— FALL IN & FALL AWAY

( writing & graphics. by pluto. ) —

[butterflynotes]

LATEST RELEASES

Song // past

Poem // the clock in your eyes

Fanfiction // the flowers of the soul (& every wish you made)

LATEST CHAPTER

Transmissions // Chapter 1: First Light

PROMPT LISTS

Currently Following // N/A

On Hold // bnhaprotoweek, mhafantasyfest, mystictober 2020

PROJECTS

Multichapter // Transmissions

Other // Rewrites.

[butterflynotes]

Title: the flowers of the soul (& every wish you made) Fandom: Mystic Messenger Originally Posted: November 13th 2021 Word Count: 944

Relationships: N/A Characters: MC | Myeong-eun Choe,  Trigger Warnings: N/A Prompt: Flowers. Other Info: N/A

sometimes she swears there is a figure from her dreams for a moment, flickering in the distance of walking down the street or in the cafe she often goes to get a quick hot chocolate on her way to work.

The first flower she had ever adored came in vibrant red & a white she could almost liken to snow, petals curled around each other yet strikingly obvious, not bothering to hide themselves from the world yet tightly bound all the same, as if there is nothing they wish for but the closeness of something, someone — she isn’t sure if she does, too. It is this flower that can be found on the bookshelf of her study, withering away as she spends yet another moment editing yet another story, ignoring her hopes & dreams & wishes for something more than this.

It is in her daydreams that the striped carnation truly takes it place, woven into her hair alongside other plants she cannot name, does not wish to name, does not wish to recognise, for it would make everything she’s ever wanted much too real & much too intangible & much too impossible. It is in her daydreams that she thinks of hands in hers, fingers interlocked & walks through the park & gardens & the cool lens of a camera resting on her palm & the tapping of a keyboard & laughter through a microphone & the purring of a cat. It is in her daydreams that she allows herself moments of kindness, a second to hear sweet nothings & gentle singing & softness & love unspoken yet so evidently real. 

It is in her daydreams that she gots lost in a reality that isn’t hers & a life that she will never live & a future she will never obtain & tries to forget the way it makes her heart hurt & her eyes burn & tears her to pieces in the way only longing ever can.

The second flower she had fallen for, eyes shining with guilt as she forsook the striped carnation, petals falling to ruin, abandoned in the way she has always abandoned what she loved — the way she has forgotten she does not need to trade one loved thing for another — was a pale blue, not quite that of the sky yet also of the sea, not the cerulean that cannot be contained nor the untouchable shade surrounding clouds. It was five simple petals, shaped together, not intertwined yet so beautiful, so full of love all at the same time & she wishes she could keep it forever, braided within her hair & growing within her lungs & her heart. It is in the forget-me-not she discovers the ways that she would let herself die if only to remember it until her last breath.

It is the forget-me-not that promises all she has ever wanted, that she cannot push out of her dreams & cannot ignore as it springs up almost everywhere she walks, a consequence of the end of a rainy season. There are forget-me-nots in her garden & that of her parents when she visits, in the park she walks by on the way to work & by the flower garden she often spends time in. There seems to be no escape & she isn’t sure she wants there to be, isn’t sure she wants to forget all the dreams of a future that has never been & of a past she wishes had been hers, yet sometimes she swears there is a figure from her dreams for a moment, flickering in the distance of walking down the street or in the cafe she often goes to get a quick hot chocolate on her way to work. However, by the time she has turned to look or noticed, they are gone within seconds, leaving behind questions & longing & wishes that she could meet those who have invaded her dreams & taken so much of her to the point she isn’t sure she can be anything anymore.

It is the forget-me-not that she wishes upon for adventure & romance & a life different to this one, a life that she knows will never be hers to live & yet she so desperately wants for it to be.

It is years later that the white heather curls itself around her fingers & refuses to leave, when she has long forgotten old dreams & fairytales & soft voices proclaiming eternal adoration. It is when a phone is left to her & a chatroom uncovered, dangerous tales that no one would ever believe having become all she lives through. It is an apartment & the sad stories of brothers & the boy who wishes to be a vet & the man who has never truly been shown love & the woman who wishes for a coffee shop & the adventure of a girl who has lived a life that is boring, that has never truly felt the exhilaration that comes with charity balls & friendships & romances & finding a family for herself. 

