#faulty duck

[flaires-art]

Congratulations to Faultyduckling for hitting 120 monthly listeners on spotify :] very happy for him!!

Listen to one of my favorite bops from him

[ponderingmoonlight]

Oh, to be trapped with Dante

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,3k

Synopsis: What's worse than getting trapped with Dante? Getting trapped with a stripping Dante.

Warnings: this is hilarious and fluffy at the same time, I'm still begging for Dante requests so get in my inbox if you have one, hope you like it @veijdana

You’re not sure what sets it off.

Maybe it’s the faulty lock. Maybe the door was always a little off its axes. Maybe the universe just has a sick sense of humour when it comes to you and that guy.

What you do know for sure is this: the door slams shut, there’s a sharp click, and no amount of jiggling the handle is getting you out of this storage room-slash-death trap. No windows, no signal, and the only light is from a flickering overhead bulb that looks like it could give up at any moment.

Perfect.

So much to being the greatest demon hunters of them all.

You turn slowly to Dante, who’s lounging against a metal shelf stacked with boxes labeled “Supplies” like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just help trap you both in a glorified closet with a single bottle of water and a half-eaten protein bar. Like he did something except for watching you struggle with that heavy ass door.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Problem?”

“The door’s locked.”

“I noticed,” he replies, utterly unbothered.

“Dante.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest, barely able to hold it together any longer.

“Please don’t call me that right now.”

“Noted,” he declares, in a tone that means absolutely not noted.

He strolls over, casually tests the door for himself, then shrugs.

“Yeah. We’re stuck.”

“No kidding.”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait until someone finds us.”

“Which could be hours. Or days.”

He grins, shameless.

“Even better.”

You sit down hard the cold ground. It creaks threateningly, but you’re too irritated to care. He paces once, twice, then flops down across from you like this is a vacation, arms behind his head, one leg draped over the other ready to sunbathe.

Except this isn’t Miami beach but a mouse trap.

“Are you always this calm when you’re locked in small spaces with people you annoy for fun?” you question innocently.

“Only when it’s you.”

You narrow your eyes, gaze spitting thick venom at him.

“Do you actually enjoy pushing my buttons this much, or is it just some kind of defense mechanism?”

“Little column A, little column B,” he thinks out loud, flashing you a lazy smile.

“But if we’re being honest… you're kind of cute when you’re mad.”

You throw a balled-up wrapper at him. He ducks it easily, still smirking.

The minutes stretch. Then an hour. The silence tries to creep in, but Dante won’t let it. He talks. About nonsense. Old missions, weird dreams, things he overheard once that he probably wasn’t supposed to. You try not to laugh. You really try.

Eventually, you’re sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, legs stretched out, head tilted toward him without meaning to. He’s closer now, somehow. At some point. The distance between you shrunk while you weren’t paying attention.

“I think you like being trapped with me,” he mutters, voice quieter now.

Less teasing, if that’s somehow possible.

“You haven’t told me to shut up in, like, ten whole minutes.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“That’s because I’ve accepted my fate. Resistance is clearly useless. And somehow I get the feeling it turns you on even more.”

“Exactly. Might as well enjoy yourself.”

He bumps your knee with his. You don’t move away. No, somehow, this faint touch has a comfort to it, a warmth you haven’t felt for quite some time by now.

The silence now is different. Thicker. Weighted. Like you’re both suddenly aware of how still everything is. How alone. It’s just you and him. You and the walking sex symbol itself Dante.

Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

“This is the part where you make some dumb joke about body heat, isn’t it?”

He chuckles, low.

“Tempting. But no. Not yet.”

You glance at him.

“Yet?”

He shrugs.

“I’m giving you a few more hours before I wear down your defenses. I’m not a complete monster.”

You shake your head, lips twitching despite yourself.

Another stretch of silence. Then:

“You ever think about it?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard by that strange and unexpected question.

“About what?”

“Us. Like - if this whole ridiculous situation wasn’t so ridiculous. If it was… different.”

Your stomach does something complicated. You turn your head to look at him, your palms starting to get sweaty. Why do you always feel like this when he’s around?

He’s watching you, eyes dark and serious for once. No smirk. No teasing.

“Yeah. Sometimes,” you admit quietly.

A beat.

“I like the idea,” he confesses.

You nod.

“Me too.”

He shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours now, solid and warm and real. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Still not sharing my blanket, though.”

You snort.

“I’m not cold.”

“Yet.”

You laugh. And this time, you let your head rest against his shoulder. Just a little.

Just enough.

Bonus:

You're curled on one side of the room, using your jacket as a pillow. Dante's a few feet away, stretched out like he owns the floor, arms folded behind his head. The silence has gone companionable, easy. You almost forget where you are.

Until he moves.

You hear the rustle of fabric first. Then the unmistakable sound of a zipper.

You lift your head, every single alarm going off inside your head. No, he isn’t about to strip…Is he?

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to sleep,” he remarks like it’s obvious.

Which it isn’t.

At all.

Because his shirt is coming off, and now he’s unbuttoning his pants in the dim light of the room, clearly visible to your accustomed to dark gaze.

“Dante-”

“What?” he interrupts, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I always sleep naked.”

You sit up straighter, just the thought of seeing him naked, let alone shirtless...

“You are not - you can’t just strip.”

He shrugs, already stepping out of his jeans like this is just another Tuesday with a pizza waiting on his desk for him.

“It helps with thermoregulation. Look it up.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, turning away.

“You’re the worst.”

“You say that, but you’re not telling me to stop.”

You don’t. You don’t want to. Which is the worst part.

He stretches out again, now under the thin blanket you both agreed to not share (but he’s already claimed half of), bare chest barely hidden in the dark, a picture of shameless comfort.

You try not to look. You try.

He catches you anyway.

“See something you like?”

“See something I want to throw a box at.”

He laughs - low, satisfied, like he just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

“Relax. It’s not like I’m gonna pounce on you.”

“You better not.”

“Unless you ask nicely.”

You grab your jacket and hurl it at his face. He catches it one-handed, grinning like he’s thriving on your outrage.

“Goodnight, Dante.”

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

You lie back, trying to will your pulse to settle. But you can still hear him breathing across the room, steady and slow, and you swear you feel the heat from him bleeding across the short distance between you.

The night settles heavy. And you're very aware you’re trapped with a half-naked Dante, no door, no escape, and a dangerous lack of personal space.

Sleep is going to be impossible.

And you think he knows it.

“I still feel you staring-“

“Shut the hell up, Dante.”

[ghosti02art]

I have a fic idea for Eddie and Volts hate ending but man idk if anyone else will see the vision so hear me out.

Hate Ending happens. And if you were like me when you got it, you probably did almost everything right but like one thing. That’s what happened to me. I missed ONE interaction with Eddie. I even helped fix the bar!

So imagine that sort of situation. And then you get to the lights out, where you have to choose what to do and the *right answer isn’t there*. Yes. We are doing a slight 4th wall break for this.

Volt goes blue (hot), Eddie isn’t anywhere to be seen. And instead of the homeowner/reader being like. Scared or pushed out. They fight BACK. (Burns themselves cause they probably push or grab at Volt).

Because I just. I can’t imagine the homeowner being like “ah shit fuck, didn’t mean that to happen” or whatever.

I’m imagining a homeowner who is going “I tried! I want to help!!! Fucking let me!!! I want to make the right choices but I can’t- it’s like no matter what I say, the right words aren’t there (4th wall anyone?)”. I want a homeowner that basically breaks the game script to fight back for their her boys.

And yes. I want it to work. I want them to force Volt to let them fix the faulty wire, maybe the homeowner tells Volt he can take the claim for it getting fixed. That they’ll leave Eddie alone after just let them do this. (Ideally this version of the homeowner actually does know some mechanical stuff. Maybe they understand that Volt won’t disappear or whatever. Idk).

I just imagine afterwards. It’s all fixed. Maybe Eddie tries to talk to the homeowner when they’re trying to duck out- after all, they think Volt is still pissed at them. Eddie isn’t mad btw. He’s thankful.

And then their hand/arm is spotted with the massive electrical burns from grabbing/pushing Volt. And yes. I expect this confrontation to be awful. And I also expect Volt to be a very apologetic little shit once he realizes the homeowner wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.

Oof.

I want a Hate Ending that got changed into Love via brute force. “Love that changes the narrative” type shit bro.

[seat-safety-switch]

When you spend a lot of time on the internet, it's easy to get lured into the dumbest arguments known to humankind. It's just part of our species. Rather than actually solve major problems, it's more fun to isolate a trivial difference and get really angry about it.

As a kid, I remember two things clearly about kindergarten: one, the kid who peed her pants on the first day, and two, the class chicks. They were raised from eggs in an incubator and we got to see them for a couple of weeks until they were big enough to go back to the petting zoo where they came from. I figured this was a shared experience amongst all five-year-olds.

Recently, I spoke to someone who went to a different school. The next one over. Their kindergarten class raised ducklings. Quack-quack, not cheep-cheep. I began to wonder if my memory was faulty. Several sleepless nights later, I realized that I did not truly know if they were chickens and ducks. Did it matter? For my subconscious to be so irritated, it must be important.

I went back to the person who told me about the ducklings. They shrugged, and said they don't really remember, themselves. That's when the real horror began.

"Ducks and chickens are basically the same thing."

How do you argue with such a statement? For me, it consisted of several minutes of yelling, followed by doing a spiteful burnout in their driveway. We'll never speak again. On the internet, we would have argued for several hours before reaching the same conclusion, and I still wouldn't know if I had a cheep-cheep or a quack-quack in my early childhood development. At least I have the pee-pants kid to fall back on as my only remaining rock of truth.

