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aimfor-theheart · 4 years ago

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COIN TOSS– PART II

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader

SUMMARY: As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if you’re the first thing he’s fully touched without losing in a long time.

You are Eraserhead’s troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.

(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomura’s trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if I’ve missed anything!)

If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!

A/N: again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing!! and thank you guys for the support and comments on the first part! here is your part two!! it's tomura heavy, but for those who love shouta, there's a lot of him in the final part! i hope you enjoy! let me know what you thought!

i also am obsessed with making playlists for when i write and i spend far too much time organizing it all and making sure the songs blend together so if you'd like to take a look at the playlist i made for this fic, it's here!

Read on Ao3

***

Shouta, like the responsible adult he is, soothes things out with you. Well, it doesn’t feel very soothed to you, but Shouta’s made his position clear and you’ve both returned to some semblance of normalcy.

He keeps his distance.

You try not to overstep, but you’re aching and furious.

(You’re holding a secret, too, letting it tear apart your insides, letting it turn circles in your mind until all you can think about is the chill of rain, the bite of a desperate kiss).

You hate that Shouta has retreated from you now. You hate that he’ll stop his hand before reaching out to touch you, like he always has to make sure, like he has to decide if that will be good for you. If you can handle it.

You feel shockingly alone.

You lash out at him more, bicker and argue over things you never used to. You don’t even know why you do it, can’t stop yourself from trying to dig into him. You regret it every time when all he gives you is impassiveness, levelheaded coolness. An adult speaking with an unruly child. He’s good at that, unfortunately.

Some days you want to beg him for answers. Why can’t you love me the way I love you? Is it me? How would you have me? If I was older? I can be more mature, I can be better and better and better–

His undercover work grows greater, draws him away from both you and Shinsou more. Shouta seems to ghost around your life now, drawn away from you, keeping a very careful space between you both.

But there are nights where he tells you to train with Shinsou alone now. You feel responsible. Mature. You glow with pride that he can trust you with one of his students, that you could be a mentor to Shinsou, too.

You grow closer to Shinsou because of this, too, when it’s just the two of you in the gym.

There is one evening in particular, when you’re both sprawled out on the floor taking a too-long water break because Shouta isn’t around when he admits that he used to be– still is sometimes– feared for his Quirk.

He tells you everyone expected him to be a villain.

“I used to be a thief,” you admit, “I was a petty villain, I guess.”

Shinsou looks at you and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t entirely show it, except for the lifting of his brows. You don’t sense judgement from him, though, when he asks, “Really?”

You take another swig of water, humming in affirmation. You swallow, “I was homeless, had no money, nothing. I was stealing from a supermarket when Shouta caught me.”

“You were just trying to survive,” Shinsou adds, like he’s trying to justify the crime, like it soothes him to know there was a good reason for a misdeed.

“Sure,” you reply, fiddling with your water bottle, “But I stole things I didn’t need, too. Just things I wanted.”

“But you’ve changed,” Shinsou says and you can’t tell if he’s trying to reassure himself or you more. “You’re a hero now.”

“Only because my circumstances changed. I was given a roof over my head, food to fill me. Clothes of my own that fit and weren’t torn. I was accepted.” You explain, “If it hadn’t been for Shouta, I would never have become a hero.”

Shinsou is silent, watching you.

“I’d probably be in jail. Or still a thief, in the least, if any other hero would’ve caught me.”

You don’t know why, but you think of Shigaraki suddenly. You think of how young some of the League of Villains are. You wonder if it had been them who offered you food and a home, if you’d be with them now, and not here, sitting on the floor of a nice, sparkling gym attached to U.A.’s dorms.

Something strange grows inside you, something a little bitter. It simmers with sympathy for them, for their lives. For kids like Shinsou with their villainous quirks. You wonder if he’d been poor, if he’d been alone, would he be here, too? Or somewhere else?

“But you were good before,” he says, and it almost feels naive, “I know you’re good.”

You shrug, “Good is relative, you know? I thought I was good because I didn’t kill people, I didn’t steal from other poor people, but society didn’t think I was good. I was still a thief.”

“But you were only a thief because you needed to survive.” he says again, “When given the chance, you changed and became a hero.”

“Exactly.” you say, “How many villains do you think just needed a chance?”

Shinsou goes silent now. His brows furrow in thought, pinching together in a way that makes him look a little too old for his age. You think all of the kids at U.A. grow up too quickly, all of them with too much on their small shoulders.

They’re only kids.

You’re barely older.

Shigaraki is barely older than you.

You push him out of your mind, toss your water bottle aside, and rise to your feet again. “C’mon,” you offer Shinsou your hand to help him up, too, “Shouta would kill me to know I let you lay around so much.”

This seems to pull him from his thoughts and he snorts, taking your hand.

You pull him up. And you both stare at each other a moment. You think he looks at you in a different light now and it isn’t bad, no, he seems to be pondering you more.

(And you’ll realize later that he’s become more sympathetic, that he sees you in villains now, reminds himself they’re people, too, with lives and needs and wants–)

It gives you a strange hope, as you begin to train with him again, to know that he’s the future of hero society.

***

Tomura spots you while he’s out stealing with Toga. Usually it’s Twice or Magne with her, but Twice was onto something else and Toga had decided to latch herself onto him for the day. He’s grown to tolerate her.

Besides, she’d managed to steal him a jean jacket, dark, rough, and worn with holes but it keeps him warmer while still being able to keep the hood of his sweatshirt up to hide himself. To blend in. She’d stolen herself something, too, as the weather begins to get colder and they still don’t have a base, wandering aimlessly.

(He feels stupidly responsible for them. But he’s learned good leaders are, in some way, responsible for their people. They don’t have to care in any way that is emotional, but they have to care in some way, make the group feel important to them. And begrudgingly, they are important to him–)

You’re with a boy around Toga’s age. Wild violet hair. You’re laughing at something he’s saying and you’re sharing street food, he thinks, something that’s warm, steaming up into the air.

He feels a vicious surge of jealousy for a moment. It’s so sharp and jarring that he reaches up to scratch at his neck, tearing into his skin.

But the boy looks too young and you tousle his hair like he’s a younger brother, not someone romantic. While there’s familiarity between you two, it’s not overly intimate.

Toga, unfortunately, follows his line of sight.

She looks between him and you. She tilts her head and Tomura can practically see the gears turning in her strange little mind.

“Do you know them?” she asks, almost innocently.

He doesn’t know why, but he says, “Just her.”

Toga looks back at you. She watches as you talk with the boy– the sun through the autumn leaves cast you in tangerine light, all golden and warm.

When she looks back at Tomura, a smile creeps onto her face. One that he knows is going to give him a migraine.

“She’s so pretty,” she trills, eyeing him too closely.

Tomura scratches at his neck again, harder, wincing a little when he feels a cut reopen.

“Do you have a crush, Tomura?” Toga sings, dancing in front of him to force herself into his line of sight.

“No,” Tomura snaps, bristling, which only seems to encourage her.

“Let’s say hi!” she says, about to bound off and Tomura catches her by the scruff of her jacket like a kitten. He’s wearing his partial gloves, but he still keeps a finger away from her.

“No,” he hisses, firmer now, pulling her back towards him. “They’re heroes. Don’t get distracted.”

Toga twists in his hold, wide-eyed for a moment, before her face settles into another enormous and excited smile. “You’re in love with a hero, too?!”

Tomura grits his teeth, snarling out, “I’m not in love with anyone.” He shakes her then and she yelps a little, “Now focus. We need food and I don’t want to deal with them.”

Toga finally squirms her way out of his hold, pouting at him, “You’re no fun.” she whines and all he does is shoulder past her. He stalks ahead, trying not to look at you again, if only to not draw your eye.

“Do you want to starve?” he asks waspishly, glancing at Toga over his shoulder.

She huffs, rolling her eyes, before hustling to catch up to him. She hums a strange little tune the rest of the time, knocking into his side, throwing him new looks as if to suggest they share some sort of commonality or secret. He grits his teeth but suffers through her torment.

When they return to the rest of the League with what they’d stolen, Toga announces to the whole group, “Tomura is in love with a hero, too!”

The migraine that had begun earlier in his temples reaches full force now. He doesn’t bother trying to deny it. He decides he doesn’t care.

Dabi’s laugh grates on him, though, “Is that so? Which little hero?” he asks Toga, and just as she’s skipping past him, he snags her, snatching the granola bar she’d had in her hand from their little raid.

She turns to grab it back and he pulls it out of her reach, “I don’t know! Give that back!” she squawks, clawing at him.

She must really dig at him because Dabi hisses, “You little twerp–” Just before Magne snatches the outstretched granola bar from Dabi’s hand. She hands it back to Toga, who quickly rushes off with it now.

And thankfully, for Tomura’s sanity, you’re not brought up again.

But he hadn’t noticed you– hadn’t noticed the way you’d seen him with Toga, too. Just a girl Shinsou’s age, following after him like an eager puppy.

Shinsou had trailed beside you like that, too, when you’d both walked back to U.A. with full bellies and new coffees in hand, warm and content.

***

There is a night where Shouta is out doing work undercover and you’re left to patrol on your own. You can’t take Shinsou yet, since he hasn’t earned his provisional license. You don’t mind these nights, by yourself, when you stick to shadows and rooftops, watching the city from above.

It’s cooler now and you tuck your face into the high collar of your hero uniform to hide from the wind that brushes past.

It’s been a quiet night so far. There are other, flashier heroes patrolling, too, meandering around the sidewalks to deter petty crime.

You check the time on your phone, noting that you have a little less than an hour until your shift is over, until you can go home and take a hot shower in an attempt to warm yourself up– especially your fingers, the tips of your ears.

You stretch, standing on one of the low roofs of a building. You’re stiff from crouching, so you decide to move around, change position. You use a grappling tool to shoot it onto a higher roof of the next building. You scale the bricks easily and once safely up, retract your grappling hook.

You look out over the quiet city, the golden light of lampposts, the meandering of cars through the streets. Some restaurants and bars are still open, their windows look warm and inviting with the flush of people inside.

You waste most of the last hour of your shift trying to remain warm, keeping a careful eye on the world below.

Towards the end, you notice a familiar figure in one of the alleyways down below. You don’t even see his face, just the back of his hoodie, just the angle of his shoulders.

Just the way he walks.

The thought should frighten you– that you know him like this, that you’re familiar with just the movement of his body.

Shigaraki Tomura walks away from the soft light of the main city, slips away into alleyways and darkness. You glance at the time. Your shift is nearly over.

This counts as hero work, doesn’t it? Silently following after him?

You drop down onto a fire escape– leap off to latch onto a lower window sill, until you’re dropping silently on to the ground a distance away from him.

You are careful to keep away from him, to use everything Shouta taught you about stealth to remain hidden. And you know Shigaraki is observant, you know he’s always looking over his shoulder so you have to stick to hidden places– behind dumpsters, ducking into alcoves of buildings.

He heads back to the part of the city you grew up in, where everything is falling apart, where there are plenty of abandoned buildings for hiding, plenty of places for runaway teens and homeless to sleep. The cheapest apartments, the streets that are the least patrolled by heroes and police alike, where parts of the Yakuza groups are bolder.

These streets are familiar to you. It’s a strange trip down memory lane.

You think of the last time you saw Shigaraki and flush darkly– it was around here, too, what happened that night.

Still, you follow him because you think you still have some upper hand. Maybe he’ll lead you to the rest of the League of Villains. For a heartbeat, you wonder if you’ll tell Shouta, if you’ll tell the Hero Commissions– you’d have to, right? That isn’t some little squirmish. That’s important information.

But he doesn’t lead you to the rest of the League.

He leads you to an apartment building, small and falling apart on the outside. A window is boarded up poorly. There are stray cats that linger around the side, where the trash is. You’re sure there are rats and bugs, too. You’re sure the building is one bad day away from falling apart.

Shigaraki pauses by the door that is nearly falling off its hinges.

He glances over his shoulder, “Are you following me in, too?”

Your heart kicks up, hammering against the inside of your chest. You swallow hard, internally cursing.

For all your effort of stealth, he still noticed you?

Well, there’s no use lying about it now.

You step around the corner you’d been hiding behind, moving towards the glow of a street light that flickers in and out of power to reveal yourself fully to him.

“When did you notice me?” you ask, peering at him, at the shape of him in the dark.

You catch the lifting of his scar when he smiles, just a baring of teeth, “I saw you on the roof.”

Damn, you curse again, you’ll have to work on that, “That bad, huh?”

He shrugs gracelessly, lifting of his shoulders only for them to fall unevenly, “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known. You were silent otherwise.”

It feels like a compliment– a generous one, coming from him. You don’t know why you have to hold off a smile.

He turns back to the door, shouldering it open. He walks through the archway without another word. He leaves it open and it seems there is no light on the inside, just a blackness that swallows up your vision. He disappears inside.

You stand there, beneath the light that flickers in and out, eyeing the doorway. You could go now, run back home to Shouta, to the Hero Commission and tell them you think you know where he stays, you have a lead on him. You look behind you, glance at the alleyway you came from with it’s’ dull, fluorescent lights that splash against the concrete, that barely fight against the shadows.

You look back towards where Shigaraki had been, the entrance to the building.

You’d probably even get extra little hero points for it from the Commission.

Shouta would be proud of you.

For bringing them to this dilapidated, shabby little apartment complex that rests on the streets of the place you used to call home.

You swallow hard, flex your freezing fingers.

Then you step towards the doorway, peer inside carefully. You hold your breath and the door creaks quietly when you cross it’s threshold, into the darkness.

Tomura is mildly surprised when he hears the door creak behind him. He can feel you, even in the dark of this hallway, the tentative steps you take after him. They’re almost shy.

But you followed him, didn’t you?

You followed and followed and followed him– and of course you did, he thinks, you had kissed him back, hadn’t you?

He supposes you could be playing a part, trying to get close to him but his intuition tells him differently, not with the genuine reaction you’d had. Your sudden guilt for giving in to him. Still, he’ll be careful around you.

He’ll probably have to move again, which would be a shame, since he has already killed the tenant of this apartment– he’d been sure they wouldn’t be missed by anyone, made sure he’d have time. He did the work to get it, thought he’d have it for just long enough until the League made another move.

He almost wants to test you, see if you’re going to run and tattle on his location. He wonders how far you’re willing to follow him.

Tomura walks steadily down the hallway, to the apartment he has taken claim to. He unlocks the door, hands in his partial gloves, shoving it with his shoulder to then enter. He leaves it open for you.

The apartment is a studio, shabby and the heat isn’t amazing, but it has hot water and a lack of bugs in this particular room. It has furniture– a bed, specifically, was all he had cared about. There’s empty wrappers of food and cans of energy drinks on the counters because he doesn’t really bother to pick up after himself but otherwise, the space isn’t his. There’s nothing else of his, besides some spare clothes on the floor.

And still, you follow him here, too. But you stand at the doorway, peeking inside.

He glances at you and is reminded of a fox, something with clever eyes but wary, a little skittish– would bite if he got too close too soon.

So he gives you space, just like he let you leave.

If there’s one thing Tomura has learned, it’s patience. Any good plan takes patience. The reward is always sweeter. The longer and harder the level, the greater the wins.

He ignores you, puts even more distance between the two of you as he wanders further in. He flicks on lights. He takes off his shoes, shrugs off his jean jacket and throws it over the couch. He gives the appearance of carelessness, of letting his guard down. Non threatening.

And you take your fist shy step inside. The door behind you remains ajar, though, for escape.

Tomura has to fight a terrifying smile, fight the sudden twisting in his heart, the inhale of his breath.

“I don’t know how wise it was of you to bring a hero to your home.” you finally speak, cutting through the silence. You’re trying to be witty, but he can tell you’re nervous.

“This isn’t my home,” he answers.

Home, with it’s round and warm syllabus, is not what he thinks of this place.

You eye him some more, but before you can respond, he says, “I don’t know how wise it was of you to follow a villain into his home.”

“I thought it wasn’t your home,” you quip and he only gives you a dry look.

Your bravado is wavering, especially when the door clicks shut behind you, your hand finally falling to your side.

And the two of you are sealed away from the outside world.

“Why did you bring me here?” you ask him and your voice is deceptively quiet. Small.

“Why did you follow me?” he asks in return.

You inhale like you’re trying to steady yourself, “Because I’m supposed to.”

Tomura smiles now, something lazy, almost amused. He knows it’s a lie, can feel it slide along his skin, can see the floundering, desperate look in your eyes.

“Why did you follow me?” he asks again, forcing himself not to move, not to step towards you in his budding excitement. Patience, he tells himself, be patient.

“Why did you kiss me?” you ask instead and the question is raw, as if it’s plagued you, haunted you like an insistent ghost. Crept around in the back of your mind, growing teeth and fangs and spindly, lampshade bat wings large enough to terrify you.

The idea that he’s taken root in your mind in the same way you have infested his is near dizzying.

Tomura weighs his answers carefully. He’s silent for a long moment and it’s heavy, charged with something that he can’t name– has never felt before.

When he speaks, his voice is just a rasp of breath, a little more honest than he’d like, a touch annoyed with the truth, “Because I wanted to.”

Another long stretch of silence where you watch him carefully, where he can see your chest rising and falling too quickly. He can see that frightened look in the rounding of your eyes, the high flush in your cheeks.

And when you speak again, it’s hardly louder than a whisper, like it’s all you can manage,“Do you want to kiss me again?”

It is far too gentle of a question for what he wants– it almost feels innocent, juvenile. Out of place between the two of you. But he’ll take it, he’ll take whatever you give him and then some.

He takes a step towards you. You don’t flinch away so he takes another, then another, until he is standing in front of you. You’re close now– so close that he has to force air into his lungs. He reminds himself of patience, of waiting–

He could take whatever he wanted from you now, he supposes, but he doesn’t want to have to wrestle you for it. He wants it given freely, he wants you to kiss back, like you had before. He wants you to willingly submit and it’s taken longer but it’ll be sweeter, so much sweeter.

“Are you going to run away again?” he asks and he can feel his heart quicken, the squeezing of it awful and tight.

You look up at him in a way that reminds him of his dreams, the ones he pretends to hate, where you make those small, soft noises. Where you let him touch you and taste you and have you.

And you shake your head no, just fractionally, the barest hint of movement but it’s enough for him.

The force of his kiss slams you back against the door. You make a surprised noise against him as he crushes himself to you. It’s just as violent as the first, but this time you take back what he gives. You get your bearings quicker, like you’ve learned a lesson already. He grins into the kiss, opening it, when he feels your little hands clawing at his shoulders, at his back.

He groans when you part your lips for him, when you lick tentatively into his mouth. He possesses you, bears onto you, pinning you to the door as his hands, still gloved, curl around your sides, your hips.

Your hero costume is tight, fits the curves of you snugly and in a way that’s making him nearly insane. He isn’t careful, doesn’t care if he’s moving too fast now as his hands roam and grab and squeeze. There’s layers between you, he naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

One of your hands tightens in his hair, pulling when he bites your bottom lip.

But you don’t seem to mind, either, with the way your breath is hitching, with the way you’re trying to pull him closer, desperately fuse him to you.

Your lips are so soft, he notices, even with the forcefulness with which you’re kissing him back.

It feels surreal for a moment, like one of his dreams, when he parts from your mouth only to slot his lips against your jaw, your neck. A whine is loosened from you, which breaks when he sets teeth to the vulnerable line of your throat.

Your hands are in his hair still, body arching into him eagerly. Youthful in your earnestness.

You’re better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, so alive and rosy and warm beneath his hands, beneath his mouth, which is making a mess of your neck. A particular hard suck over the sensitive line of your pulse makes you pull at his hair.

“Don’t leave a mark,” you hush and he thinks you meant to sound more threatening, but it’s softened by the desperation in your voice.

He scoffs into your throat, dragging teeth roughly along your skin.

“Shigaraki–”

“Tomura.” he corrects without thinking, finally pulling away to look at you, which is almost a mistake because you–

You’re flushed, lips kiss stung and pink, all swollen. Your head is tipped back, exposing the column of your throat, hair mussed with being pressed to the door so roughly. Your eyes are hazy and fever pink with your Quirk activated, like spring flowers, glowing in the low light.

He thinks of paintings and colors and dreams, something like beauty, if he knew anything about that.

And he’s so hard it hurts, teeth grinding together as he looks at you because he can’t even fucking stomach this feeling.

Then you repeat his name for him, “Tomura.”

He’s never heard his name like that, bedroom soft, more of a lullaby and less of a tragedy. He feels like he’s going to shake apart, his body to become just old ruins– he feels as if it’ll collapse inwards, topple over to crush his heart.

Where he’s usually seething and livid and clawing ruthlessly, the festering feeling in his chest is replaced with a new energy; something bursting and squirming and warm. His Quirk lies dormant and docile inside of him with your hand in his hair, your other now at his neck, fingers pressing lightly at his jaw.

It’s terrifying, he realizes, to not feel his Quirk at the edges of his fingers.

(It’s freeing, too, he’ll come to find, to not feel it’s weight, it’s demand that had been encouraged and shaped in him.)

You’re both trying to catch your breaths, looking at each other now. His fingers, still gloved, flex and squeeze at your waist, like he’s scared you’ll run off again.

You inch forward instead, rock onto the tips of your toes to press your lips to his again– softer this time, but no less heated, no less desperate.

He thinks you must be starving, too, with the way you pull him close. His mouth slants over yours, demanding more, a little rougher.

You squirm against the door, the slightest rocking of your hips– he can feel it against his thigh, against his waist. It makes him hiss out a breath against your lips, makes him grab harder at your waist, force you to do it again, harder this time.

You whine and it’s the snapping of his patience.

He reaches for the zipper at the back of your hero uniform, gives it a rough tug, pulling it down some. And then you’re pushing at him, nudging him away from the door and it’s a flurry of movement as you yank at his hoodie while he pulls at your clothes. You’re both stumbling further into the room, towards the bed pushed back into the corner.

Tomura feels young suddenly– feels his age. He feels like a twenty something year old with a girl in his apartment who wants his hoodie off. Who's kissing him hard in between every article of clothing that manages to come off.

He sits back on the edge of the bed to ease the rest of your cat-suit down. He watches with interest as you wiggle your hips to help him get the fabric down over you– and it’s nothing romantic, he doesn’t kiss the newly revealed skin, he doesn’t gently run his fingertips over you, but you grow shy under his gaze.

You’re still in undergarments, athletic slips of fabric, but his eyes fly over your face. You’re nervous, he can nearly feel it, with the way you shift, with the way you catch your bottom lip between your teeth and worry it.

A thought strikes him.

“Have you done this before?” he rasps, hooking his hand in the crux of your knee to drag your forward so you nearly fall into his lap.

“Yes,” you grit out, arms coming up to his shoulders to steady yourself. “Once.” you then shakily exhale.

He doesn’t particularly care– your answer wouldn’t have changed how he’d treat you. He’s not going to be gentler nor slower because you’re less experienced.

“Have you?” you ask, eyeing him, fingers nervously toying with the ends of his hair.

“Yes,” he says, perhaps too sharply, but he gives no other information and you don’t press him, which he’s thankful for. He doesn’t have the patience for useless questions.

