#goggles!thirteen
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queerestqueertoeverqueer · 2 years ago
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concept: crowley wearing the doctor's goggles
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likealittleheartbeat · 1 year ago
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Here's the conclusion to the longest atla meta I ever wrote (about platonic love in the show) for all the old and new fans coming into the fandom (def spoilers):
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"Ideally, within the morality of the series (at least as it appears to us with no regard for whatever limits or self-censorship occurred due to its era of production and child-friendly requirements), “friends'' are maintained alongside romantic partnerships. Both Zuko and Aang’s separate romantic relationships blossom within the same episode that they declare their “friendship.” In fact, a vital plotline is the development of Zuko’s relationship with Aang’s romantic interest. While anyone in the fandom is well aware of the popular interpretation of romantic affection between Zuko and Katara because of their shared narrative, I have to point out that romantic feelings across the series are made extremely explicit through statements, blushes, and kisses. Zuko’s relationship with Katara can be better understood in the light of the coming-of-age counternarrative: While the love interest often serves as a catalyst for separation for a homosocial relationship, the friendly relationship with Aang’s love interest—seeking her forgiveness, respecting her power, calling on her support, etc—is vital for Zuko to ultimately create an environment of peace in which he and Aang can fulfill their destined “friendship.”
We can look at Katara’s femininity as the most important device for manifesting Aang and Zuko’s eventual union (and therefore the restoration of balance to the world). It’s her rage against misogyny that frees Aang from his iceberg, midwifing him into the world again after his arrested development, the complete opposite of a Wendy figure. It’s her arms that hold Aang in the pieta after his death in the Crossroads of Destiny, positioning her as a divine God-bearer. Afterwards, its her hands that resurrect Aang so that they together can fulfill his destiny. It will be these same hands with this same holy water that resurrect Zuko in the finale. Only through Katara’s decided blessing could Aang and Zuko proceed toward the fated reunion of their souls.
The importance of this critical relationship to femininity becomes relevant to a scene in “Emerald Island Players” that one might note as an outstanding moment of gay panic. Zuko and Aang, watching their counterparts on stage, cringe and shrink when, upon being saved by The Blue Spirit character in the play, Aang’s performer declares “My hero!” Instead of the assumption of homophobia, I wonder whether we might read Aang and Zuko’s responses as discomfort with the misogynistic heterosexual dynamics the declaration represents. Across the board, Avatar subverted the damsel in distress trope. There’s a-whole-nother essay to be written on all the ways it goes about this work, but the events in “The Blue Spirit” certainly speak to this subversion. It’s quite explicit that Zuko, after breaking Aang’s chains, is equally dependent on Aang for their escape. And, by the end of the actual episode, the savior role is reversed as Aang drags an unconscious Zuko away from certain death. To depict these events within the simplistic “damsel in distress” scenario, as The Ember Island Players do, positions Aang as a subordinately feminized colonial subject, denies him his agency, and depicts the relationship as something merely romantic, devoid of the equalizing platonic force that actually empowers them. The moment in the play is uncomfortable for Aang and Zuko because it makes Zuko the hero and Aang the helpless object. Aang is explicit about his embarrassment over his feminized and infantilized depiction in the play. And Zuko, newly reformed, is embarrassed to see, on one hand, his villainy throughout the play and, on the other hand, see how his character is positioned as as a savior to the person who has actually saved him.
At the heart of the series is not the idea of a chosen one or savior. Instead, we are saved by the ability for one person to see themselves in another person and to feel that same person equally understands their own soul. This is the ideal of platonic love. Platonic love between two matured boys—two boys within whose memories and bodies bare the scars of their queer sensitivities—is an essential part of the future of peace.
Many fans have a sense of this, labeling the relationship as “brotp” and “platonic soulmates.” I simply encourage people to acknowledge that platonic love, especially in this context, is not a limit. There is no “no homo” joke here. When we remark on the platonic love between Zuko and Aang (and across media more generally) we are precisely making room for friendship, romance, and whatever else it could mean, whatever else it might become.
While I find Legend of Korra lacking and in some ways detrimental to appreciating the original series, it’s finale interestingly parallels and extends this reading of platonic love in a sapphic vein. And most recently, She-ra Princess of Power was able to even more explicitly realize these dynamics in the relationship between Adora and Catra. Let’s simply acknowledge that Aang and Zuko’s relationship blazed the trail: that peace, happiness, hope, and freedom could all hinge on a “friendship,” because a “friend” was never supposed to be set apart from or less than other kinds of relationships. For the ways it disregards gender, disregards individualism, disregards dominion--platonic love is the foundation of any meaningful relationship. And a meaningful relationship is the foundation for a more peaceful world." 
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grimark · 29 days ago
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my second-favourite weird bug <3
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13thdoctorposts · 2 years ago
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Goggles. Is there anyone who wears them as well. The answer is no and I’m not looking for any other answers. Lol
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s11 -> s12 -> s13: the doctor and her funky ass goggles 🥽
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choas232 · 3 months ago
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You get injured. G/N! Reader x Steb
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Summary: What was supposed to be a simple club raid goes horribly, horribly wrong. No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them is used to refer the reader. I try to be as vague as possible surrounding their anatomy. Set in episode three, season 2, just before and around the Jinx and Vi fight scene. Hurt & some comfort. ANGRY reader as suggested by @f0xtr0x.
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CWs: Panic attack. Profanity. Violence. Use of alcohol. Suggestive themes. Vi and Caitlyn are briefly implied to be sleeping together. Nudity. Once again, canon typical Enforcer bigotry.  Mild emetophobia (one, two lines. both breif). Anatomically incorrect injuries. Reader is a bitter individual who needs to go to therapy!!!
Word count: 5.1k
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
You’re alone.
The floor is hard against your spine, your attacker’s bloody lip bubbling down onto your face as they snarl above you. Your own lips are stained with it; as rose red as their lipstick, your bruised cheek as electric blue as the eyeshadow smeared across their face.
They tear your goggles from your face first. Harsh, fingers clashing against the soft skin surrounding them. Your eyes scream, reddened and raw against the hulking shape of the grey— the thick and almost palatable fog surrounding you two. A thin film over your eyes settles, milky and blurry and does not leave you as you thrash.
Their movements are clumsy and feral, blinded by the grey as they go for your mask.
There is a beat to the madness, one you clutch after and hold deep into you. It reverberates, even as panic flairs through you— you grab their skull in yours, and your fingers slide through hair slick with blood and sweat before you find a grip and slam them down onto the beer, plastic, glitter and vomit-stained floorboards.
Their skull makes a sickening crunch, one you hear above the awful club hit, the reverbing beat and your screaming mind.
One thing you can kindly say about Zaunites— they are as persistent as cockroaches.
They heave, pushing themselves back up inelegantly, their fingers gripping your shoulders hard enough the bruise. Cradled against them like a lover, you slam them back down. Once. Twice. The third time they choke. You wedge your knee into their stomach, and they wheeze, a rattling sound from low in their stomach as they inhale Grey.
Underneath you, they heave. For a brief second, panting, you pause, watching the blood on your face dribble over theirs, smear their makeup further.
A knife slots into your back.
The moment is slow, at first. You feel it clink against bone, your feel your flesh pushing against it. You breathe once, and the pain flares bright and bold, a hot flash of white and then you are screaming—
Their hands find your mask and tiredly, eyes red, blurred and unseeing, they pull. They pull and you heave, the choking air spilling into your lungs, slathering itself over your airways.
The lights flash above you. Your blood drips through your uniform, staining their oily fluoro mesh shirt.
The woman behind you, knife still lodged into your stomach, kicks you off them harshly. You hit the floor with a crack. She weakly lunges for them, pulling them away, and then she is on you. You both inhale Grey. You both inhale sickness. Her movement, rough against you, presses the knife further into you.
Her hands are on your throat.
You are going to die on this floor.
Did Caitlyn send you here as you continued your hunt of flashes of blue, pink and a memory of a revolution knowing you would die here? You were always going to be a piece of a game larger than the whole of you— but the sting reverberates through you like the beat of the godawful club music.
When you were fifteen, thinking you owned the world, thinking nobody could hurt you because you could hurt them harder, did the world think, you are digging your own grave?
You can’t breathe.
When you were thirteen, did the Enforcer in her neat uniform hand you a pamphlet thinking, this is my rose on your grave, this is my lit candle?
You can’t breathe.
When you were ten years old, brawling on the golden streets of Piltover, did your opponent know you would die like this? Bloody and dirtied, dressed in your finest as you knocked out his teeth, did he slump down, thinking, good fucking riddance?
Good fucking riddance. Good fucking riddance— your anger is blinding. You will not die like this. You scream. You scream but nothing comes out against the weight of her hands, the Grey, the air sucked out of your lungs.
(You are alone, with her. The grief is heavy in you, almost as heavy as the fluttering of  the oxygen deprived heart in your chest. Are you supposed to be alone? Was there ever somebody else…)
You try to spit on the woman, but all your saliva does is dribble down your face.
A memory, on the edges of your mind. Brown eyes— a streak of orange hair— frills, scales… you grasp for the revelation, but it never comes, or maybe the darkness swallows it before it can. There is something you are forgetting about. There is something— someone forgetting about you… what were you sad about?
The darkness swallows your rambling, and for a brief moment, you cannot feel her hands around your neck.
You cannot feel anything at all.
A shield.
—gleaming against the fog as it pushes your attacker’s neck down into the floorboards with a crack. Screaming— the second person’s, you think, as they stumble backwards.
Loris. It’s Loris. Loris, staring at her splayed-out body. Maddie— Maddie above you, the spinning spotlights hitting her like an angel as she hauls you up. The hand that feeds and the hand that strikes resemble one another. You flinch as she speaks, her words blurring in your ears. You can barely hear. Your mind is so heavy— the weight of it hauling you down.
Somebody else. You are somewhere else. Blue— blue eyes. Thin lips, twisted downwards, ears pressed to the sides of his head. That upsets you, though you do not remember why. He props you on your side, your lungs heaving, the hole in your back— the gaping wound weeping.
“You left me.” You slur, and then you throw up over his clean, polished Enforcer boots.
࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
You remember now.
A simple club raid. A lousy place situated somewhere close enough to the surface that it had some credit, or at least enough credit that your little target felt the need to stop by. Or maybe Jinx didn’t. Maybe this was just another dead end, and you were barking and snapping at shadows like you had been the past couple of weeks, no closer to capturing her.
That dullard poster— her blown open eyes, blue braids flowing behind her. You saw it when you closed your eyes. How much longer, you wondered, storming in the club, gun clutched in your hands. How much longer until this blows the fuck up in our faces?
It was simple. It was supposed to be simple.
You had a plan— Vi take the front along with Loris, Commander Kiramman trail behind with her rifle, and you Maddie and Steb fill in the gaps left. Stick together. In and out.
Until they left you.
Steb was beside you. Maddie was gone, that was fine, it was fine, you trusted her intellect and pure dog-like devotion to the cause to not impale herself open the nearest bar tap. You watched as your teal-haired friend slammed his baton down, the following crack.
How could such a cruel action be so undeniably gentle in nature? His face was serious, stern. The swing was even, calm, aiming to incapacitate rather than kill. He was no vicious butcher, nothing like the likes of you. How was it that he made every action he took look so… heroic, like the posters they shoved into your hands, like the propaganda you hastily swallowed.
He allows himself to see them as humans and treat them as such, even in his mercilessness. You thought to yourself, very quietly. You could not do that. You could not acknowledge what they are— you cannot. Even thinking of it…
The moment your enemy is more than your enemy is the moment your guilt wraps its arms around you, peels back your skin to reveal your flesh.
Maybe this was your tragic mistake. Seeking to rationalize for a moment and not villainize.
That is why you allowed yourself, foolishly, to be separated, to not shoot first when the Zaunite hurled themself at you. You called out to Steb, but he was already gone, and you shoved them off you and then you were alone, stumbling around in the grey— the gun clutched in your hand suddenly feeling like a children’s toy. Screaming, flashing lights, music— your downfall was that through it all you could selfishly think about was that swing, that gentle movement as he swung down…
You don’t remember how it happened.
Just that it hurt.
࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
You wake with a pounding head and a franticly beating heart.
Take stock of your surroundings. You are in a room. A single, double bed, occupies most of the space, on which you are situated on. There are two bedside tables. There is a counter. The walls are furnished with what looks like cheaply printed artworks, paint slathered over cracks and crumpling bricks, implying this is a cheap motel of sorts. An open window next to the window lets a faint breeze fan your face, cooling the sweat sticking to your limbs and the fever burning low in your chest.
Most worrying of all, your enforcer uniform has been discarded of, leaving you in your slacks and a thin undershirt.
Somebody is writing, a pen scratching against paper in the background. You try to move your head to glance at them, but your temple feels like a brick is being taken to it.
Access damage. Experimentally, you stretch out a finger. Most of your body is simply cramped, some bruised. The movement ends when you crane your neck, and the bruises flare, causing you to shift and in turn hit your back. You try to shriek, but all that comes out is a moan. A pathetic, mewling sound.
The writing stops.
Footsteps, light and even against what sounds like wooden floorboards.
You hate that you recognise them as his.
Steb peers down at you, his frills flaring out for a brief moment before squishing flat against his cheekbones. He’s not in uniform, rather a form fitting long sleeved white shirt, and long dark pants. It's alarming, and although you've witnessed him take a similar form this entire week, you don't think you'll ever get used to the lack of uniform.
Form and take a course of action. “Where the fuck am I?” You scrap the words off the sore surface of your throat. Lord, it feels like somebody has taken a cheese grater to your gullet.
He reaches out a questioning hand towards you, and after a brief pause in which you say nothing, he moves to gently prop you against the bedframe. Out the window, the reaches of upper Zaun stretch out to meet your gaze.
Still in Zaun. Still hunting.
You try to peer closer, take further stock, but dizzily, your head lolls forward with a rush of pain.
Lightly, he puts a hand on your shoulder, and you snap back to attention. There’s a sheet of paper clutched in his other hand, one which he carefully pushes into your hands. Struggling to read with your bleary, red-stained eyes, you squint.