[revelboo]

Oh damn!! Mind if I just explode into particles about the latest Circuits and Wires??

BOOM!! 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💕💕💕💕💕

I love it so much

Wheeljack’s always been a favorite, just that optimism that’s undiminished no matter how many times his projects literally blow up in his face.

Also: Let’s see how many of these I can update in a day

Circuits and Wires Pt 10

Wheeljack x Reader

• Shifting to sit curled up in his lap, you’re aware of him shifting his arm as if wanting to touch and not sure where is okay. Biting into the inside of your cheek as he struggles, you reach back and pull his arm around you, pressing his big hand against your hip and feeling him shiver under you. Because one of you is going to have to be assertive and you’re almost positive it’s not going to be him. Reaching for his other hand, you pull it to you and play with his servos, fingertips tracing over the softer metal mesh at the inside of his wrist as you lay your head against him.

• You’re so soft and warm against him, he wants to tip your head up. Explore your soft mouth and let his hands wander. Would you let him? Optics dim, he doesn’t dare try to find out. Too afraid of being rejected or ruining this. Glossa sliding against his bottom lip remembering the feel of your mouth on his, he flexes his servos when you run your fingertips against the inside of them. And you look up at him, head against his shoulder. Slowly, he presses his palm to yours, intertwining his servos with your fingers, the difference in how much smaller your little hand is shocking. Even mass displaced, you’re so delicate compared to him. And a part of him thrills at that difference.

• Breath catching as you stare at your hand trapped in his much bigger one and feel the servos of the hand on your hip flex against you. Making you wonder what those big hands would feel like on you, wandering over you. “I keep thinking I’m going to break you,” he says, vocal indicators flickering mauve. Embarrassed? About breaking you? Why would he even-oh. Heat spilling through you, his awkwardness twists, takes on a new meaning. Not even sure how that would work between you two. Though, those big fingers could be put to use. And now the thought is there as your face heats.

• Head ducking against him as he catches a glimpse of how red your face just got, he frowns. “I promise you won’t break me,” you mutter, avoiding looking at him as your fingers squeeze his. Venting, he absently rubs against your hip and rests his chin on top of your head. Loving the feel of you against him and not quite believing that he’s allowed this much.

• “I hope not. I like having you around,” he says as you cringe. Because nope. It’s going right over his handsome, dense head unless you spell it out for him. Maybe he’d hadn’t meant it that way after all. And asking about it? Bluntly telling him that you’re interested in him that way? You’d rather curl up and die of embarrassment right now. So you’re right back to square one, you too shy and him too damn oblivious.

Previous

Next

I am all motors and gadgets

Organically designed to last a finite length of time

Locked in this rotary motion, the wheel spins round and round

I comprehend it all but still can't make a sound

I know there's something wrong within my faulty brain

I lack the proper behavior

My temper-addled tongue can't seem to force it out

The words that linger inside me

Can't speak, can't speak, can't speak at all

Don't even think you know the reason

Can't speak, can't speak, can't speak at all

Don't even try to understand

I am all circuits and wires

Conducting symphonies of heat exchange energies

My temper-addled tongue can't seem to force it out

The words that linger inside me

[dragon-kazansky]

Heart of the Dreaming

Morpheus x Female Reader

Soulmate AU

You are the daughter of Rodrick Burgess. You find out about the "demon" in the basement and decide you want to see it. Things take an unexpected turn when your soulmate connection is made with the man you find down there. You are the one he has been waiting for, and you're being taken away from. Not for long. Dream will protect his soulmate.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter}

Epilogue

☆☆☆

When you return to the Dreaming, Morpheus does not let go of you. He hand stays in yours as he leads you to your room. He should really check in with Lucienne, but decides this is far more important.

He closes the door once you're both in there and looks at you. You feel rather nervous about the way he looks at you. There's something in his eyes you can't quite read.

He comes to stand in front of you. He's so silent and a little intimidating, but you want him all the same.

You like him.

You want him.

He doesn't even have to ask. He holds out his hand, and you take it, stepping even closer to him. He pulls you into his arms and ducks his head down, kissing you passionately.

You return his kiss with as much eagerness as he is showing you.

You had been so scared without him by your side, but of course, he will always find his way back to you. You know that no matter what happens from this moment onward, Dream will always come to protect you. Always.

He guides you carefully over to your bed and lays you down on it. He kisses you over and over again. You moan softly, but realise you don't want to get too carried away. You push him gently. Dream looks down at you.

"Not now. Not like this," you say softly.

He understands. Dream kisses your forehead and stands back up, offering his hand to you again. You take it and let him help you up to your feet. His hand feels warm and comforting.

"Have you changed your mind about us?" He asks softly.

You look at him and smile slightly. "Yes. I think I have. Dream... I want you."

He feels relieved to hear that. He pulls you into his chest again and holds you. You both stay like that for a good few moments, but a knock on your door disturbs the peace. Dream lets go of you and calls for whoever it is to enter.

The door opens, and Lucienne enters. "I thought I would find you here." She gives you both a stern look.

You look down embarrassed.

Dream lifts his head up and looks at her. "Yes."

"Did you manage to get him?" Lucienne asks.

Dream tucks his hand into his pocket and takes out the tiny skull. He holds it up between himself and Lucienne. "I got him."

Lucienne takes the skull and looks at it. "I see."

"Next time, I will not create him so faulty. Will you look after that in the meantime?" He asks her.

"Of course." She tucks the skull away and looks back up at him. "Anything else, my lord?"

Dream smiles as he looks at you and then turns to Lucienne. "Yes. One more thing. There is to be a wedding. We need all preparations under way."

Lucienne looks between you and him. She notices the confusion on your face. "A wedding, my lord?"

You look up at him with a questioning look. He looks at you softly. "If you'll have me," he says softly.

"You mean... you want to... get married?" You ask, hoping you really are understanding all this clearly.

"Of course. I have no intention of ever losing you again. This power of mine is ours as far as I'm concerned. I want you to make the Dreaming your home. I want to be your husband who loves and cherishes until the end of time. I want to share a life with you. You are my soulmate. We are bonded together. Let us not waste any more time fighting what we know to be true. Will you have me?"

You look at him in utter awe. When you gather your thoughts, there is only one question on your mind.

"Do you love me?" You ask.

He goes still for a moment and then he nods.

"Yes. I believe I do."

Your heart races, and you smile. "That's enough for me." You kiss him again. Dream wraps his arms around you and holds you once more.

Lucienne smiles at the pair of you. "I shall take that as a yes then. I shall begin wedding preparations immediately."

You just look up and smile at Dream. Nothing else seemed to matter any more.

With that, Lucienne leaves. Dream takes your hand and covers it with his. You feel soft sand enveloping your fingers. When Dream removes his hand, there's a ring sitting on your finger.

"A ruby ring?"

"It seemed fitting," he smiles.

You smile, too. You look up at him and give him another kiss.

Your life had been far from perfect before, but now you know it's the best it's going to ever get. Your life is complete with him by your side.

"What happens now?"

"We get married, and I introduce you to the residents of the Dreaming, and then we manage the dreams together. You and I."

You smile. "You and I."

Dream kisses you once more, and you melt in his arms.

This soulmate bond was the best thing to ever happen to you.

☆☆☆

To be continued with Season 2

☆☆☆

@deniixlovezelda - @missdreamofendless - @kpopgirlbtssvt - @meganlpie - @thoughtsfromlayla - @ladyjbrekker

@mwaaaaaugh - @bluespecs14 - @intothesoul - @lady-violet - @navs-bhat - @krahk - @oldsoulmagic

@rubyrose2014 - @lorkai - @roxytheimmortal - @star-maker-rain-dancer - @intothesoul - @gemini-mama - @whotperlinda

@dreamingblueberries - @the-shadow-of-aurora - @novavida - @blackgirlmagicforever

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 - @hopshusushi - @sloppyzengarden - @thecraziestcrayon -

[k-n0-x]

Lucifer x reader fluff headcannons just because

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

This guy and his words of affirmation. When you wake up, he won't just say "I love you" His words of affirmation are like a poem, or a sonnet. Going to bed, the same story. Let's also acknowledge the small compliments he says at the drop of a hat.

Lucifer loves making stuff for you, to the point it's quite concerning, like if it's faulty or broken, I swear, he will spend every lifetime trying to fix it, despite you protesting, saying it's not necessary.

On the topics of gifts, though he doesn't express his thoughts, he always notices if you have his gifts around, his toy duck on the mantlepiece, the duck earrings that adorn your ears. Literally anything, and it makes his day when he does notice his gifts cropping up in your home.

An extremely affectionate and touchy guy; The demon king will have his lips on your cheek and/or mouth at least once every five minutes when he is with you.

When you show affection back, Lucifer will turn bright red, like a tomato (or apple, take your pick) and would implode.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

[luveline]

i love dad au’s! what about kbd!steve feeling a little overwhelmed and accidentally snapping and it startles one of the girls? like dove walking in their bedroom when you’re trying to calm him down. love your work❤️

thank u for requesting!! mom!reader, 1.1k

A hard knock on the door startles you. You don’t think one of the girls could emit so much force, so you assume it to be your husband. “Yeah, babe, I’m getting dressed.” 

“I need to talk to you.” 

“Okay,” you say, not worried, but not not worried. Nobody ever likes hearing that phrase without a quick follow up. You pull your pants over damp legs and leave the towel around your shoulders to catch any run off, opening the door for Steve where he waits on the other side. He looks strange; he’s not smiling. You go to touch his face and he ducks away from your touch.

“Steve, what?” you ask, confused. 

