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vonabel · 1 month ago

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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.

#mha x reader #deku x reader #izuku midoria x reader #izuku midoriya x you #deku x you #mha fanfiction #vonniewrites #hanahaki's disease #deku #izuku midoriya #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia

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doumadono · 2 years ago

Text

Inked by desire - Akaza x Reader

Warnings: smut w/o plot, modern au, tattoo artist!akaza, dirty talk, vaginal sex Synopsis: despite his professional demeanor, Akaza finds himself unable to resist the temptation and ends up taking you to the back room of his tattoo shop where he passionately claims you as his own

MASTERLIST

As you scroll through the numerous tattoo shops online, you come across one with glowing reviews and a stunning portfolio of intricate designs. The name of the tattoo artist is Akaza, and you're immediately drawn to the intricate and beautiful artwork he has created. You decide to book an appointment with him, hoping that he can create something unique and special for you.

Days later, you find yourself standing outside the tattoo shop, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. The sign outside reads "Rampage Ink," and the interior is just as impressive as the website promised. The walls are adorned with examples of Akaza's work, ranging from delicate floral designs to bold, geometric patterns.

As you approach the front desk, a rather tall and imposing man emerges from the back room. He introduces himself as Akaza, his voice deep and smooth.

You feel a shiver run down your spine as he appraises you with a piercing gaze.

Akaza, the artist, is a towering figure, bulky and muscular, with broad shoulders and thick arms that are covered in intricate tattoos that seem to tell a story. His hair is short and black, with the ends dyed a vibrant pink. He wears a tight-fitting black plain t-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps, showing off his impressive physique. His black jeans have a stylish distressed look, with a hole on one knee that adds to his a little edgy appearance. Despite his imposing size, Akaza moves with a surprising grace, his every movement fluid and precise. He carries himself with a confident swagger, a man who knows his own worth and isn't afraid to show it. His piercing gaze seems to penetrate to the very core of a person, and when he speaks, his voice carries a low, rumbling power that commands attention. "Ah, you must be my next appointment," he says, a sly smile playing at the corners of his lips. As he approaches you, he can see that you're already nervous. He can't help but notice how exposed you are, with your boobs almost falling out of your tight shirt with a plunging neckline and your legs barely covered by a miniskirt. He can see that you're confident, but he can also see the small details that betray your nervousness. Akaza is used to clients who are nervous or even scared of getting a tattoo, but he can sense that you're particularly on edge. The moment Akaza laid his eyes on you, he felt a surge of possessiveness and desire that he couldn't quite explain. He knew that he wanted you, and that he would have you. "Come with me, and we'll get started on your tattoo."

You follow him to the back room, taking in the dim lighting and the low hum of music in the background.

Akaza gestures to the tattooing bed and asks you to take a seat, his eyes never leaving your face. "Tell me, what kind of design were you thinking of?" he asks, his fingers already starting to trace the lines of your skin.

You can feel the heat of his touch and the way it sends shivers down your spine. You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. "It's actually my first tattoo, and I was thinking of something floral. But I want it in a place that not everyone can see."

As you describe your vision for the tattoo, Akaza nods along, his face taking on a look of intense concentration. He begins to sketch out the design on a sheet of paper, his movements fluid and precise. "I think the best possible location for this tattoo would be your abdomen," he says, pointing to the area just above your pubic mound. "It's a spot that's easy to hide if you need to, and it's not as sensitive as some other areas, so it shouldn't be too painful," he informs you. As you lay back on the tattooing bed, Akaza orders, "Alright, now lift your shirt and tug your skirt down a little. I need to make sure I can see the pace properly." As he prepares his tattoo gun and positions himself, you stop him abruptly. "Wait, sir," you say, your voice laced with anxiety. "I don't think I can do this…"

Akaza doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a moment to study your face. He sees the fear in your eyes, the way your body tenses up. Akaza sets down the tattoo gun and gestures for you to sit up. "Hey," he whispers, his voice gentle. "It's okay. We can stop if you will want. But if you're up for it, I have an idea that might help." He watches as you bite your lip, waiting patiently for him to share his idea with you, and he can feel his desire grow. He can see that your nipples are hardened, even through the fabric of the shirt you're wearing. It's hot in the studio, but he knows that there is only one reason for that. "I can help you ease some stress," he says with a grin, his eyes lingering on your body. As his fingers deliberately graze your knee, it's evident that the touch is anything but accidental.

You blush at his words, but you can feel your own desire growing. You can see the hunger in his eyes, and it sends shivers down your spine. "I can see the way you're looking at me. It's kind of intense, sir." From the moment your eyes first beheld the figure of Akaza, you knew with utter certainty that he would be the bane of your existence. He exuded an aura of dangerous sensuality that was utterly irresistible, drawing you inexorably toward him with a magnetic force that left you powerless to resist. His piercing gaze seemed to strip away all pretense and lay bare the very essence of your being, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as he leans in closer to you. You can smell his strong cologne, and it's driving you wild. You can feel the heat building between you, and you know that you want him just as much as he wants you.

"I just want you to relax before we start," he utters, his lips brushing against your ear.

You moan softly, unable to resist him any longer. Twirling a strand of hair around your finger with a mischievous glint in your eye, you inquire, "So, Akaza, how do you plan on helping me cope with all this stress?"

Akaza takes your hand.

You hop off the bed and follow him.

The man leads you to the door of another room in the tattoo shop. As he pushes it open, the smell of antiseptic and ink fills your nostrils. The room is bright and spacious, with a large tattooing bed in the center and shelves filled with ink bottles and tattoo equipment lining the walls.

So there you are, kneeling in front of a man whom you hardly know, engulfing his entire length inside your mouth, flicking and circling your tongue around it, utterly intoxicated by the sensation, looking up at him. Akaza's well-endowed member causes discomfort in your mouth, as his size is quite overwhelming. You have one hand resting between your thighs, legs slightly spread. Your fingers are teasing your already slick clit, having pushed your panties aside.

He is fully aware of his impressive size, taking pleasure in the sight of you struggling to handle it. His confidence only grows as he slips his hands into your hair, tugging at it occasionally, while emitting satisfied grunts. Suddenly, he firmly grasps your hair and begins thrusting vigorously, his sole aim being to release his load deep in your throat. The grip of your throat around his manhood is heavenly, so tight that it causes him to let out a throaty moan.

Tears stream down your face as he holds your head in place, your eyes rolling back as he empties himself deep down your throat. Mascara smudges down your cheeks, evidence of your surrender to his desires.

Akaza smirks wryly while looking down at you, his voice filled with a sense of satisfaction as he says, "Swallowed it all like a good slut, huh? You fucking cockslut." His eyes are fixed on you, watching your reaction as his calloused hand caresses your cheek.

Akaza takes hold of your elbow and pulls you up to your feet with a firm grip. Without a chance to catch your breath, he slams you against the mirror and fucks you relentlessly. The glass fogs from his heavy breathing while you moan uncontrollably, gripping his shirt and sobbing in pure ecstasy.

This is the thickest and best cock you've ever had, and it's driving you wild.

He lifts one of your legs, wrapping it around his hip, thrusting harder and faster, filling the room with wet, nasty sounds from your abused pussy. "You're so fucking tight, cunt. You came to me almost uncovered," he muses, his voice low and teasing. "Either you wanted to flaunt yourself or you were seeking to get fucked," Akaza remarks bluntly, his thrusts become sloppier with time.

Your body trembles as you climax and cream on his cock, taking all of his cum inside of you.

As it all comes to an end, he grabs your face with his hand and gives you the sloppiest kiss you've ever experienced. A string of saliva connects your lips when he pulls away. "You really took it all like a good, little whore," Akaza says, smirking at you.

After the intense intercourse with Akaza, you feel a sense of relaxation and contentment wash over you.

Akaza notices this and leads you back to the tattooing bed with a confident stride, ready to continue his artistry. The atmosphere in the room has changed; it is now charged with a quiet intensity and focus. As he prepares his tools, Akaza explains the steps in the tattooing process, his voice low and soothing, as if no passionate events had occurred between the two of you.

As he begins to work on your tattoo, you can feel his hands on your skin. They're strong and skilled. Akaza gives you a warm smile, sensing that you're feeling more at ease now.

You can feel the gentle pressure of the needle on your skin, a sensation that is simultaneously painful and pleasurable. The pain is bearable, and you find yourself relaxing into the rhythm of Akaza's movements. The man's using his expert touch to create the design you've chosen. As he works, he keeps up a steady stream of conversation, asking about your interests and sharing stories from his own life, ever so casually.

It's a distraction that helps take your mind off the pain, and you find yourself relaxing more and more as time goes on. After what had just happened, the slight stings caused by the tattoo gun's needles feels insignificant to you.

It is an easy job for Akaza to finish the tattoo since your mind is still reeling from the pleasure he had given you. Akaza finishes the intricate design with ease, his skilled hands moving fluidly with the tattoo gun.

You feel a slight stings as the needle punctures your skin, but your mind is elsewhere. You can still feel his firm grasp on you, his cock buried deep inside you as you both moaned in ecstasy.

When he's finished, he steps back to admire his work, but he's not just admiring the tattoo - Akaza is admiring you. "You look even more beautiful with the tattoo," he praises, his voice low and seductive. He offers you a discount on the tattoo, still grinning from the intense pleasure you both shared.

You eagerly ask if you can come back in maybe two weeks for another tattoo, and he nods his head, knowing that he has you under his spell. As you leave the shop, you can still feel the aftershocks of pleasure pulsing through your body. You know that you will be back for more, unable to resist the allure of the tattoo artist named Akaza and his skilled hands.