INCIDENT REPORT. The finely printed title reads. The space underneath is dotted with questions,  all of which are neatly filled in, even space between each carefully stencilled letter. Reporting officer: Steb’s full name. Rank: Junior officer, for him. Then, your rank. Issued—
Two days. You were out of commission for two days. You can’t remember the last time you even slept a full eight hours— and here you were, sleeping for two whole days.
Hurriedly, you skim read the rest of the form.
Mild bruising to ribs, bruising to back, severe stab wound in back (no spinal injuries), injury to throat, damage to eyes and throat caused by the grey. 
Compensation requested—
“Why are you showing me this?” It sounds harsher then intended, bitterness settling low in your gut. Perhaps it’s the intimacy, how gross and sweaty you are in your underclothes, or perhaps it’s how his hand is still on your shoulder that makes you snap.
You should brush it away, push him off of you. Pretend this never happened. You don’t.
He looks away, very briefly, and then turning the paper on its front, he places it upon the bedside table. Digging his fingers into his pocket, his pen slots in his hands once more. You listen as he quietly scribbles.
He places the paper before you, tapping the pen on the words he wants you to read.
I’M SORRY.
Sorry for what? You almost say, but it feels like a confession. How little you are accustomed to being apologised to, of all things. The meat does not apologize to the butcher.
You shake your head, ignoring how the movement makes you dizzy and how he flinches, pre-emptively moving to steady you. “Just…" You splay out a hand, waving him away. "...help me understand.”
He swallows, a small movement as he sits down on the bed beside you. His hands neatly fold themselves in his lap. You notice, somewhat dizzily, how his usually neatly slicked back hair is loose today, falling over his scalp in such a way as you can still see the comb lines. Something has been worrying him.
“Where is Kiramman? Or Maddie? Or anybody?” There’s a lapse in his polite posture. His head lolls down, his eyes sweeping the floor, his lips pursing and then he’s back, looking at you. It’s enough to know there’s some tension behind the question.
With a careful hand, he points towards the city.
“They just left?”
He shakes his head, running a hand up to prod his hair into submission as he does.
“Well. Clearly, they did.”
He sighs, probably realizing the need to verbally communicate is growing, and then fixes you with a look that would make any lesser Enforcer squirm.
Don't be difficult.
But you are no lesser Enforcer. You are hand-picked, trained, and a member of Kiramman's strike team.
(Loris's entry was questionable but you ignore that in favour of hyping yourself up.)
Perhaps that was the wrong train of thought to go down, because you stumble. Instead of coolly meeting his gaze, you land on a childish glare, and you've lost before the wrinkles that line his mouth make an appearance.
(Those goddamned wrinkles...)
You lean back, trying to cross your arms. Instead, you hit your back against the wooden headrest of the bed, sucking air between your teeth.
Knowing your position and purposely being difficult, you ask, words stained with pain, “Who took off my clothes?”
He reaches over, barely breaking eye contact with you for a second, to grasp the paper, scribbling down  the words hastily. YOU HAD A FEVER AND ACCESS WAS NEEDED TO YOUR BACK.
A dull sense of joy grapples with you at the faint stress of his words, the smudged full stop. "That doesn't answer my question. Stop dodging it. Who?" you ask, knowing very well who did.
He gestures at himself.
Victory doesn't cradle you in its arm faster than visions of him unclothing you. Those linger. Those sink low in your gut and do not leave you.
“...When will they be back?” You choke out. He mimes a sun setting.
Shit. God, being alone with him is killing you.
Defeated, finally, you slump down.
"God fucking dammit." You mutter. Usually, you would receive a somewhat lecturing look from this, but he ignores you in favour of skim reading the paper and walking back to his prior place, where medical equipment is splayed out on the counter.
You've just dozed off when he returns, sitting back down, a cup of water and a small white pill in hand. "I'm not a child." You say frowning, but you take the glass from him anyways (do your fingers brush? no. see? dealing with this maturely) and you swallow the pill with a quick gulp.
Why are you still mad? A small part of you whispers. He apologized. Perhaps you're mad just for the sake of it. He understands that, you think. (you hope)
You just need to stop thinking about it. (Alone. Their hands settle over your goggles. You deserve this, you think, very distantly.)
You just need to wait for the medicine to settle in your stomach. Sinking, lower and lower in an ocean of it's own. Ocean? Blue. His eyes are blue. Baby blue—
You just need to stop thinking about him. Him? God, what are you to him? You will always be the butcher. You will always be the blood dribbling down their lower lip. You will always be a pawn. Hero, propaganda posters... he holds the baton and brings it down like the sword of a knight.
You just need to breathe.
Steb is over you before you can think. He's thinking about your bruised ribs, isn't he? When you gape and heave. The damage it might have caused. Is this your ribs, heaving? Puncturing a lung, rupturing a nerve? Are you dying? “I— I can’t—"
You can't breathe. You can feel their hands tightening around your throat. You can feel their blood dribbling down your cheek. You want to reach up to wipe it up, but do not, too scared of hurting yourself in the process.
Steb reaches over, and gently dabs at it with a tissue. You flinch as his fingers near your cheek, anticipating a blow, but none comes. He wipes the substance away gently. His skin, soft, embroidered with little sequined scales, brushes your cheek.
He pulls away. It's just snot. Saliva. Tears.
Are you crying?
Shame boils in your stomach. You. You are crying?
“I— I need a shower—” you need to snap out of it. You try to push yourself off the bed, but stumble. He’s already there, one arm wrapping around your back to support you. You do not look at him. You cannot bare to. You already know his pity will not cleanse you.
He leads you to the bathroom, the tiles cool against your bare feet. He settles you against the grimy counter, before taking a step back. Hovering. Waiting. For what? An explanation?
You feel like a voyeur watching him, finally, even as he meets your gaze. You will always be watching him across your post, the frills on his eyes flaring, his big, doleful blue eyes. You will always be watching the ark of his arms  as he swings down, the gleam of the baton.
 "Do you need to wash me too, now? Just fuck off." You rasp.
He leaves, and you let him.
You lock the door behind him.
࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Later, you hear voices— Maddie, Loris, Caitlyn, Vi.
You do not shower. Instead, you sit on the shower tiles and try to steady your rasping breathing. Each inhale hurts, bruised flesh and achy ribs snapping and scraping, and all you can feel is that blood, dripping down your face.
Loris visits you. He brings the gift of a flask, sitting beside you. He does not ask why you  haven't showered, or why you find yourself on the tiled floor. You hate the kindness in his eyes. You hate the fact you know he will not leave.
The alcohol burns your ruined throat, at first. Then, you feel nothing at all.
Your shame cannot purify you. You already know that. But marinating in it allows, at least, you to bend it into something malleable. Something useable.
You ask him why they left you, passed out in a motel. “There was some… contention on it.” His mouth moves oddly around the words, almost like it tries to swallow them. You get the feeling he is repeating something somebody else said. You frown, and he pats your shoulder, gently. “Your guy wanted to stay with you, and we needed a break anyways. Caitlyn had a new lead. Disagreements.”
You try not to think about, 'your guy,'
Eventually, you push him out, listening as his voice joins those in the adjoining room. You hear him, Vi, and Caitlyn's footsteps as they leave, not some time later.
Take stock of your surroundings. You are in a shower. The tap is not on. The tiles are cool against your flesh. You are wearing a loose undershirt and undergarments. There is nobody in the room with you, but you can hear somebody outside speaking loosely. Maddie.
Access damage.  There is bruising to your ribs and throat. You feel dizzy. You feel childish. You are drunk. Your are in love with somebody who is too good for you. You are always alone. You are beginning to doubt it is external forces leading you to always being alone.
You think you might be wrong. You think you might be wrong about a lot of things.
Form and take a course of action.
You probably need to finally take a shower.
Quickly, you discard of your garments, throwing them out to litter the counter. The relatively easy part done, you claw and grip the smooth tiled walls around you as you stumble to your feet. Your head spins, and you taste blood, harsh and wet on your tongue as you clumsily grapple for the handle, jerking it sideways. Freezing water cascades down to sear your sensitive skin.
You shriek, and hastily, you spin the handle the other way. A somewhat habitable temperature sprinkles from the nozzle, and finally, you stand, swaying under it.
Why did you do this again? Your head pounds, dizziness settling over each crinkle and curve of  your brain and refusing to give itself  a home elsewhere. The alcohol helps it.
 Maybe you should sit down again. You don't. Instead, you lean against the wall, feeling each small start of pain as you breathe in and out. In and out, in... out...
Three, rapid consecutive knocks erupt from the doors place. Your fellow enforcer. Come to check on you after you shrieked like a cat in heat, perhaps.
There is a small pause as they wait for a response, one that drags on, before the door slowly creaks open, slow enough that you could call out if you so wish.
You don't.
He carefully pushes a long, slender teal arm through the gap, his hand pushing outwards to let you know it's him.
You already know, though. You recognised the knocks. How pathetic is that?
"Come in." You croak. He obliges, pulling his hand back, opening the door and carefully, like you are a spooked animal, stepping forward. The burst of teal is garish against the off-white tiles.
He’s not looking at you. It’s polite. You’re unclothed, after all. But you find yourself rather wishing he would as his eyes meet the empty bottle on the counter. A reminder of your exploits with Loris.
His expression changes, subtly. You’re too fucked up to make it out.
You’re looking at him, trying to carve the emotions you know are there out of the lines in his face, when you’re suddenly falling. Your knees hit the tiles with a crack, and you suck in air through your teeth, groaning.
He’s already on you before you have time to process the rapidly blooming bruises from your fall, swinging the shower door open. There’s a lapse, a pause, as he struggles to navigate helping you while not manhandling your drunken naked body, before he’s tilting your head up, glancing down at you, the tiles.
“I’m fineee.” You wave him off, batting his hand away. “All good. All good.”
You swear the look he fixes you with is worse than the pounding of your head.
“Oh, come on. All high and mighty, now?” You grimace. He sighs, still crouched before you. Faint stray droplets splatter across the fins lining his cheeks, and they flicker, shimmering under the cheap motel lights. In your woozy state, you cannot but stare in wonder.
He shifts.
“Don’t leave.” You quickly push out, perhaps sterner than intended. “I’m injured. I might die.” He swallows. You continue. “I— I’m sorry I yelled at you, earlier. I didn’t mean it.”
Carefully, he mimes calming you down, waving his hands out. Then, he shifts so his position is more comfortable looking, more permanent looking.
You almost collapse in relief.
Social etiquette demands you avert your gaze, pretend like you aren’t leaning over to watch him, his little micro expressions, his baby-blue eyes blinking, his second set of eyelids… whoever decided that shit was a rule probably never met him.
“Wash my hair?” You murmur. Is that odd? Are you allowed to ask that?
Conflict dances behind his eyes. You brace for a gentle rejection, and surprise yourself when he, forgoing removing his clothes, climbs in to sit beside you. The water continues to cascade down, though he doesn’t seem to mind.
The shampoo bottles, little cheap things, sit neatly on the floor beside you. He leans over, taking one in his hands and slathering it over his fingers. You lean against him, feeling him stiffen. His muscles lose their tension when you begin the speak, your words slurring into one another.
“God. Calm yourself, fish man. I’m not gonna to tear your face off. I’ve thought about it, though. Don’t get too comfortable.”
You bark a laugh, turning your head towards him. Your faces are close enough that you feel his breathing, warm against your wet skin, before he, gently, mind you, grips your head in his hands and turns you forward.
Fair enough.
Coconut, something rich and creamy, and the faintest hit of orange, drips through your scalp, cool, but not uncomfortably cool, against your skin. It’s nice. His fingers are careful, as always, and you can’t help your mind wondering towards them tugging.
Trying to push the thoughts away from your traitorous mind, you start to stumble over your words. “I think I’m going insane. Really. Jinx’s tricks. Kiramman on my ass. Fucking politics. A curse to live in interesting times, huh?”
God, you are a chatty drunk.
“They’re all worried about civil war, infighting, and shit. I… This isn’t what I signed up for.” Your voice is quieter, now. Too quiet, for your liking. “This… the threat was… it was never…”
You hope he cannot hear you. You know he can.
"Do you think we're doing the wrong thing? We're hunting them like dogs." You say, finally. He hums, his fingers gently massaging the shampoo into your hair before letting you go. You find yourself missing the contact.
Carefully, the lines thick and smooth against the precipitation, he stencils his words against the glass shower frame. YOUNG. STILL TIME.
“I’m young? You’re just like— like thirty? Late twenties? I think? You’re not old.” You drunkenly slur. Is that what he thinks of you? An overeager, ambitious youth? Is that why he cares? Is that why he’s washing your hair?
He smiles, you think, making a small noise. It’s such an odd sight you turn, and almost accidently push yourselves together with your drunken reflexes. He’s tall enough that you don’t smash faces, but your forehead grazes his lips, the warmth of him seeping into you.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. Flickers of a smile still dance in his eyes. “Forward. Right, right. Right.”
You turn forwards.
A long pause.
“…does it get easier? I just… I don’t think I’m doing the right thing. The future is so murky, like this fucking grey, and I— I don’t know how much more of it I want to inhale trying to see.”
He doesn’t reply. You’re about to start talking again, maybe turn around again, when you feel it.
He hesitantly, very gently, presses his forehead to your shoulder blade. You feel his skin. You feel his breath, low and hot on your back.
He angles his head up, until his mouth gently pushes against the crook of your skin.
You think you hear him kiss the curve.
“Oh.” You say, very simply and very stupidly.
A moment passes, one you should probably fill. You do not. His warmth leaves you, and then he’s back to washing your hair, massaging the shampoo out of your hair like he didn’t just shatter and then rebuild your heart in your chest.
You take initiative. Your professors back at school always said it was your best trait, after all. You turn, and cradling his skull in your hands, you shift. The soft stubble growing out of the shaved sides he hasn’t been able to maintain brushes against your palms.
“Everybody leaves me. You won’t, right? Leave me?” He nods, and you see something else dip into his expression. Perhaps the realization of your circumstances, how vulnerable you are, drunk, naked and depressed. He's always been such the gentlemen. You hate it.
