#at its core it's 'did we do the right thing?' 'yes we did' which is a convo keyleth had so so many times in c1 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writefightandflightclub · 1 year

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The light is blinding (Joel Miller x fem!reader)

Summary: When he's hurt, you offer to wash Joel's hair for him. Turns out there may be other forms of comfort you can offer him too.

Genres: character study; angst (sorta); hurt/comfort; SMUT. Joel's POV.

Author's note: I watched TLOU ep 1 last night, then made bad choices today in favour of hyperfocussing on this 8k Joel fic. I mean, this was sort of inevitable tbf. We've been handed a sad, scruffy, brown-eyed, dusty apocalypse DILF, and there was no chance of me not adopting him as a blorbo. Anyway, this is my first attempt at Joel, I wrote this in a trance so god knows what it says and I haven't spent any time on editing/correcting. Can't promise it's any good, but if you want to wash his hair as much as I do (lol) maybe you'll enjoy it, who knows. P.s. I promise it does get super smutty. You just have to survive the extensive internal monologue and many rounds of haircare first. (I'm just like that :P)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Minors interacting will be blocked. EXPLICIT SMUT (unprotected p in v sex, totally ignoring practicalities like birth control in the apocalypse bc we can); canon-typical themes such as grief, apocalypse, infection/disease, trauma, injury. SPOILERS - if you know the core plot points or have seen episode one you'll be okay. Joel's POV.

Word count: 8.2k

GIF by @joelmjller (Pls lemme know if you'd like me to remove this!)

How did he get here, exactly? All stretched out on his back, your careful fingers twining through his wetted, grizzled hair?

Well, he supposes he got here because a smuggling deal had gone sideways - like usual.

He got here, because he’s getting too old for this shit, and because someone precisely young enough for this shit had garnered the advantage just long enough to land a gun barrel blow to his head. A blow which then made room for all manner of nonsense, of course; like Joel being teep kicked into a desk. The desk - owing to its sturdy construction and deliciously planed hardwood - had withstood the blow. Joel’s body, however -far less sturdily constructed - had reacted far less favourably to that particular transaction.

Most of all though, cracked ribs and busted shoulder aside, Joel is here, because of you. He is here, because you offered to wash his hair.

Joel isn’t a clean man, by any stretch. Who could be anymore, with the way things are? In truth, he’s forgotten what it’s like not to be coated with a layer of dirt and smoke and ash. But apparently, even in the midst of an apocalypse, the dried-in, caked-up, days old blood matting his hair had left something to be desired.

He’d agreed to your offer only because - honestly - it was starting to itch. Because this time he truly couldn’t do it himself, the searing pain in his ribs seeing to that. Making sure he couldn’t quite raise his arm high enough or dip his head low enough to get the job done.

He’d agreed to your offer, in part, because he thought you would be quick. And - he now realises - you are being anything but.

You have him stretched out on his back, on a repurposed dentist chair. The worn, dark green leather creaks beneath him as he adjusts, positioning himself just so. You’ve installed a makeshift neck rest and basin to the rear of the chair, and Joel’s head is currently dipped backwards into the warm water, your fingers diligently combing through the strands to release the debris and muck.

You use a cup to cascade the water from the basin over his head, cupping it with the other hand to guard his face and neck from any rogue rivulets. Then, you ease your fingertips over his scalp, massaging in circles, being extra careful -he notes- around his recently closed wound.

Yes, to Joel’s dismay, you are taking your time. You are being so thorough and so attentive, in fact, that Joel even wonders if you will end up washing the gray right out of his hair - Joel’d never been wholly convinced that his newly-developed colouring was ever anything more than a thick, impenetrable layer of dirt and ash.

You hum thoughtfully, a sweet, innocuous note as you assess your next step. “I’m switching out the water, okay?”

That doesn’t sound okay at all. That doesn’t sound done. And Joel had thought that this would be quick. Had needed this to be quick.

Before he can grunt an answer though, you are winding a towel around his hair, presumably attempting to save the drips from reaching the floor as you swap out one basin for another, setting down the one now filled with muddy brown water, and bending carefully to lift a second steaming basin of fresh water on to your makeshift plinth.

He needs to stop this here. “That’ll do,” he says gruffly, motioning to sit up -carefully- despite the pain in his ribs.

“Lie back,” you insist, the sound of your voice muffled through the towel wound over his ears but soothing nevertheless. “I’ve only managed to rinse out the blood and bird’s nests so far. We still need to wash and condition.”

Joel would protest more vigorously -means to, in fact- but the soft smile on your face dissolves him like sugar before he can do so.

He frowns though, for good measure. “Fine. Just make it quick.”

“The quicker you relax Joel,” you sing song, “the faster I’ll let you out of my seat. Deal?”

He grunts. He doesn’t relax. He can’t relax.

“And,” you add playfully, as if reading his mind. “If you can’t relax, you’d better learn fast to fake it.”

Joel sighs deeply in frustration as he lies back, and you usher him gently into position. However, the slow, deep breath he expels does genuinely serve to sink him more deeply into the chair. Does force him to release just a jot of the tension snaking through his taut muscles.

You hum again, softly, in satisfaction, and he thinks he can even hear a smile on your mouth as you foam his hair with some sweet-smelling product, your fingers resuming their careful ministrations across his scalp.

It’s nice, he notes, unwilling as he is to admit it. Your touch could knock him out better than a barrel full of oxy and a bottle of the good stuff. He almost lets himself enjoy it - an attractive woman like you working your hands into his hair, massaging with your thumbs, your fingers, your palms. Applying pressure and sensation, even into the tight muscles in his neck. Loosening some of the tension at his temples. He even consciously relaxes his forehead, feeling his frown soften. Closing his eyes instead of fixing his stare on the broken picture rail he’s sure he could fix with a few tools and a little bit of effort.

He breathes more deeply as he closes his eyes, focussing in on the sensation of your touch. On the scents flooding his nose. Floral and sweet and fruity. It smells of you, and he breathes it deeply. He tries not to think about how his pillow will smell of you later.

It shouldn’t be possible for you to smell as good as you do, Joel ponders. You even have him wondering whether perhaps he’s not the only game in town. Whether there’s another smuggler dealing in contraband which hasn’t even occurred to him to barter with. Perfumes and oils and essences. He doubts that you would be mixed up in smuggling, but he doesn’t doubt that you are capable of far more than surface-level assessments might suggest.

After all, people only survive this long with one of two things: brutality, or blind luck - and no-one is that lucky that they’ve never had to dabble in the former. Everyone who has made it this far is only out for themselves.

Therefore, who knows what secrets you hide behind your sweet facade, Joel contemplates. Though, if he did have to believe there was anyone selfless left on god’s blighted earth? If he had to believe in someone, Joel would bet cards on it being you.

He sucks in another long, slow breath, and the scent of you envelops him all over again. For a moment, he finds himself wanting to believe in you. But it’s never too long before he recalls he gave up a long time ago on believing in anything. Anything except his wits and his fists and his gun, at least.

“That’s it Joel,” you praise as he relaxes - uncoils - just a shade, and the smooth tone of your voice slides right under his skin. The thought that you want to make him feel good makes him tingle. Makes him forget - almost - that he doesn’t deserve that.

Meanwhile, your deft fingers and thumbs continue to work nimbly into him, sliding over the contours and bones and ridges of his skull. Applying a warm, steady pressure against the muscles at the nape of his neck. Circling your thumb against a spot that sends a buzzing, suffusing warmth skittering down the length of his spine. Blooming through him - and, it has been so long. So long since Joel felt anything resembling pleasure that when he feels this warm honey trail down his back, an involuntary moan overspills his parted lips.

Shit. There's no chance that you didn't hear that.

The moan reverberates in the tight, quiet room. Lingers far longer than it sounds out for. Lingers, despite how quickly Joel cuts it short - clamping his mouth shut and hoping he can pass it off as a grunt or some expulsion of pain from shifting in his chair.

Your fingers halt, still tangled in his hair. “D-Do you want me to stop?” There is a heat in your tone, Joel thinks, the vowels and consonants warm and full like the pop and crackle of a hearth.

It's new. And it occurs to him, ever so suddenly, that maybe you are enjoying this too? Touching him?

After all, he’s not insisting upon it. Didn’t suggest it. Has not attempted to prolong it. And yet, you continue, working diligently. Soothing him. Freely offering your praise and those little, contented hums - those small, burgeoning sounds which make his fingertips ache to have your skin beneath them, so that he can keep on making your lips overspill with those sweet sounds of satisfaction.

Indeed, Joel’s hair has got to be cleaner now than it’s ever been. He’s been in your chair longer than he ever intended - and you don’t seem to be working any other angle. Don’t seem to be after any contraband that he can get his hands on. Haven’t submitted any requests. Fished for any information.

Perhaps then, you are enjoying him. Enjoying performing this act of service for him - though god knows why. Perhaps you are even looking down at his body right now while he’s all laid out for you in this worn-out chair. His long limbs stretched out, clothes tugging taut over his tight, muscular frame. Perhaps you like looking at him like this, his hair slicked back and away from his sharp face and his hawkish nose, watching the twist and pull of the muscles as he sets his jaw - needing to consolidate all of his resolve simply to resist your sweet, sugary touches. Perhaps you liked when you watched his eyes flutter closed under your touch. When you watched his lips part with that sound. That throaty, undone moan, all for you.

Joel’s not stupid.

He’s clocked the way you look at him sometimes. With this gentle, inviting hunger. The way you always make the effort to come over and speak with him whenever opportunity presents itself. The way your appealing body bends to him like a flower to its sun, as though he has anything nourishing about him. As though he has anything but darkness to offer.

He’s clocked you too. Has seen the way kindness and warmth dance across your features like a living, licking flame. Has seen you glow brightly too with a steady, constant fire, which he is sure must run hotter and more fierce beneath the surface than any would estimate. He had noticed too, of course, the swell and contours of your body, hiding beneath your clothes in all the places he most enjoys.

He’s thought before how he’d like to find out where the hunger in your eyes could take him if he chased it; but in the end he knows there is never any further to go than here. That every road is a dead end since the world ended. That the quarantine zone is the only place with walls more impenetrable than his own.

Still; he’s thought about you more than he’d care to admit. To Tommy. To Tess. To you. To himself. Has thought about the way your lips might feel on his. How soft and warm your body might be if he held it up against him. The way his calloused hands might look with his fingers sunk into your flesh, grabbing up handfuls of you like you are his daily bread - the very thing he needs to survive.

Of burying his head between your thighs for hours and trying to suck the impossible sweetness out of you, as though, somehow, he could then begin to understand how someone as good as you is capable of existing in a world as shitty and cruel as this.

He’s had darker thoughts too though. Thoughts of filling you rough and sudden - if you’d let him. Of burying his anger in you with every thrust, deep enough that he could attempt to forget it. Of letting you take his rage from him for just a few moments - as if it could ever truly leave him for a moment longer than that.

But of course, in actuality, he’s done none of that. Joel hasn’t pulled on a single one of those threads. He hasn’t unravelled.

Instead, for the most part, Joel has simply ignored you. Ignored you, because that’s the precisely the last thing he wants to do. Ignored you, because the safest option - Joel has established - is usually to give himself the opposite of whatever he thinks he wants.

That is… he’s ignored you until today. Until you offered to wash his hair. A simple yet towering offer of kindness in a world blighted by dark and rot. An offer that feels like more than he deserves when all he’s ever done for you is to give you the brush off. To answer you tersely, his aim with every interaction to have it over quick.

Still… he’d said yes. Or, at least, he’d declined to protest. Had nodded. Had followed you.

If he’s being honest with himself, he could have asked Tommy to help him, even if he was trying to obscure the severity of his latest injuries from his dear ol’ brother. Even Tess - she’d have done it. With plenty of griping, but she would have done it.

The truth is though, that he wanted it to be you. Needed it to be you. He’d gravitated towards you, even before he knew what you might be prepared to give him. Even without any trade to offer. For you, he’d unravelled. Just a little; in a moment of weakness. He hasn’t slept and he hasn’t succeeded and he hasn’t succumbed for so long, that he finally slipped. Finally gave into one of his wants. Finally gave in to what he wanted most. To seat himself in front of the warm hearth of you and to feel a little god dang comfort.

Joel opens his eyes, expression washing clean with a new resolve, and your fingers still frozen in his hair. He fixes his gaze on the broken picture rail. Precisely at the point where it fractures. Where it needs fixing. He needs a little fixing too, he thinks. He’s sure now, that he’s chosen the right tool for the job, when not another damn thing could do it.

“No,” he finally responds, his voice unwavering, blinking his bitter coffee eyes, sweetened already by your sugar. A gentle gulp sinking down the corded column of his neck. “I don’t want you to stop.”

From behind and above him, he hears you release a breath as though you may have been holding one, tight in your chest, and you slide your fingers from his hair. “Good.” Good. The word rattles pleasantly in his chest when you say it. “We’ll do your conditioner next.”

And, for the first time, Joel unclenches his fingers from where they have been curled around the arm rests of the chair, clinging on to the lip until his knuckles had turned white.

This time - for all he can tell via his scalp - your touch feels a little bolder. A little looser. You even drag your nails over his head now, applying long, sizzling scratches which send that same buzzy warmth snaking down his back. You massage him more eagerly, blood flooding to his crotch as he thinks about having your strong, supple, precise hands work him in other places. He imagines, as your nails graze over him, how you might claw harsh stripes down his back in a moment of ecstasy. As your thumb massages a circle into the spot behind his ear, imagines how you might circle the soft pad of it around the swollen head of his cock, collecting up the glistening bead of precum as he leaks for you. Imagines, as you carefully pour a cup of warm, cascading water over his head, how he could bathe himself with the warmth of your skin on his. Imagines, as he hears the subtle wet sounds created as you scrunch sweet-smelling elixirs into his hair, how it might sound if your own juices were being coaxed out of you by his fingers until they began to drip, working down his veined, muscled forearm.