#tattoo artist au #akaza #akaza smut #akaza x you #akaza x reader #akaza x y/n #akaza x reader smut #kny smut #modern!akaza #dom!akaza #tattoo artist akaza #demon slayer #my writing #kny akaza #upper moon three

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thesecretsofthedivine · 8 months ago

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Pick a Pile Reading | Details About Your Future Spouse ⚖️💝

Business Carrd 🍶🧺

Paid Services 🍇⭐️

Tip Jar 🍾🎱

*Disclaimer: This is a collective reading — take what resonates and leave the rest. If this resonates with you, please show support by reposting (with credit), tipping, or booking with me! :)

*Exchanges with other intuitives/readers are available via dm’s

PILE 1 COLLECTIVE

[ old money ] [ athlete/athletic build ] [ family-oriented, especially with their mother ] [ fluffy, curly hair ] [ brown hair ] [ looks good in/often wears the color blue ] [ will enjoy making pinky promises or playing with your hands ] [ tall for their gender ] [ mediterranean or european background, possible greek or british ] [ charming ] [ talkative ] [ golden retriever ] [ PDA ] [ almost always wears sneakers/tennis shoes ] [ gets along well with your friends & feminine energies ] [ conventionally attractive ] [ notting hill movie ] [ spontaneous first meets, maybe during a trip abroad/after moving to a new place ] [ gemini, sagittarius, capricorn, leo placements ] [ is very knowledgeable about culture, wines, fine dining, etiquette, etc. ] [ woodsy scents/would love to drink alcohol by a fireplace somewhere cozy, especially scotch or something old school ]

PILE 2 COLLECTIVE

[ enjoys orchestra/classical/instrumental music ] [ creatively gifted, especially in singing or photography ] [ likes to stay organized/clean ] [ gift giving as a love language ] [ nicknames that make you feel like royalty, “princess/prince” or “god/goddess” ] [ playful teasing ] [ fire sign, scorpio, aquarius, libra, cancer placements ] [ enjoys writing & keeping a journal ] [ homebody but somebody with status/notoriety & success ] [ using you as their muse on social media/in careers ] [ dyed hair for people attracted to feminines, especially pink ] [ manic pixie dream girl complex ] [ “you’re different than the rest” ] [ opposite aesthetic as you ] [ the great gatsby movie, especially jay & daisy’s attraction ] [ an old soul ] [ cynical and reserved humor ] [ light hair for people attracted to masculines, especially dirty/honey blonde ] [ somebody that i used to know — gotye ] [ a person you share a past/past life with ] [ the letters a, e, r, t, i, l, and n ]

PILE 3 COLLECTIVE

[ spiritually gifted/self-aware ] [ 9h, 12h, 1h, 3h, 5h placements or synastry ] [ optimistic ] [ teaches you how to connect to nature ] [ sent to you by your guides/ancestors ] [ in touch with their feminine side ] [ empress in tarot energy ] [ roots for the underdog ] [ enjoys investments & humanitarian work ] [ well-spoken ] [ amicable ] [ compatible political affiliations, but they may expand your understanding of the world ] [ wears jewelry ] [ would love to get matching tattoos or wear matching clothes with you ] [ manifestation/spell work is a factor in this romance/one of their hobbies ] [ wants to build a home out of you ] [ provider ] [ sensual ] [ connected to their inner child & may like to watch disney/nostalgic movies, especially frozen ] [ a huge cuddler ] [ winter birthday for some ]

PILE 4 COLLECTIVE

[ flexible or enjoys dancing ] [ aesthetic hands ] [ a lover of the arts ] [ soft or quiet voice ] [ socially anxious ] [ remembers the small details about you ] [ impresses your family/mother upon first meet ] [ has a cat or younger sibling for some ] [ lets you paint their nails or practice makeup on them ] [ short hair, may sometimes get perms or curling techniques ] [ thin frame ] [ infp/infj/intj/intp/etc type of personality ] [ indie or soft pop music lover, especially clairo ] [ soft kisses ] [ prone to blushing or avoiding eye contact ] [ pale skin ] [ talks about you to their best friends ] [ karaoke/comedy clubs ] [ graham crackers ] [ strong perfume, especially floral/rose ] [ height difference/size kink ]

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webfilledhead · 8 months ago

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muscle memory

tasm!peter parker x reader

Angst then kinda fluff? My first time writing for him be kind to me

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Your night is quiet, you were getting used to quiet evenings. It was weird at first, it felt almost empty. You had so much time now, you spent most of your nights in your room studying for exams that were weeks away. You would sit at your desk and reread paragraphs that slipped your mind the first couple times as you played the news on your tv as background noise.

This night was similar to most, you were actually getting work done this time. You had three assignments done and one to go. The downside to this was that they were due next week and when you finished you would have no work to do and would probably end up reading your assigned readings early.

As you’re about to start your last assignment you hear tapping. You brush it off the first time. The second time it is impossible to ignore since you weren’t just imagining it like all the other nights before. Your breath catches in your throat as you realize the second you turn around it’s over.

You turn in the chair of your desk.

Sure enough there he is. He’s wearing his Spider-Man suit, he’s resting against the windowsill like he can’t bear to hold his own weight. The second your eyes landed upon the torn chest of his suit and the bloodied exposed flesh your movements were muscle memory.

It has been two months since you have done this but your movements are quick and sure. You opened the window and half carried him half dragged him to your bed no questions asked. You remove his mask and the upper half of his suit with deft fingers. You paid no mind to how he smelled like he spent his afternoon swimming in the sewers, maybe you noted it a little. You quickly analyze his injuries as you pull the now dusty first aid kit under your bed out. You didn’t have one before you met him, now you keep it under your bed for easy access.

“Sorry I’m getting your bed all bloody,”he groans out softly which makes your movements come to a halt.

You look at him, really look at him. It’s been two months since you’ve seen him up close and not just on the news. You haven’t seen him since he broke up with you, claiming it was too dangerous for you to be around him. You were so angry at first but now after sixty days you’ve grown numb. Your feelings are starting to bubble at the surface again as you gaze into his chocolate brown eyes. His stupid doe eyes.

You take a deep breath and tell yourself you can be angry later. You need to focus on the task at hand, another assignment really,“It’s fine everything can be washed away.”

Your words carry weight that you want nothing to do with. Everything can’t be washed away, some stains are stubborn and never leave. You know you can’t wash him away no matter how much you try that much is evident with how your ears always perk up when his name is mentioned in the news.

Before he can get another word out you exit your room, head to the bathroom, and get two clean towels and dampen them. You also get him pain medicine from the medicine cabinet. You give him the pills wordlessly with your water bottle that was at your desk.

With the damp towel you begin to clean off all the dried blood and grime so you can get a good look at how bad his injuries really are. You’re gentle as you wipe at his warm skin. The only sounds in the room are the quiet news channel now forgotten on your tv and his soft winces every now and then.

Once his chest is clean you can see he has three long gashes, they aren’t too deep they’re much shallower than you expected, the longest one runs from is upper right pec down to his left side on his lower ribs. As you use the clean towel to clean the wounds again he tries to speak again.

“It really isn’t okay, when did you get white floral bedding? It was dark purple a couple days a-” Peter cuts himself off realizing the implications of what he just said.

You feel slightly embarrassed at how happy you feel hearing that. He still cares for you, you hoped he did somewhere deep within you. Despite everything you still miss him and his constant need for first aid.

“You’ve been watching me,” you don’t ask it’s more of a statement since he just confirmed it. You start applying Neosporin to the gashes.

You can feel yourself folding like origami so you make sure not to look in his eyes. Not to look at his stupid sheepish smile. You can’t do this.

“Why would you ever suggest that? I just mean you used to have purple bedding,”He mumbles trying to cover up for himself as he attempts to sit up to look at you better.

You gently push him back down as you get butterfly bandages from your first aid kit. You use them in the deepest sections first since you don’t know if you’ll have enough for the entire length of the wounds.

“Why are you here Peter?”

You blurt your question out with no thinking prior to it. You know why he’s here, you’re the only person who can take care of him. You’re the only one who knows his secret, the only person he can let his guard down to. The only one who will open your window to him in the middle of the night no questions asked.

“I found myself coming here like I always did after getting beat up. I missed you,”he says so sincerely it hurts.

Your hands stop again for the second time. They begin to shake slightly when you hear his words. You hadn’t seen him in so long and the first time you do he comes back to you all beat up and bloody. You take in your proximity to him for the first time since you dragged him to your bed. You’re leaning over him awfully close to him so you can get a better look at his wounds. He’s warm, his skin is soft when your fingers brush against it, he’s so Peter.

You don’t say anything, not knowing how to reply. Knowing him this doesn’t mean he will want to be in a relationship with you again. He’s so stubborn.

You don’t move away when his hand reaches up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek,“Do you miss me too?”

The answer to that question is obvious enough he just wants to hear you say it. You can’t, your pride won’t let you. You can’t be left to lick at your wounds alone again.

“You’re so unfair, Parker,” you mumble as you keep your eyes away from his. You focus on the tiny cuts on his chest now, keeping yourself distracted. It’s hard to distract yourself when his hand leaves your face to your waist to keep you close.

It’s not fair that he comes to you in the middle of the night all beat up and bruised after not seeing him for two months and asks you this. It’s not fair that he can just show up whenever he wants and leave whenever he pleases.

Then he gives you that stupid smile of his. That very same smile that never fails to make you melt and give into whatever he has to say. You move your hands from his chest to his face and start cleaning up his face with soft touches.

“I know I’m being unfair, I just can’t stand being away from you anymore,” he says making your brows furrow in confusion.

Then the ugly feelings you pushed down start bubbling at the surface once more,“You can’t just leave me then come back after two months expecting me to welcome you back with open arms.”

“I know I messed up, I know that but I want to make it up to you. Just answer this please: do you miss me?” Peter asks as he tugs you closer to him, you lose your balance and end up with one hand braced on the bed beside him and the other on his shoulder. You’re so close to his face and those pretty brown eyes are looking at you in away that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You try to pull yourself away but his arm that has snaked its way around your waist keeps you planted,“Yes, but Peter you can’t jus-“

Your words are effectively cut off by Peter pressing his lips against yours. It’s sweet, a sweet familiar warmth you missed so much. You wish you could blame muscle memory on how quick you are to melt against him and kiss him back.

#tasm!peter x reader #peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter x you #tasm spiderman #tasm!spiderman x reader #tasm!peter parker #mcu fanfiction #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n

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donutwatches · 5 months ago

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MHA Movie 1- Two Heroes (Two Gay Dads) - part 2/3

So they all get dressed up like they are going to prom and everyone is adorable, but screen capping all of them would take up the whole post. BUT I must include this image right here:

Kirishima packed a suit for his bestie? He really said, 'No worries, bro, I'm not going to let you look stupid at the dance function with your usual tacky grenade hands and baggy pants'.

Is this an extra suit from his closet, or did he BUY a suit for Bakugo? He's giving him a suit with a floral print, with roses on it. King sh!t.

Melissa made Deku a super useful (if ugly looking) tool to help with his power not breaking his bones. That would have been great to have earlier. Will he only have it for the movie though?

One criticism I have of the movie is that these villains are very generic and boring. Having All Might tied up with this magically strong rope was a contrived way to keep the focus on the kids. I do not care about the plot much. This movie thrives more when it is giving fun character moments.

