#bones is a goddamn hero

[apollostears]

𝑇𝐴𝐿𝐾 𝑇𝑂 𝑀𝐸 𝑩𝑨𝑩𝒀 ＃︎！︎

❤︎ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) + 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦, 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤, 𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐞, 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐝𝐨𝐦!𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐢𝐭

❤︎ 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨, 𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐚, + 𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐤𝐮 𝐤𝐲𝐨𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐨

𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐛𝐡𝐦 <𝟑

「︎ nanami 」︎♡︎

⥅︎ his grunts rest so comfortably in your ears as nanami fucks into you, his chest pressed against yours. his breath tickles your neck while his lips ghost the skin of your ear.

“you alright baby? still with me?” nanami asks, his hand gently patting your damp cheek.

a lazy nod is all you give while whimpers tumble past your lips. nanami kissed his teeth and cooed teasingly, squeezing your cheeks together for your lips to form a pout.

“i need words angel. talk to daddy, baby.”

tears collected at your lash line again, a lust-filled gaze in your eyes as you looked at where nanami’s cock plunged into your cunt.

“feel you here, daddy.” you whined, finding the strength to caress your lower belly where you could feel his cock driving into you.

nanami smirked before leaning up to pull you up and on his lap. “lets see where else you can feel me. yeah?”

「︎ rengoku 」︎ ♡︎

⥅︎ rengoku is so excited to fuck you. he loves having you underneath him, your legs pressed all the way back into a mating press as he fucks his second load of cum into you. you’re a trembling mess as you feel another orgasm nearing.

“that’sss it. gonna cum for me again beautiful?” rengoku inquires softly, his lips pressing kisses all over your face.

a moan was stuck in your throat when rengoku dug his dick deeper into your pussy. “kyo, i feel—i feel like i gotta pee kyo!” you squeaked, a shiver running through your body when his thick fingers rubbed your clit.

the flame hashira smiles down at you with that dazzling smile of his right before he pulls his hips back, the head of his cock caught right at your entrance, and slams back into you.

body locked, you squirt all over him and his cock, triggering his own orgasm as he moans sweetly in your ear.

“so good baby. such a good job. shittt!” rengoku moaned, his own legs starting to tremble slightly.

a breath of relief went through you as fatigue blanketed your bones. “hey, hey, hey. stay with me princess. wanna go one more time.”

「︎ aizawa 」︎♡︎

⥅︎ he looked devastatingly handsome watching you struggle to take his cock. all he wanted to do was take a nap before patrol but you were so goddamn needy. now you have to work for it.

“daddy please! i—i can’t!” you cried, trying to slow down. aizawa smacked your ass roughly, glaring at you.

“did i say you could stop?”

a broken sob came out in response to his harshness. “no sir.”

“i won’t help you til you make yourself cum on my cock.” he speaks tiredly, as if he couldn’t be bothered by your needy behavior.

but you knew that to be false by the way his cock twitches inside of you every time you lift your hips to sink back down. truthfully, aizawa wanted to take you and fuck you until you couldn’t think. but sluts like you had to learn.

your hips desperately bucked in an erratic way as your hands dug tiny crescent moons into the pro-hero’s lower stomach. aizawa grunted in response and his hands flew to your hips tightly.

“gonna c-cum shota!” you moaned loudly, your pussy clenching tightly around him as your orgasm washed over you.

aizawa was just as dazed as you, watching the tremors of a good release tickle your body. your pussy was sucking him in so tight, he couldn’t help but cum with you.

“take it. fuck! take it all.” he hissed, his hands gripping your flesh tightly.

tiredly, you slumped forward and rested your face in aizawa’s neck. his hands soothing the skin he grabbed and speaking softly in your ear. you felt him shift around and next thing you knew, you were laid on your stomach, ass in the air.

a tired whine escaped you as aizawa lined his still hard cock at your entrance once again. “gotta keep my promise, don’t i baby?”

𝐛𝐫𝐛. 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐠𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛 𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐧𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝. 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. @kennyackermanswhore @chaoticevilbakugo @indiecursor @gabzlovesu @desiray562 @brownmochii @knjkitten @sweeneyblue1 @namjoonswifeyy @nyxeclipse @rubinocore @somerandompipzsxh @dabilovesme @histarean @hannas16 @caribbeanwifey19 @emonaculate @po3ticb3auty @waka-umm @wilsonsbuck @ctrlstar @jealousfuckingcunt @savagemickey03 @dukina @saintblk @sisnot @littlemochi @hoohoohope @ruubric

[moondirti]

animalic (1)

series masterlist

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader rating: mature word count: 1.9k summary: he won't stop until he gets you warnings: enemies to lovers, injuries, kissing, minor ATSV spoilers, size kink (?), mentions of gore and death, not spell checked nor edited, honestly not my best work but the horny is all that matters notes: stayed up all night for this because i had to get it out of my system before finals. there'll be a few more parts, i promise i'm not this cruel haha

“I thought grace was a prerequisite for your little spider-club.” 

Your quip sounds disjointed – even to your own ears – entwined with wheezes that rattle your splintered rib cage. In all honesty, the circumstances don’t seem to be favouring you; he’s got you confined upon the wreckage of your own fight, hanging off the remnants of a crane that dangerously tips over a quarry. And though this isn’t the worst you’ve faced, Miguel’s presence always seems to make things more complicated than they need to be.

You’d had a stable hold on the beam, ready to pull yourself up and dematerialise to wherever he wasn’t. Until, of course, the asshole kicked your elbows off. Now, your fingers remain as your only attachment to the structure, shaking violently with their diminishing strength. Your torso isn’t faring any better, either – the bleeding both internal and trickling from the gashes in your hoodie. 

(You wonder if he’s toying with you, like a panther with its food. Of the rare times he’s assigned another spiderman to pursue you, they didn’t tend to drag it out for this long. 

But, you suppose, Miguel’s different.) 

He takes a small step forward, lifting his foot over your digits. He could crush them like this, turn the bone to powder and keep pressing until it macerates in the gore. You can’t put it past him, really, not if you utter one more self-sabotaging word. You’ve seen him rip through steel and silk alike, fueled on the resentment that simmers deep within his very essence. Yours is merely the same fate that’s befallen every other obstacle that’s dared to come his way. 

But the tension buzzes between you two, thickening until it’s palpable enough to taste. Miguel is quiet as ever, completely still save for the flickering light of his dimensional travel watch. You envy his position – that resolute stature, brimful of power as his shoulders square, his calf rippling with subdued strength, still stretched over your hand. You blame that, or the mask, slick with sweat and humid as it sticks to your nose. Or the glasses that slowly slip to reveal your squinting eyes. You blame anything apart from what it is; that fear that steadily begins to flood your senses, numbing it all into one, cohesive panic. 

You’ve never been good at life or death scenarios. 

“Or, maybe, the big boss thinks he can break his own rules?” 

The air snaps. With an infuriated roar, he lunges at you, razor-sharp talons swiping at your face. In your frenzied dunk to avoid them, your fingers drop. 

You plunge to the bottomless chasm below.

Okay. Let’s try to get this right, one last time. 

Your name doesn’t matter. It hasn’t, not for a while now. 

For the past year, you’ve been on the run from the Spider Society. You don’t exactly blame them for it, either. Every world you’ve crashed has gone to shit, despite serious lack of trying. Food-barren wastelands, borderless warzones. Truthfully, after the mantle of Earth 7BB-1 convected in on itself, you were inclined to turn yourself in. 

Independant of the fact that Nueva York seems to be the only place you can’t fuck up. Regardless of the relatability you have with the residents of its lobby. You were bitten by a radioactive spider just the same, and for all the good you’ve tried to do, you’ve never been a spider-hero. If it meant that no one else got hurt, you really would have been able to cope with lifetime confinement.

(Greater good and all that.)

Would’ve. Could’ve. If it weren’t for Miguel O’Hara’s interjection, and his goddamn alternative solution, things just might have turned out that way. 

You’re not dead. 

The realisation whips your consciousness into high alert, eyes snapping open to survey your surroundings. You process the light first, its brilliance piercing through the bromine-doused cotton that stuffs your skull. Then, it’s the pain that, up until this point, had been thrumming in the background. It crackles, marrow-deep, tearing down the tendons in your shoulders to the throbbing area around your ribs. They’re in doubtlessly worse shape than they had been at the quarry, the ache searing across to engulf your spine too. 

He had let you fall on your back, that dickhead. 

But– 

You’re not dead. 

It doesn’t take you long to figure out why that is. 

A red forcefield entraps you, droning its monotonous hum, partially obscuring everything beyond your own reflection. You can see the faint impression of a silhouette – no, multiple – stalking you on the other end, a great shadow court. They warp and grow with every passing second, gorging on your offered vulnerability, awaiting some wordless signal from the harbinger of death, to execute justice upon the one who’s been causing them so much trouble. Jess Drew. Hobie Brown. Ben Reilly. 

(They’d been more forgiving, once. Willing to negotiate peace, to treat you more than the screw up you’ve proven to be. 

His voice overrode theirs. Always.)

It’s easier to make out the devil himself – more so than the others. You’ve come to memorise the slope of those shoulders, how his fists clench at his sides as he circles you. You imagine the smug set of his jaw and those eyes, just as luminous as the cage you curl within. The puck at the base is recognisable, akin to the capture weapons he’s thrown at you previously. He’d saved your life, then.

On a technicality. You’ll bury that thought to rage over later. 

“How–”

The question hardly forms before you’re ripped in two, the atoms of all but your spirit splicing into one another in a defect of blue and orange. The glitch exacerbates the fractures that threaten to knock you out, racking through your system as it rearranges your matter into amorphous forms. It’s only when something is thrown into the enclosure do you snap back to. A bracelet clatters to the floor. 

“Didn’t know whether you’d be used to the glitching yet.” A disembodied voice remarks. It’s at a particularly whiny pitch – you assign it to Ben. 

“We… tried to get it on you, kid. But you–” A feminine inflection crops up. Jess sounds the same since the last you spoke. 

You glower at them from the corner of your eye – unsure if they can actually see you – and snap the day pass on. Your spectral abilities were handy at the best of times; to shift from the corporeal, coming into immateriality, makes the most complicated situations evadeable. You credit it for your continued survival, if nothing else. Yet to speak like you could control it, especially while unconscious, was pushing it. You clearly weren’t able to activate it when you needed it the most.

And now you’re here. 

“I’m not going to ask what you want, so let’s keep this short– y-yeah? Either you let me go, or this Earth’ll be the next to unravel.” Despite your intentions, the demand escapes you in a long-winded croak. You hear Hobie snicker, the laugh teetering the edge of approval. Anyone can tell the promise has no foundation.

“That won’t be happ–” 

“Leave us.” 

The room clips into white noise. You fail to focus on anything but that echoing order. 

His voice comes across clearer than all else, too, cadence resonating past any natural boundary, tugging your heart right where it’s tender. There’s that fear again, that singular dread, only ever triggered by his indifference. Perhaps more potent than fury, his patience gives away an all-assured determination. Deadly. 

You bite your cheek, steeling your expression into one of similar apathy. It feels like a child’s attempt at dress up, grubby hands clutched around mother’s lipstick, painting on a clown’s complexion. Crackling apprehension brushes across your most vulnerable parts; layer by layer, you’re skinned as the group files out. Bare nerves are all that’s left for your faceoff with the hulking man.

He throws another puck to the floor. His own forcefield conjoins to yours. 

His cheeks have gotten hollower, you notice, emphasising the cheekbones that are just as keen as everything else about him. He offers no smile, no grand boast of victory. Instead, he breathes – calmly, fixedly, and lets you absorb the overwhelming magnitude of his size once more. He’s aware of what it strikes in you, can see it in the way you falter upon every reintroduction. Miguel is colossal, a reality that has never been more apparent than in this cramped enclosure. 

You know that if you stop to ponder it, it’ll ruin you. 

Rearing on your heels, you bounce from your place on the ground, making a grab for his watch. He anticipates it, having caught the decision blaze in your pupils, and side steps, pivoting to gain the upper hand while your back is still turned. You rebound off the field wall, stumbling back when he yanks you by your hoodie. Your shoulder presses into his chest, and he moves to wrap himself around your form.

Your skin prickles. His body passes right through you. 

His recovery time is nearly nonexistent relative to your last fight – quick learner – but you’re still swift on your feet, bolting to his watch again. It’s a millisecond too slow, for his talons sink into your forearm when you start to pull away. 

Your pained yelp loses momentum as he slams your back against the wall, using a knee to pin your other arm in place, his free hand wrapping around your neck. 

He’s close. Too close. Your stomach flips, pushing up on your oesophagus until you choke with the bile that sears its lining. Your breaths are as deep enough as his clutch will allow, index and thumb cutting off the circulation on both sides of your neck.

Ichor blooms from the puncture points at your wrist, the warmth puddling at your palm, not yet heavy enough to drip down onto the floor. You don’t think he realises how deep his claws are, how near he is to scratching bone. You don’t think you do, either. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, and while you’re sure you’ll regret not prioritising it sooner, you don’t think– Don’t think–

“I-I’m not goi…going home,” You gasp. 

“It’s not up to you, Wraith.” Miguel growls, chokehold loosening.

It hits you, then. Animalic. He smells addictingly animalic. Like musk, a blend of brine and hot air and hints of a patchouli aftershave that still clings to his jaw. Your eyes flutter, seeking all you can get of the latter. Unwittingly, you move in closer. 

You haven’t been this close to anyone in a long time. 

His expression oscillates between a sneer and a grimace, nose pulling up to reveal the very pointed ends of his two canines. Set side by side with plush lips, you zero in on the thought of experiencing the contrast with your own. 

He’s huge. 

Closer. 

Completely overwhelms you, in size and presence and–

Closer. 

Your ribs ache. Your back groans. You’re quickly losing feeling in your fingers, and movement – soon – if you don’t do something. 

Your breath weaves with his. He doesn’t reciprocate when your lips brush, but he doesn’t pull away, either. 

You kiss him for longer than you should. Longer than you need to. It’s firm, and not unlike what you expected. 

(World-shattering, all the same.) 

Your skin prickles. It takes all of your rationale to pull away – dematerializing out of his grasp, and into the portal you’d activated from his wrist.

chapter 2 →

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[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

The Crows are to the Grishaverse as the Guardians of the Galaxy are to Marvel. Like all the avengers and shadow and bone characters are like “ahh the weight of world is on our shoulders” but all the crows and the guardians just want their goddamn money

I have too much time on my hands and I wanted to prove my point, so enjoy these guardians quotes replaced by the crows characters

Van Eck: [insert long villain monologue here]

Kaz: yeah, blah blah blah but WE’D LIKE TO GET PAID

Inej: The contact is making me wait.

Kaz: That’s just a negotiation tactic - trust me, this is my speciality. Whereas yours is more… stab, stab, stab

Nina: I have no need of the money

Kaz: Well great, more money for the rest of us!

Jesper: What’s that?

Wylan: Don’t touch that, it’s a bomb

Jesper: AND YOU JUST LEAVE IT LYING AROUND!???

Wylan: … well I was gonna put it in a box

Matthias: I’m a warrior, an assassin. I don’t dance.

Nina: Really? Well, in my country we have a legend about people like you. It’s called Footloose. And a great hero, named Kevin Bacon, teaches an entire city of people with sticks up their butts that, dancing, well it’s the greatest thing there is.

Matthias: Who put the sticks up their butts? That is cruel.

[gfguren]

pro hero!bakugou x reader | fluff, a little bit domestic, a little bit intimate, a little bit suggestive? (not really) | cw: cursing, a very modest bath scene

-bakugou only knows how to give, you wish he'd let you do the same for him-

Thinking about the newly domestic give and take between you and Katsuki. It doesn't come naturally to him. He's hell bent on doing everything himself, at first. That's the way he's always lived after all—hyper self-sufficient, independent to a fault, and so goddamn stubborn about it all.

It makes you feel almost useless, his insistence on doing everything, not only for himself but for you as well. Honestly, you should have expected it; he was like that well before moving in together. Taking all the responsibilities on himself, wrangling you out of the way when you so much as try to help, because he "feels like it", or he's "better at it", or "just move, f'r I make ya".

But you were a guest in his house, then—so you let him have his way, bullheaded as it was. Now that you share a house—a home—you want nothing more than to take care of it, of him.

Though moving mountains would be easier than convincing him to accept it.

You try brute force, first. And it goes as well as you might expect, like throwing pebbles at a brick wall. Putting yourself between him and the dishes is just as futile; he cooked dinner, you should be the one to do this. It's only fair. Still, he takes it upon himself to pick you up and physically remove you from 'his' spot by the sink, ugly yellow gloves dripping dishwater all the way to the counter.

The floor is completely soaked by the time he plops you down on the countertop, as are your jeans, your flailing arms and exasperated "Katsuki!" having done little to deter him. Your mouth opens in protest but his hands, firm at your sides and eyes, red, and stern and definite leave no room for discussion.

So you try to 'talk about it', second. When his mood has cooled and he's feeling a little sweet. He usually is, when hero work has worn him down, chipped away at his fire until there's nothing left but his worn down bones and the aching desire to be enveloped in you—his head on your chest, your fingers in his hair.

He's nothing but mush in your arms by the time you bring it up, nearly two hundred pounds of limp muscle, eyes half lidded, and slow, warm breath. You think he doesn't hear you at first, more likely he pretends not to; but then you hear a half-hearted, "hmph". And you sigh.

"I'm serious, Kats." you rake your fingers across his scalp absently and he groans in appreciation, furling into you more. "You can't do everything, just look at you."

He peers up at you with one eye, an almost glare, more playful than anything; too tired for anything more. He huffs gently, warm breath across your chest when you don't back down. "We'll talk about it later."

'Later'; meaning never. Still, you don't press him. Not when he's so tired, not when this small moment of peace is all he allows you to offer him.

Ever predictable; there isn't a later, and he finds a way to avoid the conversation, in one way or another. Over and over and over again. You're at the end of your rope just trying to get him to listen.

So you try a last ditch effort at patience, at compromise (usually a losing battle, with him); working him over, little by little.

And it works, mostly.

You find that, most times, you can slip past him while he's cooking to steal the dirty mixing bowls and discarded pans; wash them while he's preoccupied trying not to burn the chicken or fretting over cutting the vegetables 'just right'. That him doing the cooking is non-negotiable, but he'll let you help as long as you stop trying to kiss him while he's "tryin' to make y'r dinner over here, god damnit".

(Don't let him fool you, he likes it).

That it takes you far too long to realize how much he craves being asked for 'help', instead of your usual insistence on helping him. That when he feels appreciated and useful, he's almost eager to share the housework with you, looking almost boyish standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, the tepid scowl twisting his pretty face betrayed by the blush creeping up the back of his neck when you hum a lilted, "Thank you, Katsuki".

Your strategy's not foolproof, of course; he's still quick to steal whatever you're working on once he's finished his, itching to make himself busy once more.

But it's progress.

Still, no matter how much you try, or how long you pester him, he puts his foot down at taking care of him while he's sick, while he's training or on patrol. Anything that could end with you hurt, or put you in harms way is a hard 'no'—always, always, always.

That's not to say he doesn't let you take care of him ever. Though it was more hassle than it should have been, getting him to just sit comfortable instead of disappearing into the bath for hours, or taking his frustrations out on his poor, battered training equipment.

These days, when he's had an especially tiring evening, he'll sink down into the sofa without you having to say a thing, let you press your fingers into his shoulders and down his spine until the knots unwind. That occasionally he'll let you take him by the hand even, coax him gently into warm water and vanilla scented bubble bath.

That he becomes particularly docile when you're massaging your flowery conditioner into his wily blonde hair. The scent of you—over his waist, around his shoulders, in his hair—it's almost intoxicating, and he wraps his arms around you, like he's desperate for more, burying his face in your chest; sighs like he's at ease for the first time in his life.

It isn't easy, teaching Katsuki to take—but when he lays down with you at night, his eyes are a little brighter, hands hold you a little tighter, a little longer than when all he knew was how to give, give, give. And when his lips find yours, and you can feel his smile against them, you figure all the trouble is worth it.

And when he rolls the both of you over til you're pinned beneath heavy thighs, impish grin on his lips and calloused fingers beneath your shirt, trouble and promise brewing behind his newly fired eyes, well that's just a bonus.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

enemies to lovers (fuckers lol) with nomad steve

nomad steve was his best era, no contest

smut warning!!

“Do you ever stop running your goddamn mouth, Captain Perfect?”

That was the straw that broke the camels back.

Steve strides towards you, shoving you back into the wall as hard as he can. You hit it with a thud, the ricochet of the impact rattling through your bones.

He’s seething. The two of you have never seen eye to eye, but it seems to be at boiling point recently. You don’t buy his American Hero act - you haven’t for a single second. He doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like that you can see right through him.

You think he’s going to hit you, put his fist through the wall maybe. Instead, he drops his forehead onto yours, breathing deeply through his nose. You’re not sure where the sudden intimacy has come from, but you can’t deny that it’s sending shivers down your spine.

“I have an idea,” you murmur, tangling your fingers into his long hair and tugging so he’s looking at you.

He hums noncommittally, as if to encourage you to continue.

“How about you put that mouth to better use, hmm?”

Steve’s eyes darken, tongue darting out to wet his lips in anticipation.

“Yeah?” he rasps. “Gonna let me eat the attitude right out of you?”

You scoff, trying to remain unaffected.

“You can try your fucking hardest, Rogers. No promises, though.”

He’s dropping to his knees before you can even register what’s happening, long fingers tangling into the waistband of your pants and yanking them down your legs. When you buck your hips forward, he shoves your pelvis back into the wall with a slam.

“I may be on my knees, sweetheart, but don’t forget who’s in charge here.”

You roll your eyes, and he sinks his teeth into your thigh in retaliation.

“Oh, and I like to be called Captain in bed.”

He dives in with no further hesitation, determined on his mission to get you to comply.

[crushmeeren]

› › › we’ll find a way.

⋆ ⌒ inspired by Red Swan from AOT season 3.

̽ ⋆ main warnings › › angst/comfort, pregnant reader in Katsuki’s part, dealing with the grief of losing a sibling in Shouto’s part. ̽ ⋆

⋆ ft. katsuki & shoto ⋆

master list link

Katsuki works himself down to the bone. Then he whittles away at said bone until he’s nothing more than a pile of dust waiting to be swept off by the wind. Not surprising, seeing as how he’s had this iron clad determination since way before you met him.

And yet…. the past few weeks you’ve watched helplessly as your husband slips through your fingers like sand. Honestly, you knew what you signed up for. So you shouldn’t be so hurt when Katsuki starts missing more dinners than usual. You shouldn’t be so hurt when his patrols run even longer through the night. You shouldn’t be so hurt when he starts working on the weekends.

But you are. You’re so so hurt, and it aches in the hollow of your chest in a way no medication could ever hope to relieve. Recreational or otherwise.

Even so, you’re a goddamn sucker for Katsuki. No matter how much the bitterness swells inside you, no matter how hard you have to bite the inside of your lip so it doesn’t spill out as distasteful vitriol.

That’s why you give him the benefit of the doubt when he tells you for, what seems like the hundredth time, that he’ll be home for the day on Saturday. After all, you promised long ago you’d keep at least one day the of the week for each other, even if he hasn’t been keeping up his side of the deal.

That afternoon comes and you find yourself on the couch waiting for the blonde, clutching eagerly at the gift you’re going to give him. It’s something you’d both wanted for some time and finally, finally it seems luck is on your side. It’ll be worth all the pain you’ve dealt with recently.

An hour passes and you try to call him, fidgeting in your seat. He assures you he’ll be home in thirty minutes. Another hour and a half goes by and this time he doesn’t answer your call.

The evening is rapidly approaching and cicadas sing outside your window when a fury so powerful you can fucking taste it wells up on the back of your tongue and rushes through your veins. Blood flushes your face so hotly it burns your eyes and your heart pulses in your ears.

Looking down at the fabric in your shaky hands, tears bite your waterline and suddenly the rage flips on its head and melts into sorrow. Shoulders drooping, you sigh in defeat and carefully lay out the piece of clothing on your coffee table in plain view. You smooth out any wrinkles carefully.

You move like a tornado throughout the living room, gathering your phone, your purse, slipping on your shoes. Glancing back at the orange and black onesie on the table that reads “daddy’s number one hero,” turns your stomach to knots and you make haste to Kirishima’s house.

You were going to tell Katsuki that you were pregnant tonight, but now you’re sobbing into Kirishima’s shoulder at his house and ignoring your husband’s frantic calls and messages.

Not even a few hours later Katsuki’s calling his agency and telling them shove their extra work up their goddamn asses because you’re his entire fucking world and it makes him sick to see what he’s been doing to you.

He’ll be damned if he didn’t find a way to make it all work. It takes time to return normal, but now you’ll get to spend the weekends waking up to the sound of tiny feet belonging to the miniature spitfire version of Katsuki.

Maybe you will find a way.

Shouto doesn’t think. At least, not very often. To give him some credit, as he’s aged, he’s gotten better at determining the consequences of his actions before he makes important decisions, but that went out the window this time.

It’s why you choke on your sip of water, head jerking in surprise when Shouto chimes in next to you that he’ll take the underground mission his agency is offering to him without consulting you at all. You had a nasty gut feeling when they mentioned something about the remnants of the league of villains but you trusted Shouto to be smart about it.

It’s been years since the war, Touya is gone, but Shouto still is unable to shake off hunting down even a hint of evidence related to the league. It haunts him, and you’re certain it’s because he can’t bear to lose the last piece of something tangible related to his brother, and your agency knows that. Manipulative motherfuckers.

You decidedly keep your mouth shut until you’re alone before turning to your husband with one singular arched eyebrow.

Shouto sighs, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I know what you’re going to say.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “Just promise me you’ll be back in time.” You cross your arms over your chest, staring at him with a pinched expression. He tilts his head to study your apprehensive features, the corners of his mouth tilting slightly downwards.

“Of course. I wouldn’t leave you alone, you know that.”

You stare at him for a beat longer before averting your gaze. You very much want to believe him, but these kinds of missions are chaotic on their best days.

Turns out you were right to be on edge about it. Shouto does in fact, not, make it home in time to be there with you on the anniversary of your brother’s death. You’re aware it’s not, technically, it’s not his fault. But he is partially to blame. It was cutting it close with the timeline of the anniversary and the mission. Shouto knew that, and still went.

If anyone would understand the grief and sorrow of losing a brother, it’s Shouto. It’s one of the things that brought you together in the first place.

When you wake up alone the morning of the anniversary there’s a tidal wave of heartache so violent sitting on your chest that you can’t stomach leaving your bed. Watching a movie doesn’t help, reading doesn’t help, taking a shower doesn’t. fucking. help. Your mind wonders a one track pathway to memories of your beloved brother. You can’t get him out of your head. Always, always, always his ghost haunts you.

Usually it’s not so hard to shoulder the grief when Shouto is there. He helps you reminisce and shed a warm light onto the otherwise cloudy day. Now you’re alone. It gets to a point that you have to lay any photo involving your brother face down because you may go crazy if you keep staring at them.

When you check your phone it’s empty. No messages, not even a phone call from your husband. Shouto really did abandon you, and you try desperately not to be upset but your heart cracks in half anyways.

You spend the remainder of the day curled up under your blanket, knees tucked to your chest. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes and soak your pillow until you’re sure you’ve cried out the entirety of the water in your body.

You must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next time you peel open your swollen eyes it’s to a significantly warm arm snaking around your waist and pulling you in so tightly to a solid chest that you struggle to breathe.

“Forgive me, I’m so fucking sorry. I love you.” Shouto’s voice is soft and cracks slightly when he speaks, the sensation of his warm breath tickles the back of your neck. You’re too drained to care about being angry with him right now, flipping over to bury your face in his chest and squeeze him back as the lump in your throat becomes too large to swallow around.

The throbbing ache in your chest dulls considerably now that Shouto is home. You stay like that for what seems like hours, and when something like Shouto’s silent tears trickle onto your head, you say nothing and hug him once more.

