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sprytesukii · 2 months

Text

you know me (better than i know myself)

bakugou katsuki x reader

katsuki is hopelessly in love with his best friend until you waltz into his life and warp it beyond his recognition.

rating: mature, 18+, MDNI

wc : 10.4k (holy fuck)

tags : mild to heavy angst, fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, gn!reader (they/them pronouns), afab!reader, unrequited love (not between reader and kats), depictions of mild depression, genderfluid!denki, queer!katsuki, reader has a quirk, oral (reader receiving), p-in-v intercourse, unprotected intercourse (wrap it b4 u tap it pls!), soft katsuki, and they were roommates :0, Not Beta Read, i think that’s it T^T

an: this is the first thing i’ve genuinely written in over a year and jesus it was like i was possessed writing it LMFAO incredibly self indulgent and i had a lot of fun writing it! i hope you guys enjoy it (pls rb n leave feedback pls pls pls)

read on ao3

the warm light of the coffee table lamp casts a beautiful shadow across the planes of eijirou’s face — his sharp, angular nose, smooth cheekbones, plush lips that form a sheepish smile — and katsuki can’t even appreciate it, not with the absolute bullshit that pours from his best friend’s lips.

“the fuck you mean, you’re moving out?”

the words come out a lot harsher than katsuki intends, but he can’t even bring himself to feel guilty, not even when kiri’s face screws up in clear disappointment.

“well, uh, i told you, this new place is closer to my agency so it makes more sense. the commute’ll be much shorter and, uh…” he trails off then, a pretty pink blush spreading across his nose, highlighting the small spattering of freckles that katsuki is certain he’s the only one who’s ever noticed, a broiling heat setting alight in his stomach.

he feels like he might die.

“and.. kaito finally asked me to move in with him.”

there it is. fuckin’ kaito.

katsuki is far from an idiot — people call him a lot of names (brash, inconsiderate, a righteous asshole), but never dumb. they couldn’t unless they were outright lying.

part of what makes katsuki so intelligent is his observance.

of course he’s noticed eijirou’s late nights, his suspicious absences at group get togethers, the sweet smiles he makes as he taps at his phone screen, the fucking hickies.

bakugou katsuki is not stupid. he’s incredibly observant. especially when it comes to the massive crush he’s been harboring on his best friend for the last three years.

he’s not entirely sure when his reluctant tolerance of the bright redhead shifted to something more but he knows he’s been viciously, painfully pining over him day in and day out in the weeks (months, years) since.

and it’s not like kirishima hasn’t had partners before. he’s nearly impossible to resist with his intense attentiveness, his willingness to go above and beyond for those close to him, not to mention his insane physique, built from long hours out on the field and in the gym.

it’s no wonder katsuki has been in love with him for as long as he has been — eijirou is perfect.

perfectly imperfect, of course. he gets upset when katsuki sorts his clothes for him (“i’m an adult, okay? it makes me feel like you’re parenting me, man.”) or when he lectures him on his diet, or when he shuts him out after being friends for so long (when his feelings become too much to handle), but eijirou’s the only one who’s stayed.

katsuki has tried flings and a few more serious relationships but those have ended quickly because he’s just too much.

too loud. too frustrating. too closed off. too him.

but not for eijirou. never for eijirou.

that’s why when kiri mentioned he was talking to this new guy, he brushed it off. it would be like all the others who would eventually break it off because of the long hours at work or eijirou’s boundless enthusiasm and katsuki would be there to pick the sopping wet, heartbroken kiri off the ground and put him back together. they didn’t deserve him anyway.

but this kaito? apparently katsuki’s eagerness to ignore eijirou’s flings made him blind to what was happening — eiji wasn’t his anymore.

he’s moving out.

he’ll be gone forever.

subconsciously, katsuki realizes he’s been silent for far too long and that eijirou’s face has lost the hurt and is now painted with concern and confusion.

fuck, even now, he’s concerned. he cares so so much, except in the way katsuki craves.

“uh,” kirishima’s gentle voice breaks him from his thoughts, a big hand finding its way to katsuki’s knee, “are you okay dude?”

the touch sears through the expensive black joggers katsuki is wearing and he flinches so hard, he jostles the coffee table to his side. he barely sees kirishima’s brows furrow as he launches himself to standing, the telltale burn behind his eyes signaling the incoming wave of tears.

he can’t see katsuki like this, he fucking can’t.

katsuki marches to the kitchen, opening up the fridge and blankly staring into it while he tries to will the water back into his face and still the turmoil burning in his chest.

it feels like he’s aflame, like he’s suffocating, drowning.

he can hear kirishima’s steps behind him but thankfully stopping a reasonable distance away as he calls his name again, desperation coloring the word.

fuck.

with everything he has in him, katsuki grabs a random bottle from the refrigerator (a smoothie eijirou made for him with far too much kale and too little milk and a little note attached with his name and a smiley face. he’s gonna be sick.) and turns to face him, a strained, shaky grimace painting his lips.

“that’s-“ his voice cracks hard and he desperately clears his throat, blinking hard when he sees eijirou reach out for him and stop. “that’s fuckin’— that’s great. ‘m happy for you.”

the words feel like glass inching their way out of his throat and while he knows he sounds anything but, the words seem to do the trick, kirishima’s face lighting up like a fucking christmas tree.

“that means so much to me, man!” this time, he doesn’t stop himself from wrapping katsuki up in a hug, the full body contact sending a wracking shiver through his body. “and don’t worry! we’ll still hang out all the time and i’ll — yes! — finally be able to introduce you to kaito — you’re gonna love him, and-“

katsuki has to tune him out, if just to keep a hold on his sanity because otherwise, he’s gonna break.

he keeps it together through the rest of the conversation about kaito, tuning in only to give time appropriate grunts and hums while pretending like his entire world isn’t imploding in on itself.

he keeps it together, miraculously, as kirishima packs up his things, the evidence of their entwined lives for the past five years disappearing into cardboard boxes over the span of a few weeks.

he even keeps it together when he meets kaito on the move out date, even if it’s just barely. kaito is handsome — tall, taller than katsuki, with windswept brown hair, bright brown eyes and a dimple in his left cheek. if he wasn’t so fucking in love with eiji, he wouldn’t mind taking a piece out of him, but as it were, the sight of kaito makes him genuinely sick to his stomach.

it’s even worse that kaito is so nice. his quirk is even nicer — some nature type that makes it impossible for plants to die when touched by him. they turn to him like he’s the fucking sun and eiji does too.

by the time all kirishima’s stuff is packed up in the back of kaito’s truck, bile is burning at the back of katsuki’s throat as he says his final goodbye to kiri in the way of a bone crushing hug that doesn’t last as long as he wishes, as he craves.

kiri sends him a blinding smile as he climbs into the passenger seat of the truck, looking all too at home against the worn blue leather seats.

it’s now when katsuki wishes he was a little less observant because the hand kaito gently places on kirishima’s thigh and the subsequent full body blush makes him sick.

he waits on the curb the appropriate amount of time as the pair drive away before racing back into his building, up the stairs, into his unit and straight to the bathroom, kneeling over the toilet and heaving, chills wracking his body despite the sweat on his brow.

nothing comes out (praise whoever above because katsuki hates vomiting) and he slumps against the porcelain, resting his heated skin against the toilet seat.

he thought… fuck, katsuki has no idea what he thought, but he didn’t expect it to hurt this bad. he feels a little like he’s dying and lot like he’ll never be okay again. that kirishima walked out with his heart and all he’ll be for the rest of his life is a walking husk of a human being.

a wave of nausea overtakes him again and he debates leaning back over the toilet, but exhaustion overwhelms him and he falls asleep against the wall of his bathroom, sweaty, sick, and heartbroken.

(the next morning, he wakes up to a pounding headache and two texts from eijirou.

he drinks a shit ton of water first and pops an advil before opening the messages.

EIJI (18:21) : just got to kaito’s! dude it’s so nice i can’t believe ill be living here now ><

katsuki has to take a deep breath to fight against the wave of pain that hits him right in the gut, but he keeps reading, the second text simultaneously warming him and twisting the knife.

EIJI (18:25) : i’m gonna miss you so much kats T^T so weird living without you

he stares at the message until his vision swims before liking the second message and turning off his phone, tossing it onto the couch and trudging to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.)

the next few weeks prove to be incredibly difficult.

a new case is brought to best jeanist’s desk and as the best sidekick at the agency, he’s placed in charge of heading the search and capture of an elusive invisibility quirk villain.

the days are long and exhausting, and more often than not, he doesn’t even have time to miss kirishima or notice his things missing from the apartment — he gets home, makes a barebones meal and collapses on the couch for what feels like a four hour nap until he has to turn back around and do it all over again.

it’s sustainable until it isn’t.

a few too many missed meals and restless hours of sleep has him passing out in a morning briefing, prompting best jeanist to send him home for a mandatory two week “vacation.”

it’s a prison sentence, is what it is.

at home, there’s nothing to distract him from the utter lack of kirishima, from the idea that the one person who has seen all of him and loved him anyway has left.

most days it’s too much to bear, so instead, he sleeps.

the usual tidiness of his space slowly deteriorates as he wastes away, waking only to scarf down whatever is left in his refrigerator before going right back to bed.

his friends text him often — hanta, denki, even fuckin’ hitoshi — but he ignores them all. the texts from kirishima are the hardest to delete, all concerned words and pleas for them to just talk, but he does it anyway.

it’s better this way, he tells himself. this way, no one else is dragged down by his self pity.

izuku ends up being the one to break the streak on day nine of radio silence.

a knock resounds at his door and he ignores it, pulling his blankets high above his mussed blonde hair, effectively hiding him from view as he hopes whoever is there spontaneously combusts or, better yet, just leaves.

when the knocks stop, he believes the latter has just occurred and he sighs in relief, completely missing the sound of metal creaking and his doorknob falling to the ground.

he’s debating on taking another melatonin to find the sweet release of sleep once more when his bedroom door opens up and he startles, launching up out of bed, hands and quirk at the ready to destroy the intruder, but he’s slow, too slow.

izuku is on him in a moment, pinning him to the bed and disregarding his gnashing teeth and cursing to look him over with a detached gaze.

“katsuki,” he says, voice firm in effectively shutting him up, despite the way he wriggles for freedom (so ineffectively, it’s embarrassing), “you look like dogshit.”

a harsh bark of laughter escapes katsuki’s throat and even from his angle where he’s pressed into his pillows, he sees izuku’s expression soften.

“you’ve lost your tact, deku,” he responds, his words gravelly from disuse. izuku scoffs but lets him up, taking a step over a pile of clothes on the ground to lean against the desk opposite of the bed.

with his newfound freedom, katsuki sits up, absentmindedly rubbing his now sore shoulder, the pain oddly grounding. izuku watches the motion with the intense focus he’s carried throughout his entire life, though he’s a far cry from the boy who used to break his bones and cry over injured birds.

now, he’s built like a brick house, forest green curls tapered into a flattering modern undercut, the fat from his cheeks transforming into something more chiseled and adult. his eyes aren’t as soft either — they’re tired and, as he looks at katsuki’s form, tinged with worry.

“where have you been? no one has heard from you in a week.”

katsuki rolls his eyes, looking away from the gaze that pins him, the gaze he tried so hard to get to look at him without fear. there isn’t a hint of fear in them now, but katsuki is afraid there’ll be disappointment and that’s almost worse.

“none of your fuckin’ business,” he grunts out and he immediately knows it was the wrong response. besides eijirou, izuku knows him the best and after all they’ve been through, he doesn’t deserve this.

he never deserved any of it.

with that thought spinning around in his head, katsuki rubs a hand over his face with a quiet curse, leaning back against the headboard.

“fuck, i’m sorry,” it comes out as a mutter, but its effect on izuku is instantaneous. the previous hardness of his expression melts and he moves closer, his bushy brows furrowing together. katsuki can barely look at him but he does anyway, he makes himself. izuku deserves that much (he deserves so much more but one day at a time).

“we’re just worried about you,” izuku says quietly but without pity. never pity. “what’s going on?”

maybe it’s the way izuku’s freckled face reminds him far too much of eijirou’s own spattering of constellations or maybe it’s the fact katsuki hasn’t eaten in over fifteen hours, but he shatters in that moment, crystal tears filling up carmine eyes.

if izuku is startled at katsuki’s sudden change of emotions, he doesn’t show it, instead moving to envelop katsuki in his arms, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of his shoulder and let go.

katsuki tells him everything and by the end of it, his head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and his eyes are puffy and red, but he feels better than he did all week.

izuku just looks thoughtful from his place sitting near the end of katsuki’s bed, the pair parting somewhere in between katsuki’s admission of throwing up when seeing kaito and kirishima together and his accidental confession of stealing one of eijirou’s hoodies from one of the boxes (it sits right under his pillow, but izuku doesn’t need to know that).

“i’m really sorry, katsuki. that fucking sucks,” izuku ends up saying and katsuki’s initial reaction is anger. he spills his heart and guts out to izuku and all he gets is that sucks? but when he opens his mouth to give deku a piece of his mind, he realizes that it does suck. it sucks royal ass and there’s nothing he or izuku can do to fix it - at least not yet - but the acknowledgment, without any attempt to give advice or make everything better, does wonders for katsuki.

he pushes out a watery laugh, his lip ticking up into a smile - for the first time in weeks - and izuku lights up a little. “yeah. it really fuckin’ does.”

the smile izuku sends back is blinding and for the one thousandth time, katsuki is reminded why the symbol of peace is just that.

they talk for a little while longer before izuku forces katsuki into the shower. he takes a long time, letting the scalding hot water turn cold before he emerges to find that his childhood best friend has started cleaning up the mess that has become of his apartment.

katsuki watches on for a moment until izuku raises an eyebrow at him and offers him a trash bag which he takes wordlessly, a wave of affection crashing over him so quickly tears come to his eyes. he blinks them away but he doesn’t miss the knowing smile izuku sends his way.

the pair work together in relative silence until the apartment is spotless and katsuki’s stomach is grumbling something fierce. izuku makes his way to the fridge but is met with nothing but a half carton of eggs and a rotting smoothie in the far corner, a sticky note attached to the lid. he fixes katsuki with a small, sad smile before digging through his drawers for a takeout menu.

when the food arrives, katsuki finishes it in record time and he can’t tell if it’s the fact they remembered to make it extra spicy or if it’s because he literally can’t remember the last time he had an actual meal, but it’s the best thing he’s eaten in a long time.

after they finish, izuku turns on the television and they both spend the evening shit talking a d-list hero film until they fall asleep on the couch, bodies slumped against one another, holding each other up.

