to delete press seven

vikingpoteto  asked:

13 or 14 + Bakushima

thanks for the ask @vikingpoteto!! decided to go with 14 :)


“Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”

Bakugou let his phone drop from his ear. He clenched the phone tightly between his fingers. Kirishima’s words never failed to motivate him.

Only a few years ago, if anyone had dared to say anything like that to him, Bakugou would have killed them. He didn’t need anyone by his side, he didn’t want anyone by his side. He was the strongest and he would win alone.

And then Shitty Hair had waltzed into his life and turned his plan on its head.

There was a knock on his office door. Bakugou placed the phone face down on his desk, marched toward the door, and threw it open. “What?” he barked.

Kaminari stood there, decked out in the latest version of his costume, as unintimidated by Bakugou as ever. He leaned up against door frame, arms crossed. “You ready? Creati and ‘Jack went ahead to check out the scene. I said I’d catch up with them once you were ready…but you’re taking kind of a long time, dude.”

Ever since the end of All Might’s era, hero firms shifted from consisting of a singular hero and a handful of sidekicks to forming hero squads. Chargebolt, Creati, and Earphone Jack made up the area’s second most popular hero firm, right after Red Riot and Explodoking’s Righteous Hero Agency.

If it hadn’t been for Kirishima, Bakugou would have been among the minority of heroes working alone. Kirishima nagged Bakugou about starting a hero agency together all the way back when high school began, but Bakugou hadn’t taken the offer seriously until the nature of their relationship began to change.

By the time they graduated, Bakugou couldn’t imagine doing anything without Kirishima by his side. What kind of a hero was Explodoking without Red Riot?

“Are you okay?” Kaminari asked, snapping Bakugou out of his trance. “I mean, obviously not with recent events but - ”

Slam! The door rattled from the force of Bakugou’s punch.

“I’m fine,” Bakugou hissed, shaking out his fist. “I’m fucking fine, okay?”

Kaminari winced. That pitying look he gave Bakugou made him want to barf.

Kirishima never looked at him like that, not once. Never did he pity Bakugou, not when he found out the horrible things Bakugou had done as a kid, not when Bakugou failed his hero license exam, not when they lost their first villain battle. He never doubted Bakugou’s strength, even when Bakugou began to doubt it himself.

He’s begun to doubt his strength a lot, lately.

“Well, uh, I’ll be downstairs, I guess,” Kaminari said. “You sure you’re ready for this? No one would blame you if aren’t feeling up to it.”

“These are the guys? The ones he was after?” Bakugou asked.

Kaminari nodded. 

“Of course I’m fucking coming,” Bakugou said. He took a step back inside his office. “I’ll be down in two minutes.”

Kaminari nodded again and headed down the hall.

Bakugou closed the door and picked up his phone on his desk. Just one more time, he told himself.

He dialed his voicemail and held the phone up to his ear.

“1 Voicemail from April twentieth.

“Hey Katsuki! I know you’re there and you’re just not picking up the phone because you’re mad at me. Even if you’re just listening, that’s, uh, that’s okay. I just wanted to say - damn, I don’t even know how to say this. It’s like - I don’t even know where to - you know what, I’ll just start by saying I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Katsuki. I shouldn’t have brought up the media thing, I know it makes you mad, and I don’t know if you felt like I was, I don’t know, taking their side?…cause you kinda ran off and everything…but yeah. I’m sorry. You know I think the world of you, babe. I love you. No matter what the media says about you, or our friends, or anyone else. Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.

“To delete voicemail, press seven - ”

Bakugou slammed the phone down on the table and buried his face in his hands. Stupid Eijirou, who just had to go after some villain organization by himself, who just had get himself killed by sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Stupid Eijirou, who encouraged him after he was gone, who left long-ass voicemails that pierced him with the bittersweet sting of a songbird’s last melody.

“Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”

Then why aren’t you here with me now!?

Once he had gained a bit of control over his emotions, Bakugou hurried downstairs to meet up with Kaminari, those words still echoing in his head. Bakugou couldn’t bring Kirishima back, but fuck if he wasn’t going to do something about it. This was his chance. Creati and Jack had finally found the guys that caused his broken heart. Bakugou was going to make them pay hell for what they did to Eijirou. They had no idea what was coming to them. With revenge as the fuel for his explosions, his fists would cause a firestorm tonight. 

Moving on is not forgetting about someone in an instant. It is not as simple as deleting a phone number or burning old pictures. It is not a slam of the door, walking away without looking back. There is no erasure, no wiping away. It’s never a clean break. It’s never a clean slate.

