HE’S SWEET WHEN HE’S SLEEPY ⍣₊˚｡ ( 僕のヒーローアカデミア )

Echoes Of The Rain

Synopsis: Bakugou Katsuki grieves the loss of his best friend (rival? lover?) beneath rain-filled skies. He catches a glimpse of Midoriya Izuku's ghost, a shadow of what he once was. He is forced to confront the pain of holding on—and the inevitability of letting go.

Preview: "With every otherworldly meeting between the two, the details he had once held so dearly—Izuku’s laugh, the way his hair felt under his fingertips, the warmth of his touch—were slipping from his grasp. He could no longer count the freckles on the boy's face—a number he once knew by heart. The rain was washing it all away."

Words: 2.1k

Tags: bkdk, major character death, grief/mourning, healing, hurt/comfort, ghosts, regretful bakugou katsuki, unresolved emotional tension, bittersweet ending

Notes: my first work lol been thinking about getting this off my mind for soo long please free me of my shackles.. also cross-posted on ao3!!

Raindrops kiss the grass. Echoes linger in the storm. Dreams fade, soaked in gray.

Bakugou Katsuki was no stranger to solitude. He didn’t mind being alone—preferred it, most days. Yet, every so often, his feet found their way back to the river.

The rain hit hard, relentless. It soaked through his clothes, ran in cold rivulets down his spine. He barely noticed. He just stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight. It had been weeks. Weeks since Izuku had—since he was gone. And still, the stupid nerd wouldn’t leave him alone.

Katsuki had always hated the rain. It made him feel weak and pitiful—just as he feels now. He stared solemnly at the riverbank; the pitter-patter of the rain masking his cascading tears.

He missed the nerd. Every damn thing about him. From his incessant muttering to the foolish look in his eyes whenever he called him "Kacchan". His mind wandered back to their second fight in Ground Beta. Back then, Katsuki couldn't believe he was having a panic attack in front of him. In hindsight, the vulnerability had been a strange relief. It felt cathartic to pummel him into the ground, a twisted form of therapy. He'd never say this to Izuku's face, but he was thankful he stuck by him through every moment of prideful stupidity.

He would have taken a lifetime of coming second to Izuku over this. Katsuki kneels into the muddy earth, eyes glossing over. The rage inside does little to quiet the voices overtaking his conscience. Every wave of anger begrudgingly surges within, moving in rhythm with the water's ebb. How does one simply get over the loss of their soulmate? He knows he shouldn't be feeling like this, that Izuku didn't mean to leave him, that he died the noblest death a hero ever could.

He saw him in the back of his mind—a constant presence, a painful reminder of the beacon of light he is now devoid of. Katsuki slams his fists into the ground wrathfully, bitterly aware of how pathetic he looks. It felt pointless to keep pushing forward, to keep throwing himself into the fray without an equally persistent rival—his rival. Who would chase after him? Or rather, who would he chase after? He wishes, more than anything, for Izuku to show up. For a passing instance, Katsuki wonders if Izuku remembered the last time they were both here, together.

The cacophony surrounding him made his heart ache. How could the clouds continue to weep? How could the stream continue to ripple? How could his own heart continue to beat—when Izuku was gone? It pounded in his chest, forming an unsteady rhythm, making a mockery of the silence his twin flame had left behind.

Katsuki tilts his neck upward, hair drenched and clinging to his forehead. His usual fierce glare is absent, replaced by a vacant, almost lost expression. The rain poured unceasingly, cold and heavy, but it didn’t wash away the tension in his jaw or the way his shoulders slumped, as though the weight of the world was too much to carry. His crimson eyes, usually sharp and cutting, are dulled by grief, clouded with a deep, aching sadness.

He exhaled sharply and tipped his head back. His hair stuck to his forehead, his vision blurred with rain. He should go. He should stop standing here like an idiot and move. But his legs wouldn’t work.

And then—

A flicker.

His breath caught, sharp and sudden. His heart slammed against his ribs. It was just the mist, the rain playing tricks on him. That’s all it was.

An eerie stillness settles in. Izuku's outline glisters before him—indistinct, translucent. Like embers of a fire, barely hanging on. It's just a hallucination, he tells himself. And yet, his own hands betray him, mindlessly reaching out. His chest tightens, a flood of unspoken words caught in his throat. Despite all the time spent contemplating what he'd do if he got one last moment with Izuku, Katsuki subdues. All the overwhelming rage that filled him before diminishes, replaced by an unwelcome emptiness.

The air is thick, heavy enough to cut with a knife. Neither speaks; no words of comfort or regret passed between them. Izuku's expression is light and carefree, his lips curling into a soft smile that seemed at odds with the grief that weighed down Katsuki's heart. His expression softened, mouth opening and closing, an embarrassing lack of words coming out. Izuku stood there, hazy with a delicate aura outlining his figure—untouched by the rain.

To Katsuki, Izuku was everything. His beautifully radiant eyes seemed to glimmer, outshining any star in the sky—green as twin pools of emerald. Katsuki had to physically restrain himself from reaching out to smooth his dark tousled curls, as if he could make everything right by simply touching him.