—

that night seems to have knocked something loose in katsuki because the next morning, he wakes with his first alarm and heads to the gym for the first time since his mandatory vacation. by the end of it, his arms are burning from quirk overuse and he’s completely wiped, but he feels more like himself than he has in ages.

he finally texts his friends back (barring one) and they greet him back with high levels of enthusiasm and concern. it feels good to be received back into the fold with the love he’d thought he’d lost, his cheeks hurting with how much he’s smiling as the messages roll in.

katsuki finishes out his sentence and goes back to work on the fourteenth day with an earnest apology to best jeanist and a new lead on the villain after pouring over the case files in between hyperintensive workouts at the gym. best jeanist is quietly impressed, but the squeeze to the shoulder he gives katsuki tells him he was more worried about him than he let on.

the next few weeks pass in a blur, but this time it’s more pleasant. he watches shitty movies with izuku, deletes instagram when he sees a photo of kaito and kirishima on holiday in america, starts attending a pottery class on the weekends he has off with mina and denki, continues to ignore the texts from eijirou that are becoming more and more infrequent as time goes on, smokes with hanta and shinsou one evening and laughs harder than he ever has, and life feels like it’s slowly gaining its footing once again.

he realizes three months after kirishima had moved out that he should probably start looking for a new roommate or downgrade to something more reasonable. he seriously considers the latter, but when he looks at the space he cultivated right after he graduated from ua, he realizes he can’t quite give the place up.

he posts an ad on craigslist that night.

the next time the group goes drinking (kirishima is suspiciously absent, despite his reentry into the country a few days prior — mina mentioned it), katsuki brings up his roommate problem and denki latches on, his cheeks pleasantly flushed from the wine he’s been sipping on.

“oh, oh! i know - i know the perrrrfeeccttt roommate for you,” he slurs, toying with the earring dangling from his ear and fixing his excited gaze on katsuki’s face. “they’re like.. the besttt, dude, you’d - you’d love them.”

the words are vague, but when katsuki opens up his mouth to ask for more details, denki’s eyes widen and he rushes off to the bathroom, a hand over his mouth, nearly tripping over the his platform shoes and maxi skirt.

the topic of the roommate is quickly forgotten then, but it resurfaces a few days later at pottery class.

katsuki is glaring holes into the side of his slightly lopsided vase on the pottery wheel, internally going through the steps to see where he went wrong. denki to the left of him laughs and chatters as he makes his, frankly, hideous ceramic, the clay warped beyond recognition.

something in his one-sided conversation brings his attention to katsuki who’s startled at the sound of his name coming from denki’s mouth.

“yo, you still looking for a roommate?” he asks, tilting his head as a strand of hair falls from the lengthening ponytail at the back of his head. without alcohol in his system, denki looks a little more hesitant to be approaching this topic, but does so when he isn’t met with a howitzer to the face.

the group doesn’t know much of anything, just that kirishima and katsuki aren’t talking, so they tend to tread lightly around the subject. katsuki appreciates it, genuinely, but he’s not going to shatter at the sound of eijirou’s name - not anymore. it hurts still, of course, but the pain has dulled to a steady hum that he can ignore if he tries hard enough.

“yeah,” he grunts, turning his eyes back at his vase. “why? you got someone in mind?”

denki grins, showing off the lightning tooth gems on his canine. “hell yeah! i’ll give you their number — they teach the watercolor class here on tuesdays and they’re so cool.”

he speaks about you with obvious adoration and katsuki belatedly wonders if the two of you are dating, but doesn’t voice this curiousity, instead wordlessly handing denki his phone to put in your contact as “ROOMIE” with what feels like a hundred paint emojis after it. katsuki smiles at his friend’s antics and can’t quite bring himself to change it.

the colorful contact remains untouched for about another week until he gets a rent notice and remembers the little paint palettes in his phone.

in the middle of his morning workout, he taps out a quick text to you, before tossing his phone to the side and promptly forgetting about it.

katsuki [09:27] : Hey. I’m Bakugou. Denki gave me your number. I’m looking for a roommate. You interested?

ROOMIE [10:16] : oh hey yeah i’m interested

ROOMIE [10:17] : do you want 2 meet td

ROOMIE [10:17] : i’m at the cafe on 5th n cherry

ROOMIE [10:17] : in the back

ROOMIE [10:19] : i’ll b here 4 a while

ROOMIE [10:19] : just come whenever

katsuki only sees the message at the end of his workout a half hour later. the number of messages in a row and less than ideal grammar makes him turn up his nose but he quickly taps out an affirmative, before dapping izuku up and heading to the showers.

he makes it to the cafe twenty minutes later, scanning the place to see what he assumes is you tucked away in the back corner, your table full with books, papers, paints, your laptop and at least four empty cups of coffee.

katsuki raises an eyebrow at the sight but walks over anyway, telling himself he’s doing denki a favor by meeting someone he thinks so highly of so he won’t feel too bad when he tells him it’s not going to work out.

you don’t look up when he stops at your table, too occupied with the piece of art in front of you, your face twisted up in intense concentration.

you’re quite pretty, he notes subconsciously, the hard set of your eyes and one track focus reminding him an awful lot of himself when he’s swept into a difficult case. your complete unawareness gives him more time to take you in, though, so he can’t even bring himself to be too annoyed.

you’re wearing a bright yellow chargebolt hoodie that clashes terribly with your garishly pink acid queen baggy sweatpants. a pair of cellophane socks cover your feet where they’re stretched out in the seat across from you and your shoes (made to look like the red ones from deku’s costume, jesus christ) sit haphazardly beneath the table, empty.

it’s such a bizarre sight, katsuki almost laughs — almost — but he doesn’t, instead opting to knock your feet off the chair opposite you so he can sit down.

“a big fan of heroes, huh?” he asks, the action coupled with his words startling you so bad, your knees hit the underside of the table, threatening to upend all the precariously balanced objects decorating the surface.

you look angry at first before you realize who it is and once you do, you just look relieved. it’s an unusual reaction, one katsuki rarely gets from anyone who isn’t actively in danger, especially strangers.

“you scared the absolute shit out of me,” you say tiredly, rubbing a hand over your face and sighing. katsuki watches you recognize your own impoliteness in real time, a sheepish smile spreading across your lips.

pretty.

“fuck, sorry,” you extend a paint splotched hand to him and he takes it, shaking it firmly before it falls back to his side, fingers tingling. “i get super into shit and completely forget where i am. kami gets onto me about it all the time. says i’m prime villain bait or some shit. i think he’s saying it most of the time to freak me out, but he might actually be right. don’t ever tell him i said that though.”

katsuki can’t help but stare at you as you ramble at him with the familiarity of someone who’s known him for months, not just a few minutes. it’s uncomfortable in a strangely nice way and he can feel his muscles loosen as the nerves melt away.

“aw fuck, i’m sorry again. i didn’t introduce myself.”

you give him your name, offering your hand out for him to shake once more which he does with an amused look painting his expression. you don’t seem to notice, your attention being grabbed by the piece in front of you again.

“i’m bakugou,” he offers after a moment of silence. you don’t even look up when you respond.

“i know. you sent me that text, remember? also you’re like, super fucking famous, dynamight,” you look up at him through your lashes, teasing, and heat unexpectedly blooms on the back of his neck.

what the fuck?

in a bid to gain back control of the conversation (and himself) katsuki asks, “what’re you workin’ on? dunceface said you’re a painter or some shit.”

your nose crinkles at the moniker, but you don’t say anything about it, instead turning the sketchbook around for katsuki to look at it.

the piece is stunning, but it’s visceral and he can’t help but lean back a little when looking at it, stomach dropping.

a deer lays on the ground, gutted, blood, guts and viscera pouring out of its abdomen as a figure just out of frame reaches inside and pulls out its heart.

katsuki is disgusted but intrigued and that feeling only amplifies when you press a finger to the painting and activate your quirk.

suddenly, the hand in the painting moves so realistically he flinches — he can hear the deer’s heart beat, can hear the way the blood trickles through the blades of grass, can smell the coppery tang and can feel the rush of spring wind blowing past his face.

it’s like he’s there, in the piece, and he feels both a little sick and also so alive.

“holy fuck,” he whispers, shivering, and you laugh, deactivating your quirk, bringing him back to the real world. the sounds of the cafe flood in, replacing the smell of blood and spring fields with coffee and loose tea leaves. he shakes his head, eyes a little blown when they look at you.

your expression is playfully amused as you bring your sketchbook closer to your person, resting your head on the palm of your hand.

“sorry,” you offer, but you don’t sound very sorry at all, “should’ve asked before i used my quirk on you. not everyone likes that shit.”

the words are so nonchalant but you look like you’re poised to watch him get up and leave, never looking back. katsuki doesn’t think he could leave if he tried.

“nah,” his voice feels raw so he tries to clear it but the feeling doesn’t go away. “you’re good. just surprised me, ‘s all.”

your mouth parts in muted surprise and you tilt your head, appraising him like you’re seeing him for the first time. katsuki feels surprisingly bare as you study him, but he doesn’t drop his eye contact, despite the heavy pounding of his heart from your intensity.

the pair of you sit in silence like that for a moment or two longer before you break it, asking him if he wants something to drink. before he can tell you he doesn’t drink coffee though, you flag down the waiter, ask for a hot cup of tea (“darjeeling or oolong,” you ask the waiter, not even sparing katsuki another glance, “he doesn’t look like he fucks with green tea.” it’s true. he doesn’t. his heart does a stutter step in his chest.) and when it arrives to the table, katsuki asks you to move in with him.

you agree.

—

the move in process is so quick and easy that when it’s done, it feels like you’ve been living there for years.

your belongings integrate seamlessly into his own. your books about art history and watercolor technique find their way onto his bookshelves filled with classic japanese literature and hero history.

(he comes home one day to see you propped up on the couch with a thick book on the origin of quirks and heroism in japan that you stole borrowed from his collection. he just cocks his head at you when you meet his gaze and you shrug.

“i’m not japanese, i don’t know any of this shit,” you say in way of an explanation. “besides, this is important to you. i wanna learn.”

you turn back to your book like you didn’t just completely shake the foundation of katsuki’s world for a moment and he stumbles off to the kitchen, heat burning at the tips of his ears.)

your plants find their way on every windowsill and while, once upon a time, it would’ve made him think of kaito and that sick, curling jealousy would wrap around his chest and squeeze, now? it just makes him think of you.

(it helps you can’t really keep them alive so nearly every other week the two of you are replanting something new in the pots and vases katsuki makes in pottery class.)

your favorite foods join his in the refrigerator and the two of you take your meals together more often than not. katsuki cooks and you clean, either eating on the couch while watching a documentary or at the dining room table as you talk and talk and talk.

(the first time katsuki misses dinner, you wait up for him, even forgoing your own meal to eat with him when he returns at 2 in the morning.

“don’t do that shit again,” he grumbles when he finds out what you’ve done, his scarlet eyes piercing your own. you shrug, unafraid, tired eyes trailing lazily over his tank top clad form.

“don’t tell me what to do,” you retort after a moment, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “i like eating with you.”

your honesty, unabashed and loud, always bowls him over and he has to take a sip of his ice water to feel steady again.)

the relationship between the two of you is easy, for once, and katsuki finds himself looking forward to coming home, to you and your witty comments, sharp intelligence, and your uncanny ability to see right through him.

he swears it must be a hidden quirk, the way you seem to just know — know what he wants and needs without even asking and your accuracy rate is pretty much unbeatable.

after a particularly bad mission where the property damage is unusually high and the civilian casualties match, the leading hero news journalist puts out a scathing piece about him, sending him into an emotional spiral.

you find him that afternoon, curled up in bed, staring at the window blankly. you crawl up in bed beside him and you don’t speak, don’t offer him coddling words of “everything’s gonna be okay,” or “you did the best you could,” because if that was katuski’s best, he doesn’t fucking deserve to be a hero. not at all.

but no, you don’t offer him empty words of placation. instead, you brush a lock of his hair off of his forehead and look at him with that all-seeing gaze, your expression neither soft nor hard, but understanding.

��you’re not gonna let that shit happen again, right?” you ask, tilting your head. katsuki shakes his head vehemently, the mere notion of the same amount of dead bodies on his watch sending a fire through his chest as he sits up.

“fuck no.”

“good. now come here, i painted something new and i need to see if i get ‘good job’ or ‘holy fuck that’s shitty’ eyebrows from you.”

and that’s that.

you’ve even given him a nickname and it inexplicably makes his skin feel tight, like he needs to tear it off and show you, like it’s a display of how you make him feel.

it’s a lazy sunday afternoon, one he’s required to take off by best jeanist, and he’s spent it next to you on the couch, listening to a few of your records while you paint a forest scene, a skittish doe front and center with rivulets of water streaming from beneath it.

occasionally, you’ll activate your quirk and katsuki can suddenly hear birds chirping and the creak of the wood before he’s back in your cramped flat, the sounds of city sounding below.

it’s jarring and yet, comforting, both your presence and the quirk, in a way that still doesn’t make sense to him yet.

“bambi, are you even listening to me?” the term of what he assumes is endearment startles him out of his thoughts and he eyes dart to yours, an amused expression on your your brow.

“who the fuck are you callin’ bambi?” in his shock, he can hardly conjure up the ability to sound pissed, confusion instead hijacking his words, making them come out soft and gruff.

“you, idiot,” you reply, like it makes all the sense in the world. “you’re like a deer to me. something in you is skittish, afraid and yet, you’re still so beautiful.”

what the fuck.

katsuki’s breath completely evaporates from his lungs and he feels like he’s going to pass out at your frank words. it doesn’t help that you don’t break eye contact or look embarrassed to have said something so, so… intimate.

he can’t even begin to parse through how to respond to something like that, but you know that too, flicking a little bit of paint water at him with the tip of your brush. he sees the olive branch for what it is and he grabs it with both hands, the annoyed sound rising from his throat on autopilot as you laugh, but your eyes are still so knowing.

he thinks about that day everyday after with sickening butterflies flapping around in his stomach and those only magnify when you choose to call him the new nickname every single chance you get.

katsuki would not dream of stopping you.

—

it’s about two months into you moving in with him and he’s going out drinking with the squad. he’s invited you about thirty times but every time you decline, citing that you’re behind on grading art projects and that show you were looking forward to is airing tonight.

(you’re a substitute art teacher at the local elementary school, a fact that genuinely shocked katsuki when he found out.

you’d laughed, wide and unapologetic at his reaction.

“i know i’ve got quite the potty mouth but i clean it up for the kids,” you say, eyes twinkling. “they kinda love me, i think, but it might just be the bob ross videos i put on for them every friday.”)

katsuki chooses not to push but he knows that he’ll end up cutting the night short, just so he can sprawl next to you on the couch and watch you paint.

you seem to know it too (how?? secret quirk, it must be) if the knowing look you give him isn’t enough as he goes to change.

when he returns to the living room, he’s clad in a nice black button down that’s unbuttoned enough to show off the strong planes of his chest and his thin gold chain, and a pair of black jeans that fit him and his tiny waist incredibly well.

katsuki knows he looks good in this outfit, but he finds himself uncharacteristically nervous as he stands in front of you, your eyes dragging down his body as slow as molasses, igniting the skin as though it was a physical touch.

your eyes meet his once again, molten and hot, and katsuki’s knees nearly buckle at the sight. he’s never seen you look like that - not at him, not at anyone, and he finds that he quite likes to be the center of your attention in this way.