It is tragedy & heartbreak & comforting & resolution all within the petals of a flower pinned to her wrist, rope wrapped around it as if to keep it close to her, a good luck charm & a promise & a soft gaze she has never truly been allowed to have. The story ends with death & grieving & change & reuniting, simply a reflection of what life should always have been, the type of life she had only read about in stories & seen in movies & dreamt about, yet those dreams of old are so unclear & meaningless & she wishes she could recall them, she truly does, but they are simply the dreams of a young woman with nothing but wishes that she thought could never come true.

It ends with a bakery & the smell of fresh bread & homemade chocolates & laughter, with hot chocolate & holidays spent together & unfiltered love & there is no more longing, no more wishing & wanting & dreaming, for the life she has always wanted has become hers. It ends with a promise of forever & a hand in hers & she doesn’t want it any other way.

[butterflynotes]

Fandom: Mr Love Queen’s Choice Title: the clock in your eyes. Notes: MC POV about Victor.

the clock chimes twelve, the night encompassing the light of your eyes, stars in their own right that glisten beneath the moon.

they call to me, they cry for me, promising to find me wherever i may be.

in this eternity, i dream of winter skies and tired eyes unsure of where to stand on snow-covered land.

ice in your eyes, the cold in your smile, as you stare at me as if you do not see the person i am and who you were to me.

the clock chimes one and the world is gone, swirling into non-existence and i am left to float in futures untold hoping that someday we will be reunited.

i will find you wherever you may be because that is what you promised me when i was everything to you and you let me go but i should have told you:

you are everything to me, you’re all i wish to see.

[butterflynotes]

mystictober 2020 // Day 1: Favourite Character Title: one reason (for loving you) Characters: Saeran Choi

read it on ao3

there is one reason i love you, though there are also many more.

perhaps it is your smile and the way it lights up when you see flowers or ice cream, or anything you love.

perhaps it is the way you treat me so kindly, with soft words, softer soul, locked behind ice but never quite so cold.

perhaps it is the danger, the thrill, of everything you are and everything you know that beckons me to your side, where i could call my home.

or perhaps it is the love you try to hide but still seem to hold for delicate things like nature’s beauty which you so desire to see,

i hope you can do so, someday, with me.

the one reason i love you is not any of those. you hold my beating heart for only the one reason that it is you by my side, it is you in my heart;

and how couldn’t i fall in love with someone like you?

[sensetenou]

A little MysMe themed prompt list for October, feel free to use it and share your own drawings with the tag #mystictober2020!!

I'll be using these prompts for October's @dailysaeran posts - or at least trying to lmao

For clarification, there are two prompts for each day to give more freedom: you can choose either one of them or if you're feeling risky, you're also free to combine them!

And they can be done either traditionally or digitally and be coloured or not, everything's fine. This isn't necessarily an INKtober list, just a prompt list of MM themes for October!

You're also free to join with writing etc, it doesn't have to be a drawing uwu

[butterflynotes]

PSA: photography will be moved to an account under my real name for use as a digital sketchbook. I will be putting it in the navigation / other accounts section, though.

[butterflynotes]

Fandom: Boku No Hero Academia Romantic Relationships: Todoroki Shoto x Bakugo Katsuki Platonic Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Todoroki Shoto, Aizawa Shota & Todoroki Shoto

Trigger Warnings: Child Abuse Alternate Universe: Wizard’s Apprentice! Shoto, Witchling! Bakugo, Childhood Friends

BETAS: @katsugoii​ (thank you for all the help <3) & the BNHA Safe Spot Discord Server.

LINKS: 

worldbuilding

cor-eo language

grè-kós language

banner image

read it on ao3

SUMMARY Yosem bantis mi-ege, it read, although whenever he attempted to show the words to others, they simply shook their heads and told him there was nothing there. He had learned to stop asking what it meant after the third time he was told that.

( a mysterious bracelet has always been on todoroki shoto's wrist and his dreams were haunted by crimson eyes and a world that could not exist. )

CHAPTERS Chapter 1: First Light | tumblr // ao3

[butterflynotes]

Yosem bantis mi-ege, it read, although whenever he attempted to show the words to others, they simply shook their heads and told him there was nothing there. He had learned to stop asking what it meant after the third time he was told that.

( a mysterious bracelet has always been on todoroki shoto's wrist and his dreams were haunted by crimson eyes and a world that could not exist. )

Trigger Warnings: Child Abuse story information post // read it on ao3

IF THERE WAS ONE THING TODOROKI SHOTO HATED, it was trips to Kyoto over the summer to visit his father — a brute of a man with hair as red as blood and the type of touch that left his skin feeling scorched and his heart burning with resentment. There was never a look of kindness in those eyes, narrowed with anger regardless of what their gaze was set upon. It was no wonder that of all people, Todoroki Enji was the type of person that Shoto had grown to despise the most.