Izuku’s silhouette stood out starkly against the dim, wet background. It served Katsuki as a reminder that he was no longer looking up into the face of his companion; but a fleeting memory that he no longer had the right to hold on to. He had always thought of Izuku as some kind of hero, but more than that, he saw him as something more—a myth, a God of serenity and grace, too untouchable, too beautiful, for him to grasp.

His hands fall back to his sides, trembling with quiet desperation. Damn it. Katsuki clenches his fists tighter, swallowing back a surge of frustration. What the hell is wrong with me? He didn't want to look so weak in front of Izuku—was this even him?—his breath hitching unevenly. But oh, of course he'd notice. Ever the kind soul, he lowers himself to Katsuki's level, his comforting presence glinting just in front of him. Katsuki can't help himself—his heart pounds as Izuku’s arms reach out, wiping away tears he didn’t even realise had fallen. The touch feels real—cold, yet strangely comforting against his skin. And for an ephemeral moment, it almost feels like everything would be okay again.

Katsuki’s breath shudders as he feels the phantom touch seep into his bones, like ice-cold water flooding an open wound. Izuku's fingers move towards him—hesitant, gentle—thumbs brushing over the other's cheeks. He handles him with the utmost care, as though he might shatter like glass at any moment. Izuku’s touch was paradoxical—both a lifeline and a cruel reminder of how far beyond his reach he truly was. His gaze remained unswerving, tracing the delicate lines of his face. Katsuki had never felt so vulnerable, so powerless.

His tears mingled with the tempest’s fury, as if the storm itself were mourning beside him. Katsuki’s breath hitched, a sharp tremor running through him, as if the weight of his grief took on a tangible form, like an anchor, dragging him into the ocean’s depths. He calls out to him, voice cracking, as though it might break entirely. The other's expression takes on something akin to sorrow, a look that Katsuki thought didn't belong on his face. Reluctantly, he welcomed the touch. He could feel every careful movement as if Izuku was trying to hold him together, piece by fragile piece. He wanted to pull away—he always did when someone tried to comfort him—but his touch just felt so right.

Izuku couldn’t help but run his fingers across Katsuki’s jaw. His muscles rippled as though they were carved from marble, moving with a swift grace that betrayed the vulnerability in his expression. He would never know it, but Izuku thought his beauty divine, unearthly—hidden behind a mask of anger and conceit. Like a force of nature, his presence commanded the skies above. There’s an undeniable pull between the two, as if the universe had woven their fates together, only for one to be ripped away too soon. It’s a thread stretched too thin, threatened by the magnitude of loss.

Katsuki closes his eyes for just a moment, letting Izuku's touch wash over all the doubts in his mind. His pulse steadies, his breath no longer shaky. His demeanour eases, as if something inside him is finally, slowly, beginning to break free. Yet, even in this fleeting moment of relief, he knows—Izuku couldn’t stay. He never had been able to.

Katsuki allows himself to bask in the other's consoling touches, confessions and apologies spilling from his lips without thought. He doesn't know how long he's  standing here, being comforted by the boy he was missing mourning. The steady patter of rain gives way to silence, and as the last drop falls, the stillness between them feels like a new beginning—a pause in the storm that has raged inside Katsuki since he lost him. As the sky clears, and the days pass, he finds himself looking for Izuku's shadow wherever he goes, longing for his solace whenever it pours.

Izuku’s ghost hasn’t been around for days now, and a nagging thought lingers at the back of his mind. He swallows hard, trying to push it down, but it won’t go away.

Has he forgotten something?

It’s a thought he can’t shake, and his gaze darts around, as if half-expecting Izuku to be standing just behind him, waiting for him to admit it out loud. He grits his teeth, biting back the urge to call out, to hope for a hint of the familiar warmth that used to be there. He won’t give in to this. But his eyes linger on the space in front of him, almost begging Izuku to confirm that he’s not truly gone. The hesitation is brief, but it cuts through him like a blade—just a flicker of weakness that he immediately tries to ignore. Moving forward feels like betrayal, like leaving Izuku behind for good, but is it really betrayal if it’s all he can do?

Fuck. His throat tightened. He clenches his fists, furious with himself for even thinking it. For needing confirmation.

But there’s no answer, no ghost to speak back to him. Just the rain. Just the silence.

As much as he wanted to hold on, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that Izuku's ghost was fading away. With every otherworldly meeting between the two, the details he had once held so dearly—Izuku’s laugh, the way his hair felt under his fingertips, the warmth of his touch—were slipping from his grasp. He could no longer count the freckles on the boy's face—a number he once knew by heart. The rain was washing it all away.

Katsuki had tried to trace the scars on Izuku’s arms, but his ghostly figure had started to dissolve as the seasons passed. The lines he had once followed like a map blurred into obscurity. The once-vivid greens of his eyes, bright and unyielding, were now dim smudges in Katsuki’s mind. Each encounter left him with less, and each time, Izuku seemed more like an echo than the boy he had fought alongside—the boy he had loved. Katsuki fought to keep every memory intact, clutching at fragments with the desperation of a drowning man. But grief was a relentless tide, pulling pieces of Izuku further into its depths. He feared the day when he would wake up and find nothing left to remember.

Katsuki stares out into the downpour, expecting the familiar flicker of green eyes to appear, but all he sees is the blur of the storm. He frowns, his heart stuttering for a moment before it settles into something else—something quieter.

