#i got the ao3 comment in my inbox and i was like 'huh wonder what chapter this is on'

[pastafossa]

Just had someone comment, 'jesus CHRIST' on the first smut chapter of TRT, and friend, if you're reading this, if you liked the sexy goodness served up in that chapter god knows matt sure did, you are gonna love all the smut chapters that come after.

[detectiveichijouji]

Case 5 - The stolen armor

[AO3 version]

After receiving the mysterious calling cards before each heist, Ken and the 02 Team wondered why those gems were targeted. Arsenemon could pick anything else, but he managed to only focus on those mysterious Digital World’s rocks. Most of them were stored in facilities for study, under the names of some researchers and scientists -- Yamaki, Shibayama, Daimon, Noguchi, Norstein, Amano, Mogami, Mochizuki, Wato, Higashimitarai, Amanokawa, Suedou, and so on.

Such gems were pieces. But they didn’t know that… yet!! There were also claims that those ‘treasures’ were stolen from the Digital World by those humans first. Those claims sounded odd though…

“WAIT THERE, ARSENEMON!” Daisuke screamed, running after the elusive and glamorous phantom thief.

… But the most frustrating part was that even with the Chosen Children’s help, they couldn’t catch Arsenemon.

“Au revoir~ Merci~”

And they still didn’t know how that digimon looked at all! It frustrated Daisuke so badly that the group was starting to think the idea of them helping the police to prevent the heists was a bad decision.

“Goddamnit!!” Daisuke growled, and sat on the seat from the karaoke booth. Everyone was whispering so he couldn’t hear them.

“We should do something,” Miyako said, “A grumpy Daisuke does not sound good.”

“What can we do, dagya?” Armadimon asked the others.

“What if Hikari-chan asked him for a date?” V-mon suggested.

“Do you think it would work?” Hikari looked at Daisuke picking a song to play as background music.

“That’s not a good idea” Miyako rejected it, “Because we know him very well, if Hikari-chan asks him out he might pass out or act awkwardly. It will be the worst first date for both of them!”

It’s not like Hikari would do that out of pity though…

“He likes ramen, so we could go out and eat ramen,” Patamon suggested instead.

“But can it work?” Takeru frowned.

“.............................. ARGH, ENOUGH!” they heard Daisuke screaming on the microphone.

“??????????!”

“I know I know, I’m not athletic enough! I can’t run at the speed of light, I can’t even beat Ken at a soccer match! I need to get in shape! So I will go and train and train until I become faster, stronger and--”

Ken took the mic from his hands, “You don’t need to overdo it. We’re a team, and each of us has a special ability. So, don’t be so harsh with yourself.”

“... You’re right! I’m too obsessed with that sneaky thief! I’m forgetting my own dream, that is to open my own ramen shop!”

“I guess Ken-kun knows how to make him feel better,” Miyako smiled, staring at Ken.

“Everyone… The website got a request” Iori, who was mostly checking their inbox and reading the news, called them out from the corner of the table.

“A request!!” Daisuke gasped, “What is it, what is it!?”

“I think he forgot about the ramen part all again,” Wormmon shrugged, and the others just sighed together.

Daisuke then read the message on Iori’s laptop: “ ‘Someone stole my armor, I can’t go out without it. Please, help me Chosen Children -- Ludomon’ ?”

“A digimon request…” V-mon commented.

“Well, the website is for both humans and digimons” Hawkmon clarified, “I thought that was a little… obvious.”

“Ludomon huh…” Takeru mused, “Shall we go see them?”

  “Gah! Someone stole a friend’s gear!” Espimon cried, waving her arms, “They said the equipment was taken away from a Gazimon partnered to a human child!”

“...” Arsenemon glanced at him, with a pout.

“Boss?”

“Where should we go?” and asked seriously.

“Uh umm… Just searching, might be here in one instant…!!”

“... I thought the Chosen Children were nice human beings, was I wrong?” and the phantom thief mused, “Could this mean… There’s bad apples in the orchard?”

“Ah-- I got them!”

“Good, let’s visit them once the night arrives. Ah, first I need to send a little mail for those human kids.”

The group met Ludomon, who explained everything, but the digimon was just embarrassed as a Gabumon who lost their pelt. Their contact was from the window of the little house, with the curtains closed and Ludomon’s head peeking through them.

“A Chosen Child’s digimon did this to me” Ludomon reported, sobbing, “it was a Gazimon.”

“I think there’s a good chunk of Gazimons partnered with humans lately” Miyako frowned, then looked at the group, “How can we discover which one of them is the bully?”

“Hmm…” Daisuke tried to think of a solution, and harder.

“Let’s go back, and check out for details” Ken suggested, “Maybe we can find a way to contact that Gazimon and their human partner if we look for more clues.”

Once they returned, Iori (who had stayed in the human world) called them through the phone -- Another request about a stolen item -- this time a blade from Spadamon. And then another from a Pidmon who had his staff stolen. And another one from a PawnChessmon (Black) who had their weapons stolen as well. All of those mentioned a partnered Gazimon being the perpetrator of those cases.

“Is this a chain of thefts now?” Daisuke pouted, “We still didn’t solve the current case!”

“Hold on, I think we can catch the thief if we lure them into a trap” Takeru gave them all a serious gaze, “We just need a volunteer.”

“Oh choose me, choose me!” V-mon raised his arm.

“What do you plan to do, Takeru-kun?” Miyako and Ken asked him.

“You will see,” he winked, and dragged Daisuke down the street.

“Wait, what!!? W-where are we goin’?? T-Takeru!!”

Ken, Wormmon, Miyako and Hawkmon looked at them leaving. Then they looked at each other. V-mon followed them once he realized he was left behind. 

Hikari and Tailmon weren’t with them at the moment, but Takeru immediately contacted them for a little task. Daisuke was starting to fear whatever was Takeru’s plan.

 

“Takeru… What the heck is this plan!? Why am I the bait!?”

The group gathered again, and now they were just… Looking at what looked to be a Lighdramon-like armor with cold colors and a spear that also had Lighdramon’s motif.

“Pretty cool huh?” Takeru grinned like an idiot. He did it purposely, right!? “Here’s the plan: Daisuke-kun will pretend to be a digimon and be our bait. When that partnered Gazimon appears, we will catch them and ask why they are stealing stuff.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea” Miyako, Hawkmon and Armadimon said together.

“... Where did you get that equipment…?” Iori, on the other hand, was curious about how Hikari and Takeru got something like that in so little time.

“There’s things that are better to not know,” Hikari replied, in a very cryptic way.

“I don’t think it will work…” Ken whispered to himself…

“Now, let’s wait for the thief to take the bait!” Takeru and Hikari pushed the others to a hidden spot.

“W-wait… Am I going to have to stay here… ALL ALONE!?” Daisuke babbled.

“You two are doing it purposely…” Iori sighed. But then, they noticed a certain card flying from a lone balloon and popping in front of Ken, with the paper gently falling in Ken’s hands.

“Oho, we attracted one, dagya!”

“Wait, what…” V-mon looked at Ken, “What does it say?”

“... Arsenemon is going to steal a suit of armor from a Chosen Child’s residence.”

“Gah, now there’s two thieves in the wild!?” Patamon gasped.

“Hmm… Something is off here…” Hawkmon mused “Couldn’t it be the same Chosen Child partnered with a Gazimon, could it be?”

“Who’s the target?” Takeru asked. At the moment everyone was too interested in the calling card to witness a Gazimon popping in and starting a fist fight with Daisuke (luckily that armor will protect him, right!?)

“V-mon, Everyon-- Ouch ouch! No you can’t steal this spear-thing! Hey!”

“Kitagawa Kentarou” Ken replied to the question, “If Kitagawa has a Gazimon as partner, this means--”

At this exact moment, Gazimon threw dirt on Daisuke’s face (luckily he was wearing a helmet!) and yanked the spear from his hand, kicked him right in the stomach and left.

“HEY! COME BACK HERE!!”

“-- he could be our perpetrator,” Iori completed Ken's phrase.

“Alright…!” Suddenly, Takeru’s phone rang -- “Ah, just a second everyone,” He took it from his pocket and answered the call, “Hello?”

“WHAT WERE Y’ALL DOIN’ -- THE THIEF-GAZIMON KICKED ME IN THE TUMMY AND STOLE THE FRIGGIN’ SPEAR!!”

Daisuke’s scream was heard by everyone around Takeru. Oh of course, they… They forgot to keep an eye on Daisuke.

“Ah, don’t worry… I put a tracker on the spear just in case this happened,” He was smiling.

“Takeru… You idiot.”

“ • • • 💧” Everyone was… well… speechless.

“Where did you get that tracker…?” Iori asked, politely.

“There’s things you shouldn’t know” the cryptic Hikari voice came back.

“Scary…” Armadimon whispered.

The use of the tracker meant that the 02 Team would find out if Arsenemon’s target was the same person whose partner was stealing stuff from the other digimon. And their answer was…

“The tracker says it’s here!” Miyako reported, “In that building.”

Once they reached the tracker’s area, which ended in front of the door for the apt 407…

“... Kitagawa’s residence” V-mon read the name on the door, “So it’s really the same person?”

“We have yet to check if this is the right Kitagawa person’s home,” Hawkmon replied. Ken rang the doorbell. But then, Tailmon noticed the door was open already.

Oh no…!!

“Well,” Daisuke said, looking around and making sure no one would witness them breaking in, “Ok, everything’s clear,” Then he turned to Ken: “You go, and I stay here.”

“Right, Iori-kun and Hikari-san come with me. Takeru-kun, you stay with Daisuke to give him support. Miyako-san, keep watching the tracker’s signal in case something changes.”

“Right!” Miyako nodded.

Ken’s group entered the apartment, ready to examine the crime scene. The clashes of a battle became imminent, and they found out Gazimon and Kentarou being haunted by the stolen objects -- A haunted Ludomon armor was waltzing through the room, Kentarou trying to hide himself under the dinner’s table while Gazimon was running away from that creature. And the other stolen weapons and equipment dancing in the light of the starry sky coming from the window.

“What’s going on here!?” Armadimon gasped.

“H-him!” Kentarou screamed, “S-stop him!!”

“Hikari, look!” Tailmon pointed at the spear in the middle of countless digimon’s equipment stolen by Gazimon, “They’re our culprit!”

“Promise that you won’t steal anything else from innocent digimon and I will stop.”

A familiar voice was heard, and Ken noticed that the ‘haunted Ludomon’ armor was actually… Arsenemon’s magic trick in action.

“Why should I stop him?” Ken said, showing his poker face.

“W-WON’T YOU HELP US?!” Gazimon cried “BUT AIN’T WE ON THE SAME BOAT AS CHOSEN CHILDREN!?”

“The Chosen Children don’t steal from the others!” Wormmon stared at Gazimon.

“Our role is to protect the digimon, not to cause them harm!” Hikari snapped, “Promise to Arsenemon that you won’t steal anything else anymore! And give those back to their respective owners!”

“H-Hikari’s quite scary today, dagya…” Armadimon blinked.

“WE PROMISE! WE PROMISE!” the kid and Gazimon screamed.

Then the armors and weapons fell on the floor, lifeless. Arsenemon popped on the apartment’s balcony. He was… holding another specific gear with him, from another digimon not related to Ludomon at least.

“Well then,” Arsenemon smiled, looked at the detective trio and their mons and snapped his fingers, disappearing in the moonlight, “merci et à bientôt, Chosen Children~”

Kentarou and Gazimon were still petrified by the sudden attack of the weapons and armors they stole. The 02 group then made them return everything stolen and to promise to each victim and to the six that they wouldn’t do that anymore.

Daisuke’s bad mood had returned though… Because not only Gazimon had managed to hurt him, he was also upset by what Takeru and Hikari had done to him. And Those two were now asking him to forgive them. Ken, Miyako and Iori, also the six digimon partners, were watching those three from a reasonable distance, in silence.

“Daisuke, please forgive them” Miyako finally broke the ice between the two groups, “They meant no harm.”

“... Ok, ok” Daisuke sighed and pouted, “But I don’t want to be part of your plans without you asking me first, ok??”

“Ok… Sorry,” Takeru frowned, “I actually thought you were physically strong enough to deal with a Gazimon…”

“It’s also our fault that we didn’t notice you were in trouble…” Hikari added.

“... Ah, I’m hungry…” Armadimon interrupted them, “Iori, let’s go eat Yamatoya’s ramen…”

“Oh! I want ramen too!” Daisuke grinned, “Takeru will pay for us this time.”

“H-huh??”

“Think about it being your way to compensate him, Takeru-kun,” Ken smirked. Of course Ken was right about that plan not working~ That smirk meant as if he was saying ‘I told you, see?’

Takeru paid that day’s ramen round. And Daisuke forgave him and Hikari. Not because of the ramen, but more that he couldn’t be upset with them any longer.

[rena-mariefanfiction]

Ramble, Ramble (5/13)

So, while I was having my mini-vacation (read: brain ick), I tried to read fanfiction to unwind and I found two different Fanfiction Culture things that I wasn't aware existed! And that I'm kind of unsure how to process, like, "huh?"

This is just screaming into the void because I was told that venting is healthy. So *aggressively shrugs* you definitely don't have to read this. Lol.

1) Comment Drama

So, apparently some authors set a minimum comment count for each chapter, then refuse to release the next one until it's met. This is stuff that I heard about when I was on FF.Net, like a decade ago, but never saw in person. I thought it was an urban myth or a fanfiction Arthurian legend. But nope, it's a thing. And, concerningly, it's a thing in modern times.

I went back through my private bookmarks and wanted to read a darkfic to purge emotionally and found that it didn't exist anymore. Not because it'd been deleted, but because the author hid it in an unrevealed collection. Okay, odd, but happens all the time. At least it isn't permanently gone. So I went to the author's page and found that most of their library was gone. Okay, really odd.

All of their remaining works are marked "complete", which is alarming because they had several WIPs last I checked. I delved into the last chapter on one of the fics and found that there was some drama going on. Oh, so very much drama.

They'd apparently set a comment requirement on releasing the next chapter of one of their fics. And it was a pretty high number, from what I can gather. When one of the commenters pointed out that it felt like punishing regular readers to hold the chapter hostage, the author upped it to a MINIMUM of 100 comments. That's... wow.

Next. Level. Petty.

When even more people got upset, the author had a meltdown. They hid all of their completed works, marked all of their WIP stuff "complete", and will only email chapters to people who have commented before. The last chapter of the work in question was also stripped of all text, which was replaced with "Removed. Removed. Removed." They also implied that casual readers are essentially parasites living off of their goodwill. Like, what?

What's wild is that this author averaged about 30+ comments per chapter. That's so many! In what world is that not enough?!

I just... it rubbed me the wrong way, I guess. I felt like the author was ungrateful for what they had. The fandoms that they're in are very large and very active. Some fandoms predate the internet, are dying, or obscure; they get low traffic. There are writers on AO3 that write for tiny niches, with tens of views per chapter, and they never complain about it. Never.