He gently pries your hands off of him. Fear spikes through you. He cannot leave. He cannot leave, not yet. You grapple for the conditioner bottle. "Hey, come on. You're not done yet, are you?"
He does not leave. What he does is so, so much worse.
He takes the bottle from you and continues. His movement is gentle. His movement is soft. You’ve watched him beat somebody within an inch of their life. You’ve watched him handle a rifle with even-precision. You’ve watched him, stoic and calm under pressure that would have you crawling into your skin.
And yet his hands are still tender.
You don’t know how long you sit there, his fingers threading through your hair, and then you’re up, shivering. A warm towel is promptly wrapped around you. Everything blurs, spins. You don’t think you’ve ever been so tired in your life.
"Goodnight." He whispers to you, his fingers lingering on your shoulder. When did you get here? Pillows, cradling you, the hard motel mattress beneath you…
His hands are gentle, and you are so very wanting, but he still leaves, and you still let him.
࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
You wake remembering every moment of the night before you and hating it.
The open windows breeze carries the cities air, thick with smog, cigarettes, and chatter, into the room. Sleepily, you watch the sunlight flicker across the bedsheets, before you heave yourself up, taking stock of your area.
Maddie is gently snoring beside you, her red hair splayed out around her, uniform discarded. Loris is on the floor, obviously having been kicked out during the night. (You don’t want to think about why your glorious leader and her adoring, yet scary dog might object to company. Grossssssss.)
And Steb. Steb is across from you, wrangling with his clothes. The same shirt from last night, the white, long-sleeved one, is draped across the window to dry, along with his pants. Always the early bird.
You meet his eyes.
He nods once, very gently, before pointing beside you to the bedside table. A glass of water. Pills for your headache.
You take them gratefully and yearn.
࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
You will not be letting them leave. Not again. Not Steb, not Maddie, not Loris, not even Vi and Caitlynn. Not now when you know how far you can fall; how hard you can scrape rock-bottom.
You will not be alone again.
࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
Notes:
oh… haha, act 3 happened and i let’s just say… you will be letting them leave ao9jioehfihrfioerhfierfhrfi Suggest any ideas you may have!!! Part two of chatty reader coming next. No more angst!!! AND MORE KISSING (or will I write another 3000 words of yearning… this is my curse)
@skyetheseagull, who asked to be tagged.
thank you all for the kind words! I read and cherish them all
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clawsdevour · 4 months ago
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heyyy congrats !could I ask for lasagna, and go bowling? Thank you!
wasted speech
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wc: 0.8k content warning: post-timeskip, reader is drunk, fluff, confession, tsukishima x f!reader, not proofread
-> lasagna : tsukishima kei -> go bowling : scenario where reader cant get over their ex and chara takes them to the club to take reader's mind off their ex (one sided trope!) ⏝ ི 𝄞 ྀ . * a/n: was kinda hard to plot this out but hopefully it isn't the worst thing you've read...
. ♪⃝ ✳︎ . 𓏸
“I just can’t get over him,” you told your best friend over the phone in congested sniffles.
Hearing a sigh on the otherend was all he needed to tell you that he’s not the best with words and comforting others, especially on the phone. The silence put on speaker was enough to remind you of your ex once more.
“Look.. how about we go out so you can forget about him. You’ve been cooped up in your house crying over him for days, you need to remember to enjoy life” Tsukishima groans out, trying his best to uplift your emotions that have been the same for days.
Processing his logical approach to consolidate you, you can’t help but feel ashamed now that you think about. You’ve been sobbing over a bum ass ex for days! You need to get out there and become a new person.
“O-okay.. Are you gonna pick me up?” wiping the tears off your warm red cheeks.
“Yeah, how about in twenty?” responding with a nod before hanging up the phone to get ready.
Getting up from your comfortable bed with a loud but suppressed groan, body almost limp from all the crying as you stood on two feet. Staring back at your multicolored closet, you chose whatever caught your eye first. That was.. Until you changed your mind and started rummaging for the perfect dress.
The skin tight black dress that showed just enough cleavage that could drive a man wild, was the one and only dress that made you feel confident that night. Sucking your curves in with it’s compact fabric that snatched your waist, even making you gasp when you looked at yourself in the mirror.
‘Okay.. thirteen minutes left ‘till Tsukki picks me up,’ you thought to yourself as you pondered what to do next to look absolutely stunning the moment you walk out your house. That’s right, makeup. You’ve been crying your eyes out for days on end, making you feel like the most disheveled person in the world.
Just a tad of makeup is gonna elevate your confidence and even your appearance. Quickly trying to compact all the steps into your look before you hear your door bell ring and echo down the hallway, you threw your shoes on and took your purse with you.
“Tsukki! Sorry you had to wait a bit..” opening the door almost out of breath as you were still getting that one heel on.
“Eh- you’re fine.. Are you ready to go?” looking down at your frantic complexion as you made sure you had everything you needed. Eyes mainly goggling at your gorgeous appearance you managed to throw together in twenty minutes.
“Yeah, well at least I think so” letting out a little laugh as you lead him out of the doorway to lock the front of your house.
At the club, you felt so overstimulated as you haven’t gone clubbing in a while. You knew you were gonna be okay as long as you had Tsukishima at your side.
“I don’t know if I can do this..” you yelled into Tsukishima’s ear with a worried expression displayed on your face. The overwhelming music and disco lights are making you feel compelled to turn back and leave.
Tsukishima’s unable to hear what you’ve got to say, but that look on your face sparks his concern as he takes your wrist to drag you to the corner where the music was less loud. Sitting down on the cold stool, the gloominess washes upon your face as you lose all confidence. Ordering a drink of his own and your favorite to sip on before turning his head to you.
“What did you say earlier?” raising his voice over the music.
“I don’t think I can do this!” yelling back, eyes averting at the refreshing usual placed in front of you while you stirred the contents around with the little stick provided before shoving it all back with one big gulp.
“Another one please,” sliding the bottom of the glass over to the bartender.
At this point, Tsukishima’s trying to talk you out of drinking even more contents of alcohol as you kept ordering more on his tab. You just wanted to block yourself from thinking about your ex, the atmosphere just wasn’t helping as you thought it would.
Just when you were about to swipe the drink from the table, Tsukishima reaches for it first. Making a disgusted face at him in a daze, he’s completely changed the expression on his face seeing become so intoxicated from the alcohol.
“You need to stop. It breaks me everytime I see you talk about him..” eyebrows furrowed laced with glossy eyes.
“He’s not the one and we both know it.. Let’s just say, I care. Deep down I.. I like you okay. Now let’s just get you home, you’re completely wasted” standing up from his seat, tense from the words he just said.
Grabbing you by your arm to help you stand up, still slumpt into your stool as his speech processed through your mind.
“Wait– what did you just say!?”
masterlist here | 1k event here
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starry-bi-sky · 6 months ago
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Blood Blossom Au: before the nightingale sings
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for my batdad blood blossom au, the one where Vlad poisoned Danny with blood blossom extract and Danny ran away from him and ended up tumbling into the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman :). A quick oneshot telling the tale of the tragic deaths of the Fentons
TW: Major Character Death Warning
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Not all deaths are created equal.
That is a valuable lesson in life to learn. One that Danny learns when he is eleven years old, standing in the pit of his parents’ creation; the culmination of their life’s work. The portal to the other side, the realm of the dead. To the infinite. 
He learns that when he’s eleven years old, in a hazmat suit that sags on him, and boots that clunk when he walks because the only ones that fit are his mom’s, and even those are too big. In gloves that he has to clench his fists in because otherwise they fall off. In goggles that slide down his nose even when he’s tightened them the farthest they can go. 
He learns that when he’s eleven years old, choking on giggles that harmonize with the laughter of his friends’ who stand at the mouth of the tunnel. Sam’s holding a polaroid in her hand. They’re just being kids. 
They’re not laughing when Danny’s hand hits the safety lock — the one with faulty wiring, the only one in the tunnel. The only one he could possibly hit. They’re not laughing when the portal buzzes to life, and the lights inside switch on row by row as the generator begins to rumble and hum. 
They’re not laughing when Danny dies. They’re screaming. They’re not screaming when he comes back.
Not all deaths are created equal.  
Some are poetic, beautiful. The satisfying close of a book as it comes to an end, of the hardback thumping soft against the pages like the sound of a door closing. A train run its course.
Some are violent; unsatisfying; unfair. The unexpected shattering of an egg as it rolls off the countertop when nobody is looking, the unmistakable crack as it falls to the floor. It is abrupt and messy. 
But most are just… unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy. 
Danny’s family dies one night in late January. He is thirteen years old, barely a month away from fourteen. It is unforeseen. It is preventable. It happens. 
It happens like this: 
Their water heater breaks one Monday in January. It’s old, sitting in the garage, and has dealt with nearly sixteen years of Fenton-grade chaos and shenanigans. Of parents tossing scraps and junk into the garage as brief storage to come back to later. Of illegal tune-ups on their vehicles that result in something exploding. Of little children running around and knocking things over, playing with poles and sticks they find on the ground, on the shelves. Of being lived and used.  
Something had to give. 
Jack Fenton notices it immediately when he comes upstairs that very afternoon — his children at school, his wife downstairs — to grab something from the garage. The very same scrap and used material they store like squirrels to use later. 
He stops what he’s doing to fix it.  
It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. 
Despite what many believe, Jack Fenton is not the idiot people make him out to be. He knows what he’s good at, he knows what he’s not. He knows he can be passionate and obsessive and single-minded about things. He knows that he is a scientist, an inventor; an engineer. 
He knows that he is not a plumber. That fixing water heaters is not something he knows how to do, not safely. And he loves his family. What he does is only meant to be temporary — a fix meant to only last a few days until they can call someone in who can fix it for them. 
So Jack Fenton futzes with the water heater, gives it a temporary stitch to last a short while, and reminds himself to call a plumber later that day to come in and fix it. He turns and leaves the garage with the part he came for —  a sheet of metal for his wife to melt down — and disappears back downstairs. 
He does not make that call; it slips from his mind. 
It is not his fault. 
One day passes, then two, then suddenly it is Thursday. The water heater has still not been fixed, the water heater has been forgotten. It is nobody’s fault.  
Danny asks his parents at breakfast if he can stay over at Tucker’s house for the night. Just one night. They’re going to study for their math test and then play video games until midnight, but he only tells his parents that first half. 
He’s been doing well in school. Really well — better than he has in a while. There’s been a delightful lull in ghost appearances for the last few weeks. The living don’t know why, but Danny does. The Winter Truce always calms the dead down for a while, something about how the Zone cleanses itself twice a mortal year and that fresh wave of ecto clears out the old and brings in the new. 
This year Danny got to participate. He’s feeling the effects of it too, and he’s been sleeping consistently well for the first time since the accident. 
It’ll never happen again. 
His parents agree under the condition that he doesn’t stay up late, and Danny harmlessly lies through his teeth and agrees. He goes and throws overnight clothes into his school backpack, and when he leaves for school with Jazz his parents are already departed into the lab. 
The last conversation he has with his sister is in her car on the drive to school. Inane, mindless conversation to fill the air and pass the time. Jazz comments on how relaxed he’s been lately; Danny tells her about the Winter Truce. She listens in rapt attention. 
She tells him that she’s glad to see him so well-rested. She thinks her little brother’s been growing up too fast these days. She thinks he’s been too tense. Too caught up with the spinning of the world around him that he forgets about himself sometimes. 
When they reach school, before Danny can get out of the car, Jazz looks to her little brother and says; “I love you.” 
Her little brother’s cheeks turn an embarrassed shade of red. He makes a scrunched up, grossed-out face, but can’t hide the smile pulling across it. “Don’t be a sap, Jazz. I’ll see you later.” He tells her, yanking his hood up over his head. She hears the bashful, ‘love you too’ before he walks away. 
That is the last conversation she ever has with her brother. 
Thursday is unremarkable, passing by in its normality as it always does. There’s one, maybe two ghost sightings; shades lurking around in curious infancy that are easily spooked away by the presence of a greater being. Danny doesn’t even have to go ghost. 
Thursday evening is even less so. Danny goes to Tucker’s house — Sam has a prior arrangement with her slam poetry club — and the two of them study for an hour before they toss their textbooks aside and reach for the game console. 
Danny sleeps in Tucker’s room with one of the extra blankets on his bed, curled across the room in one of the bean bag chairs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but to Danny it is. He sleeps throughout the night, the portal shut down by his parents before they’d gone to bed. 
Early Friday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, before it’s even so much as a concept to grace the horizon, the water heater breaks again. It was supposed to be fixed. 
Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. Odorless and scentless, it kills within minutes. It fills the house like a shadow casting over the ground, creeping into the rooms. 
Danny’s family die in their sleep; painless and unaware. 
It’s not Jack Fenton’s fault. He didn’t mean to.  
Nobody wakes up with their alarms. 
Danny wakes up to Tucker Foley’s alarm on Friday morning, and he turns his head intangible and shoves it into the beanbag chair like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. Tucker gets up before him, and throws a pillow at him as he reaches for the alarm. 
There’s laughter, messing around. The both of them get dressed, and Danny has breakfast with the Foleys that morning. He takes the bus to school with Tucker, and they meet Sam by their lockers. 
To him, everything is as normal as it should be. There are no ghosts for him to fight right now, school is as school does, and he’s on top of all his schoolwork. 
He does not see Jazz at all that morning, he doesn’t notice. Their schedules are so different, their routes on different paths, that it’s not uncommon for Danny to not see Jazz until he gets home some days. That’s if there’s no ghost attacks. 
At lunch, he gets approached by her friends. Worried creases between their brows, they ask him if he’s seen Jazz. She hasn’t shown up to any of her classes. She’s not answering their texts. It’s unprecedented of her; unheard of. 
Danny doesn’t admit to the concern that swells in his gut when they tell him this. He shrugs at them, and says he hasn’t seen her either. But it was probably nothing to worry about; she might just be sick and sleeping it off. 