They got so lost they wandered 84 whole stories in the wrong direction, and have no idea villains have even attacked. Good job boys, getting that lost is a talent.

Why can I hear the James Bond theme playing in the background? They really gave Todoroki the coolest edgy one-liner in this movie. Good for him.

I am not sure how cannon this movie is, but I love the implications that quirk strengthening technology would get confiscated. The powers that be want to stay in control, and they see anything that messes with the power balance of the hero industry as a threat. Some juicy 'hero-society is not so perfect' material there.

Love that Dave fell for "You're worried that villains will hurt people? Nooooo waaaaaay." Davey-o you are meant to be a smart guy, but I guess no one is immune to being stupefied by All Might's thick pecs. I too, would turn to villainy to preserve Toshinori's mountain range-esque muscles.

Dave is stupid for going along with this plan, BUT he is was only made stupid by his true love for his old college babe All Might, so I forgive him. I support gay men's rights and wrongs.

They are shook! I felt genuinely bad for Melissa here. She looks up to her Dad, and her Dad just messed up in the messiest way a mess up can make a mess.

I don't know why Deku looks devastated though, he only knew this guy for 2 minutes. I guess, he is just an empathetic little bean.

...the image speaks for itself...

The sad thing is, is that none of this had to happen if All Might didn't keep OFA a secret from Dave. The entire plot of this movie would not have happened if Dave had been informed that All Might's power could be passed to a successor. All Might being secretive causes more problems than it solves.

Hold up, are the villains going to HURT people, for real? Noooo waaaaaay, who could have seen this coming?!

Part 3 is here

Masterlist

If you want, you can request to be added to the -

TAGLIST:

@blackaquokat @jessiedead @granny-griffin @setfiretotheshadows

@bicheetopuff @hyperfixations-and-cringe @champion-prism

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sarcasticscribbles · 5 months ago

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Okay, what are some random as head cannons you have for TMA?

Tim Did ballet as a kid (but it was really more of a gymnastic class target to girls), and really enjoys dancing Very poor relation with his family: he never got along with his mother, and Danny acted like a mediator for the pair. His father passed while Danny was still alive and once he was gone neither bothered to stay in touch. Wasian, and his mother is originally from Hong Kong Jon temporarily replaced Danny in Tim’s life as a younger brother when he started the Institute, however that relationship faded at the end of s2. Danny used to travel a lot, and got hyperfixated on different activities and would seek out where he best could practice it: surfing, snowboarding, sailing, rock climbing etc. He could be gone for months before he got bored and jump on the next thing. He would always bring Tim a souvenir including T-shirts, candy and bracelets.

Sasha Middle child in a rather big family, her fear of being forgotten is rooted in her childhood. Sasha is left-handed, but notsasha is right (another key difference is Sasha never takes off the bracelet Tim gave her, notsasha doesn’t even acknowledge it). Smoker Career driven, and in a constant need to prove herself Her necklaces are from Gertrude. Gertrude wanted to prepare Sasha for the role of the Archivist, and Sasha experienced a sense of guilt when Elias pick Jon instead, feeling she let Gertrude down.

Others Peter Lukas wears an eyepatch he doesn’t need (to mess with Elias) Agnes is Swedish Jane Prentiss used to be Pagan Daisy with floral tattoos Oliver Banks with an Egyptian background Melanie Doc Martens Lesbian Michael is a spiral and Helen is a twist

#I am writing about tim's fucked up family dynamic and sasha's childhood in sasha the archivist #you didn't ask for specific characters but it's me so obviously it's 90% timsasha #timsasha and some other guys idk i guess they are cool too #the magnus archives #tma #mag

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fairytaleprincessart · 8 months ago

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wastelesscrafts · 2 years ago

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Project: crocheted top

Thanks again to everyone who gave me good crochet 101 resources last year! I've been having a blast learning how to crochet.

Introduction:

I finished this top a while ago. It's kind of improvised, containing various stitches and squares I found in library books. The yarn's a beige cotton I had in my stash.

I used this project as a challenge to try out as many different techniques and stitches I could think of, making it a great learning experience.

The project:

The shape's a very simple T-shape, with buttons at the shoulders to make it easier to slip over my head. It's basically a tube body with a rectangle at the top for sleeves.

I started out by making enough squares for the bottom lace to fit around my hips. Once those were attached together into a circle, I evened out the edge with (US) single crochet stitches while also adding a tiny bit of shaping. I then started my tube for the body, which consists of a strip of lace and a double crochet flower pattern.

Once the tube reached where I wanted the sleeves to begin, I made enough squares to fit the width of the tube plus four extra squares (one for the back and front of each sleeve). I wanted to try and see if I could turn a square into a triangle, so two of those squares ended up being triangles in the front of the top.

Once all that was attached, I built up the rest of the sleeves and the neckline and worked buttonholes into the final rows.

[ID: a crocheted T-shaped top with short sleeves hanging from a wooden hanger in front of a white background. The top is made with beige cotton yarn and consists of multiple different types of floral lace and and squares. Four beige buttons sit at the top of each shoulder.]

Conclusion:

I fell in love with the versatility of crochet! It's such a cool craft if you love improvising as much as I do.

When I struggled making my first chain a year ago, I never thought I'd be creating something like this any time soon. Now when I look at this top, I can already see multiple things I would do differently next time.

That's the beauty of learning new things. If you allow yourself the time and kindness needed to practice and to learn from your mistakes, you'd be surprised by what you can do.

#wasteless crafts #project #diy #crochet #yarn crafts #crochet top #granny squares #check out your local library's craft section if you can #you'd be surprised what you'd find

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hunnysnoops · 6 months ago

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˗ˋ𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕤ˊ˗

Chapter Six: Sweater Weather

Kyle Broflovski x fem reader

I don’t mind if there’s not much to say.

Premise: It may be possible that hatred is beginning to dissolve. Peace ensues or at least something similar to friendship.

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Warnings: mentions of blood and injury / crude humour

MASTERLIST

It felt weird sitting next to Kyle willingly on your sofa but you hadn't had much of a choice when the due date for your final project was cutting so close. You were in too much pain to fill the static silence of the room with mindless chatter that would grate in his head, so you stuck asking him which parts of the assignment were already done before settling back into silence.

He wanted to say something, he just couldn't figure out what. It was unnatural to the both of you.

Kyle was still wearing the same thing he had gone to school in, a simple t-shirt, flannel, and jeans- you had resorted to poaching clothes from your dad's closet while he was out of town for a concert. The second you and Kyle got to your place you ran upstairs to slip into a pair of well-worn sweats and one of your dad's old t-shirts from when he was on his college rowing team. His clothes were just about the only thing that didn't irritate your turf burn further than the red segments where your skin had been scraped off.

You had slathered some type of aloe vera ointment all over the burn on your shins and elbows which scent strongly resembled eucalyptus and florals, leaving you and Kyle to work on your Biology project in a living room that smelled like a Bath & Body Works.

"Do you wanna write about the genetic basis of behaviour or should I do that?" You had broken the fifteen-minute silence which seemed like a record for the both of you. Your parents would've been astonished if they were there to see the pair of you sit without insulting the other. The only sounds that filled the room were the rain beating heavily outside like it wanted to be let in.

"I got it, don't worry," He said absentmindedly, focused on making the slide show look presentable.

"I'm not worried," You answer. As much as you liked to complain to your friends about having Kyle as a partner, he was one of the few who actually did their portion of the work instead of texting you last minute that it wasn't finished. You were still suffering PTSD from having to work in a group with Cylde.

There were some beats when the stillness was growing so unbearable that it almost made you squirm, you fought the urge to put on a sitcom as background noise, knowing that you would get distracted and veer off from the task at hand.

You were disrupted by heavy thumps making their way down the stairs "Hey, Kyle," Weston said, making his way to plop himself between the two of you on the couch, a backpack in his lap.

"Hey," Kyle gives your brother a quick glance paired with a smile before his eyes shift back to the screen of his laptop.

"What are you wearing?" You squint your eyes while trying to read the text on his shirt "The worst day of fishing beats the best day of forcefully withdrawing in jail," The shirt had the graphic of a bass splashing around in a lake beneath the lettering "Where did you get that?"

"I bought it."

"With what money? You don't work."

Weston shrugs and there's the glint of a smile on his face. You stare at him blankly until he answers "Okay, fine, Uncle Richie bought it for me, it's an early birthday gift."

"Dad will kill you and Richie if he finds you wearing that."

"Good thing he's in Vegas seeing Doodle mood," Weston leans back, wedging himself deeper between the two of you in a silent attempt to separate you.

"Depeche Mode," You correct and Kyle huffs the briefest of laughs, a grin lingering on his face while he rakes through paragraphs to find spelling errors. He didn't look in your direction but you could see the slight curve of his lips and the smile lines forming around his straight nose "Why are you down here anyway?"

"To see my sister," He raises his chin, tilting his head in your direction to see the screen of your laptop "What the hell is Pathophysiology?"

"I think it's too big of a concept for you to grasp," You say. While Weston's heart was usually in the right place, his head certainly was not.

"Huh?" He furrows his eyebrows "What?"

"You're dumb, shrimp."

"Hey, I'm not above hitting an old woman," He points at you, finger almost touching the bandage over your nose.

"And I'm not above hitting a toddler," You push his accusatory finger down and away from you. Kyle tended to stay out of bickering between you and your brother, the same way you let him and Ike fight it out without interfering. It would be like disrupting the intricate ecosystem that was siblings "What do you actually want?" You look down at the backpack in his lap, it was dirty from all the places he dragged it to. Both of your parents had begged him to wash it for months and when he finally got around to it, it did nothing, like the grime had set into the navy blue cloth.

"Can you drive me to Dustin's?" His face morphed into a tight-lipped smile, feigning innocence.

You let out a long, exaggerated groan and throw your head back into the plush sofa. The rainy atmosphere didn't help you to stay energized, halfway through the school day you decided that you would take painkillers and not leave the couch. You should've predicted that your brother would make plans on the one night when your parents weren't there to drive him and you were lethargic from pain meds. "Dude, I have so much work to do," You really didn't, all that was left on your part was a couple of passages and a statistics graph, you still had a week until you had to turn the project in.

"Why do I even have an older sister if you won't drive me places? I wish I was a lonely child," He rolls his eyes, shaking his head in the slightest.

"It's only child, Wes, a lonely child is what you'll be when I sell you."

"Can you please drive me? We're having a hurricane party and I'm sleeping over."