He peels away into the bedroom. You follow quickly. You want to close the door but think better of it —Dove is in her room with a faulty baby monitor.  

“I need more help,” he says tightly. 

“Okay. With what?” 

“No, that’s the problem. I can’t keep telling you everything.”

He sounds so angry so suddenly, it isn’t like him. You fight the urge to be defensive, and then the want to cry, holding out one of your hands to him in the universal gesture for calm down. “Okay. I’m sorry. Just give me some leeway, okay? Because the thing that you’re mad about right now has been stewing with you for ages, but this is the first I’ve heard about it.” 

He sits down hard on the end of the bed. You stand there for a few seconds, tense, but you really, really love him. You get down onto your knees and look up into his face, clasping your hand loosely around his ankle. “I’m sorry, H. Please don’t be angry with me yet.” 

“I’m not angry with you, I just need more help this week and you haven’t noticed, and that pissed me off.” 

“You think maybe I didn’t notice ‘cos I had all that stupid work stuff to do?” you ask gently. It takes more effort than you’d like to admit to be calm right now, but you’re trying because it’s you and Steve. He deserves your effort more than anyone else in the world, especially now that he’s telling you he needs it. “What do you want my help with, honey? I’ll only make you tell me once.” 

“But why do I have to tell you once?” he asks. 

“Because I’m busy too.” 

He shakes his head. “That pisses me off, though. We’re both busy, we’re both struggling, but I’m the one who ends up picking up the slack.”

“I’m sure it feels that way for you,” you say, trying to be patient, pretty close to losing it, “but I’ve been doing a lot this week. I have.”

He looks disgusted for a moment, just a split second, and you’re so worried he’s aiming that disgust at you that you duck your chin, eyes clouding with hurt. 

“Sorry,” he says. He covers his eyes with the back of his hand, pitch rising with emotion. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“Honey,” you murmur, rubbing his thigh. He curls into himself, and you might not see it often but you know what he looks like when he’s going to cry. “Sweetheart, please don’t be upset.”

“I’m being mean,” he says. 

“No you’re not! You’re not being mean at all, you’re asking for help, and you’re telling me how you feel, that’s not mean, that’s the right thing to do, even if you’re angry.” You try to catch his gaze. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? I know how much you do. I should’ve noticed, even if I’m busy. That’s not okay of me. I promise I’ll do better now you’ve told me. Won’t make you tell me again.”

He sighs as the first awful tear breaks from his lashes. “I think I’m really tired,” he says, half laugh and half sob. 

You encourage him into a bendy hug. He’s boiling hot under your hands, sniffling as you rub a line up and down his back. “I’m sorry. It’s not fair that you feel like this. I’m supposed to look after you,” you murmur. 

“I don’t even care that you’re not helping as much as I need you to,” he admits, “I’m just so tired.” 

“Why don’t you lie down? You don’t have to suffer in silence, baby. You told me how you feel and now I’m gonna pull my socks up and take care of you.” He shudders with tears. 

“Dad?” Dove asks worriedly. 

She’s standing in the doorway with her empty bottle in her hand, which she drops. 

Steve immediately wipes his face but it’s no use, she’s seen he’s upset already, and she doesn’t like the look of it. Her eyes fill with tears, staring at him in shock. 

“Oh, Dove, don’t cry,” he says. His own surprise prompts another tear to roll down his cheek. 

“Daddy,” she says, looking at you like you can fix it. 

“Come here, dad,” you say showfully, pulling at his face as you reach up from your kneeling to kiss his damp cheeks. “Don’t be upset! Let me kiss it better.” 

He cups the back of your neck and lets you kiss him all over. “Thank you, angel. Thank you, I feel better already.” 

Your kisses are sincere, if a little for show. You wipe his cheeks dry with your thumbs as you go, and take a hand through his hair as you lean back. He gives you a sorry smile. 

“Do you want to come and give him a kiss?” you ask from over your shoulder. 

Dove walks into the arm you hold out for her and climbs into your lap, then Steve’s. He sniffles and holds her, misery in his frame but the relief of having your kid to squeeze clear. “Sorry, Dove, did dad worry you?”  he asks in a murmur, lips near the top of her ear as he hugs her close. She’s small enough that his arm covers near the entirety of her back. 

You pat his thigh. He reaches for your hand to hold. 

“Crying,” she mumbles. 

“Sorry. I was just tired.”

“You okay?” she asks, like he’d ask her. 

“Yeah.” He threads your fingers together and leans away, smiling affectionately at Dove. She looks a lot like him when she smiles back, though you have to skew your head to see it. Same eyes, same dip in their top lip. “Mom kissed it better. Well, mostly. I just need, like, one more kiss, and then I will be perfect. Do you think so?” 

She knows what he’s doing, laughing warmly as she leans in to kiss his cheek. 

His eyes close as she ducks in, a small smile on his lips. 

Man, you think. If Steve’s out of commission, I have so much laundry to do. 

[creamcheesetaro]

UNLUCKY GIRL SYNDROME

Kita Shinsuke x Reader

Tags: F!Reader, Fluff, High School Setting

Wordcount: 924 words

next

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

You were sure that the Gods hated you.

Atleast, you were certain it all started when you transferred to Inarizaki High.

The endless streak of the embarrassing instances you caught yourself to be in made you want to cease your existence from the minds of your schoolmates.

After all, who wants to be remembered as that girl who accidentally poured her lunch meals to one of the school’s star players? (You were thankful that Ojiro just laughed the incident off).

Or that one time you accidentally burned your school project because you steered your candles too close to the chemicals? (This has prompted your group leader to cry since it was due the next day).

It was all accidental yet memorable enough to be branded as the school’s unluckiest girl.

The moniker continued to haunt you until you were in your second year.

While it did not cost you to make friends with other people, the moniker deterred you from confessing your feelings to Kita Shinsuke.

Your mind was bombarded with voices that kept uttering he deserves someone as perfect as he is. The Gods favored man– born with looks, intelligence, standard athleticism, with a green thumb, and so much more.

Never mind that he seems to be uninterested with any romantic relationships, you cannot help but gravitate towards him so you started watching his volleyball practices from time-to-time or just ask for info from Aran.

Though, your unlucky streaks also occasionally pops up during your visits such as getting hit by the ball in the head and failing to duck on time because you were busy making googly eyes to Kita, or that one time you did not know sitting on your usual wooden bench spot was faulty that that that it made you fall over your butt.

Still, you were content in watching him from afar until you heard that one of his classmates confessed to him one day.

To the utter shock of many, he also agreed to go out with her.

You cursed your luck but you did not take it all to heart because it was just a lighthearted crush anyway.

Until it wasn’t.

Come second year and you were also put in the same class as him, Class 2-7.

You were sure that your feelings for him dwindled until that time when you were paired with him in a group project.

The God’s penchant for Murphy's law to sprout in your every waking moment grew tenfold as every group task always involves your dog eating your fair share of paperwork so you had to retype and reprint it at school, or your ballpen unexpectedly inked on your answer sheet.

Yet, to Kita, he handled all things like a champ. Though his way of fixing things involves a little bit of scolding on your end (you swear you’re not clumsy!), he never made you feel bad about it.

Lost your ballpen when you just put it in your bag last class? He has a spare one that you can borrow. Presenting in front of the class yet your USB corrupted your ppt file? He would merely suggest that you guys used notecards and papers marked with keywords when presenting in front.

You were eternally grateful for his quick-wittedness through it all but it just worsened your predicament– your admiration for him has only heightened.

You knew holding feelings for a taken guy was wrong so you try to keep it under wraps.

It was all under control until one time during sports fest when the sole of your shoes gave up– worse of all, it happened during midrace when you were about to pass the baton to Misaki (your other classmate who participated in the relay race also).

The crowd gasped as you fell face flat as your shoes’ left sole flap loosely. Although Misaki helped you sit up (and got the baton also), she hurriedly ran off to pass it to the fourth runner.

You can feel the blood surged all throughout your head and neck as you can hear chuckles amongst the crowd. 

Chucking in this moment as one of the instances that would bolster your infamy, you pushed yourself off the ground to start dusting yourself off.

Before you could fully get up, you were surprised there was a shadow casting above you.

You turned to look and your cheeks only reddened furthermore as Kita crouched beside you and you heard him mutter, “Why does this keep happening to you?” before helping you stand up.

That statement should have made you feel worse about yourself but his tone of amusement only served to speed your heartbeat.

Still keeping your sanity intact (nevermind that your left brain has completely shut down by how close he is besides you), you forced a grin while dusting off and stated, “The Gods must have personal vendetta against me.”

He merely chuckled before his eyes trailed down and a hint of worry flashed in his eyes, “Your knees…”

You looked down and saw that your left knee sported a huge scar and a bit of bleeding on it.

Before you can assure him that you’ll just go to the clinic, he hurriedly ushered you away from the track line and towards an empty spot of a secluded bench.

“Stay here,” he said, then immediately power walked to gather his bag and come back to you to cleanse and patch your wound.

Your face was burning all throughout the predicament that you failed to notice that his girlfriend was approaching the both of you…

part 2

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ dabi + dermal piercings (& you sucking on them!)

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, blood + licking up blood, hair pulling, toxic relationship (possessiveness, touya’s a lil mean) words: 1.1k

notes: the biggest thanks to @t-tomuras who birthed the idea of dabi having dermal piercings (outfitted with pretty sapphire studs) with meee ♡

They haven’t healed—not fully, anyway—but that doesn’t really matter. 

He can hardly feel half of them regardless. 

Still, they’re breathtaking. 

Dewdrops of sapphire adorn his torso, glittering in the gauzy moonlight with each of his gentle inhales. Eight in total—four strung across his collarbones in pairs of two, four framed by sharp, jutting hipbones. 