He offers to text her and let them know if he gets a response, and that seems to ease her friends enough that they shuffle away in uncertainty. He keeps his word, and does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and opens her contact, and shoots her a message.
‘Where are you?’ 
He doesn’t get a response back, Danny is left on sent. He puts his phone in his pocket, and with a sense of unease creeping in the back of his mind, goes on with his day. He gets no response by the time the final bell rings; and he tries not to be worried. 
The house is quiet when he opens the door. Unusually quiet. He drops his backpack to the floor, it lands with a hearty thunk, and begins to take off his jacket. “Mom! Dad!” He yells. He hangs it up, and slips his shoes from his feet. “Jazz skipped school today!”
A laughable untruth that would get his sister all riled up normally; she should be able to hear him from the front door if she was in her room. The house just stays dead silent. 
He can’t even hear the usual banging and crashing from the lab. His unease returns. He reaches for the intercom that leads directly down to the basement, and presses the button to turn it on. A burst of static, and then he speaks;
“Mom? Dad?” 
Danny lets go, and waits for a response. He gets none back. That never happens, not when the house is this quiet. Not when he knows they should’ve heard him. 
Something sickly and fearful borns in the pit of his stomach, and begins to snake upward. He heads for the lab. The cool metal of the door is familiar in the grooves of his hand, and he doesn’t even need to think about the code as he punches it in;  he simply lets muscle memory guide him. It’s been the same since he was little. 
The door hisses as the pressure is released, and he swings the door open. He takes the stairs down two at a time. Something is wrong. His parents aren’t answering him. His feet pound against the metal. 
“Mom? Dad?” He calls again, more worried, more frantic. More scared. His voice echoes down the stairwell, and he reaches the bottom before it’s fully faded. The lab is empty. The portal is still shut down. 
It was four in the afternoon, they should still be down here. 
Danny races back upstairs, fear-raised nausea coiling in his throat. “This isn’t funny you guys!” He yells when he reaches the top, shoving open the door with more force than necessary. His head swims, his voice cracked. 
He checks the garage, the car is still there. 
“Mom!? Dad!” His voice bellows out throughout the first floor, loud enough that it bounces back at him and rings against his ears. He’s never raised his voice this much — mom would scold him if she heard him. But she doesn’t show up. “Jazmine!” 
Finally, he goes upstairs, and he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is anger or terror. Something is very, very wrong. 
He swings the door of his parents’ rooms open first, and there they are, with the lights still off and the curtains still drawn. As if they hadn’t left their bed all day. Some of Danny’s fear lifts from his shoulders just by the sight of them, but he’s still trembling. Something is still wrong — the room smells… off. Not good, not bad. Just… off. 
He swallows dryly, his throat still thick, and steps into the room. “Mom, dad?” They do not stir. “Didn’t you guys hear me yelling?” 
There is only room static. Danny’s heart shrivels in his chest with a tenfold return of terror, he feels ill. He remembers, just now, that they’re not heavy sleepers, and his dad should be snoring like a freight house. 
Danny reaches their bedside in seconds, hand outstretching for the covers, “Momma? Dad?”
Not all deaths are created equal. 
But many of them are accidental. Unmeditated. Shocking.
Danny Fenton finds his family dead in his childhood home. He runs to his neighbors in hysterics, inconsolable, in tears. Nine-one-one is called, but there is nothing that can be done. They were dead for hours by the time Daniel Fenton returned home. 
He sits on the front steps of the neighbor’s house beside FentonWorks, his jeans slowly becoming wet from the snow that was unable to be scraped off, and watches the paramedics cart out his family beneath white sheets. There are police cars blocking off the street, yellow tape blocking off his house, red-blue lights lighting up the block, an ambulance on the scene. He is wrapped in a shock blanket, and he is missing his jacket and his shoes. His tears are freezing onto his face, he can’t feel the chill. 
Not all deaths are created equal
But all of them are unforgettable. 
#dpxdc#danny fenton is not the ghost king#dp x dc#dpxdc crossover#dp x dc crossover#dpxdc au#dpxdc fic#blood blossom au#dpxdc ficlet#starry's writing#tw character death#cw death#angst#hurt no comfort#carbon monoxide poisoning almost sounds like a plain way to go when compared to the other batkids. but then you think about it for more#than a second and then the inherent horror of it all creeps in. danny found his family dead. he found their corpses.#i didnt feel comfortable writing it - just a little bit too heavy even for me yet - but just know that danny shook his parents as if he was#trying to wake them up when he realized they were dead. he went into emotional shock and kinda mentally shutdown.#he yelled and screamed and tried to wake them. and then rushed to his sister's room only to find the same thing. rinse and repeat#more time passed between danny finding them and him going to his neighbor's than what i showed#no more than an hour because the house was still full of carbon monoxide but longer than five minutes. long enough that when he finally wen#over - in hysterics and missing his shoes and jacket - he was completely inconsolable. he was having a breakdown.#when i was writing the ending scene with the paramedics and police and stuff i was very much calling on how i imagine Bruce's own experienc#might have gone. different but similar. with a thousand yard stare and water in their ears#two boys wrapped in shock blankets surrounded by police lights and having just seen their families dead. teehee
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13thdoctorposts · 2 years ago
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I bloody love her in her goggles!
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thirteen’s era appreciation: 182/?
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sturnslcver · 8 months ago
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ੈ✩‧₊˚ virulent love (series) ˚.°: ₊˚ ୨
— chris sturniolo x fem reader —
— warnings, drinking, smoking, pills!
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a/n: couldn’t figure out what i wanted to do for chris and y/n’s meet cute so it is heavily based off of a real life book i read, but ive already finished the rest of the story/chapters and it is all my own original ideas! enjoy! :)
ੈ✩‧₊˚ ˚.°: ₊˚ ୨
i creep up the stairs in search for my brothers apartment door. this place seems more like a historic hotel than an apartment complex, with its expansive columns and marble floors. when arlo said i could stay with him after hearing about another one of moms manic episodes, i had no idea he lived like an actual adult. I thought it’d be more similar to the last time i visited him, right after i graduated from high school, back when he had first started dealing. however, that was four years ago and a two story skimpy complex ago. that’s kind of what i was expecting. i certainly wasn’t anticipating this orderly area in the middle of downtown massachusetts. I spent all of last week packing up everything i own from mom’s house back in florida. luckily, i don’t own much. but after taking a five hundred mile drive alone today, my exhaustion is pretty obvious in my reflection. my hair is in a unsecured knot on top of my head, held together by a pencil, since I couldn't find a hair tie while I was driving. i reach into my purse to find chapstick, hoping to recover my lips before they end up as weary-looking as the rest of me. I pull my phone out of my pocket and open up my messages to arlo.
i can't remember which apartment number he said was his. it’s either 1372 or 1374. maybe it's 1372? i come to a stop at 1372, because there's a guy passed out on the floor of the hallway, leaning against the door to 1374. please don't let it be 1374. i find the message on my phone and cringe. it's 1374. of course it is.
i walk slowly to the door, hoping I don't wake up the guy. his legs are sprawled out in front of him, and he's leaning with his back propped up against arlo’s door. his chin is tucked to his chest, and he's snoring. "excuse me" i say, my voice just above a whisper. he doesn't move. i lift my leg and poke his shoulder with my foot. "i need to get into this apartment." he rustles and then slowly opens his eyes and stares straight ahead at my legs. his eyes meet my knees, and his eyebrows furrow as he slowly leans forward with a deep scowl on his face. he lifts a hand and pokes my knee with his finger, almost as if he's never seen a knee before. he drops his hand, closes his eyes, and falls back asleep against the door. great. arlo won't be back until tomorrow, so i dial his number to see if this guy is someone i should be concerned about. “y/n?" he asks, answering his phone without a hello. "yep," i reply. "made it safe, but i can't get in because there's a drunk guy passed out at your front door." "thirteen seventy four?" he asks. "you sure you're at the right apartment?" "positive." "are you sure he's drunk?" "positive." "weird," he says. "what’s he wearing?" "why do you want to know what he's wearing?" "if he's wearing a yellow shirt and goggles on his head he’s probably the janitor. the janitor in our complex is homeless" this guy isn't wearing any type of goggles, but i can't help but notice that his jeans and black hoodie do fit him very nicely. "no goggles," i say. “can you get past him without waking him up?" "i’d have to move him. he’ll fall inside if I open the door." he’s quiet for a few seconds while he thinks. "go back downstairs and wait in the lobby until someone can let you in" i sigh, because ive been driving for six hours, and going all the way back downstairs is not something I feel like doing right now.
“just stay on the phone with me until I'm inside your apartment" i like my plan a lot better. i balance my phone against my ear with my shoulder and dig inside my purse for the key arlo sent me. i insert it into the lock and begin to open the door, but the drunk guy begins to fall backward with every inch the door opens. he groans, but his eyes don't open again. "it’s too bad he's wasted," i tell arlo. "he’s not bad-looking." "can you just get your ass inside and lock the door so i can hang up." i roll my eyes. i’m hoping things will be different between us now that mom’s in the hospital. she was always turning us against one another. for example, by the time i was eleven, i’d saved up three hundred dollars so that i could finally get a pet hamster. she ended up stealing it and spending it on pills. she told me arlo stole it.
i wrap my purse around my shoulder, but it gets caught on my suitcase handle, so i just let it fall to the floor. i keep my left hand wrapped tightly around the doorknob and hold the door shut so the guy won't fall completely into the apartment. i take my foot and press it against his shoulder, pushing him from the center of the doorway. he doesn't budge. “arlo, he's too heavy. i’m gonna have to hang up so I can use both hands." “no, don't hang up. just put the phone in your pocket, but don't hang up." i look down at the oversized shirt and leggings I have on. “no pockets. you’re going in the bra." arlo laughs as i pull the phone from my ear and shove it inside my bra. i remove the key from the lock and drop it toward my purse, but it misses and falls to the floor. i reach down to grab the drunk guy so I can move him out of the way. “okay" I say, struggling to pull him away from the center of the doorway. "sorry." i somehow manage to prop him up against the doorframe to prevent him from falling into the apartment, and then i push the door open farther and turn to get my things.
something warm wraps around my ankle. i freeze. i look down. “let go!" i yell, kicking at the hand that's gripping my ankle so tightly I'm pretty sure it might bruise. the drunk guy is looking up at me now, and his grip sends me falling backward into the apartment when I try to pull away from him. "i need to get in there” , he mutters, just as my butt meets the floor. he makes an attempt to push the apartment door open with his other hand, and this immediately sends me into panic mode. i pull my legs the rest of the way inside, and his hand comes with me. i use my free leg to kick the door shut, slamming it directly onto his wrist. “fuck!" he yells. he’s trying to pull his hand back into the hallway with him, but my foot is still pressing against the door. i release enough pressure for him to have his hand back, and then i immediately kick the door all the way shut.
i pull myself up and lock the door, the dead bolt, and the chain lock as quickly as i can. as soon as my heart rate begins to calm down, it starts to scream at me. my heart is actually screaming at me. in a deep male voice. It sounds like it's calling my name. arlo. i immediately look down at my chest and pull my phone out of my bra, then bring it up to my ear. "hello!" i wince, then pull the phone several inches from my ear. "i’m fine," i say, out of breath. "i’m inside. i locked the door." “okay" he says, relieved. "you scared me. what the hell happened?" “he was trying to get inside. i locked the door, though." i flip on the living-room light and take no more than three steps inside before i come to a halt. i slowly turn back toward the door after realizing what ive done. “arlo?" i pause. "i left a few things outside that i need. i would just grab them, but the drunk guy is still trying to get in, so there's no way I'm opening the door again. what do i do?” he’s silent for a few seconds. "what did you leave in the hallway?" i don't want to answer him, but i do. "my suitcase...and purse." “why the hell is your purse outside?" "i also left the key on the hallway floor." he doesn't even respond to that one. he just groans. "i’ll call chris and see if he's home yet. give me two minutes." "wait. who’s chris ?" "he lives across the hall. whatever you do, don't open the door again until i call you back." arlo hangs up, and i lean against his front door. i’ve lived in massachusetts all of thirty minutes. my phone rings. i slide my thumb across the screen and answer it.