He may have missed part of the day, but he’ll be there for you in the end. He’ll always find a way.

[margowritesthings]

BITE ME

pairing: Vampire!Arthur Morgan x Human!f!reader word count: 4091 words warnings: 18+ minors DNI, explicit sexual content, explicit language, piv intercourse, fingering (r receiving), biting and blood play, vampire feeding authors note: happy halloween my loves! this is a day late, but time isn't real anyway so we can all just pretend it is yesterday... right?? anyway, this au is now living rent free in my mind. i'm obsessed.

taglist:@cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries@delilah-grimes@mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i @sickvictorianangel

beta read by @cowboydisaster, divider by @saradika

The wooden panels nailed to the broken windows of the manor allow for tiny slats of moonlight to invade onto your skin, bathing you in a white glow. Peering through the gaps, you can see the distant campfire those bastard Pinkertons set up down by the swamp, but you know they’re surrounding you, boxing you into Shady Belle like fish in a barrel. 

It’s been three days of a stalemate, the Pinkertons keeping their distance, brave enough to come with guns and firepower but just cowardly enough to not advance towards the monster they’ve heard only legend of, lest he rip their throats out and drain their life away. No, they’d rather wait around until they can drag his starved body out and be hailed heroes.

That “monster” sits mere feet away from you leaning against the wall, pale skin paler still, his chin tilted upwards as he fights the weight of his own skull. It’s killing you, watching your Arthur grow weaker by the hour. Three days of hiding out in Shady Belle, unable to leave for fear of being hunted for sport, but it’s been much longer since he last fed. They have you trapped, completely and truly. If Arthur held even half his usual strength, it would have been so easy to escape. He’d have overpowered them in seconds, no matter their numbers or firepower. But for that, he’d need to feed on the blood of another, which has made things much harder.

You try to relax your worried features when you see him start to wake, rubbing the crease out from between your eyebrows formed by the frown you hold whenever you watch him sleep, too scared to look away in case he stops stirring. 

“Arthur…” You whisper on an exhale, quickly moving to sit beside him on the little bed. As always, his skin feels like marble, cold enough to seep through his shirt and scatter goose pimples over your arms. You’re used to the cold, what you don’t like is the thin layer of sweat coating him. Vampires shouldn’t sweat, but they also shouldn’t go so long without feeding, and the thought of this being a symptom of time running out terrifies you more than any number of monsters out camping in those woods.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Arthur shuffles to make room for you, guiding you to rest your head on his hard chest. There’s normally more muscle here cushioning you from his ribcage, but with Arthur so sick you can feel every bone beneath you.

“You get any sleep?”

There’s always the option to lie so he worries less, but Arthur knows you too well for that, so only the truth will have to do.

You shake your head, “Was keeping watch. They haven’t moved, think they’re still shit-scared of you, actually.” 

Absent-mindedly, Arthur’s hand gravitates to the top of your head, stroking your hair in such a way that sends tingles down your spine. Even now, in the midst of perhaps the most danger you’ve ever been in together, his very touch has the power to calm you instantaneously. 

He huffs a laugh, though you notice the slight wheeze to his breath when he does and another pang of worry hits you, “Course they are. Call themselves goddamn hunters, couldn’t catch a cold in Colter…” A pause, where you fill the silence with that tiny little laugh you’ve barely been mustering lately, then, “You should get some sleep, darlin’.” 

“Not tired.” You protest, almost childishly, burying yourself further into Arthur’s chest. In truth, you’re exhausted, and even though he already knows it, you won’t admit it. You can’t tell him that you’re too scared to fall asleep in case you wake up alone, that there’s no point anyway because nightmares of him withering away to nothing here beside you will drag you back awake soon enough. 

You both know this can’t go on for much longer. Something has to be done, and you know you have to be the one to do it. It’s just the convincing… 

“C’mon, baby…” He starts, but you won’t hear it. You’re not going to sleep. You’re going to fix this.

“You have to feed on me.” You blurt out, glad to be nuzzled into your beloved’s shirt so you don’t have to see whatever expression your statement has pulled from him. 

It’s not spontaneous, no sudden solution that has sprung into your mind this very moment. You’ve suggested it before, albeit never so forcefully, Arthur brushing you off like the idea is unfathomable. Explaining that he would never feed from you, terrified he’d lose control and hurt you. He could never hurt you. If there are such things as absolutes, that is one of them, you know it.

“No.” He’s blunt, clearly hoping his tone had enough force to end it there. But you’re strong, your will to keep fighting for him an everlasting force enough to match his. 

“Arthur-” You unravel from him to sit up and meet his eye, yours pleading, his hardened. 

“Darlin’, I said no. I mean it. I promised you I would never hurt ya’, and shit have I broke a lot of promises in my life… but not that one. N-Never that one. No.” 

“You’re going to die, Arthur. If you don’t do this you’re going to die and you’re gonna leave me all on my own to face those bastards a-and,” Dammit, when did you start crying? “And I can’t do it without ya, Arthur you know I can’t-”

“Yes you can-”

“Well I don’t want to!”  You shout, bursting the bubble of quiet around the Manor, your echo riding the wave of birds flocking out of the trees. Sobs threaten to break your strength, but you have to say this. It’s the very last card you have to play. After a few moments, tension between you growing palpable enough to cut with a knife, Arthur closes his mouth, letting you continue. 

“Arthur, you’re all I have left… You think I’m a sharp enough shooter to get by them? Fine. But say I kill ‘em all, then what? Find somewhere to live and carry on? I ain’t… I can’t lose you, Arthur. But I can save you, if you let me. Please.” 

Time feels as though it stops entirely when you see Arthur actually considering your words. Tears streak your cheeks, but your boots could ignite right on your feet and you might not notice in this moment. He looks so tortured in thought, no doubt imagining the life you would lead if you left him behind. He’s sure you’re strong enough, he knows you can do anything, but his heart breaks thinking of you all alone. 

You reach for Arthur’s hands, feeling his cold skin tremble. 

“I… What if I lose control? What if I hurt you? Sweetheart, you know what I get like when I-”

“But you won’t. You know how much blood I can afford to give you, and I know you, Arthur. You’d never hurt me.” 

You elect not to tell him that any blood that runs through your body belongs to him already, your heart pumping it through your veins only for him. 

You don’t tell him you’d die for him, because you know he’d never let you. 

He’s silent, contemplating. 

Please.

Please.

“...You start feeling faint or anything, you fuckin’ tell me, alright?” His tone holds an attempt at sternness, but it bothers you none. You can hardly hear him for the rush of relief flowing over you. 

“I-I will. I promise.” And you mean it. The two of you are two entwined souls, neither trusting the other to have enough will to keep fighting if anything happened to them. 

Arthur takes a deep breath in, almost like he’s giving himself an extra few seconds to back out of this, before sighing it out. 

“Alright.”

The breath that hitched in your throat an age ago releases and you wipe your tears away hurriedly with the back of your hand. 

“Oh, thank you, Arthur…” You’re so ecstatic, so grateful that he’s letting you save him that all you can do is launch yourself over to him, kissing him with all the passion the universe has offered you to gift him. Your hands fall to either side of his face, caressing his marble skin in a way that emits a tiny groan from him. Over the last few days, you’ve cuddled up to him a lot, but there hasn’t been much contact like this. Needy and wanting, loving and layered with everything from I Love You to Let Me Save You. Arthur is a starved man, but not just for blood. For you, body, blood and soul. 

Arthur snakes one arm around your waist, even with his reduced strength still able to pull you over to straddle his lap. You’d have protested, citing that he’s too sick to be holding your weight like this, but now that this is really happening you’re getting kind of nervous, and the thought of being so close to him, arms wrapped around your frame while he feeds on your blood, comforts you hugely. And there’s no backing out, not from this, so straddle him you will. 

Despite everything, Arthur’s cool touch sets you aflame. He trails his fingertips up and down your spine, his other hand firmly gripping your ass. His tongue teases your bottom lip until you open up to him, tasting him as he does you. He tastes…like Arthur. He might argue that he’s some monster, committing evil acts in the name of survival, but you know better. He’s your Arthur, he always has been. 

The world melts around you, leaving just you and Arthur, loving each other, saving each other. That one long kiss breaks into smaller ones, until Arthur is peppering your lips, cheeks and nose with tiny kisses, glistening red eyes welling with emotion.

“It was always gonna be you, wasn’t it? You were always gonna save me…” He whispers, almost like he doesn’t quite believe it’s real.

“Always. And you’re gonna save me right back, cowboy. But first…” You look down between your two bodies, to the arm you’re holding out to Arthur. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Does it hurt?” You surprise yourself with your answer to his question, though you stand by it. You’re not scared, you could never be scared with Arthur. But nervous?

“A little. But I’m right here with you. And if you need to stop or take a break or you start feeling off, tell me or tap my arm.” You nod slowly, placing your hand into Arthur’s, “I need a yes, sweetheart… I can’t do this to you unless you’re sure.”

“Yes, Arthur. I’m sure. Please.”

There is one final, apprehensive glance in your direction, which you reply to with another tiny nod. He raises your flesh to his mouth, flashes of his white fangs visible now in the moonlight as he parts his lips. 

It’s… strange. A small scratching feeling when his teeth puncture the skin of your wrist that pinches your brows together. There’s a second of nothing, before Arthur starts to feed and steals the breath right out of your lungs. 

It’s like you can feel every vein in your body, all connecting and tugging your lifeforce through to your wrist for Arthur to feast on. You can tell the second the first drop hits his tongue, the shudder that wracks through his shoulders and down his spine. His eyes roll back in… pleasure? You’ve seen him feed before, usually such a violent affair, but this is different. You feel vulnerable to him, and as though you hold every ounce of control all at once. 

When he groans, deep carmine eyes locking onto yours, you feel it all over, your thighs clenching around your suddenly wanting pussy. 

… An unexpected side effect. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the blood rushing around your body, or even the downright ravenous way Arthur is looking at you while he feeds on your blood, but you seem to be physically squirming on the bed, desperate for any kind of friction you can get. Fuck, you’ve never seen anybody react to being fed on like this… Then again, you’ve never seen feeding look or feel like this.

From even the smallest drop of you, what little colour that remains after his change has returned to Arthur’s skin and he looks much closer to alive than just minutes before. He looks himself again, right down to the cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It does maddening things to you, not at all helping your growing state of arousal. 

When his teeth sink out of your wrist, you watch crimson beads pool at two tiny punctures. Without breaking eye contact with you, Arthur lifts your hand back up to him, running the very tip of his tongue agonisingly slowly over the skin, pulling an honest to god whimper from your parted lips.

“You did so good, my good girl…” Arthur coos, an undeniably pleased look upon his face. He’s told you before, that with his heightened senses, Arthur knows when you want him. You also know how energised he gets after feeding, and how all of these factors are leading to a tension so intense between you you’re almost scared of the outcome.

There’s a smudge of blood on Arthur’s lip, one that you reach out to rub away with your thumb. Quick as the predator he is, he grabs your wrist before you can pull away, slipping your thumb into his mouth and sucking the blood gently off. Upon release, he drags one sharpened fang across the pad of your thumb and you shudder, craving that feeling of the bite more than you truly understand.

“A-Arthur…” You whimper, shuddering in pure anticipation and need. 

“I know, sweetheart… Christ, I knew you’d taste good, but this? Fuck, you’ve ruined me, baby…”

You can’t wait a second longer, certain you’ll perish unless he is kissing you in the next moment. Entangling your grip into his collar, you find Arthur only too malleable to your touch, all but pouncing on you, locking your lips together. His tongue demands entrance as he easily positions you to be laying under him, Arthur covering the entire length of you and thensome. 

“How do you feel, angel?” He asks between kisses, large hands roaming your body, tugging your clothes out of being tucked into each other to make it easier to take them off, “Y’alright? Don’t feel faint?”

“I’m okay. I just- I-I need you, please.” You’re pleading again, this time for very different reasons, “Did you get enough?” 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you, sweetheart…” He growls, pulling the buttons of your shirt open feverishly. And then his lips are back on your skin, kissing your neck, licking at the skin whilst his hands work your zipper. You moan again, some wanton part of you wishing he would bite down again, marking you all over. 

Arthur is losing control in the best way, growling and grinding his erection against your leg as he tries to pull your jeans down. With a little help, he manages, tugging your undergarments with them so you’re completely bare for him. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful… my perfect little feast. Fuck, I’m tortured by every second I’m not buried deep inside that weeping cunt of yours,” At that, he runs a finger over your slit, drenching the tip of his finger in your slick, “but I think you deserve a treat for being such a good girl for me…” 

There’s no time to consider his offer as he plunges two thick fingers deep inside you, curling them, curling them to hit that sweet spot he knows so well. You scream, absolutely loud enough for any Pinkerton vampire hunters to hear.

“That’s it, huh? That what you needed? That pretty little cunt filling?” He taunts, thumb swirling over your already soaking clit. You can’t speak for crying out, but you manage a nod, feeling yourself stretch around a third finger in a way that has your heart racing even faster.

With your pulse pounding, you can really feel the wounds on your wrist starting to ache and burn. It's a strange sensation, but one that seems to blend into everything else in some twisted bout of pleasure.

Arthur must notice your eyes flickering to it, as he guides your hand back up to his lips with the hand not inside you, pressing the softest kisses over the holes in your skin. 

“Look what you did for me… My saviour, my perfect girl…”

“I’d die for you, Arthur.” you confess, the sweetness of his kisses and the languid circles of his fingers pulling you so close to the edge you can feel tears forming behind your eyes.

“It’d never come to that, beautiful. I’d burn the world down before I let your life ever hang in the balance.”

You believe him, too, and the emotion is suddenly too much. You’re hurtling towards an orgasm and you need him closer and all you can seem to think to do is untangle your wrist from his grasp and slip your thumb into his mouth.

He knows what you’re asking for instantly, and you swear you see his inky pupils blow until his eyes are nothing but a reddened void. 

“Oh, my pretty little feast…” He groans, pricking your thumb with a fang and sucking gently at the blood. It isn’t nearly as intense as your wrist, but you still feel that tugging everywhere and you can’t stop the lewd moans that fall from your lips as you come undone. 

Writing, screaming his name, you feel Arthur suck harder on your thumb, moaning himself at the taste of you. It’s not nearly as much as he was taking before, but enough that your blood blooms over his tongue and fills every one of his senses. He is a man obsessed, and it’s the most beautiful sight as you cum for him. 

The waves of euphoria crash over you, each more intense and wonderful than the last. Arthur orchestrates your orgasm through his own pleasure, drawing perfect patterns on your clit in time to his thrusts. 

When you come down, he’s there, releasing you from his fangs again to free his lips for yours. Your lips lock together, his body crushing yours into the mattress. You love the feel of all his weight on you, especially when you can feel every pulse of his throbbing cock through the denim of his jeans. Jeans that must go, so you snake a hand into what little space you can between your bodies to reach for his buttons. Arthur helps you, and he’s soon naked on top of you. Wrapping nimble fingers around his shaft, you run your thumb over the rosy head of his cock, swiping at the bead of precum already leaking. He’s desperate for you, and it drives you wild. 

You’re already guiding him to your soaked entrance, grinding your hips pathetically, needily. Arthur chuckles softly, taunting you with the smallest of hip movements to slide his tip into you, but stopping there. 

“Arthur.” You whine, eyes pleading, cunt dripping for him. Your hands roam the expanse of his back, feeling each muscle twitch under your touch, scratching at the cool skin like a cat in heat. 

“I know, baby, I know… I’ll make it better.” He purrs, finally sliding the entire length of his cock into your heat. It stretches you in that beautiful way only he can and you moan, deep and visceral. Your nails leave white scratches across Arthur’s back as your hands float up to cup his cheeks, pulling him into a deep kiss as his groin presses hard into yours.

“Oh, my beautiful girl… I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’re gonna hear you up in Saint Denis… them Pinkertons out there are gonna think I’m draining every last drop of that sweet blood out of your precious little body.”

Such a violent image, but somehow… you enjoy the thought. You’d bleed for him till the end of time, gladly… you’d lay down your life on a slab and be Arthur’s for the taking. 

You can’t think of the words to tell him how much you want what he’s telling you, letting the passion guide you to bite down on Arthur’s lower lip. A taste of his own medicine. He has no blood of his own to give, but you’re biting down hard enough to have drawn some if he did, dragging another feral grown from the depths of his throat. 

True to his word, with just a few perfectly timed thrusts, you’re screaming his name, cunt fluttering around his thick cock and squeezing every inch of it. That full feeling is so wonderful, so bone-deep and euphoric you’re on the precipice of another orgasm in seconds. He can tell, slowing down and hanging you right over the edge with a wicked grin on his face. You whine and whimper, clawing at the back of his neck to pull him even closer.

“What do you want, little feast? Use your words.” He pushes, still dragging his cock up against your walls in the most torturous of ways. 

“I want… I-I need… I-I… urgh!” You cry out in frustration, each syllable leaving your lips earning another thrust that dizzies you to the point of cock-drunk stuttering. Fuck words. You’ll show him. 

With a strength you didn’t even know you possessed, you pull Arthur closer, guiding him to the crook of your neck. 

“Angel, I don’t know if I can control myself if I taste you agai-”

“Please…” you whimper, rocking your hips up to meet Arthur’s movements, clit grinding deliciously against his pubic bone. 

Arthur’s eyes meet yours and you’re lost in them, convinced you’ve never been held so close to climax for so long before, but your body knows what it wants, what it needs to get there with Arthur. 

“Fuck, if I could die, you’d be the death of me…” Are the last words he speaks before sinking his teeth into your neck, in perfect time with a deep thrust of his cock. You scream, in pain, in pleasure, all of it, finally falling over that cliff and crashing into the waves below. You drown in your orgasm, dragging Arthur down with you as he sucks the sweet ichor out of your veins. With your blood on his tongue and his name on your lips, you cum together. The vibrations of his carnal moans tickle your neck, layering yet another juxtaposing sensation onto you. 

He releases, only to whisper sweet words of praise into your bleeding skin, “Look at you, giving me this… you’re doing so good for me, ain’t ya? My little angel, my good girl…”

And he’s biting down again, and you’re chanting his name, legs wrapped tight around his hips, tears you don’t remember shedding streaking down your cheeks. It feels like you stay there for an eternity, connected mind, body and soul. You would stay there for an eternity with him, if he’d only let you. But that’s another story…

It stings a little when Arthur unleashes his teeth from you, and you wince. His hand is there instantly, caressing the surely reddened skin as his brows pull together, “You okay? I didn’t go too far, did I? Y’feelin’ alright?” 

You shake your head softly, a blissful smile gracing your lips, “I’m perfect.” 

“Damn straight you are.” He remarks, slowly sliding out of you and lowering his weight onto the bed beside you. 

“What about you? How are you feeling?” You ask, entwining your fingers together and holding them up into the moonlight. There's a streak of your blood crossing over a few of Arthur’s knuckles. It suits him. 

“Never better.” He says honestly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you, darlin’. I’ll never be able to thank ya’ enough for what you did, but I promise you I’ll get us out of here alive. Well… y’know what I mean.” 

You giggle, sure you may never get used to the fact that the love of your life is dead. 

“You don’t need to thank me, Arthur. You’ve given me your life a million times, it’s only fair I get to do the same.”

And you mean it. You would do it a thousand times over, giving your life to Arthur while he gives his afterlife to you, saving each other until the end of time. 

[fidelishaereticus]

so, old news obvious news blah blah, but i keep seeing people not getting this about my girl gideon nav so have to say: i think at first blush, people get the impression that Harrow’s got all the convolutions and layers and hidden vulnerability whereas gideon wears her heart on her sleeve and is just brazenly herself (a loveable rowdy himbo) & that’s the contrast. and yes, that’s there, but that’s not all. that dynamic itself is a part of their mutual (codependent) front, and like everything else in this book, it gets peeled back. 

i think the real contrast is that they’ve both got masks, and those masks are complimentary. they’re both kids who never got a childhood. they grew up tortured in the same place from very different angles with no one but each other to butt heads against. they both had to play-act grown up versions of themselves with few models for what a well-adjusted adult even looked like. so it’s cartoonish. gideon is the plucky hero of her own adventure story that will totally have a happy ending some day, far far away from her nemesis whom she’s totally not in love with. harrow meanwhile (to grossly oversimplify) has to imagine herself as someone cruel and cold enough to cope with being alive at the price of 200 other people. these two things fit very well together. gideon can play the hero to harrow’s villain, and harrow can enact cruelty toward gideon to make herself feel strong and mean (and generally just to vent anguish). the way they hate one another is a kind of mutual protection - it re-enforces the self-image that each of them needs to get through the day. but that’s the coping mechanism. harrow the ruthless bones overlord. gideon the hapless swords idiot, who thinks of nothing but tiddies & sweet sweet vengence (harrow’s corpse in various states of disgrace ) all day. and behind that they’re both tearing apart at the seems beneath caricatures of themselves that are deeply unsustainable and neither of them feels safe letting on the extent to which that’s the case. their hearts are a goddamned mess. neither of them is wearing that shit on their sleeve.   so yeah, there’s a lot more to gideon than being a swords himbo but that’s not the wild thing. the wild thing is she’s so convincing that she somehow manages to sell people on her no braincells act while being the pov character of entire first novel.

- 

[ginnsinabin]

general link hcs

+gen neutral

+botw/totk link

-Link always keeps an eye on you no matter what’s happening. In a fight he always knows where you are, walking through a village he keeps you in his line of sight and when riding together around Hyrule he not only watches you but also the tree lines if danger were to present itself

-While he is often with the princess, he still tries to make as much time as possible to be with you or have you with him wherever he goes

-Poor guy can’t bear the thought of not only loosing someone he loves more than anything but to fail at his job as a hero in protecting you would eat away at his soul

-Links most favorite kind of date with you is a simple trail ride on your horses with a picnic and nap under a cozy tree

-In his life of never ending chaos, having soft calming moments with you brings his mind at ease, having even just a moment of a peaceful life makes him happy

-Zelda will sometimes ask link of his whereabouts when not at her side and will happily giggle and tease him when he grows a light flush and is reluctant to tell

-She knows exactly where he was and it brings her joy knowing that link can finally have a piece of a normal hylian life with someone he loves, he of all people deserves it 

-Zelda will bring you around the castle and any excursions to not only spend time with you but to also let you and link spend more time together. It’s not a lie that the hero’s time is taken with his duties more often than not so she takes it upon herself to bring you two together

-It warms her heart to see two people she loves together

-While link knows that you can most certainly take care of yourself in battle, he always tries to take care of most if not all the danger before it even has a chance to reach you

-He wouldn’t ever admit to this for fear of belittling you, but he can’t let anything even bring the possibility of harm to you. From all that he’s lost and had taken away from him, he will die before he lets the world take you away from him

-Link is a man that thrives on quality time and physical touch

-He never gave it much thought before but after meeting you he doesn’t think he could ever live without it

-When you two are together you can guarantee that he will always be touching you in some way whether it’s holding your hand, cuddling or even just your arms or legs brushing against each other

-It grounds him to know that you’re really there with him and that you’re not going anywhere anytime soon

-No matter how long or tough his fights are, he will always come home with a rare smile on his face, no matter how battered and bruised he is he will always rush to get home to you

-In link’s saddle bag he always makes sure to have enough stuff for the both of you but will put in any extra things that he knows you like

-As much as he protects the whole world, it brings him to his knees if you dote on him. He might be reluctant at first but he will never say no, never to you.

- It makes his heart nearly explode having you take care of his sore and weary muscles and bones, always wanting to repay you but is always shot down with a “you do enough, let someone do something for you for once”

-Will melt if you have him put his head on your lap or chest while having down time at the house and will drift to sleep, feeling nothing but love and peace 

(A/N: totk has had me in a goddamn choke hold for days the same way botw did so now I gotta make my brain happy being apart of the world. More wrench stuff to come tho, that psycho always has my heart)

[ohtobeleah]

Day One: [My Lover, My Hero]

Summary: After a nasty break-up with your Ex, Rhett, he comes to your rescue when two burly patrons don’t take no for an answer.

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Physical Assault, Deception, Rhett Abbott x F!reader. Mentions of Sex. Betrayal. Public Torture/Public Use, Stressful Position.

Whumptober Prompt Day One: Public Torture/Public Use, Stress Sosition, “If you cry, we’ll go easy on you.”

Word Count: 1.4k

Author Note: Please make sure you read the warnings provided. Disclaimer: I do not condone nor endorse the actions that are written about during the month of October. These works of fiction are just that, fiction and should be treated as such. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for this year's prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You knew what the whole town thought of you. It wasn’t something people turned their heads and whispered about. If it was a quiet night, sometimes, a drunk or two would tell you right to your face. 

You couldn’t say the rumours weren’t true to some extent. They were, without fail, exaggerated beyond belief. But in small country towns like Wabang, the town gossip was mostly mundane and lightweight. People can’t help but be noisy, it’s in our inherent nature to want to know things that have nothing to do with us. They couldn’t help but talk about the breakup, and how ever since, you’d been letting anyone you could stand to be with, bury themselves inside you just to numb the pain. 

The pain of losing Rhett in a stupid argument about the Rodeo life. How it would someday kill him before he had a chance to make it big. To make all the broken bones, bruised ribs and late nights away from you worth it. 

You liked sex, and had sex a lot. But you always chose when and who with and were safe while riding your highs. It didn’t mean you welcomed the groping, the comments, or the workplace harassment. You were always in control….. 

Until you weren’t anymore. 

“Shut the fuck up,” The man who held you against his chest by hooking your arms with his, growled into your ear. He licked up the side of your neck, sending a shiver of terror down your spine. “If you keep crying girly, maybe we’ll go easy on you.” The tone of the man’s voice was like ice against your skin. So cold that it burned. You couldn’t get away no matter how hard you tried to wiggle free. 

“Let me go, you sick son of a bitch!” You growled as you struggled to free yourself. The discarded bag of cans you were taking out to the trash laid not far away. It was closing time at the bar. The local watering hole, just on the outskirts of town. There was another bar closer to town, but it was more high-end and had a bistro attached. It was known as a more family-friendly establishment. The bar you worked at was a tried and true dive bar. Somewhere a person could go to cause some trouble and no one would bat an eye. 

“C’mon now, Y/n,” The man walking towards you grinned. “You’ve given it out to half the goddamn town at this point,” He chuckled to his friend who tightened his grip on you as you tried your best to free yourself. “It’s our turn now, don’t you think?” It was a closed question, but even if you had gone ahead and said no, the answer was always going to be a yes in his eyes. 

“I think the lady said enough,” You heard a low growl come from the darkness. The slur, the tone, you knew who it was and you’d never been more thankful to hear his voice. “And I don’t know about her but I wouldn’t touch you for all the money in the world.” 

“Oh get off your high horse there, Abbott,” The man who stood before you shouted over your shoulder. Rhett took a few steps out of the darkness and into the dim light of the lone spotlight hanging from the side of the building. “Don’t you have some goals or ambitions in life besides babysitting the town tramp?” It made your heart burn in anguish inside your chest. You weren’t a tramp. You weren’t a whore. You didn’t ask for any of this. All you wanted was for Rhett to see how much of his life he was missing out on chasing a pipe dream. 

“I always found that if you had a goal, you might not reach it,” Rhett chuckled to himself as he walked over with his hands in his pockets, looking at you like you lit up all the stars in the night sky just for him. “But if you have none? Well, then you’re never disappointed.” You knew where this was going, it could only really end one of two ways. The first being Rhett loses and you experience the worst this town has to offer. The second being Rhett wins, and you never leave the house without a taser or pepper spray again. 

“And I gotta say, it feels phenomenal.” Rhett gave you a quick wink before he threw the first punch, landing a right hook against the man’s cheek. You couldn’t say it wasn’t a good feeling seeing him stumble back. After all, he and his buddy still had you on lock with nothing but horrible intentions. 