“you clean up nicely, bambi,” you murmur, your voice a lower timber in comparison to your normal speech.

the blush spreads immediately to all visible parts of his body and he can fucking see you holding back a grin. “fuck off,” is all he can say before he spins on his heel, grabs his keys, and marches out the door.

it takes everything in him to continue walking, out and up to the train station and then to the bar, because all he wants to do is turn right back around, back to your home and back to that lava-like gaze you pinned him with earlier.

it’s you that’s racing around in his mind when he pushes the door open to the bar, but all thoughts come to a complete, grinding halt when he sees kirishima at their usual table, surrounded by all their friends and grinning like he’d never left.

he looks different - after all, it’s been about a year since katsuki had seen him last. his hair is longer and his roots are grown out, his skin has taken on such a warm glow and it, impossibly, seems like he’s gotten even bigger somehow.

it’s also impossible to miss the black band on his ring finger signaling a new engagement ring which he figures is what they’re meant to be celebrating tonight, eyes belatedly catching on the comically tiny “i’m engaged!” sash hanging around his chest.

the sight of kirishima sends the most heinous bolt of anxiety through katsuki and now he really just wants to call you to come get him and take him home, to make him forget all about his unrequited love. he moves backwards to do just that, but he’s already been spotted by kirishima himself.

fuck.

katsuki is frozen as kirishima’s happy expression falters when he meets his eyes, cycling through shock, disbelief, stark hurt and then utter relief.

he can see the way kiri’s mouth forms “katsuki” from a distance as he puts down his drink and moves towards him, his feet completely frozen until they’re standing face to face (face to chest, really) for the first time in months.

“hey,” kirishima says, hesitantly, breathlessly, as his hands flutter uselessly at his sides, like he wants to just pick katsuki up but is stopping himself. “can we, uh, can we go outside and talk?”

katsuki just nods because what else is supposed to do? and as they move out, he catches the worried gazes of their friends watching the pair of them from the table. denki and izuku, the latter of whom knows the most (everything) and the former who managed to figure most of it out on his own.

(“takes one to know one,” he’d said, bitterly when he’d confronted katsuki a few weeks ago about his unexplained mandatory leave all those months ago. katsuki was confused until kaminari flipped around his phone to reveal a photo of him and hanta pressed tightly together in an embrace that was strictly platonic and yet, horribly intimate.

katsuki’s lips drew together into a tight line as he settled against the brick wall kami was leaning against, trying to light the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

“you’re too good for plain face,” he says after a moment, attempting to channel his inner you, blunt and honest. “you’re gonna find someone better.” and just like all his thoughts as of recently, they’d flitted right back to you.

denki had watched his face carefully, cigarette unlit, a thoughtful look crossing his own expression.

“yeah,” he concedes, “i will, won’t i?”)

katsuki gives the pair of them a nod, holding up a hand to izuku who looks like he wants to follow them out of the bar, despite the pounding in his chest and the way he suddenly feels unsteady on his feet as they leave the building to step right back out into the cool, fall air.

kirishima’s stance is awkward and since neither of them smoke, they both just stand there, barely looking at each other and waiting for the other person to speak up first.

“fuckin’ hell- what’d you wanna talk about kirishima?” katsuki grits out, tired of the waiting game and suddenly, immediately, so exhausted. all he wants to do is be curled up beside you, with your all seeing eyes and gentle utterances of “bambi” in his ear.

the tact he’d lost in his haste to get this over with stings kirishima whose brows furrow in annoyance. “what do i want to talk about? i haven’t seen you in a year, bakugou, not since i moved out and you completely cut me off with no explanation whatsoever. i want to know why. what - what did i do wrong?”

his voice breaks on the last word and it sounds so sad, so uncharacteristically eijirou, that katsuki flinches, finally looking over at kirishima to see a broken, pleading man who lost his best friend for nothing more than silly, stupid feelings.

at once, katsuki feels all the fucking idiot asshole he is and it’s staggering how much that thought makes him feel like shit. he could’ve reached out, he could’ve, but he was so worried that he wouldn’t have been able to keep it together, spending time with kiri, and as time passed, the issue became that so much time had passed and he had no idea how to navigate this all over again.

he runs a hand over his face, leaning against the brick facade of the bar. “fuck,” he whispers, gravel crunching underfoot as kiri steps closer.

“i - i miss you, kats,” kiri’s voice comes out quiet and thick, “i got engaged and all i wanted to do was call you, but you weren’t there, you weren’t speaking to me and i-“ he takes a shuddering breath and katsuki’s eyes fill with tears.

“i was in love with you.”

the sounds of the street fade out as katsuki finally turns to look at kirishima, the tears falling down his cheeks.

“wha- bakugou, what?”

“i was in love with you and i couldn’t fuckin’ - i couldn’t do it. not to myself, not to you.”

kirishima face is drawn, pale and mouth gaping. his mouth closes, then opens again, then snaps shut, his head shaking in disbelief.

“why didn’t you - fuck - why didn’t you ever say anything, man?”

katsuki scoffs, the sound wet with grief. “are you shittin’ me? why the hell would i do that?”

kiri shrugs, long, dark lashes sweeping his cheekbones, leaving tiny wet marks. a year ago, the sight would’ve filled katsuki with rabid butterflies, but now it remains just an observation, one made passively and without thinking.

“i should’ve told you somethin’, i fuckin’ know that now, but i was - i was scared. scared of you hating me, scared of losing you. but i went and fucked that one up anyway, so,” katsuki laughs, self deprecating, and kirishima shakes his head vehemently, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him into a tight hug.

katsuki’s throat is tight as he gives into the embrace, burying his face into kirishima’s shoulder.

“you haven’t lost me, kats, and you never will,” kirishima whispers, pulling apart far enough to press his forehead to katsuki’s, red eyes meeting red. “i mean, who else is gonna be my best man?”

katsuki’s eyes widen and he takes a step back. “don’t fuck with me.”

kirishima shakes his head, a wet laugh escaping his lips. “not fucking with you bro. you’re my best friend. i want you there beside me on the happiest day of my life.”

after everything, after the year of no contact and the absolutely shitty way katsuki treated him, kirishima still wants katsuki by his side?

he’s honored, he’s out of his depth, he’s fucking nauseous, and he really wants to go home and tell you.

“i met someone,” he blurts and kirishima looks startled at the change of subject, but takes it in stride, a smile tugging at his face.

“that’s so great, dude, congrats! what’s their name?”

katsuki breathes it out and when he does, he realizes something, the force of it hitting him like a steel beam to the head.

“i think i’m in love with them.”

kirishima blinks, taking in katsuki’s tense form. he looks like he’s about to run away.

“i’m so happy for you, kats. really, i am,” kiri says, before being taken off guard yet again by the hug katsuki initiates.

“of course i’ll be your best man, shitty hair. i fuckin’ missed you too,” he murmurs and he hears kirishima sniffle. “i gotta go but text me and we’ll get lunch tomorrow or some shit, okay? i’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

he pulls away to see eijirou’s big wet eyes stare down at him with unabashed care and love, and katsuki feels his heart swell.

he got his best friend back and now it’s time to get you.

kirishima agrees to the meetup wholeheartedly and lets katsuki go with a hearty pat on the back and a shouted “good luck!” over the sound of the rain that started up during the last moments of conversation before going back inside the bar.

katsuki considers blasting his way to you, but he knows the optics would be incredibly unfavorable and his pr department would have his head, so he races to the train station instead and hops aboard, his mind racing with thoughts of you.

his hair is plastered to his forehead with rain by the time he gets to his apartment building and the button up is molded to his body like a second skin. he’s uncomfortable, of course, but he hardly pays it any mind because before he knows it, he’s unlocking and pushing open the door to your shared flat.

he’s home.

you startle from your place upside down on the couch, your paints and sketchbook cluttering the coffee table at the side while the tv plays an ancient looking cooking show quietly.

katsuki is bowled over by the sight, the weight of what he now knows as love sending him stumbling a little on his feet. he has to hold onto the doorjamb to keep his footing.

you sit up, observing, and you tilt your head. “you’re back early,” you comment, curiosity lacing your words.

he nods, not trusting his voice as finally steps past the threshold, kicking off his shoes and putting on a pair of hideous hawks themed slippers that you’d bought for him on your own birthday.

you hum thoughtfully before standing and disappearing down the hallway, katsuki’s eyes glued to you as you go. he can hear the sounds of you rummaging around in the bathroom, his feet frozen to the floor when you return, a fluffy towel in hand.

“you should shower, of course,” you say with a grin, opening up the towel and draping it over his head to dry it before moving on to the rest of his sopping body. “but i figured i’d keep you from dripping all over that ugly rug you’re obsessed with.”

katsuki doesn’t respond, can’t, and you don’t push or question, instead diligently wiping him down until he’s marginally more dry, eg, not actively dripping on the hardwood.

you move to go dispose of the towel and katsuki’s hand shoots out, not of his own volition, to hold you in place. it’s here he notices how close you’ve been standing to him, your breath wafting over his collarbones.

“bambi?” you question, unafraid of him, just lightly confused, but you don’t move away from him, somehow picking up his need for closeness without him saying anything, and he snaps.

“i love you,” he whispers, the explosion in his chest coming out in just those three gruff words, his carmine eyes boring into your own with an intensity you match.

a small smile spreads over your lips and your eyes light up, joy thrumming over your skin. “i love you too, katsuki.”

it’s perfect and katsuki can’t stop himself from cupping your face and pressing your lips together.

the kiss is gentle and chaste, your hands dropping the towel, coming up to rest on his forearms and holding him in place as you move your lips softly against his own.

katsuki feels like the rest of the world could implode right now, could be on fire or flooding or being overrun by villains and none of it would matter, not a single fucking thing because you’re in his arms and you’re kissing him back and you love him.

these thoughts ignite a hunger in him, a flame stoking in his belly, and he pushes further into the kiss, his hands sliding from their place on your face. one cups the back of your neck while the other slides down your back, pressing you firmly against the front of his body.

he’s almost giddy, having you like this, and he’s sure you can feel it because you’re smiling into the kiss like this is the happiest day of your life.

he thinks it’s his.

you continue trading kisses like this in your foyer, but it only escalates when your tongue flickers across katsuki’s bottom lip and you sigh softly, back arching against him.

katsuki has to break apart from you so he doesn’t consume you in that moment, but you don’t go far (you never do), your foreheads pressed together while you breathe in each others air.

“fuckin’ hell,” he chokes out and you laugh. “can i please - fuck - i need you.”

his honesty shuts you up quick and you nod, biting your lip. “take me to bed, bambi.”

and that he does.

katsuki’s hand finds yours and he pulls you towards his bedroom — you’ve been in there countless times, to watch movies, to nap, to read with one another, but of course, it was never like this.

the tension is thick but it’s not uncomfortable at all. you walk over to his bed and plop down on it like you’ve been in this situation a thousand times. the action soothes any residual anxiety katsuki might’ve had as he walks over to you, your heated gaze tracking his movements the entire time.

“take this shit off,” he grumbles, tugging at the garish all might crewneck covering your abdomen and you swat his hand away with an amused look.

he can feel his pout forming at your smile, but you just shake your head. “don’t tell me what to do, bambi,” but still, you raise grip the bottom of the thick fabric, lifting it up and over your head before letting it drop to the ground, leaving you bare.

or almost bare, if not for the objectively hideous, brightly colored, thin, cheap and lacey dynamight themed underwear covering your body.

“what the fuck is this?” katsuki doesn’t mean for his question to come out so reverent, but seeing you clad in his colors sends a bolt of heat down his spine so strong, he’s quite literally never been harder in his life.

you don’t seem to notice (but you always do), tilting your head at him with a grin playing on your lips. “they were on sale. didn’t think you’d ever see them.”

katsuki’s brows furrow at that, his hands tightening from their place on your hips. “who the fuck else was going to?”

you shake your head, like there’s something he isn’t getting. “no one. it’s always been you.”

“fuckin’-“ katsuki surges for you, claiming your lips with his with an urgency that had previously been lost. you respond in kind and this time, you’re letting out all these quiet gasps and sighs, writhing beneath him. he has to see you fall apart.

he reluctantly detaches his face from yours, kissing down your neck and sucking marks into the thin skin there, one of your hands sliding up to tangle into his hair, keeping him close.

a moan escapes him at the feeling of your fingers on his scalp, nearly getting lost in the mindless action, but he has to keep going. he makes it to your chest, laving his tongue over one of your nipples, flicking the hardened bud with the tip.

“f-fuck, bambi,” you outright moan and katsuki has to grind down against the mattress, his free hand sliding to pinch and pull at your other nipple.

your body can’t figure out whether to arch towards or away from his ministrations, which katsuki takes special delight in. you’re always so in control of yourself, even when you’re not, so it’s beyond rewarding to be responsible for your destruction.

“bambi - fuck - ‘suki, fuck me,” you groan and katsuki’s eyes roll back before he pulls off your nipple with a pop, his lips red and slick.

“nah.”

“nah?” you parrot, leaning up on your elbows with the closest thing he’s seen to annoyance directed at him written all over your face.

“nah. ‘m gonna make you come first.” katsuki grins, feral, and you shudder.

“get to it then, hero.” the moniker, while meant to be sarcastic and biting, just makes katsuki moan, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your (dynamight !!) underwear and tossing them to the floor.

he leans in, propping up one of your legs over his shoulder to bury his nose in the crease between hip and thigh, inhaling deeply. you smell sharp and tangy and so you that he couldn’t stop himself from taking a lick, entrance to clit, if he tried.

you sigh at that first touch of his wet muscle, melting in the bed while one hand remains buried in his hair and the other splays above your head. you watch him move with that intense look and you don’t look away so he doesn’t either.

he doesn’t look away as he slurps loudly at your entrance, tasting the wetness that’s gathered there with a pleased hum. doesn’t look away as he swirls his tongue around your clit, pulling a sharp gasp from your chest. doesn’t look away as he picks up pace, swirling, flicking and sucking until you’re chanting his name and “bambi,” your body tensing up as you buck your hips up into his face. doesn’t look away when you cum hard, soaking his lips and chin to which he eagerly groans, slurping up all you have to offer.

you pull him up to stop him from licking you through your aftershocks, kissing him hard once he gets to eye level.

“please,” you beg, eyes wide and urgent. who is he to deny you or himself?

katsuki stands and shucks off his boxers in record time, wrapping a hand around his cock that’s hard and leaking, the tip bright red.

your eyes eat him up hungrily, lingering on the way his precum spills over his knuckles with every slow stroke.

“i’m gonna suck your pretty cock tomorrow, preferably before breakfast,” you comment breathlessly. katsuki has to wrap his fingers around the base of his cock to keep himself from coming in that moment, taking a deep breath and glaring at you when you giggle.

“condom?” you shake your head, leaning back and spreading your legs to show off the wet mess he’s made of you.

“‘m clean and i’m in love with you. fuck me. now.” you can’t even sound commanding, not with the whine lying beneath your words, giving away how bad you want him. how bad you want this.

if the way katsuki’s cock legitimately jumped at your words is anything to go by, he obviously feels the same.