"We live in Colorado, there aren't hurricanes, just wine-drunk tourists," You turn your focus back to your laptop, turning it away from Weston so he can't see you open a Wordle tab.

"Don't be lazy," He grabs your bicep and begins to shake it back and forth.

You pull your arm out of Weston's grasp "I'm injured, you should be waiting on me and nursing me back to health like a good brother."

"And you should drive me to my friend's house, like a good sister."

"I can take him," Kyle peeps up and Weston swerves his head to look at him.

"For real?" Weston asks.

"Yeah, I need to fill up on gas anyways, I can drive him down and swing back to finish the project."

"Are you sure?" Your eyebrows were slightly furrowed. Usually, these conversations ended with Weston shaking you down and getting what he wanted, whether it was you buying him v bucks or taking him to the movies.

"Yeah, I don't mind," Kyle shut his laptop and gingerly placed it on the coffee table, pushing himself off the couch.

"Sweet," Weston slinked off the couch, hopping over your legs and making his way towards the door but not before slapping the exposed turf burn on your forearm. He hadn't intended to hit you as hard as he did but the skin contact made an audible sound that echoed in the room. A hand flung over his mouth as he watched you jolt forward, jaw hanging slack and eyes wide while you gently held your forearm. The look on your face alone made him grab a pair of sandals and run out the door before he could even put them on or close the door behind him.

"Oh my god," You turn back to look at Kyle who was slipping into a pair of your dad's hiking boots since it was quicker than the century it took to lace up his Converse "Please drive him off a cliff."

"That would make your life too easy," Kyle looks up at you through a mop of red curls, hazel eyes imploring; they tended to look like different colours depending on the light source, at that moment with the dim living room light and dark skies looming outside they sparkled with the rich colours of autumn, a beautiful medley of amber, green, and gold, like fallen leaves swirling in the crisp, cool breeze "Nicer," He says.

"What?"

"For your wordle," He points at the screen of your laptop.

"Oh," You look at your screen where 'river' had been the last guess, you type in 'nicer' and surely all letters flip to green. "Thanks," You say "Uh, do you want money for gas or-

"No, I'm good," Kyle dismisses immediately "My cab services are free, you've done it for Ike more than I can count."

"Okay," You scrape the walls of your brain for something else to say "Drive safe, don't actually drive my brother off a cliff."

"Got it," He shuts the door behind him, shutting out the roar of a heavy downpour. The rain was powerful, a relentless cascade, each drop hitting the ground with force, creating a thunderous choir that drowns out all other sounds, evoking a sense of calm within you, albeit muffled by the walls.

"Is she mad?" Weston stood at the edge of the lawn, waiting by Kyle's car for him to unlock it. He held his backpack over his head in a feeble attempt to keep himself dry though it didn't work, his shirt was soaked and his hair was so full of the droplets that he had to shake them off like a dog at the beach.

"Super mad." Kyle pressed the button to unlock his car, the moment Weston heard the locks shift, he dove into the passenger seat "She's waiting by the door with a shotgun for when you come home."

"Is she actually?" His voice was one hundred percent serious, he fully believed Kyle despite your family not even owning a shotgun.

Kyle ducked into the white Nissan, he prided himself on keeping his car tidy so it was the exact same every time he entered aside from the air fresheners that he swapped out. "Nah, you're fine."

"Phew," He dropped the backpack to his feet "I like your car way more than my sisters, hers always smells like cigarettes and girl stuff."

"Girl stuff?"

"Yeah like deodorant," Weston scoffs.

"You should be wearing deodorant."

"That's what my mom says," He reclines back in the chair, taking in a deep whiff of the air freshener that smelled of Jolly Ranchers "I wish I had a brother but I guess you and Ike are kinda like brothers." It was one of those rainy days that came to mind when someone mentioned a storm brewing.

The skies were grey as cracked pepper, a steady, rhythmic pattern of rain creates a continuous murmur, a comforting white noise that enveloped the surroundings, each drop merging into a flow that washes over the earth. Overhead he could hear thunder rumbling like an angry god was stomping around in the clouds. Cozied up in Kyle's car, safe from the elements, Weston thought that would've been the perfect environment to fall asleep.

"Brothers are overrated," Kyle casually gripped the steering wheel as the rain hammered down on the windshield, the wipers working furiously but barely managing to keep up.

"So are sisters, you're so lucky that you don't have one."

"You're actually pretty lucky that you do have one," His eyes were fixed on the road, a blur of grey and blue on the pavement and his voice was flat "Especially yours, she really loves you."

Weston cast him a sideways glance like he didn't believe him but he didn't prod the topic any further "What are you guys gonna do tonight?"

"Finish our project then I'm headed home," He answers, what he thought to be truthfully.

The younger boy nods, turning his attention to the world outside of his window. He wasn't used to seeing you spend so much time around Kyle or share mutual stories from track or biology, he had always hoped the two of you would get closer and now that it was finally happening he wasn't sure if he liked it.

Kyle cast a look down to your brother, realizing that the talking was over for the time being, he cranked up the radio until Nirvana filled up the car. The trees lining the road swayed and shuddered under the weight of the wind and rain, their leaves rustling like whispers in the night. Kyle could feel the tension in the air, the electricity of the storm to come.

As they drove on in relative silence, the rain seemed to intensify, each drop striking the car with a force like bullets beating down on the roof of his car. He squinted through the windshield, the headlights carving out a narrow path through the darkness, revealing the familiar road ahead.

"I'm just gonna grab some gas up ahead."

"Where do gas stations get their gas?" Weston asked, a crease forming between his brows at the thought.

"Do you actually not know the answer?" Kyle instinctively looked at him with eyebrows furrowed with confusion despite the urge to keep his focus on the road.

"Like did they just find a spot where gas magically comes out of the ground or do they build it over a gas mine?"

"Weston," Kyle said, flat.

"Or is it from a gas pipe that runs underground?" Weston leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his thighs and hands clasped together like he was deep in thought.

"No, they build gas storage tanks under the pumps, there aren't gasoline pipes or mines or whatever else you just said," He was utterly perplexed by your brother and it wasn't the first time Weston asked a question that left someone shocked with its absurdity.

"What happens when they run out of gas?" He asks like an interrogation "Do they tear the gas station down?"

"No, they refill the gas tanks."

"How?"

"Tanker trucks deliver it and they just fill the tanks up when they run out."

"Okay, okay," Weston rubs his chin, humming "So where do tanker trucks get their gas?"

Kyle's hands go flat on the wheel for a brief moment "From gas stations."

"And they all get their gas the same way? would it be illegal if they got their gas in another way?"

Kyle maneuvered the car off the road and into the gas station. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly, casting a cold glow over the puddle-filled lot. He was quick to bring the car to a pump and step out, Weston's questions were becoming a little too much.

"Stay here, I'll run in quick then you can show me to your friend's house," he said, pulling up his tighter before stepping out into the downpour.

"Can you get me some beef jerky?" Weston sweetened his voice "Please." He watched Kyle shut the door and raise his voice slightly so the ginger could hear him "Teriyaki flavour?"

The cold rain immediately soaked through his shirt, Kyle wished he had worn a hoodie to keep some of the rain off his head as he stepped out of his car and into the stormy night. He glanced at the neon glow of the gas station sign, a small beacon of light amidst the darkness and the swirling tempest. The wind howled, pushing him sideways as he made his way to the pump.

He fumbled with his wallet, hands slick with rain, and managed to slide his debit card into the slot. The machine beeped, and he selected his grade of fuel, gripping the pump handle tightly as he began to fill his tank. The rhythmic sound of gasoline pouring into the car was almost drowned out by the rain hammering on the roof of the gas station canopy.

Kyle squinted through the downpour, seeing the lights inside the convenience store flickering. With a sigh, he replaced the pump handle, pocketed his receipt, and jogged towards the entrance, each step splashing water up onto his jeans. The automatic doors slid open with a whoosh, and he was greeted by the bright, fluorescent lights and the comforting hum of refrigerators lining the back wall.

The smell of coffee and hot dogs greeted him, a stark contrast to the cold, wet night outside. Kyle wiped dribbles of water off his brow and ran a hand through his damp hair, making his way to the 'Jack's Jerky' stand he grabbed a bag of the teriyaki as per Weston's request, and he grabbed one for the boy and a little baggie of sickly sweet gummies to give to Ike when he got home.

That was all he had intended to buy but his feet had carried him to the back of the rest stop to the coolers. He opened one, the chill air a refreshing break from the humidity outside. He thought back to which flavour of Powerade was your favourite and silently prayed it was still the same from three years prior when you went camping and stocked up on solely green apple Powerade. As he closed the cooler door, he heard the rattle of thunder outside, the storm intensifying.

He walked up to the counter, the clerk giving him a weary smile. "Rough night, huh?" the clerk said, scanning the drink. Kyle had expected that he would see Kenny behind the counter that night since he had informed him that he would be busy and he tended to take the graveyard shift over weekends for some extra cash.

"Yeah, I don't plan to be out long," Kyle reached into his pocket for his wallet, sifting through it until he found his debit card.

The man nods, typing something into the computer "This is everything tonight?" He looked up at Kyle.

"Yup," He offered a tight-lipped smile, swiping his card through before snatching the green apple Powerade off the counter.

"Stay safe out there," His voice was gruff like he had been smoking for decades and singing folk songs around a campfire.

"Thanks, you too," He walks back out through the doors faster than he entered, rushing to the car like he was trying to race the rain.

Weston peered through the foggy window, watching the rivulets of water race each other down the glass. The interior of the car felt warm and safe compared to the bleak, wet world outside. He glanced at Kyle, who was bracing himself against the wind, his silhouette blurred by the rain.

The doors slid open, and he dashed back to his car, rain soaking through his clothes almost instantly. He slid into the driver's seat, shaking off the water, and turned the key in the ignition. Kyle placed the Powerade into the cupholder, tossed the beef jerky over to Weston and tucked the gummies into his pocket, buckling himself in and readjusting himself until his hands had thawed enough to grip the wheel. "Okay, what's Dustin's address?"

Weston took one look at the green drink sitting between the two of them and looked back up at Kyle "Do you like my sister?"

Kyle nearly laughed, but he caught himself, recognizing the seriousness in Weston's voice. "What?" The tone his voice carried was utterly perplexed "I think there's something in that jerky."

"I'm serious, don't get any funny ideas," Weston spoke through a mouth of beef jerky, words muffled.

"I promise all of my ideas are very unfunny," Kyle shook his head, trying to focus on driving through the storm.