He allows himself to imagine everything he plans to deny himself. He at least allows himself to have that.

“That temperature still okay for you?” you ask as you lift the cup of water once again, fracturing his sordid daydreams.

Joel gives a terse grunt. It’s all he can manage.

“So,” you ask breezily. “Are you going anywhere nice for your holidays?”

It takes Joel a few moments to realise just what you’re doing. To twig. It’s a decade - shit, more - since he had a haircut like that, so it takes him a while to pick up that you’re echoing the banal small talk which used to occur as you sat down in the barber chair. Those memory cogs are stiff. He hasn’t turned them in a long time. He doesn’t want to remember that there was anything before. At least, not a lot of it.

Still, your bit takes him by surprise. It’s such a ludicrous contrast that it makes him laugh to think about how things have changed. Who can even go on holiday now? You can’t even leave the quarantine zone. Shit. Even if you could, you wouldn’t want to. And so, Joel laughs. He laughs and he barely recognises the sound from his own mouth. He laughs… and he instantly regrets it, because he knows better than to pull on any of those threads.

But; it’s too late now.

He laughs and you mirror him, the sound melodious and hopeful, and all of a sudden Joel can imagine everything he’s been avoiding you for.

He hasn’t been avoiding you because he wants to fuck you - not really. He’s fucked plenty of folk, and he’s moved on.

He’s avoiding you, because of how easily he can imagine you in a summer dress, twirling in the yard to show it off to him. How easily he can imagine you sitting on a front porch gripping your morning cup of coffee and the sun shining on your face as you smile up at him. How easily he can imagine you lifting a tray of freshly baked cookies out of the oven, batting his hand away as he steals one before it cools.

Truthfully, he has no idea whether you ever did a single one of those things before - before all this. He doesn’t even really care whether you did. He knows it’s a flat, idealised, empty picture postcard version of you.

But, even so, it still hurts.

It still hurts, because of just how easily he could imagine waking up beside you in his house.

The house that no longer exists.

The house with Sarah in it.

And that’s why he never pulls on that thread.

That’s why he avoids you.

That’s why this can never work.

Because you?

You make him remember all the sweet things. All the sweet things the world used to contain before the rot and the death and despair painted over everything. Infected it.

You make him remember the taste of fresh mangoes. The feeling of sand beneath his feet and waves washing over his toes. Saturdays at the mall. Picking away at his guitar in the living room. The easy jubilation of ball games on the TV on Sundays, with Tommy in the kitchen plating up chicken wings. Of bad movie nights. Of mornings spent around the kitchen table, and his daughter cooking up birthday pancakes.

That’s why he can’t ever start to be happy with you. Why he can’t pull on that thread; because all the good things in life are attached to it. All tied and knotted and tangled up with “before”.

When he dreams of you - when he lets himself - he dreams of then too.

He has to, doesn’t he? Because the past is the only place to build a future when the present is apocalyptic, isn’t it? When you are the only thing he hasn’t lost yet, and everything else -pretty much- is already dead and gone.

It kills him that he found you now.

Found you too late.

It kills him because Sarah would have loved you, and because he thinks he could have too.

You don’t know all of this, of course. You can’t ever know this. And so, your oblivious fingers continue touching him, until he feels another moan begin to spool itself tight in his chest, getting ready to unravel. This time though, he is less sure whether it is a moan of pleasure or of anguish. More and more these days, those two feelings have been starting to feel precisely the same.

“Can we move this along?” he asks gruffly, some of the weight settling back into his brow. He asks, predictably, for the opposite of what he wants. It has to be like that. There’s no other road anymore.

“We can stop whenever you like but… that’s a shame.”

His frown deepens. “Why?”

“Because your hands had only just started to unclench.”

Joel’s heart clenches at the thought you were watching him that intently. That you were weighing the state and tension of his body. Valiantly trying to release some of that weight from him, even when you must be so heavy too.

And of course, knowing this, he only tries to push you further away. Before his dreams of you are seared even more brightly under his skin.

“You know what. I should go.” His chest constricts - throat grows tighter, a lump forming.

Joel idly wonders if his grief will ever stop feeling so raw. That’s the second disease, he thinks. The other monster infecting everything around it. The shadow of the original cloud. He wonders if it will always be this debilitating, even after he’s pushed it down as far as it can go. It’s not only a grief for what was lost, he ponders. It’s also a grief for what he can never have again. It's a grief for you and all the ways he could have loved you.

He sits up -carefully but abruptly, hand clamped over his aching ribs- and his wetted hair sends rivulets snaking down his face, his neck, his chest. Inching beneath the collar of his green button down shirt. Collecting on his shoulders like a pattern of indoor raindrops.

“Joel,” you scold, tutting lightly. Following quickly after him with the towel, trying to mop up after him. Hastily, you towel off his hair. Sneak your hand beneath his collar, gathering the drops up from his chest and neck.

With effort, and a grimace, Joel swings his legs around, until he is sitting upright, feet planted on the floor. But, whether for the pain or for the promise of pleasure - he’s not sure - he can’t bring himself to move any further than that. Especially not as you finally round from the basin, the damp towel slung over your shoulder, your hands and wrists still shined and wet from caressing his hair in a way he can only describe as reverent.

You kneel before him, drying your hands off and setting the towel down before boldly sliding your palms up his denim-clad thighs. “Joel. Would you just let me take care of you?"

He meets your eyes and finds them soft but determined. Empty of darkness, even with the black expanding abyss of your pupil eating away at the colour of your iris.

Joel looks down at your hands as you begin to smooth them up and down, inching slowly up towards his crotch before retreating - repeating the pattern. He looks at you in displeasure, but there’s nothing about your touch which is unwelcome - and that’s exactly the problem. He swallows. Gathers his question up in his throat before he offers it to you gently, as though in cupped, outstretched palms. “How?”

Your beautiful eyes flash with pity then, he thinks, or something like it. It seems like a silly question, but after all this time he doesn’t recall what it’s like to be cared for. He doesn’t know how to let you.

Your palm reaches up to the scruff on his cheek. You smooth it fondly. “Lie back,” you encourage, with a soft smile which seems to glow from the inside, like a porch backlit with the glow of home. “And just let me take care of the rest.”

Joel has always found something to fight for, but today, he has no fight left in him. In truth, he doesn’t want to fight this. To fight you. It is easy to give in to you. In fact, it's too easy. That has always been the problem.

Your hands continue to travel up and down his thighs, and he feels the warmth of you bleed through the fabric.

God. He’s already hard for you. Already full and throbbing in his jeans. Already, he is imagining your hands wrapping around the thick, straining mass of him. Imagining the way that -in moments - you may be unloosing his belt, threading leather through denim loop. The way you might pop the button keenly with your thumb, and he might groan as you relieve the pressure. The way you might unzip the straining fly to have his substantial length spring free, so rarely touched and so so ready to be taken care of.

At the thought of that alone, he’s straining against the seams of his pants, a pressure which sits smack bang between pleasure and pain.

“Joel,” you whisper softly, and he realises he hasn’t yet moved from his position.

“Right.” He swallows. He lies back. Stretches himself out, feeling far more exposed this time, even if he is still fully clothed.

You stand, quickly disappearing the basin away and soon you’re back, standing over Joel and watching him laid out all needy like this. His eyes travel over you, entranced by your form, and he suddenly needs friction. Needs the relief he didn't even know he was waiting for until you offered it - or, implied it. He bucks his hips up, not even caring if he’s being subtle, and the denim and leather creak as he shifts. He punches out a breath as he strains in his pants, chasing any morsel of friction he can. The feeling of his shaft pushing harder against the seam as his whole cock twitches for you. For those hands. For that plush mouth. Maybe for that cunt of yours.

As usual though, when Joel feels anything good, there is a familiar swell of guilt too; this time, riding in on the flood of arousal to his cock. This time, there’s something new to be feeling guilty for too. Something to add to that already long list. He feels guilty for having all of these thoughts about you, despite never having asked you where you were from. Before. What you used to do. Who you lost.

“I’m sorry,” Joel offers, before he even knows that his mouth is moving. Before he’s even figured out what it is he’s sorry for.

Truth is, he’s sorry for so many reasons. For what he’s done. What he’s lost. Whatever you’ve lost. For not asking you about it. Mainly, he realises, because he can’t make you any promises. None that he could keep. Not to keep you safe. He can’t promise you that.

He thinks you’ll ask him what for - why he’s sorry. But instead, you say something else.

“Don’t be.”

If only it was that easy.

Even so, he looks into your eyes as your hungry gaze skims the length of his body, settling at the bulge at his crotch as you drag your tongue along the pillow of your lower lip. You’re beautiful. Vibrant. Full of life and lust and hunger. Alive in a dead world; and suddenly, it doesn’t matter one bit to Joel where you came from. It doesn’t matter what happened before. It only matters where you’re going. What you want. How he can give it to you.

But it is you who gives him something.

You hinge at the hips, slanting your mouth against Joel’s, and he feels your lips brush up against the scruff on his top lip. Feels the pillow of your plush mouth meet his before your tongue fleets out, licking into him like a searing, dancing flame. You hum hungrily into his mouth and his lips chase you as you pull away, another backlit smile dancing on your face, your features already beginning to resemble home to him in a world where there's no such thing.

Joel watches you move now, with quiet fascination, as you kick off your boots. As you wiggle your pleasing hips, untying then easing your cargo pants and panties down your thighs. His tongue curls around his lip as he is gifted glimpses of your skin - although you are still covered to your upper thigh by the yellow tunic top you’re wearing - and now he can’t help but palm himself through his jeans for a morsel of relief.

Still. What you're about to offer him? It feels like far too much. “What are you doing? You don’t have to-“

“-Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop,” you promise, meeting his eyes, open and honest and ready to back off if he doesn’t want this. But shit, how could he not want you? Look at you - and so he can’t. He can’t possibly tell you that, even though he thinks that he should.

“No. God, I want you,” Joel pleads, voice hollowed-out with need. All spent, like ash.

“And you’re going to have me.”

You kick your pants and panties off, leaving them to pool discarded on the floor, and Joel palms himself a little harder, grabbing the fat roll of himself through the denim as he catches a glimpse. They’re nothing sexy, of course; but from the way they’ve fallen he is able to note the telltale wet spot on the crotch. It looks like you’ve soaked them through, and God he wants to feel your wetness for himself.

You ease over him, settling your knees on to either side of the leather chair, where Joel’s legs are stretched out before him, sturdy thighs slightly parted to accommodate the arousal between his legs.

You’re still wearing your tunic top, bright yellow like sunshine, and the length of it dances and clings at intervals to your hips and thighs as you move. It’s driving him wild that you are bare beneath. All he can think about is that warm, delicious wetness of yours spilling over him. God, he wants to hear it. Wants to squeeze it out of you. Wants it to drip down the veined shaft of him.

You straddle his thighs, knees folded, the soles of your feet pointed up towards your ass cheeks, and your heat settles just below his own - not quite grinding over him, but tantalisingly close.

You take a moment like this to simply look at him. To gaze into his coffee brown eyes as though there’s something more to him than being sorry and bitter. Like you could see anything sweet there. Anything worth wanting. Then, you comb his damp hair back with your fingers, drawing the strands back from his forehead. Tucking and curling them around his ears.

Your touch - your tenderness - makes him ache. Makes him throb. Makes him want to bury himself in you. His tongue, his fingers, his cock, his feelings - anything of him you’ll take. And, as he wraps his arms around you a wracked moan unspools from his chest as his rough fingertips find the soft skin beneath your yellow tunic. As his touch traverses the contours of you he’s always admired from a distance.

As his jaw falls open, slack with desire, you drink down his moan, catching the resonant sound in the cave of your mouth. Kissing him with a gentle yet constant hunger. With a red hot spark of deviance in your sweet eyes which almost makes Joel spill creamy ropes into his pants there and then. Your tongue travels along your lower lip. Your gaze drops, lust dark and heavy to the bulge at his crotch, and you unloop his belt with those hands of yours. They'll look small next to the size of him, he thinks. He likes that thought a lot.

“Let’s see what contraband you’re smugglin’ in these pants of yours, cowboy," you smile, and Joel's eyes crinkle with rare amusement. His face tips up with a lopsided smile which is quick to drop - all of him focussed on where you're about to touch him.

He twitches eagerly in his jeans thinking about how tight you will grip him, but you don’t touch him just yet. Instead, you shuffle yourself back, down his legs, giving yourself enough space to tug on his clothing and to ease it down his thighs. Once his pants and his boxers have reached his knees you stop there, abandoning them almost as soon as his thick, veined length is sprung free, nestling all tender against the hatch of greying hair trailing down his abdomen - where his shirt is lifted.

He’s flushed a deep colour already. Veined and needy and weeping for you. His need becomes even more urgent yet as he thinks of your hands and the way they move - the way they might touch him. Take care of him. As he thinks about you sliding your thumb over the pearl of precum at his head.

Still, he is not quite ready for the feeling when you dip forward to slide your tongue around the head of him instead, gathering that salty bead with your tongue, lapping it up with relish. He feels you hum around the head of him, the vibration sending a zip of pleasure flooding along his length. Making his balls tighten and ache already.