"hey." "y/n?" "yeah?," i reply, wondering why he always double-checks to see if it's me. he called me, so who else would be answering it who sounds exactly like me? "i called chris." “good. is he gonna help me get my stuff?" "not exactly," arlo says. "i kind of need you to do me a huge favor." my head falls against the door again. i have a feeling the next few months are going to be full of inconvenient favors, since he knows he's doing me a huse one by letting me stay here. "what?" i ask him. "chris kind of needs your help." "the neighbor?" i pause as soon as it clicks, and i close my eyes. "arlo, please don't tell me the guy you called to protect me from the drunk guy is the drunk guy." arlo sighs. "i need you to unlock the door and let him in. let him crash on the couch. i’ll be there first thing in the morning. when he sobers up, he'll know where he is, and he'll go straight home." i shake my head. "what kind of apartment complex is this? should i prepare to be groped by drunk people every time I come home?" long pause. "he groped you?" "groped might be a bit strong. he did grab my ankle, though." arlo lets out a sigh. "just do this for me. call me back when you've got him and all your stuff inside." "fine." i groan, recognizing the worry in his voice.
i hang up on arlo and open the door. the drunk guy falls onto his shoulder, and his cell phone slips from his hand and lands on the floor next to his head. i flip him onto his back and look down at him. he cracks his eyes open and attempts to look up at me, but his eyelids fall shut again. "You're not arlo," he mutters. "no. i’m not. i’m your new neighbor." i lift him by his shoulders and try to get him to sit up, but he doesn't. i don't think he can, actually. how does a person even get this drunk? i grab his hands and pull him inch by inch into the apartment, stopping when he's just far enough inside for me to be able to close the door. i retrieve all of my things from outside the apartment, then shut and lock the front door. i grab a throw pillow from the couch, prop his head up, and roll him onto his side in case he pukes in his sleep. and that's all the help he's getting from me. when he's comfortably asleep in the middle of the living room floor, i leave him there while I look around the apartment.
the living room alone could fit three of the living rooms from arlos last apartment. arlo said he'd be back in the morning, so i’ll leave that to him. normally, i would be nervous about the fact that there's a stranger in the same apartment I'm in, but i have a feeling i don't need to worry. arlo would never ask me to help someone he felt might be a threat to me in any way. which confuses me, because if this is common behavior for chris, i’m surprised arlo asked me to bring him inside.
i head back to the living room to turn out the lights, but when ive rounded the corner, i come to an immediate halt. not only is chris up off the floor, but he's in the kitchen, with his head pressed against his arms and his arms folded on top of the kitchen counter. he’s seated on the edge of a bar stool, and he looks as if he's about to fall off it any second. i can't tell if he's sleeping again or just attempting to recover. "chris?" he doesn't move when i call his name, so i walk toward him and gently lay my hand on his shoulder to shake him awake. the second my fingers squeeze his shoulder, he gasps and sits up straight as if I just woke him from the middle of a dream. or a nightmare. immediately, he slides off the stool and onto very unstable legs. he begins to sway, so i throw his arm over my shoulder and try to walk him out of the kitchen. "come on." he drops his forehead to the side of my head and stumbles along with me, making it even harder to hold him up. we make it to the front of the couch, and i start to peel him off me. "okay, chris. whoever you are. just go to sleep." he falls onto the couch, but he doesn't let go of my shoulders. i fall with him and immediately attempt to pull away. i gently push him back into the couch, yanking my hand away. i lay his pillow down and urge him onto it. "go to sleep, chris," i say gently.
his eyelids are heavy and watering when he drops to the pillow. he grabs my hand and hums. his eyes fall shut again, and he releases a heavy sigh. i stare at him silently, allowing him to keep hold of my hand until he's quiet and still. i pull my hand away from his, but i stay by his side for a few minutes longer. even though he's asleep, he somehow still looks as if he's on edge. his eyebrows are furrowed, and his breathing is sporadic, failing to fall into a peaceful pattern. when he makes another half conscious effort to reach for my hand, i finally give in. i place my cheek on top of our hands and lean into the couch. i fall asleep on the floor next to him.
@sturnsmadison @ryli3sworld @sunnysturniolos @ariologyy @sturncakez @sturnsxplr-25 @nickmillersn1gf
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star4daisy · 8 months ago
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09/06 - pool - 510 - @rosekillermicrofic
Evan had a specific pre-competition ritual.
All of his coaches knew if there were any tips they needed to give him, it should be said hours before the swimming match because he needed to go non-verbal for at least an hour before it with only his earphones as company.
Unfortunately for Evan, his competition never got the memo - one competitor in particular, but he was trying not to think about him in hopes of not attracting his presence - over the years, the people who had gotten to know him over running in the same circles had learned to stay away so they would not distract him.
"Rosier," he heard his name being called out the second he stepped near the pool, completely ending his hope of not being put on the lane beside Barty Crouch Jr like he usually was. "Did you miss me?"
Evan was met with Crouch's manic grinning face standing way closer to him than it would considered publicly acceptable, it showed him Barty hadn't changed since the last time they'd competed with each other, he still had the same too-wide eyes, jaw sharper than it should be allowed and his characteristic chipped canine tooth from when he was still learning how to jump in the pool and had fallen off a trampoline face first on the board.
"Are you ready to lose, Crouch?" Evan pretended not to be bothered as he raised one eyebrow. "Again?"
His smile only got wider, but his eyes narrowed, he looked like a shark. "When did you get over your nonverbal routine to win?"
"I haven't."
"Really?" Barty's face clearly said he didn't believe him, for obvious reasons, the day Barty found out about his little rule when they were thirteen he made sure to step all over Evan's boundaries, he'd never stopped, no matter how much everyone told him how unsportsmanlike it was.
Evan nodded and put his cap in place, saying what he knew Barty would before he could, "What about a bet, Crouch? I heard you're fond of those."
He opened his mouth in disbelief but his eyes shined with pleasure. "You know I'd never refuse you."
"Whoever wins gets to top tonight," Evan winked at him before slapping Barty hard on the chest, twice, as if his goal had been to help him prepare, before stepping into his place and putting the goggles on.
He could feel Barty's presence at his back, still in shock, until they heard the call for them to be on their marks. Evan grinned. For the first time in years, he had been able to be the one to leave Barty reeling before a competition. Evan was happier about this than getting the gold for France.
Truth was he'd gotten so used to Barty messing up his routine that he became a part of it.
Evan could not win if Barty was not by his side.
Not that he planned on ever letting him know that.
If there was anything Evan liked more than competing against Barty it was winning.
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deargojou · 1 year ago
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Thank u for accepting the request! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡ G.satoru & fluff (suggestive maybe). He gives u kisses on different parts of ur body. the kisses number is the same as your birthday. You can set the age whatever you like. I don't have much idea ㅠ﹏ㅠ I think there's a film like this..not sure, just goggled it now.
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【 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 】
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You wake slowly, gradually becoming aware of the warm sunlight filtering through the curtains. As you blink open your eyes, the first thing you see is Gojo’s face just inches from yours. His eyes are soft and full of love as he gazes down at you.
“Happy birthday, cutie,” he murmurs, a smile spreading across his handsome features. He leans in and presses his lips to yours in a sweet, lingering kiss.
As you stretch and let out a small yawn, Gojo begins showering your face with little kisses. His lips graze your forehead, both cheeks, the tip of your nose, and finally land on your lips for a deeper, more passionate kiss. You can’t help but grin against his lips, feeling like the luckiest person in the world.
“Well, good morning to you too, Mr. Smooches,” you giggle as you reach out to caress his cheek.
He only grins before saying, “I wanted to be the first one to wish you a happy birthday.” His eyes shine with adoration as he gazes down at you, “and the first one to give you birthday appreciation.”
Your heart swells with affection. Gojo has always made you feel so cherished. Even on regular days, he is constantly showing you how much he cares through small affectionate gestures. But on your birthday, he is going above and beyond to make you feel extra special.
“Just bear with me for a moment, sweetheart. Stay still,” he says before positioning himself hovering over you.
“When have I not?” you lightheartedly said, which was returned by his feigned offended face, “Excuse me? I’m trying to be sweet for your sweet sixteen here,” he huffs.
“Alright, alright, you’re excused,” you run your fingers over his hair with a chuckle.
“Thank you,” he rolls his eyes playfully.
Gojo leans down and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, “one,” he counts. He moves to both of your cheeks, pecking each one softly, “two.” 
You realize Gojo is counting each kiss, starting from one, to represent each year you are turning today. The significance and thought he put into this melts your heart.
Your nose is next, he nuzzles against yours before leaving a tiny kiss, “three.” You giggle as he tilts your chin up to reach it, “four,” he whispered, placing a dramatic smooch there.
Shivering, you feel his lips press behind each of your ears, “six.” Gojo nuzzled against your neck, kissing down with another count, “seven.” He moves down to kiss your collarbones, “eight.”
He slides his lips to your shoulder, “nine.” His fingers trail down to lift each of your wrists to his lips, “ten.” He lingers on your palms, “eleven.”
You inhale sharply as Gojo moves lower, pushing up your pajama pants to access your bare thighs and calves. He kisses each one gently. “Twelve… thirteen.”
Working back up your body, he lifts your shirt to place a lingering kiss on your stomach, “fourteen.” His fingers dance along your sides, making you squirm. Leaning down over your chest, he kisses between your breasts. “fifteen.”
Finally, Gojo cups your face, gazing into your eyes. “Sixteen,” he whispers. He presses his lips to yours in a slow, passionate kiss that makes your heart race. You melt into his embrace, feeling adored.
As you break apart, giggling, you cheekily say, “Wasn’t that twenty-three kisses total?”
Gojo shakes his head, insisting “Nope! It was sixteen―one for each of your sweet sixteen years!” You roll your eyes but can’t keep the delighted grin off your face.
“Aren’t you so sweet?” you pull him down for another kiss to express your gratitude.
“Not as sweet as you are right now,” he continues to pamper your face in kisses. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop any time soon.
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I don’t know what movie would that be but hope you like this, annonie 🥹🥹
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scho17 · 4 months ago
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@hibiscusseaart
Ren Nohara
Ren and Kks doodles + me yapping ab this AU bc the brain rot has me in a chokehold
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close ups so yall dont have to zoom in
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I JUST REALIZED THIS WOULD MEAN THAT NARUTO IS TECHNICALLY ALSO THE HATAKE CLAN HEIR URAGHHHH
I NEED TO DRAW HIM WITH ALL THE NINKEN SO SO BADDDDDD
KAKASHI SHARING CLAN LORE BC HE HAS PACK TO CARRY ON HIS CLANS HISTORY AND TRADITIONS BC IT ISN'T JUST HIM ANYMORE SAVE ME SAVE ME
Hatake 'the line ends with me' Kakashi BUT NOT ANYMORE BABY HELL YEAH!! having a spouse and child will do that to you
Now does he really gaf ab tradition? Honestly, probably not but the idea of him not being alone in terms of family/clan is what he deserves (along with a lot of therapy).
HE MAY STILL BE MENTALLY ILL BUT NOT AS BADLY AS THE FIRST TIME AROUND 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
Also, the consequences of Naruto having two parents who are both some of the most elite shinobi in Konoha is probably one of the best 'fuck off' deterrents he could have in terms of curbing harassment over his being the nine-tails container.
ALSO ALSO, "I'm gonna be Hokage!" oh and he's wearing those little blue goggles and carrying around the weight of a dead boy's dream without really knowing just how heavy that burden is but still carrying it all the same in the way only optimistic children can. Oh bitch I'm throwing up everywhere. Like yes he's going to bring peace to the shinobi world but he is also giving both his dad's the worst type of heart ache. Seeing doubles because he's so much like Obito but blonde and four times as stubborn.
kkrn trying so hard not to see ghosts in their kid but he's literally a mash up of Minato, Kushina, and Obito. Minato's kindness, Kushina's vitality, and Obito's pure will to be good.
Not saying that ghosts are all they see cause it's very much not. Naruto is still Naruto but sometimes there's that outline of an old memory that just doesn't fade. A little like deja vu I guess. Kakashi and Ren are so glad it's peacetime because even the thought of dandelion blonde beneath a too-big boulder makes breathing that much harder.
I imagine he gets trained an insane amount because both Kakashi and Ren want him to be able to defend himself. Even while it's peacetime, they're shinobi, there's always a risk. So long as Naruto is on active duty he'll always be in danger. With both of his guardians growing up/serving in the third war when they were barely older than Naruto it's practically a given.
Not that I think Naruto would complain about being able to learn jutsu/shinobi skills. He'd probably be stoked about it until he has to spend like four hours straight throwing shuriken and reading survival guides about edible plants. He complains about it. Loudly. mb lil bro half of ninja training is literally just ingraining reflexes and learning the land.
mmm academy-era Naruto going to the memorial stone and ranting about his day to it in the way he's seen both Ren and Kakashi do in the past. That's so cute and sad like "and then Shikamaru slept the whole time but it was supposed to be a GROUP project! Can you believe that!" and Obito is in the bushes nodding his head along like the good uncle he is. (He literally tried to murder Naruto when he was less than an hour old.)
Naruto just talks and talks and talks. About everything and nothing and its probably like the least depressing one-sided conversation Obito has ever heard in front of his grave (looking at you Kakashi, Ren).
I imagine that Naruto kind've treats the stone/Obito's memory fondly. Both Ren and Kakashi talk about him in warm tones and with growing up hearing stories of him it's hard not to feel like he knows him. He's not there, obviously, but if Naruto closes his eyes and imagines that scowling boy in his parent's team photo while he talks it almost feels real. (Honey, you've got a big storm coming.)
To their family, Obito is forever thirteen. He's passionate and has a short fuse. He loves sweets and has eyes and hair darker than the night, he's a sucker for a sob story and helps old ladies with their groceries. Naruto finds it hard not to see a friend in a ghost he's never met.
AA and then post Uchiha Massacre, Naruto just stares at the stone and wonders that if Obito were still here would he be gone too? Man I need to see what's going on in Obito's head during that.
On an unrelated note i wonder where the fuck Jiraiya is in all this. Bro is just out and about doing fuck all as two fourteen year olds take care of his godson and he's running from responsibility😭 i bet he sends guilt money. Ren literally doesn't give a single shit because even if Jiraiya did try for custody he would literally be getting his hands chopped off. No way in hell is Ren letting a pervert like that raise a kid that's a recipe for disaster. The money is nice but Ren could not give less of a fuck ab that mans guilt. Like "oh, you feel bad for not owning up to your God Father title that Minato, my late sensei, entrusted to you? Good."
I need to see Ren and Genma + Anko and Kurenai friendship. They would be a horrible terrible no good amazing friend group. Terrifying when together. Four horsemen of the apocalypse when they have an idea and put their mind to it.
Anyway, what are our opinions on ANBU Ren and Ren meeting 'Sukea' bc that all i've been able to think ab today. Okay, I'm done yapping thanks for listening.
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slayfics · 1 year ago
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Explosive tendencies a slow burn fan fiction about the readers developing relationship with Katsuki Bakugo.
Chapter thirteen: You go to rescue Katsuki.
Chapter links
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You arrived back at the hospital at the same time as Eijiro and Shoto. You all three looked expectingly at each other as you waited outside.
Shoto glanced at your anxious expression, "I uh- I'm not surprised by Kirishima being eager to save his friend but I'm a little surprised you came," he spoke.
"Hu?" You jumped a little startled by his comment.
"All that matters is all three of us want to try and get Bakugo back," Eijiro spoke.
"Right, well it doesn't matter how much any of us want to go if. This is all up to Yaoyorozu." Shoto reminded the two of you. Without Momo agreeing to make another tracking device to follow all this would have been for nothing.
Just then Izuku came out of the hospital to patiently join you guys. It seemed as if everyone held their breath as Momo made her way out of the hospital over to the group.
Just as Momo was about to give everyone her answer Tenya showed up as well.
You, Eijiro, and Momo stood confused as Tenya yelled at Izuku and Shoto. The fight escalated until Tenya punched Izuku, leaving the rest of you shocked at his uncharacteristic behavior.