They’re a dainty contrast to the gaudy gold sutured across his flesh, old and worn, stained with ash and fire and blood. They look almost natural in a sense, as if his body had sprouted the jewels itself, grown from his tissues.

“So pretty,” you murmur to yourself, a delicate index finger tracing over the jutting gems embellishing his collarbone—slow, appreciative, gaze shimmering with awe in the dim light. 

Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, your pupils pulse, gaping and gluttonous, trying to consume the sight—suck him in, swallow him down, stash him away behind bone and blood for safekeeping. 

The dermal piercings are nearly as pretty as he is, sprawled out beneath you, fluffy tufts of ivory messy and splayed on the dark sheets outfitting his mattress. They almost rival his eyes, the blue almost as deep, the glimmer almost as beautiful.

A tongue darts out to lave along his bottom lip, scar tissue licked raw by it’s incessant caress, the point playing with one of the hooked staples at the corner of his mouth. Rough hands flex on your hips, coarse and callused, his glassy gaze framed by heavy lids as he stares up at you, unblinking. 

Your own gaze sweeps between the piercings and his face, unable to focus on one for more than a few seconds at a time, enraptured by the beauty that is Touya, spread out on display below you.

Another gentle skim of your fingertip over the twinkling little bumps, so light it’s hardly a touch at all, a fragile shiver rippling through his flesh. Pressing down, you watch as your nail sinks into puffy velvet skin, still slightly swollen from the needle, a soft hiss of air expelled through gritted teeth—wispy, not sharp, his hips twitching up infinitesimally.

It’s nothing more than a dull pressure, nerves fried to hell, singed and faulty and dead beneath dense scar tissue, but it makes his cock throb anyway, half-hard and filling with life, pelvis rolling up once, grinding into your core.

A syrupy little giggle drips from your lips, head ducking down to plant chaste kisses to the four gems lining his protruding collarbones before your tongue unfurls to smooth over them in one slow, continuous drag, flat and broad, sealing the dermal piercings with a thick coat of spit. 

His chest stutters, intake of breath tangling on the whine that splinters in his throat, spine arching off the mattress to urge the piercings further into the heat of your mouth. 

Your lips curl into a smirk against his skin, cheeks hollowing as you suck on the metal, hot and soaked under your mouth, the point circling them; first lazily, then with more force. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, curse tapering into a whimper. “The other ones, now.” 

Sliding down his legs, your body settles between his thighs, his knees spreading wider to accommodate you, ankles hooking at the small of your back and locking you in place, heels weighing down on the base of your spine. 

Damp breath wafts over his hip piercings in a gentle caress, chased by the tip of your tongue, tracing the edges of each jewel, refusing to lick over them. 

A growl rumbles in his chest—dark, decadent—and slim fingers knot in the hair at the back of your head, knuckles curling tightly and yanking, sharp bones pressed flush to your scalp.

“Don’t tease.” 

Another giggle escapes your lips, airy against his slick skin, but your tongue obeys instantly, gliding over the jewels in slow, heavy laps, smothering them in saliva. A sharp gasp catches in his throat, fading into a stringy moan when your tongue tenses into something hard, brushing across the studs in firm, rhythmic motions—back and forth, back and forth. 

The piercings on his hips are considerably more sensitive than the ones threaded along his collarbone, the skin healthy and alive and so, so responsive, your humid breath adoring his stomach with dewdrops of condensation.

His grip on your strands has loosened, breathy pleasure melting on his tongue, hips shifting under you, hard cock prodding your ribs. 

The salt of his sweat stings your tastebuds, strong and pungent, but you don’t stop licking until every last ounce of it has been washed away, cleansed by your spit and soaked up by your tongue.

But even after that, you’re still ravenous.

Your lips encase the tiny studs in a pucker and suck greedily, the capillaries tangled beneath his skin snapping under the force. Blood floods the surrounding tissues, seeping through the small pinpricks, jewels swimming in sticky crimson.

You sop that up, too, copious amounts of drool mixing with scarlet and turning the viscous substance a watery pink, painted in wide, messy strokes across his gut. Tart copper saturates your mouth, eager tongue weighing down on the weeping punctures, desperate for more. 

Blotchy violet blooms below your mouth, so dark they rival his scars, your name etched into his flesh using his own ichor as ink. The vigour of your suction increases, siphoning another torrent of warm metal to ooze from the wounds, a needy moan vibrating against his skin. 

It’s so good, his hips rutting into your ribs in pitiful, uneven little motions, but he’s starting to chafe beneath your blotting tongue, little fissures splitting smooth flesh thanks to your ceaseless lapping. Reluctantly, you pull away, laboured breath drifting across the piercings, still trickling lines of carmine. 

A masterpiece. Yours. 

“Goddamn,” Touya’s panting, a slight flush to his cheeks, clumps of hair clinging to his temples. “I should get these piercings across my entire body if it means you’re gonna slobber all over ‘em like this.”

He doesn’t need to—he knows he doesn’t need to, knows you’ll worship his body without the pretty little gems budding from the surface of his skin—but you giggle anyway, pressing a kiss to his left hip, blood staining petaled lips. 

“I dunno,” you hum in mock thought, a delicate finger tracing along the staples curving over his belly button, tiptoeing across gold. “Don’t you think you have enough?” 

His head lifts from the pillow slightly, staring down at his own torso, sapphire scanning across the gold sutured into his flesh, stitching healthy skin to something dead and warped. 

“I suppose,” he sighs out with a practiced indifference, head flopping back down, a languid smile crawling onto his face. 

His eyes dart down again, heady and shaded by thick fanned lashes, flares of mischief catching in the rising moon. 

“You’d better get to work, then.” 

Starting with the metal barbells climbing the underside of his cock. 

[starlightvld]

Up in Smoke

(Also on AO3)

The first time Ghost rips the cigarette from Soap's mouth, drops it on the ground, and stomps on it as he passes by, Soap is too stunned to say anything for a full ten seconds. They've only been working together consistently for a couple of missions, and even as his superior officer, the audacity of the action floors him.

By the time his brain restarts, Ghost is long gone.

--

The second time Ghost steals Soap's cigarette, he bursts out in a string of Scottish curses and tackles Ghost from behind before the wanker can drop it on the ground. An impromptu sparring match ensues, fists and curses flying. 

Afterward, he doesn't feel much like a cigarette anymore — not with the split lip, anyway. Besides, the buzzing under his skin that usually drives him to smoke is just... gone.

Price catches wind of the incident, of course, and calls them into his office a few hours later. By that time Soap has calmed down enough to be... maybe not okay with it, but at least able to see the humor. 

"What's this about you muppets scuffling by the smoking area?"

"Just a little sparring to blow off steam," Soap says.

"Ghost?"

"Nothin' to worry about, Captain."

"No? I've got one soldier who looks like he just got back from a bar fight, and the other..." He squints at Ghost. "He get a hit in on you, too?"

"Yeah," Ghost replies in that deadpan tone of his. "Coupla black eyes."

It's a joke. 

Ghost is telling a joke. And it's objectively not funny. It's not. But Soap bursts into hysterical laughter all the same. 

The corners of Ghost's blacked-out eyes crinkle. 

Price rubs his temples before dropping his hand on his desk. Soap presses his lips together to contain his laughter.

"Sparring happens in the gym. I'm sure you know the place. It's where we have things like mats and gloves. I catch you two bare-knuckle fighting again, and you will regret it."

And it's enough to sober Soap up. He avoids Ghost as he ducks away to catch dinner.

--

The third time... well, no. He supposes that's really the fourth time. 

Because the actual third time, Soap had come back from a shit mission where everything went wrong. Intel was faulty, exfil was delayed, and people under his command died. It didn't happen as often in SAS as it had in the regulars — the soldiers here were well-trained and hard to kill — but that made it all the worse. 

When Ghost tried to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, Soap growled. 

"Back the fuck up, Lt. Or Price is gonna be disappointed in both of us."

Ghost paused, and their eyes met. Slowly, Ghost lowered his hand. 

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Fuck no."

"Thank God."

Soap didn't have it in him to even huff a laugh. He took a long drag and blew the smoke away from Ghost as a peace offering.

To his surprise, Ghost didn't leave. He spun around and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. They stood there together, utterly silent, as Soap let the heat and sting in his lungs soothe the beast inside that wanted to rip the world apart.

When he was done, though, he was surprised to find he didn't want another. Usually after shit missions, he'd stand there and smoke half a pack before his hands would stop shaking.

He finally met Ghost's eyes. The man quirked a barely visible brow.

"S'pose we should take it to the mats this time?"

Ghost pushed off the building and started walking. Soap followed like a lost child looking for a way home. 

--

The fourth time is in Chicago. His hands are shaking not from losing soldiers but from almost losing his own life. The cigarette trembles in his grip as he stands outside the bar, the biting wind turning his fingers and probably his lips blue. He lifts it to his mouth, inhaling deep—

And then it's gone.

The whine that bubbles up from his gut and bursts from his throat is nothing short of humiliating. But God. God. He needs it.

"Not now. Please, Ghost."

"Why?"

Ghost hasn't thrown the cigarette down. Yet. He cocks his head to the side and gives Soap a long look. Soap can only tremble from the cold and a need that goes deeper than a simple hit of nicotine.

"I just... I need it."

The cigarette drops to the ground, but Soap doesn't have time to lament the loss before that same hand is curling around Soap's neck and pulling him into a fucking massive chest. The other arm comes around Soap's shoulders and...

Ghost just stands there, holding him. And Soap can't help melting into the warmth and solidity of the man who saved his life just hours ago. He dares to curl in deeper. To raise his hands and clutch at Ghost's jacket. To let a few, silent tears escape his tight control.