It was his power that had once lead him to cruelty, ruling over all with an iron fist; his employees, his work, and even his family had fallen victim to the greed the man had let consume him, until whoever he had been before — any semblance of a man that could be benevolent, of a man that was not a monster pretending to live among humanity — was no longer recognisable, twisted into a portrait that haunted his dreams at night. He wasn’t sure if they could be called dreams when there was nothing good about them — memories, perhaps, was a more apt way to describe them, although that was not always the case.

While he did not remember a day his father had not been enraptured by his seemingly eternal wish for power — the one he had attempted to instill in Shoto’s mind at an early age with promised beatings each time he dared to rebel against his desires — there was, at the time, a need in his father to create a puppet to follow in his footsteps. As the youngest, it seemed only fitting that it would be his fate, when he was the easiest to mold according to what was needed, the easiest to manipulate into doing his bidding.

At least until one night at the age of seven years old. It was that night when everything changed, and his old life was torn down piece by piece, nothing left but memories and the sadness that seeped into his soul. Shoto had been awoken by the thunder outside, flashes of lightning reflecting off raindrops and through his bedroom window. It was enough to disturb him, despite his closed curtains, and rouse him from his sleep; he had been quiet as he got out of bed, pulling a blanket around his shoulders. He still remembers the softness against his skin, almost like a cloud, barely warming him despite the goosebumps raised on his arms, which caused him to tuck it closer around him as he walked, feet light on the floor as he moved toward the door, opening it with a gentle touch as if afraid to make any sound loud enough to wake his father.

Sometimes it hurts to remember how young he had been and how scared he was of the man he was meant to look up to, but that was miniscule compared to the events of that night.

It was when he made it to the kitchen that everything fell apart, one blue eye peeking through red hair from the left side of the door and checking to see if anyone was in there as his hands held onto the wooden doorframe, and he listened to the voice of his mother — it had been quiet before, raising as she grew more distressed.

❝Every day,❞ she whispered, but the words were all too loud to his young ears. ❝They become more like him. I can barely stand to see it.❞ It was a hurtful statement, but he wasn’t sure which was more upsetting to hear: the words she said or the way she sounded. The way her voice trembled with sadness, the way she spoke as if it was a reality she could barely stand, the way she talked like it was more painful than anything she ever could have experienced. 

❝Especially Shoto,❞ she had spoken, and it is those words that still haunt him now, the way his mother’s voice had twisted with hatred, a type that dug knives into his heart and left him wondering what he had done to deserve it — the resentment of a mother who had always loved him and who he had always loved in return. It was those words in his ear that led to his downfall: a quiet gasp of shock and tearful eyes as he stepped closer, along with her turning around with a kettle in hand and white hair flipping over her shoulder. There was a look in her eye he could not place back then, but he knows now what it was: craze, frenzy, with intent to harm despite his innocence, no recognition of him held within them as she walked closer. His voice shook, almost as if his fear was an earthquake, and he spoke in an almost breathy tone, evidently struggling to understand what was going on: ❝Mom.❞

After another flash of lightning, he turned his eyes to the window for a moment. It was a terrible idea, for it was that movement which meant he did not step away until there was water over his eye and he was screaming — the type that one would expect to hear from those in a dungeon, an anguished howl that was high-pitched enough to grate on the ears of any listener, despite the pity that was likely garnered. It was hot, of the likes he had never felt before, and then there was a coldness that he could only describe as terrifying, like that of a cold winter night with him being pulled down into a frozen lake, unable to breathe until he suddenly can.

It was soon after that she pulled away, but there was never any explanation for the coldness—there was no ice, according to his siblings, and yet it was almost as if it had been applied. He remained in the hospital for seven days and left with no mother, a partial loss of vision in his left eye, and a fury that could measure to that of the burning son. It was not aimed at his mother but the man who had tore her down and changed them both for the worse: his father.

It was that day that he refused to do as the man asked. It was that day he rebelled and attempted to find a way to escape from the wretched hell he was supposed to call a home.  That night, the beatings increased in how often they happened and in severity, often leaving him with bruises and sprains, short of a broken bone. The years consisted much of the same tune: get up, get hurt, eat, and sleep. Sometimes there was tutoring thrown into the mix, but those teachers must have been paid enough not to blink twice at red handprints on his cheeks covered by tear tracks or fingerprint bruises on his arm in the shape of a hand much too large to have ever belonged to his siblings.