Shoto broke up the argument by ensuring Tenya your intentions weren't to fight the villains. Momo then followed along agreeing with the plana ensuring she would prevent any combat with villains.
With that, you all boarded a train heading to Kamino Ward where Momo's tracker had indicated the Nomu was located. Hopefully, some clues of Katsuki's whereabouts would be there too.
On the train tensions were high and the idea of turning around came up again when Shoto and Eijiro informed Izuku of what Ochaco had to say back at the hospital. Ochaco was sure Katsuki would just feel degraded having a bunch of his classmates go to rescue him.
"In any case, listen. No matter how you look at it, what we're trying to do is driven by our own egos. If you want to turn back, it's not too late," Shoto suggested.
"Speak for yourself. Maybe your ego is driving you but I'm here because I'm actually concerned about my friend being hurt! Not because I have something to prove," You barked at Shoto.
The others on the train seemed surprised by your sharp tongue.
"If I wasn't sure about this, I wouldn't have suggested it in the first place," Eijiro said.
"There's no way I can turn back now," Izuku agreed.
You all exited the train and entered Kamino Ward. Shortly after, Momo suggested your group disguise yourselves in order not to be recognized by the villains.
Momo attempted to put you in the most hideous outfit you had ever seen, then declared the one you picked out was not feasible for the mission.
"Whatever, I'm not arguing with you. This is what I'm wearing, get your ugly outfit away from me. We're wasting time arguing over this," You said angrily changing and walking out of the store. "Kirishima you look ridiculous," You laughed seeing his disguise. "Wait," You looked around the group. "You all look ridiculous," You said unable to contain your laughter.
"HEY IS THAT U.A.?!" Someone yelled from the crowd. You all froze in place before realizing the bystander was talking about the press conference on the TV.
You all watched the press conference before moving on, and you couldn't help but smile when Aziawa stood up for Bakugo. One interviewer asked about Katsuki’s potential to become a villain due to his explosive anger. Aizawa shot down this idea immediately claiming that Bakugo was working harder than anyone to become the top hero.
"Come on we better get moving," Momo suggested. The six of you left following Momo's tracker to what seemed to be an abandoned building.
Moving to the back of the building Tenya lifted Eijiro up to allow him to look inside with some night vision goggles he picked up for the trip.
Upon looking inside Eijiro exclaimed loudly then appeared frozen with fear. Inside, were several stored Nomu.
After Tenya lowered Eijiro, you all heard a giant crash coming from the front of the building followed by the sight of Mt. Lady grabbing the Nomu out of the building.
Best Jeanist, Gang Orca, and Mr. Tiger were on the scene as well.
"If the pros are here that means there's nothing for us to do here. Let's go!" Tenya exclaimed.
Just as you all agreed and were about to leave another villain appeared on the scene that left you all frozen with fear. Shortly after he appeared he had whipped out all the pros on the scene.
That was when you all heard-
"What the hell is this?!" Katsuki yelled coughing up some sludge from his mouth that seemed to have transported him to this location.
Momo grabbed on to you and Eijiro preventing you from making a move. You understood that the situation was too dangerous. You could feel this villain's aura was no joke and obviously above anything your classmates could handle. But even still, how were you supposed to stand behind this wall doing nothing while Katsuki was just a few meters away from you all? Isn't that why you had all come in the first place?
Just then you heard All Might appear and begin fighting with the villain. All Might greeted the villain as All For One. The way they spoke you understood they had fought before.
Izuku called to everyone and Tenya quickly shut him down.
"Don't even think about it!" he yelled at Izuku. However, Izuku devised a plan that allowed him, Tenya, and Eijiro to fly over the battlefield and give Katsuki an opening to escape.
Following the plan Tenya, Izuku, and Eijiro prepared to take off just as Shoto let out a towering ice wall for them to propel themselves off of.
The villains watched stunned as your classmates flew through the sky, Katsuki let out an explosion to shoot himself up and grabbed Eijiro's hand.
"They got him!" You yelled excitingly watching as the plan unfolded perfectly.
"Ok good, hurry while there distracted we have to run!" Shoto said waving for you and Momo to follow him.
You three ran until you were back in the main part of the city. A huge crowd had stopped to watch the fight between All Might and All For One being broadcast on the TV.
The conclusion of the fight left everyone stunned. All Might had taken down All For One but was then reduced to what looked like a bag of bones.
"I don't understand it either, but we should try to find the others," Shoto spoke. You and Mom agreed and shuffled through the chaotic crowd trying to meet up with the rest of your classmates. You frantically scanned the faces passing by trying to look for Katsuki.
"There they are!" Momo exclaimed pointing out your classmates in the crowd.
Before you could register what your feet were doing, you found yourself running to Katsuki and warping your arms around him bringing him to a tight hug.
Your classmates watched stunned.
"I'm fine extra, get off," He spoke but made no effort to push you off. You let go and looked away feeling a light blush tint on your cheeks.
"Uh- let's get moving back home yeah" Eijiro spoke breaking the awkwardness.
Everyone agreed and you all made your way onto the train.
The train ride home was met with stunned silence as everyone seemed to process the fight they had just witnessed between All Might and All For One.
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Tags: @anon-mouse223 @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @sikuthealien @queenpiranhadon @melrs21 @poemzcheng @kazuumii @bakunianadecorazon @ur-crusty-uncle @chixkadee @perfectsukii
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thelonelyfairy · 5 months ago
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Fractured Bonds
Chapter 2
(Toshinori x Reader x Aizawa)
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Note: this chapter has about 7k words so buckle up! Also there won’t be any scenes between Toshinori and reader on this one so gather up Aizawa girlies 🫶 lastly, this chapter will contain spoilers from either season 4 or 5, you can stop reading after “the work-study program has always been…”
Update: Added a fanart of Aizawa/Reader (Yan) at the end made by the lovely @mananeez!
Masterlist Chapter 1 ch3
You finally caved in to Recovery Girl’s persistent requests to accompany Class 1-A on their USJ visit, given their frequent trips to the infirmary and avoiding more headaches on her end. Funny how fate plays out sometimes.
She had reassured you that Toshinori would be present, easing your worries about any direct interaction with your ex.
But as roll call begins and the students boarding the bus, All Might was nowhere to be found.
Sitting across from Aizawa, your nerves begin to stir in your chest. Your Kitsune picks up on it, curling in your lap and radiating warmth, calming the tension in your body.
In the back, the students laugh and bicker, showing how well they’d bonded despite Bakugo’s frequent outbursts. You tried to stifle a laugh but couldn’t hold it back.
It had been a long time since Aizawa had heard your laughter, or seen a genuine smile on your face. Far too long.
When the bus arrives at the arena, the scale of the place leaves you just as awestruck as the students. You’d never seen such a massive training center. As you all enter, Aizawa informs you that they’d be working with Thirteen, who soon briefs the students on the Unforeseen Simulation Joint and today’s focus on rescue abilities. She explains her Quirk, Black Hole. Dangerous, but capable of saving lives if handled correctly.
Once that’s all finished, Aizawa approaches Thirteen, “Let me guess, All Might booked an interview instead.”
A soft scoff leaves you before Thirteen announces the inconvenience, “Apparently he did too much hero work on the way to school this morning and used up all his power, he’s resting in the teacher’s lounge.”
Of course, you know that man well enough that he goes out of his way to care for his people, not for fame nor for money. You can already imagine him feeling guilty and helpless while Principal Nezu rambling his ass off about his philosophies.
“That man is the height of irresponsibility.” Aizawa sighs.
“Irresponsible or not, he’s still the Symbol of Peace. He’ll be back soon enough.” You counter, ex lover or not, you’ll go to the moon and back to defend Toshinori just like he did for you.
“Clock’s ticking,” Aizawa announces, disregarding your comment, “we should get started.”
Before you can dwell on it further, the air shifts, a subtle disturbance you can’t quite place. Your Kitsune leaves your body, ears twitching, sensing it as well as it growls. You glance toward Aizawa, who’s already on alert, his sharp eyes scanning the perimeter with Thirteen immediately on guard.
A dark, swirling portal materializes in the center of the USJ, figures begin to emerge—villains. Dozens of them. More than you’ve ever seen gathered in one place. The students freeze, their confusion quickly turning into fear.
“Aizawa!” you call, your voice tight with urgency.
“I see it,” he mutters, stepping forward, his scarf already unraveling as he places on his goggles.
“Stay back with the students. This is no place for you right now.” Without hesitation, he leaps forward, his capture scarf trailing behind him like a shadow.
You grit your teeth, instinctively wanting to rush forward, but you know he’s right. Your job is to protect the students first. You’re a nurse, after all. Your Kitsune begins to swirl around the students protectively as you turn toward the group of wide-eyed students.
“Let’s get to safety,” you command, ushering them toward the back exit, your voice calm despite the chaos around you.
The portal continues to spew out villains, and you can see Aizawa already in motion, darting into the fray. He’s a blur of calculated strikes, his scarf snapping out like a whip, disabling the quirks of those who dare get too close. But the numbers are overwhelming, and even Aizawa, as skilled as he is, can only handle so much at once.
“It’s locked!” Thirteen calls out, as you try to budge with your Kitsune’s strength, all but no hope.
A sickening sound cuts through the air. You whip around, your blood turning cold. Aizawa, mid-battle, is slammed to the ground by multiple villains. He struggles to get up, his scarf moving about to throw them unconscious as blood drips from his forehead, staining the ground beneath him.
Your heart stops. He’s injured. Badly.
You freeze, torn between staying with the students and rushing to Aizawa’s side. The instinct to protect him overwhelms you, but you can’t just leave these kids defenseless.
Panic claws at you from all sides, what are you supposed to do? Save Aizawa, or stay here and protect the students like you promised?
"Fox Face!" Thirteen's voice slices through your spiraling thoughts, her hand firm on your shoulder, her tone calm yet urgent. "Go. I’ve got things here. The students are safe with me, and we trust you—you were All Might’s sidekick after all." Her words hang in the air as the students nod in agreement, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and trust.
You hesitate for just a second, but Thirteen’s steady gaze holds yours. "He needs you."
That’s all it takes.
Without a second thought, your Kitsune retreats back to your body, its strength surges through you, its aura radiating from your body, your eyes glowing as your iris turns into slits. As you teleport straight to Aizawa’s side. The world blurs, and you appear in a swirl of glowing sakura blossoms, kunai ready.
Aizawa flinches as the pain in his body suddenly begins to ease. Bruises and cuts start to repair, your healing ofudas floating toward him, their energy absorbed into his skin. The warmth floods through his muscles, easing his exhaustion like a switch had been flipped—but that relief is quickly replaced by something sharper, anger.
"What the hell are you doing?" he snaps, his voice harsh as he pushes himself up, locking eyes with you from behind his goggles. "I told you to stay back with the students!"
"How are you supposed to fight if you’re injured?" you counter, approaching as you’re unfazed by his outburst, raising your hand to heal a cut on his brow.
"I’m fine," he growls, swatting away your hand. "You should’ve stayed with the kids. This isn’t—"
Before he can finish, a villain charges at you both. Reacting on instinct, you wrap your arms around Aizawa—feeling unexpected muscle beneath his dark uniform—before teleporting the two of you a few meters away in a flash of light. The villain stumbles in confusion, giving Aizawa the perfect opening. He regains his footing, whipping his scarf out to disarm the enemy and bring them down with brutal efficiency.
But his scowl remains.
"You’re reckless," he mutters as the fight continues, frustration lacing his words.
"And you’re stubborn," you shoot back, pulling a kunai strapped from your thigh and throwing it with precision, hitting another villain dead-on. "We’re a team. I’m not letting you face this alone."
Aizawa’s eyes narrow beneath his goggles, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, you both fall into a familiar rhythm, your movements perfectly in sync. You teleport into the fray, kunai slicing through the air with lethal accuracy, powered by your Kitsune’s spirit. Aizawa stays close, his scarf whipping through the chaos, disabling any villains who try to flank you.
It’s almost like old times—each of your moves complementing the other, his reflexes sharpening your attacks while you provide support and healing when needed.
But beneath the surface, Aizawa’s frustration simmers, it’s practically in the air, you know the conversation isn’t far from over.
As you glance toward the edge of the arena, your eyes lock onto a strange trio standing near the center of the USJ. One man appears to have no physical form, swirling with the same dark color as the portal that brought the villains into the facility. Beside him stands a beast, assuming to wield a mutation quirk, and the third—a white-haired man—observing the battle with a chilling detachment.
Whoever they are, they’re not just bystanders.
“Nomu…”
The voice catches you off guard—unexpectedly high-pitched, especially coming from the white-haired man whose intimidating physique suggests something much deeper. His red-rimmed eyes lock onto yours, and for a brief moment, everything else fades into the background. The battle, the noise, the chaos—it all blurs, and you’re left staring into the void that seems to echo within him.
Your breath catches as something deep inside you stirs, a pressure inside your chest that twists uncomfortably, almost suffocating, as if an invisible chain is tightening around you. Your Kitsune spirit trembles, and for the first time, you feel its power falter. Panic flickers in your veins, but you force it down, refusing to let him see your fear.
Your fingers twitch at your kunai, instinct urging you to move, to do something, but you’re frozen—eyes locked with his. He takes a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours.
The man tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as a twisted smile hinted beneath the decaying hand covering the lower half of his face.
"Her."
The Nomu lunges, unleashing its power against you.
Aizawa panicked, quickly throwing off the villains that were pinning him down and sprinting to your side. You'd only ever stopped Toshinori's full strength once, and even then, you weren't sure if he was using everything he had. But one thing was clear is this beast, this Nomu, is at least as strong as Toshinori, if not more so.
Your feet barely touches the ground as Nomu's iron grip closes around your neck, squeezing the air from your lungs.
Your feet barely touched the ground as Nomu's iron grip closed around your neck, squeezing the air from your lungs. The Kitsune inside you fought to keep you conscious, but the lack of oxygen was making your vision blur.
