Jaime As A Dad Would Be Absolutely Adorable, He Would Spoil This Child Rotten. And Have Conversations

𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 - 𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢 𝐲𝐮𝐮𝐣𝐢

yuuji's not a hair stylist, and tsubame's mistake was letting him try anyway.

masterlist

✭ pairings: itadori yuuji x oc ✭ warning: mentions of abuse, canon divergent, pre-shibuya arc ✭ author’s note: i actually had a lot of fun writing this, it's a nice break of fluff from the angst HEH– ✭ word count: 2.7k words

disclaimer: i’m not of japanese descent and am unfamiliar with japanese honorifics, etc. feel free to correct me!

There’s nothing better than a good night’s sleep, everyone can attest to that. Tsubame couldn’t agree more if it weren’t for the nightmares that haunted her mind, ones of anger, ones of regret, but most recently, ones of her father, a man she trusted, one who should’ve cared for her since her mother’s passing.

His horrid sneer permeated her memory as he grabbed her hair pulling her around like a ragdoll, this one moment staining her memories of home. She would often wake up in tears after, sometimes not even realising that she was crying until she reached her hand up to find the trails of tears leaking down her face.

This led to her constant urge to cut off her hair, no matter how nicely she styled it. Just the feeling of her hands running through it made her shiver in discomfort. Up to this point, she held in her discomfort, tying it up in a simple ponytail to ignore the way she had to look over her shoulder constantly.

However, during a particular training session where her hair was lightly tugged on, it spiralled into a little fit of fight or flight, causing Tsubame to almost beat her classmate, Itadori Yuuji, into a pulp, which she felt extremely guilty about – she ended up buying him dinner for the next few days.

Tsubame sighed at her miserable reflection in the mirror, scissors in hand as she willed herself to cut her hair to a shorter length, fearing that she might hurt someone else if they weren’t the wiser. Heck, she still couldn’t explain to Yuuji why she reacted in such a fashion, the words dying in her mouth the moment she tried to explain. 

Sweet as ever, he never pushed her, only smiling in acceptance as he lightheartedly brushed off her little outburst as an outcome of her trained instincts. It didn’t help with Tsubame’s guilt, however.

Just as Tsubame raised the scissors to make her first cut, her bathroom door burst open, interrupting the silence as she jumped, almost snipping off a big chunk of her hair. Relief washed over her nerves as she saw that all her hair was still very much intact.

“Itadori,” Tsubame huffed, placing the scissors on the sink’s countertop to rub her face anxiously. “How many times have I told you to knock before you enter my dorm…”

Yuuji nervously rubbed his neck, a sheepish smile on his face as his tone was filled with apology, “Sorry about that, it’s just that the others were– are you cutting your hair?”

His big brown eyes now looked at her in curiosity as he pointed at the scissors on her countertop. Tsubame followed her eyes to where he pointed, and she exhaled softly, nodding. Yuuji didn’t miss the way she looked fidgety, almost as if she wasn’t sure about her decision to cut her hair.

“Hey… are you alright?” Yuuji frowned softly, looking over to the scissors. “You don’t look confident about cutting your hair. Is this about last time? Tadashi, I really am sorry, I didn’t mean to tug on your hair–”

In an instant, Tsubame shook her head, reassuring him that it wasn’t his fault she was cutting off her hair, “No, no, Itadori, it wasn’t your fault. It’s just… my hair was getting in the way, you know?”

Yuuji frowns, not buying her lie, but he doesn’t push it. Tsubame knows he can see past her lie, and part of her hates how well he can read her. Sometimes, she forgets that just because he’s not as academically advanced as Megumi and her (as she often finds herself tutoring her pink-haired classmate, not that she minded), it didn’t mean that he doesn’t read people and their emotions well.

He sees the way her hands shake slightly, and he gently takes her palms into his, the sparks returning as she swiftly looks up at him, his kind eyes looking into her nervous ones. He doesn’t say anything about the pink blush on her cheeks, a soft smile growing on his face.

“Would you like me to help you?” He asks gently. “You’re uh, shaking quite a bit.”

Tsubame looked at the scissors once more before her attention darted to her hands which were engulfed by his larger, warm ones. She bit the inside of her cheek, exhaling softly before nodding.

“Okay,” she nods, finally meeting his gaze.

She never wears a smile, Yuuji notes. Tadashi is never seen with one, but everything is in her eyes, the way she carries herself. From the slightest hunch, he could tell she was either exhausted, or the stress from a mission was weighing her down. From the slight quirk of her eyebrow, she was thinking about the answer to a question Gojo-sensei asked, and from the little glimmer in her eye as she held a book in her hand he could tell she was excited, turning every page eagerly.

But right now, her eyes are soft, gentle almost. It’s quite the contrast from her sharp wit and tongue, and he feels his heart flutter softly as she looks so gently at him. Yuuji begins to smile, taking Tadashi’s hair in his hands.

“You’ve got pretty hair, are you sure you want to cut it?” He asks softly, and she nods, more confident in her choice this time.

“Yeah, I just… I want it short, I can’t really… maintain long hair anymore,” She huffs softly, looking at herself in the mirror as Yuuji stands behind her, her soft hair in his hands.

It’s silky, he thinks to himself, and it easily cards his fingers through her hair. Tsubame flinches but, his touch is gentle, and it reassures her that she’s in safe hands.

Finally, Yuuji raised the scissors, snipping away bits of her hair, bit by bit, and Tsubame kept her gaze on her hands, watching as bits of her dark locks fell onto the floor, bit by bit. It's a moment of silence between them, one of mutual trust.

Unfortunately, that trust is broken the moment Tsubame looks up at her reflection, seeing that her hair really is, rather awkwardly cut, with bits of hair sticking up and cut to uneven lengths. Horror fills her as she sees this change, but Yuuji doesn’t seem to notice her look of shock as she quickly pulls out her phone, texting Nobara and Megumi for help.

“Who you texting?” Yuuji asks in curiosity, Tsubame shrugging as she tries to cover up her previous expression with a small hum.

“Just Nobara and Megumi,” She hums softly. “I just uh, wanted a little outside opinion on the haircut.”

He grins, clueless as ever, “I’m sure they’re gonna love it! You look great with any hairstyle, to be honest.”

“...Yeah. Totally.”

Tsubame continued to eye her phone for a response, almost letting out a sigh of relief as Megumi quickly texted an ‘omw’. She plays with her fingers anxiously, dread filling her as she sees more and more bits of her hair falling onto the floor before finally Nobara and Megumi bust in, a laugh instantly escaping Nobara.

“Oh, my, god.”

“Shut up, Nobara,” Tsubame whispered to herself as Megumi eyed her haircut in amusement. He can see Yuuji smiling sheepishly as he holds a tuft of Tsubame’s hair in his hands, the said girl’s head lowered in humiliation.

“Oh come on, that’s hilarious!” Nobara grins, snapping a photo of Tsubame’s fuming face and badly cut hair.

Yuuji looks down at the haircut, brushing off some hair from his hands, “It’s not that bad, is it?”

“Oh, it’s so that bad, borderline horrifi– HEY!” Nobara hissed, clutching her forehead as Tsubame threw a tube of toothpaste right into her face.

“I’ll fix it,” Megumi sighs, walking over towards where Tsubame stood, gently pushing Yuuji aside as he takes the scissors, working his way through the mess.

Nobara mutters, rubbing her face, and eyeing Tsubame, “Sheesh, why’d you let Itadori help you? He clearly doesn’t look like he knows what he’s doing.”

Yuuji pouts a little at Nobara’s comment, and Tsubame can’t help but find it cute.

“Yeah, Tadashi, why didn’t you say anything?” Yuuji frowns, almost as if betrayed that she didn’t say anything.

Tsubame fiddled with her thumbs a little, calmed just the slightest from the way Megumi’s so gently cutting her hair – not that Yuuji wasn’t gentle, it’s just that he didn’t know what he was doing. Not one bit.

“Well, you were just really nice about it, and I felt bad if I told you it looked bad,” She mumbles, trying to brush it off with a shrug. “Besides, you were giving your best, and I admire that.”

Yuuji looked into her eyes, and with just one glance, he knew she was being honest. His stomach flipped a little in excitement, knowing that she was honest about her admiration towards him.

“Well, you could’ve just said it was bad,” Yuuji sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know,” Tadashi looked away guiltily. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t help the way his heartstrings were tugged at the sight. 

He gently placed his hand on her shoulder, giving her the most reassuring look he could muster, “It’s alright, Tadashi. I get what you mean, but next time, just be honest with me, okay?”

Her eyes soften the slightest as she looks up at him. Since she can’t nod, she mumbles a small, ‘okay’, but what takes him off guard is the small upturn at the corners of her mouth. Yuuji felt his cheeks warm, turning them into a shade of pink similar to his hair.

“You guys are so mushy and ick,” Nobara sighs, winking at Tsubame’s direction. “Just get together already.”

