All works belongs exclusively to the author. Do not reupload, translate, rewrite, or alter my creations without permission. It's officially shared only via Tumblr and AO3.
⤷ Spies. Which was how Zoro ended up pressed into a closet with the most dangerous woman on the island. Both don't mind anyway. - zohan.
• Action & Romance, Established Relationship, Short One Shot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amazon Lily (One Piece), Protective Roronoa Zoro, Soft Roronoa Zoro, Badass Boa Hancock, I Will Go Down with This Ship, Rare Pairings, One Piece Rarepair
• published date: 2025-12-13
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
The palace didn’t feel like Amazon Lily anymore.
It breathed wrong.
The palace gardener had been dead for three days before anyone noticed.
Marigold found her slumped over the royal orchids, her pruning shears still clutched in stiff fingers. The flowers around the gardener were unnervingly vibrant, like crimson petals unfurled like fresh wounds against her gray skin.
She didn’t scream. Amazons didn’t scream at death, even when it stank of poisoned tea and betrayal.
"You’re late," Hancock said when Marigold finally delivered the news. She didn’t look up from painting her nails, the brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. "The spies will be here by dusk." Dismissing her sister to leave to prepare.
Zoro, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, exhaled sharply through his nose. "Great. So we’re dealing with murderous trespassers and rotting corpses." He eyed Hancock’s perfectly steady hands. "You’re weirdly calm about this."
Zoro had noticed it the moment Marigold finished speaking—after the gardener, after the poison, after Hancock had smiled like this was all mildly entertaining.
The air carried too many foreign scents: oil, metal, unfamiliar leather. Men who didn’t belong here had been careful, but not careful enough.
She blew lightly on her nails, the scent of sharp lacquer mingling with the faint decay wafting in from the gardens. "Darling, if I panicked every time someone tried to kill me, I’d never get my beauty sleep."
Hancock remains unnervingly calm, revealing she knows the spies plan to meet at the old armory that night.
She finally glanced up, her dark eyes glinting with something far more dangerous than amusement. "Besides, I know exactly where they’ll be tonight, the old armory. It’s where they’ve been storing their little gifts for me."
The wind shifted outside, carrying the distant clatter of armor and hushed, unfamiliar voices. Zoro’s fingers twitched toward his swords, his posture coiled. "You could’ve led with that," he muttered.
Zoro tenses at the distant sounds of intruders, frustrated by Hancock’s delayed disclosure.
The queen stretched languidly, her silk robe sliding off one shoulder as she stood. "And miss the look on your face?" She trailed a fingertip down his chest, her smile all teeth. "Where’s the fun in that?"
A muffled thud echoed from the corridor outside, too precise to be accidental. Zoro’s hand clamped over Hancock’s mouth before she could react, his other arm snaking around her waist to yank her flush against him. As he hide together in a closet.
Her breath hitched, not from fear but the sudden press of his calloused palm against her lips, the way his muscles tensed like steel cables beneath her back.
The space around them wood squeaked, big enough for two people and a lifetime of bad decisions. Shelves dug into Zoro’s shoulder blades, and the hilts of his swords were jammed painfully against his side.
Hancock stood flush against him, silk and heat and absolute composure, her back just brushing the door closet.
Enemies' boots squeaked and whispered across marble.
Not guards. Guards walked like they owned the place. These men walked like they were counting exits.
As intruders test the locked door, Zoro forcefully silences Hancock, pulling her close to avoid detection.
She retaliates by biting him, but their tension shifts when he promises retribution against the spies, his threat sparking a thrill in her unrelated to the immediate peril.
Hancock slipped free, her bare feet silent on the cool marble as she pressed an ear to the wood. The conspirators’ whispers were slick with arrogance, their plans laid out between clinks of stolen wine goblets.
One mentioned "the queen’s weakness", Zoro’s jaw flexed at that, while another laughed about how easily Amazons bled. Hancock’s fingers curled into fists, her nails biting crescents into her palms.
Zoro’s fingers curled slowly around Wado Ichimonji’s hilt. He’d known this was a bad idea the second Hancock had said, Maybe let's just sneak in and ambush.
He’d tried to stop her. He really had. But Hancock didn’t stop. She decided and reality rearranged itself accordingly.
Now voices drifted through the corridor, low and confident.
“…armory’s clear,” one murmured. “Scroll’s got to be close.”
Zoro leaned down, his mouth barely a breath from Hancock’s ear.
“Why do I keep going along with your stupid ideas?” he whispered, voice tight, controlled. “They always get us into the worst trouble.”
Hancock shifted slightly, just enough that her shoulder brushed his chest. Even in the dark, he could feel her smile.
“Because,” she whispered back, unhurried, amused, “1: you love me, and 2: I’m literally in charge of this island. You really can’t say no to me.”
Zoro rolled his eyes silently. His arm moved without permission, settling around her waist when the floor creaked beneath their combined weight.
“Well yes, I can say no,” he muttered, “but then I’d have to listen to you whine all day.”
Her laugh was quiet, dangerously soft. She tilted her head just enough that her breath brushed his jaw. “Good thing,” she murmured, “you adore my whining.”
A pause outside. Zoro’s muscles locked.
“Closets,” someone said. “Check the closets.”
The footsteps stopped directly in front of them. The doorknob jiggled once.
Hancock’s fingers slid over Zoro’s hand, lacing through his like a lover’s gesture, except her grip was steel, her nails digging just enough to anchor him.
“Not yet,” she whispered.
Zoro trusted her.
That was the problem.
The second jiggle came harder.
Zoro didn’t need orders. He was already moving, his swords whispering against their sheaths as he nudged the closet door open a fraction.
Lights caught the edge of Wado Ichimonji, painting a silver line across his scarred cheekbone. "You take left," he murmured. "I’ll handle the loudmouths."
Hancock’s grin was blade-sharp in the dark. "Try not to get lost on the way," she breathed, before melting into the shadows like spilled ink.
“Now,” Hancock said, and her voice shifted.