Rather, he pulls you down harder, so your bare thighs finally settle into his lap. He slides his gloved hands up the notches of your ribs to hitch beneath your bra. That comes off, too, and then he’s got his hands on you more. You gasp, arching into his touch when his fingers curl around a breast, fingers roughly brushing over the peak.

He doesn’t think anymore, just acts, just moves and does as he pleases. All the things he’s done in dreams or in his mind– he sets lips and teeth to your breast, tongue laving over your nipple. He forces your squirming still with an arm banded around your torso, keeping you flush to his eager mouth.

You yelp in pain when he uses his teeth too roughly, trying to jerk away from him but you can’t with his hold on you. He grins, mouth opening, spit slick and wet against your breast again. He groans against you when you pull on his hair.

But then he twists you, throws you down onto the bed only to crawl over you. He yanks at your panties just as you pull him down for another kiss– maybe to distract yourself, to settle your nerves. When you pull away, you’re on your back and he’s over you, your legs hitching over his narrow waist. His hands are on your thighs and you–

You suddenly grab for his hands.

“Take off your gloves,” you get out, breathless, and before he can respond, your fingers are sliding against his wrist, up to his hand, beneath the glove and against his palm.

It makes him shiver, makes him grit his teeth. You pull off one, then the other.

For a moment, he just looks at you all spread out and bare for him, his hands now open and uncovered, too.

You squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.

“C’mon,” you coax and he thinks you’re trying to find your bravado, “Touch me.”

There’s nothing between his hands and your skin now and he settles his palm on your stomach, beneath your breast.

He naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

“Tomura,” your voice is pitched, almost pleading, “You’re not going to hurt me– c’mon.”

He tenses for a moment, eyes flashing over your face. For a moment, his heart stumbles, he grows wary. He thinks of you slipping away beneath his touch, falling away into nothing and all he’d have is a bed of ashes.

But your eyes are bright with your Quirk.

His final finger comes down. Nothing happens, except you smile a little, except you arch up into his touch– alive and vivid and furiously warm.

He feels like he can’t breathe, can’t even function.

He catches a groan behind his teeth, falls forward as his hands become feverish and possessive, suddenly confident, suddenly brash– touching and squeezing and grabbing at you.

His teeth clank with yours as he tumbles into another kiss. You’re needier now, making those higher pitched noises that used to haunt him.

It drives him insane, makes him feel half feral, overeager and desperate. His fingers wander lower, seeking and searching, just as the kiss grows in intensity again. It’s messier, all open mouth and tongue.

When he pulls away, a string of spit connects the two of you and he lets more of the saliva pooling in his mouth drip down with it, letting it fall between your open lips, some on your bottom lip, too. It’s depraved and dirty and his eyes simmer as he gazes down at you.

Your face scrunches up as you go to wipe at your mouth, and he hates it because all he can think of is how cute that face is.

“Gross,” you mewl, but his fingers finally move between your legs and–

And all he finds is that you’re hot and slick for him.

He has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.

But you nearly cry at the touch, a pathetic little noise, hips jolting like you’re not sure if you want to go towards his touch or away.

“Gross, huh?” Tomura asks, voice low, the pad of his finger sliding easily, teasing you slowly before he goads, “Why are you so wet then?”

He sinks a finger in suddenly– just because he can. Just because he wants to watch your face screw up again, which it does, your mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut.

“Hm?” he hums, amused with the way you’re gasping beneath him. He starts a slow but deep rhythm and–

And he’s had sex before, a handful of times, but it’d always been for him. He hadn’t cared how the other person felt, hadn’t cared to try and get them off. But now he suddenly wishes he had learned, if only for you, now. He wants you as obsessed as he is, wants you to feel as maddened as he feels.

Thankfully, you’re so expressive. And he doesn’t have to worry about his fingers. He can find the spot inside you that makes you toss your head back into the sheets and moan for him, he can focus on the way you keen when he finds your clit with his thumb.

You’re a sensitive little thing, clawing at his bare shoulders, whining into his neck. He forces in another finger and you start rocking your hips, growing more desperate until–

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Fuck, I’m going to–”

He curls his fingers harder, watching your face as you fall apart, as you try and twist and squirm beneath him. He forces you through it, isn’t gentle, but selfish, wringing everything he can from you.

And when he’s finished watching you whimper and feeling you flutter and gush around his fingers, he takes them out only to force them between your lips.

Once more your face screws up, but you close your mouth around them and he groans low and raw. You look hazy, drooling all over his fingers, lashes fluttering prettily.

He uses his other hand to fumble with his belt, to work his pants down low enough for his cock, aching so bad that he swears he’s going to go insane–

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, watching the mess that comes with it, so wet and slick and shiny. He can’t help the growl he gives, before covering his mouth with yours again.

As you kiss, sloppy and desperate, Tomura slides the head of his cock against you and you’re so slippery and soft and molten for him that his next moan tapers off into a whine.

You pull away fractionally, “Shouldn’t we–”

He thinks maybe you were about to ask about protection of some kind, but he shoves inside you hard, breaches your body and watches as your eyes roll back, just about to cross as your nails turn sharp against his back.

You moan, low and drawn out.

He can’t help the absurd laugh that is wretched from him, his head dropping onto your neck as he snaps his hips forward. He can’t believe he’s actually gotten you here, in his bed, beneath him– let him inside where you’re so warm and soft.

“Fuck,” you gasp, maybe laced with pain, clawing at him, raking your nails down his back.

“Does it hurt?” he hisses, excited, his teeth coming down to close over your exposed neck.

“Yes,” you get out, almost a whimper, “Feels good, too.”

He snaps his hip forwards roughly, grinding deep as he laughs again when you just about sob into his shoulder.

You latch your teeth onto the vulnerable juncture between his neck and his shoulder, where you’d already laid claim to him once before.

He wrestles for your wrist, the one he broke, and forces it down onto the bed.

“Look at you,” he almost snarls, voice low and gravely, “Little hero letting me fuck her.”

You gasp when he angles his hips, when his other hand reaches beneath you, to fist a hand in your hair and pull so your neck is arched and exposed to him.

“I used to dream of this,” he admits roughly, the confession like a curse being spit out of his mouth, “Wanted to stalk you or possess you or–” he groans because he can feel how you’re throbbing around him, how slick you are for him, “Wanted to fucking ruin you–”

He pulls at your hair more, tries to get you to look at him through your wet lashes. The flash of pink meets red and his smile is more a cruel bearing of teeth.

“And you feel so much better than I dreamt– fuck, so much tighter–” he babbles as he ruts into you hard and quick. You keen, high and broken, just as he feels you flutter around him again and he almost loses his mind because–

“Are you going to fucking come again?” he growls, pulling harder on your hair.

“Yes,” you groan, “Please, fuck, please, c’mon–” your voice is high and wrecked and all he has to do is angle his hips a few more times before you’re shattering, nearly breaking apart, squeezing down on his cock so tightly that he shudders, that he let’s go of your hair just to focus on his own pleasure.

He doesn’t even realize he’s drooling into your neck, not as he loses his rhythm, as he shoves himself as deep into you as he can and comes hard. Pleasure races up his spine, turns him white-hot and sensitive, making his eyes roll back into his head, too.

You’re both breathing hard when he collapses on top of you. Your fingers, which were once scratching down his back to cause sharp shooting pain, are now surprisingly gentle, slipping back into his hair.

You squirm, fussing slightly– no doubt sore, no doubt aching with him still inside you but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to.

He mouths at your neck, feels you sigh, before he moves to cover his mouth with yours again. He kisses you languidly now, slow and deep.

You’re making breathy little noises against him, content and surprisingly soft, your other hand tracing over his side.

(He doesn’t like how much he enjoys this part, the afterglow, all that violence slipping away, expelled from you both–)

Tomura feels his cock twitch inside of you again, feels your hips arch up a little, and before he knows it, he’s moving his hips again. It’s a slow rocking, your lips still attached to his, heated and gentle.

“Gross,” you say again, just a breath against him as he fucks his cum further into you, feels himself harden, feels the mess he made of you. But you still hitch your leg over his hip, pull him deeper into you.

He grins lazily against your lips, “You like it,” he says and it’s not a question, rolling his hips until he gets you to shut your eyes and moan against him.

“Yeah,” you reply, nudging your cheek against his, rubbing like a cat until he returns the gesture. Until he’s humming because he’s sensitive and you feel so good, better than anything he’s ever felt in this miserable fucking life–

You whine a little, ‘Touch me again?”

He doesn’t deny you for whatever reason, doesn’t even have something smart to say as he slides his hand down your torso, down to where you’re both slick and connected. He rubs unpracticed, messy circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re sighing.

He’s no expert but he doesn’t really care and you don’t seem to mind this time, either. It’s unhurried now, lazy.

This time your peak is a fluttery, soft thing, and he watches as you gasp, as you blink away tears. She’s pretty, he thinks, feeling stupidly young again, she’s pretty like this. Like his dreams.

Tomura spills inside you again soon after, groaning against your collarbones, and this time you force him to slip out of you. Force him to lay beside you as you both catch your breath again.

And he’s not expecting it, but he has the vicious need to be close to you, desperately wants to feel your skin against his. It’s a new feeling– usually after sex, he wants to be as far away from someone as possible. Usually he can’t leave or kick them out fast enough.

But there’s something about you now, hazy and pleasure-drunk, fucked out and dazed, that makes him want to stay close. Maybe it’s just that you’ve soothed all the festering that usually squirms in his chest. Maybe it’s just that you’ve made everything in him quiet for once.

He expects you to find some sort of your regret now, he’s sure that you’ll feel guilty, collect your clothes and go. But you don’t. You stay in bed with him. And it’s strange but he knows he wants to touch you, so he does. He doesn’t deny himself, why would he? He’s always taken what he wanted.

He curls around you, shivering a little with the skin to skin contact after the fog of sex has cleared from his mind. His hands slide over you, touch you fully and without restraint because he can, because you won’t disappear beneath his touch.

And for a moment, as he traces along the dips of your waist, he thinks maybe you were made for him– cut from his rib, isn’t that how the story goes?

He doesn’t know, only that there’s no one else in the world he can touch like this.

You’re surprised.

You’d figured after Tomura had his fill of you, he’d kick you out, send you away. You figured you’d feel guilty, that you would rush out of here and try to wish the whole thing away. But your hero suit stays on the floor and you’re still in his bed.

You didn’t think he’d be a cuddler, you assumed that he wouldn’t want nor care for any sort of contact after. But his arms are wrapped around you now, one of his hands sliding curiously over the curves of your body. All five fingers down, pressing into your skin.

But you suppose, for someone who has to be so careful with touch, that he would like this. That he might want this. You wonder if he ever gets to touch anyone like this, if he ever allows himself intimate touch like this– tender and for no other reason than to soothe or comfort.

You get the impression that he doesn’t, that touch is just a means to an end for him; sex is probably just an itch to scratch. You can’t imagine that he’s very relaxed or enjoying himself when he’s worried about decaying the person he’s with.

But all his crackling, restless energy now seems subdued, sated, as he walks his fingers over you. His hair tickles your bare skin as he nudges closer, nose running along your jaw.

Once more, you feel your age. You don’t feel like a hero, but just someone young, maybe on the cusp of being old. He looks young now, too, with his vivid eyes shut and relaxed, nothing to crease his brow. He doesn’t seem like a villain, either.

You brush a finger over his cheek, touch lightly at the scratches beneath his eyes, drag your thumb down to touch the scar at the corner of his lips.

His eyes flutter open to watch you, half lidded, squinted almost like a cat.

But he allows you to run your fingers over his face, doesn’t protest or jerk away from your touch.

No, his eyes fall shut again. He lets out a deep sigh that you think he has held inside him for years.

He doesn’t have a gentle face, but one that shows it’s angles and sharp edges, the scars and cuts that trail down onto his neck. You’d noticed some on his chest, too. Proof of an uneasy life lived, proof of violence and pain.

You imagine he’s seen horrors, kept them trapped inside for fear of letting them spill out, like maybe it’ll be as gruesome as the memories.

His body hasn’t been handled gently, you can tell, with it’s indents and scars and scratches. You don’t know who was the last person who touched him without wanting to hurt him. And you shouldn’t but you think of yourself when you were a child– desperate for love and affection, desperate for any scrap of attention like the scavenger you always were.

Maybe still are.

So desperate that you’d end up in the bed of your enemy– all because you couldn’t end up in the bed of your ally. So hungry that you’d eat out of a hand that has harmed and killed and destroyed.

Hands that haven’t known gentleness, a body that hasn’t known peace. But he’s being gentle with you now, isn’t he?

So you try to give gentleness to him now, too, with your careful touch. You keep your fingers kind and sympathetic.

Even your own eyes drift shut for a moment, still tracing idle patterns into his skin.

You only slip away from him for a moment, to use the bathroom, to clean up. Your reflection in the mirror looks strange; raw and flushed with color. Honest in a way that makes you turn away.

You slip back into bed with Tomura, let him latch onto you again. You drag your fingers gently over his ribs, over his sides.

You let your eyes fall shut, too.

There’s a sudden, loud buzzing from the floor that cuts through the quiet, which makes your eyes startle open. It’s insistent and you realize after a moment that it’s your phone, caught up in your hero suit on the floor.

You never came home after your shift. You curse softly, almost certain you know who's calling.

You squirm out of Tomura’s hold again, which he huffs at in irritation, but eventually allows you up.

“Where are you going now?” he asks, annoyed, when you climb out of bed to find your phone. Once found, you hold it up to him.

It’s still buzzing in your hand, lit up with Shouta’s contact.

You think the guilt should hit you now.

It doesn’t and that’s what you feel worse over. You swallow hard, frown down at your phone.

(Horribly, you even feel somewhat spiteful, as if you’re trying to prove something to Shouta. Maybe to yourself.)

You don’t answer.

And then you see the several texts from him, wondering where you are. They’re all bland, but you can tell he must be worried. It’s unlike you to not tell him where you are.

“Are you going to leave?” Tomura asks and there’s something strange in his voice, something you can’t place.

“Do you want me to?” you ask in return.

He doesn’t answer right away. But he does eventually give an annoyed drawl, “Do what you want.”

You take that as a no, don’t leave, since you’re certain if he wanted you gone, he would’ve told you.

You send a text to Shouta;

Sorry. Staying with an old friend for the night. Be back tomorrow.

It’s not unheard of, for you to spend time with an old friend from the foster care system.

You get a dry “okay” from him in response. You fight the urge to roll your eyes for some reason, tossing your phone away again.

You end up staying the night with Tomura Shigaraki, one of the most wanted villains in all of Japan.

Its not romantic— he isn’t sweet or funny or caring. But he holds you tight, leaves no room for distance. And it is the first time you’ve ever slept with someone like this, tucked away into a bed, bare, and wrapped up in each other.

Is this what it always feels like? You press yourself into the crooks of his body. You wonder if you’re supposed to fit this well together.

And it’s the first time since his Quirk developed that he hasn’t needed to wear his partial gloves to sleep in fear of decaying something.

He won’t admit it but it’s the best he’s slept in a long, long time.

You won’t admit it, either, but you think you could get used to this, too; this closeness, being held as if you’ll slip away, being held like he doesn’t want you to.

The morning brings rosy sunlight that slants through the windows. Neither of you talk much. You try to tell yourself this won’t happen again, can’t happen again.

But you had kissed him goodbye before you’d left, like he was a boyfriend and not a criminal, and you’d been in a surprisingly good mood for the rest of the day.

Like you had a crush, puppy love you never got as a teenager because you were too busy trying not to starve, only to realize you’d been starving in other ways, too.

But you’re sugar soft and excitable, dropping into bed that night alone, and allowing yourself to admit, in the quiet and privacy of your own thoughts, that you wish you were in his again.

***

One time turns into two which turns into three which turns into so many times you’ve lost count. That little, rundown apartment that isn’t really Tomura’s has turned into another world entirely, some harbor away from the rules of society. It’s almost too good to be true, a dream, a place for a secret as bad as this one.

When you’re here, you don’t talk of heroes and villains. You urge him not to; you think you’ll keep some part of your innocence in this affair if you don’t actually know anything about him or the League of Villains. You’ll feel too guilty, if you know any part of their plans and don’t tell Shouta. And telling Shouta anything about Tomura is beginning to feel like a betrayal, too.

You don’t know anything substantial about Tomura Shigaraki and that’s the way it needs to stay.

You know he likes sour candy, though, and drinks too many energy drinks– they’re sickly sweet and you think kissing him might make your teeth ache. You know he likes video games but no longer has a console. He has trouble sleeping at night. You’re familiar with the scars on his skin, the jagged ones across his neck, the one on his lip. The beauty mark on his chin. You know his moods; from the prickly ones to the downright vengeful ones. You even know the calmer ones, the quiet, contemplative ones.

(In this way, he seems like a normal twenty-something-year-old. In the quiet moments, when you’ve convinced him to watch a cheap horror movie on the tiny, staticky TV in the apartment, he could be anybody. When he’s got his bare hand up your shirt as someone onscreen screams and begs for their life, he’s not the heir to an underground empire. He’s just Tomura, with his face buried in the crook of your neck).

He pretends to get annoyed with you, huffs and scoffs against your lips when you’re being cheeky. You wear his worn down hoodies, slip your thumbs in the holes at the sleeves. He eyes you when you wear them, pulls you to him by the collar.

(He likes to fuck you in them– pushes the hoodie up your stomach to watch you ride him. But he likes things bare and raw, too. Skin to skin. So close it’s terrifying, so close you feel like he’s trying to tear you apart from the inside out. He likes it dirty, you think, because it makes it more intimate.)

You soothe him. You know you do because when he’s festering and angry, all it takes is your hand on his wrist, pulling it away from his neck. Sometimes, when he can’t think straight and there is too much on his mind, he forces you to lay on top of him until his breathing slows and his head is clear.

He can’t talk to you aloud about what’s plaguing him, but you must quiet some part of him. He likes to use you to think, runs his long fingers through your hair as you lay atop him. He pets you until his thoughts aren’t as jumbled, but smoothed out and sharp. Or until he doesn’t want to think anymore at all and he drags you into languid makeouts that always end with him surrounding you, inside you, possessing you.

You bicker sometimes, flash your teeth to make his eyes spark ruby and excited. Mostly, you act your age with him.

You don’t know when his birthday is or where he grew up. You don’t know what his childhood was like or what memories shaped him, don’t know where he’s been or where he’s going to be. You only know him now, in this moment, in this little world you’ve created for each other.

He’s what you imagined first boyfriends are supposed to be; excitable and often immature but fun and new. You never had the luxury of first loves, just odd first kisses with strangers and an uncomfortable loss of virginity with a friend of a friend of a friend who jammed his tongue too far down your throat. You hadn’t had anything stable until–

Until Shouta.

Shouta has grown suspicious of this old friend of yours and how much time you now spend with him.

He questions you about him and you wish you felt worse for lying. The rebellious part of this affair is thrilling, though. Feels like you’re sixteen and sneaking out from under your dad’s nose to be picked up by the boyfriend you’d know he’d hate. Feels like swiping liquor too young and getting sick off it, smashing the bottles and laughing with your friends because sometimes things just need to break.

“Will you at least tell me his name?” Shouta had asked one morning, when you’d let yourself into his apartment after another night at Tomura’s. You had your own hood pulled up around your face to hide the rose blossom hickeys against the skin of your neck.

He’d still poured you a cup of coffee. You’d watched his careful, large hands as they made it the way you liked it.

You’d given him a lie, fed it to him the way he feeds you breakfast, “Shinta. Are you happy?”

He’d slid the mug to you, let you catch in the cradle of your palm. He’d shrugged, but you think his eyes had flashed to you, “You know you can bring him around, right? You don’t always have to go to him.”

You’d had to bite back a painful laugh. It wasn’t funny. It had hurt strangely in the pit of your chest.

You had shaken your head, tried to brush him off, “It’s not like that.”

“Alright,” he’d said, but he hadn’t believed you. “You’re training alone with Shinsou again tonight, I’ll be busy with a job.” Then he’d given you a stern look, “And don’t cut it early to go see Shinta.”

“I’ve never done that!” you’d protested, perhaps a little too defensively. But it was true, you’d never do that to Shinsou, wouldn’t dream of it. The only time you’d cut training early was to share takeout with Shinsou, not ditch him for–

This comment had rubbed you wrong, scratched up against something abrasive and surprisingly fragile inside of you. Maybe because he was questioning your dedication which already felt so flimsy, even if he hadn’t been entirely serious, even if maybe he’d just been trying to take a dig at you. At this new boyfriend.

Shouta had grown cold then, shrugged impassively, took his mug of coffee and brushed past you to keep getting ready.

It had angered you enough to bring it up later to Tomura, when you’re falling into his lap and he’s squirming his cold, fluttery hands beneath your shirt to touch skin, to make you hiss through your teeth.

His lips tilt into a small smile as you fidget while he warms his frigid fingers on your body.

“Eraserhead asked about you yesterday,” you tell him, letting your nose brush against his, “Told me I could bring my friend around– don’t always have to go to him.”

Tomura snorts, eyes falling half-lidded when your lips skim over his. The night is plum dark, presses into this little apartment that’s tucked away from the world.

“How’d you get out of that one?” he asks, fingers walking over the dips of your spine. He likes tracing the bone beneath your skin, likes making you shiver.

“Told him it’s not like that.” you respond, your own hands wandering to his neck. You're careful over the ridges of flesh there, skim lightly to get to his jaw.

“No?” Tomura asks, pulling you closer, pressing his chest to yours, “Don’t want to bring me home to meet Eraserhead?” he sneers and there’s something underneath his voice, lurking, with its hackles raised.

You think maybe it’s jealousy, the same flash of his eyes like Shouta’s when he’d said Shinta.

But then he kisses you deep and drags your hips against his, forces a warbly, surprised little moan from you.

Most of your thoughts melt away then, most turn to something base and desperate, all desire and need. You can’t help but think about it, though, how you can’t ever take him home to Shouta. You can’t ever expect anything more than whatever stays in this room. He kisses you hard, your teeth clinking against his like clashing with the truth of it all.

There’s no happy ending here.

It’s like smashing bottles because sometimes things just need to break.

***

Tomura thinks you would be a good edition to the League of Villains.

You’re clever and capable. He comes to find you’re not just a good thief and pickpocket but an excellent one. You swipe everything from his pockets, right from under his nose, just to play with him. You’re stealthy and sharp; he could use someone like you at his side.

Your Quirk could be useful, though he doesn’t like the idea of you getting so close to people while in battles. You have a reckless streak, but he thinks he could temper that. All you need is a little guidance.

You were a thief once. You give him clues of your past; you didn’t grow up like the other heroes, didn’t come from a warm home with dreams of saving the world. Your head wasn’t filled with fantasies of rescuing the downtrodden. You were the downtrodden. And you learned that there was no one who was going to save you, except yourself. So you stole and fought and survived a world that was willing to forget you.

You’re like him, a very quiet part of him thinks, no one saved you. Not until you were too old, all grown up with sharpened teeth and claws, eyes that see in the dark. That could be now used and extorted by the heroes.