"Yeah, sure," Weston's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Kyle felt his face flush, thankful for the darkness that hid his reaction. They drove in silence for a few more minutes, the storm raging outside, the only sound inside the car being the rhythmic swish of the wipers and the occasional rumble of thunder. Finally, the headlights illuminated the house where Weston's friend lived. His eyes weren't on Weston as he walked into the house but on the green bottle sitting in his cup holder.

By the time Kyle got back to your house, he was soaking wet, curls defined by dampness and clothes clinging to his body. "Is Kyle back? Is that him?" Your dad asked through Facetime to which you nodded "Turn me around I want to say hi."

Kyle squinted his eyes before recognizing it was your dad on the phone "Hey," He smiled "How's Vegas?"

"It is awesome," Your dad said "I got Ike and Weston these trucker hats," he held his phone away from him while he held up the merch "And I got you this hoodie, made me think of you," Your dad flipped the camera around to show the hotel bed where a black hoodie was sprawled out with the album cover of 'Violater' on the front.

"What did you get me?" You ask, turning your phone screen back to face you where you were bundled up and tucked into a corner of the sofa.

"Erm," He sucks a sharp breath through his teeth, turns his head and goes out of frame while he shuffles through some things. Your dad places his phone down, thinking that he has muted himself "Honey, what did we get for our daughter?"

"I dunno, we can buy her something at the airport." You hear your mom say "Can you tell her that I bought her ticket for the lock-in?"

"Oh my god," you can't bite back the smile you have purely from how ridiculous they are, looking at Kyle who has his eyebrows slightly raised.

"Gimme that, I wanna talk to her and Kyle," The phone shifts, and the view of the ceiling is replaced with your mother's face, she's holding the phone far out "Hi, guys."

"Hi," Kyle says half-heartedly.

"Did you guys read the storm warnings?" Your mom asks and continues before either of you has the chance to answer "There is a storm outside."

"Yeah, we know, we're in it," You say blankly.

"Yeah, big storm tonight," Your dad crams himself next to your mom so he can squish in frame "I got a notification from my weather app."

Your mom nods like this tame fact needed confirmation "He did."

In his damp pocket, Kyle feels his phone vibrate, his mother is on the other end waiting for him to pick up the call "Mom?"

"Kyle," Sheila says, she's on Facetime as well, wearing a blue silk heatless on the top of her head, red hair braided around it. It was the one you had gifted her for Secret Santa "Are you guys okay?"

"Yeah?" He furrows his eyebrows, looking up at you though you were just as clueless as he was.

"I want you guys to stay inside until this storm is over, there's gonna be hail and the last hail storm his not go well for you," This was very much true. The last hail storm was a year prior in early September, huge chunks of ice had plummeted from the sky in excruciating force. Kyle was at Stan's house when it happened, Sparky had gotten out and the two boys were desperate to chase him back outside but the hail only startled the dog further causing him to dash around the streets in a panic, not even resting for a moment. By the time Sparky was back inside safely, both boys had bruises cascading down their backs in an array of deep purples and reds.

Others weren't so lucky to get away with bruises. Butters had been hit smack in his head and had bled into Cartman's white headrest while being driven to the hospital. The poor guy ended up with five staples in a jagged line on the back of his scalp and a wicked scar to show for it.

"Is that Sheila?" Your mom asked, "I want to see her."

Both you and Kyle had turned the phone screens to face each other, trying to ignore the weirdness of doing so. "Hey," Sheila said, "I was just telling the kids to stay inside, there's a big storm down here."

"And hail," your dad added, matter-of-factly.

"There's going to be hail the size of tennis balls," Gerald hadn't heard your dad through the phone, you could hear him sink into the bed beside his wife.

"What?" Your dad asked "Gerald?"

Gerald peeped over at his wife's phone "How was the concert?"

"I know, crazy storm right," Your dad had taken his phone back from your mother and pretended that he could understand what was being said 562 miles away in the Broflovski household. "Kyle, why are you so wet?" He turned his attention to the boy awkwardly holding his screen out.

"He was driving Weston, you know this." You answer for him.

"In the storm?" Sheila asked.

"Don't go out in the storm," Your mom called from somewhere else in the room.

"Okay, I'm gonna hang up, we will stay inside you have my word," You wait for your dad to answer before hanging up.

"Okay, love you Jellybean, save me that gouda in the cheese drawer," His eyes shoot around the screen, in search of the exit button though, he taps around for a minute, muting then unmuting himself before finally hanging up.

Kyle had wandered off, slowly pacing around by the front door while nodding along to the things his mom was rattling off. It took eight minutes until Sheila finally let him go with one last goodbye "Okay, love you too, Mom."

"Uh," You look at Kyle, who was quite literally dripping on the floor, the white shirt beneath his flannel had turned translucent, clinging to the muscle of his stomach "Do you wanna shower or something?"

He looks down at himself his jeans wet and heavy before he looks back up at you "Yeah, I do."

You pry yourself off the couch, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders like a cape while you lead Kyle upstairs. You were forbidden from touching the thermostat without your father's permission and even though he was in another state entirely, you had a sinking feeling that some way he would find how so you thought it better to bundle up instead.

"Use whatever products, I don't really care," You open the door to the bathroom even though Kyle knew where everything in your house was and would've been fine on his own. To you, it felt like he was more of a formal guest than a friend and you had to show some form of courtesy. "I'll find you something from my dad's closet."

"Alright," Kyle says as you turn away, pushing the door to your parent's room open. You b-lined for the wardrobe, rifling through until you found plaid pyjama pants and one of his well-worn t-shirts that you had seen in pictures from his college years.

On your way back to the bathroom you stopped in your room to shove your feet into your cow slippers since the storm was quickly cooling your house down. Your knuckles wrapped on the door "Are you naked?"

"No," He answers. "Why are-

You push the door open and find him standing shirtless by the sink, looking at something on his phone while his wet shirt and flannel are hanging over the shower rod. Your eyes catch to the glucose monitor patch stuck onto his toned bicep before you catch your eyes shifting down towards the well-defined ab muscles, catching yourself within seconds and plopping the clothes onto the counter. "Taking mirror pictures?" You joke halfheartedly.

He turns his phone around to show you his 'mySugr' app where he had been checking his glucose levels "Yeah, something like that."

"It's just a shirt and pants, I don't want you sharing underwear with my dad," You say abruptly, giving the folded clothes a little pat.

"I don't want that either, so thank you," He presses his lips into a thin smile.

"Okay," You say, glancing around the bathroom to see if you were missing anything before you left, closing the door behind you.

You kept listening for the hail but all you heard was a soothing backdrop to the otherwise quiet house, Kyle's shower blending seamlessly in with the rain. You stood at the kitchen counter, wincing slightly as you adjusted the bag of shredded cheese in your hand. Your broken nose, swollen and tender, throbbed dully, while the turf burns on your leg stung every time you shifted your weight. The painkillers you'd taken earlier had dulled the edges of your discomfort, but they left you feeling groggy and disconnected.

With slow, deliberate movements, you laid a tortilla on the skillet, the soft sizzle of the heating pan. You sprinkled a generous handful of cheese onto the tortilla, your fingers fumbling slightly as the drowsiness made even simple tasks a challenge. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself against the counter, trying to focus through the haze of the medication.

The rain grew heavier, a steady drumming that matched the dull ache in your body. You reached for the second tortilla, placing it carefully on top of the melting cheese. Your reflection in the window caught your eye—a girl with tousled hair, a bandaged nose, and dark circles under her eyes. The bruising was beginning to ebb away and by the time of the junior lock-in, you would be able to take the bandage off for good. Eventually, you would be left with no more than a scar on the bridge of your nose and mark this down as your most tormenting injury yet

The smell of melting cheese filled the kitchen, a small comfort amidst your discomfort. You flipped the quesadilla, the action sending a sharp pain through your wrist, making you gasp. You clenched your teeth, riding out the wave of pain until it subsided to a more manageable level. The medication dulled the pain but didn't erase it, leaving you in a strange limbo between relief and awareness.

As the quesadilla finished cooking, you carefully slid it onto a plate. You cut it into quarters, each movement slow and deliberate, then carry the plate to the table. Sitting down, you gingerly touched your swollen nose, wincing at the contact, then picked up a piece of the quesadilla.

The first bite was heavenly, the warm, gooey cheese a small relief against the storm raging both outside and within your body. You chewed slowly, savouring the simple pleasure of a hot meal on a rainy day. Each bite eased a bit of your tension, the repetitive motion meditative in its simplicity.

You heard the familiar thumps signalling someone was coming down the hardwood stairs and didn't need to turn your head to know that it was Kyle. "Quesadilla?" He sits on the opposite side of the couch from you, grabbing his laptop off the coffee table from the exact spot he had left it.

Silence stretches between you as you wait to chew your bite thoroughly and swallow before answering him "Yeah, do you want one?"

"No, I'm good," He opens the tab with the presentation, picking up right where he left off. He would be stuck with you until the hail hit, and then he would leave. Like he told Weston, he was going to finish the project and go home.

"That's good, I wouldn't have made it anyway."

"Why would you ask me then?"

"Courtesy?" Your answer comes out sounding like a question.

While Kyle was dropping your brother off, you had finished your portion of the assignment, leaving you to scroll through your timeline, tuning out to the constant sound of rain and Kyle's quick typing. With a small groan from the soreness of every inch of your body, you grabbed the remote off the table and began to flip through thumbnails of shows and movies.

You had flipped your phone face down on the table and put on Do Not Disturb. You were the kind who didn't pick up the phone when they didn't want to speak and in that moment you had been forgetting that Kyle was even there until you heard him shift.

"Are you going to the lock-in?" You lift your head the slightest to look at Kyle.

"Maybe," He hadn't entirely wanted to go to a school event where nearly everyone in his grade would be locked in the school's gym overnight, it sounded similar to the nightmares that kept him awake though he was being coerced not only by his mother but Kenny who had been the first of his friends who paid for a ticket. "Are you?"

"Yeah, I was gonna stay at Red's and just tell my mom I went but she's going so," You blow a raspberry "I guess I am, I'll probably wanna shoot myself in the head though."

"Huh," He utters simply in acknowledgment.

Settling on watching a reality show where everyone was yelling at everything all of the time, you pulled your blanket higher, letting your head rest on the arm of the couch. Kyle would claim to hate trash reality but you always caught him sneaking glances at the screen whenever it was on.

The soft glow of the television cast flickering shadows across the room. The wind howls and rain lashes against the windows, creating a constant noise that only heightens your sense of isolation.

