic shriek, and stuck her head into the water. You’d think she’d give herself a concussion, bonking on the ground, but she plunged her princess-pretty face up to the shoulders. She was gone for only a second and then back yowling like a stray cat.

I didn’t run this time. I took one wobbling step back and then another, clutching the handle of my umbrella like a sword. A mermaid! The brightest part of my brain said. You’re about to be alone in the pitch black out here, said the other part of my head. 

The mermaid was crying, I think, crying very hard, when I left her.

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

[tunamayojazz]

mithruns of the week...eat well beautiful

[reddish-ash]

haha, just some DCMK ideas

Kirishima George from "Gosho Aoyama's Collection of Short Stories"

[capsyst]

This is the scene that I was working on when my iPad died. I said I’d post it when I finished so you’d all get to see why I was so devastated when I lost it, so here you go! (No sound, I haven’t edited it to the rest of the short yet).

I had just finished inking Petra and Jessie. Luckily I had exported it as a video and saved it to my phone before the crash. So while I did have to re-trace all of the ink lines, at least I had a good reference to do it from.

I started working on this scene a little before Christmas, so it’s been about a month that I’ve been working on it (including the week where I had to scramble to get a new iPad and get caught back up again).

It’s been a rough time. This is probably the most technically challenging shot I’ve done so far. Keeping their proportions right, their feet planted on the ground, and their bodies rotating in 3D space was exceptionally difficult. Im happy with how it turned out but I’m frustrated that it probably would’ve been better had I not had to re-do so much of it due to a hardware malfunction.

There’s probably a lot wrong with it, but I honestly can’t focus on it any longer. I’m so far behind now. I really want to wrap up this short. So I just gotta cut my losses and say this is good enough and move on.

I only have a few more shots left, and hopefully they’re not as technical as this one. So here’s hoping I can finish before the end of next month if all goes well.

🤞

[m-actha]

YUMMY! toji.. bunny!r

toji's bunny needs some milk 🙈

warnings n info ! — male receiving oral, reader is fem, popsicle heh, cock slapping on face, toji giving reader a punishment for nothin (?), short story, cum swallowing, reader has no name, balls. , now i want to eat popsicles

saliva drips onto his cock as she parts her glossy lips, her pink tongue darting out to lick up a bead of his precum. he groans, one of his hands rubbing her bunny ear drooping on the side. she opens her mouth wider and eases his girthy cock inside, her jaw stretching obscenely around his meat. toji sighs at the heat engulfing him and starts fucking her face, his heavy balls smacking against her chin.

gurgling pleasurably, her hands reach up to fondle his sack, rolling them gently between her fingers. her nose brushes his pubes as she takes him down her throat, swallowing around him.

he watches with sharp eyes, unable to hide his smirk. "you think that's gonna make you a good girl?" he gathers both of her bunny ears, gripping tightly and tugs.

she whines around his cock, tears forming in her eyes as her fingers continue to fondle with his sack. earlier, she didn't mean to tease her master toji in public. he thought she was teasing him while she was given a popsicle she begged for, carrot flavored. watching her lick around the orange flavored popsicle made his dick twitch. she kept looking at him with her big eyes, droopy fluffy long ears, and a wagging cottontail. not knowing what will happen when she is finished with her beloved popsicle.

after cumming in her throat, he makes sure to see her swallow and open her mouth wide to let him examine. thrusting in again one last time, he pulls on her long fluffy ears to pull out his cock out of her mouth, making a wet pop sound. he slaps his cock on her face, his precum and her saliva coating half of her face. he chuckles darkly, "probably not your fault bun, but just to remind ya you have a bigger popsicle at home."

note: hiiwhwhwwh macha hereee, im been trying to write stuff like these but end up deleting and quit everytime.. so i hope my writing matches ur taste im open to requests too ♡

i sometimes get offline for a week or more so be aware of it, people get lazy n busy sometimes yk, if you're willing to follow and support thankiess!! ʕ⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴥ⁠ꈍ⁠ʔ for more

[short-yandere-stories]

:✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:

:✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:

CW: Yandere behavior, forced imprisonment, brief mentions of NSFW / Non/Con, threats of violence

This is a yandere work. Proceed with caution and please be mindful of your own triggers.