“Rhett!” You sobbed as you watched Rhett take on the man who had clearly been the orchestrator of your attack. “Please–!” You didn’t want this, you didn’t want any of this. You didn’t want either of these men to touch you. You didn’t want either of these men anywhere near you. But you also didn’t want Rhett to go through hell and back to get you out of a mess you felt responsible for. Maybe if you hadn’t been so flirty, or fed into the rumours and the reputation as much as you had, then none of this would be happening. 

None of this would make your mama proud. 

“This doesn’t concern you, Abbott!” The man who’d been holding you threw you down into the gravel beneath your feet. Rhett saw the commotion from the corner of his eyes before he turned away from the first assaulter to give some special attention to the man now coming directly at his bloodied self. 

“Not nearly as much as your hair does,” Rhett remarked as it was now and always had been, two-on-one. Your knees bleed from the small rocks cutting into your skin as you shook with fear and shock. How was this happening? How had not a single person besides Rhett stopped to help you? 

“Fucking piece of shit!” 

“Is that all you’ve got?” 

“Ahhh get the fuck up kid–come on, stand up!” 

“Careful old man, wouldn’t wanna flare up your osteoporosis,” 

“SHIT,” 

“Come on man, let’s get outta here,” 

It was all a blur of punches, kicks and groans as the three men went at it in the near-empty back alley of the dive bar you worked at. By the time you were on your feet, the man who had been holding you had run away. Leaving behind his friend, the clear ringleader. 

“Okay Romeo, let me help you up there,” Rhett sighed as he offered the man a hand as he laid breathless on his back. It was more than you would have offered, but Rhett was different. Rhett was kind, he was the best of what Wabang had to offer. Some people would disagree with you on that one, but they just didn’t know him like you did. 

Or so you thought. 

“Get the hell off of me you bastard!” The man hissed as he spat blood right near Rhett’s boot. “Fuck you, and fuck your whore of a girlfriend too.” 

“I’m not his girlfriend you ass, and I’m not some piece of meat you can just manhandle into submission either.” You spat back as he retreated from the scene of the almost crime. Leaving you and Rhett standing side by side in the dust that had been kicked about. 

“Well, at least that didn’t escalate,” You sighed sarcastically as you buried your face in Rhett’s chest, overcome with his scent. Cedarwood and bourbon. “Thank you so much, Rhett, I was really worried I wasn’t getting out of that one.” 

Rhet didn’t move a muscle as he let you hug him, he just stood there, like a bloodied and beaten statue. 

“Rhett?” You questioned as you looked up to see a look in his eyes you didn’t recognise. “What’s wrong?” You nearly whispered, too afraid of the answer after what had just happened. 

“You know I paid them good money–” Rhett spoke in a monotone voice you didn’t recognise, or just didn’t want to. “But at the last minute, I couldn’t watch,” Rhett explained as you tried to back away. Rhett had gripped at both your wrists before you could move. 

“Rhett, let me go–” You sobbed all the while trying to process everything. “Rhett, stop it! What are you–” 

“But I’m sick and fucking tired of seeing you fuck the whole damn town,” With one fluid motion, Rhett’s forehead connected with yours, immediately breaking your nose and forcing blood to splatter across his mouth. “I got you, I got you.” Rhett cooed as he caught your unconscious self. 

Throwing you over his shoulder as he made his way back to his beloved truck. Ready to get his money’s worth.

***********************

[vonabel]

Floral Heartache

Falling in love with Midoriya Izuku had been easy, all things considered. Every time you see him, you think you couldn't love him more. And then you see him again, and you know you can, because you do. And it's such a warm feeling, gooey and sweet like honey, it's almost dumb. You wish you could hate him.

But that's all a little melodramatic, you don't often find yourself thinking like that. Those thoughts are reserved for nights alone, wine drunk and weepy. And for when you're hit with a quirk that makes flowers sprout in your lungs.

Izuku Midoriya/Reader

hanahaki disease, aged up characters, Pro Hero! Deku, implied smut, not actually unrequited love, angst, canon-typical violence, gore in the form of bloody flower puke and broken bones, past Hitoshi Shinsou/Reader, background BakuShin and EraserMic, parental Aizawa, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader has a mutation quirk (wings)

21.1k words | complete

notes: on ao3 this is 3 chapters, here it'll just be one part

♡♡♡

Falling in love with Midoriya Izuku had been easy, all things considered. It had been like falling asleep; slowly, and then all at once. And after the feelings were known, it had been as easy and automatic as breathing and blinking and being. Even if you didn't know what to do with all the new things that came with falling in love with someone who didn't love you back. Falling in love with someone who loved the whole world too much meant there was little space for you. 

(He is someone that many people could fall in love with – probably have fallen in love with. You can see the way other friends of his toe the line of platonic. Ochako, Shoto – all of them, any of them.

And you pointedly ignore the way it makes rage and jealousy spread through your chest and down to your toes like molten lava.

He is not yours to claim, to take, or to love. He is not yours.)

You sat with those feelings for years, debating and thinking too hard about it for too long, before eventually deciding that his friendship was too important. Telling him how you felt would just ruin it, and you weren't willing to risk that. Your feelings for him were something that you would never tell him about. Even if they never went away, even if you ended up old and wrinkly and alone because of it – that would be fine. Because you would still be his friend, and that's all you needed anyway. There's no room between you and him and the world for a silly, little thing like love.

Every time you see him, you think you couldn't love him more. And then you see him again, and you know you can, because you do. And it's such a warm feeling, gooey and sweet like honey, it's almost dumb.

It makes you mad, how easy it is to love him; how hard he thinks it is to be loved, despite being the first to openly love anyone at any time. You wonder if he knows already, that your heart has moved on its own to make space for his beside it. That there's a hole carved in your chest just for him. If only he knew – if only you could tell him that you want to pour your soul into his hands. That you want him to let it seep through his fingers to the dirt, just so you could finally get relief in knowing he doesn't want it. You wish you could tell him so he could be too sweet and too kind when he says no, he doesn't love you back. Even if only to allow you a goddamn moment of clarity, so you could mourn a relationship that was never going to happen anyways.

With some weird, misplaced guilt in your chest, you wish you could fall out of love with him. You wish you could hate him.

But that's all a little melodramatic, you don't often find yourself thinking like that. He's a good friend, a good man, and a great Hero. You couldn't hate him, even if you tried. Those thoughts are reserved for nights alone, wine drunk and weepy and hoping that maybe one day he'll confirm all those tabloids about him and Ochako.

And for when you're hit with a quirk that makes flowers sprout in your lungs.

The villain hadn’t even been the one to hit you. It had been some toddler caught in the middle of the fight. He’d been scared, said so himself through his snot and tears when you leapt down to grab him, wings spread like a shield to protect him from rubble and debris. You remember him crying, asking for his mom, and pressing his hands to your chest. Too young to have control, his panic had his quirk going haywire. And then you were falling, tumbling down towards the concrete and choking on pretty, pink petals.

Everything had ended up fine, all things considered. Hitoshi had swung down and caught you and the boy. And you’d been practically shoved into an ambulance and taken away. And now you’re here, sitting in a private hospital room after being poked and prodded for over an hour. And all anyone can tell you is that you have a garden growing in your chest, and it's all for a man you know you have no chance with. They'll wither, you know, and you'll probably wither with them.

“The quirk in your system is similar to the hanahaki disease. I'm sure the quirk analyst has already explained it to you. Unfortunately, any romantic feelings you may be experiencing won't aid in your situation,” Doctor Kimura is kind when he speaks, eyes maybe too soft. “The flowers have already begun blooming, and you're likely to start coughing and vomiting within the next twenty four hours. Maybe sooner.”

“‘m not in love with anyone. There are no feelings to be unrequited,” you mutter, watching the way the doctor frets with his stethoscope. Your wings twitch behind you, heavy and hurt and begging to curl around you. The lie slips between your teeth easily, coated in pain and an aching tiredness. It's stupid, and you don't know why you do it. The quirk manifesting in your chest is proof enough of your feelings. Maybe it's humiliation. Maybe it's because saying it will make this all a little too real. Maybe you're just a coward.

Doctor Kimura hums, ignorant to your inner turmoil, and his fingers pause around his stethoscope before smoothing down over his crisp, white lab coat. You're reminded of your own clothes and hold back a wince at the sight of your torn and tattered hero suit. It feels out of place in a hospital; too dirty for such a sterile environment.

The heart monitor behind you mocks you, spiking with your pulse the very moment green eyes and green curls appear in your mind.

“The flowers in your lungs say otherwise,” he says, leaning just past you to click off the screen that shows your heart rate, “I won't force you to tell me who it is, that's none of my business. But, your health is and I seriously urge you to… resolve the issue. The quirk itself won't kill you, but the long-lasting effects can.”

“And if I don't confess? What happens then?”

“Unfortunately, due to lack of knowledge on the quirk, we don't know. The boy is still being checked out for any traumas, so we've decided to wait before asking his mother any questions regarding his quirk,” he clears his throat, turning to point at the screen of your scan results, “We did determine that the flowers growing inside your lungs are anemone, also known as windflowers.”

“Does that mean something?” your throat is sore already, and your voice catches as you speak. Doctor Kimura eyes you warily, and offers you a cup of water. After you've downed it, he sits down on the stool behind him.

“Typically, yes, but we can't be sure if it means anything under the influence of a quirk,” he says, “We can start you on some medication, they’ll help with the coughing and vomiting for now. But they won't work forever. Your best bet is to confess these feelings and get an answer back. We recommend you have a solid support system for something like this, is there anyone I can call?”

“No, I'm fine. Thanks,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi makes you take the next week off. And from the way he offers you a weak grin, you know Aizawa is really the one behind the decision. You accept, only because you know if you don’t someone will call Katsuki. Or, worse, Izuku. And having either of those men show up at your doorstep is literal nightmare fuel right now.

The time off is needed, though, may even be appreciated (if he hadn't forced it on you), because twenty-four hours after your hospital visit, nearly on the dot, you puke. Your cat yowls when you jerk up from your bed, gagging so violently your body shakes and your wings tremble. Petals are behind your teeth in seconds, and you, much like a child who's had too many sweets, puke into your hands. You gag again as it spills between your fingers and on to your comforter. This is a new low, even for you. Globs of bloody, mucus covered petals burn their way up your throat, and you can’t do much other than sit up fully and let it happen. Your cat had jumped away in time to be unscathed, and you thank whatever god will listen for not letting you puke on your fucking cat. The thanks is followed up with a big, fat fuck you for making you puke in the first place, though. Which evens you out, you think. Keeps you in a nice gray area.

The petals are soft in your palm, pretty even, despite the blood, and clearly from a fully bloomed flower. Your nose wrinkles. At the mess of petals and broken stems, and the weird, floral scent, heavy with copper low notes. Someone would buy this in a perfume, you’re sure. Some freak – probably a villain.

You gag once, twice. And after five full minutes of deep, painful breaths, you get up to clean. The blanket is ruined – a shame really. It had been expensive, and the very first thing you bought yourself when you got this apartment. A thick, down comforter, soft on your wings and a pretty shade of green.

(The comforter Izuku had helped you pick out, grinning as he said it matched his hair. But that was definitely not the reason you caved and bought it. And you do not cry as you stuff it into a trash bag.)

(You do cry. You cry and try to scrub the blood soaked stain from the fabric, and cry some more when you finally give up.)

The shower you take after is rewarding in a way, washing away tears from your cheeks and blood from your chin. You stay in long enough for the water to run cold, and then another ten minutes after that, until your fingers are weird and pruned. And when you get out, you sit in nothing but your towel, on your blanket-less bed. Your hair is still soaked, dripping cold water down your neck and on your shoulders, but you make no move to dry it. The wall is suddenly the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen, and you cannot pull your eyes from where your paint is peeling. Somewhere behind you, your phone buzzes with a call, and you pointedly do not move to answer it. The buzzing stops. You blink, sigh, sniff. The buzzing starts again. Out of irritation, your wings search the bed for your phone and scoot it across the sheets to your hand. Without looking, you answer.

“What,”

Izuku breathes your name, and you feel your stomach drop and your wings go poofy the way they always do when you hear his voice, “Hitoshi told me you were on leave for the next week. Is everything okay? Is it because of the quirk you were hit with last night? I can–”

“Who told you that?”

“Uh,” Izuku makes a long, slow, squeaking noise. “No one?”

“Who called you, Midoriya?” you grumble, finally tearing your eyes from the wall to glare at your own reflection. You've looked better, and you've certainly looked worse. The skin under your eyes is shadowed and puffy, swollen with exhaustion and your pitiful bout of tears, and your raw, chapped lips look one smile away from bleeding. There's a bruise coloring your cheekbone, and a cut to go with it. And your poor wings, damp from the shower and missing a few too many feathers.

Your few fans would call this look sexy. Rugged, if you will. At this point in your career, looking rundown and beat to hell is your brand in the same way that being an emotionally constipated asshole was Katsuki's brand, and being perpetually exhausted was Hitoshi's. You tilt your head back, trying to understand how people find this attractive. Nothing stands out to you, you just look like the human equivalent of a soggy piece of bread.

But hero fans will be hero fans, and you learned the hard way that they find pretty much anything attractive so long as it's their favorite hero. The fanart is proof enough. And your handful of fans happen to be the weirdest brand of freak there is, unfortunately for you.

(According to Mineta, who apparently has a secret account he uses to look at fanart of not only himself, but the rest of former class 1-A students, your very few fans have an ongoing argument about your relationship with Hitoshi. Some call you sibling-coded, and others are insistent that you both have wild, nasty sex after a good villain take-down.

Why Mineta knows this, you don't know. And you are not about to ask him to go into any more detail about it than he already has.

And neither he, nor the fans, need to know that yeah, a couple years ago, maybe you did fuck Hitoshi every so often. It was nothing big, just a way to let off steam. Because you have that thing for Izuku Midoriya, and Hitoshi has that thing for Katsuki Bakugo. And you are both hopeless, sad fools who hold each other too close for fear of letting the chill of being unloved by those you crave seep through the cracks.)

“It wasn't Hitoshi!” Izuku says quickly. You can picture him waving his hands around frantically as he speaks – Jesus, you need to get it together.

“I know it wasn't. Who was it?”

“I’m listed as your emergency contact,” Izuku says, “They called me when you were admitted last night.”

“My emergency contact has been Aizawa for a year, you liar,” you scoff, narrowing your eyes at your reflection. Izuku knows this, and even cried when you told him. But having the Number One Pro Hero as your emergency contact felt wrong. Selfish. So you had it switched, much to his dismay.

“It doesn't– you–” Izuku whines, and then quietly says, “Aizawa called me.”

“I'm gonna knock that old man's teeth out. The whole point of changing it was so you didn't get called,”

“He's just worried. We all are. The doctor said this could…” his voice tapers off, and you can feel the guilt eating away at you, “You could die?"

“I won't die,"

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Two days pass, and if you could eat, you'd be eating your words. You feel like you're already dead. The coughing and vomiting only get worse, as expected, and you are damn near glued to your toilet. The petals and stems come up all in one piece, full flowers that make macabre and deconstructed bouquets. You suck on ice chips to soothe your throat and drink water when you can, but haven't eaten solid food in so long you think your stomach is digesting itself. And your wings suffer too, weak and droopy and unable to do much other than drag behind you uselessly.

Katsuki, unsurprisingly, is the first to actually visit you during your ban from work. He does not call, or text, or even knock when he arrives. And you immediately regret ever giving him a key to your apartment. He hollers your name from the living room, and you manage a grunt back before turning to puke into your toilet. His palm startles you, warm between your wings, comforting and oddly kind.

“Bad time,” you wheeze between hacks and gags. The flowers floating in your toilet mock you, dancing between blood stained water and tears. You pluck a fully bloomed one from the bowl, holding it gently between your pointer and thumb and twisting it beneath the florescent lights of your bathroom.

“Nasty,” Katsuki grunts. His nose wrinkles, and you mirror the look as you slap your other hand up to flush. He leans back from you, balanced on his toes, “You look like shit. Is that a full fucking flower?”

“‘m fine. Why are you here?”

“Because you're obviously not fuckin’ fine, dumbass. This is you dying,”

“Can everybody knock it off with that shit? Fucking– I'm fine–” a gag, “So just–” a heave, “Go away .”

“This is disgusting,” Katsuku scoffs, completely ignoring you. He pulls the towel hanging over your shower rod and turns to wet it in your sink before lowering himself to a crouch beside you. With gentle hands, he tilts your face up and wipes at your lips and chin, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, “Are you about to cry?”

“Fuck no,” he grunts. The crack in his voice and the way his lip trembles betrays him. He sniffs, “The stench of your puke is stinging my eyes. You look like shit, by the way. What's wrong with your wings?”

“Yeah, you said that already, thanks,” you snort and spread a wing out, “They're fine, just weird right now because I'm sick. And I haven't been able to, like, preen or whatever.”

“Can you still fly?”

“Negative,”

Katsuki stares at your outstretched wing. Your bathroom is significantly smaller like this as it is, with your wing stuck out completely to touch the wall opposite of you. But you feel more than cramped when he sucks his teeth and stands to his full height, filling the space with his wide shoulders. He takes one long, deep breath before turning on his heel, “I'm calling Deku.”

“I'll kill you,” you gasp, nearly slipping on your bath mat as you scramble to your feet to follow him.

“Yeah?” he prompts. Sarcasm drips from his teeth when he turns to look at you, “I don't think you can do much of anything in this state. Look at you, can't even fucking fly.”

“Fuck you,”

“You're killing yourself,” he presses a finger to your forehead, “Do you fucking get that? You're killing yourself and, what, expecting us to just be fine with it? Him? All because you love him? This is killing you, and it'll kill him when you die.”

“I'm not about to be coerced into a goddamn love confession because of some stupid kid's quirk,”

“He feels bad,” he says.

“Yeah, Deku always feels bad,”

“No, idiot, the kid. Mindfuck said he and his mom stopped by the agency. He wanted to say sorry. Made a mess cryin’ all over the place,”

“Once I get my shit sorted I'll find him to tell him I'm fine,” you gnaw on your cheek, “He doesn't need to feel bad. He was scared. He could've died.”

“ You could die,”

“I know. It's kind of a sick quirk when you think about it,” you nod, eyeing the way Katsuki’s fingers fly across his phone screen. You scoff and point an accusatory finger at him, “Stop texting him.”

“Don't fucking tell me what to do. And don't point at me,” Katsuki pockets his phone anyways, offering you a scowl, “I was messaging Hitoshi.”

“Woah, first name basis. So you've fucked then, yeah? He's good with his hands,“ you grin and raise the rest of your fingers to wiggle at him suggestively, “Did he do the thing where he–”

“Jesus fucking– stop, what is wrong with you?” his annoyed huff sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Your grin softens around the edges and you stretch a wing out to tickle the tip of his nose at the same time that you poke a finger into his stomach.

“That wasn't a no,” your laugh is meant to lighten the mood, but it turns into a nasty, gurgling cough that immediately ruins it instead. You bat away Katsuki's hands when he raises them to hover around you, “I'm glad Hitoshi got his happy ending.”

Katsuki's face crumples and he turns away from you to try to hide it. You catch it though, the way heartbreak spills out from his eyes and over the bridge of his nose. You've felt it enough to know how it looks, and you feel sick knowing he looks like that because of you.

“You could have yours too, dumbass,” he lets out a rough breath that melts into a groan and tilts his head back to stare at your ceiling. “You know that right? You can't be that dense. Even– even if it isn't with Izuku. You can still be happy.”

“I know that. I'm perfectly happy the way everything is now,” you wave the flower dismissively at him and he reaches out to pluck it from your fingers.

“You're dying,” he says again, brows furrowing when he holds the flower up to look at it.

“Yeah, for the hundredth time since I was fourteen,” you shrug, shuffling past him towards your couch. “I'll be fine. I always am.”

Just as your ass lands on the plush cushion of your couch, a knock sounds on your door. You whip your head up to stare at Katsuki, who grimaces and tosses the flower down onto your coffee table, “I didn't think he'd get here so fast.”

“Who the fuck is here?” you hiss. He sucks his teeth when another knock echoes through the space between you. “Katsuki, if Deku is on the other side of that door–”

“It's the old man and mindfuck, relax,”

“ Two? You invited two people to my apartment? Should've fucking called Deku, Jesus , what the fuck?” you groan, slumping down into your couch as your front door opens.

“Consider it an intervention,” Aizawa drawls, pausing in your entryway with Hitoshi so they can each toe off their boots. “Since you're so set on letting yourself die.”

“I'm not–” you cough, turning away from them to hack into your elbow. A tickle in your throat makes you gag, and you slap a hand against Katsuki's hip, “I'm gonna puke– I'm– get me a–”

A trash can is shoved beneath your chin just as petals and stems crowd your tongue. You wheeze between each stretch of flowers crawling their way out, batting away the six hands reaching into your space. Hitoshi scoffs beside you, smacking your hand back. His fingers graze the back of your neck as he gathers your hair, sending a shiver down your spine. You shake your head, leaning forward more and he clicks his tongue, following you.

“Get off'a me,” you slur, slapping more at his hands. 

“Let me hold your fucking hair, you heathen,” he grunts, pulling back the hair on your forehead, “You hair is so greasy, when's the last time you showered?”

You lean back into the cushion and his hands, humming out a rasping breath when he scratches at your scalp, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, you're welcome,”

“Freaks,” Katsuku rumbles, landing heavily beside you. When you hiccup, jostling with the movement, Aizawa shoots him a disapproving look that he withers under.

You snicker into your fingers while you wipe at your mouth, “Don't be jealous, Katsuki,”

“Fuck you,”

“Enough,” Aizawa sighs, balancing in a crouch on his toes in front of you. “Feeling better?”

“No,” you laugh, leaning around him to set the trash can down. “No, I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit,” he nods.

“Thanks, wow. I'm so glad you're all here to tell me how bad I look, I really love this,”

Hitoshi's hands leave your hair and you twist around to press your cheek to the back of the couch and watch him. He steps through your kitchen like it's his own, collecting a cup and turning to fill it with water. He smiles when you catch his eye, pushing his fingers through your hair when he's close enough to touch.

“Drink this and take your meds,” he forces the cup in your palm.

“Get them for me?” you ask sweetly, propping your chin in your hand and fluttering your lashes up at him.

“Where are they?” he laughs, pushing lightly at your forehead.

“In my room, by my phone,”

“I'll grab them,” Aizawa grunts as he stands, “When's the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday,” you guess, “Morning. I think. Couldn't keep it down though.”

“You need to eat,” he says over his shoulder, disappearing down your hallway, “Make yourself useful, Katsuki, and make her something light.”

“I'm always fucking useful,” Katsuki scoffs, but he stands anyway, shouldering past Hitoshi in a way that makes you grin and Hitoshi flush. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I really won't be able to keep anything down,” you mutter, balancing the cup between your knees.

“You still have to try,” he grumbles, gesturing towards what Hitoshi it busy pulling out of your fridge and cupboards, “What the fuck is this shit for?”

“Oh, me,” he says, “I came straight from patrol, haven't eaten yet. You mind, birdie?”

“Please, eat it,” you grunt, hissing when you sit back on your wings wrong, “It’ll go to waste if you don’t.”

A comfortable silence settles over you. Aizawa returns quickly, popping the lid on your pill bottle to shake two into your waiting palm. After you’ve swallowed, he refills your glass and settles beside you. Hitoshi and Katsuki bicker quietly in your kitchen, heatless insults thrown and taken with ease. Your TV is turned on at some point and reruns of Sailor Moon drone on, filling the empty corners of your apartment.

“You like this show?” you ask, nudging your wing into Aizawa's arm. He rolls his eyes, lifting his arm so you can crowd his space, mindful of your wings.

“Eri and Hizashi watch it,” he shrugs, “I don't dislike it. But I've never paid enough attention to confidently say I'm a fan.”

“I think you could be if you gave it a chance,”

“I'll keep that in mind, kiddo,” he turns to press his lips to your brow, “We still have to talk about this.”

“I know,”

“Who is it?”

You go quiet, discomfort seeping into your muscles when Hitoshi and Katsuki join you both in the living room. Katsuki sets a plate of toast and a bowl of applesauce down in front of you as Hitoshi sets his own food down. His bowl of instant ramen looks suspiciously delicious, almost gourmet, and you have an inkling he had nothing to do with that. The boys settle shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the opposite side of your coffee table, long legs kicking out to tangle with your ankles.

It's humiliating, you think, having to bare your soul out to people because of a quirk accident. Even if it is your friends and chosen family, people you've known for years and trust with your life, it's still embarrassing. But you do it anyway, with cotton in your mouth and sweat on your palms.

“Izuku,” you say softly, leaning forward to snag a piece of toast. “It's always been Izuku.”

“Of course,” Aizawa huffs, scratching at his scruff.

“You know,” Hitoshi says between loud slurps, “I'm pretty sure he feels the same. What are you so afraid of?”

“Fuck off, I'm not afraid,” you scoff, tossing the last bite of your toast at him. It smacks his forehead and lands in his bowl with a cartoonish plunk! that makes him frown. “He's the number one hero in Japan. I'm not afraid that he doesn't feel the same because that doesn't matter. It would never work.”

“Why not?”

“This isn't a fucking therapy session,” you sway as you stand, chest tight and wings fluttering as if to catch you. Aizawa catches your elbow when you stumble over his feet. “I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine,”

“I can handle it–”

“No. You can't. If you could, you would've by now,” Aizawa's tone is stern, cold, and you tilt your chin up to scowl at him when he stands. “I won't allow you to kill yourself over some boy .”

“Allow me?” you hiss, “Last I checked, I was a grown ass adult. And he's not ‘some boy’, he's my friend. Your former student, and the number one hero of Japan.”

“Right now, he is just some boy, and you are–”

“Your student. I'm not your daughter and you are not my fucking father, Shouta!”

“I know that,” he says slowly, “Do you?”

Behind you, your wings flutter, twitching with your irritation. Your lungs feel heavy, like they're full of lead, rumbling with every sharp, shaky intake of breath. Your facade of anger must crack, showing the hurt beneath it because Aizawa’s own frustration melts. The mean twist to his mouth straightens and his eyes go soft when he steps forward to catch your face in his hands.

“Listen to me,” he says quietly, “I know I'm not your father. But I also know I'm the closest thing that you have.”

“I'm sorry,” you curl a hand around his wrist, feeling for his pulse. You fold easily for him, too soft and gooey to be mad at him for too long, “You're right, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“You're scared and angry. It's okay to feel that way, even as a hero,” he hums, pulling you into his chest. You go willingly, sighing when he curls a hand around your head to press you closer, “I know you feel like accepting or asking for help makes you weak. It doesn't, I promise it doesn't.”

“I don't want to die,” you whisper it like it's a secret. Like it's unexpected for a young woman, a human, to fear death. Like it makes you weak. “I'm scared, Shouta.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, heaving a deep breath that you feel against your cheek, “I know it's scary. Love always is.”

“Just– give me a few days,” you plead, voice trembling, “Please. Just a few more days. Then I'll call him. I'll tell him.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Unfortunately for you, things don't always go to plan. When the front wall of your apartment blows inward not even two hours after everyone leaves, you truly think God wants you dead. For which reason, you're unsure. There are many options, each full of their own potential as to why any higher being would maybe want your head.

It happens so fast, you don't have time to react, you don't even think you would've been able to react anyways in the state you're in.

You're dozing on your couch, half asleep and too lazy to get up and get into bed. Somewhere behind you the bell on your unnamed cat's collar jingles when he hops up onto your counter. And not even a second later, your shit gets absolutely rocked. The explosion sends you and the couch you're on backwards and you can hear your windows shatter. The collar jingles again.

Confusion clouds your senses, a million thoughts filter through your head. Is this a targeted attack, or was your apartment just a casualty? Are there already other Heroes on the scene, or are you gonna have to try to fight? How many of them are out there? What are their quirks? You can't fight like this, you know you can't. You probably can’t even move the couch that’s flipped on top of you, caging you in and pinning down your right wing. Through the chaos of sirens and settling debris, you hear Izuku shout your name and you can feel your panic wash from your skin at the same time that your lungs go heavy.