Finally, his muscles relax. Ghost must feel it, because he turns and leads Soap back toward the bar.

"Why do ye even care?" Soap mumbles from his spot tucked into Ghost's side.

"Because those things'll kill ya."

Soap supposes the "I like you alive" is implied at this point.

--

Soap loses count after Chicago. He gets stretches of days when Ghost is on a solo op or out with one of the other operators when he can smoke in peace. So he does.

At first.

He's been hooked since he was a rebellious teen trying to make his mark on the world. He's tried to quit multiple times, but it never seems to stick. The first bad mission or adrenaline-filled near miss and he's back at whatever smoking spot he can find, puffing away.

He finds himself trying to cut back, though, even when Ghost is away.

Any time Ghost is on base, all bets are off. In addition to darting by and making a grab for it or sneaking up behind him and flicking it out of his hands, Ghost has gotten more creative. Sometimes Soap will pull out a cigarette only to find he's "lost" his lighter. Sometimes the cigarettes themselves go missing — he clutches his chest and mourns all that wasted money whenever a whole pack disappears. 

He supposes it's all just going up in smoke anyway, though.

He should be angry. But in truth, it's almost a relief to hand over the reins to Ghost. To let the man help him by annoying the shit out of him until he wants to give up on it entirely.

Which is definitely the point. Ghost has made that perfectly clear.

So, whenever he gets the urge to calm his racing thoughts or overactive mind with a cigarette, he finds Ghost and annoys him instead. They talk, or spar, or simply sit in silence together, doing their own thing. Ghost doesn't often touch him — their moment in Chicago is still the closest Soap's ever gotten to the elusive Ghost — but he also doesn't push Soap away when he slumps into Ghost's side after a hard day or leans over his back when he's sitting at the table in the 141's common area on base.

The urge doesn't go away, of course. And sometimes, when things get really bad, Ghost will just sit or stand with him like he did the third time. Still, he finds himself smoking less and hanging out with Ghost more.

--

The last time Ghost steals a cigarette from Soap, he simply stands beside Soap and holds out his hand. Soap immediately knows something has gone terribly wrong. Still, he's too invested in the game now to not hand the cigarette over.

He nearly keels over when Ghost pulls up his mask and takes a long, hard drag. Soap watches in fascination as his cheeks hollow, his neck muscles strain, his lips curve around the paper. It's erotic in a way he really shouldn't be thinking about in regards to his emotionally unavailable superior officer, but the knowledge hasn't stopped him yet. Since that day in Chicago — probably before if he's honest — he's only ever wanted to be closer.

Ghost coughs a little and hands the cigarette back.

"Fuck. Just as disgusting as I remember."

"Ye used to smoke, then?"

"Before I joined up, yeah. Hated it, though."

"The smell? Or—"

"Everything. The taste, the smell, the heat..." Ghost trails off, his hand rubbing over his bicep in a strangely specific way. He shakes his head and looks back at Soap. "Not your problem, Johnny. Forget about it."

Soap's hand is darting out, fingers curling into Ghost's jacket, before he's properly thought through the action. Ghost pauses before turning back. They stare in silence for a moment until—

Soap stubs out the half-burned cigarette and drops the butt in the trash. He licks his lips. Glances up at Ghost. The mask is still sitting on his nose, and Soap stares at his lips for longer than he should before pulling the pack out of his pocket and throwing it in the trash, too.

"Cannae have ye thinking I stink, can I?"

"Too late."

But Ghost's throat bobs with a hard swallow. Soap wets his lips, takes a step closer, and uncurls his fingers to slide his hand up Ghost's chest until his fingertips are resting on Ghost's shirt collar.

"I dinnae think it is."

Ghost turns and walks away. Soap closes his eyes and drops his hand, internally cursing his impulsive behavior. The scuffing of boots walking away from him is like nails on a chalk board.

Until they stop, and a gruff voice calls out, "You comin'?"

A slow smile slides across Soap's mouth. "No' yet."

A huff — exasperation? laughter? a bit of both? — before, "Better get movin' then."

And Soap has never been more glad to follow an order.

[sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes]

AU where Virgil doesn't appear directly in season 1 but works hidden behind the scenes and hears the main 3 constantly complaining about anxiety-related issues. His relationship with the 3 other dark sides begins to decay around this time so the combo of stresses causes him to duck out. The main 3 notice the lack of his influence but because they don't know of his existence spend a lot of the first part of AA trying to figure out what part of Thomas could be faulty, and then realised it must be due to a dark side. In the second part of AA they appear in this super dark foggy room with spider webs everywhere, where they meet Virgil face-to-face for the first time.

[saturnsorbits]

Android AU where you purchase a discounted and broken Bakugo model.

He’s got limited movement in his right arm, a faulty ocular system and a series of burns that cover one side of his face and have made the middle of his chest all melted and tacky - the synthetic skin warped like scarred flesh, but he works well enough.

It’s nice, having him around. You cook together. Watch movies. Go on picnics. Hike. Dine out. Visit aquariums and museums. It doesn’t take long for people to start assuming…

Husband. Boyfriend. Fiancé. It’s all thrown round. An endearing misunderstanding that never garners more than a blush, or at least it was, until the feelings started.

It’s a growing debate, if the androids can feel like humans can, but you find yourself at his mercy anyway. You fall for him slowly, but definitely, lost to him in all of the ways you’d never thought possible.

You bottle it, lock it in your chest even when it becomes too much taking you in a choke hold and then one day, you just… Burst.

Ducking under the rail of the park, you cross the wood-chips and toss yourself to the curved rubber seat of the swing. Beyond the small park is the ocean - a small slither of wide open blue that crashes against the walls of the sea barrier before you.

This was your place, just your place and now, now you’re sharing it with him.

He sits on your left, pushing himself with the balls of his feet. In the shadow of the street light with his synthetic blonde spikes spilling over his forehead, he almost feels like a lover - like something more than he can be. ‘I like it here.’

‘I know.’ Bakugo turns, smirks. The social module downloaded into his brain makes it look perfect, tells him the exact angle his lips should stretch to for the chosen effect.

‘There’s something about the sea being so close, it’s…’

‘Calming.’

‘Yeah.’ You sigh, glancing over to Bakugo careful not to look too long. ‘It’s calming.’

‘You wanna know why?’

‘Sure.’

‘My search says it’s due to the broad nature of the sound, as it hits your ear...' He taps your tragus. 'It creates a deep tonal noise, which due to its processing ease in the brain creates a soothing effect.'

'Huh.' It’s strange, hearing him talk like this. Usually, he’s so informal, so blunt and matter of fact it’s strange when all of that wiring in his head kicks back in and has him talking like… Well like a robot.

‘Did it again, didn’t I?’

You chuckle. ‘Sometimes you just talk like we’re worlds apart.’

‘Sorry. I -.’

‘No, no…’ You smile, softly, before reaching over and resting your palm on his thigh.

Bakugo blinks, looking down at the hand wrapping his leg. Gingerly, he accepts it. Entwining his fingers with yours, he squeezes. ‘I…’ His voice is a whisper. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Katsuki.’

Squeezing softly, Bakugo doesn’t lift his gaze when he talks. 'I don't love you.'

You laugh, the cold air stinging your teeth. ‘I don’t love you.’ It’s a half-truth, the emotion caught in your chest might not yet be love, but it’s too close to it for comfort. ‘You don’t have to love me.’

Bakugo breathes deep despite not needing to. ‘I - I don’t feel -.’

You cut him off, eyes wide, a softeness already burrowing into your expression. You can’t imagine what’s it’s like, to be filled with a thing you were born never to have - to be coming alive for the first time. ‘Katsuki… You do. I know that you’re more than just a robot… More than -‘

‘No.’ Bakugo tightens his grip on your hand, flicking his eyes up to meet yours. ‘I can - I do feel…’ He corrects. ‘I just don’t feel for you what you feel for me.’

[gingervitus]

Davrin Week Day Two: Eyes of an Eagle/Roar of a Lion/Heart of a Halla

I LOVE DAVRIN WEEK @datvcompanionweeks. Here I am very late in my day writing this stuff as I go along.

So I thought about Davrin being a volunteer firefighter, and now here I am at 10:32 PM having written about it.

More modern AU for your Davrin viewing pleasure.

No Heroics (1,776 words)

There are three things, of which Davrin is certain: it’s goddamn late, he smells like shit, and he can’t wait to get into bed.

It had been a normal night spent in front of the TV. Chinese takeout. Not nearly as many dumplings as he would have liked, and someone definitely ate his eggroll. There certainly isn’t a full interrogation that ensued after he discovered the empty wax paper bag. Faulty circumstantial–at best–evidence isn’t presented while another dumpling disappears. Definitely none of that happens. He also most definitely doesn’t end up doubled over laughing with duck sauce smeared across his nose. For that reason, no one will catch him complaining. Even with a pair of slippers propped into his lap that belong to the alleged eggroll thief. “It’s insulting that you would even accuse me.” He let it slide this time. Probably the next time, too. 

Taash has started calling him a sucker everytime they are together, and maybe they’re right. He’s got it bad.

The night was so comfortable and domestic and nice that when the notification of a structure fire across town he almost pops up across the feed he’s idly browsing he almost ignores it. Another time, he thinks as his thumb absentmindedly presses into the tight calf muscle propped up into his lap. An update comes, though. Entrapments. Children. Fire doesn’t care how good someone’s night is going. In fact, it usually waits to rear its ugly head in the worst moments.