Moving on is pretending not to see his face every time someone mentions the color blue. Moving on is lying awake at night, trying so hard to sleep but you can’t, telling yourself that it’s not because you miss him, you’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine. Moving on is walking past his house and sipping your coffee, trying to focus on how bitter it tastes. Don’t look at that house. Don’t look in his window. Don’t hope that he’s there. Moving on is batting your eyelashes at another boy and trying to ignore the rock in the pit of your stomach, heavy and hard. Moving on is eating his favorite cereal for breakfast but wondering why. You never even liked Cheerios. You never even liked cereal in general. Moving on is fingers hovering over the delete button of a voicemail from twenty-seven weeks ago. You’ll press it eventually.

Eventually. Eventually, you’ll move on. Eventually you will forget what his voice sounded like, what his skin felt like, what his shirts smelled like. No more missing him, no more losing sleep, no more knots in your stomach or in your hair. Moved.

But for now you are just moving. And you will move as slowly as you need, for as long as it takes.

—  Moving On
All That We Needed: Jinyoung Request

Originally posted by jackseunie

AN: I caught some feelings on the way to school, so I decided to share them.

“Hey, I know you must be asleep right now. I just wanted to leave you a message saying that I hope you’re well. I hope you’re getting enough sleep. I know you’ve got a lot going on right now, but I want to make sure you’re okay. You’re okay? Are you taking care of yourself? Give me a call when you can. I miss you. I know I already said that. I’m sorry. I just miss you so much. I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything else to say, just I’m sorry and I… I still… I-I still lo—”

End of message. To delete this message, press seven. To replay this message, press—

Keep reading

Moving on is not forgetting about someone in an instant. It is not as simple as deleting a phone number or burning old pictures. It is not a slam of the door, walking away without looking back. There is no erasure, no wiping away. It’s never a clean break. It’s never a clean slate.

Moving on is pretending not to see his face every time someone mentions the color blue. Moving on is lying awake at night, trying so hard to sleep but you can’t, telling yourself that it’s not because you miss him, you’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine. Moving on is walking past his house and sipping your coffee, trying to focus on how bitter it tastes. Don’t look at that house. Don’t look in his window. Don’t hope that he’s there. Moving on is batting your eyelashes at another boy and trying to ignore the rock in the pit of your stomach, heavy and hard. Moving on is eating his favorite cereal for breakfast but wondering why. You never even liked Cheerios. You never even liked cereal in general. Moving on is fingers hovering over the delete button of a voicemail from twenty-seven weeks ago. You’ll press it eventually.

Eventually. Eventually, you’ll move on. Eventually you will forget what his voice sounded like, what his skin felt like, what his shirts smelled like. No more missing him, no more losing sleep, no more knots in your stomach or in your hair. Moved.

But for now you are just moving. And you will move as slowly as you need, for as long as it takes.

—  still moving
(STILL) Temporarily Untitled Lewthur Fic Project: CHAPTER NINE *fanfare*

Previous Chapter:  Here

HOLY HELL I DO NOT DESERVE THE ONSLAUGHT OF LOVE I’VE GOTTEN BECAUSE OF THE UPDATE.  In all seriousness though, thank you so much to everybody who stuck around for so long.  I will be posted a bit of a life update here soon as an explanation, because all of you (all FREAKING 442 OF YOU HOLY BUTTS YOU GUYS) deserve it.  In the meantime, please take this small token of my immeasurable gratitude.

WORK ON THE NEXT CHAPTER HAS ALREADY BEGUN.  The document is sitting open on my computer, and it will do so until it is done.  I’m also gonna start doing this thing where I put the link to the next chapter at the bottom of the story as well as the top so you don’t have to scroll back for days when you’re done reading to move on.  Shoulda done that nine chapters ago, Crowley, dang.

~

Keep reading

two weeks ago it was six am and i couldn’t sleep so i spent an hour typing out everything i wished i could say to your face
two weeks later it’s six pm and the word love appeared seven times and i called you galactic
two weeks and another fifty minutes later and you are still galactic

two weeks and fifty one minutes later and your smile still makes me weak in the knees
two weeks and fifty two minutes later and i am so tired of crying over you because i know you’ve never cried for me and my hands are dry and cracked from washing my face every hour
two weeks and fifty three minutes later and i’ve written way too many poems about broken hearts and broken bones and you are still galactic
two weeks and fifty four minutes later and you love pretty, soft girls and i will never be a pretty, soft girl
two weeks and fifty five minutes later and i will never forget the way you smell but i will forget how to be in love with it
two weeks and fifty six minutes later and you ask me why i look so sad and i will lie a million times before i say you
two weeks and fifty seven minutes later and i am pressing delete
two weeks and fifty eight minutes later and i am pressing delete
two weeks and fifty nine minutes later and i am pressing delete

—  delete (llb)
Hey

Gail gripped the phone tightly as she held it to her ear. She did not know what time it was in San Francisco. No matter how hard she tried, she could not adjust to the changing time zones. She did know however that it was the middle of the night. That knowledge did not stop her. It had been three months since she had last seen Holly. Three months. Nothing could stop her. She listened to the ring, then to the recorded message, and finally to the beep.

Keep reading