Happy birthday Aizen! I couldn't help but write a short little thing I love him. The Rock Musical is living rent free in my head and has done so since I watched it. The "Smile, Orihime" scene was in it too and I almost fainted seeing that in front of me on stage.

:✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:

The warmth of the palms of his hands burned through the white silk of the gown you were wearing, placed possessively on your waist.

Aizen was lounging in his throne, you perched uncomfortably on his lap in just the way he liked to have you. There was just something about having your soft, warm body close that stroked his ego just right. It was as much of a display of his power and authority for both the Espada and you alike -- a show of ownership.

Any time Aizen summoned the Espada to a meeting, you would be dragged into his lap, spending the meeting trying not to squirm around as large hands held your waist or fingers traced patterns into your thigh. It was humiliating, but there was nothing you could do to stop it. 

Making a scene wasn’t an option anymore. You’d tried to protest the first few times the ruler of Las Noches had forced you to sit in his lap during meetings. He’d been amused, but not at all bothered. A few words whispered into your ear in his smooth, baritone voice had your body freezing as your heartbeat picked up in fear before you reluctantly fell quiet and stopped squirming.

You knew all too well that Aizen made good on his promises and threats. You didn’t want your remaining family to suffer at the hands of Hollows or any of the Espada, nor did you want to spend more nights than you absolutely had to folded into a mating press as fucked you until he was satisfied.

There was no escape from Las Noches, after all. You couldn’t open a portal, and even if you somehow managed to get one of the Espada to open one for you, there was nowhere in the world that you would be able to escape Aizen. All you could do was obey and try to minimise the damage done to yourself or the people you cared about. You were no fighter. You had no powers. There was nothing you could do but let him do as he pleased.

You could feel Aizen’s smile press against the sensitive skin of your neck, no doubt knowing exactly what was on your mind. There was no hiding anything from him. You’d long since stopped trying. 

“Feeling powerless, pet?” Aizen mused, ignoring Nnoitora making a jab at Harribel, trying to rile her up. 

You didn’t grace him with a response, rebelling in one of the only ways you could. He chuckled, chest rumbling in amusement pressed against your back.

“If anyone, you’re the person with the most power here.” You turned your neck, looking back at Aizen with confusion on your face. He merely smiled.

“You’re the only one who controls my heart.” 

:✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:

[solradguy]

No one ever talks about how Sol's sword turns into this thing when he installs. Or how it has a Tree of Life on it

I need someone to ask Daisuke Ishiwatari about his library and how he got inspired to put some of the wildest theology and metaphysics deepcuts you can imagine in the equally wildest places in Guilty Gear, and why like... No one has really brought them up (AFAIK) in the 25 whatever years GG's been around for

[gamemakerm]

In honor of Mermay and the current trend of Animal/Therian HRT going around (inspired by @ayviedoesthings's Dragon HRT series, @welldrawnfish's Fish HRT, @kaylasartwork's Bat HRT, @nyxisart's Puppy HRT, @deadeyedfae's Human HRT, etc etc etc, love all your work), I wanted to share the short story I wrote last year about medically turning yourself into a mermaid. This got published in WriteHive's Reclaiming Joy anthology, and we're now just outside of the six-month publishing exclusivity, so I can make it publicly available.

This was really raw to write for me, and there are trigger warnings for transphobia(/whatever the equivalent would be for mermaids?), implications of violence and hate crimes. However all the stories in the anthology were ultimately about perseverance, courage and love. I hope you enjoy, and if you want to get this and eleven other uplifting stories I can't recommend the anthology enough (though this is the only one relevant to the tags as far as I know). And if you really, really like it, you can buy me a kofi!