Yuuji glared over at Nobara, his entire face red with humiliation. Tadashi’s face was the same shade of red as his, but as she glared her head moved and Megumi clicked his tongue, inwardly relieved that he hadn’t cut her hair yet. He placed his hand on her head, gently guiding it back before resuming his actions.

“Itadori and I just became friends, leave us alone,” Tadashi huffed. 

Yuuji agreed, his arms crossed against his chest in defiance, “Yeah, what she said!”

“And if I’m being honest, even though we just met, I trust you all,” Tsubame sighs. “So I might as well let you both in the secret, which Nobara has kept ever since we were kids.”

Yuuji raised his eyebrow in confusion, glancing over at Megumi who didn’t seem fazed in the slightest.

“Let me just… how do I phrase this,” Tsubame sucked her teeth in thought. “My name isn’t exactly Tadashi.”

“It either is or isn’t Tadashi,” Megumi quips, brushing the hair off of his hands, “Which is it?”

Tsubame sighs, fiddling with her fingers, “Fine, fine. It’s not Tadashi. Tadashi was a stupid name my parents picked when I was a kid because my grandparents wanted a grandson – my birth name’s Tsubame.”

Yuuji felt his jaw drop as he turned to Nobara who nodded in agreement.

“And you knew this the whole time?” Yuuji pouted in Nobara’s direction, the girl in question raising her hands in surrender.

“It’s a secret for a reason! I’m not that bad of a friend, sheesh,” Nobara puffed her cheeks in annoyance. “And Tsu-Tsu and I have been best friends since childhood, of course, she’d trust her secret with me!”

Tsubame mumbles a curse, a blush growing at the humiliating nickname, and Yuuji can’t deny how her flushed cheeks make him smile the slightest.

“Tsu-Tsu?” He grins, “Oh my god, can I call you that?”

“Absolutely not,” She glares, her cheeks flaring a darker shade of red.

“And done,” Megumi announced before Tsubame could lurch in Yuuji’s direction with her hands around his neck. “At least look at your hair before you murder Itadori.”

Tsubame sighed, placing her wire-frame glasses on the bridge of her nose before looking in the mirror, her eyes lighting up as she leaned closer, admiring her reflection, “...It looks great, thanks, Gumi.”

Megumi nodded in acknowledgement, but Yuuji brushed past the fact that they were on a nickname basis, more in awe of Tsubame’s new haircut.

Her long hair was snipped short into a pixie-cut kind of appearance, but the length of the hair varied, appearing to be longer at the front than the back with a little bit of her head shaved, resembling a medium fade undercut.

Perhaps it was the lighting in the bathroom or the overall renewed energy between them, but her eyes just seemed to sparkle more, and her presence just made his heart beat faster. Maybe it was the way her short hair framed her face better or the way he could see more of her true personality shine through as she admired her new haircut. It was definitely… unique, but she pulled it off.

“You look great, Tsubame,” Yuuji smiled, and his heart thumped harder when her coffee-coloured eyes met his. “I like this haircut on you.”

She rolled her eyes, and even if he was supposed to feel a little hurt by it, he couldn’t help but smile at her sarcastic tone, “You don’t get to like my haircut.”

“Oh, come on,” He whined playfully, pouting. “Don’t I get a little bit of credit? ‘Cuz if I didn’t mess up, you wouldn’t get to look this amazing?”

He can hear the annoyance in Tsubame’s voice, but the way her mouth quirks upwards and the way her eyes sparkle the slightest makes him think he’s hit the jackpot.

“Yeah,” She groans, admittance in her tone. “You did mess up my hair.”

“So, do I get to like it?” Yuuji grins, his heart beating faster, pride filling him at the sight of her smallest smile.

It was a step forward in the right direction, considering that this was the most direct form of happiness he’d received from her yet. He’s just that bit closer to breaking down her walls. 

“Yeah. It means you get to like it,” She crosses her arms, smile vanishing, but the twinkle in her eye says otherwise as she flicks his forehead gently, walking out of the bathroom.

Yuuji grins, following after Tsubame as Megumi sighs, tossing out the last of her hair into the bin, Nobara snickers as she takes a quick photo of Yuuji and her childhood best friend.

“Does that mean we get to use nicknames?” Yuuji peers over her shoulder as she huffs.

“No.”

“But you call Fushiguro ‘Gumi!” He frowns with a mumble, and she scoffs the slightest.

“Because we got along better, and I owe him lunch now for fixing up your mess,” She pokes his shoulder and he playfully whines.

“Then at least let me make it up to you!”

Tsubame hummed in thought, giving Yuuji the smallest smile, and that was enough to make him smile again. Her smile, her rare smile that no one else saw other than their little group, was enough to make him feel as though it was all he needed.

“I’ll think about your offer, but you can start with helping Gumi out with the tidying process,” She quips, walking out of the room as Nobara follows.

“What?!” Megumi grumbles, Tsubame’s voice echoing through her empty dorm room.

“You’re amazing, ‘Gumi! I owe you lunch and dinner!”

Yuuji sighed with a smile, grabbing the broom from the corner of the bathroom, and sweeping her hair together with amusement in his eyes.

“Ridiculous,” Megumi mutters to himself, watching his friend hum to himself happily as he sweeps up the bits of hair, as though he was simply re-energised at the sight of a girl smiling her smallest smile at him.

“Yeah, but didn’t you see her small smile, Fushiguro?” Yuuji grinned. “I’m closer to knowing the real Tsubame.”

“You’ve still got a long way to go,” Megumi hums to himself, tossing the last bit of snipped hair away.

“I know, but I’m not gonna give up just yet,” Itadori grins. “I’m so close, don’t ya think?”

Megumi thinks to himself in silence for a minute, taking a glance at a small picture by Tsubame’s bedside before opening her dorm door, his clothes and hands now free of stray hair.

“You’ve still got a long way more but… if anyone can open her up to us, it’d be you, Itadori.”

And that was enough encouragement for Yuuji as he grinned, walking out of the dorm as Megumi watched him in amusement.

“That’s enough for me to keep trying!” He laughs lightly. “I’m gonna be her best friend, just you wait!”

“Yeah… I’m sure you will,” Megumi nods in agreement.

“Now, where were they meeting for lunch? I’m starved.”

gif by @planetafiyu

taglist: @mooncleaver @underwateredwrld @mcmisbehaving @neteyamrealgf @khany2026 @tinkerbelle05 @iheartamajiki @sad-darksoul @yunymphs @saelestia @cheriiyaya @ladyth

< comment/dm me if you’d like to be on the taglist! >

synopsis: jjk men reacting to your death :3 contents: angst ofc featuring: yuuta okkotsu, toji fushiguro, yuuji itadori

a/n: it was supposed to be way angstier but since I love you guys, I made it bittersweet-ish :D

𝐘𝐔𝐔𝐓𝐀 𝐎𝐊𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐔 ☆ (@cafunewon : i love you🥺🫶🏼)

Melted together, like time.

Another ring on his necklace, another person he loved, was gone.

Seconds passed, minutes dragged together and hours flowed, like the tide of the rebellious current of a river.

'you could've taken anything from me.'

tears flowed, like the very rain outside, thunder rumbling, like the emotions within himself, because, you took his soul, his heart, his very person.

'but why did you take them?'

You wiped it clean, you made him want to change, become stronger so he could protect you, protect the one thing he valued over his life and-

here he was.

over your tombstone, he stood over the freshly dug grave, and he thought how much you would've hated the bland, grey, of your tombstone.

The only thing that you would've liked about your final resting place, were the flowers that he planted himself, digging through the rich brown dirt to give you one last gift.

rich purples, deep reds, soft blues, vibrant pinks, all giving him an excuse to go back to you.

to take care of you, even if you weren't in this world.

The sky screamed out its rage, splitting the once beautiful sapphire sky into shades of grey, water pouring down from the heavens, the tears of the angels pouring down on Yuuta's silent form.

Saltwater mixed with fresh, pure water.

Sadness and grief, mixed with renewal and purification.

the petals of the flowers, sag underneath the skies tears and yuuta's deep blue eyes filled up with his own tears, salt now landing on the ground.

Almost like a curse, huh?

everyone he loved, everything he cared for, would always leave him, one way or another.

"please. wait for me, okay?"

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 ☆ (@unknownspecies you already hate me soooo😋)

He still thinks about you, a year after your death.

The worst year of his sad life.

He still thought about you, each minute, each hour, every. damn. second.

He thought of you when going to bed, his arm already reaching out to the empty space where he expected to feel your warm body against his bare skin, he thought of you when he heard your favourite song on the radio, practically hearing the way your voice cracked on the ridiculously high note, the teasing smile when he gazed at your photo-

your laugh haunted him, leaving echoes of happiness, of laughter, of love, of joy around the now sad home.

Echoes were all that remained of you.

"Together right? in this world, and in heaven as well."

Brushes of your skin, your voice drifting in his air, your smile, the way you held his hand-

How did you go in the blink of an eye?

How did you flood his thoughts, memories, when you weren't there?

Liquor was all that he tasted on his tongue, the taste flooding his mind, the feeling soothing his brain-

But not him.