The reality TV show you're watching is a mindless distraction, a parade of drama and superficiality that you shamelessly indulge in. It's a welcome escape from the throbbing pain in your nose and the raw sting of the turf burn consistently stinging. You shift uncomfortably, trying to find a position that doesn't exacerbate your injuries, wincing as the movement sends fresh waves of pain through your body.

"How's it going?" you ask, your voice thick from the congestion caused by your broken nose. Speaking still hurts, but the silence is becoming unbearable. You had to say something, anything. It was like there had been a shift, where once you happily accepted ignoring Kyle in silence, now you felt like you were being smothered. You needed to talk even if your conversations were stiff and awkward like they had been all night and would only continue to be.

Kyle looks up. "Getting there. How's your nose?"

"It's chill right now." You lie through your teeth, it was hurting badly. "How's your eye?"

His hand absentmindedly moved upward to gently touch the bruised area. There were a few days when it looked like it was healing nicely but it quickly went downhill, he woke one morning to find splotchy colours over his eye and all he could do was accept the fact. "Better than your- well, everything I'm guessing," He gestured to the burn on your arm.

You glance down as well, moving your arm to inspect the injury "Yeah, it feels like a million miniature humans are stabbing me and kicking me like all the time."

He nods, a sympathetic look crossing his face. "Do you need another painkiller or something?"

You shake your head, regretting the motion almost immediately as it sends a sharp ache through your skull. "No, I'm okay, I have so many painkillers in me that I'm rattling like a maraca."

The room falls silent again, save for the drone of the TV and the relentless battering of the storm outside. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, wishing you could fast-forward through the next few days of recovery. Your eyes drift back to the TV screen, where contestants are arguing over something trivial.

Kyle's fingers tap away at the keyboard, a steady stream of clicks. Finally, he sits back, stretching his arms and letting out a sigh of relief. "It's done," he announces, closing the laptop. "The project is finished."

"Woohoo," You bring your hands together to give him a weak round of applause. Still facing the TV you hadn't noticed the small smile that Kyle cracked, it wasn't the sheepish thin-lipped ones you had grown accustomed to but one that showed his perfect rows of teeth.

He leans back onto the couch, arms crossed while he lets himself tune into the awful show. Feeling a slight chill, he tugged on the blanket sprawled over you until it covered his lap. You hadn't minded when Kyle came under the blanket, giving him leeway so he wouldn't freeze.

You lay on your side, reaching to scratch an itch on your upper lip but instead being met with warm liquid on your fingers. Immediately you shoot up your hand out in front of you, the TV shifts scenes and the room is illuminated, the blood on your hand illuminated.

"Mother fucker," You hiss pushing yourself off the couch to rush to the bathroom before blood from your nose could trickle onto your dad's shirt.

Kyle wasn't sure what had you storming off, he partially thought you were upset about him tucking himself under the blanket but he didn't say anything, he just watched you usher off and up the stairs with perplexing eyes.

You slap the light switch to the bathroom, hands bracing on the bathroom sink while you assess the situation on your face. Sometime while you and Kyle were sitting in darkness lit only by a TV screen you must've irritated the laceration on your nose as it was nose gushing blood and soaking the bandage lying over top.

Despite the pain, you muster the courage to attempt changing the bandage on your own. With trembling hands, you carefully begin to peel away the old bandage, wincing as the adhesive pulls at your tender skin. You grit your teeth, determined to see this through, but as you try to pull the bandage away, you shudder, it is clinging to your nose from the blood soaking in and binding it.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up inside you. You glance at yourself in the mirror, the sight of your bruised under eyes and the trickle of blood making you feel even more helpless. Pounding on the bathroom window you could pinpoint the exact sound that the hail had begun, the patterns of rain turned into a harsh banging noise that crashed over the roof.

Sticky blood gripped onto your skin and the more effort you put into clearing it away, the harder you were pushing on your broken nose. Taking a deep breath, you grab hold of one end of the bandage then rip it off at record speed, trying to ignore the pain that shot through you and how it had tugged on the stitches but it was impossible.

"Fuck, ow!" You shout, throwing the soiled bandage into the sink in anger "I'm not fucking doing this."

Looking up and into the mirror, you see the gash over your nose, the blood dripping from it and pooling around the area, slinking its way into the crevices of your under eyes and knowing that you didn't have much choice. Dabbing a bit of rubbing alcohol onto a cotton pad, you brought it up to your nose and winced on instinct, body shuddering from the sting.

You put the cotton pad down, chewing your lip in an attempt to bite back the tears and the array of colourful words you wanted to scream. Tears were brimming in your eyes purely from the sensation. "Kyle!" You call out, hands cupping your mouth.

It took him a minute to reach you but when he did he paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of you "Are you taking out your stitches?" His voice bordered somewhere between panic and intrigue.

"No, but it's bleeding and I need to fix it and it really fucking hurts so can you please do it?"

He spends a moment just staring at you, drinking in the request before it finally rendered "You definitely can't do it yourself?"

"Yeah."

"And it's not one of those wait-it-out things?"

"Don't be a dick, are you helping me or not?"

He runs a hand through his hair, the other on his hip. His nose wrinkled slightly at the thought of pressing too hard on your nose or making the stitches bleed even more "What if I hurt you?"

"I'm already hurt."

"Yeah, okay, fine." Kyle pulls his phone from the pocket of his flannel pants and begins searching for guidance.

You propped yourself to sit up on the bathroom counter, eye level with Kyle as he bent down just the slightest. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Uh, yup," Beside you, he placed his phone, it was open to a wikiHow article on bandaging a broken nose. He carefully soaked a cotton pad and began to clear away the blood, revealing the raw, stitched wound beneath. You clenched your teeth, eyes watering from the sharp, stinging pain that accompanied the exposure of the wound. "Sorry," Kyle murmured, his voice bordering somewhere between concentration and sympathy. "I'll be quick, I promise."

"Okay," You cast your gaze to the side, trying desperately to avoid making eye contact with Kyle when he was so close to you and studying your face with such intensity.

He dabbed at the wound with a clean cloth, wiping away the fresh blood with gentle, meticulous strokes. The antiseptic came next, its cool sting causing you to flinch despite your best efforts to stay still. Kyle couldn't help the face he made at the sight of the bruising swallowing up your nose and the irritation surrounding the wound itself.

You were quick to catch onto this "I know I look gross."

"No, you don't look gross," He shook his head slightly, his hands moved to bring your head upwards, chin between his index and thumb while he wiped away the last of the blood. You held your breath, The strength in his hands and forearms was evident though each movement was slow and benign as a feather-stroke.

He looked like honey and you couldn't ignore that. His ginger hair was streaked with gold from sun exposure, and his hazel eyes were flecked with brown. He remained sweet as honey too, and as gentle as the wings that made it.

He placed the gauze on your nose for padding very meticulously and followed the guide on his phone while taping it. "Done," Kyle said finally, pressing a new, clean bandage over the stitches. He secured it with tender, precise fingers, then looked into your eyes for reassurance "How does that feel?"

You took a deep breath, feeling the snug, secure fit of the new bandage. With a gentle touch, you tapped around at the freshly bandaged area "It's good, thanks."

Kyle nodded, quickly backing up, throwing out the soiled medical supplies and tucking the first aid kit back underneath the sink. He cleared his thought, looking at the window where the hail was slowing down, it was back to the heavy rain "Hails passed, I'll grab my stuff and head out."

"Um, okay," You stayed on the counter, watching him fumble around to his clothes that had been drying on the shower curtain rod. In one minute a million thoughts were mauling at your mind but there was one that stood out from the rest "Or we could watch a movie?"

Abruptly his head swerved to look at you. He had assumed this to be mocking but you just stared at him and waited for an answer, as cool as he wanted to play it he broke into a small small with furrowed brows "Yeah, okay." Suddenly he was wishing he had given you the powerade that he bought for you.

A/N: oml I meant to post this days ago, it’s just been chilling in my drafts

#kyle broflovski #south park #kyle south park #south park x reader #south park x y/n #kyle broflovski x reader #kyle brovlofski #south park hcs #south park kyle #sp kyle

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entguarde · 1 year ago

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HAUNTED DOLL WATCH!

[Image ID: A flat colored digital drawing of Taako, Magnus and Merle from the Adventure Zone, as well as the haunted doll from the MbMbaM show. From left to right are Taako (holding the doll), Magnus and Merle.

Taako is a slim elven man with brown skin, long wavy brown hair with orange tips, blue eyes, and a lion-like tail. He is wearing a blue wizard hat with a bell and bow, a dark blue short cloak with golden stars, a blue pirate shirt, white pants, and blue pointy boots with bells at the tips.

Behind him is Magnus, a tall and muscular human man. He has medium-dark brown skin and dark wavy hair with fluffy sideburns. Over his left eye is an arrow-shaped scar, slim at the eyebrow and growing thicker below the eye. He is wearing a white t-shirt with an illustrated dog jumping over the moon. He’s wearing cargo shorts, mismatched socks and red sneakers.

All the way in the back is Merle, a short and fat dwarven man with dark skin and wavy gray hair. He has a full-length beard that’s lighter than the rest of his hair, which is held in a partial bun by a twig. He’s wearing a black shirt with floral prints, tan shorts and socks with sandals. He has a wooden arm that resembled bleached driftwood, a fang, and an otter-like tail. His eyes are green.

Taako, leading the three, is running with a frantic expression, holding a clown doll away from himself. There’ a red cord around him, which Magnus is holding in two hands. He’s looking back to Merle, who’s struggling the catch up and holding up the wrapped up cord in urgency. All three look equally terrified. The background is yellow with a cyan border. End description.

#ent’s art #taz balance #mbmbam show #technically.#taako taaco #magnus burnsides #merle highchurch #the adventure zone #the adventure zone balance #mbmbam #haunted doll watch is still my favorite episode

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 6 months ago

Text

🚨 New Chapter🚨

In which Guthláf helps Wídfara get settled in Edoras, we first hear about Guthláf’s ambitions, and things between them take a turn. T for Teen (and also T for Trope because I used some of my faves here! Gotta get my happiness in before everything eventually goes to hell!)

Catch up on part one if needed/desired.

August 3017

Wídfara was up well before dawn, partly from habit and partly from nerves, and he arrived at the stable earlier than any of the other members of the éored. To his immense relief, yesterday’s confusion with his horse had been rectified, and Cypren stood waiting for him in a well-appointed stall. He took his time grooming and tacking his horse, enjoying the familiarity of the routine, and used his best braiding techniques for both mane and tail. If nothing else, he wanted Cypren’s appearance to impress.