Duty calls, as it usually does. He pats the legs of his favorite scheister and trudges around the small living space. A lightly packed backpack equipped with a radio hangs from one of the metal hooks by the front door, joined by several jackets both old and new. The night is cool but not cold enough to warrant one of the coats, so he settles on an old sweatshirt. His head is just about through the top when he bumps into the back of the couch. The dip down is intended to be brief, but fingers curl around both drawstrings of his hood to pull him down further. “Don’t go saving too many babies or old people. You’ll make the rest of us look bad.” He laughs something in response. Truthfully, he can’t be bothered to remember, too distracted by the lips that brush up against his as the words are spoken. “Come back in one piece please. No heroics out there, mister.”

Simple instructions, which he’s technically followed… mostly.

The ER nurse–Lina, as her badge labels her–is giving him instructions, too, but his mind is fried. Adrenaline has long since worn off. The taped up ribs under his shirt ache with each breath he takes. He glances at Lina, watching carefully for each time her brows raise and she looks up from the laptop in her hands. That’s the signal for him to nod. To acknowledge that he understands what she’s telling him. He nods each time even if the pounding in his head gets worse when he does so. All he wants to do is go home, and this seems to be the quickest way to get there.

It should have been a normal call. Just like any other.

Cut and dry. 

Grab grandma and any kids and get the hell out of there.

But it was an old duplex with too many people living inside. Too shoddy of wiring for a building over a century old. Too much needs to be powered by electricity than such an old structure would allow for without major electrical overhaul and a ton of money shelled out. It’s a mess.

By the time they arrive, the whole place is up in flames like the place was built from cards. Ambulances are lined down the street. Larger fire departments are in the process of being contacted, but there’s no time. No time for waiting. No time for thinking. No time for worrying. No heroics out there. 

There’s only time to act. 

Flames lick all around every single volunteer that enters the building. The walls that are still made of plaster glow with the flames raging within them. Newer ceilings and walls are crumbling. Embers spit in every direction. The whole house feels as if a creature from the depths of the earth is reaching up to claw it down to the molten core. It’s crumbling. There isn’t enough time.

Each room proves to be empty as they open. Clear. Clear. A bedroom, smack in the center of the ground floor has a door cracked open. Fire burns inside. A chemical smell fills the air. Old wallpaper. Maybe lead paint given the age of the house. He can’t be sure. He doesn’t even really care. Beneath a window in the corner of the room, a small frame sits curled up, wheezing through the smoke. There’s no time to waste. “Come on.” The child is screaming as best they can through burning lungs. “Let’s get you out of here.” They’re light. Easy to carry through the crumbling building to safety, but they yell. They scream. They pound against his chest with little fists, and at first, he doesn’t even care to make out what they’re saying. It doesn’t matter in the long run. At least, it doesn’t until the word finally catches his ear. 

“Kitty!”

A fucking cat.

Lina leads him out of the room he’s been trapped in for the better part of the last couple of hours. She’s still talking but he can’t hear her. His ears are still ringing, but he manages to nod at times he’s fairly sure are appropriate. The whole place smells like soot, wallpaper paste, and antiseptic, although that could just be him. He isn’t sure where everyone else from the fire ended up. He doesn’t even know if they managed to put it out. Asking the nurse about it requires a deep enough breath that his entire side sears with pain, so he takes that as a sign to worry about it later.

The waiting room is fairly empty. A few stragglers sit in seats, doubled over in pain. Pale faced and staring out into space. Agitated and staring at watch faces that seem to move all too slowly. He can’t be bothered to give them much more than a passing observation. It has to be close to dawn at this point. He just wants to faceplant into his bed, which doesn’t feel like a tall ask after the night he’s had. 

At reception, there appears to be a scuffle going on. A woman is yelling. Pleading, even. Begging to be let in. Demanding. “Please, you called me!” she shouts. Her voice breaks. “I don’t even know what’s going on. Please just–”

“Ma’am, I told you. I can’t let you–”

“Please!” He coughs. A mistake that he can’t help but make. He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it home in this state. His truck is back at the fire station. Fuck. How is he supposed to get home? “He’s my brother! He’s a doctor!”

“Silvia, you cannot just march into a hospital, say I’m your brother, and demand entry.”

Silvia.

Whatever Lina is telling him doesn’t even get picked up through facial expressions. He’s wandering–limping–toward reception. Pale hair is pulled back into a lopsided ponytail that bounces around frantically as incomprehensible words are spat out between the older woman who watches on, completely unamused, and the exhausted doctor with a headful of dark curls and a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache beside her. Hands wave around, manic, urgent. His fingers curl around the arm attached to them. The face that turns to face him looks as exhausted as the doctor and somehow manages to fall and lift upon seeing him. 

“Davrin,” Silvia breathes. “Holy shit.” Her fingers trace along the side of his face, just below the bandage on his forehead. The touch is featherlight. Barely even there at all. She sucks her cheeks in and bites down on the soft flesh inside. Her eyes blink rapidly up at him. A second hand rests on his other cheek. “What happened?”

He tries to grin at her, but everything is sore. Even his fucking face. God, he just wants to go to sleep. He sighs, head dropping to stare at the floor. Her hands remain holding his face. “Heroics,” he admits.

Kitty, as it turns out, is a kitten, probably too young to be separated from its mother, but is in the corner of the room the child had been in, hiding beneath a blazing bookshelf. It isn’t the logical thing to do, but he goes back into the building that’s being ripped apart by fire to retrieve said kitten. At first, he tries to coax it out to no avail. Instead, he drops down to his knees, throws a hand beneath the shelf, and pulls out the creature, who is screaming much like its companion.

He can see the open front door that they’ve been entering and departing through. He’s almost out. The last occupant of the building is going to make it, he thinks. A job well done at the end of the night. The fire department from the city will take care of smothering the flames, and he’ll go home and tell his little eggroll thief that heroics pay off sometimes. 

That’s all before a beam in the ceiling of the hallway collapses on him, and for whatever damn reason, he cuddles this fucking kitten against his chest to try to save it from the pressure.

“A kitten?” she spits out. “All this to save a fucking kitten?”

When it’s put like that, he realizes how ridiculous it sounds, but when he peels his arms away from his chest and hands the cat to the little boy who had been cowering in the corner of a burning room trying to say his friend, it seems worth it. The tears and the thanks. Knowing that someone got half a happy ending that night feels good. “Yeah,” he coughs out through a laugh. “All to save a fucking kitten.”

“Did it live?”

Silvia’s head whips around. The woman at the desk has returned to whatever tasks await her on her computer, but the doctor waits expectantly with his arms folded across his chest. “Viago, you can’t just–”

“Yeah, it lived,” Davrin assures him. This time the corners of his lips turn upwards despite the effort it takes. “And I’ve got the cracked ribs to show for it.”

She turns back to him, eyes running up and down his battered form. “Good,” she whispers. “I would have been pissed if it didn’t.”

“Jesus Christ, Silvie.”

[doodlebugg16-blog]

Into The Unknown[Pt.1]

Pairing: AgedUp!Katsuki Bakugo x Fem!Reader

Summary: You were only trying to get ready for bed. You showered, changed into pajamas, even doom scrolled on your phone. But that damn faulty phone charger shocked you. Now you’re waking up in an alley to ear rattling explosions.

Warnings: normal MHA content, extra cursing cuz Kats is an adult now, forced proximity???, reader is shorter than Bakugo, SLOW-ISH BURN, lemme know if I missed any…

A/N: so I had made a c.ai bot with this idea and it wasn’t enough to quench the thirst LOL. MDNI cuz I genuinely don’t know where this will go. Not sure how long this series will be but I hope you enjoy <3

The last thing you remember is the faint sizzle and a sharp sting that danced up your arm the moment your charger sparked to life. You were only trying to enjoy a peaceful night before your day off. There had been no warning — just a flash of heat, a flickering lightbulb above, and then—

Darkness.

But now… now the world is loud.

You jolt awake on cold pavement, your head pounding as the sharp stench of smoke and scorched rubber fills your nostrils. For a moment, you can’t breathe. You blink rapidly against the blur in your vision, trying to make sense of the warped sounds echoing around you.

BOOM!

A deafening explosion shakes the ground, rattling through your ribs. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm shrieks into the night, lights flickering wildly in sync with the chaos.

You’re in an alley. A fluorescent red glow bounces off the alley walls, casting eerie shadows that twist and tremble like they’re alive.

You scramble to your feet, adrenaline flooding your system. Your phone — gone. Your fingertips are tingling, and your heart is beating so fast it might burst.

What the hell is going on?

Another explosion rips through the air, closer this time. You flinch, ducking instinctively as dust and heat whip through the alley. You stumble toward the edge of the alley’s mouth, pressing your back to the grimy wall.

Peering around the corner, your breath catches.

There, in the middle of the street, a figure stands like something out of a nightmare and a comic book combined — broad-shouldered, dressed in black with glowing gauntlets crackling at his sides. The air hisses around him, radiating steam and light with every pulse of his fists.

And then—BOOM.

Another blast shoots from his palms, sending a masked villain crashing through a streetlamp.

You can’t move. All you could do was stare in shock and fear.

People are screaming. Sirens wail in the distance. And yet, the guy at the center of it all just looks furious.

You don’t know where you are.

You don’t know who he is.

And worst of all, you don’t know why your hands are still tingling.

You press yourself tighter against the alley wall, heart hammering in your throat as another shockwave ripples down the street. Dust coats your tongue. Somewhere inside you, your brain is trying to make sense of this — maybe it’s a movie set. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe you’re dead.

“Woah—hey, hey, you okay?”

The voice behind you makes you jump.