“goddamit, can’t fuckin’ say shit like that to me, jesus,” he rambles, crawling back onto the bed and notching the fat head of his dick into your entrance before leaning down to kiss you, open mouthed and messy.

he pushes into you when your tongue is halfway down his throat and he nearly chokes on it. you’re so soft and wet and velvety — he’s gonna cum so fucking fast, holy shit.

of course, you know it too, know him like the back of your hand because you squeeze even tighter around him and slide your hand down between your bodies to rub frantically at your clit.

“you - oh, god, you feel so fucking good bambi, fucking me so well, always taking care of me,” your words slur together as your eyes roll back, his hips slamming into yours at a quick pace.

he wants you to cum first, wants it more than anything, but the dirty talk coupled with the way you feel clenching around him has him shooting off faster than he expected, a low, long whine leaving him.

his hips stutter against yours and fireworks go off behind his eyelids. it feels like he’s coming forever as he humps into you and that feeling is only prolonged by you coming around him, your cunt clenching so tightly, you force him out, his spend spreading all over your mons and pelvis with a choked groan.

after another long moment, he slumps against you, exhausted and happier than he’s ever been.

you hum contentedly, wrapping your arm around him to pull him half on top of you, your body succumbing to the tiredness that’s so quickly overtaken you.

“i love you, katsuki,” you whisper, the phrase thick with sleep and emotion. katsuki feels burning at the backs of his eyes so he buries his face in the crook of your neck to hide, kissing your shoulder when the words don’t come.

you know, though. you always do.

—

“fuck, bambi, we’re gonna be late!” you screech from your (now) shared room, the sound muffled from where your head is buried in the closet.

by the door, katsuki is trying (and failing) to tie his bow tie, the red fabric remaining uncooperative in his hands. he groans in frustration, raising a hand to run it through his hair but stopping short when he remembers how you painstakingly fixed it for him a few hours ago.

“i know! it’s this stupid fuckin’ tie!” he shouts back, staring at himself in the little mirror you purchased, smiling a little despite himself when he remembers that trip to the home decor store with you, picking out new items that represent the both of you for your apartment.

speak of the devil, you step up behind him, looking gorgeous in a red, floor length dress, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“you look really good bambi,” you grin, fingers dragging down his abdomen to rest on his waistband, but his hands stop your downward motion while he gives you a halfhearted glare through the reflection.

“don’t start that shit,” katsuki turns around in your hold to face you, your hands immediately finding his undone tie. you work efficiently, face so scrunched up and focused that katsuki can only lift your face to press a kiss to your lips.

you melt, kissing him back easily and when you pull away, his lips are tinged with your lip products, marked by you. “you have a little something…” you trail off, wiping it away, not realizing how he stares at you like you’re the sun and he has no other choice but to revolve around you.

“marry me,” katsuki blurts, heat burning at the tips of his ears after a moment of you looking at him in utter disbelief.

he worries for a split second that you’re going to say no, but then your face splits into the most blinding smile he’s ever seen.

“are you proposing to me right now, bakugou katsuki?” you tease, fingers toying with the tie around his neck.

he nods, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you closer to him. “so what if i am?”

you laugh and nod, tears filling your lash line as the lighthearted facade drops to reveal you, earnest and honest and so so in love with him.

katsuki has no idea how he got so lucky, what he did in a past life to have you in his life and agreeing to be with him, in his life forever.

“of fucking course, i’ll marry you,” you say, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. “and i want nothing more than to make love to you on our brand new ikea sofa, but if we’re late to kiri’s wedding, he’s gonna kill me and make you watch.”

even the empty threat you make through your happy tears centers you in katsuki’s life, like you know that you are the center of his world, of his entire universe. you always know, know him better than he knows himself and there isn’t anyone on this whole earth who he’d rather be with than you.

he doesn’t tell you any of this though, blinking back tears instead and agreeing with a laugh, before finally ushering the pair of you out the door.

the thing is, katsuki doesn’t have to tell you.

you already know.

#bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #bnha bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha #katsuki x reader #katsuki x you #bakugou x you #kirishima eijirou #kirishima x bakugou #bnha smut #bnha angst #hurt/comfort #[ baby daddy : katsuki ]#[ instant nut : n/sft ]#[ i <3 writing : my works ]

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decolonize-the-left · 3 months

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DIVEST FROM BANKS FOR PALESTINE

.....Correct me if I'm wrong but allies to Israel would have no money to move around and spend if we and banks have no money to move around for them right?

Even the US treasury needs a way to offer collateral for the billions they give to countries like Israel. Do you know what that collateral has been thus far? Your paycheck. The future paychecks of babies that can't even talk yet. That's how they'll pay all this off.

The government has been giving us the biggest fuck you that they could. Let's return the favor.

"yeah but the banks-"

Have been bailed out every time they've asked for it since I've been alive. They love debt when they aren't the ones paying it. They'll know how heavy the weight of their arms dealing is. There's a reason they have been phasing out paper checks and money- they can't move money they don't have and digital bank accounts can't see the paper money in your drawer ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So yes absolutely keep boycotting.

And we should pull all our money out of Major Banks.

It's incredibly accessible for most people who already have a bank account, even if you can't protest or strike. And you don't have to miss any work.

So let's hit em where it hurts.

Banks (from this list of Banks that heavily fw Israel)

Citibank

Bank Julius Baer & Co

Bank Lombard Odier & Co

Banque Pictet & Cia SA

BNP Paribas Israel

CBH Compagnie Bancaire Helvetique S.A.

Dreyfus Sons & Co.

Hyposwiss Private Bank Geneve SA

JP Morgan Chase Bank N.A.

Silicon Valley Bank

Union Bancaire Privee

HSBC

Barclays

BNP Paribas Israel

State Bank of India

Other banks that have supported the genocide

Goldman Sachs

Bank of America

Wells Fargo

Blackrock

AXA

Capital One

RBS

Marks & Spencer

Tesco

Scotia Bank

Bank of Montreal

No, you don't have to cancel your direct deposits (most places in the USA won't even pay you without an account anyway). But you should drain your account ASAP. Don't let the money sit in your bank. Pull it out and use cash for everything you can. Don't put money in the bank unless you need to.

The point is just to keep as much money as you can out of banks for as long as you can.

Yeah it's gonna be harder to order online which may be inconvenient until we readjust but thats good.

It'll be a natural way for the boycotts to evolve.

A lot of fighting in the Red Sea is being done because of how much money the USA, UK, etc have to lose if they can't get their products on time. The Houthis turning ships away cost these countries millions every time. If there are less ships to turn away cuz people aren't ordering stuff from overseas then Good.

Yeah we could have an organized day to do this but...why??? It's accessible, it's free, and the people across the globe experiencing a genocide right now, from north America to Africa to Palestine don't have the luxury of waiting a few months for us to spread the word and organize.

If you see this share it. Copy/paste, repost, retweet, idc. Spread like wildfire pls

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fyodorloveclub · 1 year

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.˳⁺⁎˚ LOOK ME IN THE EYES AND CONFESS YOUR LUST

✧ pairing: brother!bachira x little sister!reader

✧ warnings: dark content, (i)ncest, minors DNI. exhibitionism, risky places, dubcon, vaginal sex, creampie. characters aged up, both reader and bachira are in their 20's

✧ notes: my entry for the lovely @killsaki's family ties collab!! also my first time writing for blue lock!! much more to come hehe likes and rbs very much appreciated :)

✧ word count: 1.7k

dark content disclaimer: this is entirely fiction with absolutely no reflection of reality! i do not condone this nor any other dc i write, pls just block or unfollow if you don't like it, and do NOT report or leave hate comments please!

“Meguru, this is not a good id-” your hushed words were cut off as Bachira pressed his hungry lips against yours, forcing your back against the unfamiliar mattress.

As much as you tried to protest, you couldn’t help but melt into your brother’s touch, shoulders relaxing as you threw your arms around his neck and finally reciprocated his kiss. Bachira wastes no time, using his knee to spread your legs open, and rub his toned thigh against your core. You got lost in the pleasure briefly, letting out the tiniest of moans before you heard a thump downstairs, gasping as you pushed Bachira away from you.

“This is so fucking stupid,” you whispered again, leaning your head against your brother’s chest, still searching for his comfort even in moments like this where you wanted to wring his neck.

Bachira refused to quit, pushing you back against the pillows so he could mouth at your neck, freeing one of his hands to massage you over your panties.

“You act like you hate it, but you still get so wet from me,” Bachira taunted, the signature singsong nature of his voice matching the stupid grin on his face.

All you could do is groan – he was right. It didn’t matter that he had manhandled you all the way up the stairs of your house to throw you into your parent’s bed in hopes of humiliating you, your panties were still soaked from the thought of your brother’s hands on you.

This was all because you had asked him to chill out, at least a little bit. Bachira had always had a thing for exhibitionism and risky places, absolutely loved the high he got from almost getting caught balls deep into his little sister. But he had started to get a little too risky.

Your and Bachira’s relationship had started out pretty innocently – at least as innocent as sexually pursuing your brother could be, anyway. It all began a few months ago when you had let yourself into Meguru’s room to give him his laundry, only to find him shooting white spurts into his fist as he moaned your name. Your name. He invited you in, amber eyes full of mirth, to come help him clean up the mess with your mouth.

First, it was just blowjobs and fingering in the darkness of your bedrooms with the door locked. You were a virgin, so it was okay for your big brother to be three fingers deep into your cunt as he mouthed at your clit, he was just showing you how your future lovers ought to treat you!

But you never thought you’d go further than that, never thought you’d have real sex. Until you did. Shitfaced after a party thrown for a big win for Bachira’s soccer team, he quietly led you to an empty bedroom and laid you down, jumping at the opportunity to slide right into your unresisting pussy. And even though you were drunk and more easily influenced than normal, you didn’t put up a fight – you even found yourself moaning for more, more, more.

Once that line was crossed there was no going back. You fucked whenever Bachira pleased, and wherever Bachira pleased. On a bench in the locker room, in between stacks of books at your university library, behind trees in public parks. But his favorite places were anywhere in your house, specifically when your parents were home. Bachira liked bending you over the kitchen counter in the middle of the night as your parents slept soundly upstairs, shoving his cock down your throat while the two of you were “washing up” for dinner, and fingering you under the blankets as you all watched TV together in the living room. There was no surface in that house the two of you hadn’t fucked on.

The thrill of not just anyone, but your parents finding out the two of you were fucking excited Bachira so much he could almost cum untouched. He was getting too reckless, though. There were only so many excuses as to why grown siblings constantly slept in each other’s beds and shared blankets, and it didn’t help that he was always hanging all over you. Brothers don’t spoon their sisters from the back and kiss their necks as they cook breakfast.

So you gently approached Bachira, and put it in the most gentle words possible to ask him if he could tone it down just a little bit. You weren’t proposing an end to your activities, just to slow down – and keep it in more private areas. Bachira didn’t take it well.

And that’s how you found yourself in the sheets of your parents’ bed right after they had left for work, mattress still warm from where their forms had been resting not too long prior. You knew it was futile to try and resist Bachira when he got like this, when his eyes went wide and his pupils blew as he narrowed his eyebrows, setting his sights on you – his prey.

He wouldn’t listen as you tried to tell him how bad of an idea it was.

“You know Mom always forgets shit and has to come back,” you whined as he grabbed your wrists and kissed your neck. “And I’m almost positive that’s her house key on the dresser, ‘Guru.” You shuddered at the thought of your innocent mother walking into her own bedroom just to grab her key only to find her son rutting desperately into her daughter.

“That’s what makes this fun,” Bachira giggled, biting your throat.

His face was partially obscured by his morning-mussed fringe as he leaned back to yank your sleep shorts off, but you could still see his smirk that had yet to melt away.

“God, you’re so fucking wet, love,” he groaned, running his fingers up and down your slit. “About to make such a mess all over Mom and Dad’s sheets.” You just hid your face in your hands.

You almost lost all your inhibitions as Bachira spread your legs with his rough palms to spit on your pussy and run the flat of his tongue from your clit to your hole, the lewd sounds of his saliva and your slick almost drowning out the anxious thoughts that rang in your ear. The bedroom door was open.

His tongue swirled around and flicked at your throbbing clit as he slid two fingers knuckle deep into your hole, curling and pumping in the exact ways he knew would make you come undone. Bachira had you and your body memorized by heart, and he weaponized that knowledge.

But everything was forgotten as he sunk his thick cock inside you, crying out as he stretched you open, both hands fisting the sheets. You almost drooled at the sight of his toned, muscly athlete body flexing as he thrusted into you quick but methodically.

The yellow tufts of hair at the base of his neck curled up at the ends as they were drenched in his sweat, chest heaving as he fucked into you with primal hunger and desire. You could tell the excitement of fucking in your parents’ bed was driving Bachira absolutely wild, his cock throbbing inside you.

“A-ahh, Meguru, feels so fucking g-good,” you whined, unable to deny the pleasure overwhelming your body as his cock rubbed against your sweet spot and kissed your cervix with every thrust.

Bachira only grinned at the praise. “Want more, baby?” Your frantic nod was all he needed.

Suddenly he was flipping you over, pressing your face into the pillow as he pushed back into your sopping wet cunt, marveling at the thick layer of cream that coated his cock. His hand intertwined with yours, squeezing your fingers as he fucked you deep into the mattress. With this position, presenting your ass for him like this, he can see the exact way your hole struggled to stretch around his length, the ring pulsing as it tugged with every thrust in and out. It was nicer for you too, being unable to see the bedroom door wide open, a disgusting reminder of what could be found out.

“Can’t last much longer like this, darlin’,” Bachira groaned into your ear, biting the lobe. “Not when you’re taking me so good like this.” You could only whine in response, your fingers tightening around his own. “Can I come inside you? You’ve never let me before, would love to see what it’s like.” You couldn’t see him, but you could hear the devilish smirk in his voice. Yet again, words had failed you, nodding into the pillow.

Bachira’s pace impossibly quickened as he chased the tightening feeling in his gut, leaving you gasping for air as his bony hips slammed into your ass over and over. His body stuttered and he gasped as he came, coating your walls with cum as he groaned into your ear. The second he pulled out you could feel it gushing out of your hole, dripping down your thighs and pooling onto the sheets. You hoped your parents either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t question why you had decided to strip their bed and wash their sheets for them.

You leaned into your brother’s grasp as he gathered you into his arms, pressing your head against his warm chest. His fingertips danced up and down your back, pressing a kiss into your mussed hair.

“Love you so, so much, Meguru,” you sighed, kissing his chest.

“Love you too, darling. This is what happens though when you try to push me away,” he cooed, a slight edge to his voice.

“I know. I won’t do it again, I promise. I love you.” Your words were garbled as fatigue consumed you. Surely your parents wouldn’t mind the two of you napping in their bed together?

Bachira only smirked as he eyed the forgotten house key on your mother’s dresser, knowing the two of you didn’t have much longer to get decent and get the hell out of there. But that’s just the way he liked it.

#bachira x reader #blue lock x reader #bachira smut #blue lock smut #bllk x reader #bllk smut #bllk fanfic

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vennilavee · 10 months

Text

vi. sword & shield

blood&pearls mlist

wc: 4.1k

summary: you are a curious creature, trying to explore the depths below and the lands above. your curiosity may get you in trouble with a world that you do not understand.

warnings: monsterfucking, blood play, demon sex, mermaid sex, mentions of violence and drowning

a/n: omg it has been almost 2 months since i updated...please accept 4.1k of word during this sukuna-less time...pls rb/comment if you enjoyed!