He thinks they’ve leashed you, taught you how to sit and stay and sic ‘em.

He wonders if he’d have gotten to you first, if you’d be with him and not your heroes.

Tomura doesn’t dwell on it, though. He refuses to imagine it. What would be the point? It didn’t happen.

Besides, he is certain he is capable of slowly swaying you to them still. You possess a startling amount of compassion for villains which, perhaps wouldn’t help you as a villain, but that’s fine.

(You’d have him. No one would touch you if you were at his side. You could be as stupidly compassionate as you wanted.)

You meet members of the League with him by accident, times when Toga and Twice’s meeting with him overlap with you arriving. Toga goes on endlessly about you, it seems. Dabi drops by once in the middle of the night, bloody and demanding a place to sleep because he’s tired of sleeping on the streets.

It’d been one of the more insufferable nights, perhaps one of the worst ways for Dabi to find out about you. You’d already been asleep, cocooned beneath blankets and Tomura’s body, just in one of his loose shirts.

Tomura had already been lying awake, listening to your even breathing when he’d heard the handle of the door shake roughly. He’d gotten up then, slipped into clothes, melted into the darkness by the door and waited for the intruder to try and step inside.

The lock had been picked.

He had nearly decayed Dabi by accident before realizing it was him.

A ridiculously quiet but terse argument had ensued then, before Dabi had asked, in a regular speaking voice, “Why the fuck are we whispering?”

Tomura had almost winced when he heard you stir from the bed before your small, sleepy voice had murmured into the darkness, “Tomura?”

You’d said it too soft, too sweet. It’d been for his ears only and something about Dabi hearing you, seeing you, being in this space that had been for you and for him had made Tomura suddenly livid.

He had watched Dabi’s mouth fall open in shock before you’d switched on the bedside lamp to flood the room with artificial, golden light.

Dabi’s face had been near horrific in the light, one side of it all bloody, the stitches mangled or falling out. Part of his face almost looked like it was melting, his eye squinted shut with the damage.

But he’d thrown his head back and laughed when he’d seen you, sitting up in the bed, blinking sleepily at them. Tomura hated a lot of things, but he’d hated nothing more than the sound of Dabi’s rasping laugh in that moment.

You’d narrowed your eyes when you had realized who it was.

“I had no idea you had it in you, Tomura.” Dabi had said.

“Why the fuck are you here?” Tomura had hissed instead, fighting the urge to tear into his neck, fingers twitching agitatedly.

Dabi had gestured to his face with a lazy flourish, “I need medical attention and I’m crashing on your couch.”

Tomura’s teeth had ground together, “Get. Out.”

“No, I’m sick of sleeping on the streets when you’re here playing house with your little hero bitch–”

Before Tomura could even react, though, you had found the small supply of first aid from beneath the sink in the tiny bathroom. You had come up beside them near silently and offered it up, asked, “Do you want help?”

And there it had been– that compassion of yours. Even for the likes of Dabi.

In that moment, he’d wondered how you had ever survived with it. He’d thought that you’d lose your hand if you kept extending it.

Dabi hadn’t let you touch him but you’d gotten a cool rag for him to clean up the blood, watched as he tried to patch up the wound. It was made worse by a mangled staple in his cheek, jutting out strangely.

“Does it hurt?” You’d asked but with the way you were looking at him, at his marred skin up close, Tomura could tell that you weren’t just referring to this one injury.

Does it hurt? You’d asked, like you were asking if it all hurt. You weren’t just seeing a singular part of Dabi, but a series of tragedies that was proudly presented in large, rippling scars against his skin.

“Of course it fucking hurts,” Dabi had spit out, all venom and bitterness. But you hadn’t even flinched.

Tomura had tried to kick him out again once his wound had been treated.

“It’s fine,” you’d said, resigned, tired and rubbing at your eyes.

(Later you’d shrug and tell him, I know what it’s like to not have somewhere to sleep).

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Dabi had drawled, already pulling off his heavy boots, prying the coat from his body to toss onto the floor. “Just don’t do any weird shit.”

And you’d gotten back into bed with Tomura, fit yourself against him, ducked your head down beneath his chin and pressed your hands against his sides, felt the notches of his ribs.

Sometimes he wonders if you can feel the missing one, the one you took from him, the one you’d been made out of.

It had occurred to Tomura that either you didn’t fear Dabi or you trusted him enough to know he’d never let Dabi harm you while sleeping.

Both were acceptable to him, both would aid him in converting you. And they were true, too. You shouldn’t fear Dabi, especially not with him around.

Tomura had brought his hand up then, suddenly covered your mouth with his large palm, letting all five of his fingers come down against your pretty face.

You’d furrowed your brows in confusion, not fear, which made something inside of him grow warm and hungry.

Then he’d slid his other hand down your body, between your legs, just to spite Dabi.

He’d watched as your eyes went wide in the dark, cheeks flushing beneath his hand. He could feel his smirk, smug and sharp, fitting across his teeth like a muzzle.

You’d tried to shake your head, tried to squirm away from his touch, but he’d been persistent and soon enough you were sighing against his hand, melting into the bed he pressed you into. Soon enough you were trying to hold back whimpers, all slippery and soft beneath his fingers, silently begging with your eyes.

He hadn’t denied you that night; no, you were being good, walking the steps he wanted for you. You were moldable and sweet beneath him so he’d give you what you wanted.

He watched in satisfaction as you came hard around his fingers, face scrunching up in that way he loved, fingers easing you through it. He was gentle with you then, taking his hand away from your mouth slowly, letting you nudge closer and cling to him.

(He loved when you clung to him).

You’d wanted so much affection that night and he had indulged you, letting your nose brush against his, or rubbing your cheek against his chest while his fingers wound through your hair.

You’d fallen asleep all tied up in him.

The next morning, you were gone before Dabi even woke up.

Dabi had asked, “What the fuck are you doing with her?”

“Mind your business,” Tomura had snapped, fingers already seeking out his neck again when they couldn't find you. He hated that he wanted your presence so badly now. (Hated that he missed you, but he would never say that, never even dream of it). Then he’d added,“And find someone else’s doorstep to show up on.”

Dabi had scoffed, “Whatever. Just don’t get distracted.” He’d pulled out a cigarette from his jacket still on the floor then, much to Tomura’s annoyance, and lit it with a spark of his fingers. Smoke curled into the air with his first drag. “I’m not about to watch all our efforts fall apart because you wanted to play Romeo and Juliet with some braindead little hero.”

He’d torn into the skin of his neck then. Wished he could tear into you instead.

“Violent delights and violent ends and all that shit,” Dabi had said then, his smile just a curled stitch, smoke pouring from his lips, evidently amused with himself.

But Tomura has never read that play and he doesn’t know anything about poetry in the same way he doesn’t know anything about art or beauty, just that you’re the only thing he’s bothered to compare to a painting.

***

You put Tomura into your phone as Shinta and when you’re too busy to visit him between missions and training, you text him. Though short, he is surprisingly witty over text, something that has you biting back grins and distracted, feeling like a schoolgirl as you try to hide the screen of your phone from the rest of the world.

You grow distracted with hero work, with Shouta. You pay less attention to your life at U.A. You don’t visit Shouta for lunch as often. You haven’t spent a quiet night with Shouta in weeks. You tell yourself you don’t care.

It’s better than fighting with him. It’s better than trying to beg for his love and affection.

Early tomorrow morning you’re supposed to shadow Shouta on a brief mission.

The Hero Commission is trying to train you into espionage and underground work, trying to mold you in the shape of Shouta.

But at night, when you’re alone in your bedroom, tucked away into your own apartment and not with Tomura, he calls you.

You let yourself say his name into the receiver of your phone, hushed and excited.

He doesn’t say I miss you or when will I see you again?

He says, “Touch yourself.”

And you don’t say I miss you, too, or hopefully soon.

You do as he says, let your fingers fan out over your stomach like they might be his. You listen to his breathing turn ragged over the phone. You moan softly for him.

You do what he says in the navy dark of night, bite back frustrated whines because you’ve gotten too used to his touch.

“–Wish it was you, fuck, it’s not fair,” you gasp, tilting your hips up into your fingers desperately.

You can hear the hiss of breath he takes, “Did I ruin you?” he croons into the phone lowly, his voice slithering through to you, making your thighs clench. “Can’t even touch yourself without needing me?”

You groan, high and defeated, fingers slipping against yourself. You’re aching and empty and bereft without him, “Yes, yes–”

He rambles about what he’s done to you, almost seething by the end, when he demands you tell him that you’re his, that he’s the one who made you this way. He’s the only one who can soothe you now. You need him.

He isn’t wrong, you realize, when you still aren’t satisfied after your climax. When it doesn’t feel as good as when you’re with him. You realize you hate sleeping alone now. You miss the press of his body to yours. You coo into the phone about it, lay on your stomach, arms curled around your pillow with your ear still to your phone.

It never gets overly sentimental. You don’t want to scare him, especially as you grow terrified of your own feelings. It doesn’t feel as fun anymore, you realize, only because your attraction to him has now grown serious.

Your crush has grown teeth and claws, ready to tear apart the vulnerable, fleshy parts of you.

But he talks with you until you fall asleep, phone still in hand, heart still on the line.

***

There’s a stray kitten that hangs out around Tomura’s apartment– he thinks there must be a colony of strays in the area, since it’s not the only one. But this one is scrawny, just a messy tuft of grey fur. It’d be sleek and pretty, if it wasn’t so malnourished, if it wasn’t missing clumps of fur or full of scars and scratches.

The kitten likes Tomura a great deal for some reason. It rubs itself against his legs, follows him around outside of the apartment, much to your utter delight.

You coo and fawn over it, scoop the little thing up into your arms and hold it up to Tomura’s face.

He hates it, the face you give him. The face the kitten gives him. He hates that the corner of his lips twitch upwards.

“He’s so cute,” you gush and he can hear now that the little thing is purring furiously in your hands. You wiggle the cat a little bit in front of his face and Tomura finally reaches up to stroke the back of his knuckles against the kitten’s head, if only to appease you.

Your smile is crooked– an excited curve of your lips, your eyes alight.

You’re always so expressive and he used to be livid about it, wanted to teach you a lesson in the worst way possible, but now he just wants to keep you from learning them.

He has to turn away from you at the thought, heads towards the door of the apartment building. You follow after him dutifully, coming up to nudge against his side. He’s become too comfortable with you there, knocking into his elbow.

You’re still smiling down at the kitten in your arms and he wants to look away because some part of this is starting to sting.

The kitten is excitedly looking around, green eyes all round and bright. It’s purring happily.

“Put it down, it’s not coming in with us.” Tomura tells you, his voice rough and soft.

You stop in front of the door with him. Your bottom lip pulls out into a pout. Your eyes get round like the kitten’s.

He gives you a cold stare.

You hug the kitten tighter to your body, “C’mon,” you whine, “It’s just a baby.”

“I’m not taking care of a cat.”

“I’ll take care of it!”

“No,” he responds, harsher, voice a little sharper.

Maybe, in the beginning of this little affair, you would’ve headed the warning in his tone, but now you don’t even bat an eye at him.

“Yes,” you respond indignantly.

You both glare at each other. The kitten’s purr still rumbles on.

Tomura can tell you’re not giving this one up, he can tell by the set of your jaw, the way you’re clinging to that little creature. There’s a determined flush to your face. Your eyes are bright and fiery.

All over this little stray.

“You’re a brat,” is all Tomura says and you take that as a win, because your face immediately morphs, brightens up completely. You duck past him, into the apartment building with the kitten cradled in your arms.

He heaves a deep sigh, following in after you. “I’m kicking it out when you leave.”

“Don’t be mean,” you reply, waiting at the door, and the irony is not lost on him. He comes up behind you, his chest to your back, crowding you against the door.

“I think you need to remember who you’re speaking to,” he says, his voice just a rasp against your ear and maybe at some point, it would’ve sounded threatening, but now you just lean back into his chest. His heart beats against the curve of your back.

Something soft is growing between the two of you, he can feel it. It has no place here, though, in this world. In the two of you. His ugly infatuation with you, all that anger and vitriol he had for you has melted, turned spring soft inside of him after an unforgiving winter.

He unlocks the door, he lets you in.

The kitten ends up coming and going. He opens the window to let it in and out, let’s you feed it. You call it Ryuji. It lives partially in this new little world the two of you have built.

He thinks of it like the pause screen in a video game, somewhere to return to when he’s frustrated or tired or done. Idle, soft music and the freezing of his screen. A moment away from the turmoil or struggle of the game.

But he’ll have to unpause eventually.

He can’t stay here forever, he knows it, but he just has to be sure he plays it right– he doesn’t think he’ll be able to start over this time, with you.

And he wants you there at the ending, at his side like in his dreams.

The ones where it’s all in ruins, the world nothing but his, destroyed, but he gives you his hand to have, and you take it in yours to hold.

***

The distance between you and Shouta stretches and grows until it snaps in the form of a blowout argument. Which, is mostly just you, shouting, crying furiously, and Shouta stone-faced and cool.

It had started with an offhand comment from him about how you’re not focused anymore. You’re getting sloppy. You’re distracted. And usually, you take his criticism with a stiff upper lip and a determined glare.

But you and Shouta haven’t been the same since you tried to kiss him.

You blame yourself, maybe, but part of you feels angry with him, too. Bitter. You thought, in some way, he reciprocated your feelings. He’d acted like it. And when he’d rejected you, he’d pulled away, been more careful with you.

(You wonder if this proves your point, that he was toeing a line with you then.)

And maybe your lies are starting to eat at you, too, starting to rot away on the inside of you. If you focused on them too hard and all that Shouta’s done for you, you think you’d start crying every time you looked at him.

But Tomura has also thrown all you know into question. And you’d already been critical of the life you were afforded by becoming a hero.

You look at all of Shouta’s students and you just get angry. You look at Shinsou, so determined to prove he can be a hero, that he’s good and you are livid. You look at Toga, with her villainous Quirk. She’s near Shinsou’s age and something about it just makes you ache, it makes you sick.

You look at her and see who she could’ve been as a hero– you wonder if they would’ve stuck her in espionage, with the likes of you and Shouta. You wonder if she would’ve gone to U.A. You wonder what it would’ve taken to change her fate.

Even Tomura, you look at him and in the safety and privacy of your own heart, you dare to wonder what he would’ve been like if he hadn’t been a villain.

(He could’ve been a rescue hero, you think, and he could’ve decayed debris to save people. This version of him lives in the quiet, tentative parts of you. It grows soft and underground, a seedling that has sprouted on the inside of your chest, and one day you think this little dream of yours will grow so large inside of you that it’ll breach skin and show the world it’s horror.)

It feels like a coin toss, almost, like the difference between a hero and a villain sometimes is one flip away from changing.

You don’t bother to wonder what would’ve happened if it hadn’t been Shouta that found you, but someone like Tomura. Or All For One. You know if you’d been given somewhere to sleep and a warm meal, you would’ve done what they wanted.

You wish you could say you were a noble, starving person, that there was something shining and golden inside of you. But all you were was starving.

Shouta says you’ve been underperforming lately. He says he’s considering limiting the nights you patrol until you can get it together.

The Hero Commission was supposed to come observe you to see if you’d progressed enough to begin accepting your own missions. He tells you he doesn’t think they should come any longer. It feels like a dig, too, like he’s reprimanding you somehow.

And you snap, “Well maybe I didn’t want them to observe me!”

He looks taken aback for a moment, before he asks, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know! Maybe I’m tired of being observed and used and watching all of these kids be observed and sought after and–”

“Alright,” Shouta sighs, and it makes your teeth grit because he sounds like he’s trying to parent you, “It’s one thing to be upset yourself, but I don’t see how this has anything to do with these kids.”

Your nails dig into your palms as you try to find the words to get him to understand you.

But he speaks before you can, almost patronizingly, “Clearly, you’re struggling through something, so it’s probably a good thing we’ve put this off.”

Tears well up hard and fast. It hurts to be dismissed like this. It hurts to look at him, to think that he’s a part of the ever growing issue that has been itching beneath your skin. You’re a part of it, too, but you have the sudden urge to run. To get out.

Still, you swallow down all of that turmoil and say, “I hardly know what I want now, so how do you expect children to know that they want to be a hero?”

“What is this about?” Shouta asks.

“It’s about the Hero Commission and U.A. and the entire fucking system. That’s what it’s about.” you seethe, looking up into his eyes, trying to find something there.

“It’s not just about you?” he asks, unperturbed.

“Why can’t it be both?” you respond, trying to keep your voice from going high, from going hysterical. There’s so much you want to say, so much that it’s making you sick, that it’s turning your stomach. “I’m– I’m barely older than them!” you say, because all you keep thinking about is how they’re just kids. And you were just a kid. And at one point, Tomura was just a kid.

He’s barely older than you. Closer in age to Shouta’s students than to him.

“I didn’t invent the system,” Shouta says and he sounds weary, “I just try to give my students the best opportunity at surviving being a hero. I try to teach them everything to keep them alive.”

They’re just kids! You want to shriek, kids that were chosen or forgotten or accepted or shunned.

Looking in the face of the system now feels so massive that it’s hopeless; a system that produces shiny heroes from children with their perfect and acceptable Quirks and discards the rest. Even you and Shouta, with your Quirks that aren’t as flashy, are pushed into the shadows to do the Hero Commissions business. And what business is that? You have to wonder their intentions, too, with all the money that’s pumped into it. Into all of these heroes. A system that forgets anyone who doesn’t fit into it’s perfect mold.

“But you see how it’s wrong, right? And just because you didn’t invent the system doesn’t mean you get to throw your hands up!” You say, voice raising.

Shouta levels you with a cool look. He lets loose a sigh. “What would you like me to do?”

You don’t have an answer, it’s too big of a question.

(You see the appeal suddenly, in wanting to get rid of it all, in destroying it since it’s such a mess.)

But you hate his aloofness, you hate that he doesn’t care. You hate that you feel crazy.

“I don’t know!” you shout, tears finally falling down your angry and flushed face. “I don’t know!”

“Are you done?” Shouta asks and it makes you want to scream more. You just want a reaction from him, you realize, you want something more than his impassiveness. You think of trying to shout more, to try and say something cutting or powerful or enough to make him wince.

But nothing comes to mind and you’re just stubbornly trying to keep back a sob.

So you shoulder past him, rush out of his apartment, rubbing at your cheeks and trying to keep back your hiccuping cries.

You have every intention of going to Tomura’s.

But you realize when you’ve nearly made it to his door that it might be foolish to go to someone like Tomura with tears in your eyes. What is the leader of the League of Villains going to do? You have a feeling you might just get your feelings hurt more.

So you pause, rub at your eyes again, try to dispel all the turmoil inside you. It doesn’t work, so you turn away from him, too, and you start moving.

Your feet carry you to the train station, carry you across town, to a warehouse you used to vandalize and hide in when you were young and alone.

You haven’t been here in years.

It feels strange, loping around the side of the building. The alleyways are cast in garnet light with the fading sun. It makes it look prettier than it is. You enter through the same hole in the wall that you used to when you were young; you’re bigger now, though, need to duck lower, curl yourself up to get through it.

You think of yourself scurrying around, knowing the ins and outs of this dilapidated building the way most children know their childhood home.

It’s strange, stepping back into a place you haven’t been to in years. You know, in some way, it has to have changed. It’s falling apart more, there’s larger holes in the ceiling, letting in auburn light, setting everything ablaze. There’s a lot of debris; from torn tents to discarded sleeping bags to spare junk, it’s all spread out throughout the place. Graffiti covers every corner of the walls. You used to look for a face painted in pink, it’s eyes dripping down it’s face in the back corner of a wall. When your eyes slide along all the artwork, it’s nowhere to be found now. No doubt covered up by the years, but you know it’s there, somewhere beneath all that color and paint.

There are a lot of empty bottles, glass laying around that crunches beneath your shoe.

You pick up a glass by the spout, watch as it catches in the light, murky gold and sunkissed.

You feel small again, fragile like the bottle in your hand. You stopped crying at least, but all that’s left is the aftertaste. Just the lingering frustration, the bitter aloneness that settles over you as cold as Shouta’s stare.

Your fingers squeeze around the glass, curling tight, before you suddenly hurl it at the wall.

It bursts on impact, explodes into thousands of shining, glittering pieces that spark in the sun.

It feels good, so you pick up another glass– this one’s mint green, pretty like the sea, reminds you of spring and the stems of flowers.

It breaks prettily, too, the sound ringing and sharp in your ears, your eyes trying to catch all the splinters of it. It explodes in the light. It’s cathartic, letting all your aching frustration and hurt rush out with each breaking, with each smashing.

You don’t get through many more, not before you hear footsteps behind you.

You can’t say you’re surprised to find Tomura, but you can’t say you were expecting it either. Quickly, you turn away, try to school your features. You try to rub at your eyes again, as if this will somehow dispel damp lashes and splotchy cheeks.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask, but there’s no bite to it as he comes to stand beside you.

He doesn’t answer.

You think he might be, but you can’t find it in you to care.

The sound of the distant city is just a hum between you two. Glass sparkles on the floor like stars in the fading, ruby light.

You turn to face him, don’t bother trying to look up into his face, just shove yourself into his chest. You bury your face into his hoodie, rubbing your cheek against his chest. “Creep,” you mumble, “What are you doing here?”

His hands come up, one at the back of your head, the other along your back. He has his gloves on. Not that it matters.

“I followed you from the apartment,” he admits and his voice is quiet, but it seems to echo in this open space. Then he says, “You should be more watchful.”

“Don’t start,” you grumble, letting your fingers curl in his jacket, “Been scolded enough today.”

The hand at the back of your head tugs at your hair lightly, lifting your head from its hiding place against his chest so that he can look you over carefully.

The light casts him in maroon and russet, saturating him, making the dark of him stand out sharply. It makes the silver of his hair seem peach, brands him in all the sun’s honey and whiskey glory.

His eyes are vivid, maybe the most true shade of red you’ve ever seen in your life.

He takes in your face, perhaps your bloodshot eyes, your damp lashes. You aren’t a fool; you’re certain he can tell you’ve been crying. You have the urge to squirm away, to try and hide from his gaze.

But all he asks, in a surprisingly gentle tone, is “What happened?”

You shake your head fractionally, “Nothing. Got into an argument, that’s all.”

He hums lightly, tracking your expression. You want to glance away from him, but he holds you still for a moment longer.

When you can’t take his scrutinization any longer, you ask, “Wanna break some shit with me?”

He lets you go finally, let’s you step out of his arms despite not responding. You pick up another glass, this once an icy blue that reflects light that reminds you of the color of morning skies.

You watch as it explodes against the wall, flashing like a little firework. Glass rains down onto the ground, some of it flinging up into the air or back towards you. Tomura pulls you away from it by the back of your jacket, yanks you back into his chest as glass shards fly past you.

He glares at you somewhat and you can tell he wants to scold you, but he doesn’t. You squirm out of his grasp to do it again.

Glass showers down as you break another bottle. It rains in shards of tangerine and pale yellow, bright pops of cherry in the light. It feels good, to watch it all burst apart in the sunlight, like watching little stars burst and explode at your hands. It’s so pretty, for such a violent act.