“Deku,” you wheeze, slapping a hand out from your hiding spot. Something wet drips from your hairline into your eyes, you don't bother wiping it away, “I'm– my wing is stuck. I–I can't–”

“Hold on,” he says gently, falling to his knees. Pressing his chest to your floor, he lowers himself flat to look at you. “It's more than just the couch on top of you, I've called for Red Riot to come help me dig you out.”

“Get my cat,” you rasp, ignoring how your head pounds, “Find him first.”

“Your–”

“My cat, Izuku, find my fucking cat,”

“I can't leave you here like this,” he frets, eyebrows pulling together. Your head hurts, it's all you can think about beside your cat and Izuku. On repeat in your mind, head hurts, cat, Izuku. Head hurts, cat, Izuku. Head hurts, really really hurts. Where the hell is my cat? My chest is killing me, Izuku won't stop staring. My cat is gonna get out. I think I'm gonna die. I think I'm dying.

You choose to ignore the last part your brain spits at you.

“If you let my cat die or get out, I'll never forgive you,” you hiss, groaning when the weight of whatever is on you shifts, settling heavier over your wing. You can hear the crunch, can feel the pain melt across your shoulders and down to your toes. You grit your teeth, hold back a shout, and squeeze your eyes closed, swallowing the bile in your throat.

“I– okay, okay, I'll find him– you– and…”

You think he says more, you know he does, but your head is throbbing and your chest feels ready to explode. His words begin to mince, garble, like he's underwater. Or maybe you are. You can't tell. Everything is fuzzy, distorted. The last thing you see is someone's bare chest as they lean over you and the shock of red hair on his head, you'd recognize Eijiro anywhere, even half dead. The collar jingles, the warmth of another person curls around you. Someone is speaking, telling you to stay awake, keep your eyes open. But you’re so cold and so tired, and something like sleep takes over.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

It's all so humiliating. Falling in love, feeling that emotion so intensely. Being so mentally weak from being in love. Being so physically weak because of it, even if it is because of a quirk. You feel so young again, fragile and fifteen and scared to speak or even breathe too loud.

Everything is green. It's in his eyes, his hair. You feel it in your chest, in your heart, in your blood. Green is a good color, a good feeling. It's all you see, feel, taste.

It's his hair. It's his eyes. It's his hero suit. It's the blanket you bought because of him, and the green in your own hero suit. It's the grass you laid on back in high school with him. You've spent years subconsciously weaving bits and pieces of him into your life just so you can have something, anything.

You see him in it, you see it in you.

It's love. The green in your life is love, and you are so scared. Of dying because of it, of losing it.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You're fading in and out of consciousness. The sound of the city makes your head spin. Your sense of time is off, and it's unnerving, it’s scary . The first time you muster up the strength to blink open your eyes, you're mid-air, limp and jostling against Izuku's chest as he jumps from rooftop to rooftop. There's something sticky on your forehead, your hands, your spine. Blood, you can assume. And the fresh, warm liquid that drips onto your cheeks are tears, ones that aren't from you.

You only open your eyes two more times after that. Once when a doctor forces you to, so he can shine a light in your eyes. And the second when someone starts to reset the bones in your wing. For this, you do scream. The pain is the worst you've ever felt, and you can only weep and wail and flail until they hold you down and sedate you.

Behind the conglomeration of medical professionals, Izuku watches. He watches you twitch and tremble in pain. He listens to the way you wail, he sees the way your spine contorts and arches off the table in pain. He watches the controlled chaos the doctors maintain as they shout out directions and instructions to each other.

When the monitor they have hooked up to you starts beeping rapidly and then flatlining, Izuku thinks he may be sick. One doctor says you're coding, another says to push some epi and charge the defibrillator paddles. It’s all medical jargon Izuku doesn’t need to understand to know that you’re dying. Someone starts compressions and shouts to get him the hell out, and then a nurse is pressing at his shoulders and leading him out of the room and toward the waiting room. He collapses into a seat and hangs his head in his hands until Katsuki, Hitoshi and Aizawa find him.

“What the hell happened?” Hitoshi asks, full of fear and pain. And Izuku breaks. He cannot stop the waterfall of tears pouring from his eyes when he stands to greet them. He can't catch his breath. Katsuki catches him at the elbows when he sways in place.

“Deku, what is going on?”

“She– there was an attack. And she was caught under some debris. I don't–” he presses a hand over his chest, twisting the fabric there and curls in on himself while he weeps, “She coded and they kicked me out of the room. I don't know– I don't know if she's even alive. I don't– I love her so much and–”

Katsuki lets him press green curls into his chest. Thick, scarred fingers nearly tear his shirt with how tightly Izuku is holding onto him. The fear in his chest is all encompassing, the edges of his vision darken. And all he can do is cry into Katsuki’s chest.

Eventually, after some hours have passed and Izuku has cried himself into a migraine, a doctor steps into the waiting area. Hitoshi’s hand tightens over Katsuki's. Izuku keeps his head down with his hands pressed over his mouth. Aizawa stands to greet her.

“How is she?” he asks.

“Is she alive?” Katsuki breathes, voice cracking.

“It was very touch and go, but she's okay. She didn't need any surgery, but we did have to put her under to finish resetting the broken bones in her left wing, so she's intubated right now to help her breathe. The majority of her injuries were minor, most of which we fixed up with healing quirks. We have her on some medication for the hanahaki disease in her lungs. Once that's under control, we're expecting a near full recovery,” the doctor smiles softly, jerking her head back, “She's in the ICU now. Would you like to see her?”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

The next time you actually wake up is in a hospital bed. The sky is still dark, but you have a feeling it's been at least a day since the attack, maybe more. Your chest feels like it's been packed with cotton and all you can think about is your cat. Through the slim window on the door, you can see two men. Standing guard you think, they always do that no matter who the hurt hero is. You've been there before, played bodyguard for other heroes. Snuck them greasy food and sugary drinks when they complained about hospital food. Held their hands when they openly wept over lost lives and limbs, when they've been so hurt they're forced into retirement.

Based on what you can see of their uniforms, you can guess it's Katsuki and Hitoshi. You wonder how long you've been out, but can't find your voice to call for either of them.

“You're awake,” Izuku’s voice is groggy, shockingly loud in the eerie silence of your room despite not being more than a whisper. You jump, startled, and turn your head to look at him over the oxygen mask strapped to your face. You reach for the mask, weak fingers scrambling to remove it and he jumps up from his seat to curl his own over yours and pry them away, “Hey, hey, don't take that off. You're okay.”

“How long–”

“It's been two days,” he says slowly, “Your injuries from the attack were mostly minor. They used a healing quirk on most of them. But–”

“My lungs,” you rasp, “I'm here for my lungs.”

His fingers twitch around yours and you only then realize he never let go of your hand. You let yourself indulge, tightening your grip until you're sure it hurts. He looks terrible, like he hasn't slept or showered in days. The shadows under his eyes rival yours and his curls are weighed down and flattened in some parts with grease and dirt. He must've stayed after the attack.

“My cat?” you change the subject. He lets you.

“I got him,” he tries for a smile and fails, “He's fine, not even a scratch. Present Mic came and picked him up, Eri has him right now.”

“She can have him forever,” you croak.

“Don't. Please don't say that,”

“Izuku–”

“Get some sleep,” he says, “We can talk more tomorrow.”

You do sleep. He's gone when you wake up again a few hours later, after the sun has begun to rise. Hopefully to shower and get some sleep of his own.

He doesn't come back.

The talk never comes.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“You need to tell him,” Katsuki’s face is turned away from you, dark and shadowed. You think he may actually be crying this time, you can hear it when he says your name, the heartbreak and the fear. His voice breaks when he says, “You aren't gonna survive this.”

It's the fourth time he's said this since you woke up. And he hasn't actually looked at you once. You get it, you probably wouldn't be able to look either.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi doesn't leave. He's either at your side, attempting to sleep on the tiny couch across from your hospital bed, or standing guard outside your door. He looks bad, maybe just as bad as you're sure you do.

“Go home,” you wheeze, “Get some sleep, REM sleep, not those fake ass naps you take. Shower, eat. Take care of yourself.”

“No,” he's slouched in the chair beside your bed, feet propped up beside yours. The magazine over his face has Izuku on the cover.

You remember him talking about that shoot, how excited he was to be wrapped in all his friends' merch. He looks like a mess of color. He must've picked which pieces he wanted. Baby pink Uravity themed sweatpants with a white stripe along the side, mismatched red and blue Shouto themed shoes, an orange and army green Dynamight t-shirt. And maybe the ugliest shade of yellow you've ever seen on his Chargebolt sweatshirt, not that you'd ever say that to Denki. You’re shocked they let him wear that for the cover of such a popular magazine. But you can admit, he pulls it off in some weird, almost kitsch-y way.

(You remember fondly the way he had whined about your lack of merch. He'd gone on and on, begging you to make anything for him. A shirt, a hat, anything. He had merch from all his classmates, he said, he needed to finish the collection with something of yours.)

“Hitoshi,” you reach over to pull the magazine down and toss it to the tiled floor.

“I'm not leaving,” he grunts, rough but not irritated or upset. Just tired, scared. “I'm fine right here.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

No one else knows you're here except a select few. Aizawa told you it's a well kept secret, that you're listed under an alias. It makes you wonder if that villain attack really was personal. Someone who wants you dead must've heard you were almost there and too weak to fight. You want to ask him about it, ask for the case file. You want all the information.

You ask him about your lungs instead.

“The doctor has you on some medication for your lungs that's keeping the infection and flowers at bay,” he drawls. His fingers are curled around your ankle, feeling for the pulse point there.

“That's why I haven't puked,”

“Yes,” he nods, “As for your wing, you'll need to do some physical therapy. But they don't want you up and moving yet, not until your lungs have healed. Waiting too long can impact how well your wing heals, so–”

“I'm not telling him,” you huff, “You can't make me. Make sure Eri takes care of–”

“Absolutely not,” his fingers stop petting and squeeze instead, “Don't talk like you're dying. It's freaking the boys out. It's freaking me out. Stop.”

“Sorry,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Eri visits you. She's sweet, still soft spoken even as a teenager. You appreciate that about her, and wonder how she did it. How she kept all the soft and rounded edges after everything she's been through. You wish you could’ve done the same. Then again, you never really had soft edges to begin with.

Present Mic comes with her, grinning when they tell you they smuggled your cat in.

“Why haven't you named him yet?” Eri whispers, eyes wide and sparkling while she watches him knead at your thigh. You hum, rubbing a knuckle under his chin.

“Dunno,” you say back, just as quietly, “It's been a year but I still feel like I don't know him well enough to name him. Do you wanna?”

“Name him?”

“Yeah, go for it,”

Eri thinks for all of one second before she grins and says, “What about Hiro?”

“Sure,” you shrug, “Hiro. Cute. A bit on the nose though.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

On the sixth day of being stuck in your hospital bed, Izuku visits again. He's quiet, eyes glassy and red rimmed like he had cried the whole way here. After he left the first day you woke, he hadn't come back. Not while you were awake at least. Katsuki mentioned briefly that he's been back a few times, calling him a freak for watching you sleep like he hadn't been doing the exact same thing. You fiddle with the nasal oxygen tube you'd been downgraded to, readjusting how it sits behind your ears.

“Hitoshi told me,” is how he greets you. Panic rises like bile in your chest, you can't do much but stare. He speaks again, fills the silence, “It wasn't his place to do that, and I'm sorry. But he's scared, Kacchan too. Why didn't you tell me?”

You open your mouth and his phone rings. His shoulders go stiff, his fingers twitch. That is why. One of the reasons why, at least. You're selfish and if you let it happen, you'll want him all the time. Every time his phone rings, every time he goes on a week-long mission, you won’t be able to handle it. You barely handle it as it is.

“You should answer that,” you grunt in lieu of a real answer. It’s maybe a little passive aggressive too, but whatever.

“It's fine,” he whispers once the ringing stops.

“They need you, Deku,”

“There are plenty of other heroes,”

“None of them are you,”

“I love you,” he whispers, so quiet you're surprised you catch it. It makes your lungs tight, your chest twist. Then, just barely louder, “I love you, let me love you. Let me help you.”

“I don't want to love you,” you sigh. The cheap, hospital grade blanket in your palm is close to tearing with how tightly you've got it in your grip, “I wish I didn't. I don't want you to love me.”

“Just,” he groans, laying the heels of his palms to his eyes and pressing in hard, “We don't have to– to get married, we don’t even have to date. It doesn't have to be a big thing. Just let me– it's my job. It's my job to save people. And I want to save you, maybe more than anyone else. Let me save you, even if you don't let me love you. Tell me what to do. I just– I don't– I can't just watch you die. Please. Please.”

“Nothing changes,” you insist, “We won't work.”

“Okay,” he looks like he wants to say more, like he wants to argue. He looks angry. But he just nods, gnaws at his bottom lip, and says again, “Okay.”

“I have to confess,” you turn your head away from him, press your cheek to the shitty pillow under your head, “And you have to confess back. Or reject me. The doctor says it'll clear up either way, that's how the quirk works. Please reject me.”

“No,”

You turn to stare at him, watch the way his curls move and bounce when he shakes his head, “What?”

“No, I'm not going to reject you. I'm not lying to make you feel better,” his hand is warm around your ankle, “I'll pretend it never happened after. But I'm not going to say I don't love you. I can't pretend I'm not in love with you. Of course I love you, how could I not? How could I spend years with you, learning you, watching you, and not love you? No. I won't reject you.”

“Okay,” you say, inhaling slowly.

“Okay,” he nods, “Ready?”

“I love you, Izuku,” you whisper, “I have loved you for years.”

“I love you,” he says back, stepping around your hospital bed to fall to his knees by your side. His lip trembles and you look away with the rush of air you get to your lungs. He presses his forehead to the blanket beside you and cries, and when he can't see you, you cry too. You curl your fingers into his hair and cry and mourn the relationship that will never happen.

The flowers come all at once. The doctor said this would happen, he called it the final purge. (And had not been impressed when you laughed and called it dramatic.) All the flowers have been uprooted and need to get out. You barely turn away from him in time, and you again find yourself thanking whatever god will listen for not letting you almost claim another victim with your weird lung-vomit. It comes and comes, tearing your throat up as it goes. And Izuku is there, pulling your hair away from your face and rubbing a warm hand between your wings.

He is so kind. He is everything you want and you find yourself almost immediately regretting everything you said. You love him so much, you want to let him love you. And you want to love him. You want that nasty, gooey type of love. The fluffy kind. The good morning and goodnight texts every single day. The I love you mores, the dancing in the kitchen and breakfast in bed type love. The kind where you're so comfortable, you don't close the door to pee. You want to kiss him first thing in the morning, morning breath and all. You want his face to be the first thing you see when you wake up, and the last thing you see before you go to sleep.

You want Izuku more than you've ever wanted anything else in the world.

And you think you need him to want you too. You need him to love you. You always have and you were stupid for ever thinking otherwise.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku takes your boundaries too seriously. He leaves after you puke yourself into a near comatose state, and he doesn't come back during the two weeks you spend recuperating. Not to check on you, not to see you through your physical therapy. And he isn't there when you're told you can fly again, when you're discharged and told you're healthy again. You think your chest hurts more now than it did when it had a bed of flowers growing in it.

You don't reach out to him either. Katsuki lets it slip that he's angry, angrier with you than he's ever been because all he wants is to love you.

(“So tell her that,” Katsuki scoffs, sliding a bowl of katsudon across his counter. This is the fifth time in an hour he's had to listen to Izuku bitch and whine about how he feels. He's seriously considering manslaughter.

“I did,” Izuku spits, uncharacteristically short tempered and irritated, “I did tell her. And she said no. She told me she wished she didn't love me, and she didn't want me to love her. She is so goddamn stubborn.”

Katsuki is more annoyed than surprised, “I think she’s just scared.”

“She's stubborn–”

“Okay, I fucking get it! She's stubborn, and so are you! Pull your balls out of your back pocket and man the hell up, or shut the hell up!” Katsuki barks, slamming a sparking palm against the marble. Izuku's glare does not scare him. He takes a deep breath, remembers what his therapist taught him, and counts to three. He’s calmer when he says, “What does that say about you? She was so scared to tell you she loved you that she died. Fucking talk to her about it and quit whining. She's the one in the hospital, not you. Try thinking about it all from her perspective.”

“Kacchan–”

“Don't Kacchan me, you asshole,” Katsuki says, “You think you're the only one affected by all this? She's my friend too, and Hitoshi's, and we aren't sitting here all angry at her. This is your mess now, it's your responsibility to fucking fix it.”)

“Called you stubborn,” Katsuki snorts, feeling oddly fond, “Just call him, talk about it.”

“Thanks, jackass. I hadn't thought of that,” you scoff, leaning past him to slap the ground floor button on the elevator, “Of course I've called him. He isn't answering.”

“Just keep calling. He'll break eventually,”

“Dunno if I want him to. What the hell do I even say if he answers? That I'm an actual fucking idiot? That I changed my mind? I wouldn’t trust me, so I don’t see how he would,” you groan and lean back against the elevator wall, watching the floor numbers change. “This is why I wasn't gonna say anything. Now it's all different and I may have lost my best friend.”

“Oh, he's your best friend? Go stay on his couch while your place is being rebuilt then,”

“Okay, are we in middle school? Didn't mean to hurt your feelings, bestie,”

“Call me that again and I'll rip your tongue from your throat,”

“You are so bipolar, good fucking lord. You wanna be my best friend, you have to live with the nicknames,” you laugh, “And, no offense but, Hitoshi is my actual best friend if we're gonna get technical. You didn't even speak to me until third year.”

“You weren't in the hero course until third year, that isn't fair!”

“I was still friends with your whole class! And I fought with you in the war. And Hitoshi has been inside of me,” you grin when Katsuki's cheeks go pink and he scowls at you, “Gave me some of the best orgasms in my life, so he gets extra brownie points.”

“I hope the cable of this elevator snaps and we both die instantly,”

“Asshole,”

“Bite me,”

The elevator dings and you straighten from your slouched position as the doors slide open. Aizawa and Hitoshi are both waiting for you, offering twin smiles when you walk towards them.

“Look at you,” Hitoshi grins, cupping your face in his hands, “You look good. Healthy. You good to go?”

“Mm, yeah. Just gotta sign some stuff at the front desk and I'll be all set,”

“Okay, pigeon,” he presses a wet smooch to your forehead before releasing you and ushering you towards the desk.

The paperwork takes all of five minutes and then you're practically running outside. The fresh air outside the hospital feels borderline orgasmic as it enters your lungs. After not flying for far too many weeks, you’re nearly vibrating with excitement. The first flutter of your wings sends a jolt of exhilaration down your spine, but before you can take off Aizawa wraps his scarf around your ankle.

“What the hell, dude?”

“Be rational,” he grunts, “Flying here will attract too much attention. And do not call me ‘dude’, that's disrespectful.”

“Whatever,” you huff and shove your hands into your sweatshirt pocket, “Fine. Dude.”

“Have you talked to Deku?” his voice lowers as he steps closer and releases his grip on you. You shrug, tilting your face up to soak in the sun.

“No,”

“You should,” he says, “He's going on a mission soon.”

“How long will he be gone?”

“A week, at least. Longer if things go awry. And things tend to go awry with him,”

“He doesn't want to talk to me,”

“He doesn't have to talk, he just has to listen. Make him listen,” he murmurs, “You've always been good at that.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You stop by the rubble of your apartment before going to Katsuki's. Clean up hasn't even begun yet and you grimace as you toe over glimmering glass, chunks of drywall, and broken bits of brick. Your couch is where it landed after Eijiro pulled it off of you, torn and bloody, and you take a moment to mourn it. There are a few feathers scattered on the floor a few feet away from it, likely where you had been pinned down. The wall that had been blown in is still an open space, just one with caution tape pulled across haphazardly. Just looking at it makes your lungs tighten and your wing throb.

“What a fucking dump,” Katsuki grunts, kicking at the debris by his feet.

“I want the case file on the guy that did this,” you mutter, leaning forward on your tiptoes to peek out the hole. “He fucked up the whole block.”

“I'll have Deku send it over to my agency,”

“Thanks,” you nod and take a step off the ledge. Katsuki makes a panicked noise, rushing over and scowling when you turn and grin, “Chill, I'm good. See? Wings work just fine, just wanna look at the damage.”

“Be fucking careful,” he grumbles. “Why are we here anyways?”

“Clothes. It's hard to find shirts and stuff for people with wings. And expensive,” you hum, fluttering past him towards the hallway, “My bedroom should be pretty much untouched. Gotta grab a few things and we can go.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Katsuki doesn't actually make you sleep on his couch. His guest room is made up for you, complete with not one, but two, baskets on the dresser, a fresh bed set on the bed and a brand new pair of house slippers by the closet door. The first basket is small, filled to the brim with differing toiletries. You snicker and finger through it, giving him a mental kudos for picking out decent shampoo and conditioner. The second basket is bigger and has various snacks in it. Your favorites, you notice.

“You got me welcome baskets?”

“I didn't get you shit. The food is from my mom and the other shit is from my assistant. And they're ‘I'm glad you didn't die’ baskets,” he scoffs, glaring at something over your shoulder. The gleam in his eye betrays him, you can't stop yourself from teasing just a little.

“Right, and who told your assistant to do that?” you laugh and yelp when he pinches your waist. “Okay! Okay, sorry. Tell your mom and assistant I said thank you.”

“Whatever. I'm going to make lunch,”

“For me too?”

“Obviously,”

“This is why you're my best friend,” you flutter your lashes up at him and pout your lips in a way you hope will make him laugh. You know you've succeeded when he presses his whole hand to your face to push you away.

“Shut up. Go shower,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Hitoshi sets up a meeting with the little boy for you the day after you get out of the hospital. He’d argued at first, told you to rest and heal more. But you push and insist. It’s important. The kid needs to know you aren’t upset, he deserves to know. So you push and push until Hitoshi inevitably gives in and calls the mother. He tells you to be at Katsuki’s agency by noon. Katsuki forces you to get there by eleven.

“They’re here,” Katsuki grunts, hand warm on your back. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. He's, what, five?”

“Four,” Aizawa drawls.

“And three quarters,” Hitoshi tacks on, grinning when Aizawa rolls his eyes and you snort. “He's in the conference room with his mom.”

The door is all glass and you take a minute to watch him. He's small for his age, you think. Maybe. You actually don't know, can't actually tell. All kids are small to you. The only kid you have any real experience with is Eri, and she was always so small because of her situation, so mature too. Always so gentle and wise, too wise. You don't know anything about kids, but this kid is small .

He's sitting politely in a chair that’s four sizes too big for him next to his mom, who looks young. She’s saying something to him, pushing the wispy hairs from his eyes and then smiling and pointing a finger towards you. You take that as your cue to go in. They both stand as you enter, bending deeply at the waist.

“Oh, don't,” you gasp, fluttering over to them and hovering uncertain hands out in front of you, “Please, really, no need to bow.”

“Thank you for making time for us,” his mother says quietly as she straightens, “Asahi feels terrible. He appreciates the chance to apologize.”

“I don’t need an apology, really. I just wanted to come show you both that I’m okay. What's your name?” you wonder, holding your hand out towards her. She blinks down at it a few times before seemingly deflating in relief and touching her palm to yours.

“Ito,” she shares, “Ito Hana. But, please, call me Hana.”

“Right,” you nod, offering her a gentle smile, “It's fantastic to meet you Hana. And you too Asahi. You've got a powerful quirk, kid.”

Asahi's lower lip trembles and he tumbles forward to press his face into your tummy before his mother can stop him, blubbering unnecessary apologies into your shirt, “I'm so sorry Ms. Aviator! I didn't mean to–to quirk you! I didn't mean to–’

“Hey, hey, no tears,” you whisper, detaching yourself enough to fall to your knees in front of him. You make a big show of taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, so he can hear it, “I'm all good. You hear that? My lungs are fine, kiddo.”

“You aren't mad?” he snivels and scrubs at his cheeks, smearing tears and snot across his face. His own breathing is unsteady, and you urge him to take a deep breath too. Together, you count as you breathe. His trembling slows, his breathing evens out, and you speak again.

“No,” you coo and pull your sleeve up over your thumb to help wipe the snot from his face, holding back a grimace when it just makes it worse, “No, I'm not mad. Accidents happen. And it's silly to get mad over accidents, isn't it?”

“My doctor says my quirk can make people bleed flowers from here,” he mumbles, jabbing two of his little fingers over the center of your chest, “Did it make you bleed like that?”

“Um,” you flit your eyes up over his shoulder, gauging his mother. She nods once, so you look back at him, “Yeah. I did for a little bit.”

“It's scary,” he whimpers. Behind him, his mother presses the knuckles of her hand to her lips and closes her eyes. You exhale a shaky breath when his tears well up again, beading over his lash line and he says, “Everyone says my quirk is scary.”

“It can be. Any quirk can be scary. But nothing scares me,” you smile when he gives you a look like he doesn't believe you. “Your quirk is only scary because you don't have control yet. But that’s okay. My friend Red Riot’s quirk was scary before he could control it. And Tsukuyomi, and even Deku. But when they learned to control it, it wasn’t scary anymore.”

“Mama says I'll get control when I get bigger,” he agrees. Then there's a moment where he looks unsure, bashful even, before he says, “You aren't even afraid of the dark?”

“Nope,” you confirm, “ Especially not the dark. I do my best hero work in the dark.”

Asahi settles after that. You aren’t sure if it’s you that soothes him, or if he does it himself. But he calms down, starts acting more like a kid should. He asks questions about your quirk and what it’s like to be a hero. You give him all the details. You tell him what all the different feathers in your wings do, and how your quirk gives you excellent hearing and incredible night vision. He asks if you know Chargebolt too, and Shouto and Uravity, beaming when you say you do. He tells you his favorite is Cellophane and you give him a high five, because that is a good choice.

You end up pulling Katsuki and Hitoshi in too when you catch the way he won’t stop staring at them. Katsuki slips on his kid-friendly Dynamight persona and lets him ogle his gauntlets and ask as many questions as his heart desires. Hitoshi lets him try on his mask. He's even kind enough to allow requests for different voices once he slips it over his own mouth again. Asahi dissolves into a fit of giggles when All Might’s voice booms through the speakers.

You learn a lot about Asahi and his mother as the next hour passes. Love related quirks run in the family, apparently. Hana’s is called Soul Ties, her mother's was Cupid's Arrow. She elaborates on her own when you raise an eyebrow at her.

“I can see people's soulmates,” she shrugs, leaning forward to brush a thumb over Asahi’s cheek.

“Soulmates? More than one?”

“Platonic and romantic,” she adds, smiling softly down at her hands like that’s where she can see it. The string of fate, you've heard of similar quirks. Hana’s smile fades to something a little more melancholic, but she puts on a happier facade quickly before Asahi notices it, “Most people have more than one of each. But it differs per person.”

“Oh,” you say, staring down at your own hand. You wonder if you have any. Any platonic, any romantic. You wonder if Izuku is your soulmate. How many strings of fate tie your hands to someone else’s? How many soulmate’s could you possibly have? Can you have a soulmate who's soulmate isn't you?

“Those men,” she says quietly, gesturing behind her to where Katsuki and Hitoshi are sitting, “I can see you're close with them. You have a strong connection with both of them. Sometimes the universe determines our soulmates. Sometimes we determine them. But when the universe decides, the connection is almost unbreakable. All of your connections are strong ones. You're lucky.”

You give Hana your number before they leave, slipping the paper effortlessly into her hand when you say goodbye, “Call me if either of you ever need anything. And when he gets older, if you want, I can get him a spot at UA. Whichever course he may want. They can help him with quirk control and confidence.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, taking your hand into both of her own, “Thank you so much. For saving him and for this. He really looks up to you.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Katsuki must've planned this. The jackass. The absolute cretin. You can practically see it, see him rubbing his grubby little hands together like the roach he is. Grinning and scheming up the best way to get you and Izuku in a room together. Probably with Hitoshi. They're both nasty little creatures and you have decided you love them now more than you ever have. Because you miss him.