Scales

When the scales began to break through skin, they said you were becoming a monster. Blue and green, seafoam to pearl. You weren’t certain at what point you started to believe them.

You began to wrap yourself in tighter layers, a futile effort not to draw attention to the rough patches. Elbows, knees, along your arms, mottled with foundation and concealer caked on like spackle. Toner to offset the iridescent shine so that a passing glance wouldn’t be drawn to it. Constant checks and double checks, bathroom visits far beyond the routine. 

Your careful camouflage is usually enough to deflect scrutiny, but occasionally a stranger catches on. Nobody has said anything to you yet, but you have noticed more glances on the train. The old woman’s frown of disapproval. The young man with something to prove to you, himself, the world. His jaw tightens as he calculates his ability to start something. You tuck your chin and pretend to be busy with your phone. In the dark screen you can see the skin flaking on your cheeks. The beginnings of another patch betray you.

As you touch up in the bathroom mirror you tell yourself you wanted this, that you were prepared for the hardships. 

You walk to the public library after your shift ends. You walk most places these days, telling yourself it’s a last hurrah. The fact is you sold your car to make a dent in the cost. You’ll sell everything eventually. You’re going to have to. 

The forums have a list of books everyone checks out when they choose this path. There aren’t many and most are fantasy. There’s a running joke: if anyone mentions Hans Christen Anderson, run. You spot The Little Mermaid on a small display. You don’t run. You check out your books. The librarian gives a knowing nod, but doesn’t remark. You silently thank her for the discretion.

You take a long shower, makeup swirling down the drain. You can’t help but scratch at the itching patches on your thighs, peeling skin tearing away for new growth. Shampoo and blood circle under your feet. Your fingernails are sharper than they were this morning. You exfoliate, letting the city, public transit, the glances of strangers be cleansed. Your reflection in the mirror, a colorful smattering of new scales dusting your cheeks, is tear-streaked, ethereal. Beautiful.

You knock the concealer into the trash bin.

Your mother left a voicemail. She avoids the elephant seal in the room, talking about her gardening, your cousin’s new baby. She lingers for a moment, then: You’re being selfish. She burns brightly as a beratement begins, emboldened. But without someone to riff with she loses her steam, trails off and repeats it. You’re being shellfish. She can’t help it; she laughs despite herself. There’s a minute where she doesn’t speak, but you can tell she’s waiting for the sob in the back of her throat to settle. She promises she’ll come to your party and the voicemail ends.

You still haven’t heard from your father. You don’t expect you will. You’ve made peace with that.

You do your weekly injection on the alternating leg, needle piercing deep in a gap between scales. The plunger delivers 200mg of concentrated hope directly into your bloodstream, salt water in salt water. You put a hello kitty bandaid over it and wait for the feeling of ice in your veins to settle, the tension to go out of your muscles. It doesn’t.

You pass an enraged man on the street, spit flying, a home-made sandwich board making his message clear: The Siren Is The Devil’s Agent. The back offers an equally cogent argument: Go Back To Atlantis, Fish Freaks. You would if you could, you think dryly. He notices you and seethes, but the current of the crowd carries you away before he can curse you out.

You drag your potted plants down to the front stoop and post a craigslist ad: free to a good home. They’re gone within the hour. You allow yourself the rare indulgence of posting a selfie, eyes closed, serene, to the reddit: Learning to love my scales <3! It’s still difficult to type on your phone with the new claws. The upvotes start to come in; everyone loves a guppie.

You catch up on the shows you haven’t gotten to yet. Where there was once only the metaphorical List, there is now an actual list. Despite your best efforts it’s becoming increasingly clear you’re not going to finish all of them. You knock a few off, restructure it based on length. It still looks too long.

You have dreams about choking on toxic waste, getting minced by a boat propeller. You keep a running count of the number of times you’ve dreamt of getting your head stuck in a six-pack of soda rings. You’re up to four. 

Every few days you do laps in the local pool. You’re getting faster, but you feel exposed. There are whispers around the locker room. 