You hand a bottle to Tomura, offering him the chance to also act out. Instead, he pulls off one of his gloves– tugs it off with his teeth, the glint of sharp white against flesh pink. You watch fascinated for a moment, catch his eyes, blazing and barbed.

When he takes it with all five fingers, you watch as it first cracks in your palm, before fluttering away into dust. Into nothing.

You make a face, “That’s not as exciting as breaking them.”

He rolls his eyes, but you catch the way the corner of his lips hike up. He takes another glass, this one icy silver, caught peach in the honey light, though. He keeps a finger lifted away delicately as he lifts it up to the beams of scarlet sun that flare through the rafters.

And in that fiery patch of dusk, with the glass reflecting iridescence onto the angular plains of his face, your heart gives a violent lurch, like it’s trying to burst free from your chest.

I think I love you, you think, unbridled, and so suddenly that it feels as if the thought has slammed into you the way a body might fall from the ledge of a roof.

I think I love you, you think again, because you can’t quite believe it, as he lobs the bottle at the wall. It fractures into a thousand little beams of glass and light, like an exploding comet. You feel as fragile as that, like he’ll do the same to you. Maybe you’ll be nothing but shards by the end of this, nothing but dust slipping through his fingers.

He turns to you, no doubt to say something snarky, but you’re already taking quick steps to him. He doesn’t get the chance to speak, not when you collide with him, hard and reckless, throwing yourself up onto your toes to kiss him with a new violence.

He makes a surprised noise, soft, but catches you otherwise. His hand is already up, worming beneath your clothes to press chilled fingers into the bare skin of your upper waist. He likes the way you hiss into his mouth, and you like the way they dig roughly into you. He forces you closer, melds his mouth to yours, rough at the edges, slick and warm at the center as the kiss blossoms into slow simmering heat.

And by the end of it all, when the light has given way to violet darkness, the press of indigo shadows that stretch tall in this abandoned warehouse, there is too much glass on the floor. Everything is shattered or decayed. Your lips are stinging from sharp-toothed kisses and the desperate press of his mouth to yours. You’ve turned molten, fallen apart the way glass does.

You walk home together, hand in seeking hand.

Your eyes flush pink with your Quirk, brightening up in the dark.

You knock into his side like you’re a kid, eagerly trailing beside him. He has the hood of his sweatshirt up, hidden, as you rush into the next train back to the part of town that holds the little, distant world of his apartment.

You sit beside each other on the train, knees pressing into each other. He leans over to crowd you against the cool glass as the world streaks past you in a wash of darkness. He ducks his face to yours, his hood hiding the both of you from any onlookers as he seers his mouth to yours again.

You feel like a teenager, kissing in front of strangers, beneath the flickering light of the train car. You feel young and reckless, letting him have you like this, while the city burns like a blurry halo behind you. But you feel older, too, older and in love, like you finally know the secret of the universe, the one that every adult knows and has only learned in the burn of a kiss, in the messy squeezing of your heart.

He licks into your mouth slow, you curl your small hand into his worn hoodie. If people stare, you don’t know, don’t care.

He pulls away from you, forcing you up when your stop is announced, leaving you a little dazed and dizzy, but you eagerly follow after him. Your hands bunch into the back of his jean jacket. You stumble behind him a little, feet tangling with his as you duck beneath his arm to come to his side.

Ryuji finds the two of you on your walk home the closer you get, follows you both inside, happily chirping at your coos. But he paws at the window to be let out again a short time later, after you’ve fed him something. Tomura opens the window for the cat, but not before you catch him rubbing a knuckle against the kitten’s fuzzy cheek, brief but gentle.

You think he likes Ryuji more than he lets on. You think he loves all this more than he lets on.

Tomura takes his time with you that night, surprisingly languid for once, like you’re not on borrowed time. Like this is an entirely new planet, a version of the two of you that is not bound by pasts and future expectations. No strings puppeteering you both, no invisible hands holding you both back.

He pulls you down into his lap, to sink onto him, fill yourself with him as you please. You twine your arms around his slender neck to pull him close, eyes half lidded and pyretic pink, fiery and soft with the way your Quirk reacts to his. It always hums somewhere inside of you, brushes against his until it quiets, until he’s soothed and relaxed.

“Do you feel powerful?” he murmurs against your lips, eyes flickering up to find yours.

The question takes you by surprise for a moment, pulling away fractionally from his parted lips. And with the way your heart squirms in your chest, looking down at him like this, you want to say no, I feel terrified and new and desperate.

But he drags nails down your back, makes you gasp and roll your hips down onto him, which startles a groan out of him. The sound of it turning your stomach in the best and worst ways, making you flush, making you squirm to try and sink lower onto him. Greedy and desperate, you wiggle your hips to make his breathing come out ragged.

It makes you realize you have one of the most dangerous villains beneath you, as desperate as you are.

You roll your hips again, slow, take what you want of him. You fist your hand in his hair, tilt his head back and watch as his eyes flutter. His cheeks are flushed.

Pretty, you think faintly.

“Yeah,” you breathe, gliding your lips along his, heart a storm in your chest to have him looking up at you like this, “I do.”

His lips tilt into a knife-sharp smile, enough to gut you.

And he lets you take what you please of him that night, and the thief that you are, you take and take and take. You steal from him with deft hands and a smile that he thinks he’d destroy the world for. You take all the love that you want from him, gorge yourself on it until you feel sick.

Until you feel as if you could rot with it, carrying your love for him in the pits of you, coveting in the safe, secret parts of you, for no one else to find.

Just you and him, like this, hand in seeking hand.

***

PART III

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liqdrababbles · 3 years ago

Text

a (not so) “short” headcanon about Dirk and Dave and their different scars

(ngl at first this was going to be short... but apparently this is my destiny every time I try to translate my thoughts)

⚠ CW(s): brief mentions of suicide attempt, self-harm, self-destructive behaviors, and child abuse (non-sexual) ⚠

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Recently (...well, not so much...) on twitter I talked about how much I love (and at the same time it's pure torture) giving small details to Dave and Dirk's skin (spots, freckles, acne, scars). I love it because I feel like they look kinda sexy that way and it matches a lot of headcanons I have about Dave and Dirk's childhood... but it tortures me because every new drawing I have to remember to put every detail in its right place

Dave is especially hard to draw at times due the large number of scars I imagine he has. His childhood was full of fighting (training) against Bro, and I don't picture Bro as a particularly careful person when it comes to sword fighting. Let's consider Dirk's sometimes intense/obsessive nature, and mix it with Cal's negative mental influence, and yeah he's the worst choice for determining proper limits when fighting a child. The apartment where they both lived was not a very safe place either. As we saw at the beginning of Homestuck, the area was full of sharp weapons stacked (often in unexpected places, tending to collapse easily).

However, I can't imagine Bro putting Dave in mortal danger. I think he was careful enough not to inflict life-threatening/fatal wounds, but was also aggressive enough to sometimes inflict superficial wounds on him. The goal was not to incapacitate, torture, or kill Dave, but rather to teach him how cruel and aggressive the battlefield could be, and to teach him to be prepared for anything, including pain.

With this I'm not trying to justify what Bro did, I'm just analyzing a bit his way of seeing his own actions. The way he raised Dave was horrible and totally counts as child abuse. What's more, one of the things I always find surprising is how Bro managed to prevent Dave's training/injuries from drawing the attention of the neighbors or Dave's school teachers... I guess it was a combination of rehearsed lies, intimidation and/or bribery.

But well... concluding: Dave's skin is full of quite noticeable long scars, randomly distributed throughout the upper, middle, and lower part of his body. I tend to change some between ideas, sometimes because I forget them or sometimes because I'm thinking of some AU... but I always try to be constant in the ones on the face: two on the nose, three on the right side of the face and three on the left side (between his eye and jaw), and one on his lip (left side)

(btw, important fact to mention: although in my headcanon Dave has a certain kind of albinism, this is not full and it mainly affects his hair and (kinda) his eyes. His skin is very light and somewhat delicate, but doesn't have the exact color or behavior of a skin with complete albinism. I didn't try to be full accurate in these details)

Now, by comparison, Dirk is "easier" to draw, at least if I only consider the scars. Although Dirk's childhood was full of more dangerous confrontations (killer drones), he had the help of his robots and he's also incredibly good at sword fighting (in my headcanon, better than Dave). His scars from drone fights are relatively few and vary between cut scars and bullet scars, not too prominent (also, I imagine his skin less delicate than Dave's skin, having a more efficient healing regarding wounds)

However there are 2 groups of scars that I like to highlight when drawing him: a long scar that goes all the way around his neck, and many small scars on his hands.

The scar I draw on Dirk's neck is from a wound prior to his first decapitation in the webcomic. I still can't decide if it was the result of Dirk trying to hang himself or trying to cut his own throat... but it's definitely from a (failed) suicide attempt.

I imagine this event happened a few years before the first time he is featured in the webcomic, so maybe it happened when Dirk was 12-13 years old. I like to think that all of this was very much tied to Hal's existence/birth (either as a "cause" or as a "consequence"), but I haven't fully decided on the details.

Although sometimes I want to draw obvious self-harm scars on Dirk, I admit that the subject makes me a bit uncomfortable (drawing it myself, I have no problem seeing it in other people's drawings), especially when the scars follow a certain pattern / organization in the skin. So I don't think I'll do it in the future. However, I like to think that some of his scars are "self-inflicted" in a more indirect and random way. Maybe by hitting things in moments of negative emotions/anger, doing especially intense and long fights against his robots, or almost suicidally starting a fight against a drone. All situations where Dirk would normally follow a strategy or be more careful / know the limits of his body... but he decides to ignore all this and just indulge in pure self-destructive actions. I imagine that some scars are more directly self-inflicted, in moments of extreme dissociation while handling sharp objects, perhaps grabbing them directly at the cutting edge.

This is part of the explanation for the scars on his hands. Although part of them are due to minor accidents while he was building robots, many of them were caused during times of heightened emotions, depression, anger, or extreme dissociation. Dirk started wearing gloves to protect his hands from further damage (and later, to avoid questions about it).

#headcanon #dirk strider #dave strider #Bro (beta Dirk Strider)#sensitive content

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amerrierworld · 5 years ago

Text

Not a total frickin’ idiot

For the request: R x Daphne Kluger. R being a part of the original Heist Crew and also being the one Daphne approaches. They’re super flirty w/ each other and everyone knows that they like each other except themselves.

Summary: You thought you had gone unnoticed at the Met, but Miss Kluger never forgets a face.

Characters: Daphne Kluger x fem!reader, the Ocean’s team

Word Count: 1,657

Warnings: swearing!? Do i still have to put a warning for that? idk

If you had learned anything about diva actress Daphne Kluger from Rose, it was that you don’t speak unless spoken to first.

And considering she didn’t talk to you at all during the heist, you were able to get around the entire night never uttering a single word to her, fulfilling your role on the team without any kind of hiccup.

So you were quite surprised when she had slid into your booth at your favourite coffee shop, giant sunglasses and a fashionable sunhat masking her face. You looked up from your phone and were about to comment about your booth being taken until you recognized her.

Your mouth hung open a little bit as she took off the hat and glasses. Her lips were painted a deep red and her outfit was impeccable, as always.

“Say..” she immediately said, pearly whites nearly blinding you as she smiled, “you were at the Met, weren't you?”

“I- I’m sorry?” you began. “I don’t know-”

“Oh my god! You totally were! You were wearing that adorable dress. Gosh, you looked so good.”

You were blushing hard, because in a matter of barely a minute, Daphne Kluger, gorgeous movie star, had called you adorable and good-looking all in the same sentence.

“I was there too- well, obviously you know that,” she chuckled, “and I was wearing that beautiful diamond necklace, don’t you remember? It was all over the news. Especially when I supposedly lost it.”

“O-oh? Right, y-yes I remember reading about it in the news..”

“And you know.. I couldn’t help but wonder how weird my designer was acting all night. And that lady in the black from the staff, who found my necklace? You’d almost think they were acting.”

You were almost as pale as a sheet at this point, gripping your cup in shaking fingers.

“And you know what’s funny? I saw you talking to both of them during the night. I mean, how couldn’t I notice? You looked so gorgeous, almost like you were asking me to see you.”

You gulped, “I do not know what you’re talking about, Miss Kluger-”

“Just call me Daphne,” she leaned forward, lips spread in a feline smile, elbows resting on the table and propping her head up on her hands.

“Y/N, right? I asked for your name from the guest list, I hope you don’t mind. They let me in on those sorts of things anyways.”

“That’s me,” you replied.

“Do you know Debbie Ocean? Of course you do, you two also seemed pretty close all night, hm? You’re lucky I was the only one who noticed.”

“What?”

“I’ve been approached by an investigator who seems really interested in her because the uh, necklace turned out to be a fake.”

You tried to pretend to be surprised at the news, but you couldn’t muster it, and Daphne looked at you knowingly.

“Luckily, I didn’t tell him any of your names, because I wasn’t sure if I was right. But you just confirmed all my suspicions anyways, so..”

“Are you threatening me?” you narrowed your eyes at her, and she gasped in mock offence.

“Of course not!” she leaned forward, giving you ample view of her cleavage, hand trailing over yours,

“I’m seducing you, Y/N.”

You didn’t know what to say as she looked at you with those deep, telling eyes. Her own eyes flickered appreciatively over your features, and you wondered if she was checking you out or if she was simply acting.

A small group of fans approached the table, chittering and blushing at the sight of Daphne Kluger in a meagre coffee shop such as this one. She smiled amicably, accepting their compliments and giving them autographs, before saying,

“You’re all so sweet, but do you think you’d be able to let my girlfriend and I have some privacy for the rest of our date? Thaanks,” she waved as the fans rushed off, gasping and gossiping amongst themselves at the prospect of the Daphne Kluger having a girlfriend.

“Girlfriend?” you asked once you found your voice again. She only grinned and winked at you.

“Oh, don’t be like that baby. Now, are you gonna tell me about the necklace, or what?” she sipped your drink and your mouth went dry.

“Chilly,” Daphne remarked at the glances given by the rest of the group, “what about, ‘Hi Daph, welcome to the team. Let’s not all high five at once.’”

You chewed your lip, bounced your leg, avoided her gaze altogether, and tried very hard not to look at how good she looked in her black dress. You were sitting across from the couch where she had plopped down, hunched in the metal framed chair.

“Why’d y’let her get to you, Y/N. I told you not to draw attention to yourself!” Rose said to you, after you and Debbie had explained how Daphne had found you, recognized you and called out the plan. You, being the newbie in the ways of criminality, could barely think of a cover up and ended up bringing her to Debbie with a spluttering confession.

“She didn’t,” Daphne’s eyes were locked on yours, “I just noticed her myself.”

You blushed a little and looked away. Debbie looked at you apologetically, knowing you felt put on the spot.

“Plus,” Daphne continued, “I am the one who is saving your asses from insurance fraud, okay?”

The team burst into shock, responses flying left and right.

“I-I was gonna get to that,” you said hastily, eyeing Debbie, who stepped in,

“It seems that they’ve assigned an insurance investigator-”

“Who’s about to look up your asses with a flashlight,” Daphne pointed out.

“Who?”

"Oh, this little Columbo dude, everything but the trench coat, totally on to you.”

“His name is John Frasier,” Debbie said.

"Wha- you know him?” Amita spluttered in disbelief.

“Yes, he busted my father twice, my brother once.”

“He’s family,” Lou added.

“Lest we forget, this entire enterprise was to keep me out of jail,” Rose interrupted, worry etched on her face.

“No one is going to jail,” Lou assured her.

“We expected this, we prepared for this,” said Debbie. Not many of the team seemed to believe her, with Nineball adding,

“Yup... that’s clear.”

“We will not be the prime suspect,” Debbie said sternly.

"Then who will be?”

“Well,” you added, “we’ve got the security guys, the busboys-”

“...The shady guy who put you away,” Tammy sighed, arching an eyebrow at Debbie, who could barely contain the smirk on her face. Daphne stared at her incredulously,

“..the boyfriend.”

"Mhm,” Debbie replied, “they were gonna be looking for somebody, just had to make sure it wasn’t one of us.”

Lou nodded in approval, adding a faint, “that’s nice.”

"Thanks.”

“Wow... that is amazing,” Daphne grinned, chewing her gum in delight, “the precision, right? It’s always the attention to detail and the little grace notes that really make something sing.”

A short silence followed. Glances were cast between the rest of you, wondering what on earth had gotten into Daphne’s head.

“...Why are you doing this?” Tammy asked, clearly dumbfounded by this multi-millionaire actress dropping into their party. Daphne stilled for a moment, her eyes flickering to you for a second before saying,

“I.. don’t have that many close female friendships. Plus bookclubs are the worst, so I just thought y’know... could be something fun to share?”

“You’re becoming a criminal because you’re lonely?”

“...Who isn’t sometimes, right?”

"Are you an only child?” you asked her. Her silence told you enough.

The team seemed to accept at that point that Daph was there to stay, so they went about their usual business.

“Beer?” Lou offered you, which you immediately said yes to, feeling a little woozy after that whole experience.

Tammy went to the kitchen and opened another pizza box, and you went to grab a slice for yourself before calculating your next move carefully, hoping your brain wouldn’t short circuit as you grabbed another slice and headed to where Daphne was sitting by herself.

You sat next to her, very very awkwardly, and offered her the paper plate.

“Aw, thanks,” she smiled, cheering up a little, “you know you don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be nice to me because you feel bad for me. Look, I’m sorry I cornered you the other day. I didn’t mean to seem desperate or whatever.”

“You- you didn’t seem desperate,” you frowned, “and I don’t feel bad for you. Whatever gave you that idea?”

She looked at you with a mouthful of pizza, and made an exasperated gesture to your whole surroundings, indicating the events that had just occurred. She also didn’t want you to know how she had been dying for your attention the minute she had seen you at the Met.

“Oh, well, I mean, I think your reasoning was perfectly justified,” you cocked your head at her and smiled. Then you lifted your pizza and said,

“to crime!”

The rest of the group cheered and replied with the same phrase, lifting their beers or pizza with glee. Daphne blushed at the exclamation.

“Now you,” you said, nodding encouragingly.

“What?”

“Do it! If you’re gonna be a part of the Ocean’s team, you gotta get with the rituals.”

“Rituals?” Daphne scoffed. But then she saw your dopey smile and sparkling eyes, and her insides melted. She delicately lifted the pizza and said,

“to crime!”

You laughed and sipped your beer.

“Ten bucks says they’re dating by next week,” Nineball said in the kitchen, peering into the fridge.

“I say by the weekend,” Constance offered.

“Idiots,” Rose shook her head. “If tonight is gonna keep up like this, I say by the morning.”

They eyed you and Daphne chatting away on the couch, completely forgetting about everyone else.

“Not so lonely anymore I guess,” Tammy smiled.

“Told you, crime’s good for many things,” Debbie nudged her and smiled at Lou, who rolled her eyes playfully.

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seyaryminamoto · 4 years ago

Note

As someone, who's favourite character is Zuko, let me just say that your analysis about the Southern Raiders is spot on. Something about that episode (especially the way Zuko acted) always felt a little... off to me. And I could never figure out what it was exactly and considering the fact that discussion about this episode centered around the Kataang vs Zutara, I thought I was the only one who felt that way. So, I guess thanks for putting my thoughts into words.

Oh, I really feel ya, anon. If you actually don't look at the episode from a shipping point of view, which seems to be the focus of most the fandom, a lot of unpleasant things really start sticking out. I'm personally neutral to the Kataang vs. Zutara debate, I see good points and drawbacks to both ships, and no one's going to convince me that this episode proved the superiority of either pairing, especially when the shipping interpretations have never been important to me when analyzing this episode. People can say Aang is right in the end, they can say Zuko understands Katara's plight better (which, considering Aang has lost even more people he loved than Zuko has, he certainly should have understood Katara's suffering quite well too), but focusing on whether Zuko or Aang are the angel or the devil on Katara's shoulders practically blinds everyone to the very glaring and mindboggling flaws in this episode's writing, imo.

In general, the concept of Zuko's life-changing field trips with the three Gaang members he'd wronged the most is fine and fun for most people, but from the first time I watched the show it felt like the production team knew they were pressed for time and needed some veeeery quick and effective solution for Zuko to gain acceptance in the Gaang ASAP despite all the bad blood there. I can imagine a lot of people love these episodes, but admittedly I wouldn't rank any of them among my favorites because, as interesting as some of their concepts could be, if executed right, my immersion certainly wasn't as strong as with the rest of the show due to the nagging feeling that this was all for the sake of redeeming Zuko in the eyes of each Gaang member... and not necessarily in the eyes of the audience.

They get away with it, of course, because by this point in time, the audience is 100% conditioned to love the Gaang and Zuko, and if you see them getting along, you should be rejoicing in their team-up... but if you put some emotional distance between yourself as a viewer and the events of these episodes, their writing leaves a lot to be desired, especially in the concept of giving Zuko a quick whitewashing in the eyes of Aang, Sokka and Katara, one after the other, so they can genuinely accept him as a teammate and friend. If we'd seen similar trips frequently or occasionally in the rest of the show, with two specific members of the team taking off on an adventure by themselves, it might not be so glaringly obvious (and even... artificial? I guess?) that they're trying to quick-redeem him for each of them here, but on top of it happening thrice, it's literally happening one after the other, too. There's no episodes in-between, it's just literally a four-parter arc of "let's help Zuko become friends with these three".

The plotlines to be dealt with in these episodes are basically catered to each Gaang member, tailor-made life-changing field trips based on whatever they'll value the most, all of it conveniently possible and doable in the span of time they have between Zuko's joining of their group and the show's finale. Aang needs to learn firebending, Sokka needs to save his dad, Katara is permanently grieving for her mother's death. And so, Zuko to the rescue! If he helps them with their personal character quests, he gets 50+ approval points! :'D Honestly, I'm absolutely not against the notion of Zuko befriending them, obviously not, but the methods through which they chose to make it happen simply might not be the finest...?

Zuko loses his ability to bend because he "lost his rage", but he's still angry pretty often, the show even spoofs its own writing by showing him losing his patience at Sokka... while at the same time trying to sell that Zuko "isn't angry" anymore? Zuko helps break out random prisoners from the Boiling Rock without taking a single moment to actually learn who they are, why they were locked up, and without pondering if they deserve to be helped or if perhaps they're genuinely dangerous? Zuko gives Katara every possible tool and information she needs to take revenge on Yon Rha, because, loosely quoting his own words, he "cares what she thinks of him"...?

How about if we'd seen Zuko trying to connect with Fire Nation people, to help his fellow Fire Nation citizens, especially the ones who were living in dreadful conditions, like the ones in the Jang Hui river village? How about if we'd seen Zuko saving lives rather than threatening to take them? How about if we'd seen Zuko actually reasoning with his anger, and either working his way out of it, or repurposing it consciously, or making legitimate, personal efforts to find a new source of strength for his firebending through self-reflection, above all else?