The door flew open.
Light flooded the closet.
The last thing Zoro saw was the deliberate sway of her hips—a distraction and a threat rolled into one—before the screaming started.
The warmth vanished. The teasing disappeared. What remained was command.
The spies barely had time to register her silhouette before Hancock stepped forward, presence detonating outward like a blade unsheathed inside their skulls.
“Mero Mero—”
Zoro moved with her. Steel sang.
Metal screeched as the first spy drew his sword, but Hancock was already airborne, her heel connecting with his temple in a crack that reverberated off the vaulted ceilings. The man crumpled like wet parchment, his weapon skittering across the floor.
The other man went down choking, petrification crawling up his face as Zoro’s hilt connected with his temple. Another reached for a blade, was too slow. Wado Ichimonji flashed silver, shattering the weapon mid-draw.
Hancock didn’t rush. She strolled.
“Such poor manners,” she purred, stepping over a collapsing body. “Sneaking through my palace without permission.”
Hancock eavesdrops on the spies’ arrogant planning, their mockery of Amazons provoking her fury.
Zoro silently prepares to attack, assigning Hancock the left flank before she vanishes into the shadows.
The fight erupts instantly as Hancock knocks out one spy with a vicious kick while Zoro disarms another with a single sword strike, their coordinated assault overwhelming the intruders within seconds.
The remaining two hesitated, just long enough for Hancock to land lightly atop the wine table, her hill toe curling around the rim of a goblet. "Such poor manners," she purred, throwing it deliberately.
"Would you like to drink my reserves while plotting my murder?" The wine glass connected with the third man’s face, splashing his head with a wet crunch. Then, followed by her kick. Red wine splashed across like a fresh kill.
The last spy tried to flee.
Zoro caught him by the collar and slammed him into the wall hard enough to crack stone. “Bad move,” he growled.
Hancock crouched in front of the man, lifting his chin with one finger. Her smile was gentle. Lethal.
“Now,” she said softly, “tell me who sent you.” But the spy fainted from fear anyway.
Minutes later, the corridor was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Zoro wiped his blade clean, eyes already scanning shadows. “You knew,” he said flatly. “You knew they’d be here.”
Hancock straightened, smoothing her robe as if nothing had happened. “Of course.”
“You always do,” he muttered.
She turned to him, eyes gleaming. “And yet,” she said sweetly, “you drag me into a closet with full of enemies outside."
Zoro snorted. “Don’t push it.”
Her smile sharpened. “Let's do it again sometime. Come. The armory awaits.”
He grumbled, but he was smiling. “Next time, though... my plan.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? And what if your plan is even stupider?”
“Then you can whine all you want,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I’ll listen.”
She laced her fingers through his, squeezing tight. “Deal, mosshead.”
And later, when steel screamed, when wine spilled like blood, when spies learned exactly how badly they’d underestimated Amazon Lily.
Zoro would think back to that closet.
To the way danger pressed in from all sides. To the way Hancock never once doubted the outcome.
All works belongs exclusively to the author. Do not reupload, translate, rewrite, or alter my creations without permission. It's officially shared only via Tumblr and AO3.
⤷ Bakugou liked things in order: his training schedule, his kitchen, his life. Tsuyu was more laid-back, but she knew how to fit into his order. And sometimes, she’d mess it up on purpose. - katsuyu. bakutsuyu.
• Domestic Fluff, Idiots in Love, Fluff and Humor, Established Relationship, Living Together, Cooking, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Soft Bakugou Katsuki, Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Teasing
• published date: 2026-12-13
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
The kitchen is spotless.
Every spice jar lined up by height on the shelf, from the tiny bottle of saffron to the giant container of cayenne.
Every knife placed in its slot in the block, blade facing inward, handles aligned perfectly.
Every dish stacked in the cupboard by size and color: white plates on the bottom, blue bowls in the middle, green bowls on top (Tsuyu’s favorite, even if Bakugou pretends he didn’t rearrange the whole set just to put them there).
He stands in the middle of it, arms crossed, nodding in approval. This is how it’s supposed to be.
This is order. It’s the one thing he can control in a world full of unpredictable villains, messy missions, and people who never do things the right way.
Tsuyu calls from the doorway, "I made tea."
He turns to find her holding two mugs, his black one with a spiky red design that matches his hero symbol, hers green with little frogs hopping around the rim, their legs curved in perfect arcs.
She’s smiling, and he can already tell something’s off—the way she’s holding the mugs just a little too loosely, the glint in her eyes that says she’s up to no good.
"Set it on the counter," he says, gesturing to the only clear spot, right next to the coffee maker, exactly where drinks belong. It’s a spot he carved out just for this purpose: 12 inches from the edge, 3 inches from the toaster, perfectly positioned for easy access.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she sets his mug on the stove, right next to the burner he just turned off, and hers on the kitchen table, pushing it slightly off-center so it doesn’t line up with the table leg.
Bakugou’s eye twitches. A muscle in his jaw clenches. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Drinking tea," she says, sitting down at the table like she hasn’t just committed a crime against organization. She takes a slow sip, her lips curving around the mug, and adds, "Ribbit."
He marches over and snatches his mug from the stove, wiping off the surface with his sleeve even though he knows it’s clean.
The stove is for cooking, not for mugs. Everyone knows that. "You don’t put mugs on the stove. That’s not where they go."
"Is that so?" She tilts her head, and a strand of green hair falls across her face. "Where do they go, then?"
"On the counter. Or the table. In the right place." He sets his mug down on the counter, perfectly aligned with the edge, just like he planned, and glares at her. "You’re messing up my order."
"Good," she says simply. "You were looking too serious again. Like you did before the big mission last week."
He opens his mouth to argue, but then he sees it: a single frog sticker on the cayenne pepper jar, the one that’s supposed to be first in line, the tallest one on the shelf. It’s bright green, with googly eyes that wiggle when he taps the jar, and a tiny smile painted on its face.