As he worked, the barn slowly filled with the busy hum of other riders arriving and making their own morning preparations. There was laughter and gossip and the occasional ill-tempered grunt from someone who had drunk too much or slept too little the night before. But since none of it was directed his way, all the commotion faded into indistinguishable background noise until a loud, twangy voice cut through the din.

“Heads up, Wídfara!”

A small wrapped parcel came sailing across the stall. He snatched it out of the air just before it collided with his chest and looked up to find Guthláf smiling at him from the aisle.

“What’s this?”

“If I told you, that would ruin the surprise, so I guess you’ll have to open it and see.”

Wídfara undid the knot that kept the little cloth packet closed, exposing a bag full of smooth, crimson-colored cherries glistening like a trove of round rubies. He knew at a glance that they were wild Thistelfyld cherries, found only in the ravines of the Upper Wold and only perfectly ripe for a few precious weeks each year. Those weeks had always been anxiously anticipated when he was a little boy — a treasured chance to savor his grandmother’s cherry tarts and his father’s boar with cherry glaze or simply to wander among the Thistelfyld shrubs and stuff his pockets with as many fruits as he could fit, sneaking them out for snacks throughout the day until his mother noticed the dark red juice stains on his shirt and pants.

He lifted the bag now and closed his eyes to inhale the sweet, almost floral scent, and for a moment he was lost in the memory of his happiest childhood days. “Where in the name of Béma did you get these?” he stammered out at last.

Guthláf crossed the stall and plucked a cherry from the top of the packet, popping it into his mouth with a grin. “Once you’ve been in Edoras long enough, you’ll learn where and how to find things. Even very rare things from far away. I thought they might make a nice welcome present for you.”

This unexpected kindness threatened to bring tears to Wídfara’s eyes, and he blinked quickly to head them off. “Thank you. Sincerely. You couldn’t have found a better gift, and I only hope they didn’t cost you too much.”

“I had more than enough from my winnings last night to cover it. So in that sense, I suppose, it was Ceorl who paid for your cherries. But let’s not remind him of that.” He laughed and threw an arm around Wídfara’s shoulders. “Leave those here for now, and let me introduce you around. You’re about to meet some of the finest men in all of Middle Earth.”

With that, he began to guide Wídfara in and out of a seemingly endless string of stalls, rattling off names and positions and personal details about each man they came across. Everywhere they went, Guthláf was greeted with enthusiasm – bright smiles, slaps on the back, jokes and invitations and well wishes – and Wídfara wondered how it was possible to be on such close terms with so many people at once. But however it was accomplished, it was clear that the goodwill that followed Guthláf through the stable could attach itself to Wídfara, too, simply by standing in the other man’s reflected glow. He was heartily welcomed and congratulated and asked many curious questions about himself, his horse, his fighting experience, whether he preferred ale or mead, and a hundred other topics. And always Guthláf stayed at his side, helping him to remember names, interjecting comments and jokes, and flagging over still more men that Wídfara had yet to meet. If not for the horn that announced the start of training, Wídfara had no doubt that they would have spoken to each and every one of the éored’s dozens of members.

Instead, they all swung into their saddles and trotted out to the training rings, where they were divided by function for drills and exercises under the supervision of Elfhelm and a few senior members of the company. Wídfara joined the other archers and was surprised to find a fair number in the group, as most of the Eorlingas preferred swords or spears. They undertook a steady stream of target exercises at different speeds and angles, and Wídfara easily lost himself in the muscle memory of balance, strength, and precision. It quickly became obvious that he was the best bowman in the group, and a small crowd of the senior men gathered to watch his runs through the training course with murmurs and approving nods. Between his steady hand, sharp eye, and the smooth, even gait of his horse, hitting targets was no real challenge for him, and he relished the opportunity to feel skillful and effective after the previous day’s string of humiliating logistical challenges. For the first time since he had entered Edoras, he felt the welcome stirrings of his old confidence again.

By mid afternoon, Elfhelm seemed satisfied with the progress made for the day and dismissed the company to take up barn chores, weapon repair or other necessary tasks. Wídfara walked Cypren back toward the stable and took note of the warm, dry wind sweeping in from the east. He’d always had a particularly intuitive sense of the weather, honed over many years of living on the land and in the elements. He could feel in the wind that the day’s heat wasn’t going to break any time soon, so he stopped off at a water trough to allow Cypren to drink his fill.

“Nice job out there today, Wíd.”

Guthláf had materialized at Wídfara’s elbow, holding the reins to his own horse as she drank. A little thrill ran through Wídfara at the use of the shortened name, a tiny sign of implied closeness between them, and he smiled his thanks.

“I don’t know about you,” said Guthláf, “but I’m not ready to call it a day yet, and neither is Syndrigan. Not before we get a chance to really run, you know? None of this drills and exercises stuff, but a real gallop out in the valley. What do you say?”

The prospect of a few hours outside the tight confines of the city walls, back out in the kind of wide open space that had always filled his life, was more than enticing to Wídfara, and he readily agreed despite the heat. They remounted, and he followed Guthláf through a maze of streets down to the city gate and then out into the fields and meadows that sat below the hills of Edoras. When they were at last well clear of the city and boundless green grasslands stretched out ahead, Guthláf looked back at Wídfara, winked, and nudged his horse, taking off like a shot into the hot, windy plain. Urging Cypren into action, Wídfara gave chase, and the two raced into the valley, up and down hills and through streams toward the stony banks of the Snowbourn.

For as much praise as Wídfara had received for his shooting ability, it was instantly obvious to him that Guthláf deserved even more for his skill in the saddle. He rode with total ease, each movement and adjustment as natural and instinctive as drawing breath, and there was both grace and strength in his frame as he and Syndrigan thundered by. Despite their speed and the unevenness of the terrain, Wídfara could see that Guthláf’s reins sat tied to his saddle, untouched, and his feet were barely pressed into his stirrups. Like many of the poorer herdsmen in the east, Wídfara had grown up riding without tack, saddles and bridles often being prohibitively expensive, but even with all of his years of experience he would never have dared to ride as Guthláf did, with what he might have called outright recklessness in others but which seemed somehow entirely within Guthláf’s agile control. For a time, Wídfara reined in his own horse, content to simply watch in awed silence as Guthláf flew over the plain, joyful and uninhibited, before feeling the pull to join him again in a dash across the valley floor.

Guthláf eventually came to a halt near a small crook in the river, allowing Syndrigan to rest in the shade at the water’s edge. Wídfara followed suit, happy for his own chance to escape the beating of the sun and to refresh himself in the Snowbourn, which flowed down out of the heights of the White Mountains. He bent down to scoop a little water onto his neck, and as he knelt, he heard Guthláf splash past him, wading out a few feet from shore. Once there, he stripped off his tunic in one smooth motion, dunking it into the chilly mountain water and wringing it out again.

Some time between horse and river, he had tied up his long blonde hair, and all of his bare back and shoulders were now exposed to Wídfara. He knew he should look somewhere else – anywhere else – but his eyes were inexorably drawn to that smooth, firm skin and the obvious muscles that rippled just beneath its surface. A few loose locks of hair still clung to the nape of Guthláf’s dampened neck, and Wídfara watched, nearly transfixed, as heavy beads of sweat ran slowly down his spine, past shoulder blades that flexed and tightened with every wring of the tunic. The spell was broken only when Guthláf turned his head and their eyes briefly met, sending Wídfara jolting backward like he had been startled out of an especially intense dream.

A wave of shame and panic crashed over him, and he rushed back to his feet and over to Cypren, busying himself by unnecessarily adjusting his stirrups while Guthláf pulled the cooled tunic back on and crossed behind him to Syndrigan.

“Ready to head back?”

Wídfara hummed his assent, keeping his eyes studiously focused downward as he pulled himself up into his saddle, and they turned back toward the city. The first few minutes passed in excruciating awkwardness for Wídfara, certain that he had offended or upset Guthláf by the riverbank, though the other man appeared outwardly unbothered whenever Wídfara chanced a glance in his direction. It wasn’t until Guthláf took up a steady patter of light conversation — how he wished his horse and his dog would get along better, his intense admiration for Elfhelm, how hungry he was — that the knot in Wídfara’s stomach began to ease and he allowed himself to hope that he had overreacted to something that had perhaps gone unnoticed.

When they had arrived back at the garrison and turned their horses over to the stablehands, they walked together to the barn entrance. It was early evening, and the heat of the day was finally breaking. Wídfara’s own hunger was making itself known to him, and he was mustering his courage to suggest a trip to the mess hall when Guthláf spoke instead.

“I don’t know how things worked in your old éored, but at the end of the week here all the men go home for dinner with their families rather than eating the slop that the mess serves. I know you’re far from your own home, but if you want a good family meal made by one of the best cooks in Edoras, you can come with me tonight.”

“Oh.” The offer was unexpected, and Wídfara was immensely relieved to get yet more evidence that the incident at the riverbank had not soured Guthláf on their friendship. But his mind immediately filled with questions and worries. Going for a ride together had been easy; he knew what that entailed. A nice dinner in a family home in Edoras, though, he had no experience with, and he couldn’t imagine it would be anything like the simple gatherings around a fire he was used to back in the Wold. Were his clothes nice enough for an occasion like this? Would he embarrass himself by not knowing the basics of city manners and etiquette? Would Guthláf’s family really want him there, just getting in the way of their evening rituals? “Well, I don’t know,” he stammered out. “No one likes an inconvenient outsider tagging along and intruding on their family time.” He laughed a little, hoping that speaking his fear in a lighthearted way would prompt Guthláf to set his mind at ease. But instead, it somehow had the opposite effect. A strange, unreadable look crept across Guthláf’s normally sunny face, and his posture became suddenly rigid.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. I’ve got to go check on Slaga now, but thanks for the ride.”

He gave a small nod and ducked away, disappearing quickly around a corner and leaving Wídfara standing alone and baffled as to what he had said to change the whole tone of the exchange so quickly.

“Nice one, new guy.” Another rider, a man whose name Wídfara thought was Fastred, sat a few feet away polishing a saddle, and he eyed Wídfara now with a mix of disdain and exasperation.

“What do you mean? What did I do?”