The Nomu hurls you into the corner, near the water of the shipwreck, its gaze locking onto yours as you struggle to catch your breath. Before you can react, it wraps your wrists in one of its massive hands and starts dragging you toward the white haired man. You curse under your breath, teleporting was impossible with its grip on you.
"Aren't you going to save your little friend, EraserHead?" The man's voice remains disturbingly calm.
Without hesitation, Aizawa charges forward, the man doing the same.
Aizawa lands a sharp elbow to the man's stomach, but the villain swiftly grabs his arm in a tight grip.
You can't hear their exchange, only the sickening sound of skin decaying and Aizawa's pained gasp.
“Fox Face!” Aizawa shouts, shoving the villain aside with force as he sees your eyes close, your head slumping forward as the Nomu releases its hold on you. Your body collapses to the ground, unconscious.
“By the way…” the Nomu moves to stand beside its master. For the first time since his school days, Aizawa’s body freezes, paralyzed, unable to tell if you’re still breathing.
“I am not the final boss.”
The Nomu lands a brutal hit, leaving Aizawa’s goggles in the air, his blood pooling around, painting the ground crimson as the Nomu begins to grab a fistful of his hair, smashing his face to the ground over and over.
"Oh, before we go, let’s make sure the Symbol of Peace is shattered," the man’s red eyes lock onto your still body.
His hand moves toward you, deliberately slow, each finger stretching out as it inches closer to the top of your head, ready to make contact with all five fingers. He could already see it, the decay of All Might’s previous sidekick, presumed lover, all in ashes. Nothing.
But none came.
The man chuckles, “You really are so cool.”
With all of his might, Aizawa lifts his head, his blood spilling on his face as the cluster of veins and redness of his eyes holds you in place. Breathing or not, he can’t fathom the idea of you out of his existence.
Many years ago
The first day at U.A. High School was a whirlwind, with you still adjusting to your new classmates. You stood beside your brother, Oboro Shirakumo, who was already chatting with two students. As always, Shirakumo’s bright personality drew people in, while you kept more to yourself, quietly observing.
"Hey! This is my sister, Yan!" Shirakumo suddenly announced, pulling you into the conversation as he introduced you to the two classmates, Hizashi and Nemuri. The unexpected attention made you flinch slightly. "She’s gonna wipe the floor with all of you, just watch!" His grin earned a chuckle from Hizashi, while Nemuri raised an eyebrow, smirking.
"Nice to meet you!" Nemuri said playfully. "I’ll believe it when I see it."
You laughed lightly, still unaccustomed to the spotlight. Before you could respond, your gaze was drawn to a student standing off to the side. He was tall, quiet, with shaggy black hair partially covering his face. His arms were crossed, and he seemed disinterested in the lively conversation unfolding nearby.
"That’s Aizawa," Shirakumo leaned over, noticing your wandering eyes. "He’s a bit quiet, but he’s sharp. Really smart."
As if sensing the conversation, Aizawa glanced in your direction. You quickly looked away, but not before noticing the intrigue in his eyes.
A few months into the school year, you headed towards training grounds on your own, bathed in the fading light of the setting sun. Most students had gone home, but you remained, practicing your kunai throws. Each one hit the bullseye, but something felt off. No matter how perfect the throws were, they didn’t feel right.
"You're overthinking it."
Startled, you turned sharply, cursing yourself for not noticing Aizawa standing by the fence. He leaned against it, arms crossed, as silent and unreadable as ever.
"What do you mean?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
He hops over with no trouble as he approaches slowly, his footsteps deliberate. "Your movements are stiff. You’re second-guessing every throw." His voice was calm and matter-of-fact, though not harsh.
You huffed, glancing back at the target. “Alright then, what do I need to work on?”
Aizawa stepped closer, his presence oddly calming despite his usual stoic demeanor. “Don’t think. Just throw.”
You hesitated, feeling an unexpected flutter in your chest. His gaze was sincere, and there was a softness in his expression you hadn’t noticed before. With a deep breath, you pushed away your nerves, refocused on the target, and let the kunai fly.
The blade sailed through the air and struck dead center.
Aizawa gave a small nod. “See? You’re better when you trust yourself.”
"Guess I owe you one," you said, half-joking but grateful.
Aizawa shrugged, his usual stoic air returning, though there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just don’t overdo it. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard about that hero work study.”
As the sunlight bathed the training field, you noticed how it caught Aizawa’s features—the sharp angles of his face, his dark hair falling messily over his eyes. In that moment, he was no longer just your classmate or your brother’s best friend. There was something more, something that made your heart race in a way you hadn’t expected.
His eyes lingered on yours for a moment, and you thought you saw a flicker of warmth in his usual cool gaze.
"Good luck with that," he added, his tone softer than usual, almost teasing.
Aizawa turned to leave, a small, rare smile crossed Aizawa’s face as he disappeared from view, leaving you standing there with a sense that something between you had shifted.
In the second year, the U.A. training grounds buzzed with activity as students prepared for their now-mandatory hero work studies. Amid the hustle, Aizawa stood apart, a frown creasing his brow as doubt clouded his thoughts. Watching his classmates give their all, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of not measuring up. The weight of expectations sat heavily on him, and the thought of failure gnawed at his confidence.
“Hey,” you called, approaching more quicker as you note the tension in his posture. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Aizawa glanced at you, frustration and embarrassment flickering across his face as he gently pushed away your healing ofudas. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this mandatory work study. Everyone else seems to have it figured out.”
“You’re an amazing hero, Aizawa. Don’t let self-doubt trip you up. You just need to train harder and trust yourself.”
He shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “It’s not that simple, and your overly cheery advice isn’t exactly helping.”
“Well, let’s train together, then,” you offered, brushing off his cold response with determination shining in your eyes. “I owed you one from last time anyways.”
He raised an eyebrow, “You really think I need help?”
“Everyone needs help sometimes,” you shrug.
After a moment of hesitation, Aizawa nodded, and the two of you moved to a quieter section of the training grounds that already had a series of obstacles placed around, demonstrating your agility with the Kitsune energy swirling around you, leaping, dodging, and striking with precision. Aizawa watched closely, studying every movement as you flawlessly navigated the course.
“Your turn,” you said, stepping aside to give him space. “Focus on agility and timing. Don’t let your quirk limit you.”
With a deep sigh, Aizawa stepped forward, determined to overcome his doubts. He began working through the obstacles, his performance mixed with moments of success and frustration. Each misstep weighed on him, feeding the sense of pressure.
“Don’t let your mind get in the way. Trust your instincts.”
Taking a deep breath, he tried again, concentrating harder. Slowly, with each attempt, he began to improve, but the doubts still lingered. He glanced your way, seeing nothing but encouragement in your eyes.
“You’re doing great!” you cheered, your enthusiasm lifting his spirits.
Fueled by your support, Aizawa pushed himself harder. The obstacles seemed less intimidating, and with every completed run, he felt his confidence build.
“Now try using your quirk!” you encouraged.
He nodded, activating his quirk, his hair lifting as his eyes glowed red with his scarf extended, helping him move through the course more fluidly. The challenge increased, but so did his sense of accomplishment.
“See? You’ve got this!” you called, clapping your hands in excitement. “All you needed was to believe in yourself!”
Breathing heavily, Aizawa finally stopped, a rare smile breaking through his stoic exterior as blinks, his hair fell forward to mask it. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it,” he said, a quiet pride settling in.
You approached him, beaming. “I knew you could do it! Just remember, you don’t have to shoulder everything on your own.”
The moon hung low in the sky, bathing the quiet streets of Musutafu in a soft, silvery glow. As you walked toward your family’s apartment, your mind wandered after a long day at U.A. Absentmindedly, you kicked a pebble down the dimly lit alleyways, your Kitsune spirit lazily trailing behind.
Passing a narrow alley, your Kitsune suddenly turned, drawn by something. You followed its gaze and froze. There, slumped against a wall wrapped in his familiar capture weapon, was Aizawa. His dark hair obscured his face, and his sharp eyes were closed in exhausted sleep. His chest rose and fell steadily, but the scene was far from peaceful.
You stood still, staring in disbelief as your Kitsune spirit retreated back into your body. “Aizawa?” you whispered, the sight of him sleeping in an alley catching you off guard.
The realization hit hard. You knew Aizawa well enough to understand his desire to keep things private, but this? You had no idea it had gotten this bad. He always seemed so self-reliant, never asking for help, yet here he was, sleeping in an alleyway, leaving your heart dropping to your stomach.
You crouched beside him, hesitant, your hand hovering before pulling it back. "Aizawa," you whispered again, this time softer.
He stirred, his eyes fluttering open. Groggily, he squinted up at you. "Yan?" His voice was barely audible.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, though the answer was painfully clear. “You’re… sleeping here?”
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “Just… had nowhere to go tonight.”
Your chest tightened at his admission. “How long has this been going on?” you asked gently, trying not to push too hard.
Aizawa shrugged, his usual stoic demeanor cracking. “A while,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.”
“Manage?” you echoed in disbelief. “Aizawa, you’re sleeping in an alley. This is not okay.”
He fell silent, staring at the ground. You could tell he hated this—hated the vulnerability, the pity. No wonder he’d been dozing off in class so much recently.
Without hesitation, you stood and offered him a hand. “Come on,” you said firmly.
“What?” Aizawa frowned, confused.
“You’re not staying here. You’re coming with me. You can sleep at my place.”
He hesitated, concern flickering in his eyes. “Yan, I can’t—”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” you interrupted, leaving no room for debate. “You can sneak into my room through the window. No one will know, not even Oboro—he’s always glued to his computer all night. You can stay as long as you need.”
Aizawa stared at you, torn. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not a burden,” you reassured him, your voice softening. “We’re friends, right? What did I say last time? You don’t have to shoulder everything alone.”
He sighed, exhaustion winning out over his pride. “If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure,” you smiled. “And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
After a moment, he reluctantly took your hand. You bit back a cringe as you helped him to his feet. “Thanks,” he muttered, his gratitude quiet but genuine.
“Anytime,” you reassured, already planning out how to sneak him in unnoticed.
As the two of you made your way back to your apartment, you kept glancing at him, your heart heavy for the boy who carried more than anyone realized.
When you reached the fire escape, your Kitsune lowered the ladder with ease, and soon, you were both standing outside your window.
“Take off your clothes,”
Aizawa blinked, stunned. “Wh—?”
“Not like that!” you spoke in a low enough for him to hear, “You were sleeping in an alley. I don’t want all that in my room!” You kicked off your shoes, placing it at the fire escape balcony you’re both on and slid open the window, relieved that your mother did not lock it this time.
He chuckled, remembering your slight germaphobia from class. He quickly shed his outer clothes, folding them at the other end of the balcony along with his capture weapon, leaving only his undergarments as you instructed.
“I’ll get the shower ready,” you inform as you head toward the bathroom, your bathroom.
Aizawa couldn’t help but notice how different your lifestyle was—quietly wealthy but never flaunted. The Shirakumo family definitely raised both you and Oboro well, something he wished his own family would’ve done.
You motioned for him to follow, “There’s a fresh towel and some unused toiletries over there…” He glanced around, noticing the pink, white, and floral décor—completely opposite of his usual style.
“The soap and shampoo are floral-scented too,” you added with a slight apology. “So, you might end up smelling kind of...girly. Hope that’s okay.”
He chuckled softly. “I don’t mind. Thanks for everything.”
You left him to his privacy and went to grab some blankets and pillows, hoping he wouldn’t mind what you had. Mentally, you made a note to pick up something more suited to his taste tomorrow after school.
After his quick shower, wrapped in floral-scented towels, he settled near your bed, sinking into the plush pillows and blankets you’d laid out for him.
As you handed him a blanket to pull himself over, your hands brushed for a brief second. You face reddens while Aizawa allowed himself a small, grateful smile in return, hopefully he’ll like this one more than the others.
“Hello Kitty?”
You sigh, before you can apologize, he asks, “Wait, who's this one?”
“Ah that’s Chococat!” Your voice still hushed, “he’s a quiet cat, of course you’d like him,”
Aizawa released a soft chuckle, “Thanks, Yan,”
“Of course, Aizawa,” you replied, settling into bed yourself.
“Shouta,” he corrected, his voice gentle. “Call me Shouta from now on.”
Your eyes widened at the request, but before you could respond, he had already pulled the blanket over himself, the exhaustion finally winning over. For the first time in a long while, he looked at ease. As you settled into bed, you made a quiet promise to always be there for him, no matter what.
The night was quiet, the faint rustling of leaves outside barely breaking the stillness as Shouta lay in the dark, wrapped in the Chococat blanket you’d given him with a matching pajama that you bought, he offered a quiet thanks, when deep down he grew fond of the black cartoon cat. Months had passed since the incident, and he stared at the ceiling of your small room, exhaustion sinking deep into his bones. It had been a long day—made longer by the clear realization that you had sneaked him into your home, offering a kindness he wasn’t sure he deserved.
He absentmindedly flipped through his English book, one with a romance theme, occasionally thinking about words to describe you. Yet, ‘beautiful’ just didn’t seem to cut it.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find the right words. What you meant to him, how he felt for you—there were no terms that fit. Maybe it was a failure of the English language, or maybe it was just him struggling to understand his own feelings.
No one had ever taught Shouta how to love. He’d never planned to, not until he met you.
What he did know was that you were captivating in every way, and it was becoming increasingly hard to focus on the pages in front of him.
Just as he was about to give up, a sound broke through the silence—soft, but unmistakable.
You stirred restlessly in your bed, your breaths uneven and ragged, and Shouta immediately sat up, his senses alert.
"Yan?" he whispered, concern laced in his voice.
You didn’t answer. Your face was twisted with distress as your body tense, trapped in a nightmare. Another whimper escaped your lips as you shifted under the covers, bracing yourself against some unseen terror.
Shouta hesitated. He wasn’t good at comforting people. But seeing you like this, his instincts took over. After all you’d done for him—giving him a place to stay, helping with his hero work studies—this was the least he could do.
He got up from his makeshift bed and quietly approached yours. “Yan,” he called softly, gently placing a hand on your arm, giving you a light shake. "It’s not real, wake up."