Despite Sukuna’s protections and charms over this domain, it does not stop others from visiting your lake. Word has spread to the tiny villages on the outskirts of the forest that there was a magical pond where the water was always sparkling and the sun always shone on it.

It’s become something of legend, like the elusive fountain of youth. All you have to do is offer a curl of your lips and a coy look over your shoulder for curious townspeople to come visit you bearing gifts.

You’ve received foreign fruits flowing out of gold encrusted plates- cherries, persimmon, and sweet peaches. Enough for you and enough for the fairies several times over. They come with shining jewels and glittering gems just for one look at you.

It means nothing to you but nevertheless, you smile sweetly with your fangs bared.

You toss the jewels in the sea, only for them to sink to the bottom where only dead sailors would ever cross paths with the hidden treasures.

The white-haired man comes in the summertime. His hands are empty but bright blue eyes burn into you even as you hide under the surface of the lake. Something about him has you hesitant in your own home, but you’re no coward.

You know he can see you with those striking eyes. Sukuna has told you very little about the jujutsu world, but you know enough now to know what those awful eyes mean for you.

Perhaps you should have taken him up on his offer to stay in the shrine. Instead of being “stubborn” and “bull-headed”, as he had so kindly said to you several evenings ago-

“If you spent more than a second doing anything other than laying bare in the sun, you would understand the dangers of-”

“I do not simply fill my time by laying bare in the sun! I am a thing of many distinct interests.”

“I do not care, girl. You will stay in the shrine until I sort these fools out.”

“I will stay in the water for as long as I wish.”

Trying to busy yourself with lining the shoreline of the sea with your shiny shells, you ignore the gaze of the man you do not know. He watches with several others near the trees, far enough away from you. You hear their whispers, their desire to understand and harness the powers of the sea in their own self-made crusade. The fairies stay hidden as well but you can hear them buzzing softly in the trees, shielding themselves from the sudden influx of strange energy over the course of many moons.

Hues of bright, celestial blue haunt you even as you lurk in the comfort of the murky depths.

Your heartbeat is jarring in your ears as his tongue parts your wanting lips while the air in between you and Sukuna ignites. There is no space between you, not where his chest meets yours or his hand cradles your cheek to face him. There is no space between you, and the rhythm of your breaths nearly makes you combust.

You claw at him with razor sharp nails that manifest from nothing, rivulets of blood running down his back.

All you listen to is the fervent racing of your heart, the way it sings and roars with each pass of Sukuna’s touch on your glistening skin. You chase the roaring in your ears with more, more, more- arms twisting to reach for him, lips panting for him, body bending to him…

Until he squeezes your throat and murmurs for you to stop.

Smaller hands push against his solid, marked chest to no avail. You try to intertwine your tongue with his and coil yourself around him, desperate for Sukuna to just look your way, give you an inkling of attention.

But he holds you still with a firm hand squeezing your cheeks tightly.

“Stop,” Sukuna says quietly but roughly.

“Why?” you mumble petulantly into his mouth. Your eyes flash red for just a second, the same shade of red as his own eyes.

Sukuna raises an eyebrow and holds you at arm’s length as if he is committing you to memory. Something trickles from his shoulder down his back and to his surprise, he finds blood dotted on his fingers when he reaches behind.

You gasp, lurching forward to reach for him, just to gasp again when you glance at your hands.

“What,” you mutter, “What is this?”

Your nails are long, the same length as Sukuna’s. Painted the same color as Sukuna’s nails as well.

“What magic is this?” you ask again with wide, frantic eyes, “There is this inferno inside me-I need-”

The erratic beating of your heart pierces your ears, leveling your head with a rough buzzing noise. You wonder if Sukuna can hear it. Hear how desperately your heart beats just for a wayward glance, a stray touch of his. Your sharpened nails claw at his skin, bright red blooms emerging with your touch. He barely flinches as rivulets of blood stream down his chest.

His lips are rough against yours as he harshly tries to quell your rising restlessness. Sukuna brings you to his bed, laying you upon it with an unceremonious thump. You reach for him when he pulls away for half a second.

“What have you done to me?” you whisper. It is not an accusation, but merely a curiosity. No man has ever made you feel as if you were the embodiment of a hurricane, raging and unleashing anger and impatience at the rest of the world. He is the eye of the storm, the only burning balm that can simmer you down at this moment.

But Ryomen Sukuna is no common man, as you have come to learn.

Many nights have been spent in this very bed, where he’s bent you over with the strength of ten seas in one hand. You have felt this burning before, the yearning before it takes over your soul completely. When his cocks are slick with your wetness, when all of his eyes are trained on you.

You had never felt as bare as you did when Sukuna watched cocks sink into your warmth, or when he watched his own cum drip out of you and onto his silk sheets.

Sometimes your magic leaks out and converges with his, twisting and tangling together. Scarlet and midnight meld together as his name escapes your lips in soft, breathy whines.

This time, it’s his back against the cool sheets and your nails digging into Sukuna’s chest as you throw your head back and moan freely into the air. Sukuna holds your hips loosely with his bottom pair of hands. The top pair rises to twist your hardened peaks. It’s as if you feel nothing and everything- his touch is blazing, small flecks of fire lighting up your shimmering skin.

You breathe him in and out. Sukuna is decadent in a way that is comparable to sin, something spicy and delicious sitting right under the artery that slithers up his neck.

You give Sukuna no opportunity to take control from you- placing his hands exactly where you want them and lacing your fingers through his as you rock your hips against his hardened cocks. You tease yourself, uncaring that you are teasing him as well.

Sukuna does not miss how your eyes flash red when he attempts to ease his cocks into you. You wish to take your time. To indulge, as he’s taught you to many times in this very bed.

Your teeth bite into his neck with a sigh as you sink onto him as you take a moment to adjust. It is only a moment, just to relish the feeling of being completely, utterly full. A shiver rushes down your spine, your chest heaving as you keep him nestled with your warmth.

The moon shines on your face, making your eyes look iridescent. As if you’ve been possessed by an angel. Or a demon, the one lying beneath you, in surrender to your touch.

You sink your teeth into his chest and sharp fangs pierce skin unforgivingly. You can feel his gaze on you as blood drips down your lips and onto your neck. Tilting your head, you press a hand to his left side, where his heart should be. You apply pressure as your nails, an extension of him, shred the skin there as well.

But you stop and lick your fingers, Sukuna’s blood fresh and ripe on your tongue.

“Take it,” he rasps, holding onto your wrist tightly. The King of Curses never begs, but for you, it’s nearly on his tongue.

You consider it, allowing your fingers to ghost over the silence of his heart before squeezing down once more. Sukuna groans loudly before repeating the command to you again.

“No,” you reply easily, “Maybe next time.”

Instead, you sink your teeth into his neck once more and the fruit of death is ripe on your tongue. You pull one of his thick digits into your mouth, coating specks of his own blood on his finger with your lips. The vibrations of your hum resonate through him and his hot, sticky cum shoots inside of you.

A moonlit halo covers your head, as if you are a goddess looking down upon him and he is at your altar on his knees.

Sukuna comes to you hours past midnight, when he knows you will be awake and moonbathing on your precious rock. He knows you will be waiting for him with open arms and glistening eyes that contain the depths of the ocean that you come from.

But this time, you’re nowhere to be seen. He can sense your energy, but he just can’t see it.

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. How juvenile, playing games and hiding from him when you know that it is futile.

A gentle laugh and buzzing breaks the silence of the night. It must be those pesky fairies flying around and planting silly ideas in your head.

“Something must be disrupting your thoughts,” comes your voice from far away, but he hears it echo, “It has been some time since the king graced me with his presence, after all.”

“Not long enough, I suppose,” he replies, wading into the water to meet your outstretched arms.

Sukuna barely takes several strides before you part the water for him to join your embrace. It must be a whirlpool, the way the water spins and suctions you both down deep into the dark abyss.

He blinks to adjust to the sudden darkness but you illuminate the seafloor with your glowing, honeyed eyes and bright green-blue scales. Sukuna has never seen you in your true domain but when you smile at him with sharp fangs and wrap your tail around him, he wonders why you willingly gave up this power.

Only a simple flick of your fingers pulls him closer to you with an unseen force. He understands now. Your heartbeat is one with the heartbeat of the sea.

Not only have you made a home out of the meadow surrounding the water, but you’ve made a home out of the water itself. It is silent here, as if every hidden creature waits for your command. In spite of the darkness, tiny shining corals and flowers live and thrive near the cave at the bottom of the ocean floor that you frequent.

You smile at him with warm cheeks and eager hands before swimming away and letting your tail nearly whip him in the face.

“Don’t get lost, darling. You’re in my domain now.”

Your sweet voice is loud in his head. Sukuna rolls his eyes but follows you towards the cave, nevertheless.

Inside your cave, the air is warm and completely dry. The water does not touch this patch of underwater land, somehow. Perhaps Sukuna does not know as much of your powers as he presumed.

You beckon him forward and gesture for him to sit on the ground, where shells and rocks line the entrance of the cave.

“I am a god,” Sukuna hisses, his eyes flashing, “You demand a god to kneel before you?”

“You have kneeled before me many times before,” you reply easily, “Don’t hesitate just because you exist in my domain. I do not demand you to do anything that you do not already want to do, dear.”

It suffices and he sits beside you as your magic flows and presses against Sukuna’s cursed energy. Dark blue swirls poke and Sukuna’s feet, surging around his broad shoulders and caressing the lines on his face.

You laugh when his own energy wraps and curls around you far more roughly than your magic.

“Come. I wish to show you around my home.”

*****

Time does not pass normally underwater as it passes on land. There must be something cosmic about the tinkering of time here, because Sukuna has certainly made a home in between your legs for the better part of the night. Surely, the sun must be rising in the east by now. But it does not matter, because the only radiance he needs is right here.

His tongue is shiny with your desire, pearls dotted on your lips as a gift to him. The seam of the mouth on his stomach splits open in a menacing smirk to lick your heated skin.

Quiet whines echo off of the walls of the cave, reverberating into the water in waves. Sukuna braces his lower arms against your impatient hips as a furrow forms over your eyebrows.

The image of the dark, thick lines on his face reflects in your opaque, half-lidded eyes. His thumb is warm against your cheek as he drinks you in. Your eyes are different than they are above water- still dark and deep, but sheer. And your pupils have shrunk, barely visible to his gaze. All he can see is a sea of darkness illuminating your eyes.

Sukuna is once again reminded that you are not a fragile human. His fingers are firm on your throat and you tilt your head to the side for him to press down harder.

“You may take me,” you murmur serenely, your smile a song, “I wish to show you something.”

In the caves, your lips and your words are coy and fleeting, much like how you behave when you remain perched up on jagged rocks in the ocean without a care in the world. Waiting for an untoward sailor claiming innocence to come your way.

But you have brought him into the sea, where you glow like the seashells and coral delicately placed at the bottom of the seafloor. With bright eyes and shimmering skin, you do a dance with him. Your tail wraps around, closing around him as golden warmth spreads-

Air does not escape his chest and water does not enter it. Something breathes for him, though he is not sure what.

“Come, follow me,” you say. Except your voice is not spoken, it is in his head. It is… jarring, as if you have access to the fabric of his brain matter.

Your tail whips around him, parting the water with a force equivalent to a domain expansion. The only thing he can see in the murky waters is the light of your sharp fangs as you beckon him to follow you.

Moonlight glistens on your tail as rays from above pierce through the water. The darkness is illuminated with the blessing of the moon. And in the middle of it all, there you are. Floating, with your eyes fixated on him. Nothing moves here and yet everything moves. In the place where life bloomed at the bottom of the ocean floor all those millenia ago.

Even as you both float downward towards the blue ocean floor, the light shines on you. Making you a beacon in the abyss.

The water wraps around him warmly like a cocoon when you press yourself closer to him. You cup his face with your hands and he is curious when he sees that the skin connecting your fingers is webbed.

Is this the true version of you, with your endless tail? Or is it the version of you on land, with your endless legs? Perhaps it does not matter.

Sukuna hears you in his head. Closer… just a little bit closer…

His lips are on yours in half a breath that he does not need to take, hands dipping down to feel the shape of your tail in his palms. His upper pair of arms wraps around your waist as a hand circles your neck to hold you closer. As you wish.

The breath from his lungs is stolen by you as your fingers brush against his neck, where his skin pulses suddenly.

“What have you done to me?” Sukuna asks, though no words come out of his lips.

You only smile at him and reply in his mind, “You are able to breathe in the water now.”

The slits on his neck are foreign, but Sukuna pays it no mind. Instead, he chooses to focus on you and presses his tongue to your neck.

You shiver, a whine escaping your lips. But he hears it.

“This is sensitive for you,” he states, his lip curling into a sneer.

“If you need to ask, then perhaps you should continue.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes and runs his fingers over the slits on your neck. You let out a little moan and he smirks, clearly satisfied. Replacing his lithe fingers with his lips, he grins wolfishly when you press yourself against him immediately.

It’s a rare smile from him, one more animalistic than anything else.

Your tail wraps around him, the tender parts of your fins tickling his thighs and his abdomen. Sukuna does not know where to look- at the slits on your neck, or the larger slits on your torso that are glistening with your wetness, or the way your scales shimmer and move. As if wanting to part for something hidden in the crevices of your body.

Instead, he allows for you to wrap your fins around his cocks and lazily move up and down, up and down, until he is fully erect. You don’t break eye contact but if he was a lesser god, he may shirk at the sheer lust blown in your eyes.

“Does this feel nice for you, Sukuna?”

Sukuna does not have to answer for you to already know the answer, and you both know it. He feels weightless, stood still by the power of time as you stroke his cocks languidly. You pull him in closer to press kisses to the slits on his neck and his hips abruptly buck into yours.

“I do not like surprises,” Sukuna mutters.

He surrenders control to you, surrendering to the foreign feeling that bursts in his chest. He groans in your ear, cocks moving of their own accord.

“You were made for me,” you murmur, “Are you going to cum for me, darling?”

He shakes his head, wanting to savor the moment and eyeing the slits on your torso. You seem to understand and shoot him a smug grin. Unraveling your tail from around him, you press yourself closer so that his cocks rub against the silvery slits molded into your skin. You’re unable to stop a sharp moan from leaving your throat as he ruts against you.

The watery friction is nothing that he has ever felt before, and yet it reminds him of the warmth of you when you are laid on his bed and he enters your cunt mercilessly. You are everywhere all at once.

Sukuna impatiently swallows your moans with his tongue and feels his fangs pierce your lips. The drops of your blood are honeyed and savory while his fingers toy with the slits on your neck.

Your eyes are hooded and you pulse with the heartbeat found at the bottom of the sea.

“More, Sukuna,” you mumble, “Faster, want you to cum for me like this, want to see you cum all over me-”

With a sharp gasp, you cum harshly and Sukuna greedily licks your wetness before his own cum lands at the slits of your torso. You look at him curiously, offering him a disarming smile and infinite eyes.