The space beside him remains empty, and for the first time in so long, it doesn’t feel like a void. The ache is still there, but it’s different. It’s less like a wound and more like a scar that’s begun to heal, its edges softened by time. He realises, slightly unsure, that he hasn’t seen Izuku’s ghost in weeks, maybe longer. And it’s okay. The thought doesn’t fill him with guilt; it doesn’t feel like betrayal. It’s just... the way things are now. He’s allowed to move forward, even if the past will always linger in the background.

Grief wasn’t something to be defeated; it was a river, something that would ebb and flow, forever changing, but never truly halt. He stopped searching the storm for a figure that would never return, realising that the sun would rise again, even if it took time to burn through the clouds. In the space between the rain, he found a new kind of peace—one that was less about forgetting, and more about learning how to stand in the quiet aftermath.

The rain had stopped, and with it went the faint illusion that Izuku was still near.

✧ “i see you come back to me„༊*·˚

The Weight Of Wings

Ⅰ. ⚝ Born to Fly

Synopsis: Keigo Takami's wings were meant to be his escape from the torment of his abusive family, a symbol of the freedom he longed for. Now, as the number two hero, Hawks carries the weight of those same wings—both a gift and a curse. He faces the repercussions of a life defined by duty and the moral ambiguity of his choices.

Preview: "He stretched out his tiny wings, cramped from the clutter of his house. His feathers sat oddly—neglected—taking on an unruly defiance, refusing to be tamed by his fractured will.  Keigo often wondered what it would feel like to put them to real use, to feel the wind lift him high above everything—but he knew better than to ask."

Words: 1.2k

Tags: character study, A+ parenting, hawks is a fucking sweetheart and deserves 5,900 hugs n kisses

Notes: its been like 3 months since i wrote this chapter and i STILL dont know if i should leave it as-is or write another one... also cross-posted on ao3!!

Stars flicker, pure light, A boy's dreams reach for the sky, Wings that ache for flight.

As a boy, Keigo Takami often stared out into the horizon, heart yearning for distant freedom. The cracked walls of his tiny room seemed to be closing in on him, the air suffocating with the pungent smell of stale cigarettes and spilt liquor. Hence, when his father's distant mutters escalated into shouts, and when his mother's anxious footsteps started pacing, he found refuge on the roof, gazing at the sky with child-like wonder.

His belief in heroes had started to waver, eroding with every atrocity his father committed. Whenever his thoughts got too loud, he found solace in the stars. They didn't care about who he was, what he was born into, or the scars he tried to hide. They simply shone—untouched and unwavering. Beyond the city’s grime and the flickering streetlights, the sky seemed boundless. He liked to think the constellations were waiting for him, promising that one day, he wouldn’t be stuck here.

He stretched out his tiny wings, cramped from the clutter of his house. His feathers sat oddly—neglected—taking on an unruly defiance, refusing to be tamed by his fractured will.  Keigo often wondered what it would feel like to put them to real use, to feel the wind lift him high above everything—but he knew better than to ask.  Around his parents, every word felt like a misstep, every movement like a crack in fragile eggshells. His mother’s quirk gave her extra eyes, always scanning, always watching, as if she could see straight through him. And his father... his father’s gaze was sharp, laced with rage, always ready to lash out with a force that left scars deeper than any physical blow.

He imagined a wind, strong enough to carry him far away. Someday, he thought. Someday, I’ll fly higher than anyone else. His shoulders twitched with anticipation—but the dream always ended too soon. A door slammed somewhere in the house, and Keigo flinches, his bare feet slipping against the windowsill. He jumped back just as his father’s voice tore through the stillness like a jagged blade. "Keigo!" his father barked, his voice slurred from the alcohol. "Get in here!"

Keigo’s wings may have been closer to fantasy than tangible, but he still needed the courage to survive long enough to use them. His pulse quickened, the weight of reality pressing against him like a heavy stone. He pulled away from the window and padded softly toward the door, leaving behind the fleeting promise of the sky and stepping back into the prison of his life.

She was acting uncharacteristically 'motherly'. Perhaps it was the guilt catching up to her, though Keigo couldn’t fathom why she’d suddenly show him kindness—why anyone would, for that matter. Hand in hand, they walked into the store—probably for the first time in his life. The warmth of her hand felt alien against his own, a touch that he hadn't known since his earliest memories. Keigo’s gaze flickered down at their joined hands, the softness of his own fingers pressing against the rough calluses of hers. It was a strange, short-lived connection—one that seemed to exist only in this moment, surrounded by the smell of freshly baked bread and the distant hum of the store’s fluorescent lights.

They cast everything in a soft glow, making the rows of canned goods and packaged snacks shimmer like treasures. Keigo could hear the soft rustle of plastic bags, the gentle beep of the checkout scanner in the distance, the hum of the air conditioning struggling to keep up with the midday heat outside. He knew they probably wouldn’t walk out with anything—financially limited as they were—so he didn’t bother pointing out the items that caught his eye. As grateful as he was, there was the inevitable dread of what awaited him back home.