We didn't really need sudden one-on-one field trips to teach Aang, Katara and Sokka to trust Zuko: we needed Zuko to prove himself worthy of that trust, to show how much he has changed, to literally contrast his new behavior with the old, to actually see that the guy no longer jumps into violence-mode 24/7, that he's willing to listen to other people's opinions or wisdom, that he wants to learn better when he knows he's misguided or misunderstanding something or another. Would he have become BFFs with any of them in four episodes if this had happened? Well, it definitely would have happened with Aang, the other two would have been trickier, but they definitely would have been more willing to accept him if they actually got to SEE that the changes in Zuko weren't skin-deep. Katara can be as thick-headed and stubborn as she may want to be, but I have no doubts she wouldn't have been able to hate Zuko as much as she used to if she'd seen him helping people, much like she often wants their group to do. But instead, they don't get to see the actual changes and growth... they just get their biggest goals and wishes satisfied, and that's enough to decide Zuko's trustworthy, no matter whatever sketchy behavior he displays in later episodes.

I absolutely appreciate the worldbuilding context we gain for the raids on the Water Tribe through The Southern Raiders, but I don't think this was an organic way to tell the story of how Zuko became friends with the Gaang. If pressed, I'd even say that Zuko's overt desperation to be their friend is OOC, to a degree: if this guy actually knows how dangerous his father's plans are (and he's supposed to :'D), how isn't he focusing on that side of things, when he's always been such a go-getter? It's not like he grew out of this sort of ends-justify-the-means behavior, seeing as he's absolutely obsessed with stopping his father ASAP, by any means possible, in the finale, when there was no such urgency to be found ever since he joined the Gaang. How isn't he more worried about stopping Ozai than about becoming best friends with the Gaang? Immediately sharing everything he's learned about Ozai's intentions of destroying the whole world might not make them friends instantaneously, but it would certainly get someone like Sokka to take his information seriously and immediately begin strategizing how to counter Ozai's plans. Instead, Zuko spent all those weeks, over a month, even, teaching Aang firebending, going on field trips and hanging out with his new friends in Ember Island. Once you have all the cards on deck and you actually look at all of them at once, doesn't it feel like there were so many more ways to achieve what the show was going for, far more effective ways than through the "let's be friends with Zuko" arc?

Ultimately, there's very little display of growth, in my opinion, in this small arc, on Zuko's side, despite the most obvious and reasonable way to earn the trust of the Gaang would be by outright showing them how much he's grown. I won't deny I appreciate that the writers respected his personality and didn't just warp him into the perfect good softboi the way the fandom apparently interprets him, but even if Zuko was going to be cranky and speak one-liners like "I'm never happy", it wasn't impossible to write better situations for him to connect with the Gaang's members and gain their trust. Even if the writers were set on having these episodes happen exactly as they did, they absolutely could have been written in a much better way, to create an explicit and direct contrast between Zuko's early behavior and the new Zuko's behavior when it comes to things that matter (most the parallels I've seen the fandom drawing are things like "oh look he hated tea before but now he brews it for his friends! So much growth!"... would've been nice to see the growth when it came to a lot of other things, too, if the growth really was there? Am I rite...?).

I may just be influenced by other redemption arcs that focus mainly on characters having common goals and working together to achieve them, then becoming friends in the process... but I really don't see how Zuko's character benefited from these episodes. Yes, bridges were built... but they absolutely could have been built in a more organic way that didn't make people like myself (and a few others) question if Zuko had learned or grown at all, considering the way he behaves isn't all that distant from the Zuko we've seen and known throughout the rest of the show. And the fact that he really seems to have learned nothing in The Southern Raiders once you reach the show's finale... you're basically asked to take for granted Zuko did learn a lot of lessons because he says he did, to assume he's going to put them into practice sometime in the future despite he has chances to do it during the show itself but never does, simply because they drop the ball upon every opportunity to show how much he's changed.

I really don't blame his character at all, when it comes to these shortcomings... it's seriously, genuinely, a problem with the writing department. Take a look through the fandom and you'll see thousands of people who claim Zuko's character arc is the most touching, complex and beautiful writing they ever have seen... and why? Because we're in the face of tell-don't-show :'D most people's perception of Zuko's character are based not so much on HOW Zuko displays his growth, it's strongly based on him stating he made progress, even if there's too many instances where the growth simply seems to have fallen to the wayside or gone forgotten for the sake of a plotline or another. Zuko absolutely could have been written far better than this, he could absolutely have the redemption arc his fans are sure he does have, but for me... there's way too many gaps in logic, too many missed opportunities, to truly think his growth was as extraordinary as a lot of people are hung up on saying it was.

#anon #woops #I probably shouldn't have written this much here but what can I say #I've got beef with these storylines #and I unfortunately can't bbq it (?)#so instead I ramble and ramble and hope you guys forgive me for how long-winded I can be :'D

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randomrosewrites · 4 years ago

Text

From the beginning to the very end.

Seeing the one you love fall for someone else hurts.

Pairing: Diluc X GN reader (unrequited), mentioned Kaeya x reader (not focused on) Words: 3.3K Warnings/ tags: Alcohol/ drinking mention, unrequited love, reader drinks to cope at one point, general angst. a/n: This was requested by anon. I’ve taken the prompt and altered it a bit, Kaeya and Diluc are both emotionally complicated men *sigh* Someone help them.

Your arrival into Diluc’s life is with all the grace of a baby fawn attempting to stand. Choppy. Awkward. A tad pitiable.

It’s a Friday night at Angel’s Share. The worst ones to be bartender, and precisely why Diluc always drags himself into town to suffer for a few hours. It’s the days where the knights, both seniors and new recruits, gather to spend their weekly wages of mora. He knows the tradition well, after his time with the knights. He used to always sit in the back corner with Kaeya, the two giggling as they drank non-alcoholic cider.

…but the past is the past, and he refuses to dwell on it any further.

They trickle in sometime around 9pm. They’re easy to spot. Uniforms too pristine, armor too shiny. He watches as wide-eyed recruits alongside experienced knights file into the reserved table at the back.

The brave one is sent from the flock to the bar, to order drinks for the table. Diluc gives you his best intimidating stare, arms crossed over his chest. You fiddle with the front of your uniform as you approach the bar, nervously shifting from foot to foot.

“Hello Sir, uh, could I have uhm…” you take a second to count on your fingers. “Ten drinks, please?”

Well, at least you can get your sentence out. (Sawyer, one of the new recruits from a few months back, mumbled everything. It took Diluc ten minutes to figure out what he wanted.) “What kind?”

“Oh…the regular kind?”

He could make this easier on you, but he decidedly doesn’t. “There is no regular kind. Dandelion wine? Lamp-Grass cider?”

“Uh, ten glasses of dandelion wine, please.”

He raises a brow. “Everyone is of age, even the recruits?”

“Oh, yes, the younger ones’ curfew ended an hour ago.”

One quick glance over proves your truth. Fine. He gets the drinks ready quite easily. It’s just pouring wine from the barrels into their tankers. Once he has them on a tray, he says, “Ten thousand Mora.”

“Oh…uh…” you stare at your feet in embarrassment, apparently just realizing that yes drinks cost mora. “I-“

“If you can’t pay,” he starts, annoyance seeping into his voice. “Then I suggest you get out.”

Maybe that was a bit too harsh. Your jaw clenches. Your hands tighten into fists. Diluc thinks you’re about to burst into tears or run out the front door when a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Not to worry, I’ll cover the costs for this.”

Of course. He’d be here, of all nights.

You look to your saviour, lighting up. “Oh, thank you, Captain Kaeya.”

Kaeya smiles amicably, patting your shoulder. “My pleasure. Join the others, I’ll carry the drinks there shortly.”

You hurry off to the table, not one to disobey your superior’s orders. Diluc and Kaeya are left alone at the bar, the former frowning, the later smiling.

Kaeya places a sack of mora on the counter. “Feel free to count it, every coin is in there.”

Diluc snatches it, tossing it under the cabinet. (Kaeya always pays in full. Either that or he purposely omits a single coin, just to fuck with him. But it’s not worth it for Diluc to count ten thousand coins individually.)

“Corrupting fresh recruits already, aren’t you?” Diluc says.

Kaeya chuckles dryly. “Why, Master Diluc, I’d never do such an atrocious thing.”

Kaeya picks up the tray before Diluc can make some sort of witty retort. “Now, I’ve got to amuse myself. Enjoy your night, Master Diluc.”

Kaeya remains out of his hair for the rest of the night. By all accounts, it’s a good thing, but tonight, it only makes Diluc moodier. Especially when he glances over at the knights table, spotting the captain’s arm strung over the back of your chair.

---

“What on earth are you doing?”

You jump, turning to face Diluc, leaning against the nearby tree. He’d been patrolling the area for threats when he’d noticed you, swinging your sword about in the middle of Windrise. The fact that he’d managed to catch you by surprise unnerved him. (You were a knight; you’d need to learn to be alert.)

“Practicing, Master Diluc.” You wipe the sweat from your face with your shirt and Diluc quickly averts his eyes to a group of slimes slugging around the Anemo Arcon Statue. He’d have to deal with them later.

“Don’t the knights have a dedicated training area?” They do. He knows this, outside the city walls or on the northern shores of Cider Lake, he used to go there and take recruits when he was a captain, make them run up and down the sloping hills all afternoon in full armour.

“Ah, they do, yes, but I mostly prefer to train alone.”

Diluc chews on your words for a moment, before pushing off from the tree and striding towards you. “Hold your sword again.”

You hesitate, drawing your sword and holding it like you were doing previously.

Diluc covers his hands with yours, moving them along the sword. “Adjust your hands like this. You’ll have more force when you swing and you’re less likely to hurt yourself if you hit something solid.”

He steps back, allowing you to swing a few times in the air. “Use your chest more, not just your arms – good. Again.”

About an hour passes, with Diluc giving instructions, doing a very bad job of hiding his stares, and with you doing as he says. He doesn’t realize how long it’s been until you sheath your sword, and the sun has set over the horizon.

“I apologize, Master Diluc, but I’ve got to get back to the headquarters now.”

“Oh.” He says, stupidly. Of course, you’d have to leave, to go back to the knights, but that thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “I see, yes. I suppose you should.”

You bow respectfully. “Thank you for your help, you really are as sweet as Captain Kaeya says.”

He suppresses the growl that rises from his throat. Figures, Kaeya would call him that. “Mhm.”

You salute him, the standard knight’s salute. He nods his head as you start back towards Mondstadt, pondering why he decided to help you, until you fade from sight.

---

He swears, he doesn’t mean to keep meeting you like this.

He had been exploring an abandoned domain north of Wolvendom, looking for any members of the abyss order. Fortunately – or unfortunately, there hadn’t been anything but slimes and old artifacts inside, and he’d come out soaked head to toe with water.

He was starting up the path when he saw you huddled by an electro crystal, poking it with your sword and jolting back when it shocked you.

“…you can’t break those with normal attacks,” he says. “They’re elemental crystals.”

You turn around, not surprised by his sudden presence (good, you’re learning.) “You can break them?”

Arcons, do they not teach the knights anything anymore?

Instead of arguing, he simply demonstrates, calling flames to his claymore and slicing the rock. An explosion of pyro and electro occurs, shattering the crystal into purple chunks.

You gape at the crystals. “Wow, you’re amazing, Master Diluc.”

He flushes at your praise, coughing and adjusting his tie. “It’s nothing. What are you interested in with the crystals anyways?”

“Captain Albedo requested them. I guess I’ll have to get outrider amber to gather them, or klee, perhaps…'' you collect the chunks into a small bag, standing up and brushing the dust from your pants. “Thank you again, Master Diluc. You always seem to be helping me out a lot.”

“It’s no trouble,” he says, swallowing for a moment. His throat feels tight and his palms are sweating in his gloves.

You salute him. He nods. They’re your usual goodbyes, nowadays. He watches you march off, the crystals clinking around in your bag.

“Wait,” he splutters, the objection coming from his throat without thinking.

You turn around, waiting expectantly. Diluc swallows, again. (When did he get so warm?)

“Next time, please just call me Diluc.”

You blink carefully, then smile. “Alright, Diluc.”

The sound of his name on your tongue makes his heart race and sends electricity through his stomach.

(And not just because of the nearby electro crystals.)

---

Two days later, a bag of purple electro crystals appears at your doorstep in the Knight’s headquarters. There is no name from the sender, but you suspect who it is from the emblem of the dawn winery logo upon the bag.

You smile to yourself, then hurry to deliver the goods to Captain Albedo.

---

“Do you have a crush on someone, Master Diluc?”

He nearly drops his teacup in his lap, sputtering into his drink. Adeline doesn’t even flinch, handing him a handkerchief to wipe his mouth with. His owl preens herself on its stand, indifferent to her master’s squabbling.

“P-pardon?”

“I asked if you had a crush on anyone.”

“…what would make you consider that?”

She clears the table swiftly, shrugging. “You seem to be in good spirits. You’ve been smiling more, and you’re more pleasant.”

He frowns. “Are you suggesting I’m usually moody?”

Adelinde’s face remains blank. “Not at all, sir.”

She bows and leaves him to his thoughts and paperwork.

A crush. Ridiculous…he’s not a schoolboy. And besides, he hasn’t been acting differently. Sure, he’s taken more shifts on Friday night, and he’s been visiting Windrise more often in hopes of maybe running into a certain knight, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s all justifiable.

…

His owl cocks her head at him, even she knows when he’s lying to himself.

“…don’t look at me like that.” He huffs, turning around in his desk, back facing the owl.

---

Once the thought is in Diluc’s head, he can’t get it out. It doesn’t help that over the next few months, your presence around him only amplifies his feelings.

Every breath you take, every little movement you make - it transfixes him. He feels drawn to you naturally, wanting to be closer to you, coming up with more and more ridiculous topic ideas just so he can hear you speak.

He feels happy. He begins looking forward to the next day and the next week, not apprehensive about what new problems might arise.

And just as soon as he’s settled into the norm, the world decides to rip it away from him.

---

The knights file into their usual spots on a friday night. Diluc greets them with the same, stiff nods, except this time, his scowl isn’t as deep, and the furrow in his brows is loose. For the knights coming to celebrate means that he might have a chance to see you.

And he does. Diluc can’t stop the way his lips turn upwards when the door swings open and you file in. You give a wave, he nods back.

He does his best to not stare as you socialize with the other knights - (there really are a lot of them here tonight. Even Captain Albedo is among them) - but he fails miserably. So much so that he forgets to serve the other patrons up front.

It’s a relief when you eventually wander over to the bar. You don’t even need to tell him your order anymore - he just gets to doing it immediately.

“Big celebration?” he asks.

You slide into the seat and smile. “I suppose you could say that.”

He raises a brow and pushes the drinks towards you, leaning on the bar. “Oh? Is it a knights secret I’m not privy to know about?”

You swat at him harmlessly and his breathing hitches at your chuckle. “No, not a secret. It’s just nice to celebrate for celebration's sake, you know?”

He does not, but nods anyways. “I suppose it is. In any case, you seem very happy.”

You cover your growing smile with your hand. “Do I?”

“Yes, did you get a promotion? Replace Kaeya as Cavalry Captain?”

“No! No, nothing like that…” you laugh and shake your head. “But Kaeya…”

He hadn’t expected his joke to actually hold some truth. He presses, “Kaeya?”

“Well, we -” you avert your gaze, eyes softening in bliss. “We’re um - a thing. Now.”

Diluc pales, nearly falling off the bar.

“Oh.”

“Yes...please keep it a secret, we don’t want anyone knowing just yet.”

Diluc’s head spins. It feels like a lump of coal is stuck in his throat. He swallows and tries to stop his breaths from becoming erratic.

“Congratulations… I hope-” his voice cracks and he clears his throat. “I wish the best for the both of you.”

“Thank you, Diluc.” you reach over and pat his hand. He barely conceals a flinch, wanting to rip it away. “

You walk back to the knights, and for the rest of the night, he operates on autopilot, picking at the remaining shattered pieces of his heart.

---

It hurts.

Rain and sweat get in his eyes. He ducks to avoid a swing of a club, swinging his fiery claymore in retaliation. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, only that his hands are numb from gripping his weapon for so long. A long gash runs up his side, stinging each time he moves.

The ache in his chest hurts more.

How naive, how silly, to entertain the idea that you’d ever like him back.

Diluc closes his eyes, and consumes himself in violence once more.

---

He doesn’t frequent the bar for the next week. Enough to collect his thoughts. Enough to smother the pang of hurt he feels whenever he gazes at you.

He’s above this, above being debilitated by his emotions.

(He knows he is not.)

---

Things get better, as they always do. Things always go back to a level of normal. He returns to work at the bar. He returns to looking forward to your visits.

The front door swings open. He expectantly turns, smile dying on his face when he sees who’s entered.

“Jeez. You think I’ve just murdered someone how you’re looking at me,” Kaeya sighs.

“What do you want?” Kaeya’s the last person he wants to see. Especially since - since -

“Can’t I just drop by for a drink?” Kaeya takes his seat at the corner of the bar. Diluc resists the urge to throw the glass in his hand. He never gets to the point, always meandering about the issue, chatting about this or that until the other party is exhausted trying to humour him.

Not Diluc.

“You’re never here to just drink. Out with it.”

“…I was just wondering how you feel about our newest knight.”

He inhales through his teeth and sets the glass he was polishing down. Fine, if that’s the game Kaeya was going to play, he’d play along. “I think it’s improper for you to be engaged in a relationship with your subordinates.”

Kaeya grimaces, keeping his eye on the wood counter. “Do you say that because you care for workplace standards, or are you perhaps-”

“No.”

“ - jealous?”

The towl ignites in his hands. “Fuck off. Get out of my bar. Now.”

Kaeya sighs, but gets up from his seat, hands raised. “Alright, fine...but If it’s any consultation, I understand how you feel.”

“You don’t get to know where I’m coming from,” each word feels like acid down Diluc’s throat. “You don’t ever get to understand how I feel.”

Kaeya smiles sadly. “I know. And because of that, I’m not gonna come in the way between you two.”

Kaeya opens the door and waves before Diluc can question him. “Good night, master Diluc.”

The door shuts behind him as he leaves. Diluc tosses the towel in the trash, blood boiling underneath his skin.

---

He doesn’t see much of you or Kaeya for a week. (Which he supposes is good. If he saw Kaeya now, Barbados wouldn’t be able to stop him from getting into a fight.)

The next time he sees you is late one night, when most of the patrons have left. You look a mess, hair disheveled, feet dragging against the floor. You mumble your order to him before dragging yourself upstairs, one foot at a time.

Diluc brings what you requested up – one of his strongest liquors – to find you staring off into space. He sets your glass down gently, and you snap from your reprieve.

“Here’s your order. If you need anything…just let me know.”

You nod, keeping your eyes focused downwards. “Thank you, Diluc.”

His heart breaks at how defeated you sound. He returns to his post for the remainder of the night.

Never once does the cavalry captain come in. Diluc has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

It’s many hours later when the tavern closes for the night. Diluc shucks on his coat and goes upstairs, finding you half-asleep on the table, empty glass clutched tight in your grasp.

He shakes you gently and you stir with a moan. “It’s closing time. Do you need help getting home?”

You laugh bitterly. “Where is ‘home’?”

Diluc wordlessly slips the glass from your hands. “Come on, let’s get you back to the knights headquarters.”

Exhausted, you relent, leaning on Diluc heavily as he escorts you out of Angel’s Share. The smell of alcohol is strong on both your breath and clothes. It makes Diluc’s nose wrinkle.

You stumble over stones and steps. The walk back to the knights headquarters takes twice as long as it normally would. Diluc doesn’t mind, instinctively activating his vision when he feels you shiver from the cold.

“I thought Kaeya loved me,” you say suddenly, resting your head on his shoulder. “He said he…”

Diluc doesn’t – can’t – say anything, not when the lump of guilt in his stomach threatens to tear him apart from the inside out.

---

Truthfully, he’d thought you would have left the Knights after that incident. It must have been beyond difficult - having to see the person who broke your heart every day.

But you don’t. Diluc already knew how determined and strong you are, and you prove to be stronger than he could have ever foresaw.

It’s rough. There are nights where you show up to the tavern, barely coherent and full of grief. But there are others where you show up with Albedo, or Amber, and he gets to see you smile again.

He observes you from afar, at windrise, training with Noelle, getting quicker and quicker with your sword each day.

The seasons come and go, snow falls and melts, and when the dandelions grow again, before he ever knows it, you’re a Captain yourself.

The tavern is full for your celebration. Wine flows freely - free of charge thanks to Diluc - and the air is abuzz with joyous conversation.

“My highest congratulations, Captain,” Diluc says, raising his own glass (non-alcoholic) in toast.

You clink cups with him, smiling in your new uniform. (You’re radiant, he thinks to himself). “I can’t thank you enough, Diluc...for everything. I’ve always seen you as one of my closest friends.”

Friends. The word cuts deeply into his heart. Yes, friends. But being friends is something that he is ok with. He can watch you thrive, watch you live your life, he can keep your presence in his life, a small candle flickering in the dead of winter.

He knows your heart is elsewhere, he sees it in your eyes whenever you see the colour blue, or whenever the scent of death-after-noon waffs through the air. Your grief isn’t as prominent, but still there.

He doesn’t know if your feelings for Kaeya, if you even have any after the breakup, will ever go away. Perhaps they’ll stay over you like a looming shadow for the rest of your life.

If only – he’ll think, on nights when you’ve fallen asleep on his couch, bottle of wine beside you – if only he hadn’t said anything, maybe you’d be happy with Kaeya.

But the past is the path, and he must look to the future. The future where he can stand by your side, in whatever way you’ll accept him.

(Alone from the beginning, alone in the end. Fitting, for someone like him.)

#i can't beleive this is 3.3k #*falls over*#diluc x reader #diluc ragnivindr x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #diluc imagines #diluc fic #diluc fanfic #genshin impact fiction #diluc x y/n #diluc x you #my writing

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Text

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 6 - ao3 -

As Lao Nie had predicted, Lan Qiren won the music competition.

This by itself would not excuse him from punishment – disobedience was disobedience, regardless of the result – but Lan Qiren’s brother, proud of the glory that had accrued to their sect under his leadership, decided that it mitigated it somewhat, and as a result the imposition of the appropriate penalty was postponed until they returned to the Cloud Recesses. There was a strong implication that any future misbehavior during the trip would be added in when determining the extent of the punishment, but Lan Qiren didn’t care about that: with his brother’s word, however careless, overriding his teacher’s, he was finally allowed to go out to look around the Nightless City.

Of course, by now all the other disciples had settled firmly into their groups, so he was still alone - he opted not to mention that to his brother. Given how cautious his brother was being to make sure that the conference went well and without interruption, he knew it would invariably result in his either being forced into someone else’s group or to not go out, and he didn’t want either of those. Anyway, he could take precautions by himself: since he knew he was traveling alone, he would be careful to stay in the areas that were indicated as safe, although he thought happily to himself that soon he would be old enough to go wherever he wanted without concern – not that he especially longed to go to the districts full of brothels or drug dens, of course.

It was reasonable to be cautious for now, though, given his unfamiliarity with cities. He was as dazzled by the massive night market – as boisterous as any of the daytime markets – as any country yokel, and the items available for purchase were as many and varied as the people who came to the Nightless City to sell them. It was almost a pity to have to return to the Sun Palace the next day for the remaining events of the discussion conferences, largely academic discussions and skill exchanges, or the day after, to spectate on the other competitions, both the minor ones for things like calligraphy and mathematics and, more importantly, the second main event, showcasing skill in riding.