He wants you. He needs you. He wants you with an urgency, and yet here you are, still taking your time. Taking your time to suck at him and feel him weigh heavy over your tongue until your jaw aches from it. To grip him in your hand and marvel at the girth of him. At the way he is so sensitive that every motion and shift of your pattern makes him melt into the chair, increasingly boneless, his brow burdened with need.

You are tender with him. Careful, of his injuries. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You touch him like he’s wounded; everywhere. His whole body. His whole soul too. And he is, isn’t he? All of him is hurting? Has been for so long?

Joel groans, his lip almost splitting from biting down and stifling his moans. He never was a vocal lover but God, it’s different for you. And this time, the sound punches out of him as you shift. As you settle your cunt over him and he feels your sopping heat glide along his length for the first time. It is a non-descript sound, halfway between pain and pleasure; and instantly, concern flashes in your eyes. You pause; lift off of him with a rise of your thighs and check-in with him.

“Joel. Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

Are you? His breath is searing in and out of his lungs. Ragged breaths, jolting his pained ribs. You have him on the edge and so alight with desire for you that his need feels unbearable. He’s aching to fill you up. His face is contorted and crumpled by his need, brows drawn down, eyes half-lidded. But is this pain? Or is this something else? Something he has forgotten.

For a moment, then, he almost answers “yes”. Yes, because he doesn’t remember anything else but pain and so, the sensation he’s feeling now? Isn’t that pain too? Is there anything else?

He’s almost grateful when he shifts slightly, writhes against the chair to buck his hips keenly up in search of you as you withdraw so cruelly from him, his muscles coiling up. He’s grateful that the shift does indeed send pain blooming through his side; because he knows then, with certainty, that you are bringing him nothing but pleasure.

He’s grateful too though, for the pain, because a pleasure like this? A pure hit of it, not cut through with anything he's more used to? Joel thinks it would be too much for him to take. Joel thinks you are too much for him. Far more than he deserves.

“Joel?” you prompt, sliding your palm against his scruff. He hears it rasp like a scraped match. “I want you.”

You don’t want me, the voice in his head sounds out. I have nothing I can give you. But those are not the words that make it to his lips. Those are not the words at all. “Then have me, sweetheart.”

Joel may have nothing he feels he can give you, but holy shit he wants everything you are offering. He wants your plush, velvet mouth. Your smooth thighs. He wants the pooling slick between your legs - and for once, just this once, he intends to allow himself to satisfy his needs.

He figures he will simply owe you a debt. Find something that you want or need and acquire it for you. He simply has to think of this like a transaction, doesn’t he? Something familiar. Something he knows. That way, he’s not taking anything he doesn’t deserve - and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve you.

Once invited back to his body, sure of what he wants, you kiss him. Deeply, hungrily, your tongue rolling and writhing against his. Your breaths just as ragged as his. Your thighs quaking next to his, your want more than evident.

You break for air and you rise up on your knees again so that you can settle over him, notching the fat, swollen head of him against your folds.

You look like a dream on top of him, and with this yellow fabric dancing about your thighs, you look to Joel like you’re wearing a sun dress. Indeed, when he looks up at you - when he blocks everything else out - you make it feel like nothing ever happened. Like nothing was ever lost.

You look just like you’re about to fuck him on his bed on white crisp sheets. Like you’ll fall asleep beside him and in the morning he’ll make you breakfast.

You look like everything he wanted and found far too late.

You are beautiful. You are good. You are gentle. Gentle still. Gentle despite everything. And where on earth did you learn that from - how on earth did you hang on to it - in a world like this? A world which has not been gentle with him. Which has been out to get him at every turn.

You are gentle with him, even when he is undeserving. Even when he has been anything but.

Gingerly then, you settle yourself over him, and once his head is notched there and your slick hand is guiding him home, he slips easily past your folds. His eyes flutter closed as he feels your warmth wrap around him, the tightness of you hugging his girth. You’re so tight that he feels like he must be splitting you apart, but the way you’re shaking for him, the way these delicious moans unravel from your mouth tells him it feels just as good for you too.

You’re gentle with him. Sinking down on him slowly. Being ever so cautious of his ribs and his bruises and scrapes. You’re making him feel so good. So close to coming undone.

But god, he’s not planning on being gentle with you.

There’s a part of Joel that wants to make love to you, sure; but he’s not even sure he’d know how to do that anymore. How to be tender. How to be gentle. And so, he reaches for you in the only way he knows how. Reaches for you with his arms, his hands. With a body that doesn’t remember pleasure - not really. With a soul that doesn’t remember anything good - not really. He reaches for you, with hands that only know how to kill things.

In the end, it’s clunky, when he extends his touch towards you. Rough - and far too desperate. He reaches for you like it’s survival - the one thing he knows how to do - and he claws at your hips, the rough pads of his flesh sinking into your skin like dough. He has the sense, at least, to check with you, to ask with words rasped through gravel in his throat if he can fill you up. And as soon as you say yes, as soon as your breathy affirmatives and pleas lilt to his ears, Joel is dragging you down on him. Spearing you -abrupt and sudden- with the fat length of his dick, surging into you all at once.

The motion, along with the sudden swell of him punches a breath from your lungs, your rib cage flaring with quick short pants. Your eyes, rolling back into your skull as you mewl his name, and god, if he wasn’t hurt he’d be drilling into you already, fucking himself up into you at a brutal pace, so long as you’d let him.

“S-sorry,” he stutters, with effort. “Too much?”

“Almost. Joel - fuck. I’m so full of you.”

He stills as you breathe around him, adjusting to his size, and as soon as you’re ready you rise up on your knees, dragging electric pleasure all along his shaft as your cunt strokes and grips him tightly.

Then, when you sink yourself down once more, impaling yourself on his length, Joel screws his eyes shut as he eases -glides- into the wet, warm cushion of you all over again. You’re so soft and tight and forgiving, your walls relenting to the girth of him, yet providing such glorious friction that it makes his head spin. Makes him see spots, the edges of his vision whiting out.

Next, Joel moves too, adjusting his hips slightly. Helping you impale yourself on him over and over like this. He keeps it going, despite the burn of pain in his ribs and his shoulder. He tries to guide you with the claws of his hands at your hips, until it begins to hurt him too much. Until all he can do is lie back and take it from you. All he can do is feel it, emitting gusty, billowing breaths from the shocked “o” of his plush lips as he attempts to stave of his end. To do all he can to take care of your end too before he spills himself.

He needs to. Needs to take care of you like this, because he can’t offer you any other damn thing.

He can’t promise to take care of you.

He can’t promise that to anyone ever again.

He will only break it.

So, no promises. But surely, he can feel pleasure, for these fleeting moments? Surely, he can give you that too, because even if he doesn’t he’s damn sure you deserve at least that much.

He reaches for you. In desperation again. Like it’s survival. Like he can’t live without this. Without you. Even though he has already. Even though he'll have to again.

For now though, for right now, he's filling you all the way up. Squeezing your juices out of you. Pushing them out with every thrust until he’s fucking you with wet, obscene sounds. Until your slick is coursing down his shaft, coating his balls, inching over him.

With a grunt, Joel gathers some slick with the two forefingers of his left hand, and he rubs the calloused pads of his fingers into your clit. You yowl at the pressure -the pleasure- and then you guide him with your hand over his, Joel quickly learning your pace and your patterns, replicating it perfectly when you release your guiding touch.

It feels so good. It feels so good and your eager, pleasured moans are billowing down to him, your cunt clenching down on him and his dick is feeling fucking blissful as you repeatedly sink yourself. It feels good - so good - and it’s more than he deserves but god, he’s going to take it. He's going to take it even if he has to be punished for it later.

He’s pretty sure the world has been punishing him for years anyway. Pretty sure it’s keeping score and will be sure to let him know about it if he dares to take too much.

For now though.

Holy shit.

It feels so good and you’re so beautiful. So perfect. Better than he could have imagined, his flattened daydreams of you nothing compared to the real thing. You’re a vision, and you’re too good for this blighted earth and you’re every bit deserving of the life Joel knows he can never give you.

It’s bittersweet and you’re beautiful; but you’re too beautiful to look at - bright like the sun in your yellow tunic, fabric moving around your thighs like a sun dress, like something you might have worn in the before times. Like you might have worn in his yard if he’d still had a home to offer you. Maybe. Maybe you would've. It kills him that he'll never know. Never know what you could have had. What he could have given you.

You’re beautiful, and god you’re too beautiful to look at and so he drags you down to his lips as you clamp down around him, squeezing him like a vice, causing pleasure to sear white hot from his middle, creamy ropes of cum filling you up as you convulse. Your spasming cunt sends jolting aftershocks zipping through his length, ekeing every last drop from him, draining him dry.

You’re too beautiful. Too good of a thing for him to hold on to - and so Joel keeps kissing you, his hands coming to cup your face as tenderly as his killing hands know how. Kissing you, for long enough that he can quash the tears which threaten to squeeze out from the corners of his eyes. He kisses you softly, his sentiments dissolving like sugar against your mouth - as sweet as he can muster.

He kisses you, until he feels the shape of your mouth morph into a smile, and that’s it. That's when he stops.

That’s when he stops, because he can’t let himself feel this. He can’t let himself feel this because he can’t pull on that thread. Not when everything he has worked so hard to push down is all knotted and tangled together. Everything he’s loved and everything he’s lost, all bundled up in his chest.

He can’t let himself feel this because it was far more than he expected to feel.

He’d thought that you would be quick. Thought -hoped- you were just using him. Like this was a transaction. That maybe this was how you collect advantages. How you’ve managed to survive. Instead though, you gave, and you took, but it was not transactional in the slightest. And Joel has nothing left in his heart or his pockets except ration cards. Nothing he can give you in return.

Most importantly though, he can’t let himself feel this, because happiness died when the world did.

Died when she did.

And, happiness?

Well - Joel doesn’t believe he deserves to feel it again.

That’s why he encourages you off of him a little too quickly, even when you pepper kisses along the column of his neck. Why he moves away a little too abruptly, even when you tongue hungrily at the salt-slick sweat which has pooled in the hollow of his throat. Why he sets his face, all stern again even as he’s still leaking out of you.

Anyway, he stands, grunting out in pain. Maybe in anguish. Pulling his pants up with his good arm, and preparing to go.

He sets his face, and he looks back at you, where you have huddled yourself in his spot on the chair, your makeshift yellow sun dress hitched up around your hips, exposing where you glisten, all slick with the evidence of what he just did with you.

You're beautiful. Too beautiful. You look like summer when he meets your eyes. A sun that is bright and constant, like it used to be before the rot clouded over the skies.

A light that is far too bright for him.

Part of him expects you to look sad. To look surprised that he has leapt up like this, motioning to leave so violently. Expects you to plead with him to give you more; but instead, you look at him levelly. Knowing, not naive. Maybe you too are clear on the limits of what’s possible. Clear that there are some things that can never be.

Still, as that soft smile plays over your face, as Joel holds the memory of your touch over his body, the bitter coffee look in his eyes sweetens just a little.

“Listen. Thanks," he states brusqely. It’s not enough. Not by any stretch. But unless you want some contraband or some shit, it’s all he’s got.

“No problem, Joel-y. I... I just wanted to take care of you. I thought you deserved that - at least once.”

Tears prick at the corners of Joel’s eyes. Stinging; but pushed down and flattened before you can even notice it. He’s not quite sure. Not quite sure whether hearing you say he deserves something he’s sure that he doesn’t counts as pleasure or pain, but he supposes that it doesn’t matter anymore anyway. He’s back to not knowing the difference. Not recognising pleasure or happiness when they stare him in the face, because now they have become strangers.

Joel nods efficiently at you. Picks up his rucksack and moves towards the doorway, trying not to think about the fact you’re still full of him. About the fact that you’re still smiling, that backlit glow of home imviting him in.

Truth be told, he can’t imagine ever being happy again.

If he could imagine it though? If he could imagine being happy, he’s sure as all hell that it would be with you.

You’re like summer, he thinks. Bright. Luminous. It's just that Joel’s not looking for the light.

For someone who’s so used to the dark? Like him? The light is blinding.

Still, he pauses in the doorway, turning back towards you for one moment more. From the surprise on your face now, he can tell you didn’t even expect that much from him - and by God, you deserve so much better.

His eyes sweeten, just a little further, and his face sets - now with a different kind of resolve. He offers his words, like they’re cupped in outstretched palms. Like he could be gentle. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t owe me a debt, Joel.”

He nods, but that doesn’t mean at all that he accepts your assertion.

His eyes tick over to the broken picture rail, right where it fractures. His gaze lingers on it for a moment, cataloguing what tools he might need to fix it. Clocking the picture frames of salvaged art you have leaning up against the wall, not yet hung.

“I said, I'll make it up to you.” You nod efficiently back at him, and Joel drinks one more long measure of you in before he leaves. Maybe it's not quite a promise, but right now, it's all he's got.

He’d burn the world down for you, he thinks, if it could change a damn thing.

Thing is though, the world has already burned.

He can’t make you many promises. Can’t keep you safe. Make you happy. Offer you a home.

He’ll only let you down.

Maybe all of that is true. Maybe it is - but Joel knows one thing for sure. You’re brighter than the sun, and, in a world full of darkness? He just can’t look away, even though you’re blinding.