He stared at the ring on his third finger, still wearing it, still calling you his.

Because you were.

In this afterlife and the next, you would always be his.

Even if you were just a memory.

Just another star in the brilliant, vast sky.

Seconds merge together, time standing at one point as his foggy mind stared at a constellation, the one specific star that glowed brighter than the rest, the one calling him in the remote distance.

"even... if you gave up on me......"

He whispered, his eyes closing as for a second, he could feel your comfortable presence beside him, holding his hand.

in the serene calmness, toji dropped the bottle, causing the glass to shatter, with remains of the liquid spilling out on the floor and one small tear carving it's way down his face, almost like a kiss.

"i.. will never give up on you."

𝐘𝐔𝐔𝐉𝐈 𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈 ☆ (@delulusioanlol h-hey diane🫣)

'i've been told to get you off my mind.'

He stared blankly at a picture of you, his dull hazel eyes transfixed on your laughing face. He could practically hear your sweet laughter echoing in his head.

But it was just imaginary.

He'd been counting days, seconds, anything to get your face out of his mind, your figure lying so, so still, on the white parchment of the hospital bed.

You died in his arms.

Yuuji let out a shaky sob, his vision blurring as a lump grew in his throat, because without you-?

The one thing, that kept him sane?

The one thing he loved most of all?

If you were gone, what was there to do?

Sobs enclosed his throat, suffocating him, entrapping him in the never-ending cycle of sadness and self-pity as your voice swam around in his messed up head.

But tears didn't slip out of his eyes.

So instead of crying, Yuuji dully stared into space, feeling his heart shatter into millions of tiny pieces.

Each little happy memory with you, cut a deeper hole into his soul, because all that was left-

were memories and photos.

He was falling apart, in the worst way possible.

"i miss the way it used to be......."

"i....hope your happy y/n."

tagging you: @no-b10g-here @anxious-chick @aleluvsuu @funky-writes @oneofthesevensins @ladywinterfell13 @kazhyloveslaw @dazaisms @cyb3r-c44t @princessluvz @notherenortherejustaway @okaydokeyyo @iheartamora @haloswrld @churipu @lysaray @olivianyx @desihopelessromantic @kiri1330 @scryarchives

welp, i have successfully etched off 4 hours of my life just doing these canon and oc doodles. hope you guys like this :)

(i dont specifically have a taglist for my art yet, but yall lmk if i should have one)

The most amazing human Ive ever met.

HOLD ON IS AO3 DOWN?? I was reading one of my fav fanfics perfectly fine before the page reloaded and a “bad gateway” page appeared. is it just me or is the site down completely 😭😭

𝟏𝟐 | 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"You will spend summers in rainstorms and autumns in his orchids because you are Alderan and he will kill Takoban gods to get you there."

cw brief description of drowning and a claustrophobic struggle with the ocean. suggestions of suicidal intention and self harm. reader tries to fight the sea and your prince has horrible misunderstandings about it. bkg 🫱🏽‍🫲🏼 unethical rescue tactics pt 2, borrowed clothes, a fevered fireside confession in the bedroom you’ve been searching for 6.4k

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If Takoba is the edge of the world, Aldera is the center. You so starved for comfort, stand with your feet at the tip of the surf and tie your braids together.

You watch the sea at midnight and the winds coming off the water bite your scars before they chill your bones. Autumn at the edge of the world is miserable. Lakes freeze but the ocean is colder, and full of tides , like Todoroki said, which you’ve spent the day reading about. Unlike lakes and winter ice skating, the ocean has a taste. Salt and decay. It tastes unfathomably ancient. You watch its many maws foaming under the moonlight and seashells burn in frigid water when you step onto them.

In the view from Bakugou’s bedroom, you’ve lined your boots up neatly in the sand and stand watch beside them for a moment. You’re dressed to stop a midnight siege, in your white nightgown and padded habergeon, staring so small and far away from the warmth of his fireplace. You in a dark blue world, framed by his open window. Bakugou would have sipped his tea and rolled his eyes at his newly fucked up sleep schedule and how ridiculous you insist on looking in public if his cup wasn’t spilt on the rugs where he dropped it. If he hadn’t already ripped his door off its hinges in his sprint out of the castle.

You couldn’t sleep. You have no appetite and no mobility yet for sparring. Just books. Just Uraraka answering your questions about the sea while watching her men train. The ride with Todoroki yesterday was nice but it left your throat stiff and you are still in your kingdom’s service. Today in Takoba, tomorrow and forever behind your prince. Long before the blue gardens and scars, before the kitchen, before sticky crowds and white horses and cold hallways, something somewhere started to die.

You take another step into the swollen water, it rises with the moon, to confirm your suspicions and grimace when a crab scuttles over your foot. Another step and you’re up to your hem. It would all be easier if your heart was still a forest fire. When did that stop? When did the rain come? Up to your knees now. Seawater climbs your nightgown.

As it stands you’re no longer a dragon, just damp tinder. The black sea sways you side to side at the hips now so gently– keep walking, don’t look back. You will free yourself from doubt and you will fight a god to do it.

“Moon makes tides,” Uraraka yawned and slouched and stretched as you sat on your knees beside her in the pit.

“Can you swim in it?”

“In the ocean?” she squinted, “Yeah of course. But don’t tell me you want to swim in this weather?”

“I won’t.”

Shinsou could only pretend not to hear for so long from his spot beside you both this afternoon, “The moon makes tides, and tides make storms.”

Good. Up to your ribs now. Wear the rock there like an anchor.

In the cold water your body heat becomes that much more apparent and it’s lovely like home. Genuinely hot for a second. Your nightgown floats up around you and you sink quickly from chest to nose when the sand under your feet drops to freezing nothing. The sudden dip sends icy pain behind both eyes and the sensation of failing steeles every joint sickly sore. Walking through the ocean is like a fight, like driving a sword through someone solid, like braving a thunderstorm, but sinking into it is easier than sleeping.

You gasp and spit out the aftermath of losing your footing but you also fight too hard in anticipation of sinking and you’re suddenly in the open air up to your waist like a salmon leaping upstream. The weight of the nightgown settles you back down to your shoulders and it’s silent except for the sound of waves kissing the beach and one another. Whistling wind. You bob only some ten meters out from shore, just short of where Todoroki held you back for fear of drowning and something wild like greed blinks open a sleepy brown eye.

You hardly have to move a limb to keep your head above water; the sea is free and gentle. You float easily here, where a lake wants to watch you fight. It’s part of the fun at home and in exchange you are safe in freshwater. Salt stings– saliva pools under your tongue to keep it from getting inside– but it also holds you up in the foam like two hands under the hip.

Is this what you were so afraid of? This is the god you planned on killing tonight?

Every day in this miserable place you have been beaten. You have fallen apart in some way, your hair is too messy, your new clothes don’t fit right. You lose Aldera with every step, heel toe– earrings that are no longer yours, heel toe– a weapon you can't return, heel toe and stand at attention– a brooch you’re too afraid to wear, to lose too, so you keep it under your pillow and wear silver seashells instead. Blue fire took the first victory in the forest and you salvaged your prince with your life thin in your teeth. Takoba took the second victory and strung you out in your nightgown for nobles to pick at like crows. A driftwood table took the third and Bakugou stole the fourth. The only time you have ever won here is when you decided to die. When you churn the water with your arms a pain echoes across your back not quite inside your scars.

Kirishima on the verge of tears, Shinsou above your operating table, Uraraka at your side, Todoroki holding you back from the edge of the world– your prince, wet to his knees– you have never, not once in your life have you ever failed. Their gazes make your throat hurt and you spit again into a tiny rolling wave that lifts itself over your chin and into your ears.

The goddess of the sea does not pity you.

She pulls you into her arms and laughs when you rub your freshwater eyes. She tossels your hair with silent waves you could never have seen coming. She reminds you of her strength. And Todoroki told you that you couldn’t possibly challenge her– eat your words sealace prince. Even just this once, witness me. You are a gem in the crown of Aldera, the left hand of the golden family. Takoba is no setback the sea is not your master, you are a chosen servant, not a mistake. It is so wonderful to be in the presence of a queen again and at night her water is soft and black.

The shore is farther than you remember when you finally glance back at the world. You bob like a peach, a frozen peach, and realize you can’t feel the cold anymore. Time to head back. Today was just a test anyway, to make sure you could put up your fight. Maybe sleep will come now that you’re starting to breathe heavy and now that your muscles ache again after days without real training. Ice creeps up the back of your neck from wet hair.

The goddess of the sea plays with you for a few more seconds and you can’t wait to come back in the warmth of the sun to lay on your back with her to whom you no longer need to prove yourself. The ocean pulls in its depths just as much as it pushes at the shore so you brace your eyes for discomfort and duck under the surface to kick a good length forward. It would have worked in a lake, at the center of the world.

When you resurface you are somehow farther than before and considerably shorter of breath. The cold starts to press on your lungs now that you’re truly using them. It’s okay, one more time. You kick once to let the goddess lift you up with her salt and breathe in the free air before diving under again but all you actually do is stir bubbles around you exactly where you started. If anything even farther. Your boots are too small to see now.