“As I said. You may take me.”

The hidden moon is in the company of a thundering downpour on the night that they come. You are quietly arranging your rocks and your seashells when your ears perk up. Multiple voices and sets of footsteps echo as the sounds carry through the trees. It is jarring in the stillness of the night, and something dark washes over you.

The fairies look at you urgently, then at each other before immediately skittering away. They tell you to leave, that they have weapons and great powers, greater than you’ve ever seen. But they do not know the ruler of the sea.

And where will you go? This is your home now.

You stay hidden below the lake with your teeth bared, waiting for piercing blue eyes to find you just below the surface where your world splits open.

When you were a child, your mother told you that your magic was divine, given to you by Ryuujin himself. Perhaps her intent was for this knowledge to humble you. Instead, it made you wish for more than just a life in the sea. You wonder if she regrets instilling the belief that you are touched by Ryuujin.

The legends say that every millenia, there is a chosen creature of the sea. One who can unite the warring land and sea, or one who can destroy both.

If Ryuujin chose you for something greater than yourself, something meant to end the maelstrom that contains humans and curses, you cannot bring yourself to care. All you care about is protecting the lands in which you live so that you may continue to live there.

But your protective wards cannot stay up forever, even with Sukuna’s cursed energy to enhance yours.

Perhaps if you were less stubborn, less foolish, you may have seeked refuge in Sukuna’s shrine. Nonetheless, when they come, they come in a blinding blaze of glory in hues of reds and blues and purples. Trying and failing to break down your protective wards.

The power of the white haired clan’s energy nearly surpasses Sukuna’s own energy. You shiver.

Perhaps you will simply drown them instead.

“You should have listened to me, but instead you choose to remain insolent,” the great demon king of these lands says. You expect that anyone else would be fearful to be in his throne room while he speaks to you with death on his tongue and vexation in his eyes. But not you.

“I will not live in fear-”

“You are tempting fate each time a Gojo sorcerer comes your way,” Sukuna seethes, his face only inches from yours, “Do you think that drowning them will be the last of it?” But you do not back down, sending him a poisonous glare of your own.

“Are you not the king of curses? Won’t you do anything about them?” you taunt him with a smirk.

“They will not rest until they have you,” he hisses, “Them and every other clan-”

“Human matters are of no concern to me! Why should I hide when I have every right to be here as much as them? As much as you?”

“You will get yourself killed for your arrogance.”

You scoff. “You lecture me about arrogance?”

Sukuna forces you to look at him, taking your chin in his large hand.

“You are not safe here. Why do you continue to disobey and stay here?”

“If you have not figured it out by now, then you are just as foolish as the humans you claim to reign over.”

His eyes flash and he drops his hand as if you’ve burned him. His energy angrily rises, swirling around you and prodding your skin.

“If you refuse to accept my protection here, I cannot help you. You are a girl in a world of gods and monsters. Go home, girl. Go back to the sea. ”

There is none of the wordless affection in his eyes that you are accustomed to, only cold distaste and fury. His words are poisonous and you have only heard this level of vitriol pointed at others. Never at you. You pull away from him immediately, feeling your hardening heart sinking to the ground.

You are certain your heartbreak is written all over your face. After all, it is not the first time that you have been devastated by a man.

“You are afraid,” you say softly, “You are afraid that you are not the god you think yourself to be. And you are afraid of me.”

You turn your back on him before Sukuna has the chance to drive the bloody knife further into your spine.

tags: @kentobean @misslovingpearl @aeanya @threadbaresweater @aboveasphodel

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #jjk x reader

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inklore · 8 months

Note

I saw you post about how people should like to comment on writers work but I slightly sympathise bc some people are embarrassed and/or think that their comment/reblog would be useless. But more people are coming to this app to read a fic like another wattpad or an ‘easier’ ao3 instead of using their acc to post what they like yk

Srry for the rant <333

no need to apologize for the rant it’s always welcome here if it’s done in kind and yours was <3

i get what your saying about people coming to the app thinking it’s like all the other reading platforms but if we’re being honest i’d say ao3 is easier, better selection, plus when someone views your work your ‘hits’ go up and that can sometimes help more people find your work if they go by that / sort the fics on ao3 like that. wattpad literally has the same system of ‘views’ on your work that help boost it, but also commenting there is really big (as someone who was once on wp comments meant everything which is why i don’t get how ppl don’t understand that comments are everything here as well).

you could also say these other platforms make it seem like tumblr works the same way and it doesn’t, but even when writers try to spread the word on that fact not everyone wants to listen or sees it because people don’t rb (which tumblr was made for that let’s not forget).

but on this great app it doesn’t matter how many people view our work, read it silently, press the little heart, no one will see it unless you rb it. and being shy about commenting and thinking comments won’t matter is backwards thinking to me. how do you think writers feel knowing they have 100 notes and 10 of them are rbs and 0 comments? like we know there’s people out there reading our work and not even giving the pointless heart to it and there’s not much we can do about it, and yeah we are so grateful for all of it, but what we wouldn’t give to even have ONE PERSON comment some emojis on our fic. let us know that someone other than ourselves actually liked it. a ‘like’ can mean anything, it can mean nothing. it does nothing. it’s nice, it’s acknowledging, but that’s all it does. it’s a silent compliment that keeps our minds wondering.

if you weren’t embarrassed to read the fic you shouldn’t be embarrassed to comment on it. i’m not trying to sound harsh but it’s 2023, half the population reads fic. devours it. ppl are famous authors because of it now or get ‘tiktok fame’ over liking it. you commenting ‘omg amazing’ or putting two little emojis in a writers comments is only going to make them feel seen. feel great. feel like they’re not just posting stuff on here for bots. so i don’t super sympathize with people who are embarrassed because i just can’t wrap my head around it. but i’m also saying it’s okay and i’ve never once saw a writer get mad over anything someone has commented on their work (unless it’s been mean or a criticism they didn’t ask for or a ‘part two pls’).

if you like something on here reblog it!!!! comment on it!!!!!

#as someone with anxiety adhd and depression i get the being nervous about it but i’ve literally pasted a quote from the fic and added #thot emojis after it #like that’s all it takes to make a writers day #i literally went down someone’s masterlist and devoured and commented on every fic #thinking wow i’m probably being annoying #but i didn’t care because their writing was so fucking amazing and i NEEDED to tell them #reading is silence is for the books in your bedroom not tumblr #in** i’m too lazy to rewrite the sentence #yell shout #if you like it comment #reblog it #▸ laur answers

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covenantofthedeep · 10 months

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small talk; you are in love ☆

feat. | childe, thoma! summary | gradually getting more comfy w them a/n | plsplspls rb :] i hope this was close to what you wanted anon!! pls enjoy!

childe |

childe's used to stunning people into silence, but you've been nothing but silence since you met. one of your common friends had suggested that you two would be really good friends--maybe even more? you had agreed to meet with childe, solely because you figured, what could go wrong?

your first date (or... meet, perhaps) is perfect, except for the fact that you say about twenty words to him in total. he frets about it later; was he really so awful?

the second date, at a coffee shop, is marginally better, where you had tried to force yourself out of your shyness and ended up word vomiting about your feelings on straight black coffee. and then you realized he was holding a cup of black coffee, and you had wished for a giant sinkhole to swallow you up.

the third date, you're absolutely determined to make it enjoyable for both you and him. you ask him if he wants to see a movie you really like, and he agrees, wondering if you'll open up to him this time. (he's completely smitten with you, as much as he's embarrassed to admit.)

after the movie, stepping out into the blinding bright lights, you immediately start chattering. "oh, did you like the music? i swear i got goosebumps! i love movie theater popcorn so much, what about you? what's your favorite candy? honestly, i'm a little hungry, do you want to grab dinner or something? what did you think about the scene where...." you trail off, embarrassed, when childe laughs.

"that's most you've ever said to me," he marvels, winking at you.

and so you continue, dropping your thoughts about anything and everything, and, for once, childe is completely silent, and he honestly wouldn't have it any other way.

thoma |

you've had feelings for thoma since you first saw him at the kamisato estate. you were really close with ayaka at the time, and had seen him nearly every day. unfortunately, you always froze up when he approached, going completely silent.

ayaka had noticed this, and tried to push you two together, despite your protests that haven't you noticed that i can't say anything around him?

and so you wind up having a picnic together, and you have never been more nervous.

unbeknownst to you, thoma had been fascinated with you too--he liked the way that you laughed completely freely with ayaka behind her door, and how you snorted when you laughed. his aim for your picnic-date was to make you laugh like that, although, it appeared, it would be a little difficult.

it's a perfect day, with a spread of foods that would usually have you digging in, but today, you're so incredibly on edge that you've managed to spill the entire pot of tea and upend the tray of katsu sandwiches. quietly cursing under your breath and dabbing in vain at the stain of tea, you wonder why you had gone along with ayaka.

and then he beams at you, and you remember.

"here," he says, ever the gentleman, "leave that alone. it's fine, we can just cover it up with the sangayaki." he shifts the sangayaki onto the stain. "see? it's perfectly fine."

you shake your head at him and smile, reaching for an egg roll, when suddenly, the ridiculousness of it all shocks you, and you drop the egg roll and laugh. then you start wheezing, and snorting, and thoma looks so utterly befuddled that it gets you going again. a minute later, he joins in, holding onto his taiyaki with one hand.

he drops it into his lap, the chocolate spilling out onto his pant leg, and you realize, laughing at him, perhaps all you needed with him was a little push in the right direction.

#pspspsp do u get the song do u get it do u get it #thoma x reader #thoma genshin impact #childe x reader #childe genshin impact #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia #genshin fluff #genshin impact fluff #genshin imagines #thoma fluff #childe fluff #also sorry i think both of those were ooc. but um #i need to write more #this was totally honestly ass

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sagesolsticewrites · 2 years

Text

Diner Date | Austin x fem!Reader

Just a sweet little blurb about Austin taking you out for a date at a 50s diner inspired by those bts pics we got from Hugh Stewart a few days ago <3

a/n: This is just a short lil thing I wanted to get out for y’all while I work through the writer’s block on my longer stuff! I might not get to them right away, but blurb requests are always open if you want to send any in! Also: the fact that Austin can make roses out of napkins is impossibly cute and honestly that does sound exactly like something he’d know how to do fhdjdhdjjs 🥺 Also also: disclaimer, this may or may not have been written in like a few hours and barely proofread, pls bear with me and excuse any spelling/grammar discrepancies

Word count: 720

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, Austin being insufferably adorable, I think that’s it? As always, please let me know if I missed anything!

Please like/rb if you enjoyed! 🤍

Masterlist | add yourself to my taglist!

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as Austin grinned at you from his seat in the booth across from you. Two years together, and he still managed to make you blush like it was your first date.

“What?” You asked, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face.

“Nothing,” he replied, soft eyes scanning over your face, “Just admiring my beautiful girlfriend, that’s all.”

Your hands flew up to cover your face as heat flooded your cheeks, and you whined — though the smile still remained on your face— “Stop it.”

He only grinned, and leaned over to take a sip of the milkshake the two of you were sharing.

You returned his soft smile as you stole a handful of fries, then turned to take in the diner you two had decided to visit that night. Neon lights ran along the ceilings, casting a multicolored glow on the red leather booths. The walls were decorated with memorabilia from the 50s and 60s, and a jukebox stacked with Elvis songs sat in the corner crooning “Good Luck Charm” throughout the space.

Your attention turned back to your boyfriend as he spoke up again.

“I finally finished that book you told me about.”

You perk up, “Oh, the Raymond Carver one!”

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love had become one of your favorites since you’d read it two months before, and you had been gushing about it nonstop to Austin. Now it was his turn to do the same as you listened happily, taking in the way his eyes lit up as Elvis songs served as a soundtrack to his excited rambling.

The two of you continued talking about everything and nothing, with Austin occasionally fiddling around with some napkins — it looked like he was trying to make something, but you couldn’t quite tell what — until the two of you were the only customers left in the diner, by then working your way through your second shared milkshake. The songs that had been loaded onto the jukebox by an overexcited patron finally ran out, and it was just your voices filling the space. On a whim, you dug a few quarters out of your purse, but Austin had beat you to it.

“Don’t get up. I’ll do it.” He smiled as he held up a handful of quarters and made his way over to the jukebox, giving you a sly grin as he returned with Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” pumping out of the speakers.

He held a hand out to you, a bright smile on his face. “May I have this dance?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. Of course he would pull some sweet romantic gesture like this, but…

“Aus, we’re in the middle of a restaurant!” You laughed.

“And?” He looked around the empty booths surrounding you, with just the one worker remaining at the counter engrossed in their phone, “It’s not like there’s anyone here. Come on,” The look he gave you was impossibly gentle as he continued softly, “I wanna dance with my girl.”

Well, how could you say no to that?

You relented with a smile, and happily allowed Austin to twirl you around the linoleum floor. You lost yourself in the neon lights, and with the lights, the music, the darkness of the street outside, the way Austin was looking at you… you could’ve sworn you were the only two people on Earth — that is until the manager came to regretfully inform you that they were closing and you had to leave so they could clean.

You and Austin collected your things from the booth, thanking and apologizing to the remaining employees as you slipped out the door into the starry night. As you made your way to the car, his arm around your shoulders, you heard a whisper in your ear.

“Happy Anniversary, sweetheart.”

You beamed as hand that wasn’t slung around your shoulder popped up in front of you, presenting you with a small white paper rose made from a napkin — just like the one he’d made for you on your first date. Another one to add to your collection.

You took the delicate flower from him and placed it gently in your purse, leaving you free to pull him in for a sweet kiss, your heart buzzing with joy, mumbling a soft “Happy Anniversary, Aus,” against his lips.

Taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @anangelwhodidntfall @austin-butlers-gf @butlersluvbot @killerqueenfan @kittenlittle24 @beauvibaby @kingelviscreole @justjacesstuff @sweetheartlizzie07 @coldonexx @londonalozzy @kaycinema @annamarie16 @adoreyouusugar @djconde58 @mirandastuckinthe80s @luke-my-skywalker @tubble-wubble @apparently-sunshine @kisseskae @whotfatemywaffles @gyomei-tiddies @friedwangsss @shynovelist @sassy-ahsoka-tano @she-is-juniper @hallecarey1 @adoreyouusugar @iheartcbe @nora-nexus-34 @finelineskies @dontbesussis @fangirl-imagines

#happy thursday y’all I hope everyone’s having a good day #have a blurb <3 #austin butler #elvis (2022)#elvis 2022 #austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine #austin butler fic #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler x fem!reader #austin butler fluff #austin butler x reader fluff #sage speaks

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dingleshartbeaufoy · 6 months

Text

— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞

[masterlist]

henri clément x augustin lambert

tags - reverse au, religious undertones, graphic depictions of violence, angst + fluff

rated m - 6.3k words

warnings - suicidal ideation, graphic depictions of violence, major character death

— augustin has trapped the beast in administration, and the road to freedom becomes considerably more obscured.