#joel miller x reader #tlou #pedro pascal #the last of us #tlou spoilers #the last of us spoilers

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cevansbrat0007 · 1 year

Text

The Lonely Hearts Club: Part One

Summary: You decide to press pause on your relationship with Andrew Barber. Too bad your hotshot attorney of an ex-boyfriend doesn't understand the meaning of the word. Takes place directly after the events in Photo Shoot Faux Pas. Read Part Two!

Warnings: Angst, Break-ups, Cursing, Andy Being a Menace, Insecure Reader, Eventual Smut, Manhandling, Punishments, Minors DNI

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day! This multi-part fic will feature a combination of requests from the likes of @writer84, @lexivass, @moejdaw, as well as several other anonymous readers. Part of my ongoing Growing Pains Series. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

___

“Come on, girl. You can do this.”

“Yeah, but maybe…” You trail off as you approach Andy’s front door. Fishing the key out of your pocket, you insert it into the lock. Thanks to your shaking hands, it actually takes a few seconds longer than it probably should. “Maybe I oughta wait.”

“Babe.” Your friend blows out a breath, the noise coming across the other line like static. “We’ve been over this like a dozen times already. Today is just another day; it’s no different from any other.”

Your friends had been quick to remind you that Valentine’s Day didn’t really matter. At its core, it was nothing more than a cheap gimmick big corporations used to upsell mediocre chocolate and subpar rom-coms. Right?

“I know, I know.” There really wasn’t much more you could say beyond that. Not after the two of you had painstakingly broken down every detail of this very scenario just last night. During which time you also managed to consume several bottles of wine.

You’d been all up in your feelings from the moment you’d arrived at your best friend’s house. And Sara had spent a good hour sitting with you on her living room floor, gently rocking you back and forth while you quietly sobbed into her sweater.

Andy hated it when you cried. But when you did, he was always so good at using his big body to comfort you – to calm you down. He’d been the one that you’d really wanted last night. You’d been so tempted to call him, even before the alcohol had started flowing.

However, all your girls had said “no”. And when they couldn’t get you to listen to reason, they’d instructed Sara to remove the temptation by swiping your phone and hiding it away. At the time you’d been highly upset. But now you were grateful for their interference. Because this was something you had to do.

Provided that you could make yourself stick with the fucking plan.

“Are you in yet?” Sara asks, her voice briefly snapping you back into the present.

“I am. I–I’m just gonna leave it on the table. Along with the muffins.” Squeezing your eyes shut, you brace for the sound you’re pretty sure is about to viciously assault your eardrums in three…two…one…

Here it comes.

“YOU BOUGHT HIM FUCKING MUFFINS?!” She screeches, her tone rife with stunned exasperation. “Are you being serious right now?!”

Yes, you did that. It didn’t seem right to just drop the note and run. At least not without leaving a little something else to go with it, apparently in the form of cinnamon spice crunch.

“Don’t judge me, bitch. This shit is hard enough as it is.” You growl into the receiver, setting the box of delicious smelling baked goods onto his kitchen counter. “I just wanna make sure he has something to tide him over until we – until we, um…” Gripping the edge of a chair, you force yourself to take a series of deep breaths.

“Shit, Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.” Your friend immediately backpedals. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not like you can hear her anyway over the sound of the distant roaring in your ears. “I know this is hard, honey. But you’ve got to pull it together.”

This whole thing was making you feel ill.

Fuck! Like it or not, she was right. The last thing you wanted to do was start crying again. Because you knew if you allowed yourself to break down here, it would be impossible to stop. And that’s exactly where you could not afford to let Andrew Stephen Barber to find you right now.

Standing in the middle of his kitchen, openly crying. Desperately wanting to be held by the one man who had the power to shatter you into a million glittering pieces with nothing more than a simple touch.

And while that might seem a bit dramatic, it also didn’t make it any less true. Which meant that you needed to get out there, fast. You couldn’t allow yourself to forget that you really did have somewhere else to be. Standing up straight, you tuck Andy’s house key into the folded up piece of paper and then place it on top of the muffins.

Time to go.

Turning on your heel, you make a beeline for the exit. Hopefully you’d feel better once you were on the road. As you leave, you make a mental note to worry about everything else later. Until then, you just had to focus on the now.

“Fuck!” You hiss as the door slams closed behind you.

“What? Is Andy home? Did he –” You cut her off, feeling frustrated even as the sickly-sweet taste of regret threatens to claw its way up your throat.

“No. I just forgot to grab that stupid fucking album is all.” With a huff, you jog over to your car. “And it’s not like I can go back in for it or anything since I left him his key. Fuuuuck!” You close the driver’s side door before turning on your vehicle and putting it in gear.

“Girl, who gives a shit!” Sara snorts, clearly relieved that your activities weren’t interrupted. “Look at it this way, whether you like it or not, you just gave that ungrateful bastard something to remember you by.”

Good point, Sara. That’s exactly why she had been designated as your emotional support person for this entire emotionally draining escape.

“True.” Time to focus on the road. If traffic cooperated, you had just enough time to get yourself to your next destination without risking getting a ticket.

Not that that mattered much anymore. The days of anyone giving a shit about your potentially reckless activities were most likely a thing of the past. Oh well. You looked forward to no longer having to stock up on aloe. Yeah, the price of that stock was about to go way down.

A tiny giggle bubbles up, escaping before you can stop it.

“Are you okay, Y/N? I know that was rough back there, but I really think you did the right thing. Plus, I’ve been updating everyone on the group chat, and they all agree.” You resolve to check the thread later so that you can provide everyone with an update.

See that Andy Bear? This whole damned thing had been workshopped from start to finish. You can’t possibly accuse me of being impulsive now. You let out another burst of laughter, this one sounding a touch more hysterical than the last.

“Also, Rhea really wants to know where you got those friggin’ muffins…”

“Tell her I’ll message her with the name of the bakery later.” You merge onto the highway as you head towards downtown. “Thanks for all your help today, Sara. Couldn’t have done it without you girls.”

“Hey boo – you know we love Andy’s fine ass. We just happen to love your ass a hell of a lot more. Now drive safe and text us when you land.” You know she’s telling the truth. All of your girls were pretty darn fond of your man, but you were their girl first. And their loyalty was to you.

Something for which you were exceedingly grateful.

“You got it – talk soon.”

You end the call before settling in for the remainder of the drive. Not wanting to be alone with your thoughts, you quickly decide to turn on the radio – only to be surprised when Mariah Carey’s “We Belong Together” begins playing over the speakers.

“Wow.” You whisper with a shake of your head. “That is so not fair.”

Sometimes the gods possessed a real fucked up sense of humor.

Your bottom lip quivers as the lyrics hit home, hot tears blurring your vision. You let out an audible sniffle before dashing at them with your sleeve. But you don’t change the station. And you no longer try to stem the flow. Instead you finally give yourself over to the pain that was your heart breaking – piece by piece.

You’d talk to Andy in a couple of weeks. He’d give you space. He’d give you time. And if he didn’t want to work things out when it was all said and done…then you would have to find a way to live without him. And you would find a way.

But first, you had a plane to catch. And then you were gonna get yourself a margarita and – no – scratch that.

Make that a bottle of tequila.

___

Five hours later…

Andy shoulders his way into his house from the garage, absentmindedly toeing off his shoes as he sorts through his mail.

Bill. Bill. Junk. A Postcard from his Dentist. Another bill. And more junk.

With a grunt, he tosses the stack of unwanted papers onto the table. And then he spies the pink box resting on the counter. A smile curves its way across his handsome lips when he realizes that you must’ve stopped by at some point during the day.

But he does find it rather odd that you wouldn’t have let him know. Sure, it was Valentine’s Day, but the two of you weren’t supposed to get together until this weekend.

Still smiling, Andy makes his way over to the box of treats, humming a little tune as he goes. While he had a feeling something was going on with you lately, he’d simply chalked it up to stress. But he also knew that once he got you in his bed and settled himself between those gorgeous thighs, it was only a matter of time before he’d have you speaking in tongues…

Which would hopefully lead to you spilling your pretty little guts. So that he could finally try to fix whatever it was that kept making you seem so sad.

He picks up the note, his head tilting to the side as he tries to make sense of the meaning behind your interesting dessert choice. Confused, he decides to read your message. With a sigh, he unfolds the piece of paper. Only to be caught off guard when a key falls out and onto the surface below, the sharp clatter making him jump.

“What the fuck?” He snarls as his eyes quickly scan the tear-stained piece of paper. “No. Oh no, baby girl…fuck no…”

He could not fucking believe what he was reading.

Andrew grips the edge of the counter as his legs threaten to give out underneath him. However, it’s not until the fourth reread that it all finally clicks into place.

You'd just tried to break-up with him. On fucking Valentine’s Day of all fucking days. But if you thought that leaving him a “Dear John” letter and a box of muffins before running off to god-knows-where was going to be the end of it, then well…the joke was on you. Because there was no way in hell he was ready to let you go. At least not without one hell of fight.��

"Alright." A dark chuckle escapes as he crumples the note in fist. Part of him wished that he still carried a lighter so that he could go outside and burn your fucking letter. “But make no mistake, sweetness, we’re not done here.”

However, Andrew Barber could be patient until he saw you again. He’d give you a couple days to get your mind right. But when he found you – and he would – he wasn’t going to stop until he had you back in his life and in his bed, right where you fucking belonged.

You could count on that shit.

END

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octo-artist · 9 months

Note

Hi, Iove the way you write! Since requests are open, could I request a NSFW one, please? Where Leon and female reader lose their virginities to one another?

TW: Smut (fairly vanilla), Dick Piercing, AFAB reader, Character x reader, mentions of protection

This is my first time writing smut so I hope it did an ok job at it. Sorry this took so long it’s been absolutely insane over here between storms, outages, and preparing to go to school in a month~Jade

------------------------------------------------------

“Are you sure, we don’t have to if you don’t think you’re ready yet”, Leon asks looking for any sign of apprehension or hesitance, he’s alwaysbeen so considerate and sweet like that.

“Leon I’m certain, I’ve thought it over plenty this last week and I think I’m ready this time.” You state, the topic at hand being that of taking things further with your boyfriend. The first time one of you suggested sex the session didn’t go much further than a more heated makeout session, which of course was still quite nice, you just got cold feet when Leon had gone to start pushing up your shirt. Leon being the gentleman he is stopped when you’d grabbed his hand and said you’d changed your mind and just wanted to cuddle instead.

The second time was an accident, you would’ve gone further had you and Leon not gotten a surprise visit from your mother and had to hurry to get your shirts back on so she wouldn’t know what was going on and further embarrass the two of you.

This time though you’d both made sure that there would be no interruptions and you had both talked it over the couple days leading up to make sure you were both still comfortable with the decision.

Leon upon getting confirmation from you, gently cupped the back of your neck, pulling you close to kiss you while he moved to lean you back and move over you, slotting himself between your legs. After a few minutes you reached up to comb your fingers through his hair and pull him closer to deepen the kiss. Slowly you feel his hand move from the mattress and trail from your thigh up your side, gently sliding beneath your shirt to move it up and over your head, briefly breaking the kiss before diving right back in for more. You eventually feel him reach back down to shift your hips up and start grinding against you pressing his hardening bulge up to your quickly heating core. You move one of your hands from his hair to trail down his chest to do away with his top like he had yours, after which you started trailing down towards his pants to slide them off. Leon pulled back for a bit to help shimmy off his pants and help you with yours, revealing a tent in his boxers and a wet stain on your own undies.

It was at this point you both took a second to breath and realize how far you’ve gotten. Leon situates himself back between your legs before touching his forehead to yours and asking with a heavy breath, ”Do you want to continue? We can stop if you want.”

Catching your own breath you reply, “Yes, I want to keep going”

“Alright then”, he sighs as he gently reaches into your panties and begins to caress your folds and clit, his hands coarse from training with his team. At the new sensation you let out a gasp as Leon's other hand reaches up behind your back to undo your bra which he then brushes off your chest to release your chest from its confines. Continuing to stroke your opening he uses his other hand to gently cup one of your breasts massaging it and further intensifying the already present sensations. Wishing for more you buck your hips a bit to try and get him to actually insert his fingers, and eventually he does after a bit starting with one as to not hurt you, adding another and plumbing them faster when you grind against his hand again. Eventually he gives into his own temptation taking the neglected breast into his mouth, sucking on it as he continues to massage the other. Soon enough you begin to feel a coiling sensation within your abdomen, gasps having turned to moans as you thread your fingers into Leon’s hair again

“I-I think I’m gonna-” you start as he rises up from your chest to capsure your lips once more tugging on them with his teeth. You feel the coil snap and soon after he draws his fingers out and looks at them curiously. Leon looks at his hand before tentatively taking a lick, his eyes widening as he cleans the rest of them off.

You whine trying to grind up against his cock which you can see is dripping with precum and a glint from the jacobs ladder that he’d gotten due to a dare.

“Hold on dear let me get this on”, Leon teases as he grabs a small packet from the bedside table, opening it and rolling the condom onto his member, “Now, I’m asking one more time, are you sure you’re ready?”

You look at him and nod to indicate that you wish to continue.

“Alright, just let me know if it's too much and I'll slow down”, he states, lining himself up. Slowly he pushes in groaning, the stretch made you moan as he filled you up, you feel the ridging from his piercings drag against your insides. After a few minutes he begins to move slowly at first panting, quickly he begins to pick up his pace as the sound of moaning and skin slapping fills the room.

It doesn’t take long for him to start getting close, not used to the feeling as his hips snap into yours. Reaching down he begins to play with your clit to bring you closer with him, he also takes one of your nipples into his mouth sucking on it. The combined sensations quickly bring you to the edge and with a loud groan and a scream you both come together.