“Guthláf’s family is dead. Parents, grandparents, older brother, baby sister. All killed in a fire that ripped through a whole section of the city one night when he was fifteen. We take turns having him over to our houses for home cooked meals or to celebrate on holidays so he doesn’t have to be alone. That’s where he’s going tonight – to Herefara’s to be, as you put it, an inconvenient outsider intruding on someone else’s family. Except that we’re all happy to have him. He’s always welcome with us, and he was just trying to give you the same welcome.”

The bottom fell out of Wídfara’s stomach, and he stood for a moment, almost paralyzed with dismay. To have been unintentionally insensitive to anyone would have upset him, but if his words had accidentally caused pain to his only friend, someone who had been so unfailingly kind to him…he didn’t even want to contemplate the possibility. Snapping from his stupor, he sprinted out of the stable, hoping to catch Guthláf before he got any further away. But for once, the normally bustling area was empty and quiet. Guthláf was gone.

Although the heat of the day faded with the disappearance of the sun, Wídfara found his cramped little room still too warm for his comfort and escaped into the relative coolness of the outside night air. The barracks were largely empty – as Guthláf had noted, most of the men had gone home to their families for the night – and Wídfara could sit in solitude under the beech tree that shaded the main entrance during daylight hours. He had with him a small bottle of his mother’s homemade apple mead and took frequent sips, trying without success to dull the ache that had taken up residence in his chest ever since that afternoon’s rebuke from Fastred.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, playing back the scene in the stable over and over in his mind and cringing each time those hurtful words had unknowingly escaped his mouth, but the moon was high overhead and even the crickets had largely quieted when the sound of approaching footsteps intruded into his thoughts. He looked up and whispered a quick prayer of thanks when the figure to emerge from around the closest corner was Guthláf, returning home from his evening at Herefara’s.

Wídfara stood hurriedly and placed himself in Guthláf’s path, words tumbling out of him faster than he could organize his thoughts. “I’m so sorry, Guthláf. Fastred told me…well, I didn’t know, and I would never…”. He stopped himself and took a long, deep breath. “I’m just sorry, that’s all. I hope you can forgive me.”

A moment’s silence ticked by, which felt to Wídfara like ages, and then Guthláf smiled at him. “There’s nothing to forgive. Your words gave me a moment of uncertainty about myself, I admit. But you didn’t know the circumstances, and it wouldn’t be right to hold that against you.” He looked down at the bottle in Wídfara’s hand and cocked an eyebrow. “I might, however, hold it against you if you’re not willing to share a taste of what you’ve got there.”

So intense was Wídfara’s relief that he immediately shoved the whole bottle into Guthláf’s hand, taking him by surprise. He began to laugh, and soon Wídfara laughed, too, and he led Guthláf back to his spot under the beech tree, where they dropped down to the ground side-by-side. Guthláf took a swig of mead, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and made a small gesture of approval with the bottle as he swallowed. Then he passed the mead back and stretched out his legs, gazing out into the night. “So, what do you think of Edoras so far? It’s not like home, but it’s not so bad, right?”

“I can’t really deny that it’s been hard. Harder than I imagined even. But you’ve made it easier for me. I don’t know what I did to deserve your kindness, but I value it nonetheless.”

“I’m sure you’d do the same for me if the situation was reversed. Everyone needs a little help when they’re new.” He nudged an elbow into Wídfara’s ribs. “Besides, if you keep impressing everyone the way you have with your shooting, you’ll be running this whole éored before long. And then I’ll be glad to have gotten on your good side early.”

Wídfara chuckled nervously, hoping the spirit-induced glow in his cheeks would cover his blush. “I don’t know about that. I can certainly shoot, but I’m no great leader. I’m just here to earn enough money to take care of my parents and be of some service along the way. If anyone is looking for leaders, they should be looking at you. I don’t need to have been here for more than a few days to see that every one of those men would follow you anywhere.”

Guthláf waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, I’m not looking to be a marshal, either. Elfhelm has to spend far too much of his time fighting with the treasury over supplies or sitting in endless strategy councils. That’s not for me. I want to be out there on the field, always. I want to ride. To come alive by looking death in the face and showing no fear. To charge forward, full speed, at the leading edge of a storm about to break, and that storm is the might of Rohan itself.” He leaned forward and picked up volume as spoke, gesturing as though a whole panorama was laid out before him. “Could you see me, Wíd? Right beside the king, with his banner in my hand and the whole army at our back and a glorious victory just waiting to be claimed?” His eyes shone brightly even in the darkness, and his right fist was clenched at his side as though the banner staff was already in his grip.

Wídfara smiled softly. “I can see it. And what a sight it will be.”

“It’s my dream to carry the banner, to represent Rohan and the king and especially our éored.” He relaxed back against the tree again. “Maybe someday I’ll earn it.”

“I have no doubt you will.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Guthláf grabbed the bottle again, but when he brought it to his lips there were only a few drops left, less than a single swallow. He gave a wry shrug. “Or not.”

The small look of disappointment on his face sent a pang through Wídfara’s heart. “I have another bottle,” he volunteered, eager to erase that disappointment. “It’s back in my room.”

“Yes, Wíd!” Guthláf’s face lit up again. “What a hero! Let’s go.” He sprang up and hauled Wídfara to his feet before rushing into the barracks and down the hall.

Guthláf got to the door of Wídfara’s room first and threw it open, immediately laying bare the evidence that Wídfara had been sleeping not in his bed but stretched out in blankets on the floor, mimicking as closely as possible the outdoor sleeping style that herdsmen all used on the plains back home. Wídfara winced to himself at how odd and unsophisticated it must look to a city dweller, but before he could even open his mouth to explain, Guthláf threw himself down on the makeshift bedroll and made himself comfortable, his back propped against the wall. He looked up expectantly at Wídfara. “Something wrong?”

Wídfara shook his head, pulled another small bottle of apple mead from his pack and sat next to Guthláf. For a time, they passed it back and forth, offering little toasts with each sip – to each other, to the éored, to Rohan. To their futures with Wídfara as lead bowman and Guthláf as banner bearer. The more they drank, the more ridiculous the toasts became. To Slaga, Guthláf’s tiny little dog. To Elfhelm’s unruly eyebrows. To Cafrida’s horse, who seemed to pick the absolute worst times to take a piss during training. Increasingly, the words dissolved into laughter before they could even be fully stated, until several rounds in, when Guthláf cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter.

“Here’s a serious one,” he said, lifting the bottle. “To friends who only want the best for you, even when they have no idea what that is.”

Wídfara raised an eyebrow. “And what does that mean?”

“Only that I spent the evening at Herefara’s house, and he is once again trying to marry me off to one of his sisters.”

“Ah.” The idea of Guthláf with anyone’s sister was oddly uncomfortable to Wídfara, and he picked the bottle back up, scraping at its label with his thumbnail. “She’s not the right girl for you?”

“She’s a lovely person, and I appreciate that he wants me to be happy. But she’s not at all my type. They’re never my type. The whole company is constantly trying to match me up with a sister or a cousin or a neighbor woman.” He paused. “But they have no idea what I actually like.”

The statement hung there for a moment, seeming to demand some kind of response, and Wídfara looked up again. Guthláf was watching him intently with those blue eyes, the color of ice and yet somehow still so warm, and the air in the room suddenly felt different, charged with both possibility and danger. There was a stretch of stillness as Wídfara considered his next words carefully. “What is it that you like?”

“I think you know,” he said quietly.

Wídfara’s breath caught in his throat, and every nerve in his body jangled at once, screaming a frantic internal warning. Be careful. Don’t misunderstand. You’ve been down this road before. Don’t ruin everything. “How…how would I know that?”

Another moment of quiet passed, and then Guthláf slowly leaned across him, taking the bottle from his hand and setting it aside. But he didn’t lean back again. He stayed pulled in close, his face so near now that Wídfara could almost feel the soft bristles of his beard against his cheek when Guthláf spoke again.

“Because I think you like the same thing. Am I right?”

If he hadn’t already been sitting, Wídfara might have fallen to his knees, so overwhelmed with sensation that he felt slightly faint. The phrasing as a question was a courtesy, an opportunity for him to issue a denial, the only safe and prudent response. But here, now, with this kind and beautiful man a mere hair’s breadth away from him, Wídfara didn’t want to deny anything. He steadied his back against the wall, swallowed hard and forced out his answer, a single word that was terrifying but true. “Yes,” he whispered, barely audible. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the tension of the moment, and so he felt, rather than saw, Guthláf’s smile. And before he could open his eyes again, Guthláf’s lips were on his, and Wídfara was lost in a rush of surprise and disbelief and relief and then joy.

He wrapped a hand around the back of Guthláf’s neck, pulling him in even closer, and opened his mouth, tasting the apple and honey of his mead on Guthláf’s tongue. Rough, calloused fingers skimmed the delicate skin of his throat, sending a shiver down his spine, before gliding across his collarbone and onto his chest. He dropped his head back as Guthláf’s lips worked their way along his jaw and to the tender space just behind his ear, and he gasped in a ragged breath as he was flooded by a wave of desire, all the more intense for having been harshly suppressed.

He tugged Guthláf’s shirt from his waistband and ran his hands under the fabric and across the strong, hard muscles of his torso, pushing the shirt up as he went. He stopped only when his fingers encountered something unexpected, a change from smooth, soft skin to unevenness and noticeable warmth. He looked down to see a wide swath of scarring – red and shining and slightly raised – stretched taut over the plane of Guthláf’s abdomen and up one side of his chest, the remnants of the fire that had claimed every member of his family. Wídfara instinctively drew his hand away, afraid to cause pain.

“It’s alright,” Guthláf breathed into his ear. “It was a long time ago. Let’s not think of that now.” And then his hand inched up Wídfara’s thigh and every other thought fled from his mind. There were no house fires and no burns, no bottles of mead, no worries about what he was doing, no wonder at how thoroughly his life had just changed once again. There was only Guthláf.

Link to part 3!

Notes: A little trope-y? You bet, but some things are classics for a reason!

Wídfara’s horse is named Cypren, which means “Made of Copper” (and is based on the coloring of his coat). Guthláf’s horse is named Syndrigan, which means “Special One.”

Some of the background Rohirrim or folks that are mentioned only fleetingly are made up, but a lot of them are canon in that their names (and only that) appear in the books. That includes, in this chapter, Ceorl, Fastred and Herefara, all canon.

@emmanuellececchi @konartiste @hobbitwrangler @dreambigdreamz @sotwk

Dividers by @quillofspirit ♥️

#guthláf #wídfara #obscure blorbos #these guys are canon i promise #rohan #rohirrim #forth eorlingas #lotr #lord of the rings #guthlaf #widfara

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