"When did you do that?" he asks, his voice quieter than he meant to. The anger in his chest fizzles out, replaced by something warmer.
"While you were in the shower." She stands up and walks over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her head fits perfectly against his chest, and he can feel her heartbeat, steady and calm, against his own. "I thought it needed a little color. All these brown and red jars were making me sleepy."
He stares at the sticker, then at her. He remembers the first time she messed with his order, back when they were still sharing a dorm at UA.
He’d spent an hour arranging his training gear on his shelf, every weight, every band, every gauntlet in its exact place. When he’d come back from class, she’d moved one of his gauntlets just an inch to the left, leaving a small gap. He’d yelled at her for five minutes straight. Poor Tsu.
But then she’d said, "You spend so much time making everything perfect that you forget to look at what’s already there." And he’d looked, really looked, at her, standing there with that calm smile, and realized she was right.
Now, years later, she still does it. She leaves her frog-themed socks on the floor (even though he picks them up and puts them in the laundry basket, folding them neatly).
She rearranges the books on his shelf to include her frog encyclopedias next to his training manuals, so when he reaches for one, he always sees the other.
She puts his favorite mug in the wrong cupboard just to watch him huff and move it back—then does it again the next day.
"You’re a menace," he mutters, but he puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer. His hand finds the small scar on her shoulder from a mission last year, when she’d jumped in front of him to block a villain’s attack. In that moment, order had meant nothing. She had meant everything.
"Maybe," she says, looking up at him with a smile that makes his chest feel tight. "But you like it."
He doesn’t deny it. Because she’s right—he does. He likes the way she disrupts his perfect little world just enough to remind him that life isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being with her.
"Want to help me make dinner?" she asks, pulling away to open the refrigerator.
"Only if you don’t put the vegetables in the wrong drawer again," he says, following her. The vegetable drawer is on the bottom left. Everyone knows that. Last time, she’d put the carrots in the fruit drawer, next to the apples. He’d acted so mad he’d made her laugh so hard she’d snort.
She pulls out a bag of carrots and grins. "No promises."
They move to start dinner. Bakugou pulling out a cutting board, Tsuyu grabbing chopsticks from the drawer. She hummed, dangling a single chopstick between her fingers like it was a cigarette, "Your spice rack is alphabetized." She tilted her head, her wide eyes blinking slowly at the meticulously labeled jars. "And your chopsticks are counted."
Bakugou snatched the chopstick from her hand, scowling as he tossed it back into the drawer with its matching pair.
"So?" He slammed the drawer shut harder than necessary, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the fridge. "Things work better when they're organized. Unlike your fucking socks, I saw that mismatched shit under your bed."
Tsuyu pressed her lips together—not quite a smile, not quite a frown, and leaned against the counter, her fingers tapping idly against the granite. "Maybe I like surprises," she said, voice low and teasing. "Maybe I wake up and think, 'Today, the green sock pairs with the polka-dot one.' Keeps life interesting."
Bakugou snorted, turning to the fridge to grab a beer, his hand hesitated over the neatly lined-up bottles before he yanked one out, intentionally leaving a gap in the row. "Surprises are for idiots who can't plan," he muttered, popping the cap off against the edge of the counter.
The sharp clink echoed, and Tsuyu watched the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers flexed like he was already regretting the disruption.
She reached past him, her arm brushing his as she snagged a bottle for herself, ignoring the order entirely, and took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving his face. "You're right," she said, tilting the bottle lazily. "Planning's good. But so is this." Without warning, she flicked a drop of condensation at him, the cold water hitting his cheek with a tiny plip.
Bakugou froze, his fingers tightening around his beer. Tsuyu held her breath, watching the way his shoulders stiffened, then, unexpectedly, his mouth twitched. Just once. "You," he growled, wiping his face with the back of his hand, "are this close to getting thrown out the damn window."
Tsuyu grinned, sharp and unrepentant, and hopped onto the counter beside him, swinging her legs like she hadn't a care in the world.
"You'd miss me too much," she said, and when he rolled his eyes, she nudged his thigh with her toe, just hard enough to make him glance at her, just soft enough to make him stay.
Bakugou exhaled through his nose, a rough sound caught between irritation and something quieter, warmer.
He took a long drag from his beer, the condensation dripping onto his fingers as he studied the disarray of bottles in the fridge, the gap she'd created, the one he hadn't fixed. "Tch. Annoying," he muttered, but the edge in his voice was dulled, almost fond.
The city hummed, cars honking, distant laughter threading through the open window outside, but here, in the tight space between them, there was only the quiet click of Tsuyu's bottle settling on the counter and the slow, deliberate way Bakugou's thumb traced the lip of his own.
She watched him, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked to her socked feet dangling just above his organized kitchen tiles, one green, one striped, defiantly mismatched.
Then, without looking at her, he reached over and tugged one sock down, exposing her ankle before letting it snap back. "Next time," he said, voice gruff, "I'm burning the polka dots." Tsuyu's laughter bubbled up, bright and unfiltered, and Bakugou hid his smirk behind another swig of beer.
After finishing their beers, they get back to work. Bakugou chopping vegetables (each piece the same size, of course, because that’s how they cook evenly), Tsuyu stirring the soup in the pot on the stove. She pulls out a bag of carrots and grins, remembering his earlier warning.
"No promises about the drawer," she says.
"Just don’t put them next to the apples again," he grumbles, but he’s still smiling a little, the one that only shows up when it’s just the two of them.
She puts a carrot in the fruit drawer anyway, just like he knew she would, and he pretends to be mad, but he doesn’t move it. He leaves the frog sticker on the cayenne jar. He leaves the gap in the beer bottles. He lets his mug stay on the counter, not perfectly aligned with the edge, but just a little off, like hers is on the table.
As the sun sets outside the window, casting orange light across the kitchen, Bakugou starts to cook the rice. He measures it out exactly, two cups of rice, four cups of water, just like his mom taught him.