There is nothing in his heart but hatred for Todoroki Enji, and that is a fact not easily changed, but sometimes he thinks back to that night, and he allows himself to ponder, for just a moment, whether his mother was also feeling the way he has felt his entire life.

( How he felt trapped and helpless, waiting for someone to come save him from his nightmare, but the only friendly faces he recalls are those from his dreams— hair the colour of an evergreen tree and eyes to match, with a gentle smile that spoke to a child whom Shoto doubts is him. That is the kindest face in his dreams, but sometimes there is another, viciously grinning as he declares a win. The blond is most often Shoto’s favourite part of his dreams — crimson eyes that hold pride, but never with a lack of kindness in them, only the irritation that is so typical of the imaginary boy. 

He sometimes dreams of those eyes and the last he could have seen them, standing at a train station in the middle of a summer day and attempting to ignore the heat of the sun on his skin, his own lips curving into a soft, albeit shy, smile, as he murmurs a goodbye and a promise to return eventually. He remembers tears in the eyes of the green-haired boy, the way he clings to Shoto and blubbers, begging him not to leave and insisting he could always stay with his family, that there is always plenty of room for him there.

The red-eyed boy says nothing, simply staring in silence with eyes devoid of emotion. It is as if any sadness has been locked away behind walls he is no longer allowed to see past — like every joyful word and every smile reserved for him had never existed, and the boy he had known isn’t real. When he says his goodbye to the boy, he simply mutters it in return and grabs his wrist, shoving a bracelet onto it as Shoto’s mother calls for him, insisting that it is time for them to go. He wonders some days why he dreams of these days at all, considering they are simply fabrications of his memory — that was what his father had told him, at the least, and he had learned as he grew that Enji was never wrong about anything.

However, he wonders where the bracelet came from and why it remains on his wrist despite countless attempts from his family to remove it, burn it, or rip it to shreds. It didn’t matter — it would always resurface without a scratch, noble red spinel held by silver strands that were entwined together, much like the stems of flowers or vines. It was thick on the bottom where there stood no gems, but on the outside, there was an engraving which he would never understand.

Yosem bantis mi-ege, it read, although whenever he attempted to show the words to others, they simply shook their heads and told him there was nothing there. He had learned to stop asking what it meant after the third time he was told that; his mother had spoken to him with a hushed voice, telling him not to speak of those words around his father. Sometimes he wonders if she knew what they meant.

Who were you? He sometimes wants to ask that to the sky, as if it would ever know the answer to who the two boys in his dreams have been. Were you real? He doubted it, considering no one ever seemed to know when he spoke of them, but the bracelet is proof of something, of someone, who had once cared for him enough to give him such an extravagant gift, one so obviously personalised that it must have cost a small fortune. Where can I find you?

He never does get an answer. )

It is a night trip, if only to avoid another second spent in the man’s presence, but Shoto has slowly found himself regretting it. He sits on a bench that feels much too old to hold up his body weight, with a bag to his side that is held over his shoulder and a blue suitcase next to him that is leaning against a part of the bench where the wood has splintered, some portions of it missing entirely, and he wonders if he would someday be that way: broken beyond repair by those he was supposed to love, a hollow shell of who he used to be. He wonders if, someday, he will long for something other than this fate, if he will yearn to once more be whole.

It is a dark night, reminiscent of those he longs for that recur in his dreams. Perhaps a nightmare is a more apt description, for in that idyllic world he had created in his head, there lurked monsters and demons that one could not even begin to speak of. 

In that place — ❝it’s called Arcturus, mom!❞ he’d said as a child, and he has never forgotten the way she looked sad when he started to describe his made up world — there is emerald grass as far as the eye can see, spreading from the outskirts of the city toward the fog of the horizon, soft to the touch and perfect for an afternoon nap beneath the shade of a tree with leaves in all sorts of colours: silvers and reds and golds, regardless of the time of year. In the cottage he imagines, there are blue walls, and the outside is made of white brick with a tile roof, not so different to the houses he recalls seeing in places like Tokyo that were much more modern compared to the traditional home his father owned in Kyoto — one he also despised due to the overbearing presence of that man he associated with it.