You miss Izuku.

You're in the middle of drowning your self-imposed sorrows in more Sailor Moon reruns and half a pint of freezer-burned ice cream you found buried in Katsuki's freezer when he lets himself in. You're hovering around in a lazy circle to stretch your wings, cataloging and memorizing every picture Katsuki has on his walls. He notices you first and stays silent to watch you, watch the way you move, the way your wings flutter to keep you up. When he finally speaks, you and your wings jump, nearly knocking some expensive looking frames off the wall.

“I brought the case file you asked for,”

“Jesus– how did you even get in here?” you yelp, slapping a hand out to steady a wobbling frame.

“I've had a key since Kacchan bought this place,” he snorts, tossing the file down onto the pristine black granite countertop. “I didn't realize you were staying here, sorry, I would’ve knocked. He didn't tell me, just said to drop the file off.”

“Oh, yeah, well,” you shovel another spoonful of ice cream into your mouth without saying anything else. Izuku hums anyways, like you said something worth any sort of response, and leans his hip against the counter. You force yourself to look away, “Thanks for the file. Was it a targeted attack?”

“No, no. We thought it was too, turns out it wasn't even a real attack. A civilian with a seizure disorder had an episode and the lack of control over his quirk is what caused the accident. You and your apartment just happened to be above him. Uh, but, this is all in the file–” Izuku coughs into his fist and stares at the wall behind you.

“Yeah, thanks, I'll drop it back at your agency when I'm done reading it,”

“Take your time,”

An awkward silence falls between you. You keep eating your ice cream. Izuku looks at everything but you. The city keeps moving underneath you, your quirk helps you hear things like the coffee being brewed across the street and the dog barking three floors down if you really listen for it. You tune it in, let it wash over you. Eventually, after your ice cream is gone and Izuku’s eyes have stayed on you for the last few minutes, you speak again, “I changed my mind.”

“What?”

“I want things to change. I changed my mind,” you speak quietly, delicately, like everything will shatter if you say it too loud, if you say it out loud, “I can’t be normal after this. I love you so much that I was willing to die about it. And it’s been that way for years. Something has to change, because obviously my feelings won’t.”

Izuku stays silent. When you turn to decipher how he feels, what he’s thinking, you find him with his hands over his face. The skin of his cheeks is splotchy beneath his fingers, flustered and warm. He takes big breaths and you watch the way his chest expands with them, the way his fingers shake and his shoulders tremble.

You should say something. Or maybe you shouldn’t. You don’t know. You’re out of your element here. Romantic stuff has never come easy to you, hadn’t ever come at all. All of your romantic feelings were kept buried so deep in your chest, you hadn’t even tried to date before. No one was worth the time or effort because they weren't him.

“Say something,” you babble, ignoring the residual tightening in your lungs, “I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? You’ve had, like, girlfriends or whatever. But I’ve never dated, so this is incredibly out of my comfort zone and I feel like I’m just rambling and I’m sorry. I’m, uh, done talking. Now.”

When Izuku starts to laugh, you genuinely wish you had died. Humiliation is hot in the back of your throat, seeping between your tongue and teeth. He lets his hands fall from his face and when you see the tears in his lashes, your own lip starts to tremble and you drop your feet to the floor, “Don’t laugh at me. I just emotionally stripped myself naked to you and you’re laughing? You are such a dick. Katsuki’s nicer than you, fuck.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh,” he hiccups between quiet giggles, stepping close enough that he can cup your face in his hands, “I’m sorry. I'm sorry, baby. Don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, you’re crying too,” you sniffle, letting your fingers curl around his wrist. He leans forward to kiss away your tears, cooing when you crumble forward in his arms and cry some more, “Katsuki said you were angry.”

“I was angry, but it was misplaced,” he says once you’ve settled to loud, wet sniffles and hiccuping whimpers. “I'm sorry for laughing, I’m just relieved. And excited. And I thought it was funny that you think I’ve had a girlfriend, let alone multiple. You think too highly of me.”

“I just thought– with Uraraka– and you've got your pick of the litter with your fans,” you huff, “You could have anyone you wanted, you know.”

“I want you. It’s always been you,” he whispers into your hair, swaying you both in an attempt to soothe you, “There’s never been anyone else.”

“Don’t say shit like that, you’ll give me a complex,” you groan, grinning into his shoulder when his chest rumbles with a laugh. “I’m sorry that everything got so fucked up.”

“If it hadn’t, would we be here?”

“No, probably not,”

“Then I’m not sorry. Not if this is where we ended up. And you shouldn’t be either,” he murmurs, “I am sorry that you got hurt. And I'm sorry that it was because of me. But I'm not sorry for this.”

A half hour later, after your tears have dried and your breathing evens out, Izuku makes you eat a real meal. He doesn't cook it (read: can't cook it), but he orders from your favorite place and has it delivered. You eat on opposite sides of the couch (despite both of you knowing damn well that Katsuki would absolutely kill you if he found out), but you touch him when you can. Brushing a curl from his eyes, tangling your ankles with his. Once you've eaten, when you're sated and nearly asleep with a warm, full belly, he breaks the very fragile case of glass around you.

“I took a mission,” he mumbles around a cheek full of rice.

“I know, Shouta told me,”

“I can back out,” he clears his throat, glancing at you through the curtain of curls falling into his eyes, “They don't actually need me. I took it to get away. Or, no, not to get away! To, uh, to give you space. But, I can pull out.”

“Stop, don't put your job on the back burner for me,” you grumble, leaning forward to steal a piece of chicken from his bowl.

“If I go, I leave tomorrow morning,” he continues, “And we should talk. I can drop out of the mission if you want me to.”

“Seriously, don't. Don't do shit like that,” you scoot towards him on the couch, press your hand firm over his chest, “I am a selfish person. I don't like sharing. And I won't want to share you. But I’ll have to if we're gonna make it work. And if you call out of work for me, you're just feeding into that delusion.”

Izuku’s eyes are so soft on your face, flitting between your eyes and your cheeks, your lips and your nose, taking in every detail. Cataloging every freckle, wrinkle, and scar. He lays his hand flat over yours, lets his fingers fall between the gaps, “I want you to be selfish with me, because I'm gonna be selfish with you. I've waited years for this, and I'm gonna take everything I can get. I'm gonna be greedy, let yourself be greedy too.”

Izuku's freckles get darker in the summertime, and his scars. His skin goes golden under the sun, and new freckles appear to mark constellations across his nose, down his neck and over his shoulders. He doesn't burn the way some people do, you think, he ripens like fruit.

“Go on the mission,” you sigh and crawl into his lap. He hums, leaning back to give you more space to get comfortable. You curl into him, press your nose into the crook of his neck, “We can talk when you get back.”

“Okay,” he breathes out, unsure, as scarred palms curl around your waist. You can feel how his fingers shake before they tighten over you. He squeezes then releases you twice in quick succession, just to feel you, just to touch. It relaxes you, turns your insides to liquid, warm and gooey. When your limbs go heavy and your eyelids start to droop, Izuku uses gentle hands to lift you as he stands. Your noise of confused complaint is hushed and you go quiet, letting him carry you to bed.

You're asleep before you hit the sheets and Izuku has to take a minute. Just a moment. To watch you breathe, watch the way your chest rises and falls. He remembers the fear that boiled in his chest when you stopped breathing that night. He doesn't even think you know, but he does. He knows, he remembers. It had only been for a moment, the doctors had worked quickly to get you back. But you had been gone, really, actually gone. Your heart stopped beating, your lungs stopped breathing and you were dead. Dead . You had died because of so many things, because of him.

So he takes a goddamn minute . He watches your chest rise and fall, syncs his own breaths with yours. He listens to how clear your lungs sound, presses his fingers to the pulse point in your wrist to feel your heartbeat. He reminds himself that you're alive, you’re fine. It takes an hour of watching you sleep before he feels okay to leave.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“This roof top is inaccessible to the public,” Katsuki drones, “How the hell did you get up here without a key?”

“I jumped out of the window,” you shrug, muttering around the straw between your teeth. The sun is just beginning to rise, melting the horizon into pools of blue and pink, orange and purple. The clouds soak it up like watercolor and spit it back out onto mirrored skyscrapers and tree tops. A breeze blows between you and Katsuki looks angelic, all windswept and sun-kissed.

“You doing okay?”

“Are you?” you reflect back, tilting your chin up to see him better, “I'm sorry. I haven't said that yet. I was inconsiderate and self destructive and didn't really think about how it would affect anyone else. And I almost died because of it. So, I'm sorry.”

“It's– you're fine. I'm fine,” he shrugs and stuffs his hands into his sweatpants pockets to stave off the chill creeping up his spine. “We’re fine.”

“I know,” you say, “But I'm still sorry. And I love you. And– and thank you. For taking care of me.”

“Okay,” he grumbles, “Stop, seriously. We're fine.”

“Stop being so emotionally constipated,” you snort, shooting a hand out to slap at his calf, “Say it back.”

“I love you too, or whatever, fuck,” he literally shudders the moment the words leave his mouth and you cannot contain the laugh in your chest. He nudges at your thigh with his toes when he hears it, but he's grinning down at you so you know he's not too upset. “So, how'd it go with nerdface? Did you get your happy ending too or what?”

“I don't know yet,” you sigh. He sits beside you when you pat the space there and ducks to catch your eyes when you look away from him, “I don't know. We didn't really talk a lot–”

“Keep that to yourself. Disgusting,’

“Not like that you fucking freak,” you scoff, “No, I mean, I told him how I felt, that I changed my mind. And, you know, we both cried a little bit. But I told him to go on the mission and we could talk after he got back. I don't know. I don't know what he wants or how it'll all play out.”

“Izuku has been obsessed with you for years,” Katsuki shivers with the next gust of wind, shoving his hands between his thighs to create some warmth, “I don't know what the outcome of all this shit will be, but it'll be good. It has to be after all the shit you went through for it.”

“I hope so,”

Katsuki ushers you back inside after he shivers again, insisting that if he's cold you must be too. He isn't wrong, but you argue anyway, just to poke the bear. He pokes back until you're both back in his apartment. He steers you towards a stool at his counter and once you’re settled he starts on breakfast.

“Give me that, what the hell is wrong with you,” he grumbles, plucking the half empty slushie cup out of your grip, “Blue raspberry isn't a flavor you're meant to drink before noon. Where did you even get this?”

“The twenty-four hour convenience store on the corner,”

“It should be fucking illegal to buy shit like this so early in the morning,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Your ban from work continues despite being officially deemed healthy enough to go back by your army of doctors. Aizawa is insistent on you taking more time, getting more rest, and you know arguing won't get you anywhere. So you stay home.

The days all mesh together, they're all the same. Today marks day five of doing the same shit over and over again, and day three of Izuku being gone on his mission, and you're moments away from slamming your head into the drywall of Katsuki's apartment. Not your own, no. The drywall of your apartment is already busted and construction still hasn't begun yet. That makes you wanna dive headfirst through the wall even more.

“You have nothing fun to do,” you complain for the millionth time as you follow Katsuki down his halls, toes dragging because you're too lazy to fly properly.

He's not doing anything particularly interesting, just his daily chores and clean up, but anything is better than sitting in the living room and watching the window like it's TV. He won't even let you help, and normally you wouldn't want to help. Who the hell wants to clean? Not you, and especially not if it's someone else's house. But you would. You would scrub dishes until your fingers bled if you could.

“Read a book,”

“I did,”

“Read another one,”

“I've read every book on the shelf,”

“It's only been five days, there's no way–”

“Well, all the fun ones,” you wave a hand dismissively as you float past him, “I didn't read any of the boring literature or history books. Just the All Might comics and some manga.”

“You took my All Might comics out of their protective sleeves?” he gasps, staring at you like you've betrayed him.

“Who's the nerd now?” you snort, offering him a pointed look. “We're getting off track here. I'm bored.”

“What the hell do you want me to do about that?” Katsuki barks, spinning on his heel to stomp back towards the living room. Presumably to inspect his comics.

“Fucking fix it,” you toss back, trailing closely behind him, “Come get coffee with me.”

“Fuck no, today's my one day off this week because I'm covering your patrolling shift with mindfuck tomorrow. Find someone else,”

“You are so cruel,”

“Suck it, loser,”

“Cruel,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku's mission goes well. Better than anyone thought it would. In fact, he and his team come home days before they're supposed to. And when he calls you requesting to meet up somewhere, you're more than eager when you ask him when and where.

The place you decide on is a sweet spot and one of your favorite bakery cafes. It's a small place, kitsch-y and warm with sweet American style pastries and strong coffee. You've been coming here for years, dating all the way back to before you had even enrolled at UA. You came here with your mom before she left, and your grandparents after that, and then your friends. You grin when you catch a glimpse of a familiar face through the window to the kitchen, icing a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls.

The owner is a sweet middle aged woman who likes to talk about her years spent in America to anyone who'll give her the time of day. You've heard the story of how she met and fell in love with her wife over a dozen times now, but it never gets old. You're a sucker for romance like that.

The whole business is family run, Kiyoko and her wife Sophie run the kitchen and their endless supply of nieces and nephews take turns serving guests and whipping up photograph-ready coffees and teas. Some work more often than others, only because they live in America during the school year and can only come out for summers to visit and help out.

Izuku is already there, draped over one of the chairs at the furthest table from the door and sporting the worst disguise you've ever seen in your life. A dark blue Ingenium themed baseball cap is haphazardly shoved over his mop of green curls, and a pair of Pro Hero Chargebolt themed sunglasses (that are the same ugly shade of yellow as the sweatshirt from the magazine cover) are slipping down his nose as he blows the steam from his mug.

“Nice disguise. Never would've guessed it was you,” you greet, coughing into your fist to cover up the laugh on your tongue when he turns towards you and visibly brightens at your sarcastic compliment.

“Thanks! Oh, here,” he scooches his chair over to make more space for you and your wings beside him, “Sit. Can I grab you a drink?”

“I'll get it,” you insist, pressing your hand to his chest when he tries to stand, “I just wanted to say hi first.”

“Okay,” he agrees and settles back into his seat. Before you can get too far, he curls his own hand over your own and smiles at you. His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles and he tilts his chin up to see you better when he says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” you laugh, leaning closer.

“Missed you,” he breathes, tightening his grip on you. His head tilts again, offering himself to you, waiting but not pushing, and you–

You're very aware that you haven't kissed yet. Not a real kiss at least. You've been friends for over a decade, cheek kisses have happened in that time. But you give cheek kisses to sweet old ladies and Eri too, so those don't count in your head.

You are so painfully aware of the lack of kissing that it makes your fingers go numb and your heart stutter in your chest. It's so dumb, you aren't some love struck teenager anymore. The idea of a kiss shouldn't have you feeling this way. You're an adult. An adult who has kissed people before. An adult who has done many things far more lewd than kissing with other adults. It feels wrong to do it now. Before talking, before figuring yourselves out. What if this conversation ends in an argument? What if it ends with the decision to ignore everything that's happened? If you kiss him now and then lose him, you don't think you'll survive.

And so, you chicken out. Izuku takes it in stride, like you knew he would. He smiles softly and jerks his head toward the register as a reminder to go order and it's clear he's giving you an out here. He offers it up so kindly, so sweetly, that you don't even feel guilty for turning away from him to go order. The kid working the register today is secretly your favorite of all of them. Ren is a sweet kid, freshly eighteen and freshly out as nonbinary. You remember the day they told you, how nervous they looked asking you to use the pronouns they preferred. How happy they were when you congratulated them on speaking up for themselves.

They look equally as shocked to see you as they are relieved when you stop in front of them at the register.

“You're here!” they gasp, leaning forward over the counter to look you up and down, “You aren't missing any limbs either! Auntie! Aviator's back!”

“I told you she was fine! What're those tabloids saying about her now?” Kiyoko hollers back, popping her head into the window, “Oh, she's here here! Hi, honey!”

“Hi, Kiyoko! Is the missus here too?”

“Not today I'm afraid. Sophie's visiting family in the United States right now. Oh she'll be so sad she missed you. Where in heaven have you been?” she frets, using her quirk to step through the wall towards you. “You had us all so worried! There were news headlines saying you'd gone missing from the hero scene!”

“I was– I'm fine,” you appease, offering what you hope is a calming smile. “I was just temporarily out of commission. But I'm better now and hoping to get back to work soon if they'll let me.”

“Well good,” Kiyoko sniffs, “Now, answer me this.”

“Anything,”

Kiyoko glances around conspiratorially and you meet her halfway when she leans into you to whisper, “Is that young man sitting at table six Pro Hero Deku?”

“Uh,” you risk a glance over at Izuku, who's watching you with wide, quizzical eyes, before looking back at Kiyoko, “Yes. It sure is. But he's been here before, I don't–”

“That's what I thought,” she interrupts, nodding triumphantly. And then her face contorts into the biggest shit-eating grin you've ever seen on her and she asks, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Auntie!” Ren squawks, looking as horrified as you feel, “You cannot just ask personal questions like that, oh my God!”

“What! I'm just curious! Especially because he's staring at you like you hang the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the sky,” she laughs, tossing you a wink, “If he isn't, he should be.”

“He isn't staring–”

“Oh, hush, yes he absolutely is,” she snorts, leaning back against the wall behind her. You fear your face is as warm looking as it feels. “I've seen all those tabloids about him and that Uravity gal, but I've never seen him look at anyone but you like that. He's always looked at you like that.”

“I don't know what we are,” you give in, practically deflating on the spot, “That's what I'm here to find out.”

“And I'm sure you're here for a coffee,” Ren says, successfully segueing the conversation. Kiyoko clicks her tongue at you both, but dutifully turns away towards the pastry case to let you order in peace. You wait to the side while Ren makes up your coffee just how you like it. When they set it on the counter for you, Kiyoko slides a pastry box towards you too.

“What's this?” you laugh, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Some raspberry turnovers. On the house,” she says, effectively ignoring you when you attempt to argue by phasing through the wall and into the kitchen again. You share a look with Ren and slap enough money on the counter to cover it anyways before turning to make your way back to Izuku.

“What was that about?” he wonders when you settle beside him.

“Kiyoko was meddling,” you push the box towards him and sip at your drink, “She gave us some raspberry turnovers though.”

“That's sweet of her!” he coos, carefully peeling the tape off the top to open it. Despite there being two, he still takes one and pulls it apart, offering out the larger of the two halves to you. You accept it with a smile.

After you finish your piece and suck the bits of raspberry filling and sanding sugar from your fingers, you ask, “So, what's up?”

Izuku hums around his cheekful of pastry, lifting his hat with his clean hand to scratch his head and ruffle his hair. He seems to hesitate with what he wants to say, nervously tapping his fingers along his cup, before he mutters, “Why– you said you didn't want this. That you didn't want to love me. And you didn't want to tell me either, you were going to– you did die. You died instead of just… telling me. And I can't wrap my head around it.”

“That was so cruel of me to say,” you say, “I should not have ever said that, I'm so sorry, Izuku.”

“I don't want an apology,” he rushes out, waving his hands out in front of him, “I don't want you to feel bad about it, I just want to know why. Was it– did I do something? Did you not trust me? Were you scared of me?”

“No. No, it wasn't that,” you're nervous, palms wet with sweat and heart fluttering in your chest, “At first, back in high school, I didn't think you had any interest. So for a long time, I didn't wanna ruin what we had. You're one of my best friends. And I know that even if I had told you, it wouldn't have made you drop me. And it probably wouldn't have been on purpose, but you're so hyper aware of how you treat people, I know it would've been different. You’d treat me differently, we wouldn't be like we had been. And I wasn't willing to risk that.”

“Okay,” he nods, shifting in his seat, “So, what about after high school, before you were sick?”

You watch a drop of condensation slip down the window in front of you. Follow the trail, guessing where it'll land, if it'll make it to the bottom before it disappears.

“I still wasn't sure how you felt. And by then, there were so many headlines about you and Ochako. And I know those are almost never true, but you guys have always been close. And I know she liked you too in school,” you sigh and lean forward in your seat to give your wings a little more space. The left one still aches sometimes, despite being all healed from the break it suffered. It's weaker now, just barely, but enough that you notice it. You stretch it wide, shake it out, and then fold it back nicely against your back.

Izuku follows the movements with sharp eyes. You take a breath and keep talking, “At some point, it sort of became a silly dream that I had. I made peace with it. I'd never fall out of love with you, but I'd never have you either. And that was fine as long as you were still here, you know? As long as we were still friends, it was fine. I ignored it. Stuffed all those feelings into a box and locked them up. I didn't ever even try to date anyone else, because I would've been a horrible partner. And that was fine too. I liked being alone. And if you ever did end up with Ochako, I would've been happy and supportive. Because I love you, and I love her, and I wanted you both to be happy.”

Izuku says your name in a soft whisper, ducking his head to catch your eye. You scrub your hands over your face and groan before turning to look at him. He looks exactly how you thought he would. Melancholic, heartbroken, thoughtful. He's soft when he says, “You don't have to tell me anymore.”

“I want to. You deserve to know,”

He nods, and you keep spilling your deepest thoughts for him. Word vomit is spewing from your chest, you can see the shadows of petals and stems on the tabletop. You tell him everything. You explain everything.

You tell him about how you wished he would reject you so you could have a moment of clarity. The way your feelings for him were so big you felt suffocated by them sometimes, and that's why you wished things were different. How selfish you feel about it all, how in denial you were about it for a long time. How you grieved him and the idea of there ever being an ‘us’ with him for years. How you mourned a relationship you thought would never happen.

You have a hard time articulating it all to him, but he seems to get it. He's always understood you, even before you'd been close. Even before you were in the hero course, back when you were just a gifted kid with a completely different dream. When you worked with your hands and went to sleep oil stained and excited to do it all again the next day.

(Being a hero had never been your plan. Sure, you had a useful quirk for it, you knew that young. And even during your days at UA, you knew you could transfer if you really wanted after being accepted. You'd been compared to Hawks more than once, you knew what you could do. But hero support had been your dream.

It's funny now, to think back on it, really. How against being a hero you were. You had no interest being on the front lines. Combat was never fun for you, you didn't get the rush kids in the hero course did when fighting. 

The war changed everything.

Aizawa and Hawks came to you to ask you to fight. They needed another Hawks for something, someone in the sky. And what the hell could you do, say no? Of course you couldn't. So you fought, you fought damn hard, and you won most of your battles.

The year following the war, you still refused to transfer. Despite Aizawa offering you a spot and taking you under his wing to train. You said no, you were firm in your decision.

Honestly, you don't know why you changed your mind. One day you woke up and remember thinking that if you could do even a fraction of the good that All Might did, that Deku did, you wanted to. You wanted to save people too.

You're still a shadow in the hero support world. You work with Mei on the downlow, fix friends' hero suits and support items under an alias and then go out and fight beside them.

You learned and adapted, figured out how to get the best of both worlds.)

By the time you've talked yourself out of breath, Izuku is openly crying beside you. Again, you find yourself uncomfortable. Laying your emotions out has never been a strong suit of yours, and you can feel phantom flowers in your chest. You briefly wonder if that feeling will ever truly go away.

“Sorry,” you say after a moment of silence, “I unloaded a lot. Didn't mean to do that.”

“No,” he sniffles, wiping at his cheeks and shaking his head, “I asked. Don't apologize.”

“I don't blame you if you don't want to pursue this,” you tack on, releasing a heavy breath. Your drink is long gone, but you tilt the cup back for the last few drops anyways, just for something to do with your hands. You miss the way Izuku whips his head up to look at you, mouth hung open and a panicked look on his face.

“Are you kidding?” he gapes. You don't look at him, focusing instead on the napkin in your hands. You tear it slowly, ripping tiny pieces off to pile up beside it. He sets his hand over yours, “I love you.”

“That doesn't mean we have to date,” you rasp, “We don't have to do anything. We could just– forget. We could pretend.”

“Do you remember in the hospital, when we confessed to heal your lungs?” he's so gentle with you, twisting your chair so your body is facing him. Your wings twitch behind you and he leans around to fix a few crooked feathers while you answer.

“I'll never forget it,” you huff, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Remember when you told me to reject you?” he goes on as he leans back again, settling across from you.

“Yep,” you nod.

“What did I say?”

“You said ‘no’,” 

“I did,” he concedes, “I also said I could never pretend I don't love you. This won't go away. I have spent years falling in love with you. I did it over and over, because it's you . I will always want this as long as you do. Do you want it?”

“I want it so bad,” you whisper, dropping your head back between your shoulders, “God, I have never wanted something more in my life.”

“Then you have it,” he laughs, like it's simple. And really, in a way, you guess it is. It always has been, you think. He sounds like he's still smiling when he says, “I'm all yours. Until you decide you don't want me anymore, but probably still then.”

When you finally look back at him, he looks beautiful. He's looking back, smiling so softly, so sweetly, it makes your teeth ache. It makes your chest ache the way his eyes squint when he smiles, the way his teeth peek out from behind full lips. How his freckles dance across the crinkled bridge of his nose when his smile widens. You want to spend the rest of your life committing each one to memory. You want to count them all and trace the constellations they make across his skin. There's a string of fate tying you to him, and it's unbreakable.

“I could never not want you,” is all you can think to say. And now, now you do want to kiss him. You want it so bad you can feel it in your teeth, in your fucking toes. But you don't.

The streets are busier, the bakery is picking up. There's too many people around and you know it'll be a whole shit show if someone snaps a picture of you together anyways. But it'll be far worse if it's a picture of you kissing. He's still in his terrible disguise, but you don't have the privilege of covering up. You're always exposed, the most recognizable thing about you is your wings and it's not like you can cover those up.

It'll look a lot worse for him than you if you kiss him and get caught by some pervy fucker with a camera. You're fairly underground, almost completely unknown, and people don't quite care about you the way they care about Pro Hero Deku. People that know enough about you to like you would be over the moon for a picture like that. People that like him would riot .

So you don't kiss him. You get another drink, and you share the second turnover with him. He tells you about his mission and you listen with just a smidge of jealousy. He notices and laughs, asking, “You miss it?”

“Oh, so bad,” you groan, “Dude, I'm going insane.”

“It's funny to think you almost didn't do this,” he hums, “Imagine how different things would be if you were in a lab instead.”

“I work under an alias with Mei sometimes,”

“I didn't know that! That's amazing!” Izuku gushes, leaning closer with hearts in his eyes, “How come I didn't know that?”

“It's a secret,” you laugh, “Hence the alias. Only a few people know, but I don't advertise it.”

“There's always something new to learn about you,” Izuku says quietly, suddenly awestruck and looking at you like you're a work of art. Your skin prickles with heat under the attention when he keeps going and says, “You're amazing.”

“Says you,” you scoff, deflecting. He hums, taking it in stride and props his head up with a hand on his cheek. You mirror him, grinning when he huffs a quiet laugh. Behind you, the bell above the door jingles and Izuku is slow to slip his sunglasses back over his nose and shuffle back to a more appropriate distance.

It's a group of young girls who ooh and aah at the pastries. One of them glances your way and has a look of recognition flash across her face. Izuku notices too, turning his face a little more out of her field of view and peering at you over the rim of his glasses. You both know he's too late, they've seen him.

“You've been caught,” you sing, laughing when his cheeks heat, “Gonna say hi?”

“Mm, I'd hope they can see I'm busy. But I will if I have to,”

“Wow, look at you. Not so nice after all,”

“Hey, I'm plenty nice,” he rolls his shoulders back, sits a little less like the Number One Hero and a little more like he's just some dude drinking coffee. You like being privy to this side of him, the side he doesn't show the public. The side of him that says fuck and gets irritated with fans. The one that doesn't help old ladies cross the street (they’ve done just fine before, they'll make it without him), and doesn't pick up trash in the streets. The grown ass adult side that's more like Katsuki than you think he cares to admit.

