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willowser · 1 year ago

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katsuki blames the alcohol for making him stupid.

really stupid.

not that he's had a lot, but his tolerance is low for a guy of his size, and he can feel the edges of his inhibitions dulling with every drink of whatever denki has shoved in his hand. it doesn't taste like absolute shit, which is rare enough to have him indulging, just a bit, for the agency halloween party.

another sip has his head feeling a little swimmy, and before he knows it, his eyes are trailing across the room until they find you. again.

whatever the hell you're supposed to be tonight—a witch, or something else in a pointy hat—is really fucking with him, and has since you walked in. the costume isn't revealing in a sense that it's inappropriate for a work event, but it's...hugging you in all the right places. in every single one of them.

without tights, it would be on the too-short side, but—and no, katsuki can't fucking explain this—something about them is making everything worse. and your calf-high boots ain't helping, either.

it's just—your fucking—hips.

katsuki couldn't tell you what song is playing, but you're swaying back and forth to the tune and one of his canines digs into the plastic of his cup, so deeply that it makes a terrible creaking sound and dents beneath the pressure—and that's when a sharp elbow is delivered to the center of his chest.

mina is at his side when he looks, and her wide, freaky eyes scan his face before narrowing in her little shit-eating way.

"you're a pig."

katsuki chokes, and the little freak takes that as an admission of some kind.

"oh my god," she gasps, mouth falling in all her disgust and awe. "you can't even deny it!" and then she laughs, high and chirpy, and there's no way you can't hear her. "oh, you're down bad."

"cram it," he snaps, sinking his scowl into his cup. "i dunno what the hell you're talkin' about."

"you know i really thought better of you," mina sniffs effectively, turning her face up and away. "not the type to be blantly checking out somebody's ass."

katsuki bristles, and his aggrivation growns until the plastic in his hands starts to melt. "i wasn't—"

"i'm kidding!" mina snorts before flicking him in the nose, narrowly dodging the hand he swipes out at her. "quit being a baby and go shoot your shot already."

"piss. off."

but the hero is unaffected by him, simply scrunching up her face in response before turning on her heel to disappear further into the party.

she's wrong, katsuki thinks, because he's not a pig like sero or fucking dunce face or even kirishima, from time to time, who gets red in the face over a low cut shirt and a pair of tits.

fucking ridiculous, katsuki thinks, because he's way better than that.

it's just—the alcohol. that's making his lids heavy and his thoughts dark and his face hot. has him peeking at you over the lip of his cup, has him picturing you in his head when he's forced to look away.

and, well, maybe, the short cut of your dress has a little something to do with it, too—but he's keeping that shit to himself.

taking it to the grave, even.

#i just love the idea that bakugou really thinks he's so much better than like. denki or sero.#like he does NOT think with his dick like those idiots 😒#he's a level headed guy 😒 doesn't get all drooly over some hot babe 😒#but then he sees you all dressed up in some cute outfit and he's like 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 uh um 😵‍💫😵‍💫 ahem 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫#biting his fist over the curve of your ass and he's never felt more primitive in his LIFE #i am squeezing him until he pops #happy halloween dears 😌🎃🩸✨️🦇#TAKING IT TO THE GRAVE HA HA GET IT YOU GET IT #GRAVE HALLOWEEN GET IT GET IT #✿ willow writes #✿ thoughts: bakugou #✿ theme: pre relationship bakugou

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happi-tree · 1 year ago

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are we out (of the woods yet)

You look down.

Well, this explains the pain, you think, eyes darting over a body that you inhabit but do not recognize in the slightest, in colors that you can scarcely remember seeing.

Father is going to kill me. Then, Where am I?

Or: Henry Oak, and being destined for two worlds and when you've only ever walked in one.

ao3

Here’s my fic for day 3: werewolves. Like day 1, this is part of a supernatural au that @kaseyskat and @llumimoon masterminded alongside me, although this one takes place chronologically before day 1's. Hope you like it!

Life is good for you. Great, even! At least, that’s what Father wants you to believe.

Below your feet, the leaves crunch in shades of silver and gold, compounded into tiny bits that fly up around you as you sprint through the dense forest, and life is… as good as it can get, for the time being.

The sky is becoming clearer by the day, more and more pieces of azure heaven made visible by the ever-growing gaps in the canopy, carrying with it relief and distress in equal measure.