His eyes drifted from one colourful label to another, soaking it all in. He could barely process it all—it felt much too clean. His hair was matted enough to earn pitiful glares from nearby mothers, his clothes far too tattered. A sense of wonder rose in him, tempered only by the quiet hum of reality in the back of his mind. It was too much, but for the first time in a long while, too much didn’t feel like a bad thing.

Keigo, like any other child, was eyeing the hero merchandise. Whenever his father left him alone, he'd watch hero documentaries on TV. That euphoric feeling of watching All Might land another decisive blow, watching Endeavour coldly put villains in their place—it was the only thing that made him feel alive, the only thing that made him believe that there was something more than the life he was stuck in. 

His mother noticed, her tired gaze flickering with something akin to empathy as she lingered by the shelves. She picked up the All Might plush—soft, golden, impossibly hopeful—but her hand froze as she turned over the price tag. A moment passed, her lips pressing into a thin line, before she put it back and grabbed the Endeavour one instead. “This’ll have to do,” she muttered, her tone clipped, the weight of her words landing heavier than the plush in Keigo’s hands.

But Keigo didn’t mind. His fingers clutched the toy with a reverence it didn’t deserve, his chest swelling with a joy that felt rare and fragile. Endeavour wasn’t bright like All Might—he didn’t shine, not really. But he burned, fierce and unyielding, and in that moment, Keigo thought that maybe, just maybe, burning was enough.

He held the Endeavour plush tightly, his small hands trembling as he followed his mother out of the store. The harsh overhead lights gave way to the soft glow of twilight outside, the sky tinged with hues of orange and violet. He glanced up, searching for the stars. They were faint, barely visible against the creeping dark.

He looked down at the plush in his hands. Its stitching was rough, the material coarse and unyielding, but it felt solid, real. Endeavour didn’t blind you with warmth and comfort. Instead, he was a fire that roared defiantly against the dark. Keigo traced the embroidered flames on the plush’s chest, his fingers lingering on the sharp edges. Fires blazed, yes, but they also survived. They consumed, leaving scars and ashes in their wake, but they endured. Maybe, Keigo thought, that’s what he needed to do too. Maybe he didn’t need to shine; maybe it was enough just to burn, to keep going, no matter what.

As they reached the corner of the street, his mother’s grip loosened, and the fleeting moment of connection slipped away like grains of sand through his fingers. Keigo turned his gaze upward one last time, letting the faint glimmer of the stars steady his fragile heart. In the sky, he saw more than freedom—he saw a promise, an echo of something that felt almost attainable.

The stars twinkled, distant and pure, as if whispering to him: Someday.

And Keigo Takami, with wings too small and a heart too heavy, dared to believe them.

SHHH! Library Rules.

college!nerd armin who sits one row behind you in a lecture and tries to focus on the slides but your thighs are just... right there. crossed, jiggling slightly as you bounce your leg out of boredom, little skirt riding up when you shift—he’s not even hearing the professor anymore. his notes are just bullet points that say:

thighs.

thighs???

fucking thighs.

and he gets so flustered, like he adjusts his big round glasses and pretends to take notes but his face is flushed and his jeans are getting uncomfortably tight...

later that night? he’s scrolling through his phone and lands on your post—it’s a mirror pic, a seemingly innocent story—but you’re sitting on your bed with one leg up and he snaps. doesn't even make it to his bed. he’s jerking off in his desk chair, moaning like he’s being tortured, trying to keep quiet as he strokes himself to the thought of your thighs wrapped around his head, suffocating him.

armin doesn't believe his ears when you ask him to study. flash a sweet little smile. tilt your head just a little bit. he's halfway through chewing on his pen cap when you lean over his desk and say, “hey, armin. wanna go over notes together at the library?”

his brain short circuits.

he literally forgets how to speak for a full second. then manages a weak, breathy, “yeah—uh. yes. i mean. i can. i’d like that.”

you thank him like it’s nothing. walk away like you didn’t just leave a smouldering crater in his chest. but you know exactly what you’re doing. because later that evening, you show up to the library in that skirt. the tiny pink one. and the thigh highs with the little bow at the top. like a sin made of silk and smugness.

you sit across from him. cross your legs real slow.

he swallows.

don’t look. don’t look. okay, you looked. fuck.

and swallows again when you lean forward, pretending to scan your textbook, the movement making your skirt ride just a little higher.

you’re no fool. you’ve been aware of armin’s situation for a while now. the way he covers his boner with his notebook when you glance over during lectures? adorable. you’ve caught him staring at you from across the common room at least a dozen times. and those dorm parties he claims he “hates”? yeah, he only ever shows up to sit beside you and pretend he’s not practically drooling at the smell of your perfume. you think it’s sweet, in a pathetic sort of way.

you decide to tease him. just to see how long he’ll keep the good boy act up for. how long before that polite, bashful smile cracks into something desperate. how long before he snaps.

you shift in your seat, the toe of your boot nudging his ankle under the table. he freezes. you feign ignorance. flip a page. rest your hand on your thigh, drawing slow, idle circles with your finger against the exposed skin. then, you let your leg drift sideways—just barely brushing his.

armin squirms in his chair. what do people even do in situations like this? his knuckles go white where he grips his pen. his legs squeeze together.

you don’t even look up. just mumble something about not understanding the chapter. and he’s nodding too fast. offering help with a cracked voice, eyes wide, flushed down to his collarbones.