Your cat knows something is happening, but doesn’t understand what that means for her. You hold her whenever and for as long as she’ll allow, give her as many pets and treats as she wants. Despite clearing out your apartment you’ve spoiled her. She licks the scales on your cheek as you cry over her. This seems to inspire something in her; she demands her tuna crunchies. Dutifully you give her the tuna crunchies. She can have as many tuna crunchies as she wants.

You doomscroll your twitter feed, making sure this isn’t the day you lose access to your meds because of some white man in a suit. A sister is assaulted by a violent extremist with a sense of humor: he shot her with a harpoon gun. Her crowdfunding campaign starts on the maidens reddit and goes viral.

You triple check to make sure your friend is still willing to take your cat when you go. They promise to spoil her and tell her stories of you every day. You continue to cry over it. They invite you out for sushi to talk about it, then backtrack to ask if that’s a microaggression. You go to sushi. You’re thankful for the distraction.

By the time your legs are more scale than skin and your fingers begin to develop webbing you’ve given up on pretense. The looks are now constant, but you get reflective sunglasses and a new patch for your jacket: Don’t like it? Drown, with a scaled hand reaching out of water and flipping the bird. You put the energy out into the world, and the world doesn’t fuck with you.

Children love you. Their parents do not. 

On the train a young girl quietly asks if she can feel your scales. You allow her to touch her little fingers to the aquamarine pattern running up your arm, giving her your most reassuring (but still fanged) smile. She’s fearless, enamored, reverent. Her mother pulls her daughter away and hastily apologizes for her, not looking you in the eye. But you know that girl believes in magic now.

A group of white supremacists go out on a boat loaded with assault rifles for “no reason” and get lost at sea. This is somehow your fault.

The day your fins begin to push their way out from your arms, your boss calls you into his office. You both know he can’t fire you in this and seven other states, but you both also know you won’t be staying much longer. He’s done his best to make you aware you’re making his life more difficult. You put in your two weeks before he can flounder for another excuse. He moors you with paperwork for the rest of the afternoon.

Someone leaves a rotting fish in your pool locker. You don’t go back, and you don’t file a report. You tell yourself the chlorine was bad for the gills freshly forming under your ribs anyway.

Your friends take you out clubbing. You lose yourself under the waves of music, submerged under strobe lights and the salty sweat of dancing bodies. You whisper sweet nothings into a stranger’s ear, entrancing her as you move against each other. You can see iridescence shining around her eyes, shimmering glitter and an emerging pattern beneath makeup. You brush a thumb against her cheek and she melts into your touch. You don’t get her name. You don’t need to; you’re both not long for this world. You catch up with your friends smoking outside, your lips still tingling with vermouth.

Weeks pass. Work ends. Your apartment is down to furniture and cat supplies. You take longer showers. News stories continue to come out, the machine churns and roils: monsters walking among humans, the mark of the beast, sacrificing daughters to the ocean. 

You make sure your meds are reupped for the final stretch.

When your legs start to merge you know you don’t have much time left. You donate the last boxes of your clothes. Your friends get first dibs on furniture before it’s put on the street. They bring drinks and sit on your floor, an impromptu celebration and wake. They ask all the usual questions: what are you going to do for food? Shelter? What if you get hurt, or attacked by a shark? Do they have waterproof laptops yet? Will they ever see you again? What if it isn’t right for you? Can you ever come back?

You don’t know how to answer most of those questions. The group stays with you through the night. At 4AM you put on The Little Mermaid and the group drunkenly sings along. Everyone knows the words. It’s juvenile and you can hear the maidens on the reddit rolling their eyes and tutting about misrepresentation, but you know everyone in your position does it. You try not to cry, but the waterworks start and don’t stop.

At daybreak you put your cat into her harness and everyone piles into a friend’s van. It’s not far to the beach, but they take the long way around. One final tour of the land. Your cat sits on your lap and stares out the windows as you pass old haunts, your grocery store, your gym, your high school. You realize you still have library books to return and almost get them to turn around, but someone promises to go back for them afterwards.