The sun lances to alight on pale golden fur, warming you through, unfettered by the leaves as you bound from shadow to shadow, light to light. At the same time, you feel the autumn’s chill on the breeze; though it is not yet cold enough for the grass to don their frost-coats at the gray-gold-blue dawn (scarcely ever is, these past few years), there is a weariness in your bones that belies the winter ahead, aching in joints that have not shifted right in quite some time.

It tugs at the back of your mind, the turn of the seasons, the shifting of moons, the shedding of leaves that regrow with the promise of spring. But there isn’t much you can do about it - not without it getting back to Father in some way or another (it always does, and you have long since learned that this corner of the wood has eyes beyond those of the white birches), and that is the last thing you want - so you growl under her breath, clench your jaw, and run harder, as if the ache is just a muscle you can stretch simply by outrunning it all.

You bank around the trunk of an old, gnarled dogwood and think of winter. They’ll need food stocked up at the Commune, soon.

(Commune, a name that Father has given your number, because Pack is too much too animalistic, too barbaric, too laughably simple for what you are. For your purpose. For your community.)

(You would personally like to tell Father where he can shove his community.)

(Well, most of it.)

The sun will be setting soon, you know, and as you bask in golden hour you dread the encroaching indigo-tinge of twilight that will bring you to Father’s side, ever the obedient daughter. There is not much you can do, though, except to attempt at grasping ephemeral joy in your hungry jowls, to crush the dead growth underfoot until you are expected back within the heart of Commune territory.

<Hen!> a familiar mind-voice calls out to you. <Hey, Hen, over here!>

Well. You suppose that maybe there is something else you can do.

The careless footfalls of your partner approach from behind, and you whirl around.

<Goose,> You sigh, half-exasperated, half-fond. <What in the moon’s name are you doing over here?>

<Could ask you the same question, Hen Ry’,> he chuffs, trotting over to brush against your flank.

<Plus, you always head over to this part of the outskirts when you’re all moody,> he notes, gesturing with his muzzle at your surroundings.

The cliff-wall before you is a massive, towering thing, all craggy rock and silvery moss. You could spend hours following the striations in the stone, nosing at the peaks and valleys, following them to the edge of Father’s influence. You have spent hours doing just that, following the winding currents within the rock, stripes of light and dark that squirm organically like the veins of some giant, petrified creature.

The trees thin out, here, and you glance sidelong at Goose.

<I’m not “all moody”,> You argue rather pointlessly, staring at the ribbons of light-dark in the stone before you.

<Please, babe, you’re always moody. I can smell it from miles away.>

Goose Sy’ is a gangly, wiry thing, with dark fur that looks lit from within in the dappled sunlight. He hunches lazily now, but there is strength and power and quickness beneath his pelt.

<What’s on your mind?> He asks, and you let him touch his nose to your cheek, an affectionate gesture that is a rarer and rarer treasure, these days. <Is the old man on your ass again?>

<When isn’t he?> You respond simply, growling a bit as you kick up more debris.

You sigh. <He keeps asking if I’ve thought about a mate,> you confess, and you scent his agitation and the slightest bit of worry as he turns his golden eyes on yours.

<He’s not, like, suspicious or anything?> Goose asks.

<Moons, no, thank goodness,> You respond, seeing him untense before you. <Could you imagine?>

Goose says, his laughter resounding in your brain. <I’d love to see the look on his face when he realizes his perfect paragon pup has been fraternizing with a mangy commoner. You know, before he kills me.>

You nuzzle against his side, let his scent wash over you. You’ll have to roll around in muck and mire for quite awhile to erase it, but as you bury your face into his ruff, you think it’s worth it.

There’s an ache in your heart that matches the ache in your unshifted bones, and you often wonder which came first.

<Killing is against his own rules, and my Father surely wouldn’t debase himself to such levels. It is beneath our glorious, enlightened kind,> You sniff mockingly.

He bumps his side to yours, snorting.

Father… has been getting very insistent about settling you down. Perhaps a part of you always knew that pups were the only things he judged you as being good enough for, but your stomach turns at the very principle. You feel trapped, miserable here in his territory, heir to his kingdom of oak and earth. To bring more of yourself into the world, to force them to endure as you have…

You scent a chill on the breeze, and it ruffles your fur, causing a shiver to run down your spine. The ache intensifies, and you can practically feel the creaking of your bones beneath the sinew.