Lan Qiren wasn’t competing, of course, but he obediently showed up to observe – or, rather, to daydream about something more interesting while keeping his face carefully oriented towards the competition stage – and the second he could, he slipped away into the depths of the Sun Palace once the competition itself was over. Actually leaving entirely would be rude, of course, even if it would have been his real preference to return to the wonders of the city. Still, he would much rather walk through the halls than endure the inevitable rounds of mutual congratulations that invariably occurred during the celebration held after the discussion conference’s main competition. All those sect leaders buttering each other up…

There were times, he reflected, when he was very happy to have been born a younger son.

Lan Qiren did his best to avoid any places where people were gathered, turning back at once if he saw the rooms were occupied. There was no formal banquet tonight, to his relief – they’d all eaten while waiting for the competition to finish – but the socializing had started in earnest, and it felt like there were people everywhere. It would go on late into the night, with sect leaders toasting each other from the endless jars of wine that could be found everywhere, and there would be a thousand and one boring retellings of the same old stories everyone always told at these things.

Better to avoid people.

Certainly better to avoid people like Wen Ruohan, Lan Qiren thought, backing away from a room that appeared to be a small library, where the sect leader was standing and gazing out of the window, not far from a small table with two place settings already laid out. Its presence suggested a more private rendezvous was anticipated, and others more inclined to gossip than he might have chosen to stay and try to see if they could figure out who Wen Ruohan would be meeting – probably Lao Nie, if Lan Qiren had to guess, given the whole Hanhan situation – or possibly to try to form a further connection with the aloof and arrogant sect leader, but Lan Qiren kept his brother’s warnings in mind: Wen Ruohan was dangerous.

Anyway, he’d gotten into more than enough trouble for one trip.

After a little more searching, he found a small, secluded garden – quite possibly the very same one from a few days before, now that he thought about it, though he’d long lost any sense of direction he might have had – and settled down on the bench with a relieved sigh. The party was far too loud and too boisterous for his taste, with far too many people. He might long for adventure and new experiences, but it was the lonely road and quiet towns that called to him, and sometimes also the massive and faceless cities, not the full-of-themselves sect leaders, each one in love with their own voice, that seemed to pride themselves on talking at least once to everyone who attended.

At any rate, it wasn’t his problem. His brother had made clear that he didn’t want Lan Qiren to assist him in forming connections for the sect – assuming he even could, with his terrible social skills that mostly made his brother and most of his etiquette teachers want to forget he even existed – and that meant he was completely justified in hiding himself away here where no one would find him.

“I never got a chance to congratulate you on your victory,” a low voice said from behind him, and Lan Qiren started in sudden surprise, having not heard someone enter the room.

Though, he supposed as he rose to salute, he wouldn’t – the difference between his cultivation and Wen Ruohan’s was like night and day.

“Sect Leader Wen,” he said respectfully, keeping his head down. His brother had been especially clear that he wasn’t to cause trouble for this man in particular. Not like last time, even though Lan Qiren still wasn’t entirely clear on what it was that he was supposed to have done wrong previously. He was starting to think he’d never figure it out.

Wen Ruohan walked into the room, his pace as slow and graceful as it had been three years ago – the glide of a very self-assured predator that knew itself to be the unquestioned master of its domain, not only fearless but also smug in its self-evident superiority. The aura of power, his cultivation at a level that could scarcely be dreamed of by most people, draped around him like a gaudy cloak, meant to excite envy and fear in equal measure.

Lan Qiren had heard rumors that Wen Ruohan would sometimes use the sheer weight of his power to lock people into place, forcing them to their knees or backs on the floor in front of him, humiliating and tormenting them for his own amusement, but he didn’t feel anything like that. It was a display of power, yes, but no more so than the priceless spiritual gem that hung on Wen Ruohan’s forehead or the luxurious quality of his clothing, white and red flame, black belt and gauntlets, the finest fabrics and the best embroidery.

“I thought I saw you earlier,” Wen Ruohan remarked. “Or at least the hem of your robes – were you running away from me?”

Lan Qiren’s face suddenly felt hot with embarrassment. “No, of course not!”

That interpretation hadn’t even occurred to him. Had he really been rude? Should he have stopped to greet him properly? He hadn’t thought so, since he hadn’t even entered the room, but his instincts on such things had always been terrible…

And there was still his brother’s exhortation not to spend time with Wen Ruohan.

“Forgive my rudeness, Sect Leader Wen,” he said, dropping back down into a second low bow before rising again. “No slight was intended. I’m not supposed to be alone with other sect leaders.”

“No? And yet yesterday I recall seeing you sitting here with Sect Leader Nie.”

That was true.

What was he supposed to say to that? ‘Yes, but he’s nice’? ‘But I’ve known him for years’? ‘He’s one of our sect allies, you’re too dangerous’? ‘I was told to avoid you specifically’?

Lan Qiren might not be the best at social niceties, but even he knew he couldn’t say something like that.

His face must be demonstrating some degree of his panic, because Wen Ruohan chuckled.

“You can make it up by spending some time with me now, little Lan,” he said, waving a hand in forgiveness. “Come with me – the study is far more comfortable than this garden, especially at this time of year.”

Lan Qiren didn’t really have any knowledge of what the garden was like at this time as opposed to other times, being that this was his only visit so far to the Nightless City, but he had no reason to question Wen Ruohan’s judgment on the matter.

A quick mental review suggested that he had no choice but to comply. His brother had been emphatic that Lan Qiren wasn’t allowed to draw Wen Ruohan’s ire, even if it meant complying with his instructions as if Wen Ruohan were an elder of his own sect; moreover, refusing now would probably be impolitic, especially given the other man’s misinterpretation of his earlier avoidance. In short, despite his best efforts, Lan Qiren had clearly stumbled into a social trap of what he assumed must be his own making. It usually was, after all.

It’ll be another punishment for this, probably, he thought, resigned. He didn’t think that anyone was going to come get him out of this anytime soon, no matter what his brother had said, and he was bound to trip up and say something embarrassing sooner or later. At least there’s only this evening and then the closing ceremonies in the morning – the sooner we get home, the sooner discipline can be imposed and the entire fiasco put behind us.

“Of course, Sect Leader Wen,” he said, and belatedly noticed that some of his resignation had seeped into his voice. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I will join you.”

Wen Ruohan chuckled again. “Most people would say that they were pleased to join me,” he remarked, turning and leading the way, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. “But you don’t lie, do you? It’s one of your rules.”

Lan Qiren felt helpless, following a few steps behind him like a small fishing boat caught in the wake of a warship. “It is one of our rules,” he agreed, since saying that he was happy to join Wen Ruohan would in fact be a lie. “I try to obey them whenever possible.”

“You’ve gotten wiser since we last met. I think I recall that last time, you said always obey the rules?”

“Wisdom comes with age.”

“Is that flattery?”

“Respect for one’s elders.” Lan Qiren paused. “Also a rule.”

“Of course,” Wen Ruohan opened the door to the study that he had been in earlier, the small library with its single table and two settings and window showing the outdoors, and swept inside. “Tell me, then, as the expert in your rules – what rule is it that allows the Lan sect to develop such skilled politicians? One would assume that lying was a prerequisite.”

He doesn’t actually care about the rules, Lan Qiren tried to remind himself, his brother’s voice echoing in his ears. And yet what else could he possibly talk about with Wen Ruohan? It was a question the other man had posed directly, and he was supposed to be obedient, or at least try to be…and he really, truly enjoyed talking about the rules.

“There’s some debate on that subject,” he temporized, but Wen Ruohan arched an eyebrow and inclined his head in an invitation for him to continue. “Some posit that the rules regarding the obligations to honor one’s elders and protect one’s family require that the benefit of the sect take priority over other obligations. Others take the view that not lying is an obligation of general good conduct, which cannot be disregarded, but that it is mitigated by other rules – do not speak frivolous words, for instance.”

“I take it that you’re in the latter camp.”

Lan Qiren was, as it happened, but he wasn’t sure he should say so. After all, it was Wen Ruohan’s ancestor who had first raised up his family and started the tradition of the clan as the sect rather than schools as it had once been, and by all accounts the process of doing so had been a bloody one – what was that if not a belief that your family takes priority over the common good?

He couldn’t say that, though.

Speak meagerly, for excess words only bring harm.

“I am,” he finally said, since Wen Ruohan was still waiting for him to respond. “It is a matter of personal opinion.”

He bit his tongue to keep himself from continuing to talk. There were at least fifteen other points of interest that had come to mind at once - the rule against lying was one of the more debated ones, and of course there were all sorts of writings on the subject of balancing worldly concerns with philosophical ideals more generally. And it was so rare for someone to actually express interest in it!

Speak meagerly, he reminded himself desperately. Meagerly! Haven’t you done enough harm already?

“I see,” Wen Ruohan said. “Come, sit.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose on the sect leader’s time,” Lan Qiren protested automatically. “If you’re already expecting company…”

“Who says I am?”

Lan Qiren looked helplessly at the table. There were two place settings, as he’d briefly glimpsed earlier, and a few snacks laid out already, mostly grilled vegetables – it was perfect place for a private meeting to talk business with another sect leader, which Lan Qiren wasn’t, or else to sit and converse with an old friend, which Lan Qiren definitely wasn’t.

“The servants make it up that way preemptively,” Wen Ruohan said, and Lan Qiren twitched as he realized that the other man had come up behind him, standing a little too close. “They do it in all the rooms, in the event someone wishes to use it. There’s no one coming.”

For some reason, that sounded almost ominous.

Presumably just Lan Qiren’s bad social sense again. Such a display was likely nothing more than the Wen sect showing off yet again, this time in terms of their wealth and the number of servants.

And, well, if the table really had just been set out to be used, surely it would be wrong not to use it? There were rules about avoiding waste, too.

“In that case, I thank Sect Leader Wen for the honor of the invitation,” he said, and sat down properly, sweeping his sleeves back and arranging himself. That it got him a little further away from Wen Ruohan was not as much of a secondary consideration as it probably should have been. “Would you like me to serve tea?”

“I was thinking something stronger,” Wen Ruohan said, sitting down as well, and reaching for the jar already there. “Why not a toast to your family’s victory? A double victory, no less, with you taking first in music and your brother the same in riding. Most impressive.”

Lan Qiren hesitated. That was a very appropriate toast, complimentary – exactly within the boundaries of what an elder ought to say to a junior, really. And yet, at the same time…

“Sect Leader Wen,” he said uncomfortably as Wen Ruohan poured out a double helping in each bowl. It was clear liquor, not wine. “This one apologizes, but…I am not accustomed to drinking.”

“No?” Wen Ruohan was smiling, but when Lan Qiren obediently met his eyes, there seemed almost to be something dangerous about his expression.

“It’s not that I question the quality,” Lan Qiren said hastily. “It’s only – you see – alcohol is prohibited –”

It was one of the rules. Unfortunately, it was one of the more controversial ones: it was generally waived outside of the Cloud Recesses, given how often hospitality required some form of drinking, and there were still elders in the Lan sect who simply refused to obey it at all, citing its uncertain lineage.

They were not in the Cloud Recesses now.

Wen Ruohan started laughing. “Little Lan,” he said. “Are you saying you’ve never had wine before? Aren’t you sixteen already?”

Lan Qiren’s shoulders involuntarily rose to his ears. “I’ve had wine!”

But only peach blossom wine, or rose wine, served at weddings as a toast for good fortune – but he couldn’t admit to that, since that was all kid’s stuff, barely classified as alcohol. He’d never even tried Emperor’s Smile, for which Gusu was famed.

Wen Ruohan’s smirk suggested that he’d guessed the truth anyway.

“It’s only a toast,” he said instead of calling him out on it, picking up his own bowl. “Surely you wouldn’t reject my good faith?”

When it was put like that, of course, there was nothing to be done for it.

Do not draw his ire, his brother had counseled him. If he approaches you, respond gracefully and comply with his wishes until someone comes to recover you.

After all, Wen Ruohan was well known for being moody and unpredictable, for having all sorts of strange whims and no inclination to refrain from indulging himself in them. Lan Qiren had no idea why he might suddenly be inclined to desire Lan Qiren’s company, of all people, nor as to why he would insist on him drinking a toast – at most, he could only speculate that it amused Wen Ruohan to force him to do things with which he was visibly uncomfortable.

And yet, as the saying went, it was unwise to refuse a toast only to be forced to drink a forfeit. Wen Ruohan, as the host, as the elder, as the powerful, could very easily press the issue even more than he already was, escalating from an interpersonal discussion to an intersect issue.

And how could Lan Qiren explain that to his brother?

“Of course not,” Lan Qiren said, giving in and lifting the bowl. “Thank you for your toast, Sect Leader Wen.”

He put the bowl to his lips and drank.

The liquor tasted sharp in a way with which he was unfamiliar, he observed, curious despite himself at the new experience, and it burned his throat when he swallowed. The sensation was almost distinctly unpleasant, actually, and he had to force his gag reflex not to activate, tears coming to his eyes.

He wondered, briefly, why people inflicted such a thing on themselves.

And then, just as he was thinking that, the alcohol hit him all at once like a tidal wave, descending in an overwhelming crash that obliterated all his senses.

#mdzs #lan qiren #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #spilled pearls

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mirrorforevers · 4 years ago

Text

heavenly nobodies (or “the fog”) • graham/reader

this is a bit heavier than usual, ladies. proceed w caution. tw for mentions of abusive relationships, drug abuse and reader has no self-esteem at all. nothing too descriptive in that sense though

on a lighter note, reader n graham are basically two lost adults acting like petty children

a quick disclaimer: its not my intention in *any way* to glorify or romanticize drug abuse or basically anything any of these characters do - its messed up shit. this is fiction, don't take it seriously, please

if this fic was a song, even though its titled after a lush song, it would be lark by angel olsen i guess. might have a sequel someday i dunno

+18, as always. contains smut. this is sososososo long and has went through so many rewrites im sorry. but i do think its my best fic yet!

set in the mid 90s

word count: 3.780

You still remember the day it began.

A nasty fight took place between Graham and Alex. You only got involved because your relationship became one of the topics of the heated debate. Long story short, Graham basically screamed at you two that you, Y/N, were wasting your life away by dating someone like James.

At first you were blind with rage and defended your decadent relationship while insulting Coxon until your throat burned from the screaming match, but afterwards, after you caught yourself thinking a little too long about how James' eyes sometimes seemed to hover over you with an indifference Coxon's never, ever showed, and how it hurt to see Alex in the arms of an entire sea of more attractive women than you - and how shallow you've become for even trying to excuse his behavior with something as empty as the fact you weren't as stereotypically beautiful as the other girls he screwed, you noticed something wasn't quite right about the entire situation, but you still felt shivers at the prospect of telling him you were sorry. He also had a lot to apologize for.

The fog. That's what's been messing with your mind lately. And Graham's. And everyone else's.

It's hard to think about things clearly as they happen in your life when all you feel during most of it is hedonistic, empty bliss. Everything moves in slow motion. The regret, the harsh words, always come afterwards, like a sudden car crash, after people realize the very real consequences of what they said and done while they were immersed in their own very temporary, elusive, pleasures. The fog also made you bitter - not only you, but Graham, Alex and the other boys as well; your relationship with them as a group of friends and individually, each in a different way, consequently turned into a toxic, resentful mess of chaotic feelings and unresolved conflicts. Your relationship with Graham was by far the most affected.

You grew up together. You went to the same college. You very briefly had a thing. He drew you lots and lots of times, you haven't lost a drawing. You realized you didn't love him like *that* and he was okay with it. You were still as close as ever.

Then you met his other friends. In the beginning, he was so excited about this whole "band" thing. The boys were funny, compelling, undoubtedly hard to deal with sometimes, but you got them quickly. Their music very gradually became successful - they deserved it. They sounded so good together. You noticed Graham was a bit jealous of how you interacted with the other boys sometimes. Damon and Dave were the first ones who tried (hard) to bed you, but Alex, effortlessly, was the one who got to.

One night turned into two, three, fifteen. Then into a fucked up prototype of a relationship around the time their stages got bigger, more packed with screaming teenagers and all of you met her – heroin. Graham got proportionally and gradually more distressed and anxious each day. You didn't know which one of these things disturbed him the most, after all, he didn't speak to you (or anyone, for fuck's sake) like he used to. Thousands of little things began to intercalate and swallow everything you've built together.

You've started to hate him - he refused to speak to you about what was bothering him, and you barely talked outside of the inevitable circumstances. Meanwhile, Alex dragged you even deeper into his questionable lifestyle and you shrinked into it until you could pretend it fit you like a glove. You felt so small. Invisible to everything and everyone who truly mattered, even to yourself. You tried to reach out to the one who mattered most plenty of times, but every time you tried to reach out to him it would end up in screams and even more resentment. It seemed like there was no way back - he hated you as well because he thought you were just like Alex. It felt like a knife was twisted in your stomach when he said it the first time. You pretended it didn't hurt the other ones - those were the nights your binges were the worst and you'd vomit yourself to sleep, though.

Everything was leading you to one of those nights again, until you heard a knock on your door. At this time of night, it was definitely Alex.

You tried to tidy yourself up as much as you could in a matter of a few minutes. You thought you weren't as effortlessly beautiful as the other women in his life - as if cheating had something to do with appearance and not with his character, but oh well - and you felt like you had to at least try to keep up with their pace. You washed your face, smeared some foundation on some old stretch (and track) marks and tried to pretend his presence was the brightest spot on your day. He disguised so much criticism under the pretense of worry, leaving you feeling so bad about yourself, but you needed his approval like you needed air on your lungs (or opioids on your veins) for some reason you couldn't quite explain.

You open the door, holding your breath while you tried to ignore the pit that grew on your stomach just to find out that...

"Graham?" You were simultaneously relieved and revolted to see him on your door. Adrenaline ran through your veins. You didn't realize how afraid you were of him - you've only hurt one another with words, but still, you were afraid to cross eyes with him just because you felt like it would start another fight and you would simply never speak to each other ever again, not even to fight. You were afraid of how deep your friendship has corroded.

He was visibly hurting, just like you. It comforted and hurt you to see it.

"You were waiting for him, weren't you?" He noted, vaguely motioning towards the lipstick on your lips. You felt pathetic.

"What are you doing here?" You quickly wiped the lipstick off your lips while he looks around, not really knowing what to answer. His eyes, puffy, somehow indicated he wasn't there to say he was sorry. At that point, you didn't even cared who was in the wrong. You just wanted to know why he was there.

"Just came here to tell you that... I'm leaving Blur, and... I'll be moving to Germany with a friend. Tomorrow."

"What kind of joke is this?"

"I wanted to tell you because... I felt like we got so used to each other's presence t-that... even if you're relieved by the news, uh, I think you should know in advance."

There was no mischief in his eyes. There was no point in joking with something like that. It's not like you were comfortable enough with each other to joke with each other nowadays anyway. That realization crushed you and anchored you to the very confusing and tragic reality just laid out in front of you.

It was so uncharacteristic. You knew of his tendency to run away from these types of situations and this time he simply didn't. Your mouth refused to close. "I-I don't understand. You... You can't... You can't just do that. You have a fucking gig tomorrow!"

"I won't justify myself to you. Just... take care of yourself and... don't let that leech suck the life out of you more than he already did."

"You don't understand. You don't understand anything. Is this about him? Again?" In yet another wave of adrenaline, you pulled him inside your flat and he just lets you. "Are you moving to bloody Germany because of what went on between us today?!"

"I don't care that you don't love me. I care that I can't go for a fucking day without seeing you waste away your life with him. If he was someone that made you happy... but he's just killing you. I can't deal with that."

Still in shock, you pulled him in a desperate kiss. It was not an attempt of making him stay, but something else entirely new. He had to say he was leaving so you could really know, in a matter of a few seconds, how much you needed him there.

His reciprocity simultaneously broke your heart and filled it with hope - you knew how far your relationship with Alex went and how tough it would be to break free from the chains he's got your heart tangled in, but at the same time, Coxon kissed you in a way no one else ever did. He loved you like no one else could. And that's how you noticed how easily you clinged to any sign of true affection given how much Alex's been neglecting your emotional and physical needs lately. Everything was about him all the time, it was a monologue. Graham and you had a conversation.

(A conversation that lasted all night. Thankfully, Alex didn't show up. He must've been talking to someone else.)

Instead of sweet nothings and love confessions, funnily enough, you and Graham exchanged soft "I hate you"s after the deed was done. You both hated the situation you were in. Hated that even though the passion burned hot as fire between you, you were stuck in a mess bigger than everything that just went through both of you. But never each other. You just couldn't name the feeling right.

Perhaps needless to mention, he stayed in the United Kingdom. Instead of sitting and talking like adults about what you felt about each other though, the bickering somehow became even worse.

Of course you started to take his side on fights more often. Mock Alex's behavior together more often. Something definitely changed between the two of you, but it still wasn't enough. Graham was still furious that you wouldn't give up on James. You were still furious that he wouldn't take your relationship with Alex seriously. It had its many faults, yes, but it was special in a way no one else grasped and you were raised to think that people shouldn't give up on others that easily, a convention that no modern deconstruction of social norms could take out of you out of a sudden. Not even Graham. But instead of raising your voices and breaking things around you, you've found other means to release the tension between you. Usually in dark corners of untidy pubs, his flat or yours. It became so frequent it didn't need any planning anymore.

Following the opposite path of the earlier days of your animosity, the more intense the fights got now, the lower your voices got. Instead of distancing yourselves from each other in the middle of screams, your bodies got closer like magnets. He could be so tender somehow even when his words stung like venom.

You were living and breathing contradictions. Him in the way he conveys his hopeless submissiveness to you in the way every touch of yours breaks him and the way he just isn't able to cum if he sees you're not having enough pleasure, yet he fucks you like he wants it to hurt and pretends nothing happened after you're done; and you in the way you cling to him like he's your lifeline when he's deep inside of you but isn't hesitant to not look him in the eye on some other nights.

The night of one of the parties thrown by Blur's record company following the release of The Great Escape wasn't one of the latter.

While the lower floor of the venue is frenetic with people immersed in different levels of ecstasy caused by all sorts of different substances, the upper floor is reserved to the lovers, or people who were looking for a calmer place to talk or to relatively safely de-escalate from their highs. You, on the other hand, just wanted to run away from the view of Alex kissing another woman in the event he brought you to. You were almost falling asleep in one of the tiny, dimly lit and cramped rooms when a small, familiar voice woke you up. "Why aren't you downstairs with your future husband?"

You feel aloof. The slightest mention of the one you think you love disgruntles you. "Ugh. I should have known it was you," you grumble, giving him room to share the sofa with you. "You know why."

"I don't. Someone once told me I don't understand anything." He accepts the offer almost unconsciously. It's so interesting to see how his actions contradict his words and posture, just like your actions contradict yours.

"I'm still right about that. Why did you come here? To mock me?"

"You're lost."

"And so are you. Don’t talk. I don’t want to hear it."