“Yeah, well, your fan club is coming over here. Smile, Deku,” you snicker, burying your grin into your collar. He follows your eyes when you flicker them toward the giggling gaggle of teenage girls inching their way closer. And when you stand he looks betrayed, “I'm gonna go talk to Kiyoko. Good luck, soldier.”

“Don't leave,” he begs, catching your hand before you can get too far, “Please, they're like wolves.”

“Fine,” you huff, folding easily for his big, puppy dog eyes.

The girls are fine. They don't squeal or cry, like some fans you've seen. They request an autograph and when he agrees, they run to ask Ren for a pen. The moment they turn their backs, Izuku takes you by the waist and rushes you out the door. You're both laughing, giggling into each other like you're teenagers breaking curfew. You run four blocks before he's pulling you into an alleyway to catch your breath.

“They were nice, why did we run?” you laugh, slapping his shoulder, “That was mean!”

“No one will ever believe them,” he shrugs, leaning back against a brick wall. “And I know Kiyoko will back me up.”

“Izuku!” you chastise, “What's gotten into you?”

“I'm not Deku right now,” he groans, “I don't wanna be Deku right now.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means, I'm just Izuku,” he hums, stepping closer. You raise an eyebrow, but meet him halfway when he tugs you closer by the hem of your shirt. “I'm just me and you're just you. No heroes here.”

“Uh huh,” you curl your fingers around his bicep, shivering when the hand at the small of your back presses you until your belly touches his, “And?”

“And,” he murmurs, ducking his head down inches from your own, “I'm gonna kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” you breathe, fitting yourself against him easily when he surges forward to press his lips to yours. Chest to chest, you consume him, you let him consume you. When he sighs, you're more than eager to swallow it down, offer him one of your own. You take everything he's willing to give, and he takes too. His hands are warm on your back, tickling their way up to settle against your shoulder blades so he can wrap himself around you. 

Kissing him is everything you dreamed it would be and more.

“Come home with me tonight?” he practically begs when he pulls away, lips shiny and kiss swollen.

“Okay,” you agree easily, chasing after him to press more kisses to the corner of his mouth, “Yeah.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

Izuku's house is warm, lived in. His furniture is nice, but not overly expensive. His dishes are mismatched, his walls are covered in decor. It's not all that different from his dorm back in high school, just a little more mature looking. He still has an overwhelming amount of All Might merch, but it's more spread out, blending well with friends’ merch and other things.

You've been here before, but never like this. You don't know how to hold yourself, what's appropriate and what's not.

“You're being weird,” Izuku teases, shedding his disguise. “Don't be weird. We're the same as before.”

“No,” you disagree immediately, though not unkindly, “We aren't. This is not the same at all. But, that's not a bad thing. Just–”

“Different,” he says, “You're right.”

“Takes some getting used to is all,”

He's got four large bookshelves that are overflowing with his own notebooks, old and new, comics, and manga, and that's where you plant yourself. You read through titles, take in all the knick-knacks decorating the empty spots. He's got an old photo of a bunch of UA alumni grinning at the camera. There's a cute, goofy looking Dynamight bobblehead beside the picture, staring you down from the top shelf and you reach up to flick the head, grinning when it bounces.

“I wish I had something of yours to add to my collection,” he comments, stepping up to join you with a hand on your hip.

“I'm not big enough for merch,” you remind him, “And I'm an underground stealth hero. I don't even think I'm allowed to have merch.”

“Aizawa has merch,”

“Not real merch. It's all fanmade, bootleg type shit,” you say with a snort, leaning into his warmth. “Do you not have work today?”

“No, I've got the next few days off because of the mission,” he says, then hesitates, gnawing at the inside of his cheek before adding, “Do you wanna stay the night?”

“Yeah,” you smile, leaning up to press a sweet kiss to the freckles splattered over his cheek.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You hadn't been expecting things to go the way they had when you spent the night, though you can't say you didn't like it.

Flashes of hot, sweat-slicked skin against your own flicker through your head. You remember how far down his freckles had reached, you think of those green eyes, staring up at you from between your legs. Scarred thick fingers squeezing so tightly at your thighs they left bruises. His mouth sealed over yours, swallowing down every noise you made. His own hiccuping sounds when you–

You're distracted. You can't be distracted. Today, you're officially back on duty. You're not back on the patrol roster quite yet, but you have a lot of paperwork to catch up on, so you hunker down in Katsuki’s office to do it.

On paper, you're a solo agent. You don't belong to any one agency, like Aizawa and Hitoshi, but you frequently find yourself working with or in Katsuki's agency.

Hitoshi joins you under the guise of being your partner and taking responsibility for half of the paperwork. You know it's really just because he and Katsuki are officially dating now and he wants to see him.

Simp , you think, as if you aren't exactly the same.

“Remind me again why you couldn't have just finished this shit?” you ask, wincing when the hand shaped bruise on your thigh throbs as you shift and tuck your foot beneath yourself.

Hitoshi notices your discomfort. He's seen it before, having marked you similarly. He watches for the telltale signs. The way you hiss, press your fingertips to the bruise in the same way whomever left them there must've, then flush a pretty shade of pink when you're inevitably reminded of how it got there.

“You got laid. You have a sex injury,” he accuses teasingly, leaning forward to press his own finger to the bruise. When you gasp, he does not hold in his laugh.

“It's not an injury , Jesus,” you bark out a shocked laugh too and slap his hand away when he keeps poking, “Just a bruise.”

“Damn,” he whistles, frowning down at his mug when he realizes it's void of any form of caffeine, “Didn't think he had it in him.”

“What, fucking me?”

“No, fucking you hard enough to bruise. Figured he'd be, like, vanilla. Missionary with super intense eye contact, you know, the works,”

“You are so fucked in the head,” you say.

“Like you aren't?” he throws back.

“I'm getting more coffee,”

“That's crazy, me too,” he grins, “You can give me details while we walk.”

“I hate you,”

“Mm, I don't think you do,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

They tell you that your apartment won't be fixed one month into your stay with Katsuki. Your landlord's son had been kind enough to call you the moment he found out.

“They found more structural damage after the accident that isn't worth fixing,” he explains over the phone, “Dad didn't wanna charge the tenants for an apartment they weren't currently living in. But without that income, he couldn't afford it anymore without risking foreclosure. And after finding out about the extent of the damages, he just decided to sell. He closed on a deal with a real estate company this morning and they're wanting to begin demolition immediately. Tenants have a week to get their things out.”

“That's not enough notice for more than half of the building,” you huff, “Where's your father gonna go?”

“My sister has an extra room,” he says, sounding extraordinarily tired, “I know a week isn't enough. I pushed for a month, but they wanna get started as soon as they can. And I have no say anymore. I'm sorry, Aviator.”

“Don't worry about it,” you sigh, “Thanks for calling. And tell your dad I said thank you too.”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

You hate moving. Even if you didn't particularly love where you were living, you still get this sad, melancholic feeling deep in your gut when you have to leave. It's definitely some childhood trauma shit, but you don't have time to deepdive into that.

And packing is a whole different annoyance. Especially packing an apartment that still looks like a warzone. You have backup on the way, Izuku and Katsuki are coming after they're joint patrol and Aizawa and Hitoshi texted saying they're a few minutes out. You're thankful for them, because you are overwhelmed.

Most of your stuff in the living room isn't even worth an attempt to save it. Your couch is destroyed, torn and missing pieces. Your TV is completely busted, folded in half and crushed under a chunk of your wall. Throw blankets are tattered, knick-knacks and tchotchkes broken or lost in the chaos, framed photos shattered and bloody.

You start in your bedroom instead.

By the time Aizawa and Hitoshi show up, you're nearly done packing all of your clothes. Hitoshi is gentle with you, he knows how you feel about moving. He offers you a coffee that you take with a grateful groan.

“How's it going?” Aizawa drawls, leaning back against your doorframe.

“The living room isn't even worth packing,” you huff, “Part of me wants to dig through the mess to see if I can salvage anything. But it seems useless at this point. They took so long that anything near the busted wall got wet from the rain we got a few days ago.”

“I'll dig through it for you,” he offers.

“You don't have to,” you mutter, defeated and tired.

“I know I don't have to, but I will,” he hums, scooping the hair off his neck to tie in a low bun, “You can focus on everything else. When will the boys be here?”

“Another fifteen, probably,” you say, “They're bringing the moving truck.”

“Well, with five of us it should be pretty quick,”

“Yeah,” you huff, “Thanks, Shouta.”

“Anytime, kid,”

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

“You have my merch?” Izuku coos, leaning past you to grab the sweatshirt behind you.

“Of course I do,” you laugh and slide another box across the floor and into the hallway. Katsuki scoops it up easily, grinning when you roll your eyes at his show of strength.

“I didn't know that,” Izuku blubbers suddenly, tears gathering on his lashes. “This is a limited edition, too!”

“Izuku,” you huff, snatching the hoodie back, “It's almost like I was desperately, embarrassingly in love with you for years.”

“Was?” he teases, catching you by the waist when you try to walk away and pressing himself against your back. He grins when you roll your eyes at him and leans down to leave a trail of light kisses over your shoulders.

You tilt your head back, urging him to drop one against your lips, “Kiss me and maybe that ‘was’ will change into ‘am’.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs into your neck, kissing a path from just below your ear to your lips and then leaving two more once he gets there.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

It's not a conscious decision, not on your part at least. You moving in with Izuku starts slow. Your time there begins to extend from a few days to a week, then more. Your things show up slowly at first, a couple shirts, your toothbrush. Shampoo and conditioner. It's not even you that's doing it, it's him. He's the one that's casually bringing more and more of your boxes up from his basement. He's the one that insisted you bring Hiro with you. 

It's been such an easy transition, you hadn't realized how normal it felt. Your dishes mixed with his in the kitchen, your books beside his on the shelves. Hell, you have your own dresser and a dedicated side of the bed and closet now. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to even notice. It's been nearly three months, and you're just putting it together on a random, lazy Sunday morning.

“Do I live here?” you ask, startling yourself. Izuku is across from you, lounging on the couch and half asleep. The TV drones on while he blinks a few times dumbly, mind lagging and drowsy. You gasp, horrified, “Did I accidentally move in with you!?”

“You didn't realize?” he laughs, sitting up with a stretch. You're momentarily distracted by the slither of skin that peeks out when his shirt rises with his arms. He grins when he catches the look in your eye.

“No? What the fuck? You did?” you say as soon as your tongue catches up with your brain again.

“Baby,” he snickers, “You never even started looking for apartments.”

“I'm– I was just procrastinating!”

“Every single one of your boxes has been unpacked,” he adds.

“I didn't ask you to do that!”

“Are you upset?” he murmurs, suddenly looking guilty.

“I–” you hesitate, taking in your home. Your things fit so seamlessly with his, like it was always meant to be like this, “I don't think I am.”

“Okay,”

“Just– sorry, I guess,”

“What? Why?”

“For moving in with you without asking, maybe? I don't know. Are you upset?”

“Are you kidding? Coming home to you is everything I've ever wanted,” he's so earnest when he says it, “I was gonna ask anyways, but then it just sort of happened.”

“Oh my God, that's so fucking embarrassing,” you whine and drop your head to your hands. He coos, crawling from the couch to the lounge you're occupying and crushing his weight down on you carefully. You let your hands fall from your face to wrap around his shoulders and curl into the dark green curls at the base of his neck, “Is love always this easy?”

“I don't know,” he answers honestly, “I wouldn't say this was easy. It took us a long time to get here.”

“Yeah, but now that we got here it is,” you whisper into his hair, pressing gentle kisses to the crown of his head. “I think it's supposed to be like this.”

“I think so too,” he groans, squishing his face further into your chest, “You're so warm.”

“Are you tired, baby?”

“Mm, no,” he says, turning to bite at the swell of your breast. When you hiss, he apologizes with wet licks and kisses over the mark until you make a softer noise.

“Oh,” you sigh, “Okay, not tired.”

“Definitely not tired,” he huffs, scooping you up easily as he stands. “But I still prefer the bed for this. Only the best for my love.”

Your laugh is warm, loud and unapologetic, bouncing along the walls of the house as he carries you up the stairs and to your bedroom. His own laugh twists together with yours, filling the corners of your shared space. Somewhere downstairs, the bell on Hiro's collar jingles.

It's a vibrant feeling, realizing that this is your home too. The bed he drops you on is yours too. And the shower you share after is yours. You and him have weaved parts of each other into your lives, intertwined everything to make it shared.

It's not ‘mine’ or ‘his’ anymore, it's ‘ours.’

It's shared . It's two people coming together to make one life because they love each other enough to make space for one another.

It's everything you've ever wanted.

── 𓇢𓆸 ──

When you were a kid, you didn't ever want to fall in love. You watched first hand how love ruined your mother. The man who helped bring you into this world hadn't even stuck around long enough for you to meet him. And when he left, he took a piece of your mother with him you think. And she spent years looking for it. Chasing men, begging them. Changing for them.

Every man after that was the same. Kind in the beginning, sweeter than sugar to you and your mother. And then, somewhere along the line, a switch was always flipped. They didn't want kids, they didn't want you . And they never stuck around long enough for you to call them dad, not that you ever would.

You didn't need a dad, you had your mom. She was enough for you, she always would be.

You weren't enough for her.

She craved love so badly from a man, it wasn't enough if it was from you.

One man stuck around long enough. He treated her so well, he said he loved her. He asked if she loved him too. If she loved him enough to leave you behind.

The first few times he asked, she had laughed him off. You listened through the crack in your door, waiting and wishing that she would finally put your relationship with her first. 

When you were ten, she left. And you learned that unconditional love doesn't exist. Not with men or women. Not with family, not with your own mother.

“He's gonna marry me,” she had said, delighted and rushing to pack her suitcase. “He just– well. He doesn't want kids. You want me to be happy, don't you? You understand, right?”

You didn't. Of course you didn't.

If love could do that, if it could take your mother away from you, you didn't want it.

Your grandparents had been furious with your mother when they took you in. They raised you well. With so much love, they taught you it could be good . They were so proud of you when you got your acceptance letter from UA. And they cheered for you during your first Sports Festival.

They tried to show you better love, healthier love.

“Love is easy,” your grandmother said, time and time again, “It shouldn't be hard. Real love is so easy, so simple. They won't ask you to change, they won't want you to be different. They'll love you as you are. And if they really love you, you'll believe them when they say it.”

And eventually, you could see it in them, in the way your grandfather knew how your grandmother took her tea, in the way your grandmother still made his favorite meal every year on his birthday, even after he passed. When she passed three years after him, you were more happy than sad. Still heartbroken, of course, but she was with him again. He had always been her happy place, and you knew they were together again, wherever they were.

You see them again in your life, in the relationships around you. You see them in Izuku and yourself, in Katsuki and Hitoshi, in Shouta and Hizashi. You see that same love, the good kind. The unconditional kind. The kind your mother failed to show you.

And you can see it now. Written between the lines of love, of devotion you've given each other. It's so saccharine, warm and gooey like honey. Izuku is so easy to love , he is so quick to give it right back. He makes the space for you, so he can love you and the rest of the world too. He fits himself in that hole in your chest, he cups his hands so tightly together to collect your soul when you pour it into his accepting palms. And he doesn't hesitate to pour his own into your hands, because he trusts you with it. Because he loves you.

He is so sweet, so kind, when he says he loves you too. He is a good man, and you are grateful to be the one to love him. You're grateful for the mornings where you wake up with him and the nights you fall asleep with him. And he, in turn, is just as grateful. And he shows it so openly. Touching you whenever he can, even if it's just a hand on your arm as he passes by you or a leg tangled between yours while you sleep. He kisses you at every opportunity, in public and in private. He dances with you in the kitchen, dips you low to the floor and presses a kiss over your heart.

You've spent years wanting him, loving him, and you are so fortunate in being able to do that. He'd shout his love for you from the rooftops if he could, you're sure. And you would do the same damn thing.

Being in love with Midoriya Izuku is so easy, all things considered. It's as automatic as breathing and blinking and being, because he loves you back just as easily. And in some sick and twisted way, you're thankful for those flowers that had sprouted in your chest. Without them, you wouldn't have this easy, beautifully simple love.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you,” he replies. And it's so easy, and he doesn't ask you to change anything about yourself, and you believe him every time he says it.

[stealingyourbones]

Submitted Prompts #98

Danny and Raven are both hybrid supernatural creatures. Which means, they end up meeting during a couple of pagan celebrations.

They get to talking, and realize they get along really well. So, since on Raven's side of things, she still hasn't met the Titans yet, Team Phantom just essentially adopt her. Sam adores her new goth friend. They help her feel normal, and she gives them precious advice on magic and how, sometimes, defeating an enemy comes at the cost of their life, because they might not give you much of a choice...

Soon, Raven meets the Titans, while Danny goes along his usual business of keeping Amity Park safe. They keep meeting up for celebrations, birthdays and random meetings for no reason other than a slightly feral sense of "I missed your presence at my side" they all have with each other.

The Titans are very curious on why she keeps disappearing every year at the exact same time, but all they know is the bare bones "magical meeting of magical entities that practice magic".

Until one day, when Raven almost tore Titans Tower apart while desperately trying ANYTHING to contact a friend who seemed to be "gone, and nothing can reach him. What did that idiot do?!?!?!" They are...justifiably concerned...and Robin smuggles the Batplane out of it's hangar so they can help their friend, who's always so composed, actually get to Amity with some backup in case things are going wrong.

Nothing would have prepared them for the SMOKING GODDAMN CRATER in the ground where a town should be. Raven can't reach past the Veil. The way seems to be blocked (since Amity, in the Ghost Zone, has the Ghost Shield up and running) and her powers are going a little wonky and unstable, random rocks lifting and orbiting her and the town limits as the Titans investigate as much as they can.

Until, with roaring thunder, Amity is thrown back into it's proper spot. But something's wrong. Phantom is easy to feel. He's always been a shimmering beacon in Raven's senses, but right now he feels...subdued, and yet swelling with new power...

It's not until Twam Phantom goes to meet her, that raven realizes what's wrong. She knows that Crown, and the Ring her friend is cradling in his hands. Ectoplasm is staining his hands, his suit, and, most noticeable, his teeth.

He looks like he'd rather be anywhere than here, and Sam goes in for a hug, and tells Raven they're calling a "Code Panda" (because pandas have a startlingly high chance of abandoning their Cubs before adulthood, and are generally idiots).

Robin volunteers to destroy the portal when they're ready to go, while the rest of the Titans start closing ranks around the seemingly traumatized teenage hero in case he needs help. The most he reacts is to let Raven float to him and hug him as he whispers a soft "Hey Ray...I had to follow your advice..."

(I imagine that Raven's own experiences would help Danny come to understand that, even if his Rogues can be reasoned with, there will eventually come a time where a new one might not. So they have to be prepared for that eventuality. So Danny treats Pariah's Core like one of those chewing gums with the liquid in the center of it, when he realizes the Old Tyrant King isn't going to go quietly, nor will he listen to reason. And hearing his parents talk about how Phanton would have to be exterminated soon before he "got too powerful" leads Danny and his friends to get out of Amity ASAP. Luckily, they have a friend who's very happy to have them around. Is this an "Everlasting Trio+the DC character they fell for" thing? Not necessarily, but my brain pictures them as starting to date while Raven got busy with the Titans, and when they're all together, they platonically drag Raven to their cuddle pile, where they romantically confess their shared feelings for her. But it's really up to interpretation of whoever reads it.)

[toboldlygohome]

My Hero

Leonard McCoy x Reader

Summary: When a ground mission goes south, it's up to you to make sure the doctor makes it back safe and sound.

Character(s): Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Spock

Warning(s): Violence, Wounds, Cursing, Mild Suggestive Themes, McCoy Complaining

To say things weren't going well would be the understatement of the century. It was supposed to be an easy mission, but that's always how these stories start, huh?

The scanners indicated a series of underground caverns, ones that appeared artificial. Ruins that the archaeology department just couldn't go without exploring. Scanners also claimed there were no life forms within these caverns. The scanners were wrong.

You were the head of security aboard the USS Enterprise. As such, it was your duty to ensure the safety of the crew and perform a risk assessment. Chief Medical Officer McCoy joined you to run some scans, testing for biohazards that would put the ship at risk. Also accompanying you were two other security officers, two engineers to check the structural integrity of the tunnels, a biology officer, and an archaeology officer.

Once the entrance was found, your team discovered that the caverns were actually a sprawling ancient city built in a massive cave system. You also discovered that your communicators weren't working the deeper you traversed the city. If only that were the end of your worries. Two hours into the excursion, a loud echo of rubble falling came from the direction of the entrance. And if that wasn't enough, you were swiftly and brutally attacked by a sizable group of strangers who must have been using the city as a hideout.

In the pandemonium that followed, part of the ceiling came down and cut you off from the rest of the team. It was just you and Dr. McCoy, lost in a labyrinth of ancient ruins and unmapped caves. The doctor was a smart man, a man you greatly respected, a man you were proud to call a friend (for the most part). But he was the last person you would want to be trapped underground with. Complaints came to him as easily as breathing and with every wrong turn, his agitation only grew worse.

"I can't believe this, we just had to explore the underground city and for what? What could we possibly gain from coming down here?" Leonard grumbled.

"Knowledge about a lost civilization? Insight into what it takes for an intelligent species to naturally go extinct?" You suggested as you led him deeper into the city, careful to avoid any traps the armed strangers might have set for you.

"Who cares?! This place is a deathtrap, a goddamned asthma attack waiting to happen! We had no business sticking our nose where it didn't belong, and where did it get us?! I'll tell ya where! Trapped miles underground with an armada of murderous cave dwellers, with no way of contacting the ship!"

"Why don't you complain a little louder doctor, I can still hear myself think. And while you're at it, how about you go ahead and alert all our enemies to our exact location." You snapped, keeping your voice down despite the frustration.

Leonard huffed and looked away from you.

"Look..." You sighed, "I know this situation sucks, but losing our heads isn't going to get us out of here. I'm doing everything in my power to find our team and get back to the ship. I need you to have a little faith in me for once. Can you manage that?" You asked as calmly as possible.

"What the hell do you mean, for once?" Leonard frowned.

You hesitated, unsure if you really wanted to open that can of worms, but he had already worn down your patience. You gave in. "Come on Doctor, it's no secret you have zero trust in me as the Chief Security Officer."

"That's not-"

"There's no point in denying it now. I mean, all you ever do is criticize my work and admonish me for being reckless." You stated cooly, keeping your eyes fixed on the path before you.

"Well, what do you expect me to do when you come back from half your missions with cuts and bruises?" McCoy groused.

"I expect you to do your job and heal me, not tell me how to do mine. I'm a security officer, Injuries are par for the course I'm afraid."

"Doesn't mean you have to throw caution to the wind every chance you get. You volunteer for every single dangerous situation you can find and act surprised when it goes wrong! Seriously, it's like you and Jim have this intense, cosmic desire to play the goddamned hero and be a general pain in my ass. Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe seeing you like that bothers me?"

"You know what bothers me doctor?" You turned to look at him. "The fact that I have undergone rigorous self defense training in four kinds of martial arts, various forms of aerial combat, tech weapons, as well as training in tracking, risk assessment, reconnaissance, and mediation; yet, you still think so lowly of me as an officer that you think I'm the type of person who throws caution to the wind. I'm not careless, I don't take unnecessary risks. I want to live for a long time, but more than that, I want you and the crew to live for a long time. If that means I get bumped around every so often, that's fine by me. Of course I volunteer for all the missions. I'm the Chief Security Officer. If I wasn't the most qualified person for the job, I wouldn't be the CSO." An unreadable expression passed over Leonard's face as you spoke. "Now I'm going to do what I came down here for, and you're just going to have to be okay with that because I don't know what else I can say to get you to believe in me."

A muscle feathered in Leonard's jaw as you turned around and started walking again. The two of you had your fair share of lighthearted quarreling before, but you had never been so... angry at him.

You were right of course, danger was a part of your job and it wasn't fair of him to criticize you for being dedicated. The ship has known a lot less casualties since you arrived. In fact, your presence has made his job easier. But every time you returned to the ship battered and bleeding, Leonard grew more afraid that next time you wouldn't come back at all.

Bones had allowed his feelings for you to get in the way of his professionalism, and if your reaction was anything to go by, perhaps even your friendship as well.

You normally got along quite well. You'd share meals during breaks and join him after hours for a drink. Leonard always found it strange you never talked about your work with him, but he always chalked it up to you just needing a break from your job. Instead you both talked about your hobbies, plans for the future, memories from the past, pretty much anything and everything but your job. The only times you ever had disagreements were when you came back hurt after a mission. He always assumed you understood that his comments about your recklessness came from a place of care and concern. In retrospect, it was a stupid thing to assume.

Leonard needed to apologize, to clear up this terrible misunderstanding before your resentment grew into something unfixable.

"Y/N, I'm-"

"Shh-" You froze and held your hand up, signaling him to stop.

Leonard froze as well. Everything was quiet... too quiet. His eyes darted to you. Your hands inched toward your phaser like you were anticipating an attack he had yet to detect. You stayed that way for a few moments, eyes darting this way and that. Eventually, you relaxed your shoulders and turned back to Bones with a finger to your lips. Leonard nodded and you were both on your way again.

He had never seen you in action before. In all the time you had been on the ship together, he'd never had the pleasure of seeing first hand how you dealt with a crisis on foreign soil. He could see now how you had made such a difference. You were level-headed and confident. Even after your little spat, you were doing your job to keep him safe so diligently. Bones also noticed how quiet you were. If you weren't right in front of him, he might not have even known you were there. He watched as you expertly avoided shuffling your feet and kicking rocks. He made sure to step where you were stepping, or at least he tried to.

Leonard felt the ground give under his feet and he instantly knew he fucked up.

"God dam- AHHH!" Something snapped tight around his ankle and he hit the ground hard. Leonard felt the wind being abruptly pushed from his lungs and he couldn't decide what scared him more, the rope dragging him across the ground to god knows where, or the fact he couldn't catch his breath.

"Shit!" You gasped and pulled out your phaser. "Leonard, hold on!" You sprinted after him and shot at the rope, but it was hard to hit such a small target. Then you saw his destination. There was a massive ravine at the end of the chamber. No time for thinking.

You planted your feet firmly on the ground and aimed at the rope. You clenched your jaw hard and shot.

The beam flew.

Leonard watched the light sever the rope, just in time!

He came skidding to a stop right at the lip of the cliff.

Bones was lost in a daze of adrenaline, but luckily you had the presence of mind to drag him back.

"Doctor? Len, are you okay?" You crouched beside him and took his face in your hands.

"Just peachy! What the hell happened?!" Bones groaned and sat up, with your assistance of course.

"Looks like you activated a trap, doc." You frowned.

"How's my back?" He winced.

"You got some skid marks, but it looks like your uniform did a pretty good job protecting you. I think you'll live." You said gently. Leonard administered a hypospray to himself and you helped him up.

Looking down in the chasm, you shook your head and huffed. "Looks like we're gonna have to find another way down. Why don't you take a breather and I'll look around?"

"Breather my ass," Leonard grumbled, "You just want me out of the way so I don't step on any more goddamned traps."

"Hey, you said it. Not me," You joked.

"At least have the courtesy to deny it!" He scoffed.

You laughed and handed him your communicator, "Here, yours got all busted during your tumble. Keep trying to get in contact with the Enterprise and I'll be back before you know it. Just don't touch anything. Think you can handle that?"

"Just get out of here before I schedule all your vaccinations for tomorrow." He scowled and fiddled with the communicator.

You snickered and went on your way.

Leonard grumbled to himself as he tried to get a signal. Dammit, he was a doctor! Not an engineer! After ten minutes of nothing, he huffed and ran a hand over his face. It was no use, they were in too deep. Their only hope of rescue would be that the captain realized something was off and sent a team after them.

In the meantime, he was at least happy to have some alone time with you-

"I think I found a way down," you said, startling the doctor so badly he almost jumped out of his skin.

"Dammit Y/L/N," He stood and dusted off his rear end, "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"You say that like it's a difficult thing to accomplish," you smirked.