he’s shaking. he’s dying. he’s hard.

you lean in even closer—close enough to count the individual lashes framing his eyes, pupils dilated. his breath is shaky, coming in short bursts, and you can practically feel his pulse racing.

his ocean eyes flicker down to your lips before darting back to yours, a silent invitation. his breath hitches as you inch closer, every nerve in his body firing at once. he wants this, wants you, but his mind’s a whirlwind—should he pull back? should he stay still and let the moment breathe?

and then, you kiss him. soft at first, giving him time to adjust. he lets out a heavy sigh against your lips. he tastes like something fruity—like strawberry flavoured gum. the kiss is sweet, subtle and tender, like a vanilla note mixed with a slight tang, like a soft citrus. but it quickly deepens, your hands roaming over his body, teasing the warm skin of his chest through his shirt. you make quick work of his buttons, slipping your hands inside, tracing the lines of his lean chest.

your fingers tweak his nipples, pulling a gasp from him. his hands immediately fly to your waist, pulling you closer. you can feel his body trembling beneath your touch, his chest heaving as he tries to steady himself.

“oh?” you smirk, getting closer, voice dripping with playful mischief. you do it again, only this time, your nails catch the fabric, teasing that soft spot until he can’t keep it together. “sensitive?”

he nods—his face is a mess. eyes wide, like he’s been caught in the worst way possible. but then? he whimpers. you can’t help but smirk at the sound, feeling the heat rising in your own chest.

your fingers tease at the hem of his shirt, touch feather-light but deliberate. his breath hitches, lips parting with a muted gasp when your nails graze the skin just above his waistband. he’s so responsive—every little touch draws out a sound. a whine. a strangled noise that barely makes it past his throat.

he shouldn’t be this turned on from a few light touches. his thighs are tensed like he’s trying not to rut up into you—like that would make this moment disappear. like it would scare you off. but god, it’s getting harder to stay still.

he can’t fully enjoy this. not really. he feels guilt—it’s heavy in his gut. it’s wrong, right? you’re just teasing him. he doesn’t deserve someone like you. but your touch, the way your leg brushes his, the way you’re looking at him like you know what you’re doing, making him lose his mind—it’s too much.

his fingers twitch. his dick aches for release, but he can't—he can’t—let himself go any further. not like this. not when he’s been fantasizing about this moment for weeks. he can’t just be this fucking needy. can’t be this much of a mess in front of you. it’s—

“i…” his voice cracks, just as he feels his heart slam in his chest.

“’min?” you tease, just a little too sweet, fingers tracing his thighs like you have all the time in the world.

“i have to tell you something,” he breathes out, a desperate, breathy whisper. he’s panting, struggling to hold it together. he presses his hands flat on the table, palms sweating, trying to steady himself.

you look up at him with curiosity. his heart races, and the words are choking him. he bites his lip, all at once embarrassed and unbearably turned on.

“i—i—" he stops, gasping for air, hands shaking. "i can’t—i’ve been thinking about this… about you.” he’s so close, so close to breaking. his voice is strained, trembling under the weight of what he’s saying. “when i touch myself… it’s—it's you, okay?” he barely manages to get the words out, feeling like his insides are liquefying under the weight of it.

you freeze, smile faltering. “did you?” you whisper, your tone low and teasing.

“i’m sorry,” he gasps, eyes wide with guilt and the flush of shame creeping up his neck. “it’s... i didn’t mean—fuck, i shouldn’t have said that.”

you don't give him a chance to retreat. “no need to apologize, armin,” you say, the words dripping with something that feels like victory. “you’re cute when you’re this honest.”

and then, it’s quiet—just long enough to hear him choke back another whimper of frustration, as if his body is already begging for more. "but don’t think i’ll let you off that easy, hmm?"

his hands are trembling where they clutch your waist, like he’s not even sure he’s allowed to touch you like this. you nip at his bottom lip, smile curling against his mouth when he gasps again. you straddle him so that your thighs are on each side of his, and armin thinks he could die like this—caged between you, drowning in your scent.

but you take it a step further. you place your knee against his sensitive bulge and he lets out the prettiest moan you’ve ever heard. his hands grip at your hips harder, as if anchoring himself to reality, but you can feel the way his muscles lock in restraint. the sounds of a conversation drift from behind a nearby bookshelf, but all he can hear now is the blood rushing in his ears.

the noise nearby only adds on to your excitement. having armin— armin who’d ditch anybody to study for a test, armin who colour-codes his notes and panics if he’s not fifteen minutes early to each lecture—underneath you like this? it fills you with a sense of pride knowing you’re the only one that can reduce him to nothing but a horny mess.

your thigh rocks against his twitching bulge, back and forth, slow and mean, like you're testing him. and armin—sweet, delicate armin—falls to pieces.

his head lolls back against the chair, lips parted in a perfect ‘O’, breath stuttering out in high-pitched gasps. his eyes are glassy with tears and so, so bright, like he’s staring up at heaven and not at the ceiling of a dusty library. there’s drool slipping from the corner of his mouth—he doesn’t even notice. he’s too far gone. he looks pretty, absolutely destroyed, like his mind’s been wiped clean except for the feeling of your mouth on his nipple and your thigh grinding him down into nothing.