You hear yourself whine before you can stop it, and Goose presses closer to your side.

<Have you thought about Changing?> He asks, mind-voice lowered to the slightest of whispers.

You balk. <Are you insane? Father would actually kill me. Just because you can get away with it doesn’t mean I could just - >

Goose says, trying on a soothing tone like an ill-fitting coat. <It’s just that - > he snarls, low and angry, and you flinch.

<Sorry,> He cuts himself off. <But you’re hurting, and it’s his fault. Him and his stupid fucking rules.>

It’s not the sun against your fur that makes you feel warmed through, now.

Goose tells you.

You reply, instead of the me, too that lies just below your speech-thoughts.

<A little,> He answers. <Well, a lot, at the beginning. But then, the pain goes away a little, I guess. Shrinks. You could try it, you know. I’d take care of you.>

Your heart says something different, as it always has. You ponder for the briefest moment the concept of running away from it all, of a full-moon sunrise where you awaken in a body that is still yours but also not, side by side with him. You imagine the shift-ache unfurling into a new shape before shrinking dormant below your reformed skin.

You wonder if he would drag you to the treeline outside the nearest town, dress you in human things until you could masquerade among them. If he would teach you how to walk on two legs.

You wonder what he would look like. Instead of brushing against your side, you wonder if he would hold your hand.

Wondering is a pointless thing, though, Father says, and running is cowardice.

Staying feels even moreso, but you know nothing else.

<Well, if you change your mind and wanna stick it to the old mutt, you know where to find me,> Goose’s voice echoes softly between your pointed ears, breaking you from your thoughts.

<Thank you,> You respond, trying to wrangle your mind-voice into something that sounds less morose and forlorn. You fail, judging by the way Goose presses his muzzle against yours.

You wish you could go, just pick up and leave, but there are things that keep you. Mother, for one, though she grows more and more distant by the day, ever colder, like the Autumn she is named for, as Father sinks his claws into you both, bleeding you of your heart and your strength and your freedoms until nothing is left but exhaustion and ache and apathy.

Mother belonged to another Pack, once, you know, even though she has never spoken of it. A real Pack, in name and in function. She has known what it feels like to move between forms, between worlds, transient like the phases of the moon.

You would’ve liked a life like hers, a name like hers, one that feels equal parts human and beast.

Instead, you were named in Commune tradition. The first moons of your life you went nameless, in order for your parents (your Father, mostly) to judge what name would best suit you.

You think of Father’s name: Bear, a towering, massive presence compressed into lupine form that looms over you even when he is not there. Strong, masculine, predatory.

Goose was named this way, too, and the name suits him well - your partner is flighty, a free spirit, but brash and loud and quick to bite and clamor at whatever displeases him.

Even your childhood tormentor, Horse, suits his name. Proud and haughty and ornery and loud in his own right, skittish beneath Father and Mother’s glares.

You do not have to wonder why Father chose Hen for yourself. You are a livestock, a thing to be kept in a wooden cage, with clipped wings incapable of flight, legs unsuited for traveling too far from his reach. Your children and your children’s children will feed the gaping maw of your captor, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Your name chafes at you, scratches at you like brambles upon your hide. Meek and feminine and prey-animal and all the things you are but wish not to be.

<Sun’ll be down soon,> Goose’s mind-voice resounds in your brain, and you startle, cocking your head to dislodge your useless spiraling.

You look around, noting the yellowish light stretching the tree-shadows longer and longer across the ground.

<You’re right,> You agree.

<Lost you for a minute, there,> He says.

Goose doesn’t press for answers, but the flicking of his ears gives away his concern.

<Just thinking,> You respond, glancing at the deepening blues on the horizon.

<You were thinking pretty loudly,> Goose remarks with a light press against your side. <You gotta get back, yeah?>

<Wish I didn’t have to,> You grumble, already turning to the depths of Commune territory, pawing forward even as you think it.

<Offer’s always open,> Goose replies. <Full moon’s only a week away.>

The pain within you seems to increase at the reminder.

Goose exclaims as your paths begin to diverge - his, to his home on the far reaches, yours, to whatever Father has awaiting you tonight. <Thanks. See you soon?>

<Soon,> You agree, and hope you can make good on that promise.

“Hello?”

The first thing you register as you awaken is that your body hurts.