"You're hilarious. Why are we going down anyway, isn't that the opposite of what we want to do?" Leonard scowled.

"Down is the only direction left to go. It's not ideal, but it's all we have. I also heard talking coming from the bottom of that chasm. It's not in a language I understand, which means it's likely the cave dwellers. If they're hanging out down there, it probably means there's a path that loops back around. We'll have to keep quiet though, don't want them to know we're following."

Leonard's heart betrayed him and decided to start beating faster of its own accord. Sure, he found it really attractive when you showed off your intelligence. Of course he thought it was enticing when you spoke confidently, like the universe bowed to your whim. Did that mean he wanted to be spellbound by your endless charisma in such a dire situation? Hell, maybe he did. He wasn't even sure anymore...

"Sound good, doctor?"

He thought back to your... conversation about him having no faith in you. "Sounds great. Lead the way," he replied.

~~~

The path down was thin and arduous. The stairs could hardly be considered stairs anymore. It was more like a damp slide made of mineral buildup. Leonard was also beginning to realize he needed to do some more intense leg workouts. There was an exercise routine that all crew members were required to follow. But regardless of the shape he was in, his ass was burning! Time to up the incline on the treadmill.

You, however, were doing just fine. Not a single slip in the wet terrain. He could tell you were moving slower to keep Leonard from falling behind, which was only slightly embarrassing.

At the bottom of the ancient waterslide, there was a pool of questionable depth. Leonard cursed under his breath. The water was dark and so was everything else, even with their flashlights. They could walk right into a 400 foot drop and they wouldn't even know it. At least the waterfall flowing nearby would mostly drown out their screams.

You turned to Leonard and held your hand out to him. Thank god it was dark, you would have seen his face light up like the fourth of July! His blush only grew when you leaned in close to his ear. "Stay close. We're gonna take it slow," you whispered. He nodded and grasped your hand tight.

You waded into the freezing water and pulled McCoy along with you. Taking careful, controlled steps forward, you searched the floor for holes. The two of you moved at a snail's pace, but Leonard hardly cared. Better to be slow and steady than fast and... reckless.

You suddenly stopped, causing McCoy's chest to slam into your back. You flailed, teetering on some unseen edge. You tried to push him back, but Leonard's arms found your waist and pulled you into him.

"Dammit. Are you okay?"

"Peachy," you huffed. "Found a hole.''

"I figured," he slowly let go and tried to peer into the water. He saw nothing but darkness. Terrifying. God damned terrifying.

"How good are you at swimming?" you asked.

"Good when I can see where I'm going."

"Want to brave the waters, or go around?"

"I'd rather not have my pants and my shirt wet if I can help it."

"Go around it is."

Turns out the hole was huge. It took a long time to trace the perimeter, but eventually you ended up on the other side. You were both dripping and freezing, but at least you weren't drowning victims. Always look on the bright side.

Once you cleared the roar of the waterfall, it was back to silence. The alien voices were getting louder and louder with each step. Leonard wouldn't be surprised if they stumbled on a gaggle of them just around the corner. You kept your phaser in hand just in case. Leonard had his out as well... but he was a doctor, not a gunslinger.

The path slowly grew more steep, traveling upward like a real-life stairway to heaven. Huh... They had to go down... to go up... Leonard wondered why anyone would design a path this way. The corridor ended in a sharp turn, which you had the presence of mind to investigate before barreling in like you owned the place. There was an alcove with five unknown people of indiscernible origin. The one thing you were sure of was that they were not Human, Vulcan, Romulan, Ferengi, Klingon, or Andorian. In fact, these guys had four arms each, so you were able to rule out a great deal of species.

Normally, you would turn around and find a different route, but this was the only way forward. Leonard watched as you checked to ensure your phaser was on the stun setting. Nope, he did not like this one bit. What if you missed?! Were you really going to take on five people at once? He grabbed your arm and shook his head. You frowned and leaned into his ear once again. "There's no other way. I don't like it either... Stay back."

McCoy reluctantly did as you said. You outranked him. He didn't really have a choice. You stepped out from around the corner and shot off exactly five blasts. The doctor didn't see the beams make contact, but he did see the aftermath and... goddamn...

"Shit, darlin'," he placed his hands on his hips as he glanced over the room. "Remind me never to piss you off."

You holstered your phaser. "We should keep going... Could you give them a scan, doctor? Just to make sure I didn't... you know."

"Say no more, I'll have this done in a jiffy."

You snorted, "jiffy?"

"Don't even start."

"Adorable," you smiled and started collecting the weapons that had been haphazardly strewn on the floor.

McCoy nearly dropped his scanner.

'Come on man, get yourself together! You're a doctor for crying out loud! Act like one!'

Leonard shook his head of all thoughts regarding the implications of your one-word compliment. Instead, he focused on the readings of the scan. Oh, looks like these people are Kaviran. Kavirans are an endangered species of nomadic planet-hoppers. They're increasingly rare to find, no wonder he didn't know who they were at a glance. All five of them seemed to be in good health.

"I reckon they'll be just fine," Leonard stood and attempted to dust off his pants. It just smeared in like mud because the fabric was still damp.

"I reckon we better be on our way then," you smirked. While he was working, you hid the weapons... somewhere. Leonard was so caught up in the scans that he didn't see where you stashed them.

Leonard trailed behind you once again, but you had picked up the pace. He wasn't complaining per se, the sooner you got out of here, the better. The hard thing was realizing just how tired he was. What time was it? How long had they been down here? Surely Jim had noticed something was off by now!

McCoy cursed under his breath and pulled out your communicator he borrowed earlier... still no signal.

"Damn useless hunk of junk," the doctor grumbled.

"Still nothing?"

"Nothing. Seriously, what's the point in carrying these things around if they never work when you need them to?"

You nodded in agreement. "At least this might push Starfleet to do an overhaul of our coms technology. We needed one, like... yesterday," you chuckled.

"You can say that again... And while they're at it, they can update our ship's scanners. This place was supposed to be empty, remember?" McCoy raised an eyebrow.

"I'll be sure to put it in my report, along with a request for waterproof shoes," you grinned back at him.

"You know, I could go for a hot shower right about now," Leonard hummed.

"Head out of the clouds please, doctor."

"My head is currently as far from the clouds as it could possibly be. I'm 2,576 meters underground."

"Where'd you pull that number from?" you chuckled.

"My ass," he grumbled.

"That sounds very unsanitary, doc."

"Well, I would have pulled it out of my medical bag, but I lost it during the cave-in."

"Oh yeah, I thought you were missing somethi- Wait... where did you get the hypo from?" you turned to look at him.

"Hypo?" he asked.

"When you got caught in the trap, you gave yourself a hypospray to help with the pain. Where did you get it from?" you asked incredulously.

"Sweetheart, a good doctor always keeps a backup in his pocket. Especially when you've been a field medic as long as I have," Leonard said.

"And how long is that?" you chuckled.

"Never ask a man his age," Leonard winked. His eyes were probably playing tricks on him... but he could have swore he saw you blush. You turned away before he could confirm his suspicions.

"I'll just look it up in your file later," you teased.

"Isn't that a breach of conduct?" the doctor huffed.

"I'll be evaluating a security risk."

"Security risk?"

"Absolutely. Can't have a dinosaur operating on the crew~"

"We're the same age, smart-ass."

"Damn, doctor. You look good for your age." You turned and winked back at him.

Now it was Leonard's turn to be flustered. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times like a fish out of water, unable to form a sentence that would make even a lick of sense. McCoy finally settled on rolling his eyes and turning his attention to the cave walls. You just laughed and faced forward again.

With how you were acting, Leonard could almost believe things were normal, that he was not hundreds of feet underground. He could almost believe he was back on the Enterprise, playing darts with you in the recreation room... He could almost believe everything was okay between you.

He had been feeling it since, have a little faith in me for once, fell from your lips. McCoy had been a doctor for years, he knew what bedside manner looked like. You were trying to keep him at ease, pretending everything was fine... but it wasn't. The jokes... the smiles... they were all just tools for de-escalation. He thought through what he had said earlier about you coming back with all the cuts and bruises. He meant what he said, it does bother him... But it wasn't what he wanted to say.

He wanted to tell you that he trusts you, that he always will. He wanted to say that... that you're the bravest person he's ever met. He wanted to take it all back. Instead of calling you reckless, he should have said that seeing you in pain hurts him more than any physical wound he'd ever had.

He should have said, I'm sorry...

He could do it now. Was now the right time? When is it appropriate to apologize? When was it not? God, Leonard was such a mess. Why was it so hard to just say sorry?! It wasn't his pride getting in the way! If it was, he wouldn't even be able to admit any wrongdoing! 'Just say it you bastard! Tell them! It's on the tip of your tongue!'

"Y/N?"

"Yes, doctor?"

He didn't have time to speak. A deep, aggressive tone echoed down the dripping cave halls. It sounded like... a war horn? You turned back to look in the direction you just came from with a grave expression.

"Len, you're gonna have to hold that thought."

~~~

He couldn't quite remember when he started running, but down the narrow passage he flew, stumbling occasionally over uneven terrain. The wind screamed in his ears. Leonard was sure he had never run so fast in his life. You were right behind him, letting him set the pace, never passing him by. He wasn't sure how long he had been going for, but his lungs burned and his legs shook with every stride. He could stand for hours during surgery, but running nonstop through a cave was a whole different ballgame for him.

Leonard could hear yelling and heavy footfalls, but was unsure of which direction they were coming from. Were they being followed, or were they running into a trap? He found his answer soon enough when he skidded to a halt in front of twenty Kavirans... twenty-one actually. Then, when he thought the situation couldn't get any worse, the five Kavirans you left behind in the tunnel came up from the rear. You were boxed in. Two against twenty-six.

You pulled McCoy behind you, phaser poised to shoot at a moment's notice. It wouldn't do him much good when the cave-dwellers decided to attack, but he appreciated the sentiment.

"Humans. Lower your weapons and you will be left unharmed." One of the Kavirans said in gurgly English.

"I will not lower my weapon until your colleagues all do the same." You said cooly.

"To make this stand would be foolish. Lower your weapon," the Kaviran you assumed was the leader reiterated.

"It is against policy to lower my weapon until I have ensured the safety of the crew in my care."

"You attacked our people in our own home. You are in no place to bargain."

"You attacked us unprovoked shortly after we arrived. If we had known this place was occupied, we would have left it alone. We were on a scientific excursion. There was no intent to do you any harm-"

"And yet, five of my people have been ambushed." The leader gestured with one of his four hands to the slightly disoriented aliens behind you.

"I have no desire to fight you. Let us pass and we will leave you in peace." You seemed to realize it at the same time Leonard did. Discussion was futile. They wanted to kill you while putting in the least amount of effort possible. If you had no weapon to fight back with, what threat could you possibly pose?

"Lower your weapon," the leader scowled.

Leonard watched your shoulders tense. You raised your chin and narrowed your eyes at the Kaviran. "Doctor?" you said.

"What is it, Y/L/N?" Leonard clenched his jaw.

"Duck."

It took him a whole three-fourths of a second to register what you were asking of him, then he hit the deck.

You Immediately opened fire, taking down six Kavirans in a matter of seconds. You missed the seventh when your wrist was seized by one of the alien's long sticks, which clamped around your arm like the jaw of a beast and flipped you onto your back. You wrenched the stick out of his hand and snapped the shin of the guy beside you.

A heavy boot just barely missed your head. You ripped the weapon from your arm and swiped it under the legs of the assailant, driving your elbow into his ribs when he hit the ground.

Someone is on you. It's a mess of limbs. Four arms to your two. Your fist rattles his jaw. Once. Twice. Again.

He's on his back, your legs straddling his stomach as you wail on him. Four hands are on your shoulders. You grab two by the wrist and twist them out with a disgusting crunch.

Something burns in your shoulder as you stand. Leonard is on the ground, clawing at an alien's eyes with one hand, reaching for his phaser with the other. You grab the Kaviran by her hair and rearrange her face with your fist.

You're blinded by a sharp pain in your temple and the sound of phaser blasts barely breaks through the ringing. Bracing yourself on a rock, you catch your breath, but only for a second. A dodge, you grab the alien's stick and clock him in the stomach, then lock him in a choke hold with it. His four arms out-maneuver yours and the weapon is pulled from your hands.

Two more guys join in. A scramble for power ensues. You endure a barrage of punches. These guys are relying on arms. You force one into the wall with your shoulder and catch another in the spine with your foot.

Heavy breathing.

Shots are ringing out. The caves are dark and the only light is from the phaser, the laser guns, and the abandoned flashlights being kicked around the cave floor in the chaos.

The rest is over and your forehead clashes with an alien skull. Your side rips open on a rock as you fall to the ground, but you don't stay down for long. You decide to go for a new tactic, less hitting, more kicking.

One of them goes for a punch, you block with your forearm and bring your knee to her side before planting a swift kick to the face. The caves echo the sound of grunts and groans, fists and feet hitting flesh, and gunfire. You don't know where your phaser is, but you could really use it right about now.

Your eyes are starting to swell and everyone is starting to tire. You're relieved to see Leonard taking cover behind a rock column. You take another down, then another. Leonard is under heavy fire. If you can get the gunmen off him, then he will be free to stun the others into submission.

You run for the first gunman and surprise him with three well placed kicks, the other fires on you and misses miserably. You reward him with a broken nose and a dirt nap.

Your attention is occupied by four Kavirans, who lunge at you all at once. You're overpowered by the strength of their doubled limbs. One is holding down your arms, two more have subdued your powerful legs, and the last is destroying your face. You manage to yank one arm free to land a few hits on your main attacker, but it doesn't last long. Four hands are crushing your neck and-

Silence.

They all slump to the floor.

You lay there, too tired to fight the dead weight of the alien on top of you.

It wasn't until Leonard appeared like an angel sent from the heavens, that you finally remembered how to breathe. He pushed the guy off you and cradled your bloody face in his hands.

"Y/N? Darlin', can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, doc," your voice came out as a dry rasp.

McCoy pulled a hypo from his pocket. "That's really good sweetheart, can you tell me where the pain is?"

"Everywhere hurts. My legs are sore, but I can walk. My head and my ribs feel the worst. Something is definitely broken." you cleared your throat.

"I'm thinkin' you're right... any numbness?"

"Yeah, some down my right arm and near my ribs and chest." you gestured with your slightly-less-injured left arm.

"Nerve damage, nothing I can do about that until we're back on the ship," Bones hung his head and sighed in defeat. That was when you noticed a small stream of blood trickling down the side of his face. You reached up and tenderly tried to brush it away with your thumb, but you only managed to smear it.

"You're hurt... I'm sorry-" you started.

"I'm hurt?! You-" Leonard's voice betrayed him. Doctors were supposed to exude a sense of calm, but he just couldn't keep it in this time. "You're laying here in a pool of your own blood and you're worried about me?!"

"Has anyone ever told you that you have incredible bedside manner?" you winced and tried to sit up, but he pushed you back down.

"Don't. You. Even. Dare," he narrowed his eyes at you, pulled out his tri-corder, and snatched one of the rogue flashlights from the floor. The scan results made him want to rip his hair out. Your whole body was basically covered in one big bruise. Five broken ribs, a broken nose, several major lacerations, laser wounds, and a massive concussion. That wasn't even close to all of it, but one thing at a time.

He injected you with his last spare hypospray. Leonard really wished he had his goddamned kit right about now. The gashes in your side needed to be closed somehow. You were losing too much blood with the wound open like that. No auto-suture, no thread and needle, no bandages. There was only one option. Cauterization.

"Stay," Leonard ordered before grabbing a laser off of a fallen Kaviran and one of the metal sticks from the floor. The doctor blasted the end of the rod until it was red-hot and settled beside you again.

"That doesn't look fun," you pursed your lips.

"It won't be. It's going to hurt... a lot," Bones said.

"Great," you huffed and leaned back into the dirt.

"Lucky for you, Spock gave me some good practice with this method a few years ago. It'll be quick, I promise," he tried to reassure you.

"Yeah, yeah. Just get it over with, please."

"Deep breath in," Leonard whispered soothingly. You squeezed your eyes shut and did as he asked. He peeled back your red shirt and pressed the scorching metal to your skin before he could second guess himself. The sounds of agony you made were torture to his ears. The seconds felt like hours, but eventually the screams fell away to quiet shivers and pants.

McCoy used his sleeve to wipe away some of the blood on your abdomen. No new blood replaced it, meaning he successfully closed it! "All done, sweetheart. No more..." He tossed the rod away and held your face in his soft hands again.

"Well..." you caught your breath. "That wasn't so bad... I don't suppose you have any water in those magical pockets of yours?" you asked hopefully.

"I'm afraid not," McCoy's eyes softened when they fell on you.

"It's fine, maybe I can ring out my pants and drink the water from our little swim earlier..." you joked.

Leonard sighed and shook his head, "Darlin', you are a force to be reckoned with..." He brought the cuff of his uniform to your cheek and tenderly wiped away whatever blood he could. Your face was swelling around the Orbital and Zygomatic regions. He could see it in your eyes... you were in a lot of pain and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. His med-kit was miles away, somewhere under several feet of debris.

"Where's my phaser?" you lifted your head, but he gently urged you back down.

"Easy there tiger, take a breather. I'll find it," McCoy groaned as he stood up. The hypo he used earlier for his back was starting to wear off. He must have been down here a lot longer than he realized.

The doctor scoured the floor for your phaser, but everything was so dark and his flashlight was getting low on power. After close to five minutes of searching, he swiped one of the enemy's lasers from the floor and brought it back to you. "Sorry, I know you aren't a fan of deadly weapons, but this is all we got."

You took a deep, shaky breath and forced yourself into a sitting position. "Let's hope I don't have to use it then..." you winced and placed the weapon in your holster. "We should get moving. These guys aren't gonna stay down for long."

Leonard nodded and brought your left arm around his shoulder, bracing your waist with his gentle hands. "Alright, up we go... Easy, easy. That was only a temporary fix back there..." he whispered. Slowly, Dr. McCoy eased you into a standing position. Almost immediately, your vision swam and your body sank against his.

"Oh..." you muttered, closing your eyes against the spinning room.

"Y/N? Talk to me. What are you feeling?"

"This is a bad concussion... the worst I've had. I feel like I'm sideways, standing on the wall instead of the floor."

"Okay, try taking a step for me."

You opened your eyes and took a step forward, but your upper body swayed to the side, attempting to account for the imaginary tilt. You probably would've fallen on your face if McCoy weren't there to catch you.

"Well, darlin' I gotta hand it to you. If you were any more off-center, you'd be the damned tower of Pisa"

"Leave me here... you need to go and find the others. I'll just slow you down."

"Out of the question. If the roles were switched, would you leave me behind?" McCoy raised his eyebrow disapprovingly.

"That's differen-"

"You and I both know that's a load of hooey. I'm not leaving you. End of story. Now sit here for a minute, while I figure something out."

You begrudgingly sat down on a rock, with Leonard's help of course, and watched as he paced for a few moments. You supposed he must have come up with something, because he stole a scarf from one of the aliens and started tying it around himself in various ways. You eventually decided to close your eyes. While you always enjoyed looking at the handsome doctor, your sense of vertigo was making it rather unbearable.

"Alright, I've got a plan, but it won't feel too good on your ribs."

"Great..." you mumbled, keeping your eyes shut.

"I'll try to be gentle-"

"I know Len... We're short on options and you're doing your best. It'll be okay... I trust you, " you offered him a smile. His heart did back-flips in his chest and it took everything in him not to tell you he loved you right then and there! Instead, he wrapped the scarf around you, hoping the extra support would make it easier to carry you long distance.

"Okay darlin', I'm gonna pick you up now... Is that okay?"

"I'm ready, go ahead," you said.

The moment your chest made contact with his back, you felt a wave of nausea-inducing pain all through your body. You pressed your face into his shoulder and tried not to make any noise. Leonard hoisted you up, hands clutching your thighs.

"How're you doing back there?" Leonard turned his head so you could hear him.

"Been better..." you managed. "Let's get moving doc, before I throw up on you or something."

"Wouldn't want that, would we?" he started walking away from the carnage at a brisk pace. His back was screaming at him, but he had no intention of putting you down. You winced at every sharp movement, so he tried to keep all shaking or bouncing to a minimum.

The path was tortuously uphill, with a few straightaways between that gave him some reprieve. Eventually, the cave walls gave way to carved buildings. The flashlight he had attached to his shirt was growing dimmer, so he was thankful for the more predictable pattern of the ancient roadways. All was quiet except for the shuffling of feet and running water. That was, until you spoke up.

"Hey Leonard?" you whispered. Your hot breath caused Bones to shiver.

"Yeah? What is it, do you need a break?" he asked

He felt you nod against his shoulder. You must be exhausted. Fatigue was common with concussions. He just needed to make sure you stayed awake until he could get you into a bio-bed.

"Just hold on a little bit longer, I think I hear a stream up ahead. Maybe we can get you that water you were asking for, huh?" he suggested.

You nodded again.

McCoy picked up the pace a little and started following the sound of the water. As luck would have it, they found what must have once been a beautiful fountain. Over the years, the water pouring from the ceiling ate away at whatever carving had been there. The fountain was now nothing more than a circular pool being fed by a small waterfall, but presentation matters not when you're as thirsty as a riverbed in a drought.

Leonard eased you onto the lip of the pool and leaned you back against a stone structure that probably used to be a retaining wall. He sat the scarf to the side and pulled out his tri-corder again. A quick scan informed him that the water was safe to drink. McCoy washed his mitts in the basin before cupping them under the waterfall. Once full, he brought them to your lips and urged you to drink.

He did this a few times until you seemed satisfied, only then did he allow himself a few sips. Bones stretched out his legs and cursed under his breath. His whole body felt like lead. He was sure you were enjoying the break too. That pressure on your chest must have been terrible, even with the medicine dulling the pain. Yet, you never complained. Not even once. He wished you would lean on him, let him give you some comfort. Instead, you were probably bracing for him to make some unsolicited comments about you and your work.

Leonard was pulled from his reverie when you tilted toward the water with the intent to cleanse yourself of the caked on blood. Your face contorted in discomfort and you pressed back against the wall. You took a moment to collect yourself and tried again, but McCoy stopped you with a soothing squeeze of the shoulder. "Let me do it..."

"Leonard, you don't-"

"You took down the quad-armed madmen, now it's my turn. You did your part... Let me do mine." He peered at you with those gorgeous hazel eyes and you were powerless to refuse. You nodded and leaned your head back against the rock.

He knelt in front of you and took your hands into his. Leonard's palms were soft and tender... the hands of a healer. Yours were bloody and busted and callused. You weren't sure it should be legal for you to touch someone like him. He didn't bend you toward the water. Instead, he got his hands wet and wiped away the stains using slow, circular motions. The cold water felt nice against the scrapes on your knuckles.

Bones was always gentle with you, even if he wasn't pleased with you. To be honest, it was one of the things you most looked forward to when you got back from a long mission. Amidst all the uncertainties in the universe, the one thing you could always count on was Leonard. You could count on a southern metaphor and a few well-placed medical jokes to keep you from falling apart at the seams. His smile, his voice, his touch... they were your anchor.

He should have left you behind. He probably would have made it to safety by now, but he was stubborn as a mule. No amount of arguing would shake him when his mind was made up. You couldn't decide whether you loved that about him or hated it.

You loved it, of course you did... You loved everything about him. No point in denying it now. You needed him safe, not here taking care of you.

"Leonard, I need you to do something for me..." you said.

"What is it, sweetheart?" he whispered in that drawl you loved so much.

"I need you to go and find the others," you murmured, peering at him through half-lidded eyes.

His hands ceased all movement and he looked at you with an ambivalent expression... the one he always wore when he was about to scold you. You sighed and braced for the impact.

"Are you out of your mind? I can't leave you here! It's not safe!" he furrowed his brows at you.

"That's exactly why I need you to go. I've put you in danger long enough. I'm not getting any better Leonard, I'm slowing you down."

"I'm not leaving," he glared at your hands as he washed them.

"Why do you always have to do this?" your voice shook.

Leonard froze.

"Why can't you just trust me? I'm trying to keep you safe! I've become a detriment to your survival. You have to leave me. Please. Just one time... I don't want to argue anymore... I just want you to live... I love you, dammit!" Tears carved a path through your bloodstained face.

Leonard's throat burned as he struggled not to cry. You meant it... He could see it in your eyes, hear it in the desperation in your voice. You were at your breaking point. The cool and confident Y/N was gone. He couldn't be a coward anymore. It was time to just come out and say it. But when he tried, all that came out was a remorseful croak. No. He had to show you.

Bones cradled the sides of your face in his hands and pressed his lips against yours. His body moved of its own accord, desperate to get closer. His breath hitched when your fingers snaked into his hair, your touch sent a wave of goosebumps down his arms. The kiss was clumsy, full of bumping foreheads and clashing noses in the dark. But despite the messiness of it all, he wanted nothing more than this moment to last forever.

The eagerness slowly melted into soft, slow kisses. Finally, Leonard pulled away, eyes swimming with regret. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks. His lips quivered on the edge of speaking.

"I can't leave you... I can't do it... I trust you... I don't think you're reckless, or foolhardy, or whatever else I've said through the years. You're a hero! My hero, and I think you're incredible at everything you do. You're the best damned CSO we've ever had on the Enterprise and I should have been tellin' you that all along," McCoy shook his head. "I'm sorry I led you to believe I thought you were anything less than perfect... I love you, Y/N... Don't ask me to leave you behind..." he pleaded.

McCoy's breath caught in his throat when you lightly grabbed his wrist. His eyes glinted off the ever-dimming flashlight, giving the illusion that stars were suspended within.

Your attention darted over to his hands... his impossibly soft hands. You allowed yourself the privilege of intertwining your fingers with his.

"Y/N?"

"Have I ever told you that you have beautiful hands?" You murmured tiredly.

"Can't say you have..." he whispered breathlessly.

"Well, you do... You've held my life in them so many times... You're my hero too..." you hummed and closed your eyes. You brushed your slightly-chapped lips over his knuckles, making Leonard melt to the core.

"Y/N..."

"It looks like we've reached an impasse... I love you too much to let you stay... You love me too much to leave..." You murmured against his fingers.

"Then I guess it's time we came up with a compromise..." Leonard whispered. You opened your mouth to respond, but an unexpected voice took you both by surprise.

"That is incorrect doctor, no compromise will be needed."

You had your laser out in a matter of seconds and Leonard had his flashlight aimed at the stranger. In the dim lighting, you could see that the person wasn't actually a stranger. It was Spock!

"What the- What- Spock?! How long have you been standing there?!" McCoy bellowed.

"Since you informed Commander Y/L/N that you love them," Spock raised an eyebrow and stepped closer.

"Dammit, Spock! Why didn't you say something?!"

"I felt it would be rude to interrupt-"

"Nevermind that. I need you to go get a stretcher and bring it here! Y/N is badly injured!" Instead of leaving like Bones expected, Spock pulled out his communicator. "Spock, that thing doesn't work down he-"

"Spock to field team. I need a stretcher at my location. I have left a trail for you to follow. Yes. Yes, I will inform them," the Vulcan closed his communicator and resumed his signature resting pose with his hands behind his back, "The medical team is on their way here with a stretcher and supplies."

"Now the communicator works!" Leonard threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Have you found the rest of the crew?" You asked, hope evident in your tired voice.

"Your team all made it out alive, Commander. Minimal injuries. They were placed under heavy surveillance, likely with the intention to sell our officers in an underground market. They managed to escape when a horn sounded. Several Kavirans left to investigate, leaving only two guards. Security officers Lewis and Elfan dispatched them quickly and led the others to safety. By the time they made it back to the entrance, rescue personnel had blasted their way in. They are resting in the medbay as we speak."

You released a sigh of relief and sagged against the stone. You could finally breathe easy knowing your team was alright. "Thank you, Spock."

"How far are we from the surface?" McCoy asked.

"2.414 kilometers," Spock replied.

"A mile and a half?! We were almost there?!"