Pulling out and discarding the used condom he collapses onto the bed beside you, pulling you close to him as the two of you drift off together with mumbled ‘I love you’s.

#pokemon x reader #reader insert #leon x reader #champion leon x reader #champion leon #Leon smut #pokemon leon #smut #pokemon smut #pokemon #pokemon sword and shield #champion Leon smut #fem reader #tw smut

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dykesagainstgojo · 11 months

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ok im about to start rambling like crazy because since yesterday i cant stop thinking about this fucking scene and how it just makes stsg's future fight worse better. this is a wonderful point to stop, and think about their breakup and how it was clearly motivated by a lot more than just a clash of ideals

to get started its really interesting to think about how gojo was the one who gave the idea of going against any rules and fighting the person at the foundation of the jujutsu society for riko. he was ready to risk everything for a single kid, to grant her the life she wanted. both he and geto knew, that if they chose this path, the consequences would be irreparable. even if they won against tengen, it meant the barriers would be totally fucked up and they would likely become fugitives, but that was alright! as long as they gave riko the opportunity to be a child! to be happy! even tho they were also just teenagers themselves and its clear that this being a kickoff to turn their lives upside down sounds so similar to what happened to geto, and its why his deflection and all the lack of communication around it are even more depressing. the thing is: i cant imagine a world where gojo, knowing about mimiko and nanako, would disagree with getos attitude. even if you dont take into consideration how gojo was ready to kill the whole star cult after riko died, it just doesnt goes with what we saw of him until that point (and from that point onward too) some people disagree with this, because it goes in favor of the whole "gojo didnt had a moral compass of his own when he was a teenager" thing (which is totally wrong). to me, it doesnt. gojo had his own opinions, but he also seemed very aware of how this didnt mean he was ready for the nuances of every situation he could get caught on, and that was where talking to geto helped him. they had similar opinions, gojo felt safe being honest with him, and they were equals! who could be better to question his decisions, right? well, thats exactly why theres a whole plot line about geto looking gojo and feeling that they were no longer neck to neck when gojo goes after geto in shinjuku, its really unambiguous the fact that his goal was not to kill him, but to talk to him. gojo wanted to understand what was the meaning behind geto's actions. geto, who always made sure everything he did had a clear and well-thought motivation, would surely have an explanation for his choice. and in a certain way, he did, yes. i think its quite easy to see that gojo, who even ten years later was out there saying he would side with yuta in a fight, if the higher ups decided to kill him, would see at least a little bit of sense in the core of geto's choice if he just knew about it. but he didnt when geto decided that gojo would never understand him, he wasnt thinking about gojo disagreeing with the effectiveness of it, because geto himself knew it was a dumb idea. the heart of what he was doing, wasnt really to succeed, even tho he gives his best to make himself believe that he will. its all about choosing the murder spree he did in that village, and then doing a backward justification; its about hopelessly doing something, for the sake of doing something. if he were gojo, his plan wouldnt be stupid. if he were gojo, there wasnt any plan that would sound stupid. because gojo had the power to change the world if he set his heart on doing so, but geto didnt. what he could do was choose his path and give his best at staying at it, no matter how painful it was

#jjk #jjk spoilers #geto suguru #gojo satoru #character analysis #I GUESS????#sometimes to feel better you just gotta open tumblr type a lot of shit not reread it tag it as analysis and hit post #satosugu #but not really

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kanzakurawrites · 4 months

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Random Thoughts I Had While Rewatching Descendants 1

So I'm guessing Auradon is the size of Eurasia? Cause Europe seems too small, and most of the stories take place in Europe.

Are there Isle guards? I'm guessing because how else do the posters of Beast get put on the Isle?

Beast's crown looks so fake

So is that Ben's dorm room? Or is that his castle room? Is he a day student? (Which, considering he's becoming High King would be smart) I'm curious now

How many outdoor string lights do people in Auradon throw out?

HOW DOES THE ISLE HAVE ELECTRICITY? Are there villains dedicated to keeping it running? Actually, that would be hilarious, especially if that means people don't mess with them. OR they do mess with them and there are just frequent power outages. More likely, now that I think about it.

CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT MALEFICENT'S LETTER MAGNETS! Ha, what if Hades left them there and she just never threw them out? He seems more like the one to have letter magnets.

I don't care about the book timeline, the villains and core four all seem a lot more familiar with each other than just a few weeks or days or whatever. I'm saying its been months at least since the core four became a gang. If not a year.

I know its a Dcom, but I kinda wish that the villains weren't treated as comedy relief. Like, its implied that the kids aren't loved, that they are scared of their parents, but the way the parents are written... excluding the end with Maleficent, they don't seem that scary and all.

Seriously, there must be royal guards, right?

Really wish we had gotten to see the limo driver again.

Have to admit, I really like Ben's darker suit jacket. But why, why the yellow pants.

Ugh, I love Mal's D1 hair.

So... where are the magical people. "Most of us are ordinary royals." Yes, but, but, there is a lot of magic is Disney movies. Where have the magical people GONE. This is concerning.

Auradon Prep is FILLED with royal children, including the soon-to-be High King. The museum is filled with priceless magical artifacts. WHERE IS THE SECURITY. WHERE ARE THE GUARDS.

The beginning of Evil Like Me makes me want to hug Mal.

Are there NO SECURITY CAMERAS?? No other alarms??

WHY ARE THEY HAVING REMEDIAL GOODNESS OUT IN THE OPEN. That should be a PRIVATE class.

Ben, how did you not notice Carlos screaming?

How I wish they would have kept Evie's wavy/curly hair

I really wish there had been more Mal-Jay moments

They were in a public area. How did no one notice what was going on with Ben? DOUG WAS RIGHT BEHIND THEM

You know, none of Ben's classmates seem surprised by his love declaration. Or surprised by the "break up" with Audrey. Hmmm.

You cannot convince me that Ben didn't purposefully tell his parents about Mal right then JUST so he could have a picture of their reaction.

Baby Bal is so cute DX

Honestly, the Family Day fiasco was Audrey and Chad's fault KING BEAST

"No son, its yours." EXCUSE ME SIR

I wonder how much magical strength one must have in order to wield Fairy Godmother's wand. And I feel bad that Jane couldn't.

"I want to go to school. And be with Ben. Because Ben makes me really happy." Don't mind me just crying.

This whole scene makes me cry DX

"Gaston should be jealous." Ew. No. Stop. Creepy.

So whatever happened with the Jay/Audrey thing? I CANNOT be the only one who remembers the shipping days for them.

Other thoughts:

Nostalgia hits hard every time

I miss the D1 clothes! D2 and D3 felt more "costumey" if that makes sense. D1 feels more like... teenagers. And, at least for the Isle outfits, more thrown together. Not as polished, in a way.

I have to admit, kinda wish there was more Aladdin related stuff in the movie. You have Audrey and Mal, Evie and Doug, and Carlos and Dude, but no Aladdin-related characters for Jay? Sure, Aziz is mentioned in the books, and Jordan is in Wicked World, but still. Oh well.

#descendants #disney descendants #I was hoping this would help me for the next Fate's Gift chapter #kinda did

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kendrixtermina · 6 months

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The grimy, racist core of the "but Hamas" thing is not that Hamas is like secretly all perfect rainbow sparkles wonderful, but that Palestinians are expected to have a perfect flawless government before their desire for self-determination & right to resist are taken seriously

Somehow past violence disqualifies Palestinian authorities (at least those that won't be stooges) but it is NEVER treated as invalidating Israel's credibility though they did all the same violence and more ten times over, and also, they STARTED it.

Palestinians are held to an impossible standard.

Or its not even that, because the west bank government became Vichy France level stooges & that didn't lead to a Palestinian state, it was used to prevent that. It's a rigged, no win game.

Hamas (which is only one leading faction in a larger coalition of Palestinian resistance fighters that includes socialists as well) doesn't need to be perfect for Palestinians to have a right to self-determination & to resist occupation.

After all its not like western governments are perfect... far from it... and the Israeli government & military are a heart of darkness and a wretched hive of sin, theres no other way to put what I've learned from all the books, documentaries & tentimonies I've been looking at over the last few weeks as well as the real time events unfolding. There is no evil they wont stoop to.

It's the same basic flaw that creates problematic legal grey zones in USA reservations - can't give the "savages" juristiction over "our" citizens so you can just go in there & do a crime. Or the original sin of the UN, which is the veto power.

The rich countries need to finally stop acting like they are by default the adults at the table even if they're acting like toddlers.

All the world is for Palestine! All the world. This includes most ppl under 40 in the West, just that our shitty old man politicians don't represent us. But overwhelmingly most UN states voted to censure Israel time & time again & the USA keeps protecting them. All the world is against this! They're not all stupid. The USA is not more enlightened. They're just another self-serving superpower just like China & Russia. Yes those regimes suck - but the USA sucks! And ppl in India & Africa do admire China for making cheap tech products accessible to less rich countries. The USA (& by extension most the leadership of the western block) is letting Israel do every conceivable evil right now, there IS no moral high ground.

Time we had real equality. Time we expunged the last vestiges of colonialism. In the UN, in western countries, and in occupied Palestine, where it is the strongest.

#gaza #free gaza #palestine #free palestine #watermelon #israel #hamas

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littledigits · 11 months

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That time when working in animation made me realize I needed therapy

Since we're on the topic of overworking / being passionate in animation and blah blah blah. I want to share my story about working on the first season of Hilda (for context I was the animation director), specifically..how completely garbo my mental health got because

I INSISTED ON WORKING MYSELF INTO THE GROUND.

This is a story I've shared when I've had a chance to do lectures or talks, and if there is one really awesome thing that comes with ..weird ..animation clout, its that you can use those powers for good in terms of teaching people about the BS that comes with the job...anyway.

The reason why I like to talk about this is because I insisted on doing it to myself, and that was really got me thinking about the factors that do lead us into over working. Because heres the deal

Hilda season 1 was, without getting into too many details, a heckofatime...especally for the core crew. we were a small group, doing something new because most of us haven't worked on a show before that included pre production. My entire career up to that point had been working on service work for shows that were created in Burbank, so the new pipeline had a ton of challenges. We did all care, and we all believed in the project SOOOO much. I would tell people not to work over time, because I want my team to leave on time - but I was there...a lot. Leaving the studio by 11pm , working through the weekends..it wasnt an uncommon thing for me. sure , it wasnt all the time, but this stuff spans years sometimes so it went in waves. But whenever the challenges came up, i doubled down. because I super believed in it.

And the thing was - other people told me to stop. I had a lot of valid concerns given to me by my friends and team members who saw how I was burning myself out at both ends. And I thought like, well , its my *choice*. Its my chance to have a voice and be creative and try to do something different and we all have to push ourselves and yes its HARD but. THATS HOW YOU DO IT RIGHT? surely if I just make sure I’m the one overworking and my team isn't.. that's fine.

Well, no, I was immensely effecting my team maybe I wasn’t telling them to work late, but they were seeing me get more and more tired and stay later and later. I thought they would still approach me for help, or if they struggled. But the issues they had they kept to themselves without wanting to put more on my shoulders. Because they *cared* , just as much as I did ..and we all took more on our shoulders then we should have and there were a lot of things that I could have solved had I fostered a better communication environment. I became really resentful in my head over the smallest things, I actually saw myself becoming a more hateful person and easily annoyed. I came home every day rambling about the frustrations. Now, let me preface this by saying - my mental state did not only have to do with overworking. I had and have things still to unpack, but the control I had over work and the validation I got from it was a coping mechanism for me. I really didnt think i had any worth as a person outside of this job. It basically was a very nasty cycle that didnt stop until ...well I had gotten so bad I had to. By the end of the first season I was actually incredibly close to quitting . I was in big anxiety attack territory because I was so worn thin- I had started therapy but eventually moved onto getting medication as well and that was what allowed me to stick it out. ( I have the same therapist and I am on the same meds, it was very hard to do at the time, but i cant imagine my life now without making that choice ). After it was done I was immensely supported by the studio and worked part time as a trainer, which is what i requested to give my brain a break. (Only a few of my closer friends knew how bad I was getting but it was pretty obvious I needed to rest) I'm really proud of the work we did and we keep doing on the show, ..and some other people may have gone through something similar and found it was worth it, but thats not me. I still struggle not to fall back into that mindset, but it helps knowing that if i keep myself out of it , i can help my team out of it, because I know they care about this show just as much as I do. I’m not a martyr, I am a leader, and its up to me to keep myself healthy so I can keep my crew healthy. I always strive to be better, but i get to decide what that looks like - and for me ..better has nothing to do with the image on the screen. Its got more to do with the experience of the people around me. Readjusting those priorities has helped a lot with keeping my head above water and not add to the pressure that makes it so hard not to get sucked down in the first place. I do think its good to talk about though , how our passion and language and drive can lead to a lot of us being a part of this cycle. And if theres one good thing about the challenges, its sharing them so at least others can learn faster then you did ;) . take care of yourself friends.

#animation #animation industry #director talk #i still think of how many people told me to stop and how i didnt #i tell people to stop and they dont but i do understand why #thats why this shit is ingrained and its more then just words #here you go a big long animation ramble :D

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justatalkingface · 1 year

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Let's talk about the Bakugou Problem

Yes, everyone, it's finally time, what is probably my most requested rant: The Bakugou Problem. Or rather, the Bakugou problems, because there's two:

The first is the fact that he's an unrepentant asshole who is only now, at the end of the manga, truly starting to realize basic shit like 'apologizing'. The second is that, for all intents and purposes, the Bakugou the characters seem to interact with is a different person than what we're being shown.