Inside the cottage is a hardwood floor in the darkest wood possible, almost black but not quite, with countertops made of white marble on top of pale woods. It is an endearing place when combined with the vegetable garden outside of it, growing various plants where he would grow various fruit and vegetables as he got older in the dreams, alongside the rest of his family sans his father. They would attend the market sometimes, in his mind, to buy the things they could not grow, and he wishes that was his true upbringing rather than the bleak days he had spent in Japan.

Beyond it, further than the garden could ever stretch, there is also a lake — the water clear as crystal, never obscuring anything beneath. Whether it is the fish that swim below toward the river, and the dirt kicked up by other creatures, or the rocks beneath the surface, everything is visible, yet there is something dark that lurks beneath the pristine surface. Sometimes, he dreams that he is staring up at a cloudless sky on a winter night, watching the stars twinkle above him as if calling out his name. He reaches for one with small hands — those of a child, never older than four, a year before he leaves this place in the timeline of that forgotten life — and he is almost there when he missteps during an attempt to find a higher vantage point, plunging into the water below. Unlike during the day, it seems almost murky, as if there is something he is not supposed to see. In the dream, something grabs his foot and drags him down as he opens his mouth to scream, leaving bubbles in the water.

There is a hand in his, and he is pulled up sometimes, shivering and barely recognising red eyes of a boy — Katsuki, cries his mind, but he is not sure if that is his name at all — who takes him home and warms him up, offers blankets and hot chocolate and a lecture of how he must be careful, for the demons that lurk in the dark may not be so kind as to let him go next time. When Rei finds out the next day, she decides they must leave — for their safety, she claims, but in the dream, he is torn from everyone he loves.

He wonders if she was too.

The night he feels now is nothing like that. There is not an enchanting moment, and he does not feel like he can take the stars into his hands. Not with dark clouds obscuring the moon above and a white smoke that comes from one of the others at the station looking like his breath on a frozen day in the dead of winter. A man stands closeby, a nearly blunt cigarette in hand, barely holding onto its flame between his fingers — the man’s hair is greying, but there are still tinges of black in it, matching well with grey eyes that look dark behind the smoke. 

❝You shouldn’t be here, kid.❞ The man’s voice is gruff when he speaks. Despite the exterior that lends itself to someone much more sinister, Shoto understands that it is not a threat, but a warning that if he stays much longer, then something terrible may happen. It sends chills down his spine that twist terror into his heart as he nods, muttering something about his train which he isn’t quite sure about. There is a satisfactory nod, and then the man walks away, leaving behind the cigarette stub that falls to the ground long after he disappears — it’s odd that it takes so long, or perhaps the man disappears quicker than he came.

The station itself is in a state of disrepair, and it is not one he is familiar with. Outside, ivy crawls up the walls like prison bars, barely leaving a space where the entrance is. The advertisements on the walls seem to be peeling off, but they will be stuck against it soon enough, considering the railway companies are adept at maintaining each station — mostly, at least, since this must be a much lower priority, although it is nowhere near abandoned and quite obviously taken care of, despite the things that would indicate it wasn’t. A vending machine stands in the corner, mostly full, which is one of the many indicators that it is not an ignored station, although he wonders whether it is widely used. 

For a moment, he almost wants to escape to the world in his dreams; it often begs for his attention, like the ghost of a memory he has yet to shake off, and he wishes he could find it somewhere in the world. However, he has long since come to terms with the fact that it is a hideaway made by his mind, one he will forever search for, like others searched for their own places to stay that could keep the world’s cruel realities at bay. There is no use for him in daydreaming of non-existent homes though, so he resists the urge to fall into it.

The train pulls up soon, its rumbling coming to a halt with a loud screech that makes him cover his ears and flinch. It is unbearably loud, but the blinking light spelling out Kyoto on the side is what gets him to move, standing up and grabbing his suitcase as he walks toward the doors, pressing the button and boarding it as soon as they open. 

He takes a moment to look back at the night, shadows seemingly dancing in the corner of his eyes, but he eventually steps forward onto the train, not bothering to look at his destination. It’s all the same to him, in the end. Although, his train is the only one that passes through so late at night as far as he is aware, most waiting until the dawn to begin their travels. He doesn’t blame the schedulers for this: he knows no one wants to be at a station at two in the morning watching the lights flicker and waiting in fear for the next escape route to come. 