But then he sees Tsuyu watching him from the counter, her mismatched socks swinging, and he adds an extra splash of water. Just because.
The order is still there. It’s just a little different now. A little messier. A little better.
He sets the rice on the stove and turns to her, wrapping his arms around her waist again. She leans back against him, and they watch the soup bubble in the pot. The frogs on her mug wiggle their legs when she picks it up to take a sip. The googly eyes on the spice jar wiggle when the wind blows through the window.
"This is good," he says quietly.
"This?" she asks, gesturing to the kitchen—the slightly off-center mugs, the misplaced carrot, the gap in the beer bottles, her mismatched socks.
"Everything," he says. "You. This. The… order."
She laughs, and it fills the kitchen warm, bright, and perfect. "It’s not very ordered."
"Yeah," he says, kissing the top of her head. "It’s better."
All works belongs exclusively to the author. Do not reupload, translate, rewrite, or alter my creations without permission. It's officially shared only via Tumblr and AO3.
⤷ Ash is about to leave for another league battle. - pokeshipping. aaml.
• Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Friendship/Love, Drabble, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Idiots in Love, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship
• published date: 2025-12-12
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
The hotel room smelled like stale takeout and chlorine, probably from Misty’s hair, which was still damp from the pool. She sat cross-legged on the bed, rolling a Poké Ball between her fingers like a bored magician.
Her gaze flicked to Ash, who was currently upside down in his backpack, digging for something with the urgency of a Diglett in a sand storm.
"You sure you packed everything?" Misty asked, flicking the Poké Ball into the air and catching it without looking.
Ash's muffled voice came from inside the bag, "Pretty sure!" followed by the sound of something clattering to the floor, a half-eaten energy bar and a tangled mess of headphone wires.
Ash finally emerged from the backpack, hair sticking up in wild angles, and tossed a handful of crumpled receipts onto the bed. "Found my badge case," he announced triumphantly, though Misty noticed the zipper was half-broken and dangling by a thread.
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "You're hopeless," she muttered, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward.
The room's AC unit rattled to life with a shudder, blowing lukewarm air that did nothing to cut through the sticky afternoon heat. Ash wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of dust from who-knows-where across his eyebrow. Misty opened her mouth to point it out, but he was already swinging the backpack over one shoulder with that familiar, reckless grin. "Ready to roll!"
Something metallic glinted in Misty's palm as she uncrossed her legs and stood. "Wait—" she started, but Ash turned abruptly, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her square on the mouth. It lasted exactly three seconds—she counted—before he pulled back, cheeks flushed but grinning wider than ever. Misty's ears burned.
She cleared her throat and slowly uncurled her fingers, revealing his League ID card and a set of keys. "I meant these, you idiot," she said, voice cracking slightly. Ash blinked at them, then at her, then burst out laughing loud enough that Pikachu startled awake from its nap on the windowsill. "Oops," he said, not sounding sorry at all.
Misty jammed the items into his chest with more force than necessary, her face still blazing. "You'd forget your own head if it wasn't screwed on," she snapped, but the effect was ruined when Pikachu scampered over and climbed onto her shoulder, nuzzling her cheek then turned to his side.
Ash rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish but still radiating that infuriating, sun-bright energy.
"Tell me to stay."
The words slipped out before Ash could catch them, sharp and raw like a fresh wound. Misty froze, her breath hitching audibly.
He immediately regretted it—the way her eyebrows shot up, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for her but didn't know if he should. The AC unit chose that moment to cough out a dying whine, leaving silence thick enough to choke on.
Pikachu's ears drooped as it glanced between them before tactfully hopping down to investigate the forgotten energy bar on the floor. Ash opened his mouth, closed it, then finally managed a shaky exhale. "Misty, I—"
The hotel phone rang, shrill and insistent, slicing through the tension like a Razor Leaf. Ash jumped like he'd been electrocuted. Misty turned away, busying herself with straightening her already-perfectly-straight towel while he fumbled for the receiver.
"Yeah? Now? But—" His voice dropped to a whisper she couldn't hear over the pounding of her own heartbeat.
When he hung up, his expression was all wrong, too bright, too forced. "Gotta go!" He scooped up his backpack, hesitated at the door, hand on the knob, shoulders tense. For one impossible second, Misty thought he might turn around.
Outside, a horn honked. His ride to the stadium. Away from her. Ash glanced back at her with an expression that made her stomach flip. "So... see you after?" he asked, suddenly quieter.
Misty crossed her arms, refusing to acknowledge how her pulse jumped at the unspoken question beneath his words.
"Only if you don't get disqualified for forgetting your pants," she shot back. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her standing there, forcing to grin like an idiot, the room suddenly too big and too quiet without his chaos filling it.
Misty stared at the closed door, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. The imprint of Ash’s lips still burned on hers—three seconds, stupidly, embarrassingly counted—but the ghost of his touch felt colder already.
She knew this dance. He’d bolt for the chaos, she’d follow despite herself, and they’d part ways at the next town with half-finished sentences and promises neither could keep. For days, weeks, months, or years that may turn into.
The AC sputtered again, exhaling a stale breath that carried the faintest whiff of his shampoo. Misty grabbed his discarded hoodie from the bed and pressed it to her face, inhaling the faded scent of sweat and before chucking it into the corner with a frustrated growl. “Idiot,” she muttered, but the word tasted like ash.
All works belongs exclusively to the author. Do not reupload, translate, rewrite, or alter my creations without permission. It's officially shared only via Tumblr and AO3.
⤷ "I don’t need anyone," Bakugou had once said. But now, watching Tsuyu catch a falling frog by the pond, he knew the truth: she was more than a partner—she was his constant companion, the one who made every day better. - katsuyu. bakutsuyu.
• Friendship/Love, Flashbacks, Frogs, Idiots in Love, Alternate Universe - Pro Heroes (My Hero Academia), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Feelings Realization, Out of Character Bakugou Katsuki, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Soft Bakugou Katsuki
• published date: 2025-12-12
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
The afternoon sun dips low over the pond behind their apartment, painting the water in shades of orange and gold. Bakugou leans against the wooden fence, arms crossed, watching Tsuyu kneel at the edge, her green hair falling over her shoulders, her toes bare in the cool grass.