There are no storms, no raging waves, no rain, no thunder, hardly wind, what is putting up the fight? Whatever. You paddle above water, thankful for light clothes, and weary of the growing ache under your jaw– the start of a pulsing headache. More than anything you are finally excited for bed, but no matter how hard you push there seems to be a growing distance between you and safety.

Dread drops in your peachpit stomach and you start to feel long pretty fingers tickle your heels in black water. The ghost of the flame mage happy to drag you with him to the bottom of the sea. Irrational like a fear of the dark, but still there’s no more time for testing pride, you have to get back to shore. The little girl inside of you cowers when you take one more heavy breath and then release it to sink yourself as deep as the salt will let you. You can see the breaking point, all you need is to reach the seafloor and kick yourself to it.

As you drift down into the pitch black something so much better than sand or ghosts meets your feet. You connect with rock as your lungs begin to ache for air and kick with every well trained muscle your legs have, forward towards the shore. Faster than freshwater, you rocket to the surface and gasp excitedly, blink rapidly, and infinitely closer to white sand, and then immediately the goddess pulls you under again.

Sure you found the breaking point, sure your toes tease the start of the shore you want to reach so badly, but that’s what waves do here. Break.

Something so silent couldn’t possibly be this powerful, but your head is forced back under as your hips are pulled back out and you tumble head over knees, mouth filled suddenly with salt and sand in the darkness. Resurfacing is no fun task, choking. You’re thankful it’s easy to float in the ocean but saltwater dries out your mouth as you retch it back out from your throat into the foam and then there’s another break over your head to remind you that humans should stay far away from god.

You’ll die just thirty meters from the shore. Salt blinds you. Water deep in one ear keeps you just dizzy enough to let this sea carry you out once again, and shouting isn’t an option. Shouting or gasping, you have to pick one. Ache has turned to paralysis; muscles so beaten and a heart beating so fast you’re already at the last limit reached by your master, training to failure. Striking and swinging until you can no longer hold your weapon. Hours of training reduced to fifteen minutes at sea.

The bruises of your shoulder protest every paddle you force out of them and go much stiffer much faster than the rest of you. In a way, the mage is drowning you. In every way the sea is much more claustrophobic than a war room.

The moon watches you heaving for air stuck between beating waves and being swept back out to sea. She doesn’t do anything. You are pulled under again. The rocks beneath you scratch your soft skin this time and your instinct is to flinch which fills your nose with water and drowning is certainly not as peaceful as poetry makes it out to be.

Of course it ends like this. A soggy creature fighting gods alone.

Of course he’s watching you, his Captain, being stolen by the sea.

You surface forcefully with a grip on your scruff and while your body remembers how to breathe, magic every furious color of the rainbow arcs above your head. The water recoils for a moment around you in the force of his impact. Bakugou erupts from the sky as he always does into the tragedy of your life in Takoba and you have no control over your searing gaze when it turns to him above you, framed by sparks and stars. Halo from the moon.

You both fall back into the water but not so helplessly as a moment ago. Your prince hooks and arm across your chest, pressing your back to his front and with so much more strength than you could ever muster, rips his way through the water in half of a backstroke. Half of him focused on keeping you afloat and only half of him conquering the sea. His legs create their own current. He holds you and you’re sure you’re breathing loudly enough into his collar to hurt his ears.

You are an excellent swimmer. Weak children, drunk diplomats, tests from your master; you have dragged your fair share of victims out of rivers and as the victim yourself you know better than to struggle or panic in your prince’s grip as he drags you from the goddess, but you can’t help how your fingers scratch at his translucent tunic. Cling to the warmth of his bicep.

In twenty seconds he has reached the break. Strength like a war criminal, like a godslayer. He turns in the water, times it to match the swell of a wave for height, and pulls you chest to chest with a guiding hand on the side of your head to fold you into him. The sea drops you and you know what comes next. Bakugou anticipates your struggle, or a drowned man’s panic, any logical thing and wraps another arm around you tight as he pulls you both under, but you don’t fight a single second and neither do you breathe.

He knows the sea so much better. If you weren’t unraveling like a common soldier you would have realized too, just how much calmer the water is underneath its surface. Even with ears full of sand you can hear the wave crash above you but there is no pull underwater. The roll of the goddess back out to sea twirls through your hair but nothing else. She lets your prince push up to the surface and doesn’t stop you from catching your breath inside the crook of his neck. Eleven seconds to beat the break. What does he even need a captain for?

This time when the tide drops, you don’t quite drop with it. Knees in the sand. Back on solid ground you realize how hard a body can shake and then water is beating you down again from behind, and a warm hand has you by the back of the haubergeon to keep you from slipping out to sea or laying flat down to sleep in the surf.

Both hardly walking, and you more-than-half carried, you and your prince stagger over seashells like glass back to the spot where your boots rest like nothing bad has ever happened at all, chased the whole time by a disappointed tide. You collapse the second he lets you. You, useless with cold and vomiting seafoam.

“Why?!” Your prince chokes, similarly out of breath beside you, hunched over his knees from the effort of winning your war. You can feel the glare. You are warmed by it and then entirely numb again, in a terrible turn of events, to even his attention. The very last ember dies without smoke.

Bakugou, even in a temper tantrum, has never looked quite so disheveled. He’s been wet before, and pushed his hair back with big hands and caught his breath through his teeth just like this, but he’s never looked at you with such confusion. His eyebrows don’t sit right. Without a scowl his whole thing really falls apart, huh?

“Answer me, Eyes!”

You wheeze instead of speaking when you try to use your voice for the first time and spit out the last of the salt that comes up with it. He doesn’t move, catching his breath across the sand at midnight. Your prince really is so pretty and something inside is eating you alive to the beat of the wash of waves. He is a star and you are the bloody little creature beneath him always, not chosen at all.

You sit yourself up. Bakugou is beautiful. Broad chest and shoulders trained for his magic and a wet tunic that clings to every lovely shape, just a few feet too far away to touch. Unmarred face and shaggy hair. His eyes. His jaw slopes sharp, sharper still in the moonlight and dripping with water, up towards his hungry red eyes that eat everything they’ve e–

“Wake up!” He barks.

He’s not eating you. He brings back your focus and when you hold his stare this time it’s so obvious he’s not confused, or angry, not exhausted or embarrassed or exasperated. He’s six and he’s holding your hands in a velvet carriage, terrified.

Oh boy. You guess self-control died with your heart, because your shoulders start to shake in a chuckle. Bakugou stares. Any fold of his brows melts immediately at the sound of your soft laughter but he hardens again when he speaks.

“What about this is funny?!” and pulls himself up to his knees as you lower yourself to clamshells, not-quite-laughing but not fighting the smile either. This is exhausting. “You just tried to kill yourself!”

This makes you snort, which is ugly, and shuts your prince up entirely. One laugh like a lie and then another and you curl in on yourself, shivering arms folded above your head and forehead pressed flat to the sand. Something like an apology. You are redundant, not suicidal.

If it were a real apology you would wait until he spoke again to raise your head like Todoroki in the stables, but that’s not what you’re doing at all. You ache from the inside. Burn in fact. You chuckle again and spit salt one last time when you sit up, then grab for your shoes with muscle memory instead of feeling since the cold has stolen that from you too. Bakugou is staring again– it is irritating, you should do it less.

The ocean makes a lovely noise when you are not drowning in it. It’s much quieter and sounds a bit like laundry sliding over itself. Or apples tumbling into a basket. You are the first to your feet, clumsily, and you are not so delirious that you forget you need proximity to a fire. Anyone else might not be able to stand through this adrenaline trembling but how many apprentices have come so close to death so many times as you?

“Oi,” Bakugou growls, confused again by the wrong emotion for just long enough to let you escape.

The hill between the castle and the sea is overgrown with dune grasses tall enough to tickle your hips and that is what you decide to climb. Empty stomach, ruined shoulder, shaking legs, deep dead eyes.

Your clothes cling to you. They make you small. He can hardly breathe in the cold as he rushes to catch up, dripping what he's sure are icicles, and you look as if you could hardly stay conscious in it. Does your face feel as red as it looks? Friction or fever? “Captain!” And it’s obvious Bakugou can’t decide on his volume, but bulldozes after you nonetheless husky with exertion, “fuckin wait–”

There are sandy paths beaten into this seaside hill, small like children made them on their happy little way to swim. Bakugou makes quick work of it. You hike. You put all your effort into staying on two feet through a chill you could hardly ever imagine. Heat pounds in your temples, cruelly imitating Alderan fire when really it’s something poisoned like liquor.

“Please don’t follow me sir,” you call over the wind when the prince gets a few steps too close to catching up and he makes a sound almost like words, like words you shot dead in his throat. You know that sound because you have been shot at the same exact angle. Deadly isn’t it? He falls back.

Just for a moment Bakugou stops and watches, filled with something neither of you have the words for yet. Recovering just as quickly as you are succumbing to exhaustion.