His eyes took in the train car — peeling advertisements the same as the station, creased and sometimes even fallen down on top of black seats. Some of the seats are evidently broken, with pieces ripped off and scratch marks on them, but he pays it no mind, settling down at a window seat in front of a pale table. The same scratch marks are visible, almost as if a wild animal had attempted to tear the place apart, but he knows it was likely a rambunctious pet much earlier in the night and the damage not yet noticed.

There is something in the air that leaves him feeling uneasy as he pulls his suitcase to the aisle seat, placing his back on it and searching through it for his headphones and mobile, quick to turn both on and enable the setting for bluetooth on his phone. He places the headphones on, taking another quick look for something he isn’t sure of, before it finally connects and he opens up his music app, biting his lip as he debates on which playlist to put on. Eventually, he decides on one filled with softer songs and allows the beats to slowly rock him to sleep, head against the window and half open eyes staring at the dimly lit — completely dark in some parts, he is sure — countryside until they close, sleep allowing him to drift into her warm embrace.

( He dreams again of Arcturus, of the red-eyed boy who shuts down and the green-eyed boy who begs him to stay. He dreams that his train does not stop in Kyoto, and that he can arrive there for just one moment to see them, to see if it is real or somewhere built in his mind as an escape from a life he didn’t wish to live any longer. Before moving out to be with his sister at the age of sixteen, he had often taken refuge in that fictional world whenever he was too overwhelmed with the real one, but he knew the Arcturus in his head would never be the one that truly existed.

It is a figment of his imagination, the product of a broken heart and a desire to have something for his own. It will never be anything more than that, no matter how much he tries to wish it into existence, but there will always be a fondness in his heart for it and the people he had imagined as a child. )

[introvert-unicorn-deactivated20]

Meaningful words in different languages you should know about !

Vernorexia : a romantic mood inspired by spring.

Micawber : an eternal optimist.

Lucid : Full of fun and high spirits.

Hoppipolla : Jumping into puddles( in incelandic).

Basorexia : the overwhelming desire to kiss.

Logophile : a lover of words.

Eunoia : beautiful thinking , a well mind.

Catharsis : the purging or release of emotional tensions through art and music.

Nakama : a very good friend or comrade that one considers as family, even if they’re not necessarily related.

Natsukashii : suddenly euphorically nostalgic, triggered by experiencing something for the first time in years.

Sweven : a vision seen in sleep , a dream.

Orphic : mysterious and entracing beyond ordinary understanding.

Lucent : Softly bright or radiant.

Dysania : the state of finding it hard to get out of bed in the morning.

[mhafantasyfest]

The MHA Fantasy Fest begins today! Our theme for Day 1 is Introduction! Today is all about showing off your muse in your Fantasy AU! What is your character like in this alternate setting? Are they a prince or princess, a mystical creature? What are their aspirations? Where do they live? How do they interact with new people? 

The following are our optional prompts for today to help inspire you!

Home

Childhood

Royalty

Legends

Weapons

Power

Goal

Remember that you are free to contribute in any way that you want, whether that’s through RP, drabbles/fic, headcanons, or artwork! We are tracking #MHAFantasyFest and will happily share any contributions with an #ok to reblog tag! 

Make sure to check the schedule for the rest of the week and the rules for this event! We hope you have lots of fun!

- Rain & Sky

[butterflynotes]

Shinso Hitoshi aesthetic in shades of purple.

( please do not repost this work here or on any other website without asking. all photographs belong to their respective owners. )

[butterflynotes]

Past is a fansong dedicated to Todoroki Shoto from Boku No Hero Academia.

[Verse 1] tomorrow felt so far away when i thought of yesterday: of jagged shards, of burning flame, dreams of a future taken away

returned by words spoken between not quite rivals, a reminder that I don’t have to be the person you tried to make me.

[Chorus] You can take the past you gave me I want to forget it all.

You can take the life you chose me It was never yours to control.

This is my today, my own identity.

This is my tomorrow, my own destiny.

[Verse 2] there were two halves of my soul, one warm, one cold.

there were two halves of my heart: one slowly mending one broken from the start.

his guiding hands place them back together, stitched piece by piece.

i will be the hero that his care makes me.

[Chorus] You can take the past you gave me I want to forget it all.

You can take the life you chose me It was never yours to control.

This is my today, my own identity.

This is my tomorrow, my own destiny.

[Verse 3] I will not fade I will not leave I will change I will be me.

I am not my past I am not my future I am not your puppet I am not you.

I will not burn I will not freeze I will choose this life I am me.

[Chorus] You can take the past you gave me I want to forget it all.

You can take the life you chose me It was never yours to control.