A small green frog hops onto a lily pad, then misjudges its leap, tumbling toward the water. Before it can splash down, Tsuyu’s tongue flicks out, quick as lightning, and catches it gently. She sets it back on the pad, whispering something soft that makes the frog croak once, as if in thanks.
He finds himself thinking back to years ago, back when they were still at UA, when this same pond had been just a murky spot in the woods behind the training grounds.
──────────
The frog slipped from Bakugou's grasp with a slick plop—just as it always did. He wiped his hands on his pants, gritting his teeth against the damp smear left behind. "Stupid fucking thing," he muttered, glaring at the pond's murky edge where the creature had vanished. His reflection scowled back at him, distorted by ripples.
Tsuyu's shadow stretched across the water before she did, her footsteps silent on the muddy bank. She crouched beside him, elbows resting on her knees, fingers dangling just above the surface. A dragonfly skimmed past, its wings catching the light. She didn't speak.
Bakugou flexed his fingers, still slick with pond scum. He could feel her watching, not with pity, but with that quiet intensity that made his skin prickle. "What?" he snapped, louder than he meant to.
The frog resurfaced with a soft croak, its bulbous eyes fixed on Tsuyu's outstretched hand. She didn't move, didn't even breathe too hard. Bakugou held his own breath without meaning to.
"Like this," she said finally, voice low and steady. Her fingers curled slightly, palm up, as if offering something invisible. The frog hesitated, then hopped onto her skin with unsettling trust. Bakugou's stomach twisted, not with disgust, but with something hotter and harder to name.
He wiped his hands on his pants again. "Show-off," he grumbled, but his usual bite was dulled by the way she cradled the creature, her thumb brushing its speckled back like it was something precious.
The afternoon sun caught the sweat at her temple, the faint tremble in her own fingers she thought he wouldn't notice.
When she extended the frog toward him, Bakugou's pulse kicked. Her eyes were darker up close, the green of deep water where the light barely reached. "Your turn," she said, and for once, he didn't have a comeback ready.
The frog twitched, its cold toes prickling against his palm when he finally held it. It was lighter than he expected, its heartbeat rapid against his calloused skin. Tsuyu's fingers lingered for half a second as she pulled away, it was warm and rough from training, nothing like the smooth dampness of the creature between them.
A breeze stirred the reeds, carrying the scent of wet earth and her shampoo, something faintly citrus or alor vera something. Bakugou swallowed hard. "Still a stupid fucking thing," he muttered, but his grip was careful, almost reverent. The frog didn't struggle.
Tsuyu smiled then, not her usual placid curve, but something smaller, private. "Kero," she said, softer than the sound deserved, and Bakugou felt something in his chest give way, like a door he hadn't known was locked.
The frog's throat pulsed against his thumb, its skin shifting between slick and dry in uneven patches. Bakugou exhaled through his nose, forcing his fingers to loosen just enough, not that the damned thing would appreciate his restraint.
Across the pond, a heron took flight, its wings cutting the air with a sound like wet canvas being torn.
"You're getting better," Tsuyu observed, shifting her weight to bump her shoulder against his. The contact was fleeting, but it left a brand hotter than any of his explosions ever had. Bakugou scowled, but didn't shrug her off.
Dusk was settling now, painting the water in streaks of gold and violet. The frog twitched once more before leaping back into the pond with a decisive plop. Bakugou's hand stayed suspended for a heartbeat too long, fingers still curled around the ghost of its weight. Tsuyu's laughter was quiet, a ripple across the surface of everything he thought he understood.
"You're thinking too hard," she said, plucking a blade of grass to twirl between her fingers. It was an observation, not an accusation, like she could see the gears turning behind his clenched jaw.
Bakugou flexed his empty hand, scowling at the way his skin still tingled. "Shut up," he growled, but there was no heat in it. The words tasted strange, like he'd bitten into something unexpectedly sweet.
Fireflies began to blink awake around them, their light catching in Tsuyu's wide eyes when she turned to face him fully. "Tomorrow," she said simply, as if that single word could hold all the things neither of them would say aloud.
Bakugou's fingers dug into the damp earth beneath him. He should’ve scoffed, should’ve told her he didn’t need lessons in patience from someone who croaked like a damn pond ornament. But the way her knee pressed against his in the gathering dark kept his mouth shut.
The frog’s final croak echoed across the water, deeper now with the evening settling in. Tsuyu tilted her head, listening to something Bakugou couldn’t hear, maybe the distant murmur of classmates returning to the dorms, maybe the way his breath hitched when she didn’t pull away.
"Still hate frogs," he lied through his teeth, watching her mouth quirk at the corner. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, bitter and sweet all at once: he’d come back tomorrow. And the day after. And every day she waited by the water with that infuriating, endless calm.
Mosquitoes hummed near his ear, but Tsuyu’s hand flicked out faster than he could blink, plucking one from the air between them. She examined it with detached curiosity before releasing it unharmed, her mercy as effortless as her cruelty could be when pressed. Bakugou’s stomach tightened at the duality.
When she stood, her shadow fell across his lap, long and lean in the fading light. For a wild second, he thought she might offer him a hand up.
Instead, she tugged a leaf from his hair, must’ve gotten stuck when he’d lunged for the frog earlier, and let it flutter to the ground between them. The casual intimacy of the act burned worse than any of his own explosions ever had.
Distant voices called Tsuyu’s name from the path back to campus, but she didn’t turn toward them immediately. Bakugou could see the exact moment she decided to leave, her shoulders squared, her toes pressing into the mud for purchase, and something primal in him bristled at being the one left sitting in the dark.
But then she paused, just once, just long enough to glance back over her shoulder with an expression that carved straight through his ribs.