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks, calmly, knowing what the answer will be.

It's always a no.

You instinctively move closer to him, as if he's about to disappear in a cloud of dust in any moment. You don't ever want him to leave.

He notices your eyes are glistening when your lips touch, so smoothly and in such a tender way. His hands enter your hair, just below your ears, and you melt at his touch all over again.

The kiss starts out slow, then becomes more and more intense. His tongue slides against yours and you whine, clutching at him like he’s the only thing tethering you to this earth. It becomes so easy to let him settle between your thighs. He runs one of his large hands through your hair, fists it, and pulls your head so he can have easier access to your neck, filling it with open-mouthed kisses. “Why the fuck,” you manage to murmur in between heavy breaths, “do you care so much about me?”

He doesn't answer. His fingers trace the hem of your dress instead, skimming up the side of your leg. You whimper as he moves them over the sensitive skin to the apex of your thighs, his lips finding the side of your throat again. He sucks a mark into your skin just as his thumb caress your core so lightly above your underwear and you whisper, voice trembling with desire: "You're so much better than him."

He's not sure if you're just leading him on, and neither are you. He doesn't even know if he has heard it right. The fog really blurs every line. Reason, feelings, motives. "You never cried over me", he answers, seeking to turn that reality around, it seemed. Your hips buck into his touch, and a moan escapes you when his hand coyly seeks direct contact with your clit, stimulating it with precision from the start. "You truly... don't know shit," you gasp, grinding harder against his touch and losing yourself to his ministrations, the fog of an earlier hit helping in enveloping you in a state of so much bliss.

"Do you want me to lock the door?" His raspy voice takes you out of this world. You nod, a little disappointed by having such a great feeling interrupted for the sake of privacy. Your lips were spit-slick and pinkened, your eyes half lidded. The sight made Graham breathe hard through his nose, but he somehow kept his composure. When he goes to lock the door, you couldn't help noticing the tent you helped build in his jeans. You feel proud of yourself.

He returns with the hungry kisses and eager touches, slowly driving you crazy all over again. His kisses lower down, down... and you pat his shoulders, motioning for him to stop. "I want to make you feel good tonight." He accepts the offer.

You scooch downwards, just above his hips, and you pull his pants and the waistband to his briefs down in one swift motion. He's painfully hard, but that was hardly a surprise. Graham straightens his back just in time to watch you take the reddened head of his cock into your mouth. He claps a hand over his mouth, hips bucking upwards into the wet heat instinctively, your warm breath enveloping his dick and clouding his mind.

Wrapping your fingers around it, you gently jerk him off, slowly sliding your hand from the tip back to the base. He groans, watching you as you fill his senses with a dull warmth. You stare back at him, smiling as he groans at your warm breath.

You run the tip of your index finger tentatively along the underside of his cock, watching with fascination as his cock twitches and reacts to your presence. You lean forward, breathing on the head before planting a soft kiss on the tip. Coxon whimpers, his dick aching from your attention. Tired of the teasing, you begin stroking it, your soft fingers loosely bouncing along his shaft. He leans his head back to the ceiling when you kiss the tip again.

You eye his cock excitedly, before you lean forward and lick his head, swirling your tongue around the crown and flicking it across the tip. His hips thrust forward before you can even react, his mind reeling as your tongue slowly traces along a vein you followed from the head all the way to the base. He groans, and was about to say something when his mind went blank. He sees pure white, his brain shutting down almost completely as you wrap your mouth around the end of his cock and set a steady rhythm to the oral stimulation. His chest rumbles as a deep growl of satisfaction leaves him, shaking through the air, the vibrations in your mouth punctuating his growl with a hiss.

He cracks his eyes open, his glazed eyes staring down to find you staring directly at him. The sight of his rigid cock vanishing between your soft lips made his skin crawl. He groans heavily, grasping your head on instinct and thrusting forward.

You gasp lightly as he shoves himself deeper inside your mouth, pushing against your throat. He moans your name desperately, panting heavily as his hips automatically thrust against you. You stand firm, keeping only the front half of his cock in your mouth, slithering your tongue against the crown and watching intently for his reactions. He was close, his mind firmly on fire as his body reacted on autopilot, trying to extract as much pleasure as possible. He could feel his climax approaching, your soft lips and gentle eyes coaxing him on. You look into his eyes and give an experimental bob of your head, taking him further into your mouth. Feeling the characteristic salty taste of precum on your tongue, you take your mouth off his cock, and before his mind is able to form a cohesive sentence of protest, you take off your underwear and sit on his lap. His hands now squeeze your hip, pulling you closer. Your wetness leaves a bit of a trail on his legs before you sink on his hard, already lubricated cock.

"You're addicted to my cock, aren't you," It's fascinating how Graham's behavior changes when he's drunk. In the best and worst ways. He would never say something like that while sober. You nod in agreement, face flush with arousal and need. "He can't even fuck you," he punctuactes with an especially hard thrust, "like I can." he envelops you in a sort of hug as his broad shoulders and arms now dictate the rhythm you both follow.

"He--c-an't, fuck--"

"Do you think," he takes his entire cock out of you just so he can go even deeper when he says, "he'll hear us... if you say my name out loud?" he smiles when a loud moan escapes your lips, feeling completely in control of your body. You can't even talk anymore, just nod, like a marionette.

"So say it." Another thrust. And another. And another. You follow his pace with your hips religiously, not even slightly ashamed of making the name of the one who's giving you so much pleasure public, as he commanded. You take the last atom of control on your body and direct it to your pussy, clenching your walls tighter around him, an action that successfully tears his thoughts apart, making his eyebrows furrow and his mouth, agape. One of his hands move to the middle of your bodies and, as he looks down at where your bodies meet, begins to stimulate your clit to the rhythm of his thrusts. His groans turn louder when your body moves towards his again, and the sound of your moans, along with the sound of skin against skin and your ragged breaths were the only thing you were able to hear, along with the distant sound of It Could Be You playing in the background.

In a daze, he says your name in that unique way that only he knew how to - like it was part of a prayer and your body was his God(dess). You dig your nails into his back while he fucks you without a trace of mercy. You close your eyes, losing yourself in all those sensations as Graham continued his movements. When he punctuates his now even faster thrusts with a string of "fuck, fuck, fuck" - that's when you know he's close, a suspicion confirmed true as he comes hard inside of you, closing his eyes tightly as he reached his climax. You follow him seconds later.

When he recovers enough to be able to breathe calmly and control his heartbeat, Graham rests his chin on your shoulder. Neither of you say anything for a long time.

And when the spasms of pleasure are gone, Graham's brain decides to go back to work and he realizes what had just happened - again. Suddenly, the sensation of bliss is accompanied by that weird sensation of "What do I do now?". He carefully removes his dick from you and pulls his jeans up, zipping up his pants while you straighten your dress and search for your panties in the middle of the dark. Both without saying a single word.

Graham clears his throat, glancing at the mirror behind the door and seeing his state was deplorable. His face reddened by the heat and his hair a perfect mess. You were in no better situation than him.

“Uh,” Graham said a long time later, breaking the silence. “How long is that arrangement supposed to last?”

"I won't count the time." You responded calmly.

He nods, mystified by you.

#graham coxon #graham coxon x reader #graham x reader #britpop #smut #imagine #reader insert #blur #blur band #90s

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missnight0wl · 4 years ago

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Chapter 26 gave me brain damage. Oh my G-d, I wanted to rip my hair out. "Alithosy Draught" suspicion was such nonsense. A potion that affects only by drinking or fumes... that only three people are affected by. If it was fumes, everyone there should've been affected. If it was a drink given to Jacob, it should've affected only him: Penny might drink if offered, Madam Strout would never when on duty. If a main water source was spiked, EVERYONE should have been affected.

They should have just spiked the hospital's main water source instead and the only reason MC wasn't affected would've been because they were out that day. It would have fit R's image as a dangerous group of terrorist wizards better and involved Moody and the Ministry in a more coherent, less useless-feeling way. I can also be used to justify the presence of the Swan Patronus.

Oh yeah, it was a mess. Although I have to say that I was mostly annoyed by MC considering Alihosty Draught while still calling it “the laughing CURSE”. Like… seriously. Just add the line: “Hm, you’re right, Moody, maybe it’s not a curse at all!”.

Your points are very valid, but I also think that it could’ve been fixed pretty easily – even if we want to keep the pumpkin juice. Here’s the thing: at the end of Y7Ch25, Madam Strout comes with Penny to tell Jacob that he can finally leave the hospital, right? Great, then use that moment so they make a toast with Jacob’s pumpkin juice. I imagine that even Madam Strout could drink it for such a special occasion. However, before MC takes a sip, Jacob starts laughing. I mean, it would actually work as a red herring since we’d see all of them drink the juice. Therefore, it would actually seem plausible that the laughing might be connected to the drink.

I like your idea about water, too. However, I have to point out that I don’t think the goal here was to affect a lot of people. I assume that Moody was right that it was just Jacob who was a target. So, I guess it technically makes more sense that R wouldn’t want to draw too much attention by spreading the laughing effects on the whole hospital. Still, it’s definitely something MC could consider, especially since they didn’t see either Penny or Madam Strout drinking the pumpkin juice.

But personally, I was expecting something else entirely – something kind of between the juice and water. See, in Y7Ch21, I noticed a new model for a drink being used:

It happens to be a moment when Jacob was brought to St Mungo’s with his burns. Interestingly, there were no blue drinks like that in this room before. I don’t think it’s supposed to be water because, well, it’s a bit too blue, if you ask me. Also, it randomly showed up at the Three Broomsticks during the party Chiara organised for us.

Y7Ch23:

Y7Ch24:

Y7Ch25:

So, I was honestly expecting that it’s gonna play some role. I mean, I’m pretty sure it was used never before, and quite frankly, I’m not even sure what it’s supposed to be. Anyway, I think it could create a pretty decent mystery. I don’t know, they could even say it’s some kind of new isotonic drink or something. In fact, it could create a connection to Xeep’s Luscious Locks Solution. Y’know, a new wonderful product which turns out to be causing serious problems. Except, in this case, it wouldn’t be a drink causing it. But again, it’s another reason why MC could think that it’s suspicious instead of looking for a cursed object sooner.

#hogwarts mystery #hphm #hphm mc #hphm jacob #hphm r #year 7 #Y7Ch26 #ask #anonymous

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squeeneyart · 4 years ago

Text

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 25

AO3

Beta reader as always is @thesnadger

Nothing to do but talk.

Martin and Jon settle in for a movie night.

The documentary, if it could be called that, was absolute bunk.

Littered throughout were vague interviews and wild assumptions on the part of the very on-screen director, all tied together with a final push for people to purchase a very specific brand of smoke detector. And the low quality of the video couldn’t be blamed solely on Martin’s internet.

They watched the thing from start to finish, though, and by the end of its 70-minute runtime (“I should’ve guessed by how short it was,” Jon had grumbled partway through) their viewing had turned primarily to Jon taking the piss out of it. Academically, of course.

On Martin’s end the film itself was bad in an enjoyable way, and while he didn’t have the context for all of Jon’s complaints it was easy for him to listen. He’d even made some jokes that got Jon to snort.

He did have to sit uncomfortably straight to keep from leaning against each other. Jon had turned it a bit so they could both see, but when viewed from too hard an angle the picture looked even worse. So, Martin did his best to give Jon space and not let the effort distract him from the screen.

All of this being true, Martin was grateful for the horrible film. Nothing filled silence better than movies and television, so the nights following they settled into a routine. Someone would make dinner (with no further… outbursts) and then they would find something to watch. Afterwards they would say goodnight and Martin would escape upstairs to decompress with his little notebook.

Jon’s original idea had been to find something related to their goals. However, after another let down on night two involving a very old retrospective on the mid-century fishing industry (“Wrong century,” Martin had said about five minutes in), Jon dropped the idea, thus opening up a whole new world of cable television and old vhs tapes on night three.

“You bought yourself a laptop but never had a dvd player?” Jon yawned, getting comfortable on his side of the couch.

“We sort of… skipped it?” Martin dug through a box of tapes for something worth watching, sifting through sappier options and 80s action flicks alike. “Dunno how, but we never got one. The laptop ended up being the first thing I ever had to play dvds, but the telly is too old to be hooked up to it. S’fine, though. I like tapes.”

“And you never get bored of it? Flipping between tapes and whatever’s on at a given time?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “I have a phone for other stuff, obviously. To be honest I don’t watch a lot to begin with, nothing new anyway.”

“Hmph. Same for me,” Jon conceded, sinking further into the couch. “Feels like there are other things I could be doing.”

“Except for now?”

A wry smile. “Special case.”

Martin’s stomach did a flip. He didn’t feel guilty, per se, but he wished he had something for Jon to work on to stave off the boredom. Everything had been so quiet with Peter gone and Simon’s waiting that no new leads had popped up. It wasn’t fair that Jon had to sit around doing nothing after wandering about in the sea for weeks. The least he could do was provide some entertainment.

“Hm. Right, how about this one?” Martin looked back and waved a vhs set. It was some old fantasy series with a group of children on the cover standing in a hallway. “Haven’t watched it since I was a kid, but I remember liking it.”

“Two tapes’ worth?” Jon glanced up at the ceiling. “It’s in episodes, right?”

“Yeah, though if you’d rather find something else…?”

Jon waved his hand. "No, I can’t spend the whole evening making up my mind. If we don’t like it, then we can find something else.”

With that settled Martin popped the tape in and took up his seat. On the other end, Jon sat with the blanket pulled to his chest. He wore a new set of pyjamas Martin had picked up at the shop along with a few other things to save Jon from having to wear the same clothes day and night.

The show was a simple series meant for children, easy enough to follow in plot that some side chatter didn’t interrupt things too much. Honestly, Martin was glad they weren’t paying a whole lot of attention. He hadn’t watched it in years and wasn’t looking to be embarrassed.

A few minutes in, the children from the cover were running up the stairs to explore a large house. “Safe to assume you don’t have siblings?” Jon asked.

“Hm? Oh, no, it’s just me. You?”

He snorted. “Even if my grandmother wanted another child running around, I was enough to deal with.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “What, were you a terror?”

“I’d use the word ‘adventurous’, but she would’ve agreed with that description. If we’d been in that house,” Jon gestured toward the screen, “she would’ve been in trouble. Until it ate me or something.”

“I don’t think that’s how it goes?”

Jon frowned. “That’s- No, I mean if it were real it would probably mean harm. Supernatural houses aren’t trustworthy entities outside of fiction. In fiction they’re mischievous at the least.”

“Can’t imagine that, a building that likes to mess with you,” Martin said, grimacing. He really didn’t remember much about this story. Maybe that was how it went? “I’m sure they’ll be fine. I wasn’t into spooky things back then.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but I’m not letting my guard down,” Jon said. He watched as the children walked up a spiral staircase. “Would you have wanted siblings?”

Martin considered this. “I can’t imagine having them? But an older sibling would’ve been nice. Someone to know better and help me with things.”

“I think any other child would’ve found me irritating, older or younger. Best to keep to myself,” Jon said dryly. “Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yes, you can imagine the additional worry of raising a child who could explore the ocean like it was the woods. It’s not like she could follow me in.”

“I bet… She wasn’t like you, then?”

Turning back to the television, Jon said, “No. She was from my father’s side.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t tell if the question was wrong to ask, so looked back to the show. It was luck of the draw, then, whether someone was born with a selkie skin. Perhaps there was nothing to do with genetics in circumstances like this.

Back on the screen, one of the children had chosen to wander outside into the beginnings of a snowstorm with no thought to the cold. Outside the real world window it had begun to hail, and Martin realized how frigid it had become both outdoors and in.

“Well, at least this story is right for the season,” Martin said, standing up. “I’m gonna grab another blanket.”

With a start, Jon looked at him and held up the one he was under. “Do you want this one? I don’t-”

“N-no, that’s fine!” He walked briskly out of the room, feeling rude and stupid. All Jon had offered was for him to use the damned thing, not share it. And it wouldn’t have fit both of them even if he had meant it that way!

Opening the hall closet, he tried to calm down. He peered at the pile of folded sheets and blankets, lifting each layer to search for one he liked. There was a flannel one somewhere, deceptively warm for how thin it was-

Oh.

Tucked far down into the pile, far back enough so it was hidden if the one above wasn’t lifted, Martin saw something dappled and grey and out of place amongst the linen. Jon had left it to dry completely beforehand, so the surrounding fabric was unwrinkled. Considerate. And in a decent hiding place all things considered. It was a shame Martin had gone and ruined it.

He sighed, grabbing one of the blankets at the top that he’d initially passed on. Once he reached the doorway to the living room, he stopped and stared at Jon who was doing his best to seem unperturbed.

“So, I saw it,” he started, squeezing the blanket in his arms into his chest. “I use that closet a lot, if you want to put it somewhere else.”

Jon winced and stood. As Martin let him pass, he mumbled, “Right. I’ll just-”

And then Martin was left to sit back on the couch and wait, pausing the tape out of courtesy.

When the skin had disappeared from the shower that first morning he hadn’t considered anything but Jon hiding it, and there was an awful satisfaction in knowing he was right. He rubbed his arm and stared at the blanket in his lap, still neat and folded.

After a couple of minutes, Jon returned empty handed and resumed his seat. Pulling his blanket back up, he said, “It’s nothing… personal.”

“I know.” He took a deep breath and pressed play on the old remote, letting the child continue their new solo adventure. “I figured you hid it.”

“I appreciate that you told me.” His voice was stilted and unsure. “That you found it.”

“Sure, whatever helps.” Unfolding the blanket, he pulled it up to his shoulders and leaned on the arm rest. He could feel Jon fidgeting in place, turning the blanket so it faced the right way and making it tuck under him in the right places. Martin kept his eyes ahead.

Finally giving up on any further adjustments, Jon slouched into place. “It does help. I know my caution can come off as distrust, but genuinely I just… I need to keep it hidden. I need to know where it is and to be the only one who does. For now.”

“You… don’t need to justify anything.” Martin sighed and had to fight back a yawn. “It’s your coat.”

A grunt of frustration. “No, you don’t- It’s not a rational thing. I trusted you enough to tell you the truth, and yet I was barely into my first night here before I panicked and stowed it away.” He sat upright and let the blanket fall to his lap, quiet distress written across the lines of his forehead.

Grasping for words, Martin said, “You still haven’t known me that long. It’s not wrong to be careful.”

“That’s not the point,” Jon replied quietly, resting elbows on knees. “It hasn’t been all that long in the grand scheme of things, but a lot has happened. I consider you a friend. And yet I can’t stop feeling like everything is about to go wrong if I’m not careful.”

The hail continued to slam against the window, almost overpowering the sound of the television and the faun describing the witch’s plans. On the far side of the couch, Jon remained hunched over his own knees with his face bent in irritation.

A wave of shame broke against him, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. Carefully, Martin scooted over just enough to reach out a hand. His trembling fingers hovered just an inch away, brushing against the fabric of Jon’s shirt before coming to rest on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered, massaging around his eyes with his fingers. He reached his free hand up to tentatively cover Martin’s, giving it a tiny squeeze. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Do you… want to keep watching?”

Jon nodded, shaking himself out a little. Martin released the gentle grip on his shoulder, though he didn’t move away. They both settled into the back of the couch and watched.

The child had gone back inside with the shivers, but no one was to be found. Around the halls she wandered, calling her siblings’ names with indignation that slowly turned to concern and then to fear. Eventually she was running, and it wasn’t until she was on the upper floor that one of her brothers popped out to scare the living daylights out of her.

Deep down he remembered this part making him cry. Perhaps siblings weren’t worth it with how cruel children could be.

Martin coughed. “You explored the sea as a kid, then?”

Jumping slightly, Jon said, “O-only a couple of times. And not far from the land. And it’s not as fun when you can only grab one thing at a time, with your mouth. I sorely missed my pockets and picking up sticks.” As he spoke, he resumed the more casual tone from before with modest success.

“You thought checking out the sea with no real limits was too much of a hassle?”

With a roll of his eyes, Jon said, “It wasn’t entirely that. Eventually my grandmother warned me away from it. Told me about dangerous animals that absolutely weren’t native to the coast where we lived.”

“Great white sharks?”

“Surrounding our seaside village on every watery side, ready to eat hapless little seal boys who didn’t listen to their nans.”

Martin chuckled, relaxing further into his seat and listening to Jon go on about all the ways his grandmother had tried and failed to reign him in. He could see it, a younger, scrappier version of the man next to him stomping around the woods and climbing fences.

The instinct wasn’t all that relatable to someone like Martin who’d kept to the front porch on nice days, but it sounded like an adventure. Maybe it meant he was less likely to get eaten by an evil wardrobe out of the two of them. In his position he could only hope that was the case.

They called it for the night when, out of nowhere, a man suddenly appeared at half opacity screen and let out a screeching noise to close out an episode, making Jon laugh in a way that only could’ve been from exhaustion.

Martin lingered downstairs for a while after they shut the television off. It was Friday, after all. For many reasons they couldn’t go out to a pub, but without the need to get up early he could afford to stay up a little longer and listen to a sleepy Jon talk over the tapping on the window panes.

Tim: not next weekend, but the one after i think. finally time to call it on preparation and get down to business, if this is something we can be prepared for

Martin: encouraging

Tim: look its been rough over here, alright?

Martin: i know, sorry. itll be easier to talk once we’re all in one place

Tim: yeah

Tim: things are ok over there, then? youre sounding better

Martin: ?

Tim: it was starting to get scary if im honest, how quiet you were

Martin: oh, sorry. things are fine, just didnt have a lot to say

Tim: yeah, i get it. its hard to fill the space. dont be a stranger though. in a few weeks we’ll be there to get you out of this mess

Martin: looking forward to it

Sighing, Martin looked from the private chat to Jon, who was ignoring his breakfast to type away at the laptop. “Sounds like the others are making plans to get here.”

Jon looked up briefly. “Good. It will be… nice to see them.”

“And show them you’re not dead?”

Ignoring this, Jon said, “How is Tim doing?”

He glanced back at his phone. “Worried. About a lot of things, I think.”

“Thinking of how he’s going to break my disappearance to you, no doubt,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. He avoided Martin’s eyes. “That’ll be resolved soon enough.”

Martin poked at the eggs on his plate. “He… lost someone, didn’t he?”

It was only for a moment, but Jon froze in the middle of setting his mug down. He seemed to struggle with an answer.

“It’s fine if you can’t say, but he implied as much,” Martin said gently.

With a frown, Jon shut the laptop. “Sasha knows more than I do, but yes. His brother, a few years ago.”

“Oh. That’s… really sad.” He leaned back in his chair. “He seems like he’d be a good brother.”

“I’m sure he was. He certainly looks out for us.” Jon took a bite of his toast.

“As best as he can,” Martin added sheepishly.

“Once this is all finished he’s earned a vacation.”

Yes, they’d all given poor Tim their share of heart attacks. Martin had managed to several times in the last month. But at least when the time came Tim would see that both of them were alive and themselves and able to apologize for making his and Sasha’s lives just a bit harder than they needed to be.

Once it was all finished.