“nghhh—hah, i… i c-can’t think,” he whines, voice cracking, desperate and breathless. “feels too good, i’m— i’m gonna—!”

you coo against his skin, twisting gently at his nipple with your fingertips just to hear the helpless cry he gives in return. his hips jerk again, chasing the friction like he’s forgotten how to stop. he’s babbling now, barely making sense. “please, please, i—can’t—feels s’good, i—hahh—hurts—!”

his hands shake on your hips, clutching like he’s drowning, and all he can do is rut against your thigh while you kiss and suck at his chest like he’s yours to ruin.

his body trembles beneath yours, and the pressure builds too quickly, too intensely. he stammers out apologies, but before he can even register it, he’s cumming, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. his face flushes bright red, humiliation flooding him as he whimpers, trying to recover his breath, lost in ecstasy. but its too late. someone’s footsteps are closer, and the sound of their voice drifts to your ears. he feels exposed, knowing the risk of someone walking in is too real, too immediate.

you dont stop rocking your thighs against his crotch, drawing out cries that feel much louder in the public area. armin begs you to stop with a weak, “please, I can’t take it, not—ngh—somebody’s gonna see…”

he thinks you’re going to let him cum again. god, he’s so close.

your thigh feel just right, your mouth is still on his chest, his hips are twitching up—and then you stop.

the friction disappears and your mouth leaves him with a soft pop, and armin lets out the whiniest noise, hands slapping over his mouth like didn‎’t mean to let it out.

“wha—n-no, no, please—”

“think i got enough out of today’s lesson, yeah? can’t spoil you too much, baby—you’ll get greedy.”

you run your fingers through his hair, so gentle it’s cruel.

“but don’t pout,” you coo. “i’ll give you another lesson. my dorm. if you behave.”

you get up and fix your clothes, slow and casual, like you didn’t just drive him to the edge of sanity. he twitches in your absence, like his body doesn’t know what to do without your weight on top of him.

“i’ll see you in class,” you toss over your shoulder with a wink.

and armin? armin is left there—completely ruined, dripping, thighs pressed tight together for any relief, praying nobody walks around the corner and finds him like this.

You're Still Bleeding

Ⅰ. ⚘ Of Roses & Regrets

Synopsis: Uraraka Ochaco is haunted by the (death?) of Toga Himiko. The war may be over, but her mind is fraying, unraveling into rose-tinted memories and crimson hallucinations. Midoriya Izuku tries to help her move on, but mourning is never linear, and the past refuses to stay buried.

Preview: "Healing is uneven. Quiet. Sometimes it’s crying while brushing your teeth. Sometimes it’s staring at a cup of tea for hours. Sometimes it’s walking the same street Himiko bled out on, again and again, hoping something will feel different.”"

Words: 1.9k

Tags: tgchk, not really major character death, midoriya izuku is a good friend, horror, obsession, survivor guilt, angst, hurt/no comfort, grief/mourning, hallucinations, emotional baggage

Notes: if im being honest this has been rotting in my drafts for about a month or so.. i also REALLY need to stop writing horribly miserable queer love stories. hope u liked it just as much as i do!!! if im being honest, i dont know where to take this next lolol pretty please lmk if u have any ideas.. MANY THANKS FOR READING<333 also cross-posted on ao3!!

Blood trickles down her teeth, She smiled like she forgave me. I begged her to stay.

Ochacco doesn’t remember falling.

She remembers Himiko’s face, inches from hers. The weight of her body pressing close as they collapsed together, as if the battle itself had decided they had done enough. She remembers the rain, washing the blood away before it could dry. She remembers reaching out, fingers brushing against skin that had always been just out of reach.

Then—nothing.

And when she wakes, it’s over. The war, the fighting, the girl who had smiled through bloodstained teeth—all of it is over. She hears it in the way the medics talk around her, avoiding her eyes when she asks about the League. She sees it in the way no one tells her where Himiko is.

She doesn’t ask again.

Because she already knows.

And yet, she can’t stop looking.

She lies in bed with tubes in her arms. When she blinks, she half-expects to see red.

Instead, she sees flowers. A vase of them—roses, too bright against the sterile white. Ochacco stares at them without really seeing.

“She’s still asking about her,” one nurse mutters.

“You mean the League freak? The knife one?”

“Shh—don’t call her that. She might hear you.”

“She’s been staring at the same wall for twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, and it's freaking me out.”

Ochacco curls her fingers into the blanket, gripping it tight.

This is how it's been for a few days. People whisper and talk about her, without telling her anything. Like she's not even there. Like she's the one who didn't make it.

The discharge from the hospital is quiet. She’s healed enough, they say. No need to keep her here when there’s so much rebuilding to do. A nurse hands her a folder of papers and a plastic bag of her old belongings. The folder has her name on it. The bag has a cracked phone, scorched gloves, and a single, still-damp hair tie.

Not hers.

She holds it in her palm for a long moment, heart stuttering. Ruby red, stretchy. The kind you’d find on a convenience store shelf. It smells faintly of iron and roses.

She says nothing. Slips it into her pocket.

People talk about healing like it’s a destination. Like there’s a point you arrive at where everything stops hurting.