This is all said with the self-awareness that I average a lot of comments for a new(ish) writer, BTW. I'm lucky enough to have quite a few vocal and outspoken people word-vomit (said lovingly) into my inbox every chapter. And it's nice. It's wonderful. It's gratifying. But I'd probably be doing the same thing even with no comments because I love writing my stories with all of my shriveled heart.

The bottom line is this: don't ever feel pressured to comment on my works. I enjoy them, and I try to respond to each and every one, but there should never be any requirement for readers to put themselves in an uncomfortable position while engaging in a hobby. That said, if you enjoy something, comments are ALWAYS appreciated even after years on seemingly abandoned projects. Every author on AO3 does a happy dance when they open their inbox.

Needless to say, my mind was blown from seeing all this. I had to stop and think about it for a hot minute.

:.:

2) Pro-Ship vs Anti-Ship

Purity culture strikes again! Not my beloved smutty fanfiction!

So, this is a thing? Apparently?! Are we seriously having this discussion in 2024? I didn't realize that this was quietly gaining traction until I saw something about it on Reddit.

From what I've gathered, there seems to be a spectrum - and please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong - between the two extremes of this debate. Pro-ship seems to be generally from a "I stan darkfics and only read them" to a "you can read/support whatever you want, no matter how problematic, because I don't have to support it personally". Don't Like, Don't Read, if you will. Anti-ship exists in a state of flux between "I don't support works that I personally consider problematic" and "I believe that we should completely censor works that I personally consider problematic".

There are certain types of fanfictions that I don't particularly care for, even as somebody with pretty wide-ranging tastes. But I make do. AO3 has these cool things called "filters" that I apply liberally.

Anyway...

There was an "Anti" in the comments section of a much-beloved fic going absolutely feral because there was an age gap between two characters of ten years. Never mind that the characters in question were 43 and 33. Lol. It was honestly trippy to read.

They straight up told the creator (it was an Orphan_Account work) to delete it because it was encouraging pedophilia. And when asked why by another commenter, they said, "because she would've been an adult when he turned 8". That's how math works. Congrats, you've discovered basic arithmetic. But they're consenting adults now, when they got together, so why should it matter? "One of them was a child once so this is pedophilia" is an interesting argument. I'm not sure I follow the logic, though.

Like, there are actual moral debates to be had about some of the stuff that exists on AO3, but this particular age gap is what sets you off? "Age gap" was clearly tagged, yet you clicked anyway. Okay, babes. Stay classy up there on your soapbox.

Are we having the morals debate over FICTION where mass censoring is brought up as a solution? That's intriguing. Cool. Not worrying at all.

For the record, I write "problematic" content sometimes. Oops. Sorry, not sorry.

[fallintosanity]

fanfic writer tag game

oh no, @every-lemon tagged me in this like two weeks ago and it’s been... a hellish two weeks. but we’re here now! thank you for the tag! 

What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Pretty much any really solid paleship ( 🔸 ). For non-Homestucks, a paleship or moirallegiance is a platonic/non-sexual but intimate relationship involving one powerful-but-unstable member and one weak-but-stable member. The powerful one protects the weaker one while the weaker one keeps the powerful one from going crazy and destroying everything. (See: Cloud🔸Kunsel in Providence; Prompto🔸Gladio in What Stays and What Fades; ART🔸Murderbot (not always, but leaning in this direction in Network Effect); Tarrant🔸Damien in the Coldfire Trilogy; etc.) 

How many works do you have on AO3?

63, plus two unrevealed holiday exchange fics

What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,070,947, which is, uh. Mildly alarming 😅

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Providence,  Cross Cases,  What Stays And What Fades,  On the Care and Feeding of Sorcerers, and The Basis of Reality, in that order. (Huh, I’m really surprised On the Care and Feeding of Sorcerers is that high! When did that happen, I wonder oh wait probably it has to do with the Loki series coming out on Disney+) 

Do you reply to comments, why or why not?

Yes! I love getting comments and interacting with readers. I’ve had some great conversations with folks in the comments. And even for short or simple comments, I want to let the commenter know how much I appreciate them taking the time to comment. Comments are my writing fuel and if I’m stuck or frustrated I go back to reread them, so even the smallest comment is an amazing boost!

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

To Close Your Eyes, which is a poetic little angst thing ending in a murder-suicide.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Hmm... The Basis of Reality has probably the most unequivocably happy ending I’ve written (I apparently lean toward slightly bittersweet and/or “the adventure continues” endings, whoops). TBoR is also, I think, the most hard-won happy ending (as opposed to the light fluff pieces with soft endings), which IMO makes it all the happier for how hard the chocobros had to fight for it. 

Do you write crossovers?

All the time, lol. They’re pretty much my stock in trade at this point. 

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Thankfully, no. The closest I ever got was a commenter who stopped reading after a particularly brutal cliffhanger, but even they were reasonably polite about it. 

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Nope!

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge! Hopefully it stays that way. 

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don’t think so? At least, there’s nothing in my Related Works that’s a translation. Though I feel like someone asked me about doing it once...? (It’s times like these that I wish AO3′s inbox had a search function.)

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not as such, though a significant part of Providence came from my beta and me bouncing increasingly silly and/or angsty scenarios back and forth until I accidentally’d a fic with them. 

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I have the first, oh, third-ish of a kidnapped-Noctis-and-Prompto fic that I’ve never been able to get further on (see below re: second acts). I also have the beginnings of a couple of Supernatural longfics that I wanted to finish before I fell out of love with the show. If I can ever get back into the fandom, it’d be fun to finish them, though. (One is, surprise surprise, a time-travel fic involving S11 Sam and S1 Sam swapping temporal places; the other is a Witch!Sam AU.) 

What are your writing strengths?

Action/fight scenes, crossovers, and maybe angst? 

What are your writing weaknesses?

Second acts my GOD, second acts 😭😭😭😭😭😭

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

IMO, while it can be effective in certain scenarios, most of the time it makes more sense to either lean on the translation convention (i.e., “Jane switched to French and added, ‘I can speak multiple languages too’”) or description (i.e., “They were speaking what sounded like French, though Jean couldn’t understand them”). Actually writing out dialogue in another language makes assumptions about your readers’ ability to speak (or not) that language, which are rarely universally true. 

That said, for the Bridge series, I used quotes in another language for chapter summaries, and even for two fic titles, since that was a crossover with a French-language animated series. I pulled from the actual series transcripts whenever possible to ensure they were accurate. I also used a handful of Old Norse insults in dialogue, though I’m not sure if I’d do that nowadays. 

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

That I posted to the Internet? An MCU / Wakfu crossover. That I actually put words on paper for? A Gundam Wing / Fushigi Yuugi / some other stuff I don’t remember anymore crossover I wrote in middle school. But really I’ve been making up fanfic in my head pretty much since I learned to read. 

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

I have never been able to answer this question XD It’s like being asked to pick a favorite kid. At best I have the-ones-I-love and the-ones-I-like-well-enough. 

Tagging: @audreyskdramablog, @avianscribe, @autumnstwilight, @hitthebooksposts, and @ceescedasticity, if you want to! Or anyone else who wants to give it a go. ^_^ 

[miabrown007]

Fic Writer Questions

I wasn't tagged but this looked fun so I did it anyway ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

How many works do you have on AO3?

30

What’s your total AO3 word count?

148,575 - my first multichapter literally takes up half this word count

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Harry Potter (a handful of fics in Hungarian, they aren't on AO3), Miraculous Ladybug, ATLA (I have a half-finished Zutara LS fic, that counts, right? T_T). So that's 3.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Hiding in Plain Sight - holy hell, this fic ran wild. thank you to the blogger on ML Tik Tok who gave it a shoutout!

don't ask questions you don't wanna know - this fic is the prototype of my current style/interests. it's fluffy, it's dumb (affectionate), it's identity shenanigans all over the place

17 days, 2 hours and some odd minutes - a fic inspired by annascribble's drawing. just prpr mutual pining 🥰

Never Have I Ever Met Idiots Like These Two - drinking games and the kids being dumb. I'm sensing a pattern here 😂

Five Times The Love-Square Watched ‘Solitude’ (And One Time They Didn’t) - every side of the LS, with added Multichat and Snekmouse. as a treat. and because the LS was made for identity shenanigans and dramatic irony

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try to respond to everything but it isn't always going great. (Like, for example, 'I'm a few months behind right now' not great.) Surprisingly it takes more time to answer comments that I really want to answer because they are very thoughtful or bring up a good point or are just generally really nice, because I want to answer them properly, which results in getting buried in my inbox >_> Sorry about that!

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Can I just link a whole series? No? What a bummer, because it's sure hard to choose from what are you after? some kind of disaster? (I just linked it, huh *evil cackling*)

The first one that came to mind is get away (that is all I can do) but probably only because this one is my favourite from this series.

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Don't really. The only fic I have written that uses characters from another franchise is Lost & Found and they don't have a dialogue line.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not hate per se, but I have a fic bookmarked with a disclaimer that didn't do wonders to my confidence. But for the most part, everyone has been super kind to me in the ML fandom, which I really appreciate! <3

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I am trying (I currently have a WIP that contains some) but it's super hard y'all! Major kudos to anyone who can do it!

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Thankfully not that I know of.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, someone translated Five Times The Love-Square Watched ‘Solitude’ (And One Time They Didn’t) into Russian 🥺

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes. I've tried to collaborate on fics with my friends multiple times, out of which one attempt has been completed. Though the others are outlined so they are technically WIPs, right? 😅

What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Hands down the love-square. They got me back into writing fic after years, and they can be not one, not two, but five (and counting) different ships! Like, who does that?!

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

*cracks knuckles* The things I seriously consider WIPs get finished. (At least I hope so! I really don't like to abandon fics, so usually, I just don't post them until they are finished. The only exception to this being my Marichat fake dating/Ladrien establish relationship fic, from one year ago when I didn't yet know better. I love that fic and really want to finish it, but I was 20k in when it went haywire and rewriting all that is- T_T)

What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm good at keeping in mind the characters' different perspectives while writing, and how they'd interpret the same information differently based on their prior knowledge, which is a great help when writing identity shenanigans/misunderstandings (my preferred source of conflict when writing fluff, so it doesn't get boring or depressive).

And I'd like to think I'm also decent at hiding details in the story -- be those canon elements in an AU, intentionally recurring or paralleling themes and phrases, or foreshadowing.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I am a compulsive editor and thus a painfully slow writer.

Also, verbs. I just do not know enough of them (or English words in general, but it's a problem mostly surfacing with verbs), which results in having to describe them in a roundabout way, with much more words than I'd need otherwise.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I'm not a big fan. I think there are better ways to let the audience know that conversation is going on in another language, like putting it in italics. I find it annoying if I can't understand an exchange, especially if it's important to the plot, so even providing translation in the author's notes works better in my opinion than leaving it at that.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Probably love is an open door because I think that's my best writing yet 🥰

This has been fun, so tagging @valiantlyjollynightmare, @fragileizy, @silvmoonsky, @dot-dotdots and @peachcitt if you want to do it! <3

[botwstoriesandsuch]

[Image ID: A screenshot of an anon asking saying “I just wanna say that your tags whenever you rb art and fics are so cute 🥺 you reblogged something of mine the other day and the tags were just so nice and innocent??? It’s like watching a little kid at an aquarium 😝so as an artist I thank you, hope you don’t take it as cringy” End ID]

- - - - - 

Cringey?? nonononono I may be a young kid watching the pretty fish swim aimlessly in the aquarium but I will

recklessly enjoy other people’s content don’t test me

I try to keep it in the tags cause I don’t wanna take away from the op’s original work, plus it makes it easier for other people to rb it from me, but I will amp up the love and appreciation when the situation calls for it. You could straight up come into my inbox or messages and just ask me to give you a reblog and I will do it, I do not care I love you, content creators.

Cringe Culture is dead it’s time to gush plus if I do this often enough people might do it more for me so it’s a win win hehe

Legit, I got a super sweet comment on one of my fics quoting something I wrote and it made me so happy so I was like “huh, guess I’ll do that more often then” and now I’m doing that, that’s how impressionable I am asdfghjk

Also hello?? specifically *my* tags helped you out?? I am a nobody, CLEARLY not enough people are doing this smh, allow me to teach the masses for a sec here

How To Make A Content Creator Happy: the world’s simplest guide to spreading serotonin through a keyboard

Step fucking one) You reblog it. I mean, that’s a given. You’ve all seen those “reblogs help creators out and likes do nothing” posts so I won’t rant too much. Likes are good, but reblogs are like handing someone a stack of a hundred dollars and all it takes is one click! 

(PRO TIP: Hold down the button and swipe for mobile, and hold the left alt button and click once for computer [though it will only rb to your main blog. if you want it for a side-blog then you’re stuck with two clicks but HEY two clicks to help out a creator you like is nothing!])

You share it! Just share stuff. Share the ao3 like, please do it. Don’t repost, don’t just mention it, give the links especially when you’re just in conversation or talking about it around plz I swear it does wonders

Ok moving on to the super simple stuff for commenting and putting stuff in the tags because I guarantee that the op will read them

write A N Y T H I N G and I literally mean anything just fucking:

!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

sdjflksdjfkjh

?!?!?!?!!?

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhghghhhhhhhhh

:OOOOOOOOO

prettyyy

<33333333333333333

just fucking go ham, go nuts, it doesn’t need to be coherent it just needs to EXIST the very existence of someone enjoying someone’s content gives so much serotonin so stop being silent cowards and give us a smiley face from time to time

uh what else what else....hmm [golden rule is treat others the way you want to be treated, so if you’re a creator yourself, just give whatever you would want seen in the comments of your stuff! I mean that’s how I came up with all this...]

Point out the details! I mentioned earlier about quoting stuff from fics (that stuff is just 👌👌👌 so delicious) but I’m pretty sure (I’m not an artist myself don’t quote me) that the exact same effect is present when you talk about details in art or something. So talk about that pretty snowflake in the background! Or that piece of dialogue that made you laugh. Just a simple nod to the details is a big difference between saying “I like this” versus “I like this thing that you took the time to make the effort you put into the details did not go unnoticed”

just ALL the feedback please and thank you

this might vary from person to person, though personally I love when people are like “The way you write imagery is so good please do more!!” so just give a little nod to someone like “The way you draw this character is amazing please do more” or something like that

I wouldn’t go as far as to give criticism (although personally I’m the type of person that loves the occasionally critique for future reference, cause it means that you care as much as I do about the quality of my work) 

But along the same lines as the details thing, a nice nod to a creator about what they’re doing right is sooooo good! makes the butterflies flutter

                ~~~~~~Did that post give you emotions?~~~~~~

   G   O   O   D

 ~~FUCKING TELL US~~

THE ACT OF SOMEONE WRITING A SET OF LETTERS, OR SOMEONE SKETCHING A BLOB MADE ANOTHER DISTANT HUMAN BEING DEVELOP CHEMICALS IN THEIR BRAIN?? SURE WOULD LOVE TO KNOW THAT BECAUSE WOW THAT’S AMAZING!?!??

just go “I’m so happy” or “I’m so sad” just “TT__TT” just fucking “:OO” or just “I hate this” [HUMOURISTICALLY] and “I can’t believe you’ve done” just give it yes tell us the emotion that you have felt we love it

I don’t think enough people understand how amazing that is???? You were once in a normal, neutral state, and then a piece of content that I created just made you smile or laugh or cry like WHAT that’s amazing omg

Ok so that’s pretty much the simple stuff right, that’s your elementary classwork right there

Just give something, literally anything and just go “I love this so much!!!!!” bam done, you just murdered the op with your love, great job

So yeah, that’s that. Pretty simple stuff, no?