(Pls rb + read on ao3 if possible 🫀)

[banner by reveriesources]

The steady scratching at the door doesn’t cease until the first flush of morning.

Is man awarded his identifier as human only while he exists in his human state? Is it torn away from him should he devolve, should he revert to something more primal? If consciousness separates man from beast, then what is he who toes the line between real and symbolic?

The meager window of daylight above the compact rubble is all that allows Augustin to hazard a guess at the time; it gets colder at night, and if he wants to, he can bask in the sunlight when he’s afforded it. It should be near four in the morning when the desperate scraping and distressed roars from the other side of the wall slow and then are silenced. Augustin hears nothing. Not a claw raking against the stone, not a wardrobe or empty fuel canister being clumsily knocked over. Nothing, and he’s not brave enough to shine his flashlight under the door, or poke his head through the window beside it.

If he were a better man, a better husband, a better friend, he would be able to muster up an oddment of sympathy and extend it to his friend. But he cannot, and the sun is rising, and he’s exhausted beyond measure, and he’s left his bandages and medlars stowed in the storage box to make room for routine trips from the arsenal to the generator. Fuel was scarce. Darkness was a death sentence. Who could blame him?

He wonders, briefly, as he trudges down the stairs and into mission storage if Adam and Eve felt such melancholy at their eviction. If they felt sick as they tried and failed to claw their way back into paradise. If the bile rose in their throat, and if they swallowed it back down.

Augustin bangs helplessly against Henri’s locker. The beast does not stir, the lights do not flicker, and the rats do not skitter about in the walls and ceiling or around his sore feet. The world is taking a moment of silence for him. He pounds his fists into the firm metal door again and again before he collapses against it, as if, should he try hard enough, Henri may walk right out. As if he had been entombed in an iron prison the entire time.

He feels closer to this cold, dented locker than to the gnarled remnant of his friend several hundred feet away from him.

───

Henri never did like the harsh overhead lights of the bunker, or of any place, for that matter. They cursed him with throbbing migraines and for the rest of the day he would be nothing short of irritable.

Augustin sits beside him on the mushy loam just outside the entrance, watching Henri pack his cigarettes before he fishes one out with trembling, nervous hands. Long fingers, defined tendons. The air is crisp and smells of rain, moonlight acting as Henri’s spotlight. He looks angelic. Godless. Augustin compels himself to avert his eyes and suddenly becomes very interested in the ground.

His hair is slicked back today after he nabbed a tin of hair pomade from Sergeant Reynard, both for his own devices and as a jab at the officer. It’s refined, but stray hairs curl up in places. Very abruptly does Augustin feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, begging to be let out, to bleed onto the mud. He swallows subconsciously, watching Henri’s lips open and close around his cigarette. It’s frigid. Augustin’s skin burns despite.

“Chilly,” Henri remarks as if he read Augustin’s mind. Augustin hopes that he can, so that it would save him the words. God forgive him. A small smile spreads across Henri’s mouth. God have mercy. He had visited the priest enough times this week. “Think my balls might freeze off.”

Augustin laughs a little bit too loudly, and his courage curls up in his lap and stays there. Henri casts him a sidelong glance, shadows sharpening his features yet he retains his softness. His expression is suspicious and knowing. Augustin clenches and unclenches his hands into fists.

Henri’s eyes drift down to Augustin’s hand, resting on the ground between them. A gold band welded to the base of his finger twinkles in the moonlight. “You miss her, don’t you?”

Augustin’s breath hitches. “Yeah. A lot.”

Henri’s hand inches towards Augustin’s and rests comfortably upon it, fingers curling around his palm. He lets the flat of his thumb run over the bumps and ridges of Augustin’s knuckles, his skin equally scarred but paler, more flushed. Henri always compared him to Rudolph, his red nose, cheeks, lips. Henri, planted in the same spot, leans toward Augustin. Half-lidded eyes fixed on their hands joined amidst the mud and dirt and worms. They are not so different from the beasts of the Earth.

His world is ending. This is as close as he’s ever gotten, close as he’ll ever be– Henri leans closer still. Henri, his best friend, brother in arms. If he had known him sooner, he probably would have asked him to be his best man at his wedding. Would he accept? Would he laugh and wrap his arm around his shoulder, and they'd ignore anything else that could have been? Would it die there? Would they meet one another in dark rooms shrouded in shadow, illuminated only by the light seeping through the stained glass window? Would they rack up their sins far beyond the threshold within an evening?

Henri leans closer, and Augustin feels his breath against his face, warm and wet and smelling of tobacco. When their lips lock, Augustin’s reality crumbles and he wakes in Delisle’s blood-soaked cot. He can bear to remember no more, not if it won’t bring him back.

───

It’s nearly comforting to leave fate in the hands of a higher, more capable power. He understands how the Catholics feel a little bit more deeply. He repeats the same mantra as he wraps his makeshift bandages around a deep laceration in his calf: it will not get infected, it will not get infected, it will not get infected.

He tightens the tourniquet and ties it into a knot. He could see the pale tan of his under-flesh, the bumpy red of muscle. A plague of rats watch him from the mouth of a hole as if waiting for something that will never come. Augustin is waiting, too. He has always waited.

Walking is wobbly and labored for a few feet before he regains his control and can dig his nails into his palm to deal with the pain. There’s no time to rest, and even less to heal. He dreads the pillbox, dreads the chapel. Not for the danger lurking, of which there is no longer any, but for the knowledge that once his business is done in these places, he can never return. Eternally unable to reconcile. He retrieves the key from the reverend and one of Henri’s journal entries from the confessional. He ignores the altar. He must ignore the altar.

When he exits, he boards the door shut, freely slamming his hammer against the nails without caution for the racket he’s creating. He hopes to hear the growls of yore, the bell that tolls for him.

It never comes.

───

Horror. Hell, an eternity spent. Is this his punishment? Is this why he was spared? While he languished in a peaceful slumber, albeit plagued by visions of an ancient, endless desert, while his compatriots were slaughtered?

Idly, he holds his helmet up for the German sniper to shoot, retrieves it from across the room, holds it up again. It’s what Henri would have done, Augustin thinks. If that beast were Boisrond, the poor bastard, or Toussaint, and they were traversing this inferno together. If Henri could have been his Virgil, he would have offered they have some teasing fun, suggested they decorate administration for the holidays, despite it being July. Just to see him smile, just to help him relax. Henri generates morale. He always has.

Now, though, he only generates dust falling from the ceilings, and an impending sense of hopelessness.

───

It’s a while before Augustin timidly raps his knuckle against the door.

What did he expect? A response? What feared he more, the echo or the answer?

Nothing. Augustin kicks against the door in diligent ignorance of the shooting pain gripping his leg. He screams, wails, curses, shoots the lock with his last two revolver bullets. Not so much as a huff, a grumble, the dragging of loose skin against the raw ground.

Nothing. Always nothing, nothing at all, leaving him drowning in a sea of non-existence. Augustin feels he might die. It would serve him right.

───

No place to go but forward, for no salvation lies in waiting.

He’s still as the grave as he descends the stairs and into the prison. In life, he was never permitted to enter, none of the low-ranking soldats were. But that restriction wouldn’t stop the prisoners from begging for mercy, screaming in agony as their secrets were tortured out of them. They, the soldiers, were not fools. They knew that the army had ways of making somebody talk. Rumors roused despite, bored rumors, and they’d sit in the mess hall and convince one another the screams were vengeful Roman ghosts from the tunnels. It was the only explanation their fragile psyches would be able to accept.

Augustin wonders what Henri was up to while he was comatose. Selfishly, he wonders if anybody but him cared to worry on his behalf, or if they were only ever focused on watching their flanks, which would be justified. He vaguely remembers a strange, warm presence a few inches away, but never close enough to latch onto. Was Henri tortured like the others? Was Henri a saboteur at all? A mutineer?

“Hallo?” Calls the prisoner into the darkness when Augustin carefully removes the metal grate to the warden’s office from its bolts. The moment he sets it down on the floor, the prisoner howls, begging in a language Augustin cannot understand. He’s safe now, the beast cannot harm him. Why is he crying?

“I’ve trapped the monster in administration,” Augustin calls back, as if the German knows what administration is, as if he even speaks French. The prisoner falls silent for a moment. Augustin slips into the office and stares down the cell block hall, palms pressed against the control panel.

“…Monster?” The prisoner calls back timidly.

“Fuck— Ja, monster. Monster… nein. Monster ist nein.”

Henri would have cackled in Augustin’s face. Would have doubled over in his laughter. Whenever he’d hear them, he’d commit to learning and memorizing the meanings of any German word or phrase. That way, if ever he was in a sticky situation for which there was no salvation, he’d be in better shape. He taught Augustin a handful of simple verbs and articles and plenty of swears.

Augustin scoffs. Learning German would not have pulled him out of that crater. The prisoner is silent when he retrieves the bolt cutters from beside him and silent as he ambles back to administration. Perhaps he knows, too, and he’s salvaging the last of his fraying dignity.

He may not be an officer, he may not be a criminal, but he is a perpetrator of this conflict. He can die here like the rest of them.

───

Augustin curls up in front of the door, coat draped over himself. A bitter chill has seeped into the bunker, blanketing the very marrow of his bones. Maybe Henri is back. Maybe he’s transformed from whatever that thing is back into his usual self. Maybe he’s tired from exertion. Maybe something killed him. There’s always a bigger fish.

Augustin feels abandoned. Constantly hunted, never truly safe, at least he wasn’t alone— at least he had company. Now, the only person watching him is God in Heaven. Who would have him now? Not his wife, after what he’d seen, not his son, who would not be able to bear the sight of his disheveled, hollow father. Augustin is not the same man he was when he was conscripted and he never would be that man again. What came of the officers who left? Do they feel guilt, does it gnaw at them every waking hour?

They should. They should, for what they’ve done to him, to the garrison, to Henri. Augustin cannot handle not being seen.

───

“I brought you food,” he speaks against the metal, cheek pressed against the door. “You’re hungry, aren’t you? What have you been eating all this time? Rats? Corpses?”

Augustin chuckles weakly. “I wish you would eat some corpses. Or some rats. Or both. Would help me out a lot. Those bastards don’t bite shallow.”

Silence. Augustin has no audience. He holds a cut of rancid meat in his hand, and with all of his dwindling bravery, chucks it inside through the window, hanging on by its hinge. Hears it thud and then roll across the floor. He feels like he’s torn out his own heart and left it at the mercy of the beast.

Finally— God, finally— as relieving as when he found Henri in the depths of that crater, the beast scuffles, and then a grotesque imitation of digestion ensues. Tongue smacking, wet, grunting, hot breath wracking his body, and then a hard swallow. A heavy exhale.

Augustin draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “Are you cold?” He asks. “I could bring you a blanket. Are you thirsty? I could bring you some water. Some real water. Not that hell-broth in the spring.”

This is better, almost. Speaking as if the beast can hear him, and as if the beast is, in fact, Henri. Better for him to imagine things are calmer than they really are.

“If the meat is not enough, I’ll bring you a corpse. I’ll stuff it through the window for you. You liked brisket, didn’t you? I’ll manage you a brisket. Won’t be very nutritious, but…”

But what? What loyalty has Augustin to this monster, who slaughtered his unit? Then again, what dials or instruments can measure loyalty? What can weigh a heart?

“You can be close to them again,” Augustin says. “Eat your fallen victims, make them part of you. Isn’t that a fulfilling sentiment? Slice you open, fill you with soil. Give them a chance to make something better of themselves.”

Augustin weeps until he falls asleep. He feels as though the beast does, too. This all feels like they’re living out a metaphor. Men like them do not become angels. Men like them kill and kill and kill and it never gets easier.

Perhaps they were always beasts.

───

Plenty of animals would wander onto the battlefield, in dire search of better lands. Deer, rabbits. If they could, they’d catch them and then would have a marvelous dinner. If not, they’d be caught in the crossfire and die unceremoniously.

Sometimes stray dogs from the enemy K-9 unit would lose their masters, rendered untamable, and stumble into French trenches. But never, as a bottom line, would anything feline appear. That’s why the soldiers were so taken aback when they heard faint mewling coming from above the bunker, loud enough to wake a few of them. These walls were not thick.

“Lambert,” Henri grumbles tiredly, nearly rolling right off his bunk. “‘S tha’ you?”

“What the fuck?” Augustin murmurs, brows knitting. “Why would that be me?”

“Mm,” he mumbles noncommittally, and waves him away. “You hear that?”

They round up a few of their countrymen— Noyer, Toussaint, Cazal— to investigate, and they all shuffle out of the bunker, rifles in hand. The culprit of the disturbance is small enough to fit in your hands and gray with thick fur, knelt against the ground. The soldiers laugh among themselves. When the cat meows at them, they share chuckles and meow back in unison.

An ensuing song of call and response is enough to temporarily raise their spirits. All crouched down, repeating every noise the animal made. They all laugh at Toussaint, whose impression is especially accurate.

Henri looks at Augustin, a newfound light in his eyes. “Seems there’s hope yet,” he says, and Augustin feels rejuvenated.

───

Augustin might not know Henri’s birthplace or his mother’s name, but he knows his favorite food.

The officers— viz. Joubert— granted them a special opportunity: on a board in the mess hall was a tally. Good behavior would rack them up points, which could be spent on more novelty rations. It was small, but it served as something to work towards besides just surviving long enough to see the sunrise. Since Henri was the main contributor to this count, he often had the largest say in what they’d get.

Always, he decided on frozen fruit.

Raspberries, plums, mangoes, strawberries, cherries. He didn’t even wait for them to thaw, just dealt with the chill and the ache in his teeth. They were cheap on account of not being fresh, so he was the only one to indulge in them, while others requested tobacco or different grades of wine.

Every time, without fail, he’d share with Augustin. And Augustin does not like fruit, but he ate them anyway.

They’d sit on either Henri’s bunk or Augustin’s, chipped ceramic bowl in between them, usually with a tarp laid over the top bunk like children at a sleepover. Henri had a way of making something ridiculous out of a serious situation. They’d trade stories of war and fantasy, of family back home. How good things would be when this all ended. How much Henri would love Augustin’s wife, his son. How dearly Henri misses the bustling streets of Paris.

Henri’s favorite fruit was cherries. Augustin always saved them for him. If Henri fell asleep before he could finish them, Augustin would sneak all the way back to the pantry and re-freeze them, and then sneak all the way back, often dutifully accepting reprimands from the officers.

He preferred to be caught by Joubert. In a way, Joubert understood, even if Augustin didn’t, the confession Augustin would not dare to utter.

He walks through the soldiers’ quarters, not bothering to burn the corpses, shooting the lock off the door to the utility room. When Joubert finishes reading off the arsenal code, Augustin slams the radio against a wall. So easily, not unlike this machine, can trust be shattered. So easily can an enemy be made out of a friend.

He walks through the barracks, and they’re thick with the scent of cherries.

───

The garrison as a unit was prone to nightmares, it came with the war in a specialty package. Glossed over eyes, palpitating hearts. They all chose to ignore it, or weep in dark corners. When Augustin was victim to these terrors, the paralyzing, petrifying terror he’d feel when facing the reality of the lives he’d taken, he’d find Henri crawling into his bunk, lighting a cigarette as he stretches out and Augustin scoots away to accommodate him. Curled up into a ball, he’s silent. Internally, he can’t hear himself think.