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #sasha james #timothy stoker #peter lukas #jonmartin #selkie au

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yicruz48 · 5 years ago

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Teen Titans Review: Annual #2 Part 2

August/26/2020

Part 1

This again pushes the narrative of Damian as the angry aggressor with no self-control nor a ability to be conscious of how his own actions hurt other people.

I am not denying that Damian hasn’t been extreme before or has a temper but if written correctly he would have enough awareness to feel guilt for what he did to Emiko and not act so aggressively towards Bruce.

This is another section of the issue that I feel conflicted about how to feel about this for several reasons:

-> The things Damian says in these panels aren’t all false :

I wouldn’t be sincere in this review if I didn’t acknowledge the truth to Damian’s comparison. In the last two years real time the Wayne Manor has become a sort of coffin and tomb. A manor that only carries the echoes of those who used to live there.

After a while, I could imagine it would be distressing to visit the Manor because it would remind them of the people who weren’t there anymore.

-> I fear Anti’s will look at these panels and try to justify Damian as a bad person:

I asked my older brother (Who doesn’t know much about comics besides the bit I tell him) to read the interactions in this issue and give me his opinion on them.

“To me it feels like the writer is trying to show Damian is conflicted and not in the right headspace therefore showing him erupting into a fight with Bruce violently but...I can definitely see how someone who doesn’t like Damian could turn this narrative against him.”

And I agree with him. As much as dislike these direction in writing for Damian, I do see what Thompson was trying to do here (and since the beginning of the run). It hasn’t been executed well, but he has been trying to get the reader to sympathize with Damian (more than Glass that is).

And I believe it is trying to show that Damian is at his wits end, not thinking right-well-I mean-Damian hasn’t been thinking right in TT since 2018, but I guess he’s really not in the right headspace.

But I have the same fear that my brother mentioned, if you look at these same panels through the same lens of someone who doesn’t particularly like Damian you look at this and think is horrible. I can already imagine what they’d say:

“Look at how badly Damian treats his father!”

Although your supposed to look at this as Damian having a outburst after keeping in it for so long and not being emotionally-neglected by his father.

“Alfred’s death was hard for Bruce too, Damian needs to stop acting like he is the only one who is hurt.”

Even though Bruce is an adult and Damian is a teen(a severely-damaged one at that) and you know...BRUCE DIDN’T COMFORT DAMIAN AFTER ALFRED DIED...

And this further expressed in Detective Comics where Damian causally mentions that he is surprised that his father contacted him.

Like...um...Damian is a 13-year-old boy...are you really telling me Bruce hasn’t contacted his own underaged son especially after Alfred died?

“Dick just got shot and lost his memories. He didn’t die. Why is he acting like he died?”

I talk more about Damian’s and Dick’s relationship here.

But to put it simply, Dick is one of the only people Damian trusts to be vulnerable with. Damian is extremely independent yet depends on him the most. This is expressed many times in the beginning of rebirth (specifically in the Nightwing and Batman comics). Losing that connection is extremely damaging to Damian.

Moving on, I actually appreciated this scene with Crush. I happy that she kept the group from intervening between Bruce and Damian.

With the track record of how “great” the Teen Titans are at handling situations them getting in the middle of the fight would’ve made this worse.

Plus I liked that she recognized that this was something personal. So far, I’ve felt like the majority of the Teen Titans have antagonized Damian and it felt refreshing to see Crush realize that Damian’s actions are more personal than they thought.

But at the same time, I don’t know how to take this. I feel like they also wrote this in order prop her up to be the new leader in the next issues so at the same time it feels a little insincere.

I already said this in part 1 of the review but I am grateful for the decency DC or Thompson had to give us some personal reasonings for his actions, but again, it doesn’t work as a good trigger nor does it hold the same hype it would’ve if written earlier when it happened, not months after it happened.

One of the only things about these panels that I have to say is that I saw some people theorizing on twitter that perhaps Damian was expecting to be punished by his father because of how his other brothers have been treated by Bruce. But I really don’t know myself how to interpret it.

Why is Damian questioning why Bruce isn’t fighting back?

-> Was he expecting Bruce to punish him?

-> Was Damian expecting his father to challenge his new beliefs?

Because Bruce doesn’t really challenge Damian’s beliefs at the end, if anything, it seems like Bruce gives up trying to reason with Damian.

Which is sad if you look back to this panel in Batman and Robin 2011:

Jumping back on track, and then we have this panel:

Which is yet again another panel that I feel conflicted about.

I guess it’s nice Bruce finally told his son that he loves him, but also it’s a little to late now. Bruce should’ve expressed compassion to Damian when he had the chance, and he had a lot chances to do this:

-> On his 13th birthday.

-> By being more involved in his life.

-> When Dick got shot to remind Damian he had someone there for him despite Dick not being there.

-> When Alfred died in front of him. That was most likely traumatizing for him, would’ve been nice to have someone there to comfort him.

I feel like I keep repeating myself, but again, this four pages are difficult to interpret.

“Everything...lead...to...THIS”

-> I’m taking this as Damian concluding that being Robin (and everything that encompasses including the no killing rule) lead to him losing people he loved and eventually not being Robin.

“You will never truly see me so long as I am in your shadow.”

-> Damian thinking that Bruce won’t take him seriously if he is Robin?

-> Thinking that Bruce won’t ever truly see who he really is if he is Robin?

“Now I am finally free.”

-> Damian implicating that being Robin was a burden and/or restricted him from doing what he thinks is “right?”

As a Damian stan the last four pages were the most painful to read. Seeing Damian leave the Robin title frustrates me soo much.

Conclusions and Predictions:

-> This issue was not as bad as I thought (but still bad):

For one, I am glad Bruce didn’t beat up Damian.

I am glad they had the decency to give Damian more personal reasons to go down this path even if it was late.

-> (I’m gonna start talking about the art more in my reviews)

Pansica is a very talented artist BUT I personally don’t think he was the best choice to draw a comic with teens. The adults in this issue were drawn great but I feel like drawing teens is not his strong point.

There was points in this comics were Damian looked unpleasant and I think it was because Pansica tends to be very detailed although a lot detail does a disservice to drawing teens. As a artist myself, I lay off the details when drawing children since it often ages them more if you put more detail.

Maiolo’s colors are good. I don’t know if it was a conscious decision or not but the dullness of the color really emphasizes the darker vibe of this issue.

-> Thompson didn’t fail me this issue, he still manage to make me hate Roundhouse more than last issue :)

He also really pushed that unnecessary Emiko X Wallace ship in the middle of this issue. I think the bothers me about this relationship is that they gotten closer because of Damian killing. I really don’t vibe with that.

-> Bruce just suddenly offering a hug after giving Damian death stares at the beginning just confuses me.

-> Teen Titan’s didn’t ever take Deathstroke go and basically let him go unless he’ll be appearing next issue.

-> So far Damian sucks as being a villian/anti-hero, he failed both at killing KGBeast and Deathstroke.

-> Hate that once again, most of the blame was thrown at Damian.

->To Damian, being Robin was the best thing to happen to him.

It allowed him to see the mistakes in his past(that he was made to do) and work towards becoming a better person...in other words, it granted him an opportunity to redeem himself.

Not only that, but it granted him the opportunity to honor the people who helped him become a better person (Dick and Bruce).

And even Damian felt like he needed to “prove” that he could be Robin because I think even Damian felt like he didn’t deserve it or wasn’t good enough.

What this comic has done with him is atrocious and will always be no matter the outcome.

I have a petition related to Damian here. I would appreciate it if you shared and signed.

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heinzpilsnergonewild · 4 years ago

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Vegeta’s Character Analysis Looooooooooong Read

Oh my, what can I say? I just really love to write long essays in a language that isn’t even native to me, lol.

Well, nobody’s perfect, I guess. ... Were you expecting a Cell joke here? I may not be perfect, but that doesn't mean I have to be that predictable.

Ahem, anyway.

This isn't exactly a psychological analysis of the character - more like, hmm, a storytelling analysis. Or something in between, really.

You may not find anything fundamentally new in this text, but I definitely had fun writing it, haha.

It's mostly amateur. I have a useless psychology degree, but not a literature one.

My classic rant about vegebul fics is included, of course.

Summary: proper psychological analysis requires a single continuous personality, which Vegeta simply doesn’t have.

The more I think about Vegeta, the more I come to the conclusion that he is only pretending to be a consistently evolving character.

In fact, he's a bit like 10 different characters in one, which abruptly replace each other (and that's without considering the difference caused by the voice actors’ approach and the changes in his looks). Essentially, Vegeta's a collection of disparate images, arbitrarily lined up by Toriyama and hastily glued together. And the beginning of this line is so far from the end of it that these two extreme images cannot be perceived as belonging to the same person. Well, because human psychology just doesn't work that way.

(Not that Vegeta is unique in this respect – it’s a common feature of characters in long stories that authors compose as they write. Still, his case is quite extreme and interesting as example.)

I mean, take Vegeta in the Saiyan or the Namek arc. He's a complete psychopath. He clearly doesn’t suffer at heart from the unnecessary violence (as, for example, Guts from Berserk). His behavior looks like something natural for him, not an unhealthy defensive reaction. He enjoys it, he smiles happily, killing and torturing weak innocent people. And such a degree of psychopathy is not something that can be healed by a couple of deep personality crises or years of peaceful family life. Vegeta's redemption arc works through strong emotional impact and forgetfulness of the audience, but makes very little sense when viewed in retrospect.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Perhaps the biggest, hmm, splitting of the personality occurred with Vegeta right after the Namek arc. Toriyama had already made a small retcon of the character’s motives before (to include Vegeta in the context of the Freeza army after the Saiyan arc), but it didn't feel that drastic.

You see, until Vegeta was invited to Bulma’s house…..

(Gosh, Toriyama, you could’ve done it more subtly, really. Vegeta killed Yamcha, threatened to kill Bulma, gutted Zarbon in front of her eyes, slaughtered an entire Namekian village... Oh well.)

…Ahem, anyway, right up to Bulma's invitation, Vegeta looked to me like a character who, hmm, has a life of his own? I mean, you have always felt that his motives and behavior were generated by the bizarre social system, not related to the little world of Goku and his friends. Simply put, Vegeta was a natural product of the big space civilization, an organic part of it. His whole personality was formed by it, all his plans, motivation and ambitions were associated with it. And although in the Saiyan arc, he gave the impression of an independent entrepreneurial chief at the head of a small hierarchy, in the Namek arc it was revealed that Vegeta is actually far from independent. He lost his throne and his people, he was in slavery to the tyrant all his life, and wants to take power for himself. So, his social background and the motives caused by it post factum get much more complex. But in short, Vegeta wanted a highest possible position in the hierarchy he knew. In this way, he was… social? His belonging to the Saiyan race was only a small (although important) part of the overall picture. Because the Saiyans were dead, but the Freeza Empire was alive.

But when Toriyama realized Vegeta's popularity and decided to keep him in the story after Namek, it came as a blow to the character's personality. Apparently, the author simply couldn't come up with an elegant way that could keep the character in all its complexity around, and therefore did a very clumsy thing. He roughly cut Vegeta out of his social context and almost forcibly glued him to the main character group like a poorly done appliqué. But although you see rough edges and glue drips, the story moves on rapidly, distracting you with Freeza and Future Trunks, and you don't stop to think about what happened. This is how, almost imperceptibly, Toriyama changed Vegeta's motives (and, consequently, the basis of his personality). Yes, Vegeta's saiyan pride was also significant part of his character previously, but when it became his sole and central motivation after Namek, you feel like a very big and important piece of him has been arbitrarily cut off. This wouldn't have happened if Toriyama had followed the logic of previously established social motives, rather than his desire to make Vegeta a convenient figure. Now, bound hand and foot by the author, the character is forced to behave as the plot requires.

Still, all this can be justified by the fact that Vegeta experienced a deep emotional shock as a result of death, which forced him to rethink his life priorities and wait for Goku (especially in the manga, where he just lived with Bulma for a whole year after Namek, without even trying to use dragonballs) ... And then he waited for the androids (despite the final death of Freeza and his father, which was an excellent chance to try to take over the decapitated empire). Anyway, this rationalization doesn't negate the fact that the character, as a result, has lost a significant part of the fire that he demonstrated in the Namek arc. His new energy, the energy of obsession with surpassing Goku, turns him into a new character – bitter, marginalized and focused on training.

(Ironically, the very splitting that made him a less attractive character in my eyes allowed vegebul to take place. After all, imagining the romantic relationship of the nice Bulma and Vegeta at the height of his villainous ambition is really difficult. That just would be a psychologically implausible story.)

In the Android and Cell arcs, after brief glimpses of the SSJ superiority, Toriyama turned Vegeta into a plot tool, whose personality flaws he could use to spoil the situation favorable for the heroes. As a result, Vegeta continued to be an angry and unhappy character who has lost most of his charisma, but on top of that, he also started to be really annoying. ... Still, also kinda amusing thanks to his truly impressive inability to draw obvious conclusions from the ego bruises he gets.

(If you ask me, the character's biggest contribution to the Cell arc was to ignore the existence of condoms, lol. Although strictly speaking even it was an achievement of Future Vegeta (RIP). But seriously, Vegeta's relationship with Trunks turned out to be one of the few things that I was really interested in about this part of the story.)

And then there was Goku’s death and the 7-year-gap. ... At the end of which Vegeta still didn't look like a happy man who has found his place in the world. Even though he had seven whole years (and a spaceship) to change something. I mean, this is the case when it'd be logical to expect changes in the character, but for some reason they didn't really happen (or they did, but veeery quietly and unstable). I mean, Vegeta trains with Trunks, yes. And he's married to Bulma now, apparently (which we learn only at the end of the arc though). And he hasn’t killed himself yet, which means that he sees some meaning in his existence. Hurray, I guess?.. The problem is that when we first see Vegeta after the timeskip, he keeps walking around with such a sullen expression, as if Goku had died just yesterday. (Remember Vegeta in the Saiyan arc? He smiled quite often. For the wrong reasons, but hey.) Basically, Toriyama tried to sit on two chairs at the same time here - 1) keep Vegeta as recognizable as possible (because he hasn't decided what to do with him yet) and 2) keep him around (which doesn't make sense for the character if he hasn't undergone significant changes during the timeskip). And the result of this hesitant approach is an undesirable effect - it feels as if Vegeta hasn't built a new life for himself all these years, but only waited for Goku to return.

As if the man is unable to evolve without Goku's influence. Until Kakarot does or says something, or is just around, everyone else in Vegeta's life and his own reflection has little or no meaning. Old social ambitions? His wife and child? New insights gained from life on Earth? Pffft. Goku is able to destroy the seven years’ worth progress (no matter how small it may seem) in one day, and at the same time, one fight with him is enough for Vegeta's character development to jump forward explosively. It sounds like a solid ground for shipping, but In fact it’s just a direct consequence of the author's poorly chosen narrative structure.

The thing is, Toriyama tend to avoid romance and slices of life, and shows Vegeta's personality mainly through fights and their consequences. And at the time Goku just turned out to be the only significant character for Vegeta, the fight against whom could be used as an excuse to develop the character in front of the audience. Well, Toriyama couldn't get Vegeta to fight Bulma or himself, you know.

I believe that the plot structure chosen by the author (rapidly changing action events immediately after a long timeskip) is not a very good basis for a redemption arc. For a good redemption, a character had to have screen time during which small changes accumulate gradually, between the big points. And Vegeta simply didn't have it. Besides, the scheme by which Vegeta develops is really messy. Because at first, Toriyama kinda froze his development at the neutral point (thereby partially devaluing the influence of Vegeta's family on him). Then in one moment, the author abruptly reversed even this the-end-of-the-Cell-arc development with Majin Vegeta (this time completely devaluing the family factor, because the betrayal was Vegeta’s conscious decision). God, how I hated the Majin Vegeta idea. And in the next scene, the author made a quick retcon, which gave the family’s influence the status of a ground for Vegeta’s personal growth again for no apparent reason. It's as if a huge bundle of family values was post factum squeezed into the character in defiance of everything that we just saw with our own eyes. This is a complete narrative mess.

But... oddly enough, Vegeta's redemption still manages to work, and work spectacularly. My guess is that it's because by that time the audience is already SO sick of Vegeta, frozen in his bitter anti-heroism, that it desperately wants the author to finally do something new with the miserable guy. Well, at least get him out of his misery. So people are willing to accept it in any possible form.

... And the author chose the form of a powerful emotional catharsis. The explosion was legendary, haha.

I don't even know if this is a good reason to call Toriyama a genius (after all, he found a very clever way out of a difficult situation, in which he found himself thanks to his own bad decisions.)

The only thing I'm sure of is that despite everything I was very sad because of Vegeta's death. I didn't even realize that I had become emotionally attached to this asshole until he made such a spectacular exit, lol. As if something had broken inside of me, and all the analyticity of my mind couldn’t prevent it. I was surprised when I found myself crying really hard - usually my emotions don't reach this level due to fictional stories. (Well, maybe it was due to the fact that my own father was dying of cancer at that time, and the moment just triggered my emotions. ... Oops, it seems a little too personal, doesn't it? Well, at the end of the day, this fact is an integral part of my unique dbz experience. Come to think of it, in dbz, fathers die regularly).

But while this scene greatly affects emotions and forces a new viewer (or reader) to truly reconsider their attitude towards the character for the first time, the absence of a neat gradual movement towards this moment weakens its influence somewhat.

At this point, Vegeta’s character splits once again (perhaps the last time within DBZ). You simply cease to understand who this man really is and who he was before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now, when I look at all the images of Vegeta in general, I come to the conclusion that I like this character the most in the first two arcs and in the end of the last arc. Two directly opposite moral poles.

(Funny enough, because my initial reaction to Vegeta and Nappa was annoyance: "Well hello, the next stereotypical villains who like to chat and laugh maliciously instead of simply killing their victims." (Still, against the background of Freeza, Vegeta turned out to be a much lesser evil in every sense, haha). You see, usually I'm not a person who likes villains. Basically, I only distinguish such characters from others as a result of romance or redemption. It’s only after that I begin to see aesthetics in their villainous charisma as well.)

And now, in retrospective, I believe that at the beginning of the story Vegeta is at the maximum of his vitality and charisma. Especially compared to his ever-crisis moody version (who supposedly lives happily with a loving family). In the Saiyan arc, he's objectively the most powerful character (Freeza didn’t even exist in Toriyama's head at the time). Vegeta is domineering, playful and unpredictable, but most importantly - his self-confidence is fully justified. Oh well, it was good while it lasted. He's really in control. These are, if I may say so, quite exciting qualities in a man, haha. Even if he looks like an evil dwarf in stupid armor and bullies some weaklings. I'd even say his demeanor in the Saiyan arc (especially with the voice of early Horikawa) is suspiciously easy to translate into a sexual context (well, until he loses control and gets hysterical, lol).

The Namek arc, placing Vegeta in a broader context, somewhat spoiled his original image (after all the big words, it turned out that he was running errands for Freeza all this time), but gave him a more interesting background and a strong drive. He had ambitions and a socially significant goal, and he actively and passionately fought for them against a clearly superior enemy. In addition, his inability to defeat Freeza by brute force forced him to use his brains from time to time, and not just pull another power up out of his ass, as is now traditionally done in DragonBall. (Needless to say, I consider high intelligence to be one of the most attractive traits). All this made his position in the plot as interesting as possible. He literally sparkled with energy.

Well, we know what happened next. Brain Death, an eternal chase after Goku, and an off-screen family life on a backwater planet that Vegeta is supposedly happy with. Until he suddenly became a really beautiful character without a proper justification for this (well, at least the explosion was spectacular). Really, I like the general concept of redemption, and yet... the way Toriyama portrays it in the story just doesn't work convincingly enough for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another point I’d like to cover in this already too long essay ahhh I'm a monster is Vegeta’s personality in fanfiction.

Reproducing (?) Vegeta is a bit like playing with a lego set - his personality and behavior is always the result of a conscious reconstruction, which is based around a specific point on the long contradictory line. Depending on which end of the spectrum the chosen point is, the author is forced to shade facts related to the opposite end, or to give new context to Vegeta's past (or future) actions. It's always noticeable when the author extends the later, sympathetic Vegeta's image to an earlier segment of the story. Apparently, it's possible to kill the person who raised you (with an evil smile on your face) just because the situation was too stressful lol. Likewise, when the authors allow Vegeta to remain a charismatic psychopath, the story wouldn't work without ignoring some parts of the later canon.

(And, of course, there is always a "medium" type of Vegeta - Vegeta from the 3-year-gap, whose personality is almost entirely based on anime fillers. Yay, here comes the promised vegebul rant

Honestly, I'm pretty tired of this "gravity room exploded again woman grrr" type of Vegeta.

Because if you take the manga, we have no idea how Vegeta actually behaved with Bulma and her parents, what his training regimen was, and what he did in his free time besides unprotected sex. People elevate his rudeness and irrational self-torturing to the absolute because of all these filler patterns, but this is just one of the possible versions of the events and the character's behavior during this time (albeit partly canonical). But... there are also alternatives. There are smart Vegeta, curious Vegeta, civilized Vegeta. Honestly - I don't think Bulma would've married him later if there was nothing in his personality that’d make communication with him enjoyable. I mean, she's a rich modern woman, she doesn't need a husband just for convenience and Vegeta is a marginal freeloader anyway. And if we subtract good looks (which people often attribute to Vegeta) from the equation, then the idea that he has no interest in anything other than training and cannot maintain an interesting conversation becomes completely unconvincing. Toriyama clearly didn't attach much importance to the fact of their marriage, and generally avoided romantic scenes as if they were on fire (and, perhaps, did the right thing), but these two just had to be capable of adequate and mutually pleasant personal interaction in order to take this step.

In general, Toriyama's lack of attention to most aspects of the characters' lives other than fighting and training, on the one hand, can be considered a drawback of DBZ, but on the other, it creates a lot of room for fans' imagination. But not everyone uses it. Most authors generally repeat the same tropes over and over again and don't try to look at the three-year-gap from a new angle, although the canon provides all the possibilities for this. Because of this, fics in this genre often seem boring. But in fact, it's not the setting itself that is boring, but only dusty formulas in the heads of the authors.)

Ahem, so where were we?.. Oh yes.

Actually, Vegeta's inconsistency is a very handy character trait for the authors, as it minimizes the chance of accidental OOC. Indeed, it's quite difficult to make someone to behave out of character if he has many different canon versions of himself, lol. On the other hand, this leads to the fact that the character seems to... kinda disintegrate. You never see his whole face, because he simply doesn't have it. As a result, Vegeta turns into a mosaic that must be reassembled each time. And I keep staring at this crazy kaleidoscope like an idiot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, that's... quite a lot of contradictions in my relationship to Vegeta, haha. Still, life without contradictions would be somewhat boring, I guess.

Thanks for your attention I suppose?..... lol, as if someone really got to this point

The End.

P.S. 1: The antisocial version of Vegeta who doesn't understand stupid human rituals and hates crowds, but puts up with it for the sake of his family is my spirit animal, haha. This is just so damn relatable to my autistic personality. Maybe I'm an alien myself.

P.S. 2: Actually, my favorite dbz character is Piccolo. Yep.

#vegeta #it's really long #3260 words kind of long

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