Wait, he stares. Just– “Y/n.”

Wrapped in white, you are framed by rolling seagrass in the moonlight. You finally stop climbing and turn. You like a half-drowned painting. In a furred cape you might be a queen. From your spot smiling sadly at the edge of the world, your nose has started to bleed.

“Give me an order.”

Six and shaking in his hands. Eleven soaked in a fruit filled hallway, always working and fond of libraries. Sense of humor that doubles over his queen. Often covered in blood, staring too earnestly right now for him to remember that anger might fix this. Bakugou doesn’t breathe.

You turn back towards the castle alone and for the very last time, your body keeps the tears at bay. On a hill of swaying green grass and bright in the moonlight, your prince, frozen, looks so much like his mother you should kill him for it.

You always thought you were hiding from him on duty, only slightly more stealthy than a dragon. It got better when Jeanist stopped training you in chainmail, but your excitement at every small job bounced off the walls of his castle so obviously. Squirrel duty? You helped a hundred bastards back outside without pause. Sent up to swept bookshelves under the Great Oak and you're the only person he’s ever seen hum to themself so high in the air. Stable duty? Stable master more like. Seven and stacking stools to reach the saddles before Jeanist set you back on the ground by your scruff like his kitten. Bakugou can’t remember what went first, your heartbeat or his hearing.

The very first time you snuck up on him was in August under a plum tree, nine years old. He slept beside his book in the shade on a perfect day, perfectly alone and free of tutoring for the afternoon. Maybe because you were barefoot, but somehow even out of breath, the only thing that gave you away was your voice.

“Careful Highness.” He shot awake with that and figured for a moment that you were a dream while his eyes adjusted to the light through the leaves behind you– panting above him and holding tight to a plum. Like premonition your other hand lurched to catch another as it fell toward him, “they’re ready for harvest.”

Bakugou sat up. Off at an impossible distance for you to have run to catch plums, Jeanist stood beside a hanging line of red uniforms waving a beckoning hand.

“Laundry calls,” you whispered. As the little prince turned stupidly back to you above him, you set both plums on the grass beside his book and bowed.

Wait.

“Maybe a nap in the vineyard? Grapes won't bruise.”

Wait, I know you.

He watched you bow one last time and jog out of the shade back to Jeanist and Alderan laundry, just as he watches you stumble now in the dark, towards the faraway lights of a castle without the fire you need.

Wait!

“Y/n!” Bakugou bursts over the ridge and back onto marble pavement, what the fuck is he gonna do– your name won’t work twice, he’s wasted too much time. “Captain!”

You pay him no mind drifting away with your back still turned and with even less coordination than when you dragged yourself from the sea. You are deteriorating– fuck, fuck it. Bakugou, brimming with something to the left of anger, charges. If you hear him coming you do nothing to stop him. Not as he closes your distance with eight good strides and slings you over his shoulder.

"I–!" you jerk to strike instinctively, “Put me down!”

Good, you can shout. He still has time, you’re still alive. He’ll apologize for touching you later, for hesitating and staring, he will say everything he set aside in anger when you are not trying to kill yourself.

“Put me down,” you hiss like you know you’re one of three people that can make his skin prickle with threat.

“Not a chance.”

You grip the back of his tunic, clinging so wet to his body that you grab equal parts flesh and he turns away from your path to the glowing front gates all those hundreds of meters away, to kick in a door on an insignificant corner of an insignificant annex in the shadows of the castle that is only unlocked because it’s the same one he flew from, instead of his window, when he was trying not to startle you with his magic and into the sea.

You will spend summers in rainstorms and autumns in his orchids because you are Alderan and he will kill Takoban gods to get you there. Your nails on his back begin to burn with your silence and it’s haunting not only because you weigh less to him than a phantom, but because the smell of the sea follows you inside when there is no one else left to close the door. Immediately it is warmer without the wind but he will not slow until he finds fire, because you are gripping him instead of screaming again– because you are freezing to death and he will not let you win under new circumstances after he worked so hard to save you from the first.

This part of the castle is his, below the kitchens, the deep white underbelly in the cliff over the sea where no one will find him except cooks and staff who keep his secret and the queen who kindly ordered these quarters before she lost her mind. There is no difference of weight or warmth when he sets you down without a fight in front of the only red door in the hall. You aren’t a ghost. Even if you aren’t convincing. He throws the door open.

You would win in a contest but Bakugou too can make a steady fire. It’s still chirping bright in his fireplace when he crowds you inside of his quarters. Wood and furs. The smell of bread, everything so unlike Takoba. Small. Hard surfaces cushioned or covered in anticipation of winter, with red and gold and wool, forest tapestries from home– and it is a small victory that you take another step, then another, deeper inside without hint or suggestion.

“where are we?”

“You need to change,” Bakugou dismisses when you’re far enough inside to close the door, and pulls open a cherry chest of drawers at the foot of his bed. It’s draped in pelts and pillows. Faded herbs hang in bundles above you.

“have clothes in my room.”

“Didn’t ask.” When he looks over his shoulder, you are wobbling towards the fire like a starving woman, with two hands reaching subtly from your side. Good, shut up and warm up. Bakugou rifles through his options one more time and grimaces, raising his own black Alderan riding tunic aloft; it’s the only thing that’s going to be long enough to cover all of you.

He’ll sort out this shitshow step by step– dry you off, shout scream scold, get you warm, shout some more– a good Alderan lecture, and then tie you to him if he must since you obviously can’t be trusted alone. Walking into the sea when you thought everyone was sleeping. And for what? He grinds his teeth and grips the sids of his dresser with the realization that he’s probably not going to sleep again tonight. He’d kill you if that wasn’t what you so obviously wanted.

“Alright asshole, get ch–” Bakugou chokes when he turns back to you, sitting politely fireside with a dagger materialized in your good hand, blade pressed flat to your collar. He jumps, black tunic flying and shouts indiscernibly in a lunge for the weapon.

Not fast enough because by the time he makes one step, you’ve driven the blade down your chest and clear through your shirt. It falls open and your bare ribs seize in goosebumps this close to the fire, “told you I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Drop it!” He wails, as if to a dog.

Oh how you will haunt him until the end of time. A month with you, just some soldier from his castle– a prodigal apprentice in a kingdom of geniuses– an impersonable, silent, invisible guard, who should cause harm only when necessary and appear only in danger– a woman who does this job to a tee, and still somehow steals his attention to any corner of the room she conceals herself in– just a month and you have beguiled him. Reaping grim satisfaction from watching you wreak havoc in this place he loathes.

You sit in front of his fire in his secret room, half bare now that you’ve decided to cut your clothes off of yourself, and entirely bare when you run the lip of the dagger across your shoulder to catch the fabric and then rough straight down the other side. You are pink from heat and staring through him entirely unfocused, all chaotic braids and parted lips. There’s a dry track of blood smeared under your nose and he shudders to think what part of his back it was wiped on while he was carrying you away. The fingertips of your scar peek into free air. Bakugou can’t spin around fast enough, howling in anger.

You sound like you’re smiling again mournfully like last time, “following orders, sir.”

“Don’t call me that!” He roars and shoves the black tunic behind his back towards you. This room is small, maybe five paces wide, and so he sits as far as he can from you on the floor beside his bed, still within arms reach. Back turned.

What the fuck is so funny? This isn’t a headache this is sustained torture. Bakugou’s own wet clothes cling to him in dry patches of salt and stick and grit that he’s desperate to bathe away just as soon as you are tethered to another magician. In another kingdom. You breathe heavily behind him in a mismatch between effort and task and then a sopping thud reminds Bakugou that you are stripping to nothing behind him and piling your rags onto his fine rugs.

“You’re a fucking nightmare.”

“you’ll be free of me in a moment.”

And it dawns on him, seasick irony, that there isn’t a person alive in this kingdom but him who could stop you from doing a single thing.

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight you’re concussed.”

You pause your fiddling behind him for a second before resuming and you’re close enough that he can still hear your less than methodic pulling and ripping. A huff here and there. In the seconds it takes you to speak again your voice is still laced with the amusement that makes his skin crawl, “third time I’ve told you I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Save it– just hurry up.”

“was just saying a prayer.”

“Save. It. An excuse that fulla holes wouldn’t even work on Kirishima the naif.”

“because nothing gets past the Champion.”

Bakugou erupts, out of unwounded fists to clench, and jerks around with every intention of barking at you. He’s not sure what he pictured before turning and he’s not sure where his voice went, but you are sat beside his fire draped in his black tunic with an expression he can hardly find the words for.

What is it in the way your shoulders hang? Exhaustion? The way your chin tips or your eyes flutter? Hunger? You watch him like you’ll eat him alive, like your life is the least of his concerns. The laces at your collar drape limp over your fingers from where you gave up their tying and so the shirt hangs loose and open, and much much too big. Bakugou has never thought of the shape your sternum makes between your breasts or what color the fine hair on your thighs might be. He knows the answers now because you’ve given up on posture like a selkie out of water and everything so unlike his Captain– because something inside of you is slipping.