Ochacco knows better.

Healing is uneven. Quiet. Sometimes it’s crying while brushing your teeth. Sometimes it’s staring at a cup of tea for hours. Sometimes it’s walking the same street Himiko bled out on, again and again, hoping something will feel different.

It never does.

But sometimes, she thinks she sees her. Would it really be so wrong to hope?

In a slashed lipstick tube left on a windowsill. In dried rose petals scattered like secrets across alley concrete. In red—always red—smudged across glass like a kiss or a warning. A heart drawn in blood. A name scratched into wood. A flash of blonde hair in a crowd. A shadow ducking around the corner. Red eyes, wide and bright like they were on that last day.

She blinks, and it’s gone.

Always gone when she looks.

Always gone.

“Have you thought about talking to someone?” Izuku asks her one day, gently. He brings her bento boxes sometimes. Tries to smile like he used to.

“I’m fine,” she says.

“You’re... not, though.”

Ochacco shrugs. “Are you?”

Izuku doesn’t answer.

He sets the bento down without a word.

Ochacco doesn’t touch it. Just stares at the chipped edge of her table like it might offer her something.

He breaks the silence. “I passed by the train station last night. Thought I saw her.”

She freezes.

“Wasn’t her, obviously,” he adds. “Just some girl with space buns and a limp.”

Ochacco exhales through her nose. “You still look, too?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Old habit.”

They sit with that for a minute. Then Izuku says, “You know she’s probably gone.”

“Probably,” Ochacco echoes.

“But that wouldn’t stop you.”

She looks at him then, really looks. She doesn't know how to say the things that matter anymore.

He’s thinner than she remembers. Eyes rimmed with something like sleep deprivation or grief, maybe both. 

“You know what’s worse than losing people?” he says, voice low. “Losing the part of yourself that used to care about anything else.”

Ochacco swallows. Her throat burns.

Izuku nods toward the bento. “Eat something.”

She picks up the chopsticks. Doesn’t say thank you. He wouldn’t want her to.

But as he stands to leave, brushing a hand briefly over her shoulder like a goodbye, something settles in her chest.

Not peace, but a weight she can carry.

What would I ever do without him.

She finds an incident report two weeks after returning home.

It’s crumpled at the bottom of a file, misfiled. The date matches the last day of the war. It lists casualties, injuries, environmental damage. One line makes her pause:

Subject: League member (female). Status: presumed deceased. Body unrecovered.

She reads it once. Then again.

The words don’t change, but something inside her does.

Presumed. Not confirmed.

Unrecovered. Not buried.

She stares at the words until they blur. Then reads them again.

The dreams start small.

First, it’s Himiko standing in the rain, smiling. Her head tilted like she’s asking Ochacco a question she can’t hear.

Then it’s her voice. Low, sweet, syrupy. "You're still bleeding," she whispers.

Ochacco wakes up breathless, her hand still reaching out.

The worst part is that for one brief, aching second, she wants it to be real.

Sometimes she dreams in first person—sees her own hands stained with blood. Sees herself cradling Himiko’s face. Sees the moment her eyes closed.

Only... sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes they open again.

Sometimes she closes her eyes on purpose.

Just to see her again.

The dreams rot her from the inside, but she drinks them like nectar.

It’s easier there. 

She starts to visit the alleys. Narrow, winding paths with peeling posters and rusted gates. Ones Himiko would've liked. Places where you could vanish if you wanted to. Places heroes don’t patrol often.

She tells herself it’s nothing.

She tells herself she’s just... curious.

But one night, she sees lipstick smeared on a wall. A deep, wine red.

Next to it, the faint outline of a heart.

Her fingers shake as she traces it. Tells herself it's just graffiti. It could be anyone.

But her chest is tight. Her throat dry.

Please, she thinks.

Just once—let it be her.

But then, she recalls-

There’s talk of a new vigilante. Not quite a villain, not quite a hero. Small-time acts. Petty crimes. Stolen bandages. Blood drained from criminals—but no deaths.

No one knows who it is.

But Ochacco hears the description. Blonde. Agile. Always smiling.

Hope curls inside her like hunger.

She shouldn’t want to believe it.

She does.

She doesn’t say anything. 

But the thought echoes inside her regardless: I hope you're just as eager to see me again.

She starts walking the city more at night.

Her steps feel heavy, like they're someone else's. She thought about how Himiko always stared at her with those gorgeous, ruby eyes, like she was something shiny. Something good.

Ochacco wonders what she looked like to Himiko in those final moments. What did she see? Was there any softness in her gaze? Or was it just a mask, the same one that Himiko wore so often?

She wonders, too, what Himiko looked like to her. Had she ever really seen her? There's so much they haven't shared with eachother. Does she know enough about Himiko to keep her memory alive after all this time? Or was she left with fragments, pieces of who the girl once was?

The first time she sees her, really sees her, it’s raining.

Ochacco’s umbrella is flipped inside out, and she’s muttering curses under her breath when she looks up and—

There.

Across the street.

Blonde hair, matted to her cheeks. A hoodie pulled low. Eyes locked on hers.

Himiko.

It has to be.

Their eyes meet.

Just for a second.

But it's enough.

Ochacco steps forward.