Bone-deep, marrow-deep, cell-deep, all over. It feels like your limbs have scrambled themselves, ground themselves to dust, and then attempted to piece themselves back together from the rubble. It is as if every muscle fiber within you has been stretched past breaking point, as if every nerve ending fell prey to one thousand claws, one thousand fangs.

Your very soul yowls in pain, and it is only because your teeth feel so wrong and foreign in your own jaw, because your vocal cords scrubbed raw, that you do not vocalize it beyond a shaking rasp.

The second thing you register is a presence right in front of you.

You open your eyes, and the third thing you register is dazzling, dizzying, scintillating color.

Your hands (hands?) scrabble at the rough earth in a vain attempt to ground yourself as you look around half-dazed and hurting, and the soft, uncalloused flesh of your palms smarts and stings against jagged bits of debris.

You look down.

Well, this explains the pain, you think, eyes darting over a body that you inhabit but do not recognize in the slightest, in colors that you can scarcely remember seeing.

Father is going to kill me. Then, Where am I?

You don’t recognize this part of the woods - the scents of the Commune are all but nonexistent, and the area around you is well-trod, devoid of grass, human odors lingering and overlapping.

A human hiking trail?

You blink rapidly, taking in the fuzzy dawn light and its myriad of hues.

Mother had taught you about colors, once, when you were a very young pup and the world was still bright with more than shades of yellow and cerulean and she was not yet as poisoned by oppressive bear-weight of cynicism.

She had told you their names, even, though you struggle to remember them.

You test them out, now, forming their mouth-shapes with a slow clacking of newly-blunted teeth.

Green, the color of moss and grasses and foliage at the height of solstice.

Orange and her deeper sister red, the colors of the fallen leaves underfoot, the colors of the sky as evening starts its slow descent toward dusk.

The coveralls that the human woman before you wears are purple, you think, a flower-color, a dusk-color, a dawn-color. A spring-color, a beginning-color.

“H-ello,” you attempt, your voice creaking and throat constricting at the novelty of speaking aloud.

“Hello, again,” the woman responds, slowly and frowning, but… not unkindly, you think.

You inhale, and her scent is tinged with something sparkling and warm and cold all at once. Magic-smell, you realize. There is worry there, as well - not for her own safety, but for yours.

There is not even the tracest amount of falsehood to her - her demeanor, her expression (though, that, admittedly, is mostly guesswork), her scent.

It’s a novel concept.

You cannot remember that last time anyone had had honest intentions with you (apart from Mother and maybe Goose), let alone went as far to show genuine concern over you.

It takes you aback, strikes you nearly as harshly as… whatever it was that has left you feeling so crippled.

“My name is Mercedes,” the woman says, gently, softly, as if speaking to a wounded prey animal.

The comparison is… not without merit.

“What can I call you?” She asks.

Smart, this woman is. Or incredibly stupid. To lend her own name like that knowing full well the risks is either an intense show of trust and compassion, or…

There is a glint in her eye, you notice, and the magic-scent sharpens.

Well… best to repay a kindness with a kindness.

“Hen,” you croak, trying to get the shape of your name to form on your clumsy, human tongue. “Ry’Oak.”

“Well, Henry,” the woman (Mercedes!) says, and you splutter at the way that she slurs the first two syllables together rather than the last.

“Are you okay?”

Moons above, no, you are not.

Your body hurts like it never has before, and your eyes sear with a kaleidoscope of hues you haven’t seen since you were a young pup, and the way this witch has butchered your name might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

Henry, you mouth to yourself, running it together. It sounds rather plain, achingly human. Father would hate it.

You quite like it.

“I think… I will be,” you tell Mercedes.

“Good,” she says, extending a hand. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

#this au has LAYERS i tell you. layers!!!#anyway. shoutout to nyx for the idea of barry having a cult of fucked-up werewolves that believe that their wolf forms are superior #surely. henry will not have several complexes as a result of this. and chronic pain #but hey! mercedes!!! it's not all bad :)#ANYWAY. thank y'all for being so nicies on the last one. hope this one makes sense!#dndads #fic #happi scribbles #dndads halloween week 2023 #bat and wolf #also. i know this one is ANOTHER 2nd person pov but i swear it's the last one. probably. it just flows better this way. trust 😌#okay i THINK. this is all the tagging i need to do

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