...but you wanna graduate to master class?

You wanna fucking go ape shit

you wanna just

g o    t o    town?

I said this was gonna be a simple guide so don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell you that you have to write a full length essay on every post that you come across

[BUT IF YOU WANT TO DON’T LET ME STOP YOU THAT WOULD ACTUALLY BE AMAZING?? HELL WRITING OUT A PARAGRAPH OF A COMMENT IS ALREADY JUST *CHEFS KISS* MASTERCLASS OF MURDERING THE OP WITH LOVE JUST ANALYZING THE SHIT OUT OF THE COLORS AND SHADING AND FRAMING OR JUST POINTING OUT THE THEMES AND SUBTEXT AND CHARACTERIZATION --part of the reason I love betaing stuff so much because I can analyze shit and shower it with premature love while also helping fics to be even better than they were originally ugh so cleansing for my literature heart-- SO YEAH GIVE CREATORS A PARAGRAPH, DARE I DREAM OF PARAGRAPHS, BECAUSE WOW YES PLEASE YES]

...ahem anyway

the way to graduate from good to great as a receiver of content is

to do all this

any of this

any of this simple stupid amazing shit

and just

put it in an ask or message

that’s literally it

Let me tell you why that’s so amazing, it pumps up the already amazing dopamine dosage of these actions alone, and multiplies it by a hundred, let me tell you why

Let’s say you read a drabble. You loved it, you reblogged it, you gave it hearts and emojis and ranted for a few tags about how it made you drop your muffin on the ground. Fantastic work, you just made the op pass out.

Then you go about your day and that’s the end of that.

BUT

if you do all that

and then put it in an ASK

dare you even a direct message?? (probably not most of us on here are cowards I get that)

but an ASK, anon or otherwise?

The message you just sent to the op was “I interacted with the post you made, and I loved it so much that I went the extra mile of going to your blog to make extra extra sure you understand how much I liked your thing”

There’s a wordless wall with every post! You like and reblog the thing and move on with your day. 

But the fact that YOU sent a HEART a SINGLE sentence about how you liked a thing? the fact that you BREACHED that wall and just fucking keyboard smashed in the inbox? the fact that you did that is the most amazing thing in the world

you just ambush the op with good vibes. we were expecting the bare minimum in the comments and tags, but the fact you when out of your way to make it a message or ask???? superb, outstanding, the sheer SHOCK of it will shift tectonic plates

you’re my fucking hero if you do this. you’re a godsend. I would kill for you,👏people👏would👏kill👏for👏you.

AT LEAST THEY WOULD KILL FOR YOU IF THIS ACTION DIDN’T ALREADY MURDER THEM

BE A MURDERER, NAY, A SERIAL KILLER. MURDER CONTENT CREATORS WITH LOVE

BE RECKLESSLY KIND AND LOVING YOU PIECE OF SHIT, ITS IMPOSSIBLE TO BE CRINGY TO STARVING AND DYING WRITERS AND ARTISTS WE WILL TAKE IT ALL GOD DAMMIT

YOU ARE A CHILD STARING UP AT AN AQUARIUM IN WONDER.

MAKE YOUR HAPPINESS STIR THE TIDES, LET YOUR PRESCENCE BE KNOWN PAST THE REFLECTION OF THE GLASS.

THE FISH ARE LOOKING FOR YOUR SMILE. 

[phoebe-delia]

21, or 2, or 15 for the ask game? (yes i'm internally freaking out, wondering if any of these had been done already)

Jet!! A pleasure, once again <3 I'm going to answer out of order because my response for 15 got a bit out of hand lol.

2. least favorite fic you wrote this year

Hahaha this is a little funny because I think my least favorite thing I wrote this year is something I wrote a sequel to for you 😂. To be fair to Past Phoebe, it was one of my first microfics, but the difference in quality between the microfic and the sequel I wrote for you is, to me, blatantly clear 😂. Here's the link. It's my least favorite because, to me, it feels forced, and I incorporated in the lyrics to the song that inspired it in a way that feels so cringey and awkward to me.

21. most memorable comment/review

This is difficult, honestly, because every comment I get is so meaningful to me.

I think the most meaningful/memorable individual comment I got was from someone who took one of my ficlets (there are two chapters to it) and just went almost line by line and told me everything they loved about it. I was so moved by that.

But I would be remiss if I didn't mention someone who has read and commented on many of my fics—but not just my "most popular" fics, they've also gone in and read things that I'd considered deleting, but haven't because of them. I call them Silver, and they are one of the only people who I know subscribe to me on AO3 (because they said once that they get notifs of my fics in their inbox).

Every time I post a fic—both here and on AO3—I remember the people who interact with me most and I'm most excited to see what they think. Silver is one of those people for me. Idk if Silver has Tumblr, but their feedback is always incredibly kind, thoughtful and generous (and they happen to also be a great writer themself! I'm going to link their AO3 page so people can check out their work if anyone is so inclined).

15. something you learned this year

Ooohhh I like this question because I have learned something so valuable this year.

I spent about a year just reading fic before I made an AO3/Tumblr and started writing, and back then, I used to crave validation as a writer in a way that I don't, now. I used to want to fish for compliments. I used to want to silently beg people to like and read my work. I used to want, so badly, to be like my fanfic heroes.

Don't get me wrong—I still definitely want comments and kudos and reblogs and likes and all of the little dopamine-boosting, instant-gratification-y things that make social media and these platforms fun. And I want, so much, to be like my fanfic heroes. Of course, I do.

But then I wrote a fic that taught me about letting go of the need for validation: Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust.

That fic is 7k words. It has, as of right now, 18 kudos and 147 hits. It's also a gen fic that was posted anonymously at first, so it didn't get a lot of traction.

It also has comments from 8 different people. And 7/8 of them are writers/people I have interacted with—a few are some of my closest fandom friends—and their words of feedback, of love and support, mean so much to me.

I was so desperate for people to read and like a fic that I had worked incredibly hard to write. Some of the comments/kudos on that fic are from close fandom friends who I sent it to while it was still anon because I felt so terrible about myself as a writer that I just wanted something on the fic to make me feel like all that work hadn't been a waste.

But I got one comment that was a complete surprise from a writer I admire immensely. While the fic was still anon, they also reblogged and promoted it.

I thought "omg yes this is it!! now my fic is going to really take off!"

And it didn't.

I've had times when I think, "Huh, you know I should go and write a sequel that has Drarry in it," but when I follow that train of thought, I realize that I'd be doing it only so that more people would read it. And that, for me, is not a good enough reason on its own to sacrifice the vision I originally had for the story.

I learned that my writing has value in and of itself. I learned that kudos is just the result of someone clicking a button and that not everyone has the ability/desire to leave a comment. That doesn't mean the fic is bad or they disliked it. I obsessed over Right Hand Red by lqt for months after making an AO3 before I gathered the courage to leave a comment. And it was my favorite fic of all time (and it still is, though it is now rivaled by the gift LQT just wrote for me for the microfic gift exchange, but that's not the point.)

My point is: it's okay to crave validation. But don't let it get in the way of writing the stories you want to tell, the way you want to tell them. Even if that writer I admire so much hadn't commented, the fic would still mean a lot to me. And even if no one had read it or left kudos or comments, my work would still have value.

Thanks for these!! <3

Send me writing asks! I've already done and/or been requested: 1, 2, 3, 7, 12, 14, 15, 18, 19, 21, 22, 24, and 30

[ravens-words]

we burned down our paper house

"Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed. Epic."

Scenes from a lost decade.

Chapter 3 of 4

On AO3

............................

Early 2010

Michael sighed and leaned back on the chair, shoulders slumped and mouth pressed in a hard line. He stared at the e-mail he'd just gotten from Alex and did his best not to scream in frustration. 

Leave wasn't approved. Sorry.

Short and to the point, just like the last dozen or so e-mails had been in the past few months.

Alex's tone had become almost impatient with him, his e-mails shorter and shorter. It'd gotten to the point where getting three long sentences out of Alex  were cause for celebration. To Michael, it seemed like he was pulling away from him, little by little, and it hurt. It hurt, because he didn't know what he'd done wrong and so he had no idea how to fix it. 

Did I do something wrong? He deleted the question the minute he wrote it out and held his head in his hands. They didn't talk about their relationship on here- or anywhere, he added bitterly in his head. 

He stared at the blank page in front of him and after a minute of silent staring at the screen, he sighed, resigned. His fingers hovered over the keyboard and he thought of all the things he wanted to tell him. That he missed how they used to talk, missed his dry, yet hilarious sense of humor. Michael missed him, most of all and he wondered if he should hold onto the hope that he could ever get to have him.

Late 2011

Michael overheard Maria talking on the phone and nearly spilled his beer when he heard her mention Alex. He listened closely and his excitement hit the roof when she mentioned that he'd finished his first tour. 

Maybe this meant he would get out of the air force altogether. Maybe he would finally get back because he had to have gotten a good amount of days for a leave. That night, he barely managed to sleep, too many thoughts warring with each other in his head.

The next day, he waited for an email, a visit, anything. But nothing came. 

A week passed, and he didn't hear anything from Alex. 

Hey, Alex, I just heard your tour is over? Why didn't you tell me? And when are you coming home?

The next day, he was the first person at the library. Mrs. Jamison gave him a weird look but didn't comment as he followed her in and waited patiently until she gave him the all clear to use the computer.

He hurriedly logged into his e-mail and sighed in relief when he found a message in his inbox. 

"I'm not coming back, Guerin. I'm sorry."

Michael had been expecting this for months now. He'd known it was coming, had felt in his bones even, but that didn't make it hurt any less than a stab in the heart. He felt the sting of tears and sniffled pathetically. 

He didn't know how he managed it when his mind was in such a numb haze, but he logged out and turned the computer off, then left the library and drove home. 

I'm not coming back.

What little hope for them he'd managed to hold onto for the past couple of years vanished and he tried desperately to convince himself that it was for the best.

He was, predictably, unsuccessful.

Mid 2012

"Why do you keep doing this to yourself, Michael?"

Michael snorted and then giggled, pitching forward in Max's arms. Max caught him just before he fell face-first on the ground and grunted as he pulled him up. 

"Seriously, why?"

Michael blinked drowsily at him. "What?"

Max huffed. "Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

"I didn't do anything to myself. Thing 1 and Thing 2 did."

Max was unimpressed. "You punched the guy. Unprovoked."

Michael shrugged, or, he would've, if Max's hand wasn't like an anchor around his shoulders. He resisted the urge to lean into his brother and just made a vauge noise that he let Max interpret. 

Max lowered him on the bench in the drunk tank and to Michael's surprise, he didn't leave. He crouched down in front of him and sighed. "What is it about today, huh?" 

Michael shut his eyes tightly. "Nothing."

"Michael, I know things between us aren't the best right now, but you can talk to me, okay?"

He stayed silent, bit his tongue to stop the words clawing at his throat from escaping. He heard Max sigh and waited until he heard the cell door close quietly. Then,

"I miss him."

Late 2013

"I think Noah wants to have a baby."

Michael blinked at Isobel. "I think it's too early for this."

She huffed and all but forced her way through the door. She delicately lifted the edge of his crumbled blanket and slid it to the side. "What do I do?"

He shook his head and lifted his head up to look at the ceiling. "Maybe tell him you're not ready?" 

"And what if I am?" 

Her whispered confession hit him in the chest like a truck and he struggled with keeping his own feelings about this subject buried and to just focus on himself.

"What's stopping you, then?" 

She scoffed. "Maybe that I'm an alien? That I know nothing about my own body? That I could be bringing a child with powers freakier than ours into this world? It's too- it would be too risky, and I- I can't tell him about any of this, so I'm stuck."

He sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his arms. "I'm really sorry, Iz."

"Yeah," she sniffled. "Yeah, me too." She wiped her eyes and seemed to pull herself together in the snap of a finger, and Michael marveled at her strength. "Tell me about your date with Janet."

Michael pulled a face. "We were talking about you."

She gave him an unimpressed look. "And now we're talking about you. Keep up."

He rolled his eyes, but gave in. "It was fine."

She glared. He sighed.

"This is the third date I've set you up on, Michael," she reminded him. "You really didn't like any of them?"

He shrugged. "I guess they just weren't-" Alex, his mind supplied, "-my type."

Isobel raised an eyebrow and scoffed. "Your type is anything that breathes. If you're going to lie to me, do better than that."

"Fine. I'm just not feeling it."

She searched his face, and to Michael's surprise, her face softened. "There's something you're not telling me."

Michael said nothing.

"You're hurting."

I'm always hurting.

Isobel rested her head on his shoulder. "It's gonna get better, Michael."

I really fucking hope so.

Mid 2014

Michael stared at Max's TV in silent terror, the words 'bombing' and 'air force base' and '12 servicemen killed and 56 injured' leaving him paralyzed with fear. 

"Shit," Max cursed, eyes on the screen, then on Michael. There was a weird look on his face as he watched him, but Michael honestly couldn't muster the energy to try to find out what it meant. 

So he sat on Max's couch, he stared at the now black screen of the TV and tried not to imagine Alex in a body bag, or in a hospital bed, or bleeding out in a desert miles and miles away.

That night, for the first time in four, almost five, years, he called him. The phone rang and rang and rang, but there was no answer.

That night, Michael slept with the phone pressed to his heart, hoping it would ring. 

It never did.

Late 2015

Michael was three drinks in and spoiling for a fight when he walked in. 

He forgot to breathe, everyone in the room but him disappeared and Michael could only watch. 

He watched as he kept his head down and avoided eye contact with anyone. 

He watched him give a polite, and obviously fake, smile to anyone who ignored his very apparent discomfort and decided to engage him in a conversation.

He watched him walk, he watched him breathe and he wanted nothing more than to go to him, drag him away and check for himself that he was whole, that he was still his Alex.

Drink now forgotten, Michael's eyes never strayed away from Alex's form, in fear that he'd actually lost it and had imagined him here.