There's been plenty of deep dives on his issues, so I doubt I'll propose anything new, but this should fun anyways, right? Let's start here:

I think, at the core, Bakugou's problem is he just never grew up.

Way, way back early on, we see some flashbacks to Earlygou, and in summary? Earlygou is an ass. Fun fact: for all that it's commonly held that Bakugou grew worse over time after getting his Quirk? He called Izuku Deku before that. He was just a bit ahead of the class, looked at Izuku's name, and saw 'Deku'. Boom, he starts saying it, and it's only further entrenched in his mind as he outperforms his peers physically, while Izuku lags behind.

Then he gets his Quirk. Let's quote what he's told: 'Ooh, another impressive Quirk! You could be a hero with a Quirk like that, Katsuki!'

I know we all think he got coddled for his Quirk, and later on he was, but that? That was just a teacher giving him the verbal equivalent of a gold star. Meanwhile, Bakugou?

'Makes sense. I'm awesome. I'm better than everyone else!', he thinks, while having this look on this face like he's being enlightened to a Fundamental Truth. He took some generic praise and ran off with it.

So yeah, Earlygou was an ass. Here's the thing: a lot of kids are assholes. It can be hard to remember sometimes, but kids, really young kids who don't get how the world works at all, do and think a lot of impulsive, assholish shit, not because they think the world revolves around them, but because they can't comprehend a world that isn't all about them.

Here's another thing: kids grow out of that. They realize, eventually, that other people matter, that their actions have consequences, and all that other stuff that makes people into functioning adults.

I don't blame Earlygou for being an assholish child. I blame Bakugou for never growing beyond that. And it's interesting to think about that, because his parents seem legit. His dad is quiet, sure, but he's solid and down to earth, and while Bakugou clearly takes after his mother, she also seems to have gotten the 'morals' message he didn't, and has concerns that he didn't do the same. They're not poor, and are working in fashion, and implied to be doing well enough that, if they're not rich, they're at the very least well off.

So... school, I guess? Here's one of the times where the setting suffers for its lack of lower level development, because I would love to see what non-Aldera schools were like. Everyone else in 1A seems like they wouldn't have a major problem with Izuku being Quirkless, or at least be mild enough in their prejudices to not spend their free time torturing him. Is Aldera different? Is it an age thing? Are they just the good eggs and would have had assholish classmates who would act like Aldera did? Would other teachers be OK with how Izuku was treated (my limited understanding of the depressing Japanese view on bullying says, 'yes', but fuck if I know, and honestly, two hundred years in the future, shouldn't they be better than modern Japan)? More than that, the public view on Quirklessness is, for understandable reasons (cough cough Bakugou), highly underdeveloped, so we don't know how much Izuku was treated was the normal, but I think part of the reason Bakugou got so bad is that he had Izuku near him, as this convenient target. By pushing down on the 'acceptable' target, all his peers approved him, cheered him on, which both fed his ego and his popularity, and combined with his high-status Quirk, this cycle continued swelling his head until we reached canon Bakugou, king of all he surveys. The kids follow him, the teachers suck up to him, his potential, his future, all are limitless!!!!

...Sigh. Before I keep going, let me touch on one other thing: Izuku trying to save Bakugou after he fell when they were children.

On the first take, it seems utterly unreasonable, how badly he responded to that, right? And the second, and third, it still seems the same.

Someone, somewhere, said this take in a comment in a fic I read and I've never been able to forget it: think about it from the view of a heroic saturated society.

Think about it from the lenses of MHA, where All Might is a few steps short of a god in the eyes of the public. Everyone knows him, everyone loves him, especially the kids, and especially Bakugou and Izuku.

Look at that scene again, how Izuku reaches down for him. Overlay him with All Might.

That is what Bakugou saw: Izuku making himself unto All Might. While Izuku just wanted to save him, of course, somewhere deep in his unconcious Bakugou took that symbolism and ran with it, and reached a completely (ir)rational conclusion: Izuku was looking down on him. It went, I imagine, a little something like this:

All Might is the strongest. All Might looks like that when saves other people, who are weaker than him. Izuku is channeling All Might, therefore he is saying that he is stronger than me.

Bakugou, in his child mind, saw Izuku, not as helping him, but T-posing at him. To him, that was Izuku trying to assert dominance.

And he never got over that. Never grew beyond that impression. Do you want to know the worst part about it, though, when you look at it that way?

Think about Bakugou again, and his motivations, with your Bakugou Logic goggles on: All Might is strong. Bakugou wants to be strong like All Might. All Might asserts his power over others by saving them. Therefore?

Bakugou wants to save people like All Might.

Can you imagine if Bakugou was built of that dynamic? Like, with Shirou in Fate, if that scene was etched in his mind forever, and he was obsessed with remaking it over and over, but on his terms, with him as the savior? Him as the one looking down on the weak?

Still canon-style Bakugou, still an asshole, still lusting for power... but when asked what he wanted to do with it, or why, he would answer: so I can save everyone.

And even if it was for the crudest, most self serving of reasons, even if it was only so he could feel good about himself and lord it over everyone else that he was the one who saved them; it would have been so much better than canon. There's so much fascinating complexity to explore in a character like that, as well as a clear path to redeem him: under that logic, Bakugou would, over time, learn to save people, not for his own satisfaction, but just because it's the right thing to do. Hell, even the way people treat him would make more sense, because even if he was an asshole, if his motivation, which he cheerfully shouts about at any given moment, was to save people, then suddenly his acceptance feels more realistic, doesn't it? Him being compared to Izuku as a rival makes more sense when both of them are in it to save everyone, that core of heroism, but each represent a different part of how modern heroism is expressed, with Bakugou as the corrupt, media saturated part of it, while Izuku channels the original, pure spirit of heroics.

Can you imagine that with me? What could have been in another life? It could have been beautiful.

But, sadly, that's nothing more than a dream, and we should return back to reality (though I might want to expand on that at some point, it really does sound interesting to me).

Change and Improvement. These are words that some hold in the air whenever Bakugou is judged harshly, and they wave them like talismans to try and banish others objections.

Let me tell you a truth: change and improvement are hollow words without context. They are a statement that something has happened, not a measure of how much it has happening. In many ways, this is similar to a unit of measurement, like inches, and a number of inches. If you're talking about something, and you say, 'it can be measured in inches'.... that is generally unhelpful. Saying that it is, say, eight inches long is far more useful information.

Still, these aren't exactly moral statements, and change in particular is distinctly amoral. If something has 'improved a little bit' it, you know that it's better, and generally how much. But is it good now? Was it good then?

Let me put it another way: say that, once a day, every day, I appear to you out of the shadows and force you to eat a cup of shit. Exactly a cup, every day, at 2:30 PM, without fail; nothing you do to protect yourself from me makes any difference, nowhere you go is safe. You can't run. You can't hide. I am inevitable. The shit is inevitable. You will eat that shit, no matter what you think about it.

Then, one day, I come with only a half cup, and from then on you are only forced to eat a half cup of shit a day instead of a full one.

Isn't that both a change and an improvement? It's literally half as bad; doesn't that sound like a lot better? Yet, while that may be true, is the situation actually better in a meaningful way, or it as firmly negative as it was before? Should you be mewling gratefully to me that I'm being less horrible to you, or can you still hold a grudge against me for everything I've done to you and continue to do?

What if I apologized, one day, after forcing yet another half cup down your throat? What if I told you that I shouldn't have done it, but the way you looked, the way you acted, that vapid, cow-like look of joy on your face... it was just so shitty that I had to, that you made me do it? Then I say this changes nothing, and that we're still on for tomorrow for your daily dose at the normal time.

Tell me something: do you feel better? Has my generous apology moved your heart? Are we friends now?

This is Izuku's situation in a nutshell. Bakugou's treatment has changed, has improved even. It's reached a point where there are actual differences in Izuku's daily life. That doesn't mean it's still not shit treatment, and it doesn't matter if it's served in a cup or a tablespoon, shit is still shit. And the thing is Bakugou treated him like shit, and he still treats him like shit.

Context matters. So let's talk about the context. Let's talk about what Bakugou did.

Well, first off, there's the Deku thing, but I feel a lot people don't get how bad that is, so let's spell it out in detail. Once upon a time, as I've said, Bakugou was a little better at reading than everyone else. He looked at Izuku's name and saw 'Deku' in this, and thought it was hilarious, and so he started talking about it.

Bakugou looked at his name, and saw Useless in it. He didn't just call Izuku that, he said, this is in your name, it always has been there, to the point that, all these years later, he physically struggles to use Izuku's actual name.

For Izuku's entire childhood, the one person truly on his side, who truly loved him, was his mother.... who gave him that name.

In other words, every time Bakugou called him that name, with that history behind it? Bakugou was telling him that, when Izuku was born, Inko looked at the child she held in her arms, turned to the nurse, and said, "I'll call him... Useless."

He called him this, every day, every time they talked, for over a decade. Saying that the real meaning of the name his mother gave him was useless.

But it's not just that, even. He led the school, his neighbors, effectively everyone Izuku knew in anywhere near his age group, to call him that. There were probably people in Aldera who didn't know Izuku by any other name. There were probably times Izuku thought of himself by that name, that his name was Useless. It's not that big a reach from responding to it as his name, after all, and by the time the story start's he was well trained in responding to it.

Then, there's the more 'basic' bullying; insults, taking his stuff, breaking his stuff, using his Quirk on him. Again, for years and years, until Izuku is beaten down into terrified compliance, where Bakugou blowing up his stuff, his desk, and him* in front of a teacher isn't something anyone even really notices anymore. And why does he do it? Because it's fun. Because he feels strong breaking things, hurting people, being the big man on campus. Because he wants attention, respect, glory.

Because he can. Because it's fun.

(*And isn't that weird, when you think about it? Bakugou has been hands free with his Quirk on Izuku since they were, what, four? Why doesn't Izuku have burns?

Bakugou uses explosions. His hands can burn hot enough (probably as part of the lighting process) to burn clothes, and that's when he's clearly holding back with it. There's no way he's been careful enough, kind enough to not hit skin with that his entire life. So why doesn't Izuku have burns from all that?

Answer? There is no good reason. You can mention how MHA humans are, well, inhumanly strong, but we see heat resistant Shoto being burned with boiling water; it's not like they're immune to it. More than that, though, Izuku is explicitly Quirkless. He is a mortal in a world of magic. He wouldn't have that same kind of resiliency.

So Izuku isn't burned because, A, Hori didn't want his main character to be scarred over, both for aesthetic reasons, and probably for ease of drawing, and B, because that would make Bakugou look worse. Because even then, back when Bakugou had consequences, that would be too much consequences for him, that he permanently scarred Izuku, since the Heroes Rising was the original ending, and Bakugou was always supposed to be redeemed. Hori probably figured, if he thought about it, that that was too far for the readers to forgive him for, and finally, C, he just didn't think about the consequences of Bakugou's actions.

But let's be honest: Izuku would be burned. The fact he isn't is just the prettying up of the situation.)

This is where Bakugou starts from: abusing Izuku to the point where he doesn't dare protest out of years of deeply ingrained terror, doing his best to systematically destroy Izuku's life, while being careful to avoid going too far and damage his chances for UA, which judging by his comment on smoking, may be the only real internal check he has on his behavior.

Because that's the thing; he's cruel, but calculatingly so. He's not a wild animal. It motivates him, but he can think about his actions, think about the possible consequences of them, how they'll react... and as long as they won't harm him, he's all for it.

Then we go to UA, and when he realizes that 'Deku' has a Quirk? Much less such a strong one? He attacks. Viciously, instinctively he goes into attack. He's stopped, but no consequences are given (more on that later), so he doesn't stop. Why would he? All he's learned is this teacher won't let him attack Izuku without a motive.

And then he gets one. Bakugou walks into the Battle Trial planning what he'll do to Izuku. His first words in there are don't dodge... which is especially bad considering what he'll say in a little bit.

His plan? To beat the living shit out of Izuku, to vent all his frustration on him, but stopping just short of it being bad enough for the Trial to be stopped. And as Izuku defies him (by dint of not letting himself be beaten up), he gets angrier and angrier at him for the gall of it, for the audacity to not lay down and let Bakugou beat him up until he feels better, until it reaches the point where Bakugou brings out those gauntlets of him.

'Dammit, Deku, don't dodge me!' 'He won't die if he dodges!'

Yeah. He says both of these things in the space of the same fight. When Bakugou fires that damn gauntlet of his, he's finally reached the point where, for the first time we've seen, he's no longer thinking of the consequences even a little. He wants to kill Izuku, if only to prove that his Quirk, that he, is better (note this too; we'll talk more later about this) than Izuku and his Quirk.

Well, for obvious reasons, that doesn't work out for him, since Izuku's Quirk is the strongest in existence, and small fraction of it, badly used, is still enough to clap Bakugou's attack, enhanced by support equipment (who the hell approved that, by the way? It literally destroys buildings. It seemingly exists for no other reason than to cause massive collateral damage). Then he's forced into an existential crisis when Deku 'wins'. His arm is broken, he's beat up, but by the rules of the game he won anyways and because of that, Bakugou's world collapses.

This, more than anything, I think is Bakugou's true catalyst for change: not being saved by 'Deku', but losing to him. Granted, being saved is enough to force him to avoid him, but it probably helped that Izuku only bought him moments of air. He may have saved him, but All Might did the work, All Might the strongest, the greatest, his idol.