Your eyes shot open suddenly, your breath catching in your throat as you sat upright. For a moment, you seemed lost, your gaze unfocused, until you finally registered where you were—and who was beside you.
“Shouta?” you gaze up, your voice hoarse from the remnants of the nightmare.
"Yeah," he replied softly, his hand still on your arm. "You were having a nightmare."
You exhaled shakily, trying to compose yourself. "I’m sorry," you muttered, your voice trembling. "I didn’t mean to wake you."
"You didn’t," he assured you. "You’re alright?"
You nodded, though the trembling in your hands said otherwise. You were trying to hide it, but Shouta could see how much the nightmare had shaken you.
After a pause, he gently slid his hand away. “Do you… want to talk about it?"
You shook your head, your shoulders slumping. "No, it’s the same as always. They come and go."
Shouta remained silent, eyes downcast. He knew what it was like to not want to talk about things, so he didn’t push. But something inside him urged him to offer more.
“Move over,” he said quietly, before he could second-guess himself.
You blinked, taken aback. “What?”
He glanced at the narrow space on your bed. “Just… move over.”
Though surprised, you shifted to make room. Shouta climbed in beside you, lying on his back and pulling the blanket over the both of you. He didn’t say anything more, but his presence spoke volume.
You looked over at him, still shaken but feeling comforted by the quiet gesture. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he interrupted, his voice steady. “But I’m here.”
For a while, neither of you spoke. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city. Slowly, your breathing steadied, the nightmare’s grip loosening with Shouta’s presence beside you. You found yourself watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his calmness grounding you.
“Thank you,” you whispered, barely audible.
Shouta didn’t reply, but you felt him shift a little closer, his arm brushing yours in a simple yet comforting touch. He wasn’t one for flowery words, but his actions were louder than anything he could say.
With him beside you, your eyes began to grow heavy again. For the first time in a while, you felt truly safe—as if your nightmares couldn’t reach you with Shouta there.
Just before you drifted off, you whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Shouta lowered his gaze, his expression softening as he watched the peacefulness return to your face. “Me too,”
The U.A. School Festival was in full swing, and Class 2-A had chosen to put on a theatrical performance as their contribution. They all agreed a play would be the perfect way to showcase their quirks while providing some lighthearted entertainment. The theme? A dramatic fantasy adventure—complete with a brave knight, a cunning sorceress, a wise king, and, Shouta, much to his reluctance, had been cast as the villain— a dragon disguised as a dark sorcerer.
The auditorium buzzed with excitement, the audience eagerly awaiting the show. The lights dimmed, and the curtains rose.
“Fear not, I will save the kingdom from the evil sorcerer’s clutches!” Shirakumo bellowed, swinging his sword with exaggerated flair. His armor gleamed under the stage lights as he charged forward.
Dressed in a flowing gown, you stood at the edge of the stage, your Kitsune spirit subtly swirling around you, adding an ethereal touch. “Be careful, noble knight,” you said with a serious tone, barely managing to keep a straight face, “The dark sorcerer’s power is too great!”
Behind the curtains, Shouta sighed, waiting for his cue.
Hizashi entered in bright royal robes and a ridiculous crown, brimming with energy as the king. “You must save my daughter and defeat the dragon! The kingdom’s fate is in your hands!” He waved his arms dramatically, earning laughter from the crowd.
Nemuri, in her sorceress costume, floated onto the stage in a puff of smoke, trying not to accidentally use her quirk and knock the audience out. She tossed an apple to Shirakumo with a smirk. “With this, you shall gain the strength to defeat the dragon. But beware—his magic is dangerous.”
Finally, Shouta stepped onto the stage, tall and brooding, his dark aura accentuated by his flowing hair and glowing red eyes. The crowd gasped. He stood in silence for a moment, letting the tension build before delivering his line in a low, gravelly voice. “Foolish mortals, you cannot hope to defeat me.”
Shirakumo, ever the energetic knight, took a bite of the apple before throwing it to the side, pointing his sword at Shouta as the final battle began. He eventually stood triumphantly over Shouta, the crowd holding its breath, anticipating the princess’s moment to thank the knight.
But then, Shirakumo collapsed flat on his face.
The audience murmured in confusion as Shirakumo lay motionless on the stage, clearly out of character. You blinked down at him, unsure of what to do—this wasn’t in the script.
Nemuri leaned over Shirakumo’s ‘unconscious’ body, a mischievous grin on her face as she added a dramatic pause. “It seems the knight has fallen,” she purred. “Perhaps the apple was too much for him,” drawing laughter from the crowd.
“And perhaps… there’s another way to save the kingdom.”
You glanced at her, eyebrows raised, lines completely forgotten. From backstage, Hizashi stifled a laugh, and the atmosphere shifted.
Shouta, still playing the dark sorcerer, looked down at Shirakumo before his glowing red eyes settled on you. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to figure out what was happening. Nemuri threw a sly wink in your direction.
“Uh…” you stammered, scrambling to stay in character. “How else can the kingdom be saved?”
Nemuri, grinning fully now, stood up and dramatically pointed at Shouta. “The sorcerer has not been defeated, but perhaps… love can conquer even the darkest magic.”
The audience began to murmur, some whispering to each other, wondering if this was even part of the original script.
Before you could react, Hizashi’s voice boomed from offstage, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Yes! Love is the key!” Nemuri pushed on, “Princess, you must act quickly before the kingdom falls into eternal darkness!”
Shouta stood there, expression stoic but unwavering, his eyes locked on yours. It was too late to back down now.
Stepping forward, you felt the weight of the audience’s gaze. You met Shouta’s eyes, and for a moment, it felt like the entire stage had faded away, leaving just the two of you.
Taking a deep breath, you whispered, “I suppose… this is how the kingdom is saved.” Your heart raced as you placed a hand on his chest, your gaze never leaving his.
Shouta, ever composed, raised an eyebrow in silent question, and you gave a subtle nod. He leans in, gently raising your chin before closing the gap between you. The soft touch of his lips against yours sent a spark through you, the kiss gentle but lingering.
The crowd gasped in unison, and whistles broke out from the back, undoubtedly from Hizashi. The kiss deepened for a brief moment before you pulled away, your face flushed, Shouta’s usually stoic expression softened with something unspoken as his hair settled and his eyes returned to normal.
Behind you, Nemuri let out a dramatic sigh. “Behold!” she declared, arms outstretched. “The princess has saved the kingdom with the power of love!”
The audience erupted into applause and cheers, some students laughing at the unexpected twist, while others swooned at the romantic turn.
You turned to face the crowd, your cheeks still burning, only to see Shirakumo peeking one eye open from the floor, barely suppressing his laughter.
“That… wasn’t part of the script,” you muttered, catching your breath.
Shouta, back to his usual calm demeanor, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
As the curtain fell, Nemuri and Hizashi bounded over, grinning from ear to ear.
“That was genius!” Hizashi cheered, clapping you both on the back and nearly knocking you into each other. “Way better than what we had planned!”
Nemuri winked at you. “I knew it would be perfect. Who doesn’t love a good plot twist?”
You glanced at Shouta, hesitating, silently wondering if he felt the same way. He sighed, a faint smile still on his face. “You’re overthinking,” he muttered before gently pulling you backstage.
“None of you better knock unless you’d want my scarf wrapped around your throats.”
The end of the school year was fast approaching, and with it, the looming reality of graduation. You sat on the edge of the fire escape balcony as the sun begins to set, your legs dangling over as the cool breeze plays with your hair. Beside you, Shouta leans back against the building, a shoulder wrapped around you with his usual calm demeanor slightly more relaxed than normal.
You sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. "Graduation feels… weird. Like we’ve been working toward it for so long, and now that it’s here, it doesn’t feel real."
Shouta nodded, "Yeah. Everything’s about to change." He paused, glancing at you. "What about you? Have you figured out where you’re going after this?"
You smiled, though her eyes were distant. "I’m not sure yet. Hopefully anything within the medical field, or maybe in a rescue agency.,” you shrugged. "It’s just an idea. What about you?”
Shouta shifted slightly, "There’s plenty of work to do here. A lot of people who need protection, me, Oboro and Yamada were actually thinking of opening our own agency."
You turned to face him fully, a slight smile on your lips. "You think we can make it work? We’re gonna be super busy, maybe even needing to relocate,"
He met your gaze, his dark eyes steady and serious. "We’ll make it work. I’m not worried about that, if this agency thing works out, it’ll be enough to have our own place.”
You reached out to take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. "I like that confidence."
He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his lips quirking up into a rare smile. "I have to be confident. You’re a handful."
You laughed, the sound light and melodic, a sound that Shouta would never get bored of.
"Just know that I’m not letting you go that easily, Yan."
The work-study program had always been a crucial part of training, but with graduation so close, it felt like this was everyone’s final real-world test before stepping into full-fledged hero careers. You, Shouta, and your classmates were deployed to different areas of the city. You were no longer simple students—You were all heroes in training, and the safety of civilians rested in your hands.
You were assigned at Tatami Ward, where a massive villain, Garvey, was causing havoc. Garvey was no ordinary villain; According to his rapport, he had a powerful stockpiling quirk, allowing him to absorb attacks and release them with devastating force. His rampage had left parts of the city in ruins, and backup was immediately called in.
After a quick briefing, saying your goodbyes to your friends and a kiss to your lover, to which he promised he’ll keep your brother safe before you all part ways.
You were stationed with Hizashi, responsible for ensuring civilians were evacuated safely and tending to the injured. As the EMTs worked tirelessly to treat those who were wounded, you used your Kitsune spirit to heal and protect those who were caught in the crossfire.
Everything seemed to be going well on your end—no civilian casualties, thanks to Kitsune's healing abilities. But there was still worry in your heart. You hadn’t heard much from Aizawa or Oboro since the battle began, and the uncertainty gnawed at you.
You pressed the speaker in your ear, checking for updates. "Shouta? Oboro? Are you there?" You called out. Aizawa was mumbling, unable to catch his words , you tried again with Oboro, only to meet a sharp ringing on his end that you quickly shut off.
Your mind began to race. Shouta had a habit of focusing intensely during battle, so it wasn’t entirely unusual for him to ignore communications. But Oboro—he would never leave you hanging like this.
"Something’s wrong," you muttered to yourself. You spotted Hizashi’s ship, given from the Buster Union agency as he landed near you and immediately rushed over.
“Hizashi, please,” you begged, grabbing his arm. “I need to go where Shouta and Oboro are. Something’s wrong, they aren’t responding to me.”
Hizashi, always quick to react when it came to his friends, nodded without question. He brought you aboard, and the two of you soared towards the last known location of Shouta and Oboro. As you got closer, the smoke and debris became clearer, and your stomach twisted in knots.
When you two arrived, the battle was already over. Garvey lay unconscious, his colossal form defeated by Aizawa and Oboro’s teamwork. You sigh with relief at the sight of the downed villain, but something felt off.
"Shouta!" You called out, rushing toward him. But
your breath caught in your throat when you followed his gaze.
Oboro's lower body lay crumpled, toppled by multiple amounts of boulders as blood began to stain the concrete.
“No,” you whispered, stumbling toward, ignoring the blood splashing the soles of your shoes. “No, no, no!” Your Kitsune spirit frantically tries to sense any life left in him. There was nothing.
"He’s gone…" Shouta whispers,
Oboro had been there for your whole life, through everything, the one who always made you laugh when the world felt too heavy, the one that reassured you when your parents never understood you, the one that threw you boxes filled with donuts to treat your sweet tooth cravings.
And now… he was gone. Your vision blurred with tears, but those tears quickly snapped to anger.
Aizawa stood frozen, unable to move, unable to process what had happened. But your grief twisted into rage, and suddenly, your Kitsune took over, feeding on your pain and anger.
With a swift turn, kunai in hand, your eyes began to glow a harsh blue with sharp slits filled with fury.
"Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought he was still alive… I heard him talking to me—“
"I could’ve saved him!"
Aizawa stepped back, his own guilt reflected in his eyes, but before you could land a hit, Hizashi grabbed your arms and pulled you back with a strong grip, dropping your kunai.
"Yan! Stop!" Hizashi shouted, holding you tightly as you struggled against him.
"I could’ve saved him! You promised me! YOU’RE A LIAR—!" Your words broke into sobs, your body trembling with grief.
A soft voice cut through the chaos. Nemuri had arrived in perfect timing, and in a swift, gentle move, she used her quirk. "Sleep," she whispered.
Your eyes fluttered shut as her fog begins to cloud your vision, your body going limp in Hizashi’s arms. The tears still streamed down your face as you were placed gently on Nemuri’s lap, eyes closing shut as the world darkens.
—-
Hopefully this super adorable art of Reader and Aizawa during UA cheers you up from this angsty ending! The art is from the lovely mananeez go support her! ❤️🫶
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suzukiblu · 9 months ago
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Some DC art WIPs I’ve been poking at, mostly based on fic WIPs I've been writing, because it is Mermay and also apparently my ADHD meds make me wanna draw a LOT, haha. A couple of AU Kons, a Cassie, and a claybaby. ❤️
Image descriptions under the cut.
[ image description #1: Uncolored digital sketch of Thirteen from "merfam drama". He is laying on his stomach smiling and looking off-screen, his tail curled up over his back. There is a tiny earring tag in his left ear that is printed with the number "13". ]
[ image description #2: Uncolored digital sketch of Conner James Lane-Kent from "weird Kryptonian bonding rituals". He has been re-designed in a style similar to "My Adventures With Superman", and is sitting on his jacket in costume with a pleased expression, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair. ]
[ image description #3: Uncolored digital sketch of a Cassie Sandsmark redesign. She is in a Wonder Girl costume with short hair and goggles, big loose pants with stars on them, mismatched earrings, and a fitted crop top with Wonder Woman's symbol on it. She is also wearing a leather jacket with an S-shield on the shoulder. ]
[ image description #14: Uncolored digital sketch of a newly-created Mae from "Cassie makes a claybaby"; she has clay cracking off her skin and looks delighted. ]
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evviejo · 1 year ago
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thirteen + her goggles
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