The fireflies cast flickering shadows across her face as she walked away, their glow catching on the frayed edges of her sleeve where he’d accidentally singed it during drills last week.
Bakugou’s palms itched with the memory of her elbow knocking against his when she’d stolen his last riceball, how she hadn’t even flinched at the sparks crackling in his grip afterward. He crushed a handful of reeds between his fingers, their sap bitter and green.
By the time he stood, the pond had gone still again, swallowing the last traces of their afternoon.
Somewhere in the cattails, a frog croaked, maybe the same one, maybe another, and Bakugou found himself listening for the exact pitch of Tsuyu’s answering chuckle even though she was halfway up the hill by now. His boots sank deeper into the mud than hers had, leaving jagged prints where hers had been nearly weightless.
The leaf she’d plucked from his hair still lay where it fell, its edges just beginning to curl in the evening damp. Bakugou crouched to pick it up, turning it between his knuckles before shoving it into his pocket with more care than he’d ever admit.
Above him, the first stars blinked awake, indifferent to the way his pulse jumped when a distant "kero" carried on the wind.
──────────
"I don’t need anyone," Bakugou had once said—loud, proud, and stupid—not long after that afternoon at the UA pond. He’d been standing in the training ground, face flushed with anger after a drill where he’d refused to work with anyone.
Tsuyu had been nearby, tying her boots, and she’d just looked at him with those calm, big eyes and said, "Maybe not yet, Bakugou-chan. But everyone needs someone eventually."
He’d snapped at her then, called her a slimy frog who didn’t know anything. She’d just shrugged and gone about her business.
Now, watching her smile at the frog in their own pond, behind the apartment they share, years after UA, he feels something tight in his chest, not anger, but something warmer. Something that makes his spiky hair feel a little less sharp, his jaw a little less clenched.
She stands up, brushing grass off her knees, and turns to him. "You’ve been staring," she says, a small smile playing at her lips. "Ribbit."
"So what if I have?" He pushes off the fence, shoving his hands in his pockets. He still keeps that leaf sometimes, pressed between the pages of his training journal, a small, dried reminder of how far they’ve come. "You’re being weird with the frogs again."
Tsuyu walks over to him, her bare feet silent on the grass. "They’re just little guys," she says. "They need someone to look out for them." She pauses, looking up at him. "Kinda like how you look out for me."
Bakugou’s face heats up. "I don’t—I’m your partner. It’s my job."
"Is it?" She tilts her head. "What about when you make me spicy ramen when I’m sad? Or when you fix my tongue gauntlet at 2 AM because it broke during a mission? Or when you stay up with me watching frog documentaries even though you say they’re ‘boring as hell’?"
He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. She’s right. All of it.
They stand there for a minute, the only sounds the croaking of frogs and the rustle of wind in the trees. The sun dips lower, and Bakugou notices Tsuyu shiver, she’s always cold when the sun goes down.
Without thinking, he takes off his hoodie and hands it to her. She blinks, then pulls it over her head, it’s too big, swallowing her small frame, and the hood falls over her eyes. He reaches out and pushes it back, his fingers brushing against her forehead.
"You’re not just my partner," he says, his voice quiet enough that only she can hear. He hates how vulnerable he sounds, but he can’t stop. "You’re… I don’t know. The one who’s always there. Even when I’m being an idiot.
Tsuyu’s smile widens. She takes his hand, lacing her fingers through his, her hand is small and cool in his big, calloused one. "You’re my companion, Bakugou-chan," she says simply. "The one who makes every day better. Even when you’re being a spiky idiot."
He snorts, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. "Yeah, well. You’re my companion too, frog girl. Don’t get used to it."
But they both know he’s lying. He got used to it a long time ago, the feeling of her next to him, the sound of her voice, the way she sees through his anger to the person underneath.
They walk back toward the apartment, hands still clasped, as the last of the sun disappears below the horizon. The frogs continue to croak, a gentle symphony for their quiet walk home.
"I don’t need anyone," he thinks again. But this time, it’s not a statement of pride. It’s a reminder of how wrong he used to be.
Because with Tsuyu by his side, he doesn’t just need someone. He has someone. And that’s more than enough.
All works belongs exclusively to the author. Do not reupload, translate, rewrite, or alter my creations without permission. It's officially shared only via Tumblr and AO3.
⤷ Post-Boruto era. Karin’s life in Konoha is quiet routine from the chaos of her Hebi days. But when Sasuke is late returning from a mission, old fears surface: the fear of loss, the ghost of past grief, and the question that haunts her on a hospital rooftop as the sun sets over the village.
As she waits, she grapples with what it means to love someone who’s always been on the edge of leaving, and what it takes to choose to stay, even when hope feels like a reflex she can’t outrun. - sasukarin. karin-centric.
• Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, Post-Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Short OneShot, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love
• published date: 2025-12-12
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
The clinic door clicks shut behind the last patient, a young genin with a scraped knee who’d been too shy to ask for help. Karin leans against the counter, exhaling slowly.
Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since Sasuke left for that “routine” seal-check mission to the outer lands, and the silence in their home is starting to feel less like a pause and more like a new normal.
She’d told him not to worry. "I’ve got the clinic, the garden, Jugo dropping by with fresh vegetables. I’m fine", she’d said, pressing a pack of his favorite ration bars into his bag.
He’d looked at her then, his dark eyes soft, and brushed a strand of red hair from her face. I’ll send word when I can, he’d promised. But the last message had come five days ago, just a single line: Seals holding. Be late. No “I miss you.” No “I’m coming home soon.” Just late.
──────────
“You ever feel like you're waiting for something that'll never come?” Karin said, flicking a pebble off the hospital rooftop an hour later. The sun was low, bleeding orange across Konoha's jagged skyline, the same color that still made her flinch, that still pulled her back to the war.
Beside her, Suigetsu chewing loudly on a stick of dango, his shrug more liquid than solid.
She didn't expect an answer. The question wasn't really for him. Her fingers traced the edge of her glasses, old habit, leftover from when she used to push them up with deliberate impatience. Now they just sat there, lenses smudged from neglect. Below, the village buzzed with the usual post-mission chatter, genin laughing, vendors packing up. Normal.
Years ago, she'd have scoffed at the idea of staying in one place long enough to memorize the rhythm of it. She really hates it. It's like a prison.
But here she was, counting the seconds between the ramen stall's lantern flickering on and the old florist pulling her shutters down. Routine carved grooves into her bones, deep enough that sometimes she forgot how to move without them.
The pebble hit the dirt far below with a sound too small to hear. Karin exhaled through her nose. Waiting was stupid. She knew that. Yet every time the wind kicked up, she still caught herself turning, half-expecting to see wild red hair and a grin sharp enough to cut, not his, never his, but a ghost of the past that still lingered, a reminder of all the people she’d waited for before him.
Suigetsu finally swallowed his dango. “You're doing that thing again,” he said, jabbing his stick toward her face. “Where you look like someone pissed in your tea.” She swatted at him, but his forearm dissolved into water before her fingers made contact.
The bastard laughed, a rough, easy sound that felt out of place in the quiet of the rooftop. Suigetsu left.
Three floors down, a medic-nin shouted for clean bandages. Karin's shoulders tensed, a muscle memory from years spent elbow-deep in other people's blood. The scent of antiseptic clung to her even now, though she hadn't worked a shift in weeks.
That was the problem with smell: it lingered in the folds of your clothes, in the creases of your skin. Like chakra residue. Like grief.
The rooftop door creaked open. Karin didn't turn. Footsteps are the light, deliberate. Not Orochimaru's slick prowl, not Jugo's heavy tread. Her pulse spiked anyway. Stupid. Hope was a reflex she couldn't seem to cauterize, even after all these years of being burned by it.
A gust of wind slapped against her cheek, carrying the ozone-tang of lightning or something else-chakra. The scent hit her like a kunai between the ribs, sharp, intimate, gone before she could brace for it. Her fingers twitched toward the scar below on her neck, the one from the war, from him, when he’d bitten down to draw her blood and save his own life.
Old wound. Older habit.
“Just me,” Sakura said softly, stepping beside her. She held out a cup of tea, it was green, sweetened just how Karin liked it.
“Heard you were up here.” Karin took the cup, her hands warm against the ceramic. She didn't need to ask how Sakura knew why she was up here.
They’d both spent too many years waiting for the same man, in different ways.
──────────
Late. The word echoes in her head as she leaves the rooftop and heads toward their cottage on the edge of the village. The sun is almost gone now, and the sky is turning a deep purple that reminds her of his eyes.
Back then, loss had been sharp and immediate, a physical pain that had made her knees buckle. Now, it’s slow and insidious.
A drip, drip, drip of emptiness that fills the spaces he used to occupy.
She unlocks the cottage door, and the first thing she notices is his cloak, draped over the chair by the fireplace. He’d left it by accident, she thinks or maybe on purpose, a silent reminder that he’d be back. She walks over and runs her fingers over the fabric, feeling the worn wool, the faint scent of cedar and rain.
For a second, she lets herself imagine packing it up, folding it neatly and putting it in the closet. Closing that door on him. Leaving him behind, like she’d almost done so many times before.
Back in the Hebi days, she’d planned her escape a hundred times. She’d map out routes, hide supplies, tell herself that she didn’t need to be anyone’s healer, anyone’s anchor. But every time, she’d look at him, being quiet and brooding, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and the plan would crumble. He needs me, she’d tell herself.
Now, sitting in their quiet cottage, she wonders if it was the other way around. I needed him to need me. The thought makes her throat tight.
She walks to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for stew. The one he loves, with root vegetables and slow-cooked meat. As she chops carrots, her hands still steady after all these years of healing, she thinks about all the times she’s faced loss. Her mother, who’d died protecting her from the Hidden Grass’s experiments. The friends she’d made in the lab, who’d faded one by one. The version of herself that had been willing to give up everything just to be near him, even when he didn’t deserve it.
But this loss—this possible loss—is different. It’s not just about losing him. It’s about losing the life they built together. The garden where he helps her plant herbs, his hands covered in dirt. The nights they spend on the porch, watching the stars, him pointing out constellations he’d learned as a child. The morning he’d woken up early and made her tea, burning the leaves because he’d been too focused on watching her sleep.
All of it—simple, quiet, theirs, and it could all be gone in a single message, a single moment of carelessness.
She puts the stew on the stove, then walks out to the garden. The cherry tree he’d planted for their anniversary is starting to bud, even though it’s still early spring. Jugo had stopped by yesterday to water it, telling her that Sasuke had asked him to look after it “just in case.” Just in case. The words hang in the air as she runs her fingers over the small stone bird he’d carved for her last winter, its wings spread, like it’s about to fly away.
That night, she can’t sleep. She lies in their bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind howl outside. The emptiness beside her is so big it feels like it’s going to swallow her whole. She thinks about what it would feel like to leave, to lock the cottage door, take her medical supplies, and start over somewhere new. No one would miss her, she tells herself.
The clinic could be run by someone else. Jugo and Suigetsu would visit. But then she thinks about Sasuke coming home to an empty house, to his cloak still draped over the chair, to the stew in the fridge that would never be eaten.
The thought makes her heart ache so fiercely she has to sit up, pressing her hands to her chest.
I can’t do that, she realizes. I can’t leave him behind. Not now.
The next morning, she wakes up to a knock on the door. Her heart leaps—then sinks when she sees Suigetsu standing on the porch, holding a scroll. "From Sasuke", he says, handing it to her. She unfolds it with shaking hands. The writing is messy, like he’d written it in a hurry: Seals fixed. Had to help a village with a plague. On my way home. Be there in two days. Miss you.
Miss you. The words hit her like a wave. She leans against the doorframe, tears finally spilling over. All the fear, all the doubt, all the thoughts of leaving, they don’t disappear, but they soften. She thinks about the stew in the fridge, about the cherry tree budding, about his cloak on the chair.
He’s coming home. He always does. But this time, she knows it’s not just his promise that’s keeping her here. It’s the choice she’s making, over and over again: to stay, to wait, to love him even when the fear of losing him is so big it feels impossible.
She walks back into the kitchen, pulling out more ingredients. She’ll make extra stew. She’ll clean the cottage. She’ll sit on the porch and wait for him, watching the road.
And when he finally comes home, when she sees him walking up the path, his hair messy from the wind, his eyes tired but bright, she’ll tell him. She’ll tell him about the question on the rooftop, about the scent of lightning-chakra that made her heart race, about how much she needs him.
Because love isn’t just about the good days. It’s about facing the fear of loss head-on, and choosing to stay anyway.
──────────
The stew simmers on the stove, filling the cottage with warmth and the smell of home. Karin looks out the window at the road, a small smile on her face. Two days. She can wait two days. And after that? They’ll have more sunsets, more stew, more quiet mornings.
⤷ Ash is staring at Misty somewhere public. She notices, makes eye contact with him, and smiles. Then, Ash quickly looks away, red and flustered. - pokeshipping. aaml.
"Would you stop staring?" Brock said. As Pikachu flicked his tail against Ash's ankle, claws clicking impatiently on the linoleum floor of the Cereluan Gym lobby.
Ash didn’t move. His hands were jammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold himself smaller. Across the room, Misty leaned against the vending machine, peeling the foil cap off a yogurt drink with her teeth. Her hair was still damp from the pool.
"Seriously," Brock muttered, "you’re being weird." Ash swallowed hard. His throat felt tight. Misty tossed the empty yogurt cup into the bin and stretched, the hem of her tank top riding up just enough to show sunburn peeling across her lower back.
Then she turned. Caught him looking. Her eyebrows lifted slowly, before her mouth curled into a grin. Ash spun around so fast he nearly tripped over Pikachu’s tail. The back of his neck burned.
Ash’s fingers twitched toward his cap, adjusting it with unnecessary force as if the brim could somehow shield him from the heat crawling up his face. He didn’t really even know why he’d been staring—it wasn’t like he’d never seen Misty drink a yogurt before, or stretch, or—okay, maybe not like that, all loose-limbed and careless, the way her arms arched over her head like she wasn’t even thinking about who might be watching.
A soda can clattered into the bin behind him, followed by footsteps, too light to be Brock’s, too purposeful to ignore. Ash’s stomach lurched. He could smell her, chlorine and that stupid coconut shampoo she always used, closer now. Pikachu’s ears twitched, gaze flicking between them like this was some kind of battle he was waiting to referee.
“You okay, Ash?” Misty’s voice was bright, teasing, the way it got when she knew she’d won something. “You look kinda… warm."
He wanted to bolt. Or maybe sink through the floor. His tongue felt like it had been swapped out for a wad of cotton, his pulse thudding in his ears loud enough he half-expected her to comment on that, too.
Curse his stupid hormones—this wasn’t like battling, where he could just act and things would fall into place. There wasn’t a strategy guide for whatever was happening to his body right now, the way his skin prickled when she stepped closer, the way he couldn’t seem to stop noticing things: the way her hair curled at the ends where it was still drying, the faint freckles across her shoulders he’d never paid attention to before.
Ash coughed pointedly. Ash realized he’d been gaping like a Magikarp again. His mouth opened, but all that came out was a choked noise that made Misty tilt her head, grin widening. "Meowth got your tongue?" she asked, and oh Arceus, she was enjoying this. Ash could almost see the victory sparking in her eyes, the same way it did when she landed a super-effective hit in battle.
He sucked in a breath, scrambling for something, anything, to say that wouldn’t make this worse. Behind Misty, the vending machine hummed, its fluorescent light catching the droplets still clinging to her collarbone. Ash’s brain short-circuited. "You’ve got—uh." He gestured vaguely at his own neck, then immediately regretted it. "Pool water. Or something."
Misty blinked, then laughed, a sharp, bright sound that bounced off the tiled walls, and turned away, swiping a hand over her skin. "You’re such a dork," she said, but there was something softer in it this time, an edge worn down. She didn’t walk away, though. Just hooked her thumbs into her shorts pockets and rocked back on her heels, studying him like he was a puzzle she’d only just realized was missing pieces.
Pikachu, meanwhile, had given up entirely, flopping onto his back with a dramatic sigh. Ash could feel the judgment radiating off him.
It wasn’t an out. It was worse: this is a challenge to himself. Ash’s pulse kicked up again, but this time, it wasn’t panic. It was the same electric buzz that shot through him like when he saw a gym badge gleaming across the battlefield.
Misty was already halfway to the exit, tossing a smirk over her shoulder like she knew exactly what she’d done. And maybe she did. Maybe that was the problem.
All works belongs exclusively to the author. Do not reupload, translate, rewrite, or alter my creations without permission. It's officially shared only via Tumblr and AO3.
this and also the only difference between fanfic writers and writers who sell their own original works as careers is that fanfics aren’t monetized. that’s all.
being a “professional” writer doesn’t mean your works are inherently better than fanfics. I’ve read so many fics that are more professionally written than some published books.
whether or not a piece of writing is monetized has nothing to do with its quality.
Sort by published date. No summary, cause it's too long.
⤷ iMallsters | ao3
• seddie. Enemies to Friends, Frenemies, Post-Canon, Banter, Shopping Malls, Arcades, Emotional Constipation, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, High School, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Denial of Feelings
⤷ of prongs and penitentiaries | ao3
• freddie-centric. seddie. Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Romantic Comedy, Idiots in Love, chaotic - Freeform, Emotional Intimacy, Sam Puckett being Sam Puckett, Bickering, food as a love language, Jail, Soft Seddie, Post-Series but make it cozyhurt/comfort if you squint, Mutual Longing (even though they're already dating), Older Seddie, POV First Person