This though? This was Izuku surpassing him, and all on his own.

And I want to pause to consider something here: something that was stressed since the beginning of the story, and still is, besides the terrible mixed messaging at times, is that being heroic is more important to being a hero than sheer ability. Izuku was heroic with his complete lack of ability at the start, after all, while All For One is one of the strongest beings in the setting, and is the farthest thing from heroic. And when you look at Bakugou, as we're introduced to him? There's not a speck of that in him. There's no kindness, no mercy, no sympathy; Bakugou has no positive aspects to him. He has talent, talent for days, but talent isn't a person, a personality. He is a creature of pure ability, and nothing more, and that makes him a singularly unheroic creature.

But the story continues, and Bakugou is forced to confront his own weakness compared to his classmates... except, you know, he doesn't. Even as he does everything wrong, as picks fight with classmates, teachers, villains he should be avoiding... he faces no real consequences for it.

Because, as I've said? Bakugou used lethal force on Izuku. Knowingly. As a teacher tells him not to. That... that sounds like something that even a normal school would be concerned about, much less this elite school that is focused around being a hero, and whose student body is largely comprised of very lethal people, who they intent to unleash upon the world with minimal restrictions on their behavior.

I mean, forget the school; why is All Might fine with this? Aizawa? Nezu? Any of these teachers? How about all of their fellow students, all of who are heroic, and watched this happen live, and All Might's response, no less?

This is the second problem of Bakugou: what they see, talk to, and interact with, doesn't seem to match with the reality that we see, and these two problems are so intertwined that is hard to talk about them separately.

Because on Day One of school, Bakugou attempts to murder his fellow student, and no one cares. The worst he gets is a waggled finger. The fact that he isn't expelled is mind boggling beyond belief, when you pause for a second and consider that fact.

Aizawa talks like he just rough housed too hard or something, and the worse thing All Might mentions is failing the exercise.

This is something that many people have talked about, and at times have named many different ways. For this, I've decided to call it, 'Bakugou's Tsundere Field', because it makes other people act like Bakugou is tsundere, acting tough but with a kind heart, instead of just... acting like a shit person. You know, like he does.

Like I said, it's hard to realistically seperate that from Bakugou's general behavior, so I'm just going to keep going and point it out as I go along.

Next, let's talk about... the Sports Festival. The Sports Festival is where, if you need the reminder, Bakugou starts things off by insulting everyone else and making them hate his class. Twice.

First, by insulting the, admittedly vulture like crowd gawking over 1A's near death experience (I still don't like that), and the second as the valedictorian, where his 'speech' is his two sentence statement that he's going to be first... and yet, for some reason, Izuku watches this and marvels over how he's changed. Because normally, he'd do this but he'd be gloating. Izuku. Izuku. This isn't some mind boggling big thing to be in awe of.

Actually, let's chat about that a bit, because that's honestly such a big problem it's almost a third concern on it's own right: Izuku is our major narrator, right? So we get a lot of our views on Bakugou from his perspective, and... well, he's very much an unreliable narrator, whenever it comes to Bakugou. Every time he talks, there's this sense of awe in it that's been there ever since he was a child; it taints his narrative every time he talks about Bakugou, makes it always more positive than it should be.

Because, wow, Bakugou, that's different from before, an improvement, right? Well guess what? That shit is still shit, even if there's less of it. Izuku is just so biased, so traumatized, such... an abuse victim, that he he takes what Bakugou gives him and doesn't think there's anything wrong with it, because he, Deku, has no self respect, and Bakugou is the biggest and the baddest, the most beloved of their childhood, and it's something he never seems to get past. Even when he stands up to Bakugou, fights him, he still can't get past staring at him in awe, and barely ever complains about how he's being treated.

And because Izuku is our main viewpoint? This view on Bakugou taints our view on him, and it's easy to look at him with Izuku's admiring eyes.

But I digress. In the cavalry battle, Bakugou basiclly breaks the rules by flying off the horse, but gets away with it because of a technicality, which, you know, is great impulse to nurture: it's fine as long as it's technically legal! Sounds really heroic, right? Like something you want your law enforcement to live by?

Meanwhile, during this same fight, both Aizawa and All Might praises him for his ambition, and I just. Do you know what Bakugou says right before they think about that?

'I'm going to be Number One and leave piles of bodies in my wake!', he screams, while literally throwing a tantrum on national television and hitting the top of Kirishima's head like it's a desk.

...Wow. You know what? Maybe you two are mixing tenacity with bloodlust. That's one of the least heroic things I've ever heard in my life, and yet everyone just falls over themselves to praise him for it just because he's not content to settle for second place.

It's times like that I have to wonder: are they... are they seeing something different than what we do? Are all of Bakugou's most violent phrases and actions edited out for them? Did Hori add them for his fans? Or is it just The Tsundere Field(TM)?

Not even mentioning third stage where: he's praised for taking a woman 'seriously' for no apparent reason, and dragging it out when he would normally, just like he always does, just leap in mindlessly to attack, and this one time he really thinks it through it backfires when Ochaco turns it back around on him, only for him to just... over power it, with no ill effects. This comes with the double plus stupid on his part of him doing that because he's... what, afraid of her touching him?

Seriously? This entire post exists for me to call Bakugou out, but even I can't call him a coward. Every time he fights a villain, all of which want to kill him, and one who has Ochaco's power but lethal, he still charges in. Moreover, all it does it make you weightless; Bakugou's power explicitly gives him a way around that; if she tosses him, he can just fly back to the stage.

So... why is this a thing? This is a thing so, when the heroes, who at this point are symbolizing the audience's discontent with Bakugou, start complaining, Aizawa can step in, verbally slap them, us, and then explain how great Bakugou is, which get magnified by how casually he shoots down her plan at the end.

And here's the super special bonus problem with all of this: a hero's job isn't to protect themselves. A hero's job is to protect everyone else. Even if they, personally, are hurt, a hero is expected to risk their health, and lives, so that the general public is safe. You want to know what the problem is when protecting yourself and allowing the villain time to do things in the process? It means they get to do things. Like, say, set up a giant meteor shower that could cause mass casualties? You know, like what Ochaco actually did as Bakugou held back?

This is that plan that, need I remind you, Eraserhead was defending.

Then there's the fight with Shoto where, under the actual logic of the setting, according to Hori's very notes on how their Quirks work, Shoto should have froze him and thusly stopped him in his tracks, no fire needed, since it would stop Bakugou from sweating. But, instead, Bakugou powers through, somehow, and clinches a win anyways. And then, and this is after he eavesdrops on Shoto's conversation, BTW, which means he knows exactly why Shoto doesn't use his fire, he throws a fit that Shoto didn't use his fire on him anyways (which, considering he sweats nitroglycerin, means he would have exploded).

Now let's look at the Intern Arc, and I'll be honest: no matter how much a non-character Best Jeanist, I'll always be a fan of him for one simple reason:

When everyone else looked at Bakugou, and says, 'This kid is awesome', this is the one person in the entire setting who saw a problem. And as a bonus, he acts to do something about it.

In the same vein, I'll never forgive Hori for making him seem like such a pretentious twit, much less how hard he ends up cheering for Bakugou's every word later in the series. I'm relooking at these manga chapters, and his big attempt seems to be... jelling up Bakugou's hair, and... something like focusing the body and mind via the power of... tight jeans.

Wow. I mean, wow. The one time we get someone honestly, actually trying to change Bakugou for the better, to call him for what he is, and his big plan to do this is apparently giving him a new look.

Really? Like, beyond how much of a failure of an opportunity this is, beyond how it makes Best Jeanist look useless, it can give the reader that the impression that the reason why Bakugou is so wild and untamed is that those who want to reign him in are elitists who are wildly disconnected to reality, that he is right to be this way, because people following the rules are just holding him back.

And we come to... sigh. The Final Exam test. The fact that anyone who has spent five minutes with Izuku and Bakugou thinks that this clustefuck needs to happen is more proof of the terrifying powers of the TF. I mean, I just... when one person is constantly yelling, constantly aggressive, constantly swearing, constantly throwing fits, and this same person is constantly picking fights with another student, who, at worst, defends himself, and and more often just seems to take it..... what do you think they need?

Is it to be thrown together into a teamwork based, sink or swim test with seemingly enormous penalties for failure? Or is it to make one of them get therapy? And also detention?

Well, according to All Might, Aizawa, Nezu, and who knows who else....

*shrugs helplessly*

If only we could use Bakugou's powers for good, rather than making Izuku suffer.

But we can't. So the school locks an abuser and his victim together in a pseudo-deathmatch where teamwork is required to survive, as a form of therapy to treat the lack of cooperation that comes entirely from one party. Wonderful.

And, as anyone could predict, this promptly goes terribly. Bakugou attacks his teammate for the crime of... *checks notes* trying to work together with him against All Might, the strongest being in the setting. This is such a terrible crime because *checks notes again* ...Bakugou can totally take him.

Bakugou Katsuki, everybody. A 'genius' with the brain of a yipping chihuahua trying to fight a mastiff.

Recovery Girl watches this happen live and just goes, 'They're just absolutely the worst team, those two."

And oh, and I'm going to be honest, when you look at Recovery Girl she's kind of a piece of shit. She barely gets any scenes and any time they involve Izuku (a lot of that small amount) they are pure ass. But this? This just takes the cake.

Wow. They're such bad teammates, sure. Such heroic insight. Why, that's like saying putting Muscular on the same team with Kouta would be a bad team! That would have some truly terrible teamwork as well, right? It's something that is technically correct, but is just.... so heinously missing the core of the problem that you honestly have to wonder what in the actual fuck she's thinking. All Might and Aizawa, at least, have the excuse that they don't see that, at least as far as we know, but she deadass watches it happen, what the fuck.

And, as it has often been pointed out, Bakugou passes, after attacking his teammate and being carried out afterwards while Sero, who heroically sacrifices himself for the win and never once attacks his teammate, loses for exactly the same thing.

Simply marvelous.

Now let's move Training Camp Arc... where, when Bakugou is informed in the middle of an attack by villains that he is the target (and oh, we'll get to that in a moment). What is his first response to this? What does he do?

Le-fucking-roy right at them. Here's something that bothers me about how the story talks about Bakugou: he's so intelligent, he's analytical, all this stuff... but every time he gets into a fight? Or near a fight? His response is always, always to jump in. Needless to say, a heedless charge at the problem backfires, and he's captured. Surprise!

And back to Bakugou as target: the League of Villains watch him on TV and the first thing they thought about him is, I like the cut of his jib.

The worst people look at Bakugou and say he's clearly one of them.

This... this is something that's never really discussed. There's a press conference, Aizawa basiclly says he's too heroic to ever join them (ironically, since Bakugou's argument isn't about heroism or villainy, but that they're losers), and this just... never comes up again. There's no doubt in anyone's mind about anything after Eraserhead gives him that support

No one is concerned that, hey, maybe he did actully join them. Or the man with ten-thousand Quirks did something to him, brainwashed him, and honestly? That's not even a reach. That is actually what AFO was planning to do to him. This is a setting, need I remind you, where actual brainwashing Quirks exist, much less whatever the fuck happens to the Nomu and no one is concerned, after they all agree that there is already a mole, that Bakugou could become another mole, or maybe even was that original mole in the first place. No one goes, 'Hmm, well, the scum of Japan think he's one of them, maybe this is something we should be concerned about?'

I mean, fuck, no one just sits Bakugou down and tells him to pull his shit together, your image is ass and the media is probably going to be watching you until you die, ready to stain you with the accusation of villainy, and they can make your life hell if you slip up, and so far you don't seem even seem to care. Also, your heroic career, that you're oh so concerned about, is never going to get off the ground if everyone thinks your a villain, and a villain will never be Number One.

There's just... nothing. Bakugou is made out of warning signs, one the entire fucking setting ignores at times, but this is just... fuck.

Alright. Bakugou vs Izuku Two; Wank Bakugou Harder!

Actually, no. Before that... let's talk about one of the major lead ups to that: Bakugou finding out about OFA. Why? In part to force him into the plot, sure, but a large part of it is Izuku feeling... guilty. He feels guilty for lying to him, guilty for seeming to have a Quirk of his own; I'm not really going anywhere with this, I just want to talk about how fucked up that mentality is, that he felt he owed Bakugou that. He owes Bakugou nothing. Bakugou isn't his friend, isn't even his acquaintance, he's his abuser. Bakugou doesn't treat him in a way that deserves such sympathy, much less information on one of the greatest secrets in the setting. If Bakugou wants to assume that Izuku somehow hid that he had a Quirk for his entire life? Allowed himself to be constantly beat down, insulted, and mistreated, and for what? For this one gotcha moment of surprising Bakugou? Let him. If he's too stuck in his own idiocies to think of anything else, let him wallow in his own ignorance.

Anyways, BvI2: also known as that time Bakugou pulled his frequent victim aside to attack him and both of them got in trouble for it.

And this is billed as this big thing for Izuku, but he fights against Bakugou, metaphorically, all the time, and he's already had this big moment of physical defiance in BvI1. This fight isn't about Izuku, on any level. This fight exists solely for Bakugou. It starts because he starts it, he starts it because he feels upset and violence is apparently how he sorts through his emotions, and he wins it because he needs to.

But not just because he needs to win, oh no, there's more to that. Thematically, you see, this is important for Bakugou's growth. Or rather, the idea of his growth that never seems to persist between his growth moments. You see, thematically, Bakugou stands for victory via force, but him winning this fight doesn't make him right, doesn't give him All Might's approval, and to him, that's almost a paradox; that paradox is needed to move beyond who he is.