There’s an isolated area on the beach where a canopy and tables are set up; banners, food, friends. It’s a regular going away party, as if you’re going on a short trip abroad. You suppose you are, in a way. Someone rented a wheelchair with fat tires to help you get down to the beach.

When your mother arrives she pulls her shirt off to show her custom-made clam bra. Her eyes are already red and puffy, but she’s doing her best to be energetic and upbeat. She holds you for a long time and says she’s happy for you, that you’re beautiful, that you’re so much stronger than she ever was, and then she puts on a brave face to help everyone get served at the buffet. Your cat chases small crabs across the beach around you, and you sit in the sand. The party goes strong.

The tides come up until your fin is tickled by the seafoam. Everyone knows that means it’s time to go. You pass your cat off to her new owner and she gives you a last headbutt. She seems to understand. You kiss your mother’s cheek one last time and she clings to you. The group raises their drinks as you paddle out, disappearing beneath the waves. You give them the money shot and leap out of the water on your way out of the sound, and you can hear cheering from the shoreline. You hope someone got a video for the maidens.

You keep the city in sight for a while, but the currents lead you further into open waters. There are boaters out on the water who wave to you. You wave back and keep swimming up the coast. 

At dusk you rise to the surface and watch the setting sun turn the horizon from blue to pink to purple and orange. There’s nothing for leagues around. As the sun sinks below the waves and the skies darken you sing your first real siren’s song. Shaky and imperfect, it soon resounds over the ocean breeze. You leave everything behind in it. There are no words, only feeling and sound. It’s a lament, an invocation, a dirge. It is many things, but it isn’t an apology. You have nothing to apologize for.

In the seas beyond a chorus joins in with a language you never learned but understand, integrating your song into theirs. You swim to join them.

[amkyor]

K. BAKUGO SHORT STORY ᡣ𐭩

What A Woman:

Bakugo Katsuki was sprawled out on the couch after a long day of patrols, his arm draped lazily over the backrest as the faint sound of the evening news played in the background.

His hero work had been grueling, as always, but he prided himself on the effort he put in every day. When he heard the sound of the front door opening, he glanced over, expecting you, his girlfriend, to walk in with your usual warm greeting.

But this time, you didn't say a word.

You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and stormed straight over to him. Before he could open his mouth to ask what was going on, you grabbed his face and pressed your lips to his in a fiery, aggressive kiss.

His eyes widened in surprise, his brain trying to catch up with what was happening.

You kissed him like you were trying to steal the air from his lungs, your hands gripping his shirt tightly as if you couldn't get enough of him.

When your lips finally parted, Bakugo was left breathless, his heart pounding in his chest. "What the hell was-"

SMACK!

Your hand came down on his cheek with a sharp slap, leaving him completely stunned.

His head turned slightly from the impact, and for a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of the television in the background.

Bakugo blinked, his cheek stinging, but his expression slowly morphed from shock into something else entirely.

His lips curled into a smirk, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

"Well, damn," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly.

You crossed your arms, your lips twitching as you fought back a smile. "That's what you get for ignoring my texts all day, Katsuki."

He let out a low chuckle, rubbing his cheek absentmindedly. "You call that a punishment?"

Your face turned slightly red, but you didn't back down, leaning closer to him. "Maybe next time, you'll think twice before leaving me on read."

Bakugo's grin widened as he grabbed her by the waist, pulling her down onto his lap. "Tch. You're crazy, you know that?"

You rolled your eyes, but the playful smirk on your lips betrayed your amusement. "Too bad, you're stuck with me."

With that, you kissed him on the cheek, got up from his lap, and turned away from him, making your way to the bedroom as your hips swayed side to side as Bakugo watched from afar.

Bakugo sat in silence in the living room for a couple of seconds before he stood up and made his way to their bedroom with his unusual, hungry, smirking face.

"What a woman."

FANFIC RECOMMENDATION ᡣ𐭩

Adult Bakugo x Female Reader