A car blares past. When it’s gone, so is she.

Ochacco stands there, soaked, heartbeat like thunder.

The dreams get worse.

Or maybe they get better.

Because in them, Ochacco doesn’t wake up gasping anymore.

She lingers.

She walks familiar streets dipped in dusk, and every rose she passes wilts in her hands. Red petals stain her palms like cuts. Like kisses. Like guilt.

Himiko waits at the end of the path, always. Leaning against a lamp post, or crouched on a windowsill. Lipstick smeared like war paint, like ritual.

“I missed you,” she says in every dream. Or: “You looked so pretty covered in red.” Or: “I never wanted to hurt you, you know.”

Sometimes she wears a crown of thorns.

Sometimes she wears Ochacco’s old hero uniform, soaked in blood.

Ochacco always reaches for her. And always wakes up before they touch.

She starts keeping roses in her apartment.

Deep red ones. The kind that bruise when you press your thumb in too hard. The kind that rot fast, leaving stains on the wood.

She doesn’t throw them out.

Instead, she lines the petals along her windowsill, like offerings. The smell clings to her clothes.

Once, she wakes up with a thorn scratch on her wrist.

She doesn’t remember how it got there.

In her dreams, a reoccurring symbol: 

Red ribbons float through the air like severed veins.

Red nails tap-tap against porcelain.

Red eyes shimmer like lanterns in the dark.

Red lips curl, open, and whisper her name.

She's seated at the edge of a field that shouldn't exist. The grass is a little too tall, swaying in wind that feels more like breath — warm, humid, close. The sky overhead is black, starless, thick as ink, and feels as if it might collapse onto her at any moment.

The roses beside her bloom with mouths. When she reaches to pluck one, it shudders and sighs—"Why did you let me die?"

She freezes. The voice is hers. Or maybe not. Maybe it's—

Another rose blooms. It laughs. A choked, wet sound.

She stands. The ground underneath squelches like flesh. Her feet sink an inch.

A figure waits just beyond the roses. Himiko’s silhouette. Only her hair doesn’t fall the way it used to. It's soaked. Dripping. Her face is a blur, smeared and obstructed.

The figure tilts her head. A giggle. Then—

The roses begin to bleed. A slow trickle of red pools around Ochacco's shoes.

She blinks.

Himiko’s smile is made of teeth. Too many. Not human.

She starts to run—but the field stretches. The sky groans. Every step feels like dragging her legs through syrup.

And then she wakes. But her mouth is open, and the taste of blood is there. Not hers.

One night, a message is spray-painted across her apartment door.

Messy handwriting. 

COME FIND ME.

The paint is red. Still wet.

Her fingers tremble as she touches it.

She smiles.

I JUST NEED TO ASK,

how do you make the multicoloured texts, like for example the collage nerd Armin text!

I've tried finding out but oh my I CAN NOT.

please I need an answer oml

OMG SURE!! i use this website to do my gradient text, n then copy the html code, then change the text editor on your post from rich text to html n then u can paste it!! it only works on desktop as far as i know

Choso who gets so needy when you sit on his lap, it’s almost embarrassing. Almost. His head tips back against the couch, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and glassy. He lets out the faintest whimper—barely audible, more breath than sound—but it makes your stomach flip. His hips jerk up into you like instinct, desperate for more warmth, more pressure, more of you.

You thread your fingers in his hair and tug—not too hard, just enough to make him moan, loud and needy, eyes fluttering as his breath catches in his throat. He’s already trembling, already leaking through his boxers, already drooling a little from the corner of his mouth. Completely wrecked, and you fucking love it.

“Fuck—please, slow down,” he mutters, voice raw and strained, like he’s trying not to whine. “I’m not—I can’t... I’m gonna cum like this, I’m sorry, I—”

You pull back just enough to see his face, but he refuses to meet your eyes. His jaw clenches, lashes fluttering, lips parted like he’s still trying to speak, but his body is betraying him.

Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, making him meet your eyes. There's a softness to your touch, but your voice is still low and teasing. "Let go for me, Cho. You look so pretty all worked up like this," you murmur, lips brushing against his ear.

That’s all it takes. He breaks. His body jerks forward, a gasp escaping him, and then he’s rutting up into you, his face flushed and damp with sweat, but his hands don’t leave your body.

You kiss him and he melts—messy and eager, all tongue and teeth, hands gripping your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish. Every time you roll your hips down a little harder, it knocks another needy sound from his throat. His cock strains against the damp fabric, twitching every time your clothed cunt drags right over the tip—just enough friction to make him gasp, not enough to let him have it.

When you pause to catch your breath, he whines—high and choked, like it slipped out before he could stop it. His hips stutter up into yours, searching for more, grinding like he doesn’t even mean to do it. “I’m sorry, I just—fuck, you feel so good.”

You whisper his name, all syrupy and sweet, and that’s it.

He cums with a shaky moan, biting down on your shoulder to muffle the sound—but it’s no use. He’s already twitching beneath you, ribbons of cum spilling into his boxers. He keeps grinding up into you, chasing the high like it’s the only thing that’s real anymore.

And fuck, he looks so pretty like this. Messy. Trembling. Desperate. Completely wrecked and still begging for more.

Your good boy. Always so full for you.