As if drawn to him by some unknown force, Alex's eyes found his and Michael stopped breathing yet again. His whole body stiffened and he waited for the frost in the airman's eyes to melt, waited for the sharp edges of him to soften. It took a minute, but it eventually happened. 

Alex's eyes softened and his shoulders drooped a little bit. His head tilted to the side, and that was enough for Michael. He stood, rather abruptly, and slowly sauntered out of the bar, feeling his eyes follow him all the way to the door. 

He hurried to his truck, hands shaking and heart beating a mile a minute. When he got in, he put the key in the ignition and then settled both his hands on the steering wheel, squeezing it tightly.

When the bar door banged open and Alex stepped out, Michael could finally breathe. 

Alex got into a black SUV, started driving,  and Michael followed without question, unable to think of anything than this:

Alex is alive. Alex is here and he's breathing and, against all odds, he still wants me after five years.

It took him more than it should've to recognize where Alex was driving, and when his airstream came into view, Michael smiled to himself.

He waited for Alex to get out of his car before he did the same and then they just stood and stared at each other with only a few feet of space separating them.

Years lay heavy between them, yet despite that, Michael still felt lighter than he had in years.

He didn't know who made the first move, but only a few seconds later, Alex was in his arms and his lips were on his.

Michael wanted to suspend time. He wanted to stay in this moment, right here, for all of eternity. 

Alex pulled away and Michael tightened his hold on him, too afraid that he might have changed his mind. Alex's hands found his shoulders and Michael's found his waist. He wanted to pull him closer, to hug him, but he didn't know if that was allowed anymore. 

He wanted to ask him why he cut off all communications five years ago, wanted to tell him how much it hurt to lose touch with him so suddenly. He wanted to ask what he'd done wrong, what he could have done to fix things. Most of all, he wanted to tell him that he'd missed him with a ferocity that had scared him, but never surprised him.

Alex pulled him in before he could utter a word, though, and Michael forgot about all the things he wanted to say, forgot his own name, and got lost in Alex's touch.

Michael grabbed a hold of his hand and pulled him inside, and Alex went with it, laughing softly at his obvious eagerness. The first kiss was fast and hard and was nothing more than an eager clash of teeth. Alex winced and Michael's fingers came up to stroke his cheeks and he brushed his lips brushed against Alex's in apology.

Alex wrapped his arms around Michael's shoulder and pulled him closer. Michael went willingly. 

Their second kiss was slower, more gentle and Alex's lips were soft against his, pliant. Michael's hands drifted up from the airman's shoulders to his neck and after they pulled away for breath, he pulled him in again. This kiss was deeper, open-mouthed and filthy and he must have made his intentions clear with it because Alex, with a tight grip on his waist, led him onto the narrow bed. 

They stumbled and laughed along the way, and suddenly, it felt as if no time had passed. He was settled, in a way he hadn't been for years.

And it was because he was finally in Alex's arms again.

Michael all but threw him onto the bed, then crawled in beside him. They lay there, trading lazy kisses, for what felt like hours.

Michael wished he could stay in this moment forever. 

When Michael's hands drifted under Alex's shirt, and the kisses went back to being heated, Alex eagerly sat up and yanked his shirt off. And Michael just watched him; the ripple of toned muscles, the nimble, elegant fingers. When Alex caught him looking, he softened further and pulled him in close. Their foreheads touched and Michael saw Alex close his eyes. Try as he might, he couldn't close his, not when he still wasn't sure whether or not this was a dream. Ever so slowly, Alex leaned forward and tucked his face into Michael's neck. Michael closed his eyes. He expected Alex to place a kiss there, a bite, but instead, he just seemed to linger there, taking deep, controlled breaths. Michael let him, and pushed his face into Alex's hair. He breathed in and almost didn't want to exhale, just to keep the scent of him in his lungs for as long as possible.

Michael pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, his fingers combing Alex's hair. "Hey," he muttered softly.

Alex chuckled. "Hi."

"I missed you so much," he whispered.

Alex kept his head buried in Michael's neck but raised his hands to hug him tight. "Me too."

Michael danced his left hand from his neck to his shoulders and then down his chest. When he worked open the first button of Alex's jeans, Alex pulled away, but not before he pressed a kiss to his shoulder. 

"I'm glad you came back," Michael rasped. 

Alex answered him with a bruising kiss that left them both gasping for breath.

When Michael woke up, he was alone in his bed. A jolt of fear ran down his spine and he sat up in bed, looking around wildly. When he realized that what had woken him up was the click of the airstream door, he scrambled up, clumsily putting on his sweats as he all but ran out.

He caught up to Alex just before he reached his car. "What the hell, Alex?!"

Alex froze with his back to him, and Michael gripped his shoulder and forced him to turn around. 

"Let go, Guerin."

"Not until you tell me why you're leaving."

"Fucking let go, now." His voice was dangerously low, and Michael resisted the urge to follow his command.

"So last night meant nothing, huh? Just a quick fuck, then?"

Alex shook his head, wrist still firmly in Michael's hand. Michael had no doubt that he could have easily broken free of his hold, but was choosing not to. "Last night shouldn't have happened. It was-"

"Don't." Michael let go of him and stepped back. "Don't you dare say it was a mistake."

Alex's eyes darted all over his face, as if he was drinking him in but then the shutters came down and his eyes were nearly vacant of all emotions. He seemed to steel himself before he spoke. "Goodbye, Michael."

"You're really gonna leave me again?" He sounded broken when he'd meant to sound angry, bitter, or even accusing.

He recieved nothing but silence as Alex tried to tug his door open with obviously shaking hands.

"Six years, Alex. I've spent six years missing you; wondering what I did wrong to make you decide I wasn't worth your time anymore. And I won't ask you about it. If you want to forget it, that's fine, but the least you could do is to at least fucking try."

"Try?"

"Yeah!" He exclaimed. "Give us a chance-"

"There is no us!" Alex exploded. "As long as you're here and I'm not, there can never be an us, Guerin."

"Then be here," Michael pleaded, desperation clawing at his throat. This was truly it. Alex was going to get in the car and drive away and Michael would probably not see him for another five years, if not more. "Would you please just stay?"

"I can't," he murmured, and the words were final. But- he wasn't leaving. He didn't get in his car and drive away; it gave Michael hope that maybe there was still a chance he could convince him to stay.

"Why not?"

"Because I reenlisted? Because I can't see myself coming back to this hellhole permanently and I don't think you'll leave, not even for me? Because this-" he grabbed a hold of Michael's left hand and lifted it up at eye level, "-will always be there as a reminder of what being with me has done to your life."

"Being with you is the only thing I want, Alex. Being with you has always made me happy." Your leaving was what destroyed me every time, he added silently.

"I ruined your life."

"My life was already ruined before you came along, darlin' ; you don't get to take credit for that."

Alex let out a sharp breath. "If you hadn't kissed me that day, if we hadn't gotten back to the shed, if my dad hadn't found us-"

Michael was stunned, because he'd never once thought Alex might have blamed himself for everything that went wrong in his life since the day Rosa died when he'd been the one bright thing in his life at that time. "I'd still be here, just without the ruined hand."

Alex looked skeptical. "You really believe that?"

"I know it, Alex."

He sniffled and nodded, jaw clenched tight. When he looked away, Michael didn't. He could practically see the wheels turning in his head and he waited him out. "It's not gonna be easy."

Michael's heart stopped for a good three seconds. "Wha-what?"

"It's not gonna be easy, being together. I leave again in a few days. We'll be seeing each other twice a year, maybe four times if we're lucky, for the next three years. Phone calls will be rare and-" Alex looked him right in the eye and Michael saw him swallow thickly. "No one in this town can know about us-"

Michael didn't let him finish. He dragged him in by the collar and fused their mouths together, kisses eager and deep.

"You're staying?"

Alex let out a shuddering breath. "I- I think so."

He sounded terrified.

Michael pulled away but kept his hands on either side of Alex's neck. 

"It's gonna be okay, Alex."

Alex nodded hesitantly. "We're gonna be okay," he whispered, as if trying to convince himself. He all but fell into Michael's arms, and when his forehead settled on Michael's, he heard him make a sound that was almost a whimper. Alex clutched the back of his shirt in two tight grips that only seemed to tighten when Michael moved to pull away. 

So he didn't.

He wrapped his arms around him and hid his smile in the airman's shoulder.

"We're gonna be great."

.

[i-write-shakespeare-not-disney]

Author’s Note- Lovesick:

We did it. We really did it. If AO3 counts correctly, we’ve wrapped the journey up at 333,521 words after one and a half years. 

One and a half years of posting, of battling writer’s block, of spinning this story as authentically as I could. For all of you. I truly don’t think I would’ve made it here without all of you who read it. Those of you who left comments, kudos, those of you who liked and reblogged the posts in order to get the next update, everyone who made fanart, created moodboards, wrote songs, or even wrote poems inspired by the story- all of you have made these last 18 months worth it. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again- I never thought I’d be so grateful to have gotten kidney stones, but it might have been the best thing to have happened to me. 

It gave me a community of incredibly interactive and loyal readers, of friends. It gave me a chance to write a story that chipped away at my own walls and allowed me to embrace the beauty of romanticism, of simplicity, of an occasional cliche. This story has been one of the most incredible journeys I’ve had as a writer, and I truly cannot express my thanks enough. 

I want to thank the person who popped up in my inbox suggesting a short fic based off a Harry Styles song (he seems to be a big influencer in fanfiction, huh?). I want to thank the people who wanted to know what happened next. I want to thank the people who helped me come up with names for the parts of the story. I want to thank every single Tumblr reader and every single AO3 reader. I want to thank all of you for the patience you had with me when I couldn’t get out of a writer’s block rut and for the undying and unwavering support and encouragement you all provided the entire time. I want to thank the discord server where we created deeper friendships and you all allowed me to see live reactions. Of course, I need to thank my wonderful, personal Wiki. Mel, you are fucking fantastic. I want to thank everyone who took the time to send me a message to tell me what parts of the story impacted you or the ones who told me how real the story felt. Those messages were an anchor in ways you can’t imagine. 

I want to thank my friends who dealt with me talking myself in circles and helped me plot. Emma, thank you for asking me when I was uploading the next part. You don’t know what it meant to me at the time you asked. Isa, thank you for randomly deciding to start reading and dropping the information on me on a day I was lacking motivation. Thank you for always asking me, “Have you written more?” and not letting me off the hook. Mely, thank you so much for sitting with me outside of the Huddle and bouncing ideas off with me in your living room. Thank you for understanding the double-edged sword that writing is (in a good way… mostly). Renae, thank you for letting me babble on your couch and helping me stay authentic- your influence took this story right where I wanted it to go. Caro, thank you for your enthusiasm and support even when you had no idea what we were talking about. 

The word “when” is important to Keith in this story. It’s important to me too. Because all of you have mentioned that you look forward to the day this story gets published. You’ve all said that you plan on buying it when it gets published- not if. In fact, some of you refuse to let me say “if.” You all have enough faith in me to make up for my lack of it. 

I’ve wanted to be a writer for a long time. I thought it was a distant dream, one that meant getting millions of copies sold on bookshelves in order to reach my goal. I thought I had to earn that title in the form of a hardback. But you all taught me that I didn’t. You all have made my dreams come true. I’ve touched people in parts of the world I haven’t been to. I’ve influenced people and given them a story they could turn to when the world around them got dark. And I am so, so honored to have written something you all deemed worthy of being that light. A few have even called this story their favorite piece of fiction ever which- holy shit, that’s crazy! 

This story wouldn’t have become what it became without all of you. It hasn’t fully hit me yet that the main part of Keith and Lance’s story is over in this universe. I’m so happy to have taken you all on the journey of healing and falling in love with these two. This story and everything that came of the last year and a half will follow me into the rest of my life. I will never forget how incredible this has been to share with you. Thank you all for making it so special. Thank you all for having faith in me and believing in my writing. 

I love all of you dearly and I can’t wait for the next journey to start. 

-Phoenix

[obutsuwrites]

Play with Fire (dabi x reader, pt. 2)

Summary: Dabi tilted his head, his earrings illustrated by the early sun. A snarl now planted on his features.

“Brat.”

warnings: vaginal fingering, omorashi

part one

word count: 2,053

my ao3 for more shitposts

my inbox open 4 requests or wateva~!

The ritual had, indeed, worked. The fruit of the woman’s labor stood before her; a fire demon known as the Dabi. However, the website didn’t prepare for his sarcastic edge. Every word a veiled insult, the demon akin to a schoolyard bully. Dabi had explained the options available to the woman. He was quarantined to the living room. The ash was his prison. 

“You can break the original circle to free me.” Dabi revealed his teeth, a set of razor fangs in between a red tongue. The demon itched for anarchy. The world of humans was a realm he neglected, preferring the netherworld. A place of debauchery and sin, the woman was told. 

Curious orbs observed the demon, her eyes occasionally fixed upon his horns. So cold, so soft. The thought caused a light flush of crimson. 

“They’re horns,” he deadpanned, obviously annoyed by the woman’s blanant interest. “A brat such as yourself isn’t touching them again.” 

She ignored his teasing. “I read online you’ll trick me. I let you out, and Dabi throws the world into fire and brimstone.” The woman had operated on the assumption the ritual would be a failure. She only wanted witness fires started with no accelerant. Well, and the burning wildfire of a house ablaze. The little things in life.

Dabi laughed, a deep rumbling vibrated from him. He stood across the room, the demon believing himself to be above human furniture. Soot foot prints followed him. By all means, fuck up my floor more. 

“I conjure fire. I’m not a fairy.” He caught her glance; his lips twisted into a smirk. His fangs threatened exposure. “You like what you see?” The absolute bastard thought she was checking him out? 

Crimson flooded the woman’s cheeks. The flush now noticeable as heat began to radiate from her. She had to admit, the demon before her boasted lean muscles, but had the personality of coal. He was rude, sarcastic.

“Your horns look like shit.” 

☼

The rest of the weekend fell into a blur. The fire demon known as Dabi roamed the living room, apathetic hands digging through human trinkets. This annoyed the woman, but felt like a small price in exchange for the brilliant displays of fire. Fireballs localized to her living room. Blue flames that enticed her. 

☼

It was Monday. She was groggy, clearly not a morning person. The woman stepped out of her bedroom; the light scent of smoke lingered in the living room. A reminder of her new guest. 

“I’m not your personal lighter. You want to let me out,” Dabi reasoned. A fire demon now demoted to a sentient cigarette lighter. The woman only called out to him when she was in need of a light or wanted to destress through flames licking at paper. She now kept printer paper around for this very reason. Every fire almost scratching the itch of an uncontrollable blaze. 

The woman blinked away sleep, Dabi’s form coming into focus. 

“Who says you aren’t? Dabi, you said I could do whatever I want,” she yawned. Feelings of arousal were stuffed inside her. The demon had a large enough ego; he didn’t deserve to see a mewling mess as he conjured an inferno. Tired hands clenched. The thought of Dabi’s devilishly handsome features set against a pyre was an occasional guilty fantasy.  

Dabi tilted his head, his earrings illustrated by the early sun. A snarl now planted on his features.

“Brat.”

She ignored his insult. The woman focused on her morning routine. Not owning a car meant carpooling. An activity the young salary woman hated. Strangers occupying such a small space should be filed under torture. 

A soft voice echoed from the bathroom. “I’ll be home late, going to attend a bonfire. Don’t go through my shit again.” Since acquiring the demon, the woman would return home to the living room in chaos. Cabinets opened, the contents thrown across the room. Boredom was dangerous for Dabi. Little fire rat.

“Whatever.” 

☼

The intoxicated woman struggled to unlock her apartment. Soft giggles flowed from her. She eventually conquered the lock and stumbled into the dark living room. Dabi’s lean form leaned against the couch. His typical stoic expression painted across his face.

“How was the fire, brat?” Dabi asked, his lip piercings illuminated by the moon. A smirk threatened to pull at his lips. Calling the pyromaniac a brat was satisfying. 

Another giggle bubbled from the woman. A grin plastered. “It was fucking cool! The fire was so big, Dabi!” The woman’s voice displayed blunt excitement. Dabi’s fire is cooler, though. Fuck.

“Bonfires don’t compete with the demon of cremation. You look flustered.” Dabi hoped the comment would plant embarrassment within the woman. He wanted to see her squirm. Revenge, he reasoned, for all the lustful glints the pyromaniac held during demonstrations of Dabi’s fire. 

She touched her cheek; the heat was still present. 

“I drank tonight. Never seen a drunk human before?” 

The woman swayed. The room spun. Dabi’s form now a blurred vision. 

Dabi wasn’t disconnected enough from human culture to forget the important ritual of alcohol. The demon wasn’t stupid. Dabi found his eyes wandering her form. The woman’s clumsy nature was cute. A loud mouth brat reduced to a flustered mess. 

“Fires must get you all wet, huh? Unless a brat like you got sweaty,” Dabi said, a hint of teasing in his tone. It was impossible for the demon to ignore the legs that pressed together during his free showings of blue fire. An obvious attempt to hide her passion. 

She looked away from the demon. Blurry eyes now glued to the hardwood floor. She could feel the steam rising from her face. Dabi was overstimulating in such a drunken state.

“No, Dabi. It was fucking hot. Bonfire and all.” Dabi admired the way his name left her lips. He wondered what she’d sound like chanting his name in desire. Would she whine? 

Dabi stood up, a bundle of want now hot against his thigh. The young pyromaniac was the subject of his fantasies while she was gone. Masturbation was second nature to demons. An act that was necessary. He crossed the distance between them. The woman’s eyes still focused upon the floor. 

“Like this?” he questioned, as an azure flame blossomed from his palm, the flame small. The demon wanted to rile her up. Dabi knew the look in her eye. 

Eyes tried in vain to ignore the fire before them. The woman chose to instead stare at the cremation demon. Dangerous looks married with disfigured skin. A devil in sheep’s clothing. 

“N-no, stupid. I’m tired. Going to bed.” 

Wobbly legs attempted to make an escape, eyes trained upon the floor. Dabi knew his window of opportunity was closing. “Look at me.” A mangled hand reached out and latched onto her wrist. 

The woman froze. Dabi had never touched her before. The demon’s hand felt like a grave. Frigid and wilted. His staples were cool against her skin. Reminders of what he was. Reluctant eyes met his gaze. Raven locks obscured his eyes. 

“Let me go,” she hissed. The woman now painfully aware of the implications of a stranger in her home. The hint of smoke evaporated from the air and was replaced by the burnt smell of cinnamon. Azure fire burned in the demon’s free hand. 

“Look,” Dabi pressed, the fire now a small inferno within his palm. The sight was almost orgasmic for the young pyromaniac. Cobalt flames swirled in his hand, the beginning of a tornado. A muffled sigh betrayed her. Her attention finally on Dabi. A smirk broke out on the demon’s face. The object of his desires engrossed in him. 

“Really fucking cool and all, Dabi, but I’m tired.”

Dabi’s grip on the woman’s wrist tightened. A wince shot through her face. His patience was wearing thin. “Stop being such a brat.” He pulled the toxicated woman towards him, the fire in his free hand now extinguished. She bumped against his fleshy chest. Cold staples rested against her face. 

The  young pyromaniac buried her face in the demon’s chest. His lean muscles offered the ideal camouflage for a blushing face. He smelled of ash. Even his scent was alluring. 

“You smell nice,” she mused, swallowing his scent. The ash only coaxed her. A giggle bubbled from her. “Can I touch the horns?”

Dabi debated his answer. The possibility of undressing the woman before him was too great. His mind danced with crude images of her naked form, his need now hard against his thigh.

“Wow,” Dabi said, sarcasm dripping from his words, “it’s surprising you asked.” A scarred hand sneaked around her waist, the woman too inebriated to notice. She felt soft against his mangled form. Warm. 

She leaned further into him. The alcohol reached a peak. “I’ll give you my stupid panties… To… to touch your horns.” Words slurred together. The confession muffled against him. Dabi’s other hand pulled the woman closer. The demon now greedy for her touch. 

Dabi ruffled her hair. 

“You’re giving me your panties anyway.”

Suddenly, the urge to pee hit the woman. Her bladder reduced to a pea. Alcohol ultimately caught up to her. She didn’t remember how much she drank, but judging by the hiccups and slurred speech, she was wasted. Her mind a drunken cloud except the erotic thoughts of Dabi. 

“I have to piss first,” the woman blurted out. The words rushed out of her and hung in the air. A silence fell over them. Their bodies frozen together. 

Dabi was certain the woman could wait. His desire was far too dire for her to run off to potty. The demon now intoxicated by her presence. “I think you can wait.” Without warning, Dabi dipped patchwork fingers under her pants, resting atop the hem of her panties. “I can smell how wet you are.” A slender finger ran down her slit. The woman shuddered from his touch.

“Seriously. I have to fucking piss. My bladder,” she whined. Her bladder felt as if it might burst, the pressure almost too much. 

He ignored her complaint. The demon gingerly moved the woman’s panties to the side, her womanhood now displayed to him. A pink core slick with arousal. His interest proved too much as he traced her swollen clit with a thumb. The soft flesh throbbing against him. 

“Such a brat and yet you’re soaked. Don’t be so impatient. You can wait,” Dabi said, his tone assuring. In one motion, the cremation demon slipped a finger inside her. Moist walls contracted around him. Her cunt. All mine.

Slowly, Dabi pumped his finger. Ritualistic moans murmured against the moist sounds of her body. His finger prodded against her bladder, the pressure increasing. The woman’s bladder threatened to explode. 

“Dabi,” she begged, “I need to fucking pee. Please.” Her begging only encouraged him; the demon now roughly pumping his finger. Dabi began to curl his finger inside her. Selfish hands hungry for her moans. Her sounds were euphoric to him, even better than his fantasies, the sound delicate and heavy. Hot breathe rhythmic against his bare chest. She leaned into him, nerves desperate for him.

The stimulation proved to be too intense. The intoxicated woman released her bladder, pee leaking down her leg. Relief washed over her, leaving her spine tingling. Her face burned. A crimson blush radiated against her skin. 

The sentence tumbled from her. “I’m so fucking sorry, oh my god. I -- I told you, stupid! It’s not my fault… you -- you didn’t listen!” She was adorable like this. A stammering, embarrassed mess. Dabi licked his lips. Predator explaining their prey. 

“Is the little brat embarrassed because she pissed herself?” Dabi teased, fangs against the moonlight. 

“Shut the fuck up.” The young pyromaniac tried to detach herself from the demon. Dabi held fast, hands tangled across her body’s landscape. “I’m not a brat.��� Her face again escaped within Dabi’s lean chest.

“Make me, brat.”

The flustered woman took the challenge, two hands captured Dabi’s face. With the aid of tip toes, she kissed him. Two lips trapped in lust. After an eternity, they separated for air. Both pairs of lips now exposed to the cool air.

She hiccuped, the sound quiet and soft. “I’m -- I’ll take a fucking bath, okay? Get naked.”

[quinnybee-writes]

Title: Fire Meet Gasoline

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Rating: T+

Part: 6/?

Story Summary: A chance encounter between a villain and vigilante leads to an unwise deal made between unlikely allies; an unwise deal made between unlikely allies ends in a final stand neither would have ever dared to take on alone. Together, though, they just might have a fighting chance.

Part 6 Summary: Favor number two tests the patience of one and the mettle of another, leaving uncertainty about both in its wake.

Part 1 on  Tumblr / AO3

Part 2 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 3 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 4 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 5 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 6 on AO3

I swear to god if if I have to sit through one more meeting where I get voluntold to pick up another department’s slack in the same sentence as management trying to cut my intern’s hours I’m going to chug a two-liter of Surge and burp so loud I bring this whole mfer down with me.

Shouta stared at his phone, his sleep-addled brain trying to make sense of whether Yamada meant the text as a threat or not. He’d been catching a quick power nap in the back of his truck during his lunch hour and had been most of the way asleep when the rattle of his phone on the metal floor jolted him awake again. Not helping his attempt to dissect the meaningless hyperbole was Yamada’s follow up text of lmao it u along with a gif of a cat trying to jump from a bed to a dresser and falling halfway with the caption “parkour!”. He wouldn’t put it past Yamada to be the type to threaten in one breath and quote a meme in the next, but he couldn’t wrap his brain around why Yamada would be sending him incriminating evidence via text message during work hours.

Two new messages came in quick succession as Shouta was trying to puzzle things out.

Oh my god

Those were supposed to go to my sister holy shit

So not an admission or a threat, just an idiot with a cell phone. Shouta groaned, eyes rolling back in his head in disgust at how much energy he had wasted on taking Yamada seriously yet again.

forget it Shouta sent back.

Cute cat pic for ur trouble? Yamada replied along with a picture of a gangly black cat with bright yellow eyes. The cat was sprawled on its back in a pile of kibble and the shredded scraps of a cat food bag. Shouta snorted, grinning a little in spite of himself at the self-satisfied look on the cat’s fuzzy little face.

cute he texted, trying to distill as much exhaustion and disinterest into the single word as possible.

That’s Ai-chan. She’s a monster, but she’s my monster <3

So what are you up to? Break from work?

Shouta sighed, rubbing his temples. It was impossible to freeze out someone who was so willing to keep the conversation going without outside input.

trying to catch some sleep before afternoon deliveries Shouta replied as pointedly as he could.

Oof. Busy night?

do you need something? Shouta asked, stabbing the send key a little harder than he really needed to. There was a short, offended pause from Yamada’s end of the line; Shouta could picture him looking down at his phone with that little not-quite-pouting moue he always made when things weren’t going his way.

I guess not.

The curt punctuation seemed to signal Yamada had finally gotten the point, just in time to exhaust the last of Shouta’s free time before he had to get going again. Shouta put his phone into his pocket and made a point to not check it again until he was walking home. Waiting for him was another gif, this time of a pair of hands vigorously shaking a bottle of Surge, followed by a message that just said Oh goddammit. Shouta rolled his eyes and deleted the thread without replying.

The perceived slight only kept Yamada at bay for a short time, however. Now that he’d gotten a taste of the man’s texting habits Shouta had to wonder how Yamada managed to get anything done. No matter when his breaks were during the day it seemed like Yamada always had some new meme or gif or general workplace complaint to gift him with in the meantime, whether it was before dawn or after dark or occasionally both.

do you actually have a job or do they just pay you to bother me? Shouta finally asked as he waited at an interminable red light several days later. Yamada had been on a spree that morning, flooding his inbox with an illustrated play-by-play of Ai-chan’s newest misdoings while Shouta had four straight hours of back-to-back deliveries.

Excuse you, Yamada texted back loftily, I am an integral part of station management! Who occasionally may or may not take extra long bathroom breaks to avoid getting roped into being more integral than I already am.

my bad. clearly you’re just doing your part to prevent asahi radio from being razed via belch Shouta replied, snorting out a laugh before he could stop himself. He paused, frowning. That was both new and unwelcome.

Yamada sent back a long line of laugh-crying emojis followed by Look who grew a sense of humor just in time to drag me!

don’t act like you know me.

Yeah, yeah. Scout’s honor, I won’t tell anybody you’re actually funny.

Shouta scowled, dropping the phone onto the seat next to him and pulling through the light as it finally turned green. Despite the chilly weather he rolled his window down to get some airflow on his face. He hadn’t turned on the truck’s heater yet but his cheeks already felt way too warm.

Shouta spent his next day off drinking too much coffee at the cat cafe while he tried to reign in the chaos that his computer desktop had become. His phone buzzed on the table beside him and Shouta swiped in the passcode with one hand while the other was dragging a huge load of defunct backup files to his computer’s trash. He’d sooner walk into traffic than admit it to Yamada, but having a passcode on his phone was turning out to be less of an inefficient hassle that he’d always thought it would be and did make him less anxious about putting it places that weren’t his pocket or his hand.

As if waiting for the thought to cue him in, the alert was for yet another of Yamada’s early-morning memes. This time it was a gif of a kitten trying to stay awake before it wobbled and flopped out of frame. Yamada’s accompanying caption read That midweek feeling hitting hard today along with an emoji of a sleeping face with a snot bubble.

it’s monday Shouta texted back.

When you work 24/7 it’s always midweek, Yamada replied.

implying you work at all. still not convinced.

I resent that, Aizawa. It takes a lot of skill and determination to shovel this much shit and still have spare time to be a full-time pain in the ass.

Shouta almost allowed himself a laugh at that, but the air caught in his throat at Yamada’s next question.

So, do you do all of your important hero research on the public wifi at kitty cafes, or is today a special occasion?

What do you mean? Shouta asked warily.

Behind you.

Shouta turned slowly, dreading what he knew he was about to see. Yamada was standing on the sidewalk outside, grinning at him over the top of his cell phone. He gave Shouta a little wave before sauntering in and up to the counter. He chatted amiably with the baristas as they made his order. Shouta frowned to himself, trying to work out the quickest way to pack up his belongings while disturbing as few sleeping cats as possible. The moment came and went too quickly, however, as Yamada came over with two cups of coffee in his hands.

“Black with one sugar, right?” Yamada said. He slid one of the steaming mugs in front of Shouta. “That’s what they said anyway,” he added, nodding up towards the counter.

“What are you doing here?” Shouta asked coolly. Yamada frowned at him.

“I was on my way to the post office to mail a couple things and empty the station P.O. box and saw you in the window,” Yamada said. “I figured we could sit and chat since we both have a minute.”

“You just kind of assume you’re welcome wherever you decide to be, don’t you?” Shouta said.

Yamada snorted. “If that’s the worst thing someone tells me about myself today, I’ll count it as a win,” he replied, toasting Shouta with his coffee cup. He invited himself to sit down in the only chair not currently occupied by cats. “Wait, is that a spreadsheet with my name on it?” he added with sudden interest, arching his neck around to peek at Shouta’s screen. Shouta slammed the lid of his laptop shut, feeling his face heating.

“Do you need something?” Shouta asked, trying to redirect the conversation and get Yamada back on his way as quickly as possible.

“Just caffeine and conversation,” Yamada shrugged. “Is it illegal to ask someone about their day?”

“Implying you care about whether or not you’re doing something illegal,” Shouta replied curtly. To his annoyance Yamada just chuckled and shrugged.

“I mean, you’ve got me there,” he said. “So, what are you working on?” Yamada added, lowering his tone just slightly.

“Catching up on some things,” Shouta said, intentionally vague. “Organizing research. It takes longer when you’re doing it on your own.”

“I bet,” Yamada agreed. “Would probably save you some time and effort to have a permanent back door into places you’re not supposed to be, huh?” He said it with a too-even speculation that set Shouta instantly on edge.

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Shouta said.

“I know people who know things,” Yamada said with a broad, conspiratorial grin over his coffee mug. “Keeping your friends close and your enemies closer is a lot easier when you can tell which is which.”

Shouta felt a frisson of discomfort run up his spine at the implication of where Yamada considered him to be on that spectrum. “I think I liked it better when you were threatening me,” he muttered. “Don’t make more of that than there is,” he added quickly as Yamada’s smile grew cheeky and he opened his mouth to comment. Yamada did his annoying little not-quite-pouting pout and let out a quiet “hmph” at his joke being preempted.

“In any case, you probably don’t need me to tell you how to crack a secure password,” Yamada said. “Even when they’re clever they’re usually related to either the one who sets them or the thing they’re locking up, or they’re something pseudo-random cooked up by a number generator. Sometimes they get stupid-clever and try to do all three.”

“Mmn?” As bored as he was trying to sound, Shouta couldn’t help taking mental notes on what Yamada was saying. Yamada was a flippant trouble-maker from the word go but there were moments where he displayed actual talent for the things he claimed to be an expert in.

“Oh yeah,” Yamada said. “They’re trying for layers of security, but too many moving parts makes passwords way easier to out-think. Codes are only as smart as the people who write them, y’know?”

“And you know how smart they are?” Shouta asked, trying to keep his tone casual as he goaded Yamada into staying on a roll. Yamada caught his drift a little too well, however, and the sharp, meaningful grin came out again.

“I know people who know things,” he said again. “I’d be willing to let you in on a few trade secrets for the low, low price of a certain five-letter word beginning with ‘f’.”

Shouta snorted. “Hard pass.”

“Well, I tried,” Yamada said, shrugging. He checked the time on his phone and sighed. “That’s about my lot, I’m afraid. Gotta get back before the world ends.” He stood and stretched with a groan. “We should do this again sometime. Maybe talk less shop.” The offer seemed oddly genuine and Shouta wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that.

He tried to get back to work after Yamada left, but his concentration had been thoroughly broken. He bought another coffee and turned on some neutral background music; his brain, however, was no longer in the mood to stare at a screen and try to riddle out what his new sub-folders should be called. Finally Shouta dislodged the many cats who had taken up residence in and around his lap and packed up his laptop to see if fresh air on the walk home and a change of venue might help get him back on task.

Shouta nudged his apartment door closed with his heel, scooping the mess of envelopes out of his mail bin. It was mostly the normal jumble of junk and bills, but amongst the shuffle was a thin white payroll envelope with his name and address on the front in too-familiar spidery handwriting. Just going to empty the station mailbox indeed, Shouta thought with a groan. Yamada was way too fond of theatrics. He tossed the envelope onto his sofa without opening it and delayed paying it any attention until he’d put everything away, showered, and had a lengthy play session with his cats. If it was unimportant enough for Yamada to not just hand it over when they were in the same room together, Shouta told himself, then there was no need for him to bend over backwards to pay attention to it the instant he got home.

Finally his excuses ran out and he tore the envelope open. Inside were two pieces of paper folded separately into sharp thirds. The first was a handwritten note on Asahi Radio letterhead that read:

Aizawa-

I need a favor. I have a line on something but doing it alone might be tricky. You’ll just be the go-between, nothing dire. Meet me Friday, 9pm sharp.

-M

Also included was another of Yamada’s meticulously notated hand-drawn maps, at the other end of which was a complex of storage units bordered on all sides by a spike-topped chain link fence. Shouta peered into the dark, abandoned-looking guard booth, wondering if the first step to tonight’s goings-on was having to find his own way inside.

“Hey, you made it!”

Shouta turned to see a dark-haired man slouching up towards him from the other end of the sidewalk. He eyed the man warily, about to say he had the wrong person, but stopped as he stepped into the light and raised his sunglasses with a smirk. Yamada had stuffed all of his hair under a short, spiky black wig and a black and green snapback, slicked down his mustache and covered it in a thin layer of skin-colored makeup to blend it in with his face, and buried himself in baggy jeans and a jacket that made him look both heavier-set and a few inches shorter than he actually was. The only things that gave him away were his sharp too-green eyes and his unmistakable grin, full of crafty smugness at Shouta’s open surprise at his appearance. Yamada did a full turnaround of the odd costume, ending the twirl with a dramatic pose.

“Not a bad look for me, huh?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Shouta snorted. “You look like a washed-up pop star who’s trying to pretend he still has to avoid the paparazzi,” he replied flatly.

To his surprise Yamada let out a burst of full-throated laughter at the remark. Shouta wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Yamada laugh in genuine amusement before now, only the occasional mocking chuckle or triumphant snicker. He had a loud, whinnying kind of laugh that tapered off into short bursts of wheezy, hyena-like giggles behind his hand as he remembered himself and tried to tamp it down.

“Okay, cynical,” Yamada said, still coughing through the last of his laughing fit. “Everyone’s a critic.” He rolled his eyes and gave a flourishy “well, what are you gonna do” kind of shrug. Shouta scowled at him.

“What are we doing here?” Shouta asked, doing his best to ignore Yamada’s grandstanding despite the growing burn of annoyance creeping up his face.

“Just a quick jaunt into my evil lair,” Yamada said cheerfully. He punched an entry code into the number pad next to the guard house, then pressed his thumb to the scanner underneath. The keypad flashed green and beeped an affirmative, and a small portion of the gate swung inward. “C’mon,” Yamada said. He motioned for Shouta to follow him as he led the way through the rows of squat cinder block units to one in the very back left corner of the lot.

“People with money can afford secret basements and underground boltholes wherever they need them,” Yamada said over his shoulder as he bent down to unlock the door of the unit, “but the rest of us have to make do with what we’ve got.” He lifted the door just high enough for himself and Shouta to duck under, then set it back down with a clatter. The unit was pitch-black and humid inside and smelled like a mixture of burnt-out electrical parts, solder, and partially cured epoxy glue. “I’ll get the lights, one sec,” Yamada said. Shouta heard him scrabbling along the wall to find the light switch, then a click. A fluorescent shop light flickered and buzzed to life above them, flooding the unit in intense blue-white light. Yamada turned to Shouta and spread his hands wide. “Taa-daa! Welcome to the inner sanctum.”

It looked more like a high school shop room that had sublet space to a thrift store. The left wall had been covered in a cluster of flat-pack bookshelves, their shelves bowing under a jumble of storage boxes labeled things like “radio parts-LIVE”, “speaker wire”, “tape--sticky”, and “tape--magnetic”. The back wall was one long anchored shelf divided into slots that held overstuffed file folders bundled together with rubber bands and binder clips. The only wall not covered in shelving or projects was taken up with a butcher block work table and a cork board with scribbled notes and schematics pinned to it.

“Kind of rinky-dink, but it gets the job done,” Yamada said fondly. “Anyway. First things first, did you happen to wear the stab vest I gave you?” he asked over his shoulder as he ducked under the work table and retrieved a box marked with today’s date.

“Yeah.” The assurance that his part in tonight would be “nothing dire” had put Shouta on high enough alert that he’d forced himself to put pride aside and opt for personal safety instead.

“Thank god. So, basically what I need is for you to be my stand in while things get underway tonight,” Yamada said. “I’d go on my own, but the meeting place is kind of a...no-go area for me right now due to certain people who frequent it.”

“And you’d rather send me in looking like you instead?” Shouta asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Yamada stared at Shouta like he’d started speaking French.

“What? God, no, what gave you that idea?”

Shouta sighed, silently counting to ten in his head as his patience frayed. “You just said I’m supposed to be your stand in.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah, poor choice of words. Think stunt double, not body double,” Yamada explained. “I just need you to be a good-faith warm body, I’ll be handling the rest with this.” He reached into the box and pulled out something that looked like a cold weather mask had been extruded into a large funnel shape at the bottom edge. Shouta looked from it to Yamada, who was beaming in obvious self-pride.

“Which is…?” Shouta prompted.

“Which is your half of a two-way radio with a built in broadcasting speaker,” Yamada said, turning the top edge inside out to show Shouta the wiring and speakers sewn into it. “At first I thought maybe I could just have you memorize a script and I’d step in if things got too off-book, but you’re not very good at lying under pressure so I wasn’t sure that would fly,” he continued. Shouta wasn’t sure if that was meant as an insult or not. “So instead, we have this to work with. I can use this--” Yamada pulled up his sleeve to show a tiny microphone taped to the inside of his wrist-- “to talk to you or talk as you, depending, as long as I stay within ten or twelve feet of you at all times.” The last part he said in one of his uncomfortably accurate impressions of Shouta’s voice.

“And that’s why you’re dressed like that?” Shouta said.

“Exactly. I’ll have to be close enough to you that the receiver can pick up the signal, and it’ll be way easier to read the room if I’m, y’know, in the room.”

“If you were going to put on a costume and go anyway, why didn’t you just do that and go on your own?” Shouta asked.

Yamada frowned and waved a finger at him like he was scolding a child. “Eh-eh-eh. No questions asked, remember? You know as much as you need to know, and you don’t need to know any more than that. Now stand still so I can get you wired up.”

Shouta grudgingly stood with his arms straight out from his body as Yamada turned him into a human switchboard. With a combination of strategic placement and gaffer tape Yamada ran a long wire with an audio jack on one end and a battery connection on the other from Shouta’s waist up his left side to just under his collar bone. Another wire ran the length of his inner arm from shoulder to wrist and ended in a loop with a switch on it that fit over the first knuckle of his thumb. All he had to do, Yamada said as he taped it all down, was press the switch when he needed to talk to Yamada and let it go when he was finished. “Y’know,” Yamada said, “like those cheap walkie-talkies you used to play with as a kid.”

“I ended up making this a lot bigger at the bottom so that we can hide all of our crimes under it,” Yamada muttered as he slipped the mask over Shouta’s head. He was back in the extreme focus mode Shouta had seen him slip into before, attention laser-focused and the corner of his mouth between his teeth as he connected all the wires and power sources underneath. He pulled an earpiece up under the mask by its wire and stuck it in Shouta’s ear before reaching up to fuss with Shouta’s hair and make sure it was hiding everything sticking above the mask. Shouta shivered involuntarily at the touch, barely resisting the urge to pull away. “With the right top layer all of this should be more or less invisible,” Yamada went on, frowning appraisingly as he took a step back to examine his handiwork. He rummaged through a few things in the box and surfaced with a heavy black zippered jacket. “I had to guess sizes, but I think this one should be close enough.”

Yamada unzipped the jacket and held it out so that Shouta could shrug into it. Shouta eased the jacket on, trying not to disturb the network of wires all over him. Yamada zipped it up almost to the top, open enough to seem casual but still high enough to cover all but the face portion of the mask and its contents. It wasn’t a terrible fit other than being slightly short in the sleeves and restrictive around the shoulders. Shouta bent and twisted his arms, trying to stretch it out without doing damage to the electronic infrastructure. Yamada untied the audiojack end of the main wire from Shouta’s belt loop and stuck it into a small cheap-looking disposable cell phone.

“This should have enough battery to keep a recording of the whole thing,” Yamada said. “Can you give me a quick mic check to make sure everything’s hooked up?”

“Uh. Testing,” Shouta said.

Yamada seemed to like what he saw in the waveforms on the phone’s screen. He smiled in satisfaction before stretching a piece of tape around the back of the phone and carefully taping it into place in Shouta’s pocket. “If we head out right now we should get there early enough to do a few on-site checks,” Yamada said, checking the time. “Shall we?”

The two of them walked a few blocks from the storage unit to a cramped, dim little pub. Yamada walked at tailing distance behind Shouta the whole way, testing the range on the homemade gear by giving Shouta directions to where they were going. The audio was relatively clear if they stayed within Yamada’s estimation of ten or so feet; after they hit closer to the twelve-foot mark it got fainter and fainter until dropping out completely as they reached about fifteen feet. Again Shouta had to wonder why, if they were essentially going to be handcuffed to one another anyway, Yamada couldn’t have just gone undercover by himself.

“Grab a drink at the bar and go sit at one of the high-top tables,” Yamada said as Shouta opened the bar’s door and made his way in. “That’s where he’ll be expecting you.”

“Any advice on how to recognize whoever I’m supposed to be meeting?” Shouta muttered back under his breath.

“No idea, he said he would find you. That’s pretty standard for a meeting like this,” Yamada added before Shouta could protest. “Nobody wants to get jumped outside before negotiations even get underway. Think of it as a blind date, but nefarious.”

Shouta sighed loudly, making sure he hit the switch so that Yamada would hear him. Yamada’s never-ending supply of bad metaphors was the last thing he needed right now.

“Calm down, Aizawa,” Yamada said. “Remember, all you have to do is sit there and look pretty, I’ll handle the talking.” There was a short fizzle of static as Yamada entered the pub and made his way to a secluded booth in the back corner. “Still read me?”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent. What’s your poison?”

“Pardon?”

“Beer? Wine? Shot of whiskey to settle your nerves?”

“You really want alcohol anywhere near all this equipment?” Shouta asked, bewildered.

“It’s just for show, who goes into a bar and doesn’t order anything? You shouldn’t drink anything they serve here anyway, their bartending is a bad joke,” Yamada said dismissively. “I just need to test the audio output and make sure we’re good to go before the main event.”

“Then just do it,” Shouta said shortly. “Didn’t you just say you were going to handle all the talking?”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Yamada muttered again. His usual flippant chill had gained an undertone of cranky tenseness that was less than reassuring. “Can I get a bottle of Sapporo?” Yamada said aloud in Shouta’s voice. Shouta just managed to turn toward the bartender in time for the question to seem natural. The bartender, a smirking woman with long brown hair held back in a red ribbon, gave him an appraising once-over. She seemed to be unimpressed with what she saw.

“Sure,” the bartender said. She reached into a cooler under the counter and came back with the bottle of beer, popping the lid off before placing it on the bar in front of Shouta.

“Thanks,” Yamada said, far more cheerfully than Shouta had ever said the word. Shouta nodded his own thanks and went to go sit at one of the high tables in a cluster near the front. He drummed his heel on the bottom rung of the bar stool. The bar was basically empty and silent other than the bartender’s phone playing lo-fi swing music from a speaker dock behind the bar. Otherwise it was just Shouta and his undrinkable beer killing time.

“Ohshit.” The words came out as a single noise hissed violently in Shouta’s ear, making him jump.

“What?” he hissed back, avoiding the curious look the bartender was giving him.

“Remember how I said there were some people who made this place a no-go area because they want to kill me?” Yamada said, sounding like he was talking through his teeth.

“Yeah?”

“That’s them coming in. Don’t look at them! Have you never been undercover in your life?” Yamada whisper-shouted as Shouta turned to look over his shoulder at the door. Almost immediately he snapped his head back around, trying to be as casual as possible about pulling the jacket’s hood over his head as he saw Takeshiro and his wife coming in and sitting a few tables away.

“You know them?” Shouta asked, hopelessly hoping Yamada actually meant someone else who was still outside.

“Ye-ep,” Yamada said, distaste drawing the word out several syllables longer than it needed to be. “They’re still kind of sore about a certain scene in a certain alley you might be familiar with.” He scoffed, then hissed, “Wait, you know them?” as Shouta’s tone dawned on him.

The alleyway. Shapes in the dark played back in Shouta’s head, fuzzy from time and panic but falling into clearer place with the new context. A short, stringy figure barking orders and bailing when things got complicated; the other taller and stocky and silent with a plant-based Quirk protecting him. Shouta gritted his teeth, annoyed by how clear the connection seemed now that it was right in front of him.

“Takeshiro works on the night crew in package processing. Takes a lot of sick days now that I think of it. I’ve never actually spoken to his wife but I’ve seen her at office parties before,” he said quietly.

“His wife? Ew,” Yamada said.

“You’re telling me they’re villains?” Shouta asked, ignoring him. Yamada snorted.

“So-called. They work for an egomaniac middleman called Seguchi. Hebiko is Seguchi’s left hand, and Takeshiro’s hers.”

“What did you do to make them want to kill you?”

“Their boss did something stupid with information that wasn’t his and got busted. I had nothing to do with it,” Yamada retorted tartly.

“Right, sure,” Shouta said. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“Nah, shouldn’t be,” Yamada said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “This is why I planned things this way. No reason to bail out before anything happens.” Shouta was about to protest that it made a lot more sense to leave before there was a problem rather than scrambling when they were in trouble, but Yamada spoke first. “Heads up, you’ve got company.”

“So you’re Null.”

Shouta turned to see a lanky man with brownish hair and a narrow, rattish face standing slouched behind him with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his grubby jeans.

“Potentially,” Yamada replied. “You’re Raimaru?” His impression of Shouta’s voice was dead-on, which was bad enough on its own, but there was something just slightly off about his intonation that made Shouta’s skin crawl.

“That’s what they call me,” the man said. ”Getcha a refill while we talk?” he added, nodding at Shouta’s obviously untouched beer.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Shouta fiddled with the neck of the bottle to make it seem less like a static prop on the table in front of him. Even if Yamada had been against the idea of giving him a script to follow, some guidance on what to do in general might have been nice. He felt stiff and awkward, like a puppet whose puppeteer only had a vague idea of how natural movements worked.

“Suit yourself,” Raimaru shrugged. He ambled off to talk to the bartender, seeming to be doing his best to chat her up as she mixed his drink.

“‘Null’?” Shouta muttered to Yamada.

“Short for ‘nullify’, like your Quirk. Get it?” When Shouta just sighed in reply, Yamada added defensively, “Well, I had to call you something, didn’t I?”

“Did you?”

“What did you want me to say, ‘oh by the by you’ll be meeting my friend Shouta Aizawa, he’s thirty, single, a Scorpio, and lives in a single-occupancy uptown with three cats’?” Yamada retorted.

He technically had a point and Shouta hated that the most out of all the things he hated about this evening so far. Yamada had no time to gloat over the win, however, as Raimaru came back and dropped onto the stool across from Shouta.

“Kind of a hassle, having to be the face of cleaning up all of your boss’s bad behavior, huh? From what I’ve heard he’s got plenty to go around,” Raimaru said. Shouta privately agreed with the sentiment, but Yamada snorted instead.

“I get paid to go where I’m told, not to pass judgements,” Yamada replied stiffly. Shouta resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the defensive bluster. Raimaru laughed for him.

“I dunno about that. There’s plenty of judgement to go around if you want some,” Raimaru said. “Seems like the only books he can get into these days are peoples’ bad ones.”

“You think he gives a damn about anyone’s books other than his own?”

“I’m just saying I know a glorywhore when I see one. He spends all of his time making deals and playing nice and then suddenly people higher than him start going to jail,” Raimaru said. “Happened to Fukawa, happened to Seguchi, happened to Iwata. Hell, everyone knows he snitched and got Hanajima back in the day but Hanajima got shanked in prison and all his men scattered so nobody talks about him anymore.”

Shouta squirrelled the names away to research later, though other than those names Raimaru had said precious little to convince him that he knew much of anything besides Yamada’s surface reputation. So far his assertions had been vague at best and his “work, am I right?” tone was suspiciously chummy, like he was trying to nudge “Null” into letting something incriminating slip out.

“Why is any of this relevant?” Yamada asked. He sounded equally short on patience with Raimaru’s unsubtle attempts at currying favor. Raimaru gave a slightly passive-aggressive shrug.

“There’s a storm coming. A big one, one that’s gonna hit hard and rewrite a lot of rules about who’s in charge and who’s got a boot on their necks. You’re not gonna be in a great spot if you’re working for the Bird, so I thought you’d wanna know there’s better options,” he said. It was the first thing he’d said that sounded like he actually knew what he was talking about and it was not a reassuring change. Yamada, however, seemed unfazed.

“What, some new jumped-up ‘super’ villain with big plans for a criminal utopia?” Yamada said, unimpressed. “Seen ‘em come, seen ‘em go, nothing of value was lost. You asked me to come here because you had something valuable you wanted to trade. Is that still the case, or should I head out and stick you with the tab for wasting my time?”

“So, that’s a ‘no’ from you?” Raimaru asked, still grinning like someone had wired the corners of his mouth behind his ears.

“I didn’t hear a question being asked, but…” All of a sudden Yamada’s voice trailed off in a fizzle of static. Shouta tensed. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Yamada, who met his eye with a look that was not quite panic but was very, very close to it. Yamada tapped his ear questioningly. Shouta twitched his head to the side in a negative. He saw Yamada mouth “Shit!” before his attention snapped back to the problem in front of him as Raimaru let out a short chuckle.

“Never a good idea to use radio signals around me,” Raimaru said smugly. “They usually end up a little...dead.” He casually brought the hand that had been under the table to rest on its surface. It was holding a large pocket knife, which he casually flicked open and closed as he spoke. All of the plastic had been stripped off of the knife, leaving behind just the blades and metal guts holding them together. As Shouta eyed it, the blade began to glow a smokey orange around Raimaru’s fingertips.

“I think we’re done here,” Shouta said, trying to match the off-cadence way Yamada had been using his voice all night.

This only seemed to egg Raimaru on, however, as he cranked his Quirk up another notch. Shouta felt a static prickling like the kind before a huge lightning strike setting the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck on end. A tinny shrilling feedback noise whined through his earpiece, making him jolt and hiss in sudden pain. Shouta gritted his teeth and set his own Quirk on Raimaru instead. A hasty decision, it turned out, as a sudden crash of noise hit him all at once. Yamada’s voice half-shouting in his ear was interlaced with loud snaps of static as the equipment reconnected. Shouta winced at the onslaught, clapping a hand to his ear before he could stop himself. The moment of distraction was all Raimaru needed.

“So the Bird’s doggy wants to bark, huh?” In one fluid motion Raimaru threw what was left in his glass in Shouta’s eyes and hooked a foot under the bottom rung of Shouta’s stool, yanking it from under him. Shouta toppled to the floor, landing hard on his ass and elbows as he futilely tried to catch himself as he fell. He blinked hard, tears streaming as his eyes burned with whatever had been in that glass. Raimaru grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him partially upright.

“Things could have gone better for you, but it looks like the Bird just likes making things difficult,” Raimaru said.

Shouta dug his fingers into Raimaru’s wrist, trying to wrestle himself free. Raimaru smirked, a violent shock sparking off of his skin and into Shouta’s arm. Shouta let out a bark of agony as his entire arm below the shoulder seized and went numb. Someone else’s hand, large and thick-fingered, ripped his back by the forearm, twisting his hand back and up between his shoulder blades. Shouta stiffened. He hadn’t heard Takeshiro or his wife approaching during the scuffle but it was obvious now they had him surrounded. He thought of the alley and the way they had closed ranks around Yamada, accounting for every avenue of escape except for a one-in-a-million outside intervention. Shouta darted a look over to Yamada. Their eyes met for a split second that lasted an eon. Yamada’s eyes were wide and his face had gone deathly pale as he took in the scene in front of him. He was frozen half in motion, caught between breaking cover to come help and his desire to steer clear of Takeshiro and Hebiko. Shouta’s stomach sank as Yamada dropped his gaze, hunching in on himself and pulling his hat down farther to hide his face.

“Last chance, doggy,” Raimaru said. “That signal was too weak to come from very far away. Point us in the right direction and we’ll let you go, no hard feelings. Otherwise we send you back to your master in pieces.”

He leaned in as he threatened, and Shouta took the opportunity to show him how close was too close. Shouta reared back, then rammed his forehead into Raimaru’s nose at full force. As Raimaru reeled back, Shouta slammed himself back into Takeshiro, sending the man spine-first into the edge of a table. Takeshiro grunted in pain and Shouta twisted away from his grasp as Takeshiro tried to catch himself. Raimaru sank his fist into Shouta’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, but Shouta managed to activate his Quirk again before Raimaru could shock him. Shouta retaliated with a sharp hook, jamming his fist into Raimaru’s solar plexus with as much force as he could muster. As Raimaru doubled over Shouta grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed him face-first into the table.

“All right, ENOUGH!” the bartender yelled. She was floating above the bar with a warning look on her face, a thin metal pipe leveled at Shouta’s head. Shouta looked from her to Takeshiro and Hebiko, who had backed off behind their table again, to Raimaru, who was staring up from under his hand with undisguised disgust as he bled onto the table. Shouta took a moment to catch his breath, then released Raimaru. Not bothering to see if Yamada would follow, Shouta took the moment of peace to walk out of the bar.

The night air was cold and made his face feel closed in and sticky under the mask. Shouta jerked it down under his chin, sucking in a hard breath. The adrenaline in his veins felt like a cloying, choking compulsion to just run, escape, flee as fast as he could in any direction that would count as away. His lungs burned nearly as badly as his eyes, every new breath feeling like a sharp stab in the chest. A strange itching slightly farther down his abdomen joined the pain in his chest as he half-sprinted down the sidewalk. Shouta looked down and froze mid-step. The bare metal handle of Raimaru’s knife stuck out of his stomach at an almost perfect perpendicular angle, jammed in so far that the tip was pressing the rough kevlar of his stab vest against his flesh.

“Ho-ly shit that was a whole bunch of something.” Shouta didn’t look up from the knife almost in his gut as Yamada’s voice crowed out behind him. He felt Yamada digging in his pocket and retrieving the cell phone. “Could have gone better for sure, but also could have gone worse.” Yamada gave Shouta a cheery smack on the shoulder. “You and I make a pretty good team, huh? C’mon, let’s go find a nicer place to grab a bite and hang out until things die down.”

He paused like he fully expected Shouta to agree and follow after him, but Shouta was barely listening. His mind was still trying to process the knife handle sticking out of his stomach. The night “could have gone worse”? Raimaru had almost made good on the threat to send Shouta home in pieces while Yamada cowered in a corner booth, more worried about being seen than being helpful, and Yamada was congratulating himself for a job well done.

“Aizawa? Earth to Aizawa? Hey, are you okay? You’re shaking.” There was a note of real concern in Yamada’s voice as he reached out a hand to steady the trembling in Shouta’s body.

The idea of Yamada making any kind of physical contact snapped the last bit of sane civility Shouta had left in him. True fury, hot and fast and scraped raw by everything that was running through Shouta’s head, boiled over in his chest. He swung wildly at Yamada, hoping to make contact but hoping more just to fend him off as violently as possible. Yamada yelped and jumped backwards, hands coming up to protect himself.

“Whoa! What the hell--?” Yamada began, but Shouta was already swinging again. He wanted to make Yamada bleed, make him feel even half as agonized and afraid as he did right now. Yamada stumbled away from him, eyes wide in shock and confusion. His back hit the brick wall of a building and Shouta got right up in his face, Quirk blazing and teeth bared in a hateful snarl as he spoke.

“Let me be clear with this, so maybe you’ll hear it over the sound of your own voice,” Shouta said between clenched teeth. “We are not partners. We do not make a good team. We are sure as fuck not friends who hang out. You are a problem in my life that I am trying to solve. Get that through your thick skull and stop acting like we’re in this together.” He pulled the knife out and threw it violently at Yamada’s feet before turning on his heel and striding away as fast as his legs could carry him.

As soon as he staggered into his apartment and secured every lock and deadbolt on his door Shouta stripped down, dumping everything he’d been wearing in a heap in the entryway. Ignoring his cats’ cries for attention, Shouta went straight to the bathroom and ran the shower as hot as he could stand it. He could feel himself shaking now, the dregs of adrenaline making his legs weak rather than holding him up any longer. He sat down in his tub with the scalding water beating against his back, arms wrapped around himself. He looked down and saw a long irritated scratch rising on his stomach where the knife had dragged against him through the vest. Shouta let out a long, unsteady breath and closed his eyes. He’d been a vigilante for long enough to know that it meant going without any kind of help when things went from bad to worse to potentially lethal; until now not even his worst cases had shaken him like this. But those times he’d known the risk going in and taking it on had been his choice, which made all the difference. Yamada had known, though. Yamada had known they should have bailed as soon as their worst case scenario walked in the pub’s doors and he’d used Shouta as a human shield to try to get what he wanted anyway. Shouta gritted his teeth, nails digging into his palms as his hands balled into fists. He shouldn’t have expected anything less from someone like Yamada.

Never again, Shouta thought as he roughly toweled off. Yamada could keep his favors and his trade secrets and all the rest of it. He’d need all the help he could get, because as far as Shouta was concerned Yamada was on his own from this moment on.

[yourereallyhere]

Together

BELIZA MARRIAGE KILLED ME. THAT SNEAK PEAK KILLED ME. WE'RE GETTING HEART BELLAMY BACK. TO SAVE HIS WIFE. YES. I AM SO EXCITED. THIS IS ALL SO GREAT. so I wrote a short 6x06 spec sorta thing ???

you can find it on ao3 or under the cut !!! hope you enjoy and come freak out with me in my inbox !!!!!!

He rubbed a hand down his face and let out a shaky breath. The room was a goddamn mess. He had gotten so good at controlling his anger but he just... broke. They took her. Clarke, Clarke, Clarke. Her name raced through his mind as he yanked on the chains binding his hands with no success. The door was too far and he had settled for yelling, banging on the walls, throwing paintings, chairs, anything that would make noise. Anything that would let someone know that he was here. It was all he could do to focus on something other than Clarke and the rage bubbling inside him. Yes, he was stuck in this room, but he was also trapped in his thoughts. He was helpless just as Clarke had been as she was ripped out of his arms once again. He should have been there for her. He could have stopped this if he was. The tears in his eyes that had started forming when he was paralyzed hadn’t stopped since and the image of the most important and beautiful face he had ever seen leaning over him was ingrained in his brain. And not in the way he had imagined it countless times before. This time it brought him only horror and pain. So much pain. Because that wasn’t Clarke.

According to the sunlight shining through the window two days have passed since the night Josephine Lightborne had exposed herself. The sun was setting for the second time since he’d been dragged here by the body snatcher and her guard, and Bellamy began to wonder how nobody had found him yet. Were they wondering where he was? Had Josephine lied to them about his whereabouts? Had she taken Madi now that she knew she was a nightblood? Had his family been taken and chained up just like him, fearing for their lives, waking up as soon as they caught themselves dozing off, avoiding the meals they had been given meal after meal?

He couldn’t help but wonder how long ago it had been that she was… killed. Even after years of believing she was dead it was too much to even think of that word. She was alone, again. Was it while he was out at the ship bringing Madi to her? While Clarke was meeting with Russell and Simone? His heart aches thinking of the girl losing her mother. But it couldn’t be. They didn’t even know she was a nightblood yet. And Clarke had apologized for leaving him in Polis after that. Josephine couldn’t have known about that. Clarke was still herself then; he was sure of it. Could it have been before the party? Maybe it wasn’t really Clarke dancing with the doctor at the Naming Day celebration. He quickly shook that memory away. What kind of man thinks about the familiar tug on his heart at seeing his… friend with another man when that friend’s body had been taken over by another consciousness? When that friend was supposedly gone? Only once the door opened did he realize he had made his way down to his knees. He released the hair from where his hands held on tightly on top of his head. Josephine walked in, shutting the door behind her and he quickly rose to his feet. A stern look took over his face and he crossed his arms over the chains. Be strong. For her. She handed him a bottle of water and smiled. But it wasn’t a Clarke smile. He could just tell. Clarke’s smile wasn’t a malicious one, built on pride from causing pain. Hers was built on years of finding the light through trauma. It was built on hope. We’re still breathing. He breathed in deeply, steadying himself. How could this woman just wear Clarke’s face? It disgusted him. His best friend seemed so close, yet she was light years away. “How you holding up?” She asked though she seemed uninterested in his answer. He released something between a heavy breath and a snort and turned away from her. “Wow. That good, huh?” She laughed and something about that squeaky sound that so contrasted Clarke’s hearty one got to him.

“How do you think I’m doing?” He yelled. “You’ve kept me locked up here for days. You took my best friends life — you took it over!” If looks could kill, Josephine would have reduced to a frivolous pile of ashes before him. He was fuming, chest heaving, eyes ablaze.

She seemed shocked at his anger for a moment before collecting herself. “Best friend…” she lifted a skinny finger up to her chin. “Is that what they call it these days?”

Bellamy felt heat rise to his cheeks on their own accord. She sensed his reaction and moved closer, slowly moving the finger up his chest. He flicked it away. “Don’t. Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare.”

If she had processed that he had threatened her, she didn’t seem to mind. She continued to press on his nerves, whittling away at his patience bit by bit.

“Tell me, Bell,” she started. His jaw clenched at the familiar nickname. A reminder of the other important woman in his life, another one he couldn’t protect, another one he’d lost. “Does it bother you?”

“Which part?” He huffed. This was all too fucked up. Even for him, and he’d seen some really fucked up things.

“You have to look at a girl you love, knowing that it’s not her.” She chuckled. “I mean, I shouldn’t say girl, really. You should see what I look like under here. Because damn.”

“Stop it. You have no right to talk about her.” His nails dug into the skin of his palm so hard he was sure the skin had broken.

She ignored his comment. “What am I even saying? You probably have. Before you caught on you should have seen your face when you looked at me. John was right. Blah di blah ‘I’m Clarke’ blah di blah ‘everyone hates me’. Except you. God, I’ve never even met the poor girl and she’s already depressing me.”

“Shut up!”

That got her attention. She let go of the strands of hair she twirled between her fingers. “Face it, Bellamy. Clarke’s dead.”

“No.”

“No, what? She’s gone. Finito. Dunzo. Bit the dust. You might as well help me. I can keep your people safe. We can make everyone nightbloods, together.”

Together.

Leading the hundred.

Together.

Pulling the lever at Mount Weather.

Together.

Against the City of Light.

Together.

In head and in heart.

Together.

Thoughts of Clarke bloomed in his chest, giving him the strength he needed to hold himself back from destroying the body that once held so much life and love. It now only showed evil. Clarke’s smile and laugh. The smell of her hair as he tucked his face into her neck. Her pointed gaze when she was angry. The way she pursed her mouth when she couldn’t figure something out. The light in her eyes when she learned something new. The perpetual support she provided when he was desperate for comfort. The unstoppable ambition and determination to take on the responsibilities that had constantly been forced onto her. No. This was not the Clarke he knew. The Clarke he knows. She is strong and brave and always finds her way out of the trouble she faces. She’s been through worse. She’s been through hell and back again and again and each time she comes back more powerful than the last. It never ceases to amaze him. This mind drive is no match for Clarke Griffin, and even if by some unlikely chance it is, it wouldn’t be for the both of them, together.

He met Josephine’s eyes in a wrecked yet confident and utterly passionate gaze — one he had often used for Clarke herself, but not for intimidation. He was gonna get her back. No matter what.

“Together with you? Never.”

[allhallows-art]

Lost Generation // 12

Sorry I've not been posting this. I’ve been trying to get it caught up on AO3 first. Anyways, this silly little idea of a series has come so far and I must admit I’m quite proud of myself as well as thankful for the support. So here’s part 12. Part 13 will come out tomorrow. As always, reblog and like and send stuff to my inbox and what not.

P.S. thank you to @fics4you for just encouraging me to start this thing

Story Summary: The Achievement Hunter boys try and survive their preteen years, trying to make friends and sort out their own problems as well as each others. When will they realise that working together, no matter their differences, would help them all?

part summary: none. it’s a surprise. just read it and weep

Words: 1656

Warnings: couple of swears

MASTERLIST

“I could kill you, Ramsey,” the threat left Ryan’s pursed lips, his harsh eyes staring daggers at the boy sat in the seat next to him. The once busy classroom was now empty, only Ryan, Geoff, and Miss Dunkelman left. Geoff just rolled his eyes at Ryan’s words, shrugging them off. “Sure, you could,” he said, his voice already bored and they hadn’t even been there five minutes. Geoff continuously tapped his fingers on the desk, Ryan’s sight focusing on the hand. “Could you be more annoying?” the question was sarcastic, Geoff not even having the chance to open his mouth for a smart comment before Ryan’s hand shot out and slammed on Geoff’s. “Fuck! You asshole!” Geoff cursed at Ryan, cradling his hand to his chest despite it not really hurting. “Language, Geoff,” Miss Dunkelman scolded, glancing up from her work to see the boys looking as if they were about to launch at each other. “Can’t you two just get along? Surely you have something in common,” she spoke, pushing herself to her feet and walking towards them. Her actions caused Ryan to turn his attention from Geoff; a bad decision. “Geoff!” he yelled as the elder of the two slammed his hand on Ryan’s. As quickly as the teacher had distracted them, they were ready to attack again. Not on Barbra’s watch. She swiftly stepped in front of the desk and hit her palms on the wood, gaining their attention. “Stop being so immature, boys. No matter what, you’re stuck in here for the next hour. So, you either get along or sit in complete silence,” she said, her brows furrowed as she waited for a reply. Ryan sighed and Geoff just gave a small nod before looking at Ryan. “Do you play video games?” he asked, the start of conversation making the teacher smile and return to her desk. At least they were arguing. “Uh, no. my parents say they rot the brain. Although I did play a demo in a store once when shopping with my uncle.” Ryan’s words made Geoff’s jaw drop open, stunned.

“How have you survived without video games?” Geoff was utterly confused as to how Ryan entertained himself especially since he knew he wasn’t into sport after watching him yesterday. Ryan just gave him small a shrug. “Lots of reading, only when I could escape the absolute hell that is youth club,” Ryan spoke and visibly shivered. “Imagine a summer camp but instead it’s just a daytime thing, at a church, where all the activities are all Christian friendly and they practically swaddle you in bubble wrap.” “A summer long Sunday school? Boring,” Geoff grimaced at the thought. “Yeah, it was. Not a single kid my age either. It was humiliating,” Ryan sighed and stared at his desk, a little shocked to realise that he and Geoff just had a reasonable conversation. “What sort of stuff do you read? I’m into like mystery books but I’ve nearly finished Lord of The Rings.” It was now Ryan’s turn to drop his jaw, eyes wide a Geoff who just stared back in confusion. “What? Kid like me can’t read?” he questioned and Ryan just shook his head. “No, I was just…not expecting it,” he mumbled and Geoff nodded. “Yeah, I don’t usually tell people,” Geoff trailed off and glanced down at his hands to see his fingers tracing shapes on the desk. There wasn’t much noise in the room, just the monotonous ticking of the clock along with Miss Dunkelman’s pen scratching across paper. Ryan opened his mouth to speak but the opening of the door caught their attention more, Mr Burns stepping into the classroom with a short looking kid behind his figure. “Sorry to disturb, Barb, but Jeremy here said that Ryan was walking him home as his mom isn’t available to pick him up. Again.” The final word caused Jeremy flush with embarrassment as Ryan’s face flooded with confusion. He looked to Jeremy, searching for an answer or explanation but he just kept gesturing to go along with it. And so, he did. “Uh, yeah, my mom knows his,” he lied, Jeremy surprised at how convincing he was. “Well, I hope it doesn’t matter too much if I leave Jeremy in here until these boys have served their time,” Mr Burn spoke and Miss Dunkelman just gave him a nod. Jeremy took a seat next to Ryan giving him a sheepish smile. “What was all that about?” he whispered, Jeremy just shrugging his shoulders. “I had to make something up. Otherwise Mr Burns would’ve called my mom again and she can’t exactly take calls right now,” he mumbled and Ryan, yet again, arched his brow. He was about to ask Jeremy to explain when he sensed Geoff leering over his shoulder and decided against it. “Fantasy,” Ryan said simply, this time causing both Jeremy and Geoff to be confused. “Excuse me?” Geoff asked and Ryan turned to face him again. “You asked what kind of books I like. Fantasy, mostly but I do enjoy Sci-Fi too.” It brought a smile to Geoff’s face and it wasn’t long before all three were babbling about books and movies and the lack of movies in Jeremy’s life, Geoff getting obviously agitated at the fact he’d never seen Star Wars but knew Face Off perfectly. “First Ryan never playing videogames and now you’re telling me you’ve never even watched Jurassic Park?!” he exclaimed and Jeremy thought for a moment. “If that’s the one about dinosaurs, then I’ve seen it. Not all the way through but the T-Rex was awesome.” By the end of the hour, Geoff was practically hitting his head on the desk whilst Jeremy kept trying to explain the plot of Face Off to Ryan, who had no intentions of listening. Miss Dunkelman looked up from her work and smiled to see them all getting along. “Well, boys, you’re free to go,” she announced and Geoff leapt up with his bag, running for the door. Ryan grabbed his own bag and glanced at Jeremy who hung by his side, raising a brow. “You can go now, you know that?” he said and the smaller of the two bit his lip as they exited the classroom. “I know, I was just wondering if you’d actually walk me home?” his eyes were like those of a puppy dog, staring up at Ryan in earnest. He looked to his watch. It was only 4pm. His parents wouldn’t be home till 6pm. “Sure, why not. I’ve got nothing to do,” Ryan said with a shrug and a smile lit upon Jeremy’s face. And so, the two left the school premises and Jeremy lead Ryan towards his home. As they walked, they easily sparked another conversation and settled into each other’s company. Ryan was sure Jeremy only knew his name from that one soccer ball incident but it didn’t bother him too much, pushing any questionable thoughts into the back of his mind. After all, Jeremy was being a little strange about the whole situation. Maybe it was just something he did back in his home state, as Ryan could tell the accent was strong and not Texan. “And he’s called Rimmy Tim. He’s the best sniper in the crew,” Jeremy said, his arms waving widely as he finished explaining the imaginary gang him and his friends had created. “So, you guys just play this imaginary game?” Ryan questioned, his hands shoved into his pockets as they walked up a path towards a house. “Yeah, Trevor comes up with these crazy heists and we play it out. It’s cool. You should join sometime. I can see you as being as totally psychopathic killer,” he spoke with a chuckle as his keys unlocked the front door and they stepped inside. Ryan’s eyes scanned the hallway before he was dragged into the living room, Jeremy dropping his bag on the floor and Ryan following suit. Jeremy switched on the light and it flickered for a moment before illuminating the room, showing the old leather couch, stained coffee table and ancient tv. “No wonder you don’t watch movies,” Ryan mumbled as he joined Jeremy on the couch. “Okay, Ryan, so you could help me with homework or we plan out your crew member,” Jeremy suggested and Ryan smiled. “Homework is boring. Let’s get me in this gang,” his grin was wide as Jeremy pulled paper and pens from his bag, the two immediately starting to sketch and write. Ryan was just excited to finally have an escape from his parents. He’d been told many times to just “grow up” and that imaginary games were for children. But fuck them. He was still a child and he’d play as many imaginary games as he damn well pleased. “So, Ryan, what would your name be?” the question startled Ryan, having not even thought about it. “Name?” “Yeah, it’s like a new identity,” Jeremy explained. “Probably something menacing,” he noted and that’s when it hit him. “The Vagabond. It means a person who wanders from place to place. And there’s no way I’m settling down. Adventure is in my blood,” he said enthusiastically and Jeremy nodded. “Vagabond it is.” The two continued to play their pretend game, sketching out their characters and their various outfits and equipment, Jeremy having a surprising knowledge of firearