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faeflowerfeline · 6 years

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Tangle of my innocence

Desperate thoughts, your hope calls you a liar Fear begins to revel Nothing but your will sets you on fire Fire lasts forever

- Under The Ladder, MELOVIN

ao3 version: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14631909

your hope calls you a liar

When Katsuki was young, bruises bloomed like flowers on his skin. He was black and blue and purple and yellow and green, colours with no discernable source, colours that formed in the night and threw aches and pains through his body.

When Katsuki was young, he was constantly in pain.

He grew to hate his soulmate.

When Katsuki was young, he woke up screaming. The skin around his eye bubbled and burst and burnt but never scarred.

(This, really, is what twisted everything from concern to hatred. Someone was bruised, burnt, in pain, but so was he. Whoever his soulmate is cannot find it within himself to care for his health.

It never mattered. Katsuki hadn’t wanted a soulmate anyway.)

He went from bruises on himself to bruises on others, painting people black and blue the same way his soulmate painted him. It’s wrong, he knows this, knows he shouldn’t be doing this. His mom tells him, his dad tells him, fucking Deku tells him.

Katsuki doesn’t care.

(He is black and blue and cracked ribs and intense pain, the shaking in his forearms where he’s overused his quirk and the fires of victory and hatred and anger bright and strong and brilliant in his belly. He is Bakugou Katsuki and he is a winner, he is Bakugou Katsuki and he hates his soulmate, he is Bakugou fucking Katsuki and he will be the best.)

“Katsuki,” his mom says, disappointed and angry and not at all soft - she is loud in her rage. “You know this isn’t right.”

“Kacchan,” Deku says, angry and scared, voice wavering but standing determined and Katsuki hates him, “I’ll never forgive you if you do this.”

“Katsuki,” his father is soft but disappointed all the same. He always feels worse about upsetting his father. “You won’t do this anymore, will you?”

“No,” he replies, quiet and sullen with pursed lips and folded arms; the epitome of teenage rebellion.

“Promise me,” his father says. It leaves no room for argument. “Promise me you won’t hurt people anymore.”

“Fine,” Katsuki says, pointedly looking away when he follows it up with; “I promise.”

He gets into UA with aching wrists and what feels like a broken rib or two. Katsuki just grins fiercer, fights harder, destroys more and more and more until he’s almost calmer and the timer is gone.

The exam was what he knows; violence and fighting, knowledge and power.

He comes first in the entrance exam, first place in the U.A. Entrance Exam, but still; something doesn’t feel right.

(A vague memory of fire and pain flicks through his mind and is instantly dismissed. He doesn’t think about that; doesn’t care about that. He is Bakugou Katsuki, goddamnit and he is winning.)

U.A. is different - loud and bright and practically tasting of power. Katsuki grins, feral and ready and pushes open his classroom door.

The day is a blur from then; of people weaker (fucking Deku) and people stronger, of tests and admiration and growing horror as he realises.

Realises as he watches Todoroki Shouto spread ice over the whole building that he can’t beat him. Realises as he watches everyone in the class try their hardest that they are stronger, better, more than his old classmates.

It scares him.

It’s during the sports festival that he realises - of fucking course it’s him. Heat and pain and bruises are Katsuki’s past and Half-’n-Half shares it; shares it because he caused it, caused every bruise and every burn.

(Endeavor is someone Katsuki had looked up to, but, well, if he tears down his poster, that’s no one’s business but his own.)

It’s with a sinking heart and a raging fire in his stomach that Katsuki fights his soulmate; feeling every hit he lands deep in his own bones. They don’t know he’s hurting himself, of course they don’t.

His soulmate, the fucker, is too much of a fucking pussy to fight back; completely, breathtakingly oblivious to the fact that he’s facing off against his soulmate. Katsuki hates it, hates him, desperately, desperately wants just one hit to land.

None do.

He rages against his metal bindings as he stands first on the podium, hopes deep in his heart that the half-assed bastard beside him feels every chafe and cut and then crushes that hope before it’s fully formed; raging and raging and raging with all the force of a hurricane.

(He refuses to analyse why he wanted to be hit so badly. Refuses to analyse why he wanted him to know. It’s bullshit, everything’s bullshit, soulmates and fighting and the sports festival and his win.)

Every injury his soulmate gets is shown and he hides it, glaring and cursing and doing what he’s done since he was a child - hating his soulmate with everything in his dark, shrivelled fucking heart.

Every injury he gets is hidden just as well; a cracked rib wrapped up under his shirt and ignored, the bruise on his cheek covered with makeup. His soulmate shows them almost proudly like he’s looking for his.

(You found me, he wants to scream, you found me and you didn’t even fucking try, fuck you, you’ve spent your whole life hurting me. He can’t find the voice to.)

It’s during the training camp that his soulmate finally realises, he thinks. Katsuki isn’t hurt, but he doesn’t have the same privacy to change and to hide the small things that he could have before.

(That’s what he tells himself, at least. It’s not because being taken felt like suffocating, losing all air bit by bit until all that remained was the crushing pressure in his lungs and on his skin and the complete and utter darkness everywhere -)

Wide blue and grey eyes meet his own and then there is a glimpse of a bar and then there is nothing.

He hurts himself trying to get out and he hurts himself trying to hurt them, feels cuffs cut into his wrists and straps into his shoulders and his chest; the inspiration for his bindings visibly, obviously, the sports festival.

They offer him a place, he explodes someone in return gets taken and everything swirls, places switching, heroes and villains flashing in and out of focus until he sees - Shitty Hair and fucking Deku and the class fucking president - the kid with glasses - and his soulmate isn’t there.

(It hurts and he doesn’t know why, but he reaches up and he takes Kirishima’s hand regardless.)

The dorms are quiet at one in the morning. Katsuki would have expected them to be louder, with the amount of complete and utter idiots in the class. But they’re almost as silent as a grave would be, to the point where it’s almost disconcerting.

(There is nothing but silence and the time to think about everything he did wrong, every reason his soulmate would choose anyone but him.)

your will sets you on fire

The first time he breaks a rib, Shouto’s only thoughts are that he hopes his soulmate is okay. With every bruise and broken bone after that, it’s the same.

Until his mother pours boiling water over his face and he has no thoughts to spare for his soulmate as his world is consumed in burning, fervid, pain.

Shouto loves his soulmate. They don’t get hurt often - small bumps and scrapes, an occasional persistent ache in his wrists and forearms - and to him, they seem nothing but considerate. Seeing that he’s in pain and ensuring to the best of their ability they do not add to it. It’s something he’s proud of, having such a kind, considerate soulmate.

(His father will beat that pride out of him. Soulmates are worthless, useless, cause you nothing but pain and suffering and anger and they are worth nothing. They will slow him down. Shouto’s last act of defiance comes in two parts: his refusal to ever use his fire; and his all-consuming love for his soulmate, whoever they are.)

He gets into U.A. on recommendations, as is expected of him. He is placed into Class 1-A, with fighters and Iidas and Yaoyorozu Momo, someone he knows and wishes he knew better.

(There is a hope, somewhere, deep, deep inside him, that he will find his soulmate within this class. But there is no one who throws or fights or anything with the telltale hesitance of broken ribs and he gives up on that hope. One of the other classes may hold them, whoever they are - but it is far more likely he will not find his soulmate in his teenage years. Most don’t find them until much, much later.)

He spills his life story to Midoriya Izuku during the sports festival and thinks, perhaps, that it is because he is his soulmate. But Midoriya shows no recognition at his story and he gives up, again, because his soulmate would - would at least recognise the constant beatings that came with growing up with Endeavor, if not the burning pain that comes with a kettle of boiling water over one’s eye.

But, oh Midoriya Izuku regardless is a force of nature - Shouto feels fire welling inside him as it never has before during his fight with him; and he thinks he falls in love just a little - nevermind soulmates.

He fights Bakugou Katsuki next, so much more aware of his father watching on; and he cannot use his fire. Bakugou rages, landing hit after hit after hit and Shouto fights back, but he knows he cannot win.

Next to him on the podium, Bakugou is like a wild animal cornered, chained and muzzled and refusing his medal. Shouto almost feels bad for him.

(He wakes up the next day with cuts around his lips, but he does not make the connection. Bakugou’s are fine, after all; and so what if he was looking at his classmate's lips. He was concerned, after all that happened yesterday.)

He shows all his injuries. Always has. Shouto is a romantic and he knows it - he’s always wished to find his soulmate.

Now, though, showing them almost makes him uncomfortable, as every time he does Bakugou’s glare almost drills holes through his skull. The other boy never shows up injured and Shouto is beginning to think he’s immortal or something.

“Oh, no, he just uses concealer,” Yaoyorozu tells him when he mentions it, “I’ve noticed it rub off a bit before. I don’t think he wants people to know about his injuries.”

Shouto stops questioning it after that.

After Bakugou goes missing, Shouto’s lungs start to burn. They burn as he fights, a dull ache, almost like suffocation, but he fights through it. There is nothing to suffocate him and so it is nothing, but then-

Bakugou bursts out of whatever he was in and takes a breath and all at once Shouto’s lungs lighten-

There’s desperation in his gaze and he locks on to Shouto -

Then he’s gone and there’s a beat before pain explodes in Shouto’s head and he cries out, grasping at his head. When he pulls his hand away, it’s sticky and wet with blood and he realises-

Fuck.

Midoriya screams.

He spends the next few days in a haze - how could he not? His soulmate - god, his soulmate - has been taken and he was right there.

His hands and shoulders and chest ache and bruise at various intervals through the two days between the end of camp and Midoriya’s awakening and Shouto can’t help but wonder - what are they doing to him?

When Midoriya finally wakes up and Kirishima announces he’s going to go save Bakugou regardless of what the pros are doing and Shouto watches as their class splits in half and thinks ‘I have to go’. Because Kirishima is right - it feels like they haven’t done enough, feels like they could have done so much more.

So he goes, but it’s Kirishima who reaches out and that hurts, just a little, but they succeed and that’s enough, for now.

But then Bakugou doesn’t speak to him much, just rubs hands that must be aching the same way Shouto’s do and walks in silence and Shouto thinks that maybe, maybe he was too late or too little; and maybe, just maybe, he’s lost his soulmate.

(He thinks back to months ago, in fights where Bakugou seemed so desperate and thinks that maybe he was trying to tell him. Maybe.)

ao3 version: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14631909

#bnha #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #todobaku #mha #my writing #THE TODOBAKU DISCORD INSPIRED THIS #THANK GOD FOR THE TODOBAKU DISCORD

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celticnoise · 4 years

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So, as we approach the consumerist slavery season, otherwise known as Christmas, it seems that Sevco have finally won their first major trophy and for us the Quadruple Treble dream is over! That’s how it reads, and they must now be favourites for the League and the Scottish Cup and I’ll sure they’ll fancy contesting the January window Mickey Mouse cup again to avenge that injury time defeat by the Brazilian under 12’s … except ….

None of that actually happened.

Because you don’t win cups by having more possession or more shots on goal. This might come as a shock to the hacks and to the Sevco fans but you win them by scoring more than the other team! That is the basic premise of football!

You wouldn’t know it from the commentary since last Sunday.

Now admittedly, Celtic were terrible!

Other than Frimpong, Julien and Edouard, and of course, the magnificent Fraser Forster, no one really turned up but do you know what? I wasn’t really all that nervous throughout the game. I knew we would score.

I’m sure people will already have made this comparison but it reminded me so much of the nineties it was like being there again … but from the opposite side.

Rangers began their nine in a row run the year I started high school so I spent all my teens watching those games and oh man, how painful they were.

We won a few, mostly meaningless, games against them but time after time after time we would play them right off the park with great players like big Pierre, Andy Thom, John Collins, Paul McStay, Di Canio, Jorge Cadete and all the rest playing their part under Tommy Burns and his swashbuckling style of football.

And almost every time we were left heartbroken.

It would feel like we had them on the ropes and Andy Goram would be making utterly ridiculous saves that he had no right to make – the volleys and headers from big Pierre in the 3-3 game stick out. That fat little bigot should barely have been able to walk the length of himself and yet here he was diving the length of the goal and saving point blanks left, right and centre, like some kind of Peter Shilton on springs. Still, you’d think we had to have them.

And at some point that familiar feeling would kick in and you just knew they would score … and they always did. Laudrup, McCoist, Hateley, Gascoigne or someone else would break up the park and bang, that would be it.

We had the rage of being denied various penalties and having clear goals chopped off for offside or would have someone sent off and invariably they would get a penalty to finish it and we’d leave the stadium or pub absolutely devastated.

So many times.

It lay like a scar on my soul right up until fairly recently when we started having fun with them and hammering them 4 and 5 nil on their own ground.

So, last Sunday I knew exactly how they felt and it filled my heart with sweet, sweet joy. When they missed the penalty I knew it was one those days in reverse. I knew the cup was ours and even though our form was off it was one of the sweetest cup wins in a long while.

The difference is mentality and psychology.

They had the beating of us during those dark times before we set foot on the park because the spine of their team didn’t know how to lose. Goram, Gough, McCall, McCoist … those guys expected to beat us every time they played us and we subconsciously expected to get beat.

That thread runs through the fans and the players and the same is true when you expect to win.

This team we have has guys Like Forster, Ajer, Brown, McGregor, Forrest, Edouard and more who have become so used to winning at Celtic they just know how to get the job done. Obviously ability comes into it but it has to be matched with a winning mentality.

Add to that spine of players the likes of Julien, Christie, Ntcham and Frimpong, all winners themselves, and you have a team that is very hard to beat.

Play all the possession football you want but if you’re not used to winning your bottle goes which is exactly what we saw from the moment Morelos missed the penalty. They knew it was over and their game plan started to fall apart as we started to grow in confidence and stature.

Even when 6 minutes was added on I had my cigar lit and was chuckling as the camera panned around all their sad and confused wee faces. It was magnificent.

The media keeps on talking about what the performance of their team means, but in ten years people won’t look back and say ‘oh that’s the cup that Sevco should have won because they had more shots on goal’; no, it’s the cup that Celtic did win because we scored more goals.

Simple!!

The fallout from the game was as predictable as it was hilarious, the calling for VAR especially so! Be careful what you wish for. The billion angles of the ‘offside’ goal were expected, but there wasn’t much of the Morelos off the ball rake down Julien’s calf, and that leads me nicely to him.

Can we put the Edouard v Morelos debate to bed now? The Colombian is a good striker and has scored a lot of goals. His physicality suits Scotland and he will make them a nice profit, if not the obscene one they are counting on.

But he wants to be Edouard though! Everyone does.

Alfredo had what? Ten attempts to score? Including a penalty, and couldn’t do it. Again. Eddie came on, immediately won the free kick that led to the goal then put Mikey clean through for what should have sealed the game.

It comes down to mentality again. Edouard knows he’s going to have an impact. Alfredo hopes he is but every time he fails the doubt increases.

These are the reasons why Celtic have the first bit of silverware and it’s got the whispers started about the possibility of a quadruple treble!

Could it happen? Why not!

I’ve heard Sevco fans respond to this with a comparison of the Burns era, by reminding us that Celtic stopped that team and won the league with the obvious connotation being that they will do the same … but i would remind them that the 90’s comparison stops with those reversals of fortune in derbies.

There was never dominance like this, nothing like. As Rangers chased 9 and 10 the team was dying on its arse. Walter was running out of ideas and that ‘spine’ of their team was coming to an end. But it’s all in front of us.

The season we stopped them they won nothing; the rot had already set in.

This Celtic team bears no comparison to that, we’re young, hungry and not even at the beginning of the end of our successful years. I’m confident that we’ll put them to the sword at Celtic Park and that doubt will continue to gnaw away at them while we cement our relationship with winning things.

So over Christmas I intend to enjoy the football coming thick and fast and I believe we’ll win every point available because that’s what we do.

Across the city, fear and disappointment, rage and conspiracy theories, abound as they try to come to terms with their absolute A-game and performance of the season not being enough to beat our z-game worst display of the season.

It is hard being them, right? It was hard being us back then.

That’s why this is so hilarious and sweet to me.

Ho-ho-ho.

Merry Christmas, you filthy animals.

Chris Cominato is a Celtic fan and blogger from Glasgow. He is one of the CelticBlog Facebook group admins.

Remember, you can still do our Slapping Sevco quiz at the link below … just answer the first question about who scored our first goal against the NewCo …

https://ift.tt/38YdPrA

#CelticNoise #Celtic #CelticFC #TheCelticBlog #News

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