“don’t bother the Champion with this,” your voice is still draconian. Even as your body fails, your eyes are still dark and infinite and possessive beside the glow of his fireplace and under a window that looks out over black water, “or Lady Mina, or your Lords. Don’t worry them with me.”

Bakugou mirrors you unconsciously in the way he sits close enough to touch. Why do you say that? You keep saying it, ‘Lady Mina,’ all month the same thing. Sir Sero, like he’s not a soldier in Jeanist’s rear guard. Like Mina and Denki didn’t grow up in the castle with you all to learn magic fifteen years ago.

“They’re not,” he admits because something about you unraveling by the sea sucks the malice like marrow from his bones. Maybe something inside of him is slipping too.

The pair of you slouch on the soft rugs from home and sticky with foreign salt, looking. Your next smile seems to take every ounce of strength, “what?”

“They’re not lords.”

And in a rush, such horror ignites in the eaves of this tiny room like an Alderan dollhouse. It is a grease fire film of oil on water. He is the match. You drop your head to your shoulder and start to laugh like Bakugou isn’t watching the life evaporate from the top of your head and out his window in the heat that pinks your cheeks and blotches your chest. You laugh like you have life to spare, “course they’re not.”

You manage enough coordination to hold the chest of his tunic closed with one hand as you rise, still giggling bitter, nothing like the bells you rang for Todoroki.

“Stop–” Bakugou reaches for you as you walk past him towards the door but stops short of touching even the air.

“dream something sweet Highness, I won’t interrupt again.”

“Oi, wait–” He gathers himself awkwardly barefoot and still dripping seawater, to catch the door before you pull it open. You bow your head and reach for the knob at the same time as he manages to slam his palm and weight against it in case you decide you have enough life left to fight.

“Told you, you’re not leaving my sight.”

Maybe staring isn’t so much a habit as it is a system to keep you from collapsing under the weight of Alderan sun. You who watch the world carefully so that when you attack it is silent and succinct. As long as you’re only looking, just watching carefully, the world will never be in danger of you spilling the secrets obvious only to you, and your kingdom won’t have to acknowledge the war crimes it takes to teach a kid how to kill.

Bakugou looms above you and rests against his door on a forearm. You raise your head like it’s lead to look at him. Your mouth even opens to speak but then something like fire punches to life in the blacks of your eyes.

It’s not a blink this time, it’s a stutter at first– and your face is so flushed that it almost looks like you’re glowing– before something you see feeds the kindling to roaring. For a blessed second you aren’t smiling. You stare so deeply into your prince he can’t look away for long enough to realize that you’re reaching for him.

Why? Why are you leaning closer?

The first heat pools at the hinge of his jaw and then scalding follows. Why are your hands so hot? You pinch his earlobe between thumb and pinky and let your fingers graze over the ridges of ear just so gently that sparks itch where sweat prickles at his neck.

It’s still for a second before chills, agonizing, erupt up his spine, bone by bone as he realizes– as your prince’s face drops and his own hand jumps to reach his ears and what’s no longer there. His right hand grasps at Alderan gold, a tiny sun. His left only cups yours, so much smaller– and the ghost of your earring lost somewhere deep at sea. Six and bleeding in his hands, all grown up and at his mercy.

“I hate you.” You smile in anguish.

You don’t bother pulling your hand from his, only rest your head against the door and let your heavy eyes finally close. Nothing to hold back the freshwater tears now.

Bakugou almost isn’t fast enough in his shock to catch you when you begin to slide down the wall in collapse, “Y– shit– Y/n!” One hand pulls up on your own and the other reaches around your back to try and bring you into him instead of hard against the wooden floor like he’s still a prince and not just a man whose heart won’t stop racing.

“Y/n? Y/n,” he shuffles you in his lap where you landed, and breathes the shapes he hopes make the sound of your name as he searches, distracted. You are limp in his arms and entirely too warm to have been freezing to death a few minutes ago. Lips parted and rolling like you’re trying to speak. Running to safety with you on his shoulder, the seachill must have hidden your fever from him. He cradles your head to check for blood and holds your cheek when his fingers come out dry from your hair, "c'mon, Captain."

“majesty..”

Your heartbreaking laughter still bubbles up in quiet sobs and incoherence murmured through abandoned ego, “..m sorry,” when you manage to see through the tears for a moment before falling unconscious again. Every apology laced always with “mitsuki.” You must have been holding it back. You must have been keeping the fever at bay by sheer force of will because now on the floor against him, your body is so hot it’s making his chest clammy. Sweat has soaked into the nooks of your black tunic and pools in salt licks between your breasts. Fuck Alderan fire.

Your prince gathers your shoulders and chest, your waist hips and exhaustion, into a bundle in his arms and pulls himself up with his doorknob because he will not let you drown, he will not let you freeze, and you will not win by setting yourself on fire. As he rises, blood leaks again from your nose. Tears fall aimlessly against his heart split to six like a pomegranate. When Bakugou is king there will be no child soldiers.

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" MEET THE MODELS " | VOGUE COLLAB

welcome to the strike a pose collab ! hosted by @scryarchives @ladyth @cheriiyaya and @saelestia !

STARRING MODELS . . . toji, satoru, suguru, kento, higuruma, sukuna, yuki, mai, todo, maki, inumaki, yuuta, megumi, nobara, shoko . . . and will be added as they're requested.

possibilities are endless ! take a dive into your jujutsu kaisen favourites in different au's ! example au's ! ; actor au , sport au , musician au etc. !

all characters that can be written for ; toji, satoru, suguru, kento, higuruma, sukuna, yuki, mai, todo, maki, inumaki, yuuta, megumi, nobara, shoko . . . and will be added as they're requested.

possibilities are endless ! take a dive into your jujutsu kaisen favourites in different au's ! example au's ! ; actor au , sport au , musician au etc. !

SATORU G.

tba

SUGURU G.

all the ways i hate you ! [ fluff , suggestive ] - @cheriiyaya

KENTO N.

tba

HIGURUMA H.

tba

FUSHIGURO T.

tba

KAMO C.

tba

RYOMEN S.

tba

tba more characters as requests are sent

Hiii, omg first of all I just wanted to say I loved Ur miles morales earth 42 imagine "second chance" like all my days I'm in love. But like anyway I was wondering if I could request another one with him and Spider man miles? Soooo, it's basically where in spider man miles earth the reader died and when he gets to earth 42 (the part where he thought he was back in his own earth) he sees her and try's to apologise for not saving her and that he's so glad she alive but little does he know the reader is actully with earth 42 miles and that miles gets all over protective and jealous???

(Hello! Sure I can and so sorry if this sucks but I hope you enjoy this little drabble!)

Not Your Lover

Miles knew something was wrong, he figured it out immediately, not really, but he did.

He knew he needed to leave. He knew he needed to get home. He wanted nothing more than to get home.

But every thought of leaving and going home, back to his home where his family was, disappeared when he heard the door open.

Home was where he had his family.

But home didn't have you.

"I'm back, Mrs. Morales!"

Miles froze the second he heard, standing in the hallway before he slowly turned on his heel to see you.

You looked just as beautiful. The same way you did before he couldn't save you.

Miles didn't know what to do, just watching as you left your things by the door, looking around as you walked in before your eyes met his.

Miles almost broke down once your eyes met him, your same smile on your face that you always had for him as you got closer.

"You okay, Miles?" You asked, your smooth voice bringing Miles nothing but comfort as he couldn't help but stare at you.

You looked at Miles confused, Miles couldn't help but to bring himself forward, bringing you into a much needed hug as he buried his face into your neck, almost crying as the familiar scent of your perfume he had gotten you filled his senses.

"Woah!"

Miles held onto you as you said in surprise, not letting go as you slowly hugged him back, he felt your arms around him as he did his best not to cry.

Miles didn't want to do anything but to stay with you, but couldn't as you pulled back, looking at him with seemingly worry as you cupped his cheek.

"Are you feeling okay?" You asked, concerned as Miles almost didn't hear you, barely shaking his head.

"No- yeah. I'm okay." Miles barely muttered out, eyes darting over your entire face, not wanting to look away in fear you would leave as you did before.

"Okay, then." You gave him a weird look before you smiled, brushing off his weird behavior as you took his hand, leading him out and to the stairs.

"Come on. I made something for you."

Miles could hear you say as you walked up the stairs quickly, like you always did, leaving him behind for a moment.

"Hey, wait up!" Miles called after you, desperate to not let you out his sight but stopped in pain as he glitched, groaning in pain as he leaned into the railing.

"Miles?"

Miles looked up to see you standing above the flight of stairs, looking at him weirdly.

Miles saved himself, waving his hand to dismiss your worry as he climbed after you quickly.

You got to the roof first, Miles coming through the door not far after.

"Hey-" Miles tried once more before he stopped himself, looking around the roof, the changes evident as he looked back and forth.

That wasn't everything that was new.

Miles couldn't help but look at the brick wall, staring for a moment before a passing by train lit it up, giving just enough time for Miles to see the painted face.

The face no longer was Uncle Aaron and you.