You whirl around with a startled yelp, fists half-raised in a useless attempt at defense. A guy—maybe your age or a little older—is standing just a few feet away, hands raised in a calming gesture. He’s got red spiky hair, bright eyes, and an open, genuinely concerned expression like he hadn’t just appeared out of thin air.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he says quickly, eyeing the panic in your posture. “Just—saw you standing here like you were gonna pass out or something.”

You can barely get a word out. “Where… what the hell is going on?!”

He blinks, confused. “You serious? You’re right next to a villain takedown. You must’ve hit your head or something.”

You stare at him. “Villain—what?”

A series of cracks ripple across his forearms, and suddenly his skin turns to stone. No, not stone—something harder. Shiny. Armored. His whole body shifts, and your stomach flips.

“What the f—what are you?!”

“I’m not a villain if that’s what you’re asking!” he says quickly. “I’m a Pro Hero. Well—technically still underground, but licensed. Name’s Red Riot. Look, we can talk in a sec, but this area’s not safe. You gotta get out of the blast zone.”

Another explosion lights the street. You flinch again.

Red Riot turns his head sharply and yells, “Oi, Blasty! We got a civ over here!”

“What?! Are you dumb?! Why’d you bring ‘em closer, shitty hair?!”

That voice—raw, thunderous, laced with fury—slices through the street like a whip. The blonde guy with the gauntlets whirls around, his eyes catching on you like a target locked.

His gaze is molten—hard, narrow, full of something wild and too real. You feel your breath catch like he physically knocked the wind out of you with that look alone.

He storms over in a few powerful strides, smoke still curling from his hands. “The hell’s a random civilian doin’ in this alley?” he snaps, glaring at Kirishima first, then at you. “You lost or just suicidal?”

“She was just… here,” Kirishima says, half-defensive. “She looks like she hit her head or something. Totally out of it.”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, though your voice wavers. “I just—woke up. I was in my room and then… now I’m here? And people are throwing bombs?! What is this place?!”

Blasty—or whoever he is—pauses. His mouth opens slightly like he might say something snarky, but for a second… he frowns.

That’s when it hits you: there’s nothing familiar here. The signs. The language. The fire and smoke. The guy who can turn into stone. The guy with exploding hands.

You stare at them, heart in your throat. “This… this isn’t real.”

Kirishima’s smile softens. “Yeah… I think something weird happened to you.”

Bakugo scoffs, arms crossed. “No shit.”

And then — sirens, louder now. More figures dropping from the sky, wearing bright-colored suits and gear. A woman with dragon wings. A man with something like engines in his legs.

Your knees wobble.

“Hey, hey—” Kirishima catches your elbow gently as you start to sway. “We’ve got you. You’re safe now, okay? Just… stay with us.”

Bakugo doesn’t look convinced. His crimson eyes are sharp and suspicious.

“She’s not just some civ,” he mutters. “Something’s off.”

And as you finally stumble out of the alley with Red Riot’s help and Blasty trailing behind, watching you like a lit fuse—you get the sinking feeling he might be right.

You don’t remember most of the ride to the hospital.

There were flashing lights, muffled sirens, strangers talking in clipped, fast voices. The whole world felt distant, like you were watching it all through a thick sheet of glass.

You remember Kirishima’s steady presence beside you, his hand awkwardly braced near your shoulder as if he was ready to catch you again at a moment’s notice. You remember the way your legs wouldn’t stop shaking and how someone shoved a warm thermal blanket around you before guiding you down white halls that smelled like antiseptic and ozone.

And then—

Silence.

You sit on the edge of a hospital bed now, legs dangling, palms pressed to the thin paper lining the mattress. There’s a small bandage on your temple, a pulse monitor clipped to your finger, and a growing pit in your stomach.

No ID. No phone. No answers.

Just you, the smell of smoke still clinging to your clothes… and the knowledge that you’re not in your world anymore.

The curtain sways, and you tense as someone enters the room.

Heavy boots. Controlled steps. A scowl that could probably crack drywall.

Blasty.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there at the edge of the room with arms crossed, eyes narrowed like you’re some kind of unexploded ordinance.

You clear your throat. “Are—are you supposed to be here?”

He huffs. “Don’t need permission to question a damn mystery girl who dropped into a villain fight like some clueless extra.”

You blink. “Clueless what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” He takes a few steps forward, his tone sharp but not yelling. Not yet. “You said you ‘woke up’ in that alley. Just appeared there. No ID, no record, and not a single strand of a Quirk.”

You flinch at the word. “You keep saying that. Quirks. What is that? A gang name?”

His expression darkens.

“You don’t know what a Quirk is?” he asks slowly, like he’s testing you. “Not even the basic idea?”

“No! I don’t! I’ve never heard that word before tonight!”

Bakugo steps closer. “Where are you from?”

“I told you—I was at home. I plugged in my phone and the charger zapped me. Next thing I know, I wake up in a different city with people throwing fireballs and growing armor and—you shooting explosions out of your hands!”

His fingers twitch at his sides.

“Tch. Sounds like a shitty sci-fi excuse.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You expect me to believe someone just teleports into the middle of a villain attack and happens to be completely clueless? Doesn’t even know what a Quirk is? What kind of backwater planet are you from?”

“I’m from—” You stop. Your heart pounds. “I’m from Earth. America. 2025.”

Bakugo stares at you for a long, silent beat.

“That’s the year here too, dumbass.”

You blink, confused. “Wait… What?”

He exhales sharply, pacing once like he’s trying not to explode again.

“So you’re saying you’re from here, but not really here? Like some alternate version of our world where Quirks don’t exist?”

“That’s… I don’t know! I’ve never seen anything like this! I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t even know how to get back!”

Your voice cracks at the end, frustration bleeding into fear. You hate the tears prickling at your eyes, but it’s too much. Too fast.

Bakugo pauses.

He doesn’t soften, not exactly. But something in his shoulders shifts. He watches you—less like a target and more like a question.

He runs a hand through his hair, muttering, “Fucking great. I get stuck babysitting a goddamn multiverse tourist.”

“I didn’t mean to fall into your world!”

He smirks faintly, bitter and sharp. “Yeah, well… welcome to hell.”

You stare at him.

He sighs and steps back, finally turning toward the door. But just before he leaves, he glances over his shoulder, voice quieter this time:

“Rest up. You’re not leaving ‘til we figure out what you are. And I’m not done with you yet.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You loose a breath and slump your shoulder. “Fucking great…” The words fell muttered.

The thin sheets ruffled under your movements, now desperate for any type of comfort. With a faint huff, you laid there staring at the ceiling.

It was a sleepless night. Morning rose too quickly. You grumbled groggily when a knock sounded at the door, Kirishima poking his head in.

“Hey, uh… mind if I come in?”

You grumbled into your pillow. “If you’re blond, loud, and explodes on contact—no thanks.”

A warm chuckle floated through the door. “Nope. Just red hair and good vibes.”

You cracked one eye open.

The door creaked as Kirishima poked his head in, wearing a hoodie and jeans. His smile was sheepish, a little uncertain, but so much more welcome than Bakugo’s furnace-level intensity.

He spoke softly, stepping into the room. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Just figured you could use a friendly face. Or… at least a less angry one.”

You let out a soft, exhausted snort. “You’re not gonna interrogate me, too?”

“Nah. That’s Bakugo’s thing. I don’t do early morning threats and explosions.” He dragged a chair up beside your bed and flopped into it backwards, arms crossed over the back. “You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

You gave him a flat look. “Gee. Wonder why.”

Kirishima winced sympathetically. “Yeah, it’s… a lot. You holding up okay?”

You hesitated. Then, after a long pause: “No. Not really.”

He nodded like he didn’t expect you to lie. “Makes sense. You got dropped into a whole other life in the middle of a warzone. That’d mess anyone up.”

You sat up slowly, scrubbing your hands over your face. “Everything’s wrong. The language, the people, the… rules. There’s no one I know here. I don’t even know if I exist in this place. And that guy with the angry eyebrows is acting like I’m some kind of ticking bomb.”

“That is just his face,” Kirishima said lightly. “But… he’s also not wrong. You are kinda a mystery. Doesn’t mean you’re a threat, though.”

You glanced over at him. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He shrugged, easy. “Dunno. Just feels right. You looked scared last night. Didn’t seem fair to leave you alone with just Bakugo breathing fire all over your peace of mind.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, and for the first time since waking up in this bizarre world, something eased in your chest.

“I’m Kirishima, by the way,” he added, holding out his hand. “But you can call me Eijiro, if you want.”

You looked at his hand like it might disappear. Then you reached out and shook it gently.

You told him your name, and he repeated it like he was saving it for later.

There was another pause. A comfortable one.

“Hey… I brought something,” he said, reaching into his hoodie pocket and pulling out a warm, paper-wrapped bundle. “Hospital food sucks. So I grabbed you a pork bun from the bakery across the street.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “You… brought me food?”

He grinned. “Of course! You’re probably starving, and honestly, food helps when the world doesn’t make sense. Trust me.”

You took the bun, your fingers brushing his for a second. It smelled… amazing. Warm, savory, real.

You bit into it, and it tasted like you hadn’t eaten in days.

Kirishima leaned in the chair, watching you with a half-smile.

“We don’t have to figure everything out today,” he said. “We’ll help you. Even if Bakugo acts like he’s allergic to compassion.”

You looked at him, your throat thick with exhaustion and quiet gratitude. “Thank you.”

He gave a wide, friendly smile. “Anytime.”

You were halfway through the pork bun, finally starting to feel like your brain was reconnecting to your body, when the door slammed open.

“Alright, move it, shitty hair.”

You jumped, nearly choking as Kirishima turned with a wince.

Speak of the devil.