This is my today, my own identity.

This is my tomorrow, my own destiny.

[butterflynotes]

for day one of @protobnhaweek​. my favourite boy? gotta be mikumo.

it is his tenth birthday & it has been three months since he lost them & it is the first time he has left the house & he is still grieving. the locket comes with a promise that he’ll always have his best friend & the memories they’d create.he hopes those don’t get cut short, too.

( mikumo remembers too much & loves more than he wants to. )

& IN THOSE EYES, there is a sadness: the type expected of someone that had lost so much & never learned what it meant to live without those memories weighing them down. Fragile minds filled with melancholy were for the weak, to him, but it had never stopped him from becoming one of those: dragged down by days that had passed long ago & that could not be forgotten through wilful ignorance no matter how he would plead at night to stop losing his mind to a past he could never return to.

The flowers in his hair are a reminder of that & the flowers in her grave will never let him forget it.

( these will keep that fringe of yours back murmurs his father, gentle fingers pushing it behind his hair & hair clips in the style of kanzashi flowers, elegant accessories often kept for brides or geisha or the collections of those who find nothing but beauty in them: these are the gifts of hard work being bestowed upon an unworthy soul by a guiding figure & he knows that, in the back of his mind, that perhaps that was the first inkling something terrible was going to happen. )

Sometimes, he thinks back to days where those were not mere memories & the love in his household was tangible. Sometimes, he aches as he recalls what he has lost: a father & a sister gone from the world, never to hear an i love you again but never to know his pain, a small mercy albeit it is not one he deserves. Sometimes, he hates the fact he has to remember he lost his mother too — yes, he recalls, that at the age of nine he was gifted with flowers & at the age of nine his loved ones died & at the age of nine his mother could not bear to look upon his face any longer.

Sometimes, he wishes she had died too. Maybe then, losing her wouldn’t have been quite so painful.

( & at the age of nine, he sits in the living room as his mother speaks to strange men at the door in a hushed voice & her hands shaking against the door handle as it rattles in her grip. when he asks what they were speaking about, she does not look at him & dares not to meet his eyes. they’re gone. she murmurs, hollow voice echoing in his ears as he hears the words that will forever change him. i’m sorry. ichika... your father. they’re dead.

& the last words he ever said to them are i love you & he promises himself that he will never say it, never let those words leave his mouth, for surely they are to blame for the tragic fate of his family. i’ll be a hero he vows, later. i’ll be a hero & then no one else will have to die. )

❝Mikumo,❞ the voice of his friend comes gently & interrupts his reminiscing, his eyes flickering over to stare at the other with a measured gaze. ❝What are you thinking about? You look sad.❞ & what a silly word that was to him: sad? He didn’t deserve to feel that way when it had been his own fault that any sadness had ever entered his life. A weak soul in a body made for strength & a heart too sensitive for who he was meant to become: sadness was not made for him & yet it had grown to consume his very being.

❝It’s nothing important.❞ He lies, not bothering to fake a smile as he turns to look at his food, a forkful of katsudon awaiting him as he lifts it to his mouth, although he does not eat it just yet. ❝Just the next test. Do you think we should study with Yuu-chan?❞ & if it is a distraction from his memories, he will say nothing of it.

( & there is a butterfly locket hanging around his neck with a picture of them together in it. the blond who holds a smile & himself, a frown on his face & dead eyes: as if he has lost everything that made him whole. so that we’re always together, mi-kun! the other had said as he curled his fingers around his hands, gently pressing the locket into them & attempting to keep him grounded for a moment.

it is his tenth birthday & it has been three months since he lost them & it is the first time he has left the house & he is still grieving, still learning to live without the support of a father & the love of a mother & the sister he had been so close to. the locket comes with a promise that he’ll always have his best friend & the memories they’d create.

he hopes those don’t get cut short, too. )

❝She’d be happy to spend time with us.❞ He adds shortly after, shaking himself out of his daze & ignoring the way concern flares up in Katsuki’s eyes.

He doesn’t deserve that, anyway.

❝You’ve never been the type to study as a group, Mi-kun.❞ Katsuki speaks, his voice kind & soft & the type Mikumo wishes he had. The words are not spoken maliciously. They hold curiosity, as if he has changed his mind on some sort of major decision & his expression twists from peaceful to a scowl as he gazes upon his friend. ❝If you don’t want to that’s-❞ He is interrupted with a no & an i’d love to.