But instead was Miles' dad.

Miles couldn't look away, his wide eyes staring at the portrait of his dad.

He didn't save his dad. His dad was gone.

He needed to go home. He had to go home.

Miles couldn't move, his feet planted to the floor.

Miles only turned when he remembered you were there, he slowly turned his head, expecting to see anything but he got nothing.

Your face was changed, everything was different now as any aspect he saw of his (Name) was gone, replaced by someone else he didn't know.

Miles wanted to deny it, but the way you looked at him before a small smirk came onto your face rendered him, every spider sense screaming for him to get the hell out.

Suddenly, you whistled a soft tune. Your cunning smile still on your face as you walked around Miles, his eyes following you, a mistake.

Miles watched as a figure dressed in a familiar but different suit jumped from the rooftop of another building, Miles thought to escape but couldn't, already punched down to the floor.

"Too bad. He's pretty cute."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miles woke up with a pain, his body felt constricted and his sight blurred as everything hurt.

He couldn't remember where he was or what happened for a moment before his eyes shot open, the panic setting in.

Miles was chained to a punching bag, looking around frantically before he saw you.

Your back was turned to him, working at a desk peacefully.

Miles breathed heavily, panicking as he moved around, making the chains clink together and catching your attention.

You perked up quickly, turning around to look at him as you took out an earphone, looking him over like he was some sort of joke.

You then smiled, a smile he once loved, but a smile he now couldn't place and one he was growing to hate.

You whistled softly once more, a soft alert as you put down everything onto the desk, now leaning against it as you waited.

Miles was too stunned to speak, trying to find the words before he stopped as he looked up, seeing the one who rendered him unconscious now hanging from a support beam, dropping down quickly.

Miles stared at him as he stared back, his masked face concealing his identity.

Miles watched almost fearfully as panic rose again, spider senses hay-wire as the masked one got closer, close enough for Miles to look at his face directly.

"Take off the fucking mask. It's not scaring anyone, babe."

Miles glanced at you, seemingly shocked and hurt as you called him babe.

But Miles was even more shocked as he heard the one in the mask sigh, the mask coming off a moment later to stun Miles even more.

Under the mask, resided his face.

Miles Morales' exact copy was under the mask, or at least, him in this world.

Miles could only watch as the formerly masked Miles glared at him before his copy walked over to you, forced to watch as you smiled up at him.

Miles could feel his heart beating and almost cracking as you glanced at him, the same smug smile on your lips as your Miles stood close to you.

Your Miles slipped his hand onto your neck, kissing your forehead before he went to your lips, and greedily, you accepted his kiss.

Miles knew a lot in his life, and that was that he loved his (Name) and she loved him.

You were not his (Name).

His (Name) died for him.

You would be the death of him.

Brilliant Girl

A/N: I just remembered how much I love BBC’s Sherlock so have him bonding with a tiny genius who is also brushed off and misunderstood. Also the reader is like ten, so she sounds/is a bit mature but is still not taken seriously bc of her age (based on how my ten year old brother acts, so it’s realistic lol)

Warnings: just fluff

Word count: almost 1k

~~~~

“But why doesn’t dad just look at his shoes?”

Sherlocks head snapped up from the paper he was reading, gaze landing on the ten year old sitting on the couch in the break room.

“Your dad is very busy, Y/n,” Donovan said, annoyance slipping into her voice as she handed the girl a coloring book and some crayons. Y/n took them with a sigh and Donovan left the small room. Sherlock covered his surprise when she actually stopped to talk to him. She tilted her head toward the girl.

“Lestrades daughter, Y/n. She’s not right in the head, that one. Lestrade had to bring her with today. She laid down next to the body we had just found. What reason could anyone have for doing that?” She seemed to remember she was talking to Sherlock and her nose turned up. “Although I suppose you’d do the same.”

Without another mean word, she turned on her heel and left.

Sherlock hadn’t visited this particular crime scene Donovan had mentioned; he’d been at the grocery buying tea for John after burning it for an experiment. (Conclusion to the experiment; John got very angry when he didn’t have his specific kind of tea. Never burn it again.) So, naturally, he was curious about what had happened. And why a little girl would lay down next to a dead body.

Glancing around, Sherlock quickly stood and made his way into the break room, stopping in front of the little girl. She looked up from her coloring, regarding him with interest.

“I know who you are.” She said simply. “You’re very smart.” With that she resumed her coloring.

Sherlock let the surprise linger on his face for a moment longer than he normally would before squatting down in front of her.

“What were you saying about that man’s shoes?”

She sighed and looked up again. “You’re not gonna listen to me either. None of the adults do. They’re too busy.”

“I’m not. I promise.”

She gave him a long look, setting her coloring aside before speaking. “His shoes were wrong.”

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Well, they were wrong. They were too big, and they were green. He was wearing a purple suit; he wouldn’t have worn green shoes.” She stated obviously.

“How did you know they were too big?” He asked as he shifted to sit on the floor. The girl peered out the door into the hallway, sitting back with a disappointed look on her face.

“He’s not here. You know the army doctor you’re always with?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “John Watson?”

“Yes him. The man was shorter than he was.”

“Is that why you were laying on the floor? You were measuring?” He interrupted. She nodded, eyes lighting up.

“Yes! And the shoes were almost as big as yours,” she reached down and touched a spot a few centimeters from the end of the detectives shoes. “Right there. They looked like clown shoes, but nobody would take me seriously.” She huffed. “‘They’re not that big, Y/n.’ ‘People have big feet sometimes.’”

“Someone said that to you?” He asked, face pinching in what could be considered sympathy. She nodded.

“My dad and Miss Donovan.”

Sherlock tisked, unfortunately, able to relate to the young girl. “They’re all very small minded. Just ignore them. What else did you see?”

“Well, the shoes had mud on them.”

“Really?” A lock of dark hair fell across his face as Sherlock tilted his head. “What did it look like?”

“Like splatters. But he didn’t have mud on his trousers, which was odd.”

“Are you sure of that?” She nodded.

“It was like somebody else gave him their shoes.” She said thoughtfully. “Except it was probably the bad guy.”

“What makes you say that?” He asked.

“There was a name on the bottom of the shoes.” She said. “Written in the mud. Mr Anderson made it come off when he moved the dead man.”

“Of course he did. The idiot.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do you remember the name?”

“Yeah. Dads been talking about him for a while. It said Jim. Jim Moriarty.”

Sherlock nearly jolted with excitement. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. But you’re probably gonna say what Miss Donovan did. I imagined it, cause it wasn’t there when they looked again.”

“You didn’t imagine it.” Sherlock said with surprising gentleness as he stood. “You’re very bright, Y/n. Now, if you’d like to come with me, we’re telling your father about this.”

“We are?” She asked excitedly, jumping off the couch to join him.

“Of course.” He said, taking her hand. “The game is afoot, little Lestrade.”

~~~

_______

(Bonus Scene)

~ ~ ~

Lestrade sighed, dragging a hand over his face before glancing up at the duo standing in his office.

“So, taken to my daughter, have you Sherlock?” He asked tiredly.

“Well, if you can’t nurture her mind she’ll turn into a female M-o-r-i-a-r-t-y,” he spelt quickly. “So if you won’t, then I will.”

Lestrade sighed in frustration. “You don’t even like children!”

“Well yours happens to be exceptionally bright, and holds a better conversation than most adults. So, Graham, are you going to listen to her now?”

“It’s Greg,” he muttered, sighing again before looking at his daughter. “Alright then, love. What have you got?”

Te little girl grinned excitedly, looking to Sherlock. He gave her an encouraging wink and she looked back to her father.