Bakugo strode into the room like it owed him rent. Behind him walked another young man—shorter, wiry build, unruly green curls, and the kind of wide, intelligent eyes that felt like they were seeing more than you were saying. Unlike Bakugo, he knocked politely on the frame even after they were already inside.

“Uh, hey,” the green-haired guy said, offering a tentative wave. “Sorry to barge in like this. I’m Midoriya Izuku—Pro Hero Deku.”

You gave him a slow once-over. Compared to Bakugo, he radiated warmth—kind of like an open window in early spring. Still alert, still guarded, but… less intimidating.

“She’s fine,” Kirishima offered, standing up with a stretch. “Bit rattled. But she’s not, you know, combusting or anything.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Bakugo muttered. “She looks like shit.”

You shot him a look.

“I’m right here, you know.”

He ignored it entirely.

Izuku cleared his throat and stepped forward. “We spoke with the hospital staff. You’re physically stable, and since you’re not showing any signs of mutation or energy spikes, they’ve cleared you for discharge.”

You blinked. “Wait—discharge? I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Izuku nodded slowly. “That’s… part of the issue. Since we still don’t know where exactly you came from—dimensionally speaking—we can’t just let you walk out into the city alone. You’d be overwhelmed. Or worse.”

Kirishima chimed in. “Plus, if word gets out that some Quirkless girl just appeared outta nowhere? Media would tear you apart. And if villains found out…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Izuku glanced at Bakugo, then back at you. “So… we’re arranging temporary housing for you at UA.”

“UA?”

“U.A. High,” Izuku explained gently. “Where we trained to become Pro Heroes. They have secure housing on-site, and some staff who specialize in dimensional theory and advanced Quirk anomalies. If anyone can help figure out where you came from—or how to get you back—it’s them.”

You sank back against the pillows. “This sounds like a sci-fi fever dream.”

Bakugo crossed his arms. “Welcome to the goddamn future, sweetheart.”

You threw him another look.

Kirishima leaned down beside you with a quiet grin. “He means you’re gonna be alright.”

“I mean I’m not dragging some clueless, out-of-world stray around while villains are out there looking to take shots,” Bakugo muttered. “She’s gotta be watched. Kept contained.”

You bristled. “I’m not a wild animal.”

“No,” he snapped. “You’re an unknown variable with no ID, no Quirk, and no answers. Excuse me for not trusting sunshine and wishful thinking.”

Izuku raised a hand gently. “Bakugo.”

His name was enough to make the explosion simmer down—if barely.

Izuku turned back to you with a kind smile. “We’re not going to force you into anything unsafe. You’ll have your own space, food, clothing. Until we figure this out… it’s the best option. And you won’t be alone.”

Your gaze flicked from Izuku… to Kirishima… and reluctantly to Bakugo.

You exhaled. Slowly.

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Bakugo muttered. “Gear up. We leave in twenty.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room without another word.

Izuku gave a sheepish laugh. “He’s always like that. But he’s better than he used to be. Mostly.”

Kirishima chuckled, already reaching for a bag with your clothes. “C’mon. Let’s get you dressed.”

U.A. was nothing like you expected.

It wasn’t some sleek sci-fi fortress, or some secret underground compound. It looked like a sprawling campus—modern, yes, but surrounded by open air, winding walkways, and towering structures that reminded you more of a school for gifted kids than the headquarters of the world’s most powerful heroes.

Because that’s what it was, apparently.

You were housed in a secure side wing reserved for guests and sensitive Quirk cases. Your room had tall windows, a soft bed, and walls too clean to feel like anything other than temporary. Still, it was better than a hospital bed. Better than waking up in an alley with no purpose.

The first week blurred by in a haze of tests and evaluations.

You met scientists who studied space-time ruptures. Teachers who spoke with power and authority. Support staff who gently drew blood samples while trying not to spook you. And a school nurse who gave you a wink and said, “You’re lucky. You dropped in at the right place—most people fall into traffic.”

You didn’t leave the building much. You weren’t allowed to. The poking and prodding was becoming too much.

Bakugo showed up often. At first, you thought he was checking in on you, albeit in the most begrudging way possible. But you realized quickly: he wasn’t checking on you.

He was checking around you.

Watching who came and went. Watching the hallways. Watching everything—like something about you still itched at the back of his mind.

Izuku visited too—gentler, friendlier, always asking how you were adjusting, how you were feeling, if you remembered anything useful. You didn’t. But he kept showing up anyway, kind in a way that felt disarming.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening.

The sun had just dipped behind the main buildings, casting long shadows over the glass and stone walkways of the U.A. campus. You were walking back to your room after another round of tests, accompanied by a quiet aide with a clipboard and a kind smile.

You didn’t even see the attack coming.

One moment, the sky cracked with thunder that wasn’t thunder—and the next, something tore through the security gates with a sound like screaming metal and a flare of red lightning.

Sirens screamed.

Teachers shouted.

The aide beside you barely had time to grab your arm before a black shape hit the walkway like a comet. He didn’t rise again.

The villain that stood there was masked, armored, and far too calm. You couldn’t see his face—just the glowing red lines running down his arms and the voice that rasped, “Found you.”

Your legs wouldn’t move. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs. The air felt like static and heat and panic.

Then you ran.

Not smartly. Not strategically. Just away.

Down the steps. Through the courtyard. Behind a pillar of concrete just as the stone exploded near your head.

You would have died.

You know that.

If it weren’t for him.

A roar of sound. A flash of light. A heatwave that slammed past your cheek.

And Bakugo—charging in with a snarl and a blast that shattered the enemy’s footing. His body moved like a fuse being burned—fast, brutal, relentless.

“Get the hell away from her!”

His explosion collided with the villain’s blast. The courtyard filled with dust and fire. You barely registered Kirishima darting in from the side, throwing a wall of hardened arms between you and the fight, ushering you back—

“Stay down! Don’t move! We’ve got this!”

The battle was over in minutes. The villain restrained, furious, growling curses you didn’t understand.

You were still shaking.

And Bakugo?

He didn’t even look winded.

He turned toward you, smoke still rising from his gloves. His eyes scanned you like he was counting bones.

“You good?”

You nodded—barely, swallowing hard.

He scowled. “Too close.”

Izuku looked serious. Tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a clipboard resting on his knee.

“She wasn’t just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said quietly. “That guy was after her. He had her name. Her description. Which means someone knows she’s here.”

You sat in a chair near the wall, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

“So what now?” you asked, voice small. “You gonna hide me underground? Chain me to a desk?”

Bakugo, standing across the room with his arms folded, scoffed.

“Don’t tempt me.”

Izuku ignored him. “You need better protection. Constant surveillance. Someone who can stop another attack before it happens.”

“And let me guess…” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You’ve already got a volunteer.”

Izuku looked at Bakugo.

Bakugo frowned. “Tch. I didn’t volunteer.”

“But you’re the best option,” Izuku countered calmly. “She’s safest with someone who can fight off high-tier villains without waiting for backup. Someone who’s already shown he can keep her alive.”

Bakugo looked at you.

You looked back.

“…This is insane,” you muttered.

“Get used to it,” he said. “You’re moving in.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“To my place,” he clarified gruffly. “No villains. No media. No soft walls or useless guards. Just me.”

“You’re not exactly a comforting presence.”

“Good. Comfort’s not what keeps you breathing.”

You opened your mouth—then closed it again.

Izuku smiled, soft but firm. “It’s not forever. Just until we get answers. Just until you’re safe.”

You sighed, fingers tightening in your lap.

“…Fine.”

Bakugo cracked his neck and turned toward the door.

“Hope you don’t snore.”

[mwolf0epsilon]

Fun Mimic Fact of the Day: Upgrading a mimic in accordance to how you'd update the engine they're mimicking, involves both an engineering and a visual arts aspect.

The workmen at the diesel/steam works need to illustrate what they intend for the mimic to look like (draw on a copy of the original plans, the alterations they intend to make), and then create the parts that would serve as upgrades for the engine, before feeding them to the mimic.

The parts will give them the necessary mass for them to change their appearance, while the illustrations give them direction.

Some mimics are very particular about their appearance, however, and might refuse to change what they look like on principle.

Example 1: Edward readily accepted changes to his original shape as a means to both show his loyalty to the NWR, and to soften his look considerably (this is more obvious in his smaller size, since he sheds his rail-antlers in favour of looking more approachable and friendly, especially to children). Being an older mimic, he seems to understand that a good attitude and good appearances are important when it comes to keeping passengers happy.

Example 2: Gordon has rejected (both physically and psychologically) all and any attempts to alter his general shape due to both pride and a traumatic situation involving one of his siblings (he may be loyal to Sir Topham Hatt, but he will not allow anyone to take that much control over his self-image). That said, it's unclear how he feels about his only surviving brother's smoke deflector ears and twin tender pouches (when he gets annoyed, he tugs sharply on the former which is somewhat of a comical sight).

Example 3: Henry had no choice but to accept having his shape changed for health benefits. That said, he becomes exceedingly aggravated by anything that isn't a practical change that'll help him with his work. After the tunnel incident, vanity is a concept that somewhat repulses him and he avoids anything remotely cosmetic.

Example 4: Any attempt to alter James's appearance is met with downright hostility. The last effort made to make him more closely resemble a typical Hughes Class 28 ended with him purposefully spitting-up molten metal all over the workshop floor in clear protest. The only changes he's ever allowed were to help strengthen his faulty knees (which were a result of the wooden break-blocks) and to give him his signature red color.

Example 5: Lord forbid anyone so much as dreams about changing Duck's shape or color. He will scream like the devil himself possessed him (he was this shape and color when he was with the GWR, and that is NEVER going to change).