But that's the thing though. Bakugou needs it. Bakugou needs to win for Bakugou's growth. This growth is, both literally and thematically, at the expense of Izuku, because Izuku? If he won this, just... out matched Bakugou in a fight, no tricks, no technicalities, no crippling injuries, none of the things from their first fight? That would have been huge for him, for his confidence. It would have been Izuku, heroic Izuku, finally and truly eclipsing his old bully in every possible way, and that would have been great for him, for his confidence, for his self respect. Moreover, though, that still would have been good for Bakugou, because even when he loses, he never loses, and he could use an actual, humbling defeat to help screw his head on straight.

But Bakugou loses all the time, I hear people say? He lost in their first fight, true, but that's a technicality; anyone looking at them would know who won combat wise. He won the Sports Festival, even though he bitches about how it wasn't 'right'. He loses against All Might, sure, but All Might is the strongest man on the planet; that loss means nothing. Moreover, he wins against him through the goal of the exam at the end anyways. He loses to the villains, sure, but it was a bunch of them against him; it wasn't a fair fight, which is the whole reason him picking it was stupid in the first place. And now, here, he could have finally had a real loss to give him some perspective... but he doesn't.

Moreover, Hori just... hypes up Explosion as a Quirk more than it really deserves. Is it a good Quirk? Strong? Sure. But let's be honest here: he sweats nitroglycerin. Literally, his Quirk is his two parents mashed together into the best possible option, and it's basiclly lazy ass chemistry via genetics. There is, by the very definition of the substance that he explicitly makes, a cap to how much it can do with a certain volume; that's why new, more explosive explosives were made to replace it

One For All, all the heroic thematics aside, is literally just pure power. All Might changes the weather with a punch on accident; I'm convinced if he punched the ground and meant it, he could actually fuck up Japan as a island. The cap with OFA is yes. There is no way, under the logic of the setting, that Bakugou can ever contest that.

Like, look at Endeavour: when he wants more fire, he makes more fire. It's bigger. What the fuck is Bakugou going to do, rain his sweat on people? What happens when he dehydrates, because again, this is his sweat, which comes from his body? Cluster doesn't even make sense, really, that he somehow super concentrates it to make it more powerful, and AP Shot is literally him making a circle with his fingers before blowing up a bomb in it, yet somehow it makes, like, a laser?

The thing is that more loose Quirks, like Endeavour's, again, aren't as limited to science as the more 'realistic' Quirks like Bakugou's, so there's nothing really saying he can't just... make more flames. He could damage himself, sure, but since he already pulls that shit out of nothing, Endeavour increasing the volume of his magic ass firebending isn't hard to accept. Hori wrote himself into a hole here because if Bakugou just made explosions by magic? If he just... conceptually made explosions? A lot of this stuff would make sense (except AP Shot; fuck AP Shot), and it feels like that's how he treats it sometimes. But that's not what he did: it was his Dad's Acid Sweat with his Mom's Glycerin which means he sweats explosive sweat. And then, when it's convenient, he has shit like the Gauntlets, and basiclly all the rest of his support gear, that are explicitly filled with his sweat.

Bakugou's powers are basiclly whatever the fuck Hori wants at any given moment, and it's honestly frustrating when he tried to play so much of this setting's powers so seriously at first, and Bakugou's Quirk in particular is explained more than almost anyone else, and yet he tosses it the moment he thinks of something that sounds cool.

...But I've gotten off topic. The point is, OFA is OP and Izuku should have just won that on pure ability alone.

Anyways, after all this, the teachers finally come, once it's settled in Bakugou's favor, and they're both in trouble. For a fight that was 100% Bakugou's fault.

So, throughout all of this, Bakugou has changed, yes, but beyond the first couple of days, the changes have been grudging and glacial, and the reasons why are best exemplified in the License Exam where we find out that, for all intents and purposes, Bakugou is incapable of showing basic empathy. I mean, fuck, he fails to show that when, with any amount of logic, much less that of the genius Bakugou, would say that now is the time to fake it. An actual, factual sociopath would do better than him, purely because they would know to act for their own betterment.

(And the fact that his teachers look at this, explicit proof that he is seemingly incapable of actually trying to save a person, but do nothing with this information speaks volumes.... mostly about how bad Hori is at writing Bakugou and the implications of what he does constantly. Surely there's no way that, without the Author hyping him up, they'd just let that slide, right? ...Right?)

But, then, hope on the horizon! He has a make up exam, and it's apparently centered around pounding basic morals/how to deal with civilians into his thick skull! Surely, this is the time Bakugou will finally, finally, get the point, right?

And that's the thing: he does. There's this, probably to other people, touching moment where he sees himself in this asshole kid and talks about how you can't just look down on people. And it's like... finally. Finally! The switch has finally been flicked! He gets it! Change, improvement, development, fina-

Then the second he gets out of it he promptly goes back to calling everyone extras.

That dynamic in many ways is the perfect embodiment of Bakugou's development, and it's... It's like watching someone fighting off a disease. There's an infection, right and symptoms increase. Sometimes the symptoms appear out of nowhere, sometimes they increase over the span of several days. They peak, finally, then they fall back down, again either dramatically, or over the span of several days, and then you are back to normal.

Bakugou makes changes. He makes realizations. He gets 'humbled'. He has a single moment of heroism that the narrative hypes up, sometimes with a bit of build up before hand for a few chapters, and with people sometimes reacting to it for a few chapters afterwords.

And then it passes, like he's just finished fighting off a case of Morals.

You see, Bakugou is well liked. And, honestly, I get it. The asshole can be therapeutic to root for, at times. The problem is that he's too popular, and that this story is too about people being good. So Bakugou, to keep the fan base, to keep the sales, has to stay Bakugou, stay the unrepentant asshole constantly telling people to die.

But, at the same time, Bakugou is an anti-hero, basiclly, and this is a setting that just... can't handle the complexity of an anti-hero, in how people react to them, what they do and the morality of it, how it would affect society and so on, and so Bakugou can't stay as Bakugou, has to grow and be better and become a hero proper.

So... Hori goes, 'Why not both?' Thus, Bakugou gets his moments of 'development', and a slow, slow, slow trend to the better, and the fans get to see him do his thing, even though he's 'changed'. And it's easy, when you just sit back and accept the narrative, to believe that. But if you don't....

All of that? It makes his character empty because after a certain point, it's clear that Bakugou won't change, in so many fundamental levels, even if everyone around him acts like he does. Like attacking his teammates, like blindly charging the enemy , like constantly insulting everyone around him is just different because he's The New Bakugou now, like it's just fun and games, even when this was a dead serious problem early on. He didn't stop, he didn't change, or dial it back; everyone else just started acting differently when he does it. The same way in day one he attacks Izuku for having a Quirk, far later on he throws his metal... hair thing at him for daring to talk about his Quirk. And it, like, impales him, but haha! It's just funny now, it's so funny, that we can apparently see Izuku's brain! It's funny that, when Izuku is seriously thinking about his predecessors, Bakugou just instantly insults them for not being famous! Look at how patient Izuku is dealing with him as he acts like a bratty five year old child throwing a fit, look how fond All Might is as he insults his beloved teacher that he probably has deep seated trauma about regarding her untimely death!

In the War Arc, where Bakugou 'Rises'? Maybe ten minutes before his 'Rise', he was threatening to attack Izuku for daring to ask why he's following him. In a war zone.

The entire story, Bakugou has been described as a creature of instinct, a natural born warrior with a talent for battle. All of that is to contrast him with Izuku: where Izuku, instinctively, has the urge to save, Bakugou has the instinctive urge to fight. This is fundamental to him, a core characteristic, one of the (many) ways it's explained about how good he is at fighting.

And yet, suddenly, when Izuku is in danger, he moves without thinking (aka instinctively), but it's not attack Shigaraki, which, you know, he was shouting about doing not too long ago, it's to save Izuku.

And. And am I supposed to believe that?

I mean, fuck. In the FInal Arc, he has a Big Speech in response to SFO: about being 'way over fear and rejection since long ago', which SFO was talking in the context of how they create inequality in society, and how he wants to fix it... which, doesn't that mean Bakugou just doesn't care about them? Because being over them doesn't actually solve them, genius, it just means you, personally, are beyond them, and even now, he still treats everyone like they're unequal to him. Bakugou has always been the one to profit from inequality in society, between his Quirk, his talent, his well off family, so honestly all of that rings hollow.

He talks about how he has friends now, who are willing to move beyond them, and OK, that works a bit better, except when he still doesn't treat them like friends, in fact not too long ago he yelled at Momo for getting his stupid ass chuunibyou name wrong.

Or, maybe a minute later, when Bakugou gets a power up and/or realization about how SFO moves or something, and you know what he does? He instantly charges in blindly, alone, and is killed over it. Right after this speech about teamwork, while everyone was just... cheering his determination, and prissy Best Jeanist says, with a straight face and actual awe, 'Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight'.

And then when he sees Bakugou get smacked around, Eraserhead's first thought is to scream, desperately, 'Save him! Save him so he can try and become the Number One Hero!' in the middle of all this shit that is happening.

All of this is presented to us as this... thrilling thing, with music that is going to be swelling in the background when its animated, and everyone cheering him on, right before he's tragically struck down for being too stupid to live (no, seriously, SFO actually lampshades this. Before this big 'dramatic' moment, he says that getting up close to him is pure idiocy, and all that it will do is allow you to get get smashed by an All Might like power. Then, you know, Bakugou closes in, again, because he had bitchslapped Bakugou before, and then a second time during that boast, and it goes exactly as SFO said) and we're supposed to mourn him. Again, actually, even though this is a blatant set up for him powering up, since this is literally the same set up as the War Arc.

All of this work, all of this emotion, and all of it rings hollow because, well, it's Bakugou, and no amount of trying to hype up teamwork battle is going to make it work for me when the second the Big Moment is over he reverts to his normal asshole routine.

That Tsundere Field, guys. Too strong, too broken.

While I'm at it, let's talk about Bakugou being Quirkist, because, well, he is. It's a big part of his early character: the reason he rags on Izuku so hard, so successfully, the reason he's so big and important as a child, is about Quirks. When they get introduced the past users? His first comment is that they have weak Quirks.

Izuku saves him and he still doesn't think much about him; it's only later when he starts actually acknowledging Izuku.

When he has a Quirk.

And it's not just a Quirk, it's more than that: it's a strong Quirk, powerful. Enough for him to defeat Bakugou. All the respect Bakugou builds for Izuku? And while it stagnates for awhile, I do have to admit he does respect Izuku more than he did originally... and it's not because Izuku is kind, or heroic; he still hates that. No, he starts respecting Izuku because he is strong. His respect isn't about Izuku as a person, it's about Izuku's Quirk. All his respect, slowly built up throughout the series, comes from the corrupt foundation that Izuku is worth respecting only because he has a Quirk. Later, this gets worse because he learns about OFA and starts valuing Izuku as important, but it's only because his Quirk is important. It's All Might's Quirk. His second fight with Izuku is because of it's All Might's Quirk. He starts training him (that one time, and apparently never gain) because it's All Might's Quirk. When Izuku goes 'rogue'? And when he heroically goes to hunt him down? One of the first thing he does is talk about how he's so great because he has One For All, and then calls him an All Might wannabie*.

And you know what? I just talked about Class A hunting down Izuku recently, but let's talk about that more, because I hate it so much.

I really, honestly wonder if Hori is blind to the parallel he set up here, or if he invoked it on purpose, to try and show how Bakugou has 'improved'.

Look back at the first chapter, where we first see Bakugou. Think about that dynamic: Izuku, beaten down, on one side, while on the other, Bakugou. Strong, proud, with minions at his back, all of them ready to throw down at his command.

The thing is? The first time is shown as clearly villainous in nature, a cruel bully against someone who is weak but heroic. The second time, everything is the same, but it's shown differently. Bakugou is being shown as heroic for doing this, heroic for leading Izuku's friends to hunt him down, heroic for attacking him.

*And ah, Bakugou the Hypocrite. Let's finish this up by talking about Bakugou's name. When we first talk about hero names, Bakugou's naming sense is much like it is for his final name, and Midnight promptly shoots down every one of them because, well, they aren't heroic, and the story pokes fun at him a little because he clearly doesn't get it.

Then it's the War Arc. Bakugou has 'grown', there's all this hype for his big heroics moments, and he announces his new name... Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight. And I'm just wondering... am I getting punked? This is the the same shit as before! No, actually it's worse than that, it's bigger, longer, and more ridiculous.

The universal response is that it's tacky. Nejire thinks it's disgusting. Mirio literally thinks it's a joke.

But the story itself treats it seriously, and over time? People start accepting it, taking it seriously as well, treating that stupid name with respect. What the fuck kind of hero name has the word murder in it? What kind of hero calls himself a god?

And finally, it's Dynamight. Which resembles All Might, the Greatest, Most Beloved Hero, the one Bakugou has always considered the best and viewed as his goal to surpass.

And yet he says that Izuku, who is calling himself Deku, is the one viewing himself as an All Might wannabie.

#this got way too long #basically an ask at this point #bnha critical #mha critical #bakugou critical #anti bakugo #izuku deserves better #izuku is basiclly an abuse victim #why doesn't izuku have burn scars?#the power dynamics of saving #'change and improvement' are hollow words without context #bakugou's SCP Worthy Tsundere Field #Izuku is an unreliable narrator #AP Shot makes no sense #Bakugou's development is like watching someone get over an infection of Morals

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