"No doctor, you were going in the wrong direction. It is fortunate I found you when I did."

McCoy shot him a glare and returned his attention to you. "How are you feeling sweetheart? Do you need anything?"

"I need a nap..." you tried to smile.

"You can have one when we get back to the Enterprise. Think you can hold on a bit longer for me?"

"For you doc, I'd do anything," you winked.

Leonard blushed and smiled. "You're damn near ready to pass out and you're trying to make me weak in the knees~"

"You say that like it's a difficult thing to accomplish, doctor..." you whispered and shivered. The loss of blood had taken down your body temperature by a significant amount.

McCoy settled beside you on the floor, hissing as his scraped back made contact with the cool stone. You tucked yourself into his side and snickered.

"What?" he frowned.

"You smell terrible," you smirked back.

"Then why are you moving closer to me?"

"I'm hoping if I sit close to you, you'll kiss me again~" you joked.

Leonard didn't dare look at the Vulcan standing a few feet away. He didn't look at you either. He just sat there, practically steaming from the embarrassment.

"It was a joke, doctor," you teased.

Bones let out a sigh of relief.

"Jeez, don't sound too disappointed," You laughed and winced as a jolt ran through your ribs.

"you wanna kiss me that bad?" he asked.

"I've only been wanting to for like... a year," you shrugged.

He leaned close, his lips ghosted over your ear. "Don't worry darlin'. Once you're all healed up, you can have me all to yourself..." he drawled in a whisper.

Your face lit up like a wildfire. You were amazed at how quickly he had turned the tables on you...

At least you weren't cold anymore.

~~~

It took thirty minutes for the medical team to arrive with a stretcher and thirty more minutes to exit the cave. Almost as soon as the moonlight hit your face, you were beamed up onto the ship. You barely had a second to greet the Captain before you and Leonard were whisked away to the medbay. Due to the injuries McCoy sustained during his time underground, he was not permitted to operate on you. Dr. M'Benga took wonderful care of you and within the week, they allowed you to rest in your own room.

Leonard made regular house calls and sat by your side most nights after his shift. He was determined to help you make a swift recovery.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye, admiring the shadows his tousled brown hair was casting on his face. The doctor was trying not to doze off and failing miserably. It was a mesmerizing sight.

"You're staring, Darlin'," he murmured and peeked an eye open at you.

"Stop being so pretty and I'll stop staring," you shrugged. He rolled his eyes, but the blush gave him away. For his sake, you decided to change the subject. "You know, doctor... I never said thank you."

"Thank me? for what?" he asked.

"For saving my life..."

"You don't need to-"

"I do. It's not easy... your job, I mean. People like me, the fighters, get all the spotlight, but you put yourself on the line... carried me to safety. I saved your life once... You've saved mine... I don't even know how many times," your eyes softened. "Thank you for everything... "

Leonard stared at you for a moment before leaning in and kissing you softly. A sentry and a surgeon. The ultimate pair. After years of dancing around each other, you finally gave in.

Your doctor pulled away with a lazy grin and tucked your head under his chin. "There you go again, wooing me with your endless charisma."

"Says the man who's filled to the brim with southern charm."

"At least I don't use my charm as a means to get what I want."

"How else was I supposed to get your attention with you falling asleep over there?~"

"You could have asked nicely. Haven't you ever heard of the word, please?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Don't you worry darlin', you'll learn soon enough," he smirked against your temple.

You halfheartedly smacked McCoy's chest. "Slow down there, cowboy. My ribs are still broken," you sassed.

"Just giving you an incentive to heal quicker," he kissed your head and pulled you closer.

"Mhm..." you closed your eyes and listened to his steady heartbeat. A month ago, you could have only dreamed of holding him like this... of being held. Now he was here, tracing shapes on your shoulder with his delicate fingertips.

"Y/N?"

"Len?" you smiled, eyes still closed.

"I hope you know that I'd do it again... a billion times over," he said. You knew what he meant.

"Me too..." you hummed in agreement.

You'd take the beating again and again for him... and no matter how many beatings you took... you knew he'd be there waiting to make it better again. A vicious cycle.

"I love you," he whispered.

You wouldn't change it for the world.

"I love you too."

You had a lot of healing to do before you could fully embrace this exciting new development in your life, but for now, you were content.

Content, huh? Now that's the understatement of the century.

....................

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[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: Sorry this took so long. I moved city and pretty much have a new life. Still obsessed with Rust, though, so some shit sticks

Warnings: 18+, talk of war, alcohol, drugs, sex work, talks of past domestic violence, smut, just genuine misery between the two of them

America venerates suffering, that's what Travis had always told Rust. Sacrifice isn't pure if it isn't coated in a blood so red and so hot that your family can smear over their words, for centuries to come, excusing their comfort, their indulgence, their ignorance. They are afforded that comfort off of slaughter beyond their imagining. At least, that's what had happened after 'nam. A hero for his fucking country was the propaganda they had fed Travis; squash the bug of communism and, along with it, massacre millions of innocents, because what is America without its sons who are willing to fight for it.? Yeah, a fucking hero for a father, who's night terrors kept both of them up at night and who kept his engraved lighter saying High Speed Low Drag in his hunting jacket, always. That same lighter that Rust had used to light his first cigarette: rolled up flimsily in newspaper with the leftover tobacco and tufts of filter that he'd scraped from Travis' cigarette butts. The same lighter that Cassandra is now using to light her Marlboro Gold, hands shaking,

'Rust. That's all I get, huh? Not even a fucking surname?!' she spits, through a shaky exhale.

'I ain't gonna give you my surname. The less you know about me, the better,' Rust says back, his stoic demeanour attempting to mask that churning in his stomach. One that he has realised isn't for him but for Cassandra.

'Is Rust even your actual name?'

'You want a fuckin' social security number, too?' Rust drawls dryly.

'Don't you-Don't,' Cassandra's head shoots up from where it's been in her hands, her shaking tone now gaining a momentum of uncontrollable anger, 'Jesus-fuck. You men are all the fucking same. I-I ain't staying in this fucking place, anymore. Fuck it, fuck you, fuck every goddamn person in this wasteland of a place!'

Rust regards her with an even look,

'You ain't going anywhere. Not tonight. You ain't in the right state.'

'You ain't my daddy, motherfucker.'

'Goddamn right, I ain't but I'm also the only person you have who doesn't want to take advantage of you. So, hedge your bets tomorrow, baby, but tonight you're stayin' here,' Rust's voice is lapidary, stopping Cassandra in her tracks as she starts to shove clothes and books into her duffel bag.

'I said: you ain't my daddy and you sure as hell ain't keeping me in a place where I don't want to be,' Cassandra says in a tone equally as gelid, throwing her duffel bag over her shoulder. That elegant, fine-boned shoulder tinged with its bronzed hue; some of the love bites that Rust had left a few nights ago decorating Cassandra's collarbone. Rust fears that the sentiment festering under his skin is nostalgia. A nostalgia that scares him and, then, makes him cruel,

'No, Cassandra. I ain't your daddy cause all he did for you was get heavy handed with you and cut you up with his empty liquor bottles when he really wanted to teach you about mouthin' off at him.'

The colour drains from Cassandra's face,

'How the fuck do you know about that?' a sudden spark of spite reaches her as she sneers, 'Pull my file in your spare time, huh?'

Rust grabs her arm and yanks up her tank top, ignoring her yelp. He nods to the fine, white line along her ribcage,

'I ain't a fuckin' idiot, Cassandra. Skateboardin' fall, my ass,' Rust snarls, holding her ribcage with a calloused hand. Cassandra viciously claws at his hand, tears threatening to spill from her eyes,

'Get off! Get the fuck off!' and Rusts lets her go cause in that moment, the smooth, sultry cadence made slightly husky from after-sex cigarettes reverts back to the pleading of a little girl. Cassandra's words are devoid of any real bite, Rust notes. All that rage has been stripped away and all that she is left with is the panic of a little girl's voice turning into burning sobs in her throat; the stale cookies in her stomach turning sour from terror. There's that wide eyed looked, too. He can see it as Cassandra hastily covers herself back up and rearranges the duffel bag back onto her shoulder.

'Fuck you, Rust,' she says his name like it's a poison that she needs to spit from her mouth before it corrodes the flesh into a pulpy mess. Corrosion. Rust. That's what he is, it's what he does because sometimes corrosion is needed to get to the bone of things; to see what everyone else in too caught up in their delusions or affectations about fucking Natural Law to truly comprehend.

'Don't you fu-Cassandra!' Rust's voice boils up from his chest in a rough bark, watching Cassandra explode out of the trailer door, almost stumble down the rusted metal steps and collapse into the red dirt. He thinks he can't get any angrier until he realises that she's pocketed the keys to his Harley, on her way out, and sees her bolt over to where it's parked, behind the trailer. A cloud of dust rises up as the bike rumbles out of neutral and Cassandra desperately revs on the accelerator; her legs hardly off of the ground before the Harley tears away. In other circumstances, the dramatics of the exit would have made Rust scoff and chalk it up to youth's thirst for impact: the flurry of a scene. Not now. Not when this kid is tearing down a highway in a bike that doesn't have enough gas to make it to Liberty, let alone wherever the fuck Cassandra thinks she's headed. A kid, Rust thinks, A fuckin' kid that I've pulled into the abyss with me. Rust calls her a kid now but knows that when he finds her, he'll treat her like she's grown. A sentiment that propels him into his truck, cursing to himself as the engine splutters.

It doesn't take long to track Cassandra down; there's only one road from the trailer park that lead to the freeway. No doubt, where Cassandra is headed to. Ride fast and hard, and get the fuck out when the heat starts to sting: the classic cocktail of self-preservation cooked up by kids who've already been burned. There are too many of them down here, below that Mason-Dixie line. Rust would know. Fuck, if he hasn't spent his entire career on the force witnessing the aftermath. Drugs, abuses, assaults, homicides: you name it. The abuser becomes the abused; Nietzsche's infinite return has those poor kids falling flat on their faces into the nice shit storm of generational maladjustments that their parents left for them. Shattered dreams, skin sucked dry from mosquitos, teeth black and rotting from sweet tea, underneath that sticky southern sun. Rust wants to believe that it's an innate sense of duty towards these kids is why he's currently violating every Highway Code there is. And for part of him, it is. The other part, however, won't allow himself the comfort of what he knows is a lie. What started as pure sex appeal has started to morph into something deeper, messier.

The bike has even less gas than he thought as, the first Texaco that he sees, has Cassandra next to the pumps trying to wrench open the bike's gas lock. She wants to be caught, Rust knows, Wants me to chase after her, show her I give a shit. If she didn't, she would've gotten a hell of a lot more reckless. He watches her, almost with pity, as her pulls into the gas station and slows the truck to a halt, the breaks groaning with their lack of galvanisation. Rust shoves the car door open, his leather boots landing heavily on tepid asphalt,

'Get your ass over here,' his voice rough, as he strides over to Cassandra.

'I told you to get the fuck away from me,' she whips around, her fury making her abandon her previous task.

'Get in the fuckin' truck, Cassandra. I ain't doing the whole scorned boyfriend act for these nosey fuckers,' Rust deadpans, his ice blue gaze conveying to her just how fucking pissed he is.

'Did you hear me, motherfucker? I said to go back to your junkie biker brothers, find some hooker so that you can fuck out your half-baked emotional needs and leave me the hell alone,' Cassandra says with such venom dripping from her mouth that she almost fully means it; warm milk out of hand, she resorts to spite. Not fully, though: Rust can see the tears glazing her eyes and that's enough for him. A firm hand comes to grasp Cassandra's arm and put her in what is practically a headlock as Rust drags her to the truck. Cassandra's duffel bag slips off of her shoulder as Rust holds her firmly against his chest, bicep right up against the column of her throat. Some old man up from his pump, spit collecting at the corners of his mouth as he calls over,

'Everything alright over there?' Not from the area, Rust notes. Not solely due to the licence plate and milky arms but the slight wariness of his expression. A man unacquainted with the imperatives that the arrid terrain commands. The violence. Cassandra takes it upon herself to drop the unwanted attention as she chokes out,

'They don't teach you to mind your own fucking business in Iowa?!' the rage in her voice stemming from a deep humiliation in how she must look, Rust's arm tight against her neck. Rust takes in the man's mortification and grits into her ear,

'Shut the fuck up.'

He opens the truck door and shoves her in, slamming the door and heading over to the driver's side to catch her as she climbs out. Rust concedes her a heavy slap to the face before getting in, essentially crowding her back to the passenger's side. As he starts the ignition and pulls out of the gas station, Cassandra is eerily quiet, tears leaving hot tracks of salt and mascara on her cheeks. Rust debates on whether it's shame at getting caught or just pure desolation at, once again, finding herself completely fucked over, until he feels his jeans' waistband go slack. He feels the air hit that sweaty patch of back where the barrel of his .38 S&W was pressed and licks the inside of his cheek in an almost smirk. There she is, Rust thinks, knowing full well Cassandra's loathing of acquiescence as she points the gun at his temple, sweat curling his caramel hairs.

'Pull over or, I swear to God, I'll put your brains all over your goddamn car windows,' Cassandra's voice is firm but Rust sees her fingers trembling. Red. Her nails are lacquered the same colour as a Shirley Temple, poised on cool gun metal of the safety.

'You don't want to shoot me, Cass,' Rust says, his tone flat.

'Oh, I don't?' Cassandra scoffs.

'Nah, you wanna make a fuckin' scene so that I'll burst into tears and beg for your fuckin' forgiveness or some shit. That ain't gonna work on me, baby. I'm around too many pussies who ain't man enough to pull a fuckin' trigger, as it is. I can tell when someone's bluffin'. And you, Cass, I can sure as hell tell when you're bluffin'.'

'How are you so sure?'

Rust looks at a small trail leading off of the main road before sparing a sideways glance,

'That gun ain't even cocked.'

Cassandra narrows her eyes and pulls the hammer back,

'Happy?'

Rust steers the truck off of the road, onto the rocky country road, before stopping and turning to her,

'You wanna go? Go.'

Cassandra's gaze falters before she contrives it into that practiced indifference,

'You're kicking me out?' she says, her voice so fragile that Rust almost feels bad for putting her in this situation but tough shit: wisdom comes hard.

'Nah, just callin' your bluff. You got 30 seconds to go, if you want to,' Rust says, not even facing her but staring straight out ahead.

Cassandra stares at him, lowering the gun, and looks around helplessly. The tears come back, not when she looks at Rust's stony expression or the destitute surroundings, but when she looks at her duffel bag. All her life fitting into some beat up gym bag and, now, she's about to throw away the one thing that can protect her. A gun isn't shit compared to his hand on her ass and his fingerprints bruising her thighs; not to these fucking animals. Rust gives her the mercy of two minutes of silence before speaking,

'You ain't movin',' he says more as a statement than a question.

'Don't mock me,' Cassandra murmurs out.

'I ain't mockin' you.'

'You know that I ain't gonna go. I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to.'

'You can and you will, eventually.'

'I ain't sure, Cra-Rust. You ain't either.'

'Use Crash. I don't need you gettin' confused and fuckin' this up,' Rust says, gruffly.

'You sure that's it?'

'Am I sure 'what's' it?' irritation starting to creep into his tone.

'That the reason you don't want me using your real name is cause I'll jeopardise your cover.'

'I thought you were smarter than that, Cass.'

'What the fuck's that supposed to mean?' Cassandra suddenly straightens, her voice hard but still slightly tremulous.

'I thought you were smarter than to get your emotions mixed up with what is gonna keep your ass outta the crossfire.'

It's a low blow but it hits home. Cassandra looks down at her scraped knees, gravel and raw skin, before looking up again; her voice now a whisper,

'Do you feel sorry for me?'

Rust clenches his jaw, the simple juvenility of the question making him feel sick. He knows neither of them will be able to bear whatever tidal wave of sentiment is about to breach their carefully instated distance. The partial revelation of his true identity has already been more of an unmasking than he can stomach; especially to someone he cares so deeply for as Cassandra. Her knowledge of 'Rust' throws whatever the fuck they are doing with each other into something that goes beyond sex and protection, and Rust can begin to feel everything veering off track. He won't allow her to expose herself to him like this, not when he's already emotionally fucked her over so much, today. So, Rust finally turns to her and says,

'Take off your top.'

Cassandra falters, her voice still that hoarse whisper as she ask,

'What?'

Rust wills himself to turn his pity into scorn,

'Did I fuckin' stutter? Take off your top. Those shorts, too,' he says, his tone unnervingly even and made rough from his Camels. Cassandra stares at him for a moment before indulging him: shirt discarded first before she lifts her hips and awkwardly shimmies out of them. Rust notices her holding her side, her hand cradling the scar; something she's never really done until now. Not until Rust had forced her shame into the searing white light of recognition. He knows what Cassandra must be thinking, grouping him into that homogenous, male blob of ill-intent: her next job, her next dance, her next humiliation. He tries to pretend that it doesn't slightly tear him the fuck up when she looks at him with those eyes, now cold.

'What now?' Cassandra asks, sitting up with her spine long and upright, shoulders terse.

Rust pats his lap,

'Come here.'

'Rust, I-'

'I ain't ever remember sayin' you could call me Rust, Cass,' he says harshly, completely disregarding whatever appeal Cassandra's about to make over how to treat her. Pretty words that don't mean shit to Rust nor to this godforsaken part of the country. A place where women bring guns in their purses to hookups and there are wards for the babies born hooked onto opioids, has no use for floral, storybook sex. Here, it's fast and it's hard and it's painful and it's often paid for. Cassandra knows this type of sex, or rather its corruption. So, she shuts up and sits in Rust's lap; swallowing the bitter pill of docility.

'Move 'em to the side,' Rust taps the waistband of her panties with his knuckles. For a moment, a light tinge comes across Cassandra's collarbones at the crassness of the act. She hooks her fingers into the waistband, moving to pull them down, before Rust grabs her wrist,

'I say to take 'em off, Cass?'

'No,' Cassandra murmurs, trying to asses if Rust is pissed beyond belief or on some pretty loopy downers.

'So, you can hear me. I was thinkin' otherwise, given some of the shit you've managed to pull,' that dangerous mix of anger and worry begins to seep into Rust's tone. He can feel her wet heat through the lace of her panties; almost disappointed that she can get turned on by this shit. Old habits die hard, Rust thinks, lighting a cigarette and leaning back into his seat,

'Undo my belt.'

Cassandra stares at him, holding unflinching eye contact as she unbuckles him and unzips his fly. It's like a game of fucking chicken: which of them is willing to degrade the other more, for the sake of self-preservation. Rust exhales a slow stream of smoke watching Cassandra's thighs tremble from the exertion of holding her position. He quirks an eyebrow,

'You gonna tap out on me, baby?'

'No.'

'You wanted this shit that bad, didn't you, Cass?' Rust says, the forcefulness in his tone coming out of the pit in his stomach when he thinks what he's done to her.

'I did. I wanted this shit. Don't paint me out to be some dumbass little girl who opened her legs to the first man who reminded her of her daddy. That ain't what this is. I'm tougher than that, you know I am,' her voice starting to tremble again. Her hands absentmindedly wrapped around her midsection., as if to protect herself from the next laceration.

'You want it? Then move those fuckin' panties to the side.'

Cassandra stares at Rust with that fucking stupid bravado of rapacity, before gripping the crotch of them to the side; the tepid truck air mixing with the heady scent of her arousal and Rust's cigarette smoke,

'Go on. Fuck me like a man.'

Rust looks up at her while he pulls down his boxers, before grabbing her bruised hips and slamming her onto him. Not giving a fuck about the sharp, shuddering inhale. The lamb must learn to run with the wolves and Cassandra is far from a lamb. Especially as she is now, gulping down her whimpers of pain, desperately rocking her hips against his coarse hair to stimulate her little nub. She buries her head into the crook of his neck, nose rubbing against his jugular as Rust lands a firm slap on her ass,

'Don't get sentimental on me now, Cass,' he manages to grit out, feeling her arousal literally drip down him, 'Fuck am I gonna do with a weak lil' thing, huh?'

Cassandra tries to nod, her eyes squeezed shut and her groans muffled into the leather of Rust's jacket. Rust wraps his arms around her, holding her in a vice grip for the third time today, all of which have been some form of degradation or excavation of the dirty, nasty shit that Cassandra keeps hidden under sultry, bedroom eyes and that cutthroat tongue. At least this time, the aggression of the act is more tangible; neither of them are allowed any delusions. Not with how Cassandra's spit smears against Rust's stubble when he fucks into her especially hard or the cutting of taught lace on her hipbone or Rust's still lit cigarette burning dangerously close to Cassandra's dark waves. Apt symbolism, Rust thinks, as she angles her head to inhale from the tip; eyes starting to roll slightly at the mixture of in adverted friction of her bundle of nerves, and Rust's angry, frantic pace. She turns to look him right, as she leans her head in him, exhaling the smoke right into his mouth. Rust catches some powdery grey wisps, shoving Cassandra down once more onto him. As she groans, her hands never loosening, Rust leans in to mutter into her ear,

'You never fuckin' learn. Do you, baby?'

[immaturityofthomasastruc]

Sometimes I feel the shows world is… empty but at the same time has too much

In season 2 they put sentient robots able to feel actual emotions like they are something common enough for a teenager go make them

In the specials they introduce other magic systems like the cousins of the kwamis and then introduce things like Batwoman and super/Wonder Woman

Then in season 3 they introduce FREAKING ALIENS!!! (Bunnix said they exist) I wouldn’t be mad if they elaborated in those subjects

But they don’t, we don’t have meta humans in the rest of the show but season 5 finale, we don’t have magicians and we haven’t seen a flesh and bones alien (I think since I don’t know what Majestia’s whole deal is)

The origins episode and the backstory of the guardians and miraculous imply the existence of other monsters

We see a kraken, a fusion of a Sphinx with Medusa fighting Heracles, a dragon fighting a ladybug holder on medieval glass stain similar to the ones in churches, and then we see some unknown hero fighting a Evangelion like monster on the sea with a Japanese style

But we only have Akumas, Akumas and Akumas, and in special occasions we have Akumas but BIGGER or Akumas but R E D ,Where are those monsters in modern age? Some of the crossovers they had planned with other ZAK shows implied the existence of witches, fairy’s, ghosts and a giant snake monster

The world introduces the supernatural and science fiction but instead of using it we are stuck with miraculous

Why is no character using magic? Why isn’t there sandman or rhino like villains rooming the streets? I Can see post season 4 Gabriel doing what tombstone did in spectacular Spider-Man and turning criminals into super villains to get the miraculous or at least to make negativity higher through all of Paris by introducing super villains who are willingly evil AND have permanent powers

Or why isn’t there a evil wizard searching for the miraculous for power or a ancient evil the kwamis sealed searching to take revenge on Plagg and Tikki? Or just Gabriel using evil magic to summon a hunting hound monster to track the miraculous and the heroes have to find a way to defeat a enemy they can’t defeat by their usual way (their usual way is breaking the evilified object so the enemy just disappears)

They keep introducing weird things and concepts and do nothing with them, is like they tried to be Spider-Man in the “exists on a larger world full with heroes” and then proceeds to ignore all other Spider-Man things like having a rogues gallery and constantly facing magic and sci-fi threats

Heck I might even say he only did this to ride the Shared universe train marvel started but just like DC and the Dark verse, they failed (except for the Monsterverse, the Monsterverse is ETERNAL)

That's the weird thing about this show. It wants to be a simple good vs evil story, but it also wants to flesh out the universe for future spin-offs.

This is why I just can't stand the Miraculous World specials, because they don't do anything with the concepts introduced. The Miraculous scattered across the world, other magical artifacts like the Miraculous, and the goddamn multiverse are only used for what is glorified filler. A lot of these ideas could easily be fleshed out for their own seasons, but the show only wants the conflict to revolve around the heroes and whoever gets the Butterfly Miraculous.

If you want to expand your universe, you need to think about how this development will affect your story as well as your world.

[takami-takami]

Stray Dogs Will Crawl Home.

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. angst (with a happy ending).

warnings— gn!reader. breakups. keigo's trauma because i can't give this man a break and he needs to heal.

For better or for worse, Keigo has always been thrust into the role of decision maker.

Sure, on the inside, his emotions pick and chew at his open wounds; but the man has driven the proverbial and literal knife into far too many backs to hesitate when he leaves you.

He can do what needs to be done. It's for your own good. You deserve more than half a man, more than the scraps of whatever is left crawling to your door after another day of putting his goals of building a peaceful society before you.

The night before he left you, stone-faced to contrast your tears and begs of 'why' on the cold of your doorstep, he lay on his side and watched you sleep. Tracing the bridge of your nose with the tip of a finger, he wondered, throat tight, what you'd think of him if you knew the truth of what he's done.

He can't bear to offer you a man who's already sold himself. You shouldn't have to shoulder the weight of his sins. He tells himself it's for the greater good, but under the cobwebs of his bed, he knows a smaller, childlike voice is telling him you deserve someone who isn't dirtied by a life counting shades of moral grey.

It aches like he's dying, sure, but that's what hero work is for, right? He can throw himself into the trenches, hour after hour, until the sun looms over the horizon and the lovebirds' chirps announce the arrival of another morning without you.

For what everyone in the media says about him being a 'golden boy', he just doesn't feel the sun without you.

His subordinates ask more than a few questions about the bags under his eyes, why his glowing smile has fizzled to a mere plastic performance. It's even easier to brush them off than it was to brush off you, to smile wider and turn the question on them— an unspoken order to fucking drop it.

But Keigo's kryptonite, the deep burn that itches under the layers of his skin, is that he's well aware of what happens after someone like you becomes single. The thought crawls under the remains of his bones, and as he perches on the highest point of the city, he makes the mistake of allowing himself to entertain it. If he wasn't weighed down under the drags of sleep deprivation, he'd curse himself for being so weak.

Deep down, he knows what happens after the weeks of digging through tubs of comfort food on the couch are over. You'll stop sobbing over the phone with your best friend. You'll probably start scheduling little dates with people who remind you less and less of him with each passing one.

You're going to move on.

Someone else's fingers will press against your skin. Someone else's quips will cause you to laugh into your sleeve, someone else will hear your shaky breaths under the cover of the night, someone else will whisper promises they can't keep.

Someone else is going to make a spouse of you.

He winces. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he takes a single stride off the ledge and surges upwards with the beat of his wings.

He makes a note to add another shift to his schedule. Maybe two.

Are you thinking of him? If you were here, he knows you'd tell him to be open with you, to stop 'being so goddamn stubborn'. You'd tell him he deserves a break from pushing his emotions down, that you knew damn well what you signed up for when you decided to be his, and to just trust your judgement for once.

To make matters worse, you'd frame it sweet, hook the words around his heart like a taffy lasso, make it so he can't resist. You do know how much he likes it sweet.

It picks at the anger thrumming in his veins. You expect him to lay himself bare? To expose the rawest parts of him, despite the commission's repeated orders not to? You expect him to be selfish?

Why does he want so badly to be selfish?

He should definitely add two more shifts to his schedule.

His phone begins to ring, startling him from his musings. He knows exactly who it is from the first note. Your favorite song plays on his speaker; the one you confessed reminds you of him, with your thumb swiping over the raised hairs on his skin. His heart hammers in the cavity of his chest, pleading to be let out.

He can't be fucking rid of you. Keigo's heart, his mind, his very bones crackle with the fire he frantically tries to put out. God, he wants to burn, wants to drag himself by his fingertips to the door of your chapel and beg you to just finish him off. He wouldn't mind serving as the ash of your incense. He'd do anything for a chance to fill your lungs.

Shit. He scrambles to dig his phone from his pocket, nearly dropping it like hot coals when he attempts to pick it up.

"H-Hey, sweetheart!" He cringes at the puppy-like excitement in his voice at the mere sound of yours. "I'm s-sor— I," he stutters for far too long before he finally gives up. Sighing into the speaker, resigned, he squeezes his eyes shut and says exactly what his mind is screaming he shouldn't.

"Can we talk?"