“The man had a name on his shoes, dad...”

~~~

_______

(End)

𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 - 𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

with näytle's birthday arriving soon, neteyam rushes to get her a gift, consulting his youngest sister for some help.

– pairings: neteyam x oc

– warning: fluff, canon divergent, cross-posted on wattpad, not edited!

– author's note: as requested by @xoxobabe , this oneshot is part 2 to this oneshot! i recommend reading it first before this one!

“Neteyam! Neteyam!”

The said older brother turned around with a confused glance before his eyes landed on the youngest of his sisters. Tuktirey ran towards her brother with the widest of grins, a small, unknown beaded item in her hands.

“Tuk? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Neteyam rushed to the thirteen-year-old’s side, kneeling down to her height as he lifted her arms to check for wounds.

Despite the six years the Sully family had returned to the rest of the Omaticaya clan, Tuk’s spirit remained young, almost as though she was still seven. And she explored the Pandoran forests with just as much vigour and wonder.

“No, I’m okay, Nete!” Tuk grinned. “But look what Näytle made me! I saw her by the river picking up some pebbles, and I told her how pretty they were, and she gathered some string and made an anklet for me! Isn’t it beautiful?”

Neteyam gently dropped Tuk’s arm, glancing at the anklet that Tuk raised up at him in excitement. Little blue pebbles glimmered in the light, surrounded by brown streaks of leather. The young man wondered if she had been planning to weave something in the first place, and it was just luck that his youngest sibling had stumbled upon his match.

He hummed in thought. Her birthday would be approaching soon, and he couldn’t find a gift that could match her radiant personality, her enchanting grin, and her wonder-struck eyes. He needed to think of a gift fast… and maybe this was his chance.

Gently taking the woven accessory, Neteyam rubbed his thumb against the shiny stones before looking at Tuk inquisitively.

“Tuk-Tuk, do you know… could– could you teach me how to weave?” Neteyam looked over at Tuk hesitantly, almost as though embarrassed that he didn’t know much about how to weave. 

Now, Neteyam was a master of many things; tracking, making the perfect, clean kill, and being the bravest warrior in his home clan. He even adopted the culture of the Metkayina clan and was the diplomat between his siblings and the Metkayina Olo’eyktan’s children. 

But one thing Neteyam could not grasp the concept of… was weaving. 

When Kiri and Lo’ak had decided to make Tuk a reef loincloth as a welcoming gift to warm her up to their temporary new home by the sea, he had only gathered the dried seeds. He was embarrassed to say that he had messed up the braiding of the leather strands so badly, that Kiri had taken over weaving the cloth pieces together.

Ever since then, Neteyam had never touched the topic of weaving, living in fear of being ridiculed for his lack of knowledge or skill in it. 

Tuk raised her browline at her brother’s sudden interest to learn, remembering how reluctant he was to relearn her hobby. A smile grew on her grin as she came to a realisation, scooching closer towards her eldest brother.

“If I help teach you how to weave a pretty bracelet for Näytle, what’s in it for me?” She smirked slyly.

“I never said that I wanted to weave her anything!” Neteyam protested, but the warmth in his cheeks was what gave him away as Tuk nodded her head with her sneakiest grin.

“No, but you sure implied it when you asked me to teach you what you hate to do.”

Neteyam stuttered, wondering where his sister had learned to be so cunning. 

He finally let out a huff of annoyance, realising that if he didn’t ask her, he would never learn how to weave, as Kiri would be too hands-on, taking over if he made the slightest mistake. And Lo’ak would be quite useless, laughing at his every error until he would feel like giving up. Tuk was the nicest and most forgiving person to teach him if anything.

“Fine,” Neteyam scowled, sitting down beside his sister. “I’ll let you join us on our weekly tracking sessions.”

“Then it’s a deal!” Tuk grinned from ear to ear. “Now all you gotta do is be patient, and watch carefully…”

“Tuktirey are you sure you are teaching me the right method? Because this looks terrible!”

“Nete, you’re being too impatient,” Tuk groaned, untangling the mess her brother had made of the leather strands.

Two days had passed, and the bracelet was almost done. But unfortunately, Neteyam’s impatience had begun to drag him down.

The youngest Sully gently pulled the beads and pebbles that her brother had carefully selected for his beloved, placing them on the ground as she used her demonstrating leather strings to show him the right way to weave the band once again.

“Watch carefully. And take it in slowly,” Tuk eyed her brother. “You still have time to give the gift to her. It is not like her birthday is tomorrow.”

Neteyam frowned, his browline furrowed before he let out a sigh. He remained silent, letting his thoughts consume him as he slowly followed Tuk’s actions, the brown strings overlapping one another as he added one bead to the ribbon.

What if it looked messy? What if she didn’t like it? What if he disappointed her so terribly?

“Neteyam.”

What if after knowing him better she thought that he was just an average member of the clan? Would she leave him for someone better?

“Neteyam!”

Tuk’s voice cut the thoughts short, the eldest son turning his head around to look at her as the beads in his hair softly knocked against one another. Tuk knew that he was lost in his thoughts, and as much as she loved her brother, his only downfall was how scared he was of failure.

Tuk let out a soft sigh, placing her hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, the future Olo’eyktan watching her movement in confusion.

“Don’t worry so much about how it looks,” Tuk smiled gently. “You’re making a great effort and I know that she’s going to love it, whether it’s messy or not.”

Neteyam’s expression softened, a small smile growing as Tuk continued to weave, her brother watching as he copied, adding more glittering beads and small stones. He smiled to himself, glad to have his sister help him try. He was glad that his growing affection for Näytle gave him a reason to try.

“Tuk-Tuk?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you. For your patience,” Neteyam smiled softly.

“I’m always happy to help you, Nete,” Tuk smiled, completing the demonstrative bracelet. “But I’m glad you put in the effort.”

Neteyam looked down, discovering that he had finished the bracelet sooner than he expected. He lifted the string, passing the accessory to Tuk, who secured it all together tightly so that the beads wouldn’t fall out.

“Now don’t forget the promise you made me,” Tuk grinned cheekily, Neteyam chuckling as he ruffled her braided hair.

“Never, Tuktirey. Even if I did, you’d never let me forget it!”

Tuk giggled along with her brother, the two smiling as the youngest sibling handed the now-completed bracelet back to her brother.

“Good! Now go and think about how you’re gonna give her the gift,” Tuk pat her brother’s back proudly. “We can’t have two days of effort go to waste if you’re going to be a bumbling mess.”

“Really Tuk-Tuk?” Neteyam deadpanned, huffing playfully with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The young man’s sly grin grew, lunging towards his sister as his fingers ran all over his younger sister’s torso. Her howls of laughter filled the air as she struggled to push her brother off.

“I was joking! I swear!”

Näytle’s birthday had finally rolled around and Neteyam watched from afar the woman he had grown fond of, sitting by the same river Tuk had found her by previously. His breath was slightly shaky as he fiddled with her gift nervously.

As weeks passed from the day they had met, he had grown to see her as a trusted friend, and his affection for her surely grew with every passing day. He began to see the world around her through her eyes, just like his father had done with his mother, and he loved every bit of it.

He took in a deep breath, internally praying to the Great Mother that he wouldn’t look like a fool as he heard her voice humming a little melody. Slowly, Neteyam approached his partner, a soft smile gracing his face as he saw the way she turned to face him.

“Teyam!”

His heart fluttered at the way her smile grew. The way she was so eager to see him, to be with him. He watched the way she stood up as she walked towards him, the young man taking a few steps towards her as well.

“Oel ngati kameie,” Neteyam grinned as she hugged him tight.

He buried himself in her presence, hugging her just as tightly back. When they pulled away, he missed her warmth, but calmly brought his hand up to her cheek, resting his larger palm on it.

“I missed you,” Näytle placed her hand atop of his, leaning into his touch. “When you didn’t show up I was concerned.”

“I apologise, my love,” He pecked her forehead as she flushed. “But I heard from a little bird that it was your birthday, and I simply had to get you a gift.”

“Teyam,” Her eyes widened and a small smile appeared. “You didn’t have to get me a gift. Your presence is simply enough.”

“Well, I couldn’t help myself. So I…” Neteyam took in a sharp inhale. “I made you this.”

Neteyam’s grip on the bracelet loosened as he held the item out before her. He heard her gasp, watching as awe and adoration growing clear on her visage while she gently held the item. 

He saw the way she smiled, a smile of his own creeping onto his face. He tilted his head, finding her expressions adorable as her tail gave away her excitement.

“Do you like it?” He hummed, watching the way she nodded.

“Yes, yes! I love it, Teyam! It’s beautiful,” She placed her hand on his cheek before pecking him briefly on his lips.

Neteyam’s eyes widened and his pupils dilated as he felt his heart pump harder. His smile grew wider as he gently took the bracelet in his hands again. It was that moment when he let all his doubts fade away.

It was the moment that he saw how genuinely happy he made her. How her glowing smile and love-filled eyes were caused by him.

“Would you like me to put it on for you?”

“Of course,” She hummed as he held her wrist gently, almost as though she were made of glass.

Neteyam gently tied the string around her wrist, admiring the way her smile shone so brightly. He tugged at the string softly, just as how she had tugged at his heartstrings. Finally, it was around her wrist, and he had never felt more pride swell in his chest than he did at that moment.

He was definitely going to thank Tuk for her help with a lot more tracking sessions later.

“I love it, so so much,” Näytle whispered in awe, looking up at him as she held the bracelet. “I’m never going to take it off.”

With the way she had said it so seriously, Neteyam let out a boisterous laugh, genuinely happy that she had adored his gift so much so that she would never let it go. He hoped that she’d do the same with his heart.

“Ma Näytle,” He cooed, pushing some stray strands of hair behind her pointed blue ear. “I see you. And I’m glad that we were matched.”

She smiled up at him, tip-toeing as she placed a soft kiss on his forehead before she cupped both his cheeks. She hummed, placing another kiss on his lips as he wrapped his arms around her waist, trying to hold her closer than he possibly could.

The two lovers then pulled away, Näytle’s hands still gently cupping Neteyam’s cheeks as she rested her forehead on his, trying her best to steady her rapid heartbeat.

“Ma Teyam,” He still adored the way his name rolled off her tongue.

“I couldn’t have agreed more.”

theme inspired by @aokoaoi !

gif by @peace--n--love

taglist: @mooncleaver @moonie-writings @peacelovepandora @neteyams-tsahik

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