“Hey, remember what you told me?” Henri whispers, voice so low, only audible to Augustin’s ears.

“I’ve told you a lot of things,” he replies with a grunt, “and I remember few of them.”

“Have you now?” Henri’s tone is heavy with fondness. “About that bakery in Marseille, the one you hold in such high esteem. Always so costly, right?”

He awaits a response. Augustin nods. The only distinct sound is his hair rubbing against his bare pillow.

“Right. Well, I heard from the grapevine that they’re going to compensate many of the French soldiers after this, on account of the shell-shock. Me and you, we’re going to go there.”

The statement is a matter of fact. No room for negotiation, for anything to stand in the way. Augustin’s brows furrow in that involuntary telltale manner, his lips pull themselves thin, face reddening and he’s grateful that tears make no sound. “Yeah?” He says shakily.

“Absolutely. You’re going to introduce me to the menu and we’ll make ourselves sick from coffee and bread and pastries.”

“…Okay,” Augustin breathes after a lapse in thought. “That sounds good.”

“Doesn’t it? So I need you to be strong, okay? We’ll be out of here. You’ll be with your wife and son, and we’ll go to that bakery, alright?”

Augustin hums in affirmation, and just as Henri makes to leave, he sits upright and seizes his friend by the wrist. Henri looks over his shoulder.

“Can you stay here?” He asks. “It’s— well—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself, you fool,” Henri snickers, and crawls back into their bunk. Wraps his arms around Augustin’s midsection, and buries his head into his shoulder. “Sleep well.”

For a long time thereafter, the terrors were quelled. Curled up outside of administration, Augustin clutches the remnants of a tattered uniform to his chest. The numbers 33 are embroidered onto the collar.

───

The metal keypad is pristine from lack of use. Henri never did touch his locker, only to stow or retrieve bullets or to stash away letters and photos. It’s cool against Augustin’s sweating flesh, and he leans against the door for a moment to gather himself.

He remembers the day the photo was taken, the one pinned to the back wall of the locker, half hidden away as if shameful. It was before they boarded the train to Ypres, en route to the Western Front. A fellow conscript had taken the photo. A soldier whose name Augustin cannot recall, who would not be documented in any record or index.

Augustin does not want to, but he stains the ink with tears. If he places his thumb right over Henri’s face, he can pretend that he never existed, that he is alone in his Hell, that he mourns nothing, for he will be with his family soon. But a piece of his soul has been stolen from him, right from the center and he rots from the inside out. Maggots infest his organs and tear away at the tissue.

He tucks the photo into his collar. He cannot go back. He can never go back.

───

He gags at the enucleated eyes on the table, who appear to stare at him as if still attached to a socket. Notes and photos and overwhelming words and thoughts are strewn about, but there is a lantern, and he is grateful for the lantern, and he must be grateful even when he doesn’t want to be.

Ridiculous. This place was always such a point of interest to Noyer and Toussaint, whereas Augustin and the rest of the brutes viewed it only as a vessel for ambush. Those two viewed it for what it was; a scrap of history, a gleaming light.

This is what Augustin gets, what he deserves, the weight of all of man’s original sin heavy against his back. Wage shitty wars, win shitty prizes. If he scrubbed hard enough, could he be pure again? Could his family look less like shells to him and more like people?

The eerie blue glow displaces him as he begins his descent into the tunnels, and the sights that would have baffled him several days ago are now unsurprising. He has seen worse. He has seen man have their humanity revoked as if it were a privilege and stared into the hollow chassis that resulted. He has looked death in the eyes, and whatever lay beyond death which would make a sane man go mad.

Death is the least of it. Death, and petty wars.

Pebbles suspended in the air and a language Augustin knows not to be Latin. He hears chanting in his mind, distant, like from the other side of a locked door. He hears the wind, and through a square barred window, he sees the detonator handle.

Has he served his compatriots well?

───

He recognizes that voice.

It’s worn and scratchy and cuts out at times from overuse. Otherwise, it’s deep, booming. A time ago, it was not so. It’s a whirlwind of emotions as it sings the poem that had been recited to Augustin many a moon ago, and he had found it insightful, found it clever. Now it is like a death rattle, the horn that sounds before Ragnarok.

His heart beats in his throat. Monsters are frightening. Horrifying is the man who is not a monster, but is driven mad by information he was not meant to have access to.

Augustin jumps at the sudden firing of a shotgun as the bullet is buried in the tender flesh of a rat-beast. He’s sandwiched between a stack of boxes and an explosive barrel. He wouldn’t have to be hit directly to be eviscerated.

He cannot kill him. Even if he has to, he cannot. It would be better to die here. His wife is beautiful, she can marry again and provide the boy with a father. The beast who is not Henri could starve and die like God intended. He cannot kill Beaufoy.

Instinct trumps thought. A clean shot to the head renders this room eternally silent and Augustin is stumbling through the broken door, shoving the handle into his pocket bag, and clearing away the rubble from a tunnel— is this his freedom? Is this his solstice?

He emerges from the tunnel. He feels he wants to vomit, and vomit he does.

───

“What is to be done about this, my friend?” Augustin laughs, his voice raspy. “We are at a stalemate, no? I could leave here so easily. The detonator is hooked up to the dynamite. There is nothing left for me. I could leave now, right now.”

No response. “Do you think I would be believed? Do you think they’d think me a murderer? Would I be executed?”

A light stirring of indignation, but nothing more. “Would my wife have me? I could write a note. Would—”

He buries his head in his hands, covered in filth and soiled bandages.

“Henri. Oh, Henri. You know what it is I truly want.”

A click sounds from behind him. His heart stills, replaced with a revolving vortex of dread and terror. With his weight pressed against the door, it would not open lest the beast come plowing through. He does not, and Augustin is frozen.

Trembling, he stands. At death’s limen, faced with the wicked possibilities of a foregone world. Would he shy in fear? Would he face the reality of Henri’s eternity without a shred of empathy?

He pushes the door open. It’s dark, but not dark enough. An undefined mass of shadow lies in the furthest corner. Like an animal exposes its stomach, Augustin shuts the door behind him.

───

There is a word Augustin knows. He cannot say it, cannot think it, but he knows that Henri knows it too.

“For you.” Henri extends his hand and caged within his fingers is a stuffed toy rabbit.

Augustin snorts. “For me? Wow, I’ve always wanted this, you shouldn’t have, so on and so forth.” He waves his hand.

Augustin is always trying to draw a laugh out of his friend, and it always works, and it always warms Augustin when he’s cold. “I thought he looked like you. With the blue coat, and all. For your son, perhaps, because he thinks he’s so fast.”

Augustin accepts it and turns it over in his hand. It may be the cleanest thing he’s ever received during his time at war. His son does look like him. Round and rosy and sweet. Augustin promised to bring him something back.

It fell from his pocket in the crater when he slung Henri over his shoulder, and when he retrieved it from the crater after he emerged from the tunnels, he was filled with a profound sense of dread.

───

Cowardice prevails. Augustin screws his eyes shut as he lights the hanging lamp. Deep, dissatisfied grumbling echoes about the room, flesh chafing uncomfortably against flesh, a gnarled mess of limbs. Distantly, the all too familiar twang of a tripwire being triggered echoes through the halls, followed by an uproar of flame. Augustin feels as though the world is crumbling around him.

A confession is punched out of him. “I dream of death, you know.”

He feels the beast slither across the floor before its breath is upon his face, acrid and hot like gas.

Augustin takes a deep breath. “I dream… I dream that in my sleep, I’ll be granted mercy. That we will all die here. Me, you, and… and that thing in the tunnels. Already a third of the way there, right?”

Augustin forgets that the beast cannot understand him. That it knows only to stalk, hunt, kill. Perhaps it is not his fault. Perhaps he is only acting on instinct. Perhaps he knows no better.

Whenever has that been a sufficient justification?

The beast draws up what Augustin can only assume to be a claw, and wipes away a spot of blood on his cheek. Gently, cautiously. An unprecedented tenderness— what changed in the last few days? Was the beast, trapped in his prison, forced to listen? To understand? Did he hear the trumpets, too?

They’re loud. Deafening.

“Isn’t that funny?” Augustin laughs as if the beast had told a joke. “Isn’t that funny? All this work, all I have to live for, and selfishly I deny it.”

Augustin’s arms are glued to his side, posture uncomfortably straight. “Haven’t I always been selfish?” He reaches up to grab the claw before it can be pulled away. The sharp edges dig into his skin and draw more blood, slicing through the bandages. “Henri? Haven’t I?”

───

“Ah!” Henri exclaims. “Seems I’m fortune’s fool.”

He pushes out his chair and stands, collecting his rifle leaned against the wall. He throws his cards against the table in defeat. “Guess I’m on patrol, then. C’est la vie.”

He shrugs on his coat, and with a salute, he departs, and Augustin sleeps comfortably in his bunk after a round of drinks with his comrades. A lantern flickering dimly beside him. He never did like the dark.

───

A fuel canister clambers at his feet, the beast looming above him. He dares not look at his face. His teeth, his claws, are already too much. He hesitantly retrieves it; it’s heavy, filled to the brim.

“More fuel,” he observes. “You hate the light.”

The beast grunts in acknowledgment and saunters away, shoving his body into a tunnel, and scurrying away through the ceiling above. Why he didn’t take that route before, Augustin doesn’t know. It makes him wonder if he was ever trapped. If he was ever safe.

Augustin breathes a sigh of relief when he empties the canister into the nozzle and the lights come alive. Distantly, the beast groans.

He thinks about his visit at the Louvre with his family. He was particularly drawn to the exhibition dedicated to a rendition of a feudalist Japanese setting, shrines and cuisine and all different types of architecture and traditions. The samurai had a ritualistic execution called seppuku, where one would be disemboweled and then decapitated.

Augustin sits in the chair at the desk across the generator. He has already decided. He decided a long, long time ago.

───

The engineers who built the bunker knew what they were risking when they installed the daisy-chained lights. Henri kneels inside the utility room, undershirt discarded in favor of his coat, gloved hands working at the wires.

“So he fancies himself a handyman,” Joubert remarks, leaning against the wall, overseeing his work. A cigarette between his knuckles. “Aren’t we a talented bunch?”

Augustin snorts. “I wouldn’t call being able to piss completely silently a talent, Joubert.”

“Then you don’t understand talent, my friend. Here, go stand beside him,” he says and pulls out his camera. “A memory, for the monoliths soon to be erected in our honor.”

The photos of Augustin and Henri surmount quickly. Henri’s hand grasping his shoulder, a fond smile on his face. Best friends forever scribbled on the back in red ink, and blood staining the front.

───

The beast sleeps. In the chapel, folded next to the altar. Bodies strung up in prayer to a false Goddess of blood, a Goddess Henri was forced to worship. Augustin cannot ignore reality any longer. His friend, his dear friend. Who could do this to him?

He feels indignity boil his blood. No matter. He must act quickly.

He kneels beside the beast. Large, mangled. There is a beauty about him, if not just by association with who he was before. He was once human, and some part of him is human yet.

There is a darkness in his eyes, one so unlike Henri’s, but a reluctant one. He is only acting on inclination, which is all he knows. Augustin cannot blame him. He hopes that Henri will not blame him, either. He hopes that Joubert will tell his family lies about what came of him, that he died in honor. He hopes they will find the note he left.

Toussaint’s limp, cold body is propped up in a chair outside the infirmary. They will find him first. He carved Boisrond’s name into the wall behind his final resting place. They will find him second, and third, the prisoner who starved to death. He’s left all the doors unlocked and all traps disarmed, returned dog tags to their owners. This empress of darkness and blood will not have her execution, will not have her honor. That belongs to the soldiers, who are people before they are mercenaries.

He cradles the beast’s sleeping face, too large for his hand. He is not truly such a beast. Batesian mimicry, he thinks, how clever. He could have held Henri like this if he had more time. They could have gone to the bakery together.

German shells rain outside. He grabs the beast’s paw and it stirs, before falling still. It’s tired. They’re both tired.

One claw is longer than his entire forearm. He’s removed his coat and draped it over his friend so that he may be warm in the drafty chapel. He grips the appendage by the base. All the Gods, all the Heavens, all the Hells are within him.

His honor. His.

He plunges the claw into his stomach. Immediately, he retches as his organs are pierced. He splutters blood onto the floor, and blood seeps into his undershirt, and blood spills onto his hands, onto the beast’s one natural weapon. Perhaps Augustin was never at the advantage. The job isn’t finished. He grips the claw tighter and it tears himself open in a diagonal slide, from top to bottom, stomach acid coming loose and burning his lap. An unholy tincture of blood and other bodily fluids.

Traditionally, a shorter blade was used. He frowns, his muscles growing weak already. Henri valued tradition. He never would have had him, and Augustin was foolish to entertain thoughts opposing that.

He sees nothing, hears nothing except for panicked noises from the beast as the Earth tremors and shakes him into wakefulness, wrapping Augustin’s coat around the wound, but it does nothing, nothing, and he’s too big and awkward and Augustin was a dead man walking the second he entered the chapel.

The beast clutches him close to his chest, squeezing him, snapping his bones, releasing a mournful wail.

Augustin’s eyes drift close. It’s all he’s ever wanted. All he’s ever wanted.

───

I write this not as a resignation and not as a suicide letter, but rather as a victim impact statement, and more, a cautionary tale.

Several weeks ago, excavation began in this very bunker of a network of tunnels presumed to be of Roman origin: I tell you this now and I will tell you this once, and I urge you to listen to me, lest you meet my fate, lest we cross paths in the eternal void and I rip you apart. They are not Roman. They are something greater, more meaningful than any organized religion you could ever hope to erect. They are something I do not understand, and nor will you.

Following this, an estimated six men were involved in a mutiny to end the onslaught of nightmares and hallucinations caused by the tunnels. The mutineers were abandoned in pits and left to starve. This description is a blasphemy. We were betrayed and fed to the wolves, the lot of us.

I cannot trace the events back to an exact date or a catalyst which set this off, but at one point a beast did emerge from the fray to pick us off and offer our cadavers to its God of sadism and blood. This beast, once, was a man named Henri Clément, who lived in Paris, and was better than us all.

In the league of soldiers you will find Toussaint Beaufoy in the infirmary, driven mad for not heeding the warning they were too ignorant to give in the first place. Boisrond’s final resting place is in the pantry. A German prisoner is dead in the prison ward.

I offer you no consolation, nor forgiveness. But I offer you this— remove any salvageable corpses and return them to their families. I am in the chapel with the beast. I have rigged both the chapel and the surrounding area starting from the arsenal. You, with all of your men, could not get through, and even if you managed, this beast would kill you too. Tell my family what you will and pass all my earthly belongings unto my son.

There is nothing for you here. None of us will be remembered. When you’ve removed the corpses, blow this amended circle of Hell to bits.

— A. Lam

#if this flops I’m gonna die #amnesia game #amnesia the bunker #henri clement #augustin lambert #annewrites

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