Sometimes, he hates the way Katsuki talks to him as if a moment of time spent together is a blessing & as if Mikumo isn’t an awful person. He wonders, in the end, if Katsuki has ever known him.

He doesn’t think he ever did. 

( & katsuki is eleven when mikumo gifts him a more colourful locket with a different picture inside, grumbling out the excuse it’s to match as if there is nothing sentimental behind it & it is only a return for a gift he was given long ago. he won’t ever tell the truth, not willing to seem like a sentimental fool.

as long as we have these, we’re connected. he wishes he had the courage to voice that to katsuki, but he doesn’t & he doubts he ever will. as long as we have these, i won’t lose you. )

& when the bell rings for class, he rises, careful to scrape his half-eaten dinner into the bin before placing the tray on one of the racks designed to hold them. He ignores the quiet feel better, Mi-kun that leaves Katsuki’s mouth & the comforting squeeze of his shoulder offered. He didn’t want comfort, didn’t need it, & yet his heart’s betrayal was obvious in the way he was left feeling warm, the touch lingering.

He doesn’t deserve comfort, but sometimes, he yearns for it.

When they arrive at class, he sits down & takes out his notebook & a pen, staring at the board as he awaits their teacher. He is ready to learn & the sorrowful atmosphere that had surrounded him during lunchtime dissipates as he schools his expression, emptiness filling him like a water balloon as he shoves down the feelings he didn’t wish to have.

Their sensei starts to teach & Mikumo lets the memories fade away once more.

( but the sadness never disappears like the thorns around his heart. there are walls around his soul that keep people out but they are not designed for that: they are designed to cage him in like he deserves & prevent him from getting too close to people who did not deserve to be cursed by his care. if he can keep them out, he won’t love them, & maybe if he never loves again, they won’t die in his name.

if he never lets anyone close, they won’t be able to leave him. loneliness is a small price to pay & he welcomes it.

he’d rather be alone than grieving, in the end. )

[protobnhaweek]

It’s nearly time for proto week and I thought it was time to remind you all of our prompts! If you’ve not started prepping anything then it might be time to do so as we’re all super excited to see what you come up with!

Our Prompts Are:

22nd - Your Favourite Proto - Yamikumo | Proto!Katsuki | Yuu | Other

23rd - Protos and their Canon Counterparts - Yamikumo & Deku | Proto!Katsuki & Canon!Katsuki | Yuu & Ochako

24th - School Days - Field Trip | Internship | Exams

25th - Support Your Ships - First Date | Sweets | Red String of Fate

26th - Dropped Into an AU - Fantasy* AU | Halloween Costume AU* | Actor AU

27th - Twisting the Reality - Pro-Heroes | Stuck in the Canon World | Twin AU

28th - Summer Fun - Beach | Park | Shopping Mall

*Though both Fantasy and Halloween Costume AUs have specific designs or character roles for the canon characters you do not have to place the prototypes in these roles exactly. Yamikumo can be a rogue or Proto!Katsuki can be a vampire. It’s up to you completely with what you

There are now rules linked on the main page so make sure you read them otherwise please reblog and support!

[butterflynotes]

todobaku prom aesthetic in black & white.

( please do not repost this work here or on any other website without asking. all photographs belong to their respective owners. )

[butterflynotes]

& every April i told myself i’d survive to the next, no matter how bad things were.

this April i ask myself: ❝will i survive to next year at all?❞

& every week that passes that question becomes ❝will i survive to next week?❞

& soon enough it will become, in the face of tragedy: ❝will i survive at all?❞

( & i know, in the back of my mind: we will. )

[butterflynotes]

In the whiteness, there is green.

Green like grass & green like leaves. I stare — eyes of a colour i do not recall —  as the green offers a hand, a smile appearing on the other’s face. They speak a word I do not know — what were words, again? what did that word mean to me? — & I do not falter, do not even blink.

There is a smile on their face — am i smiling? do i know how to? — & they speak again, no longer a mess of syllables but a sentence I recognise. How are you? I don’t know how to answer.

How am I? How do I know how I am when I don’t even know who I am? My eyes close for a moment, open again — that was blinking, wasn’t it? My eyes meet theirs. Green.

Why are they green?

They move closer, hand still outstretched & I take it, confusion in my gaze — at least, I think it’s confusion. I’m not sure if it is. I’m not sure I know anything anymore.

Who are you? I ask & they respond, smile soft.

My name is — I don’t quite hear the next word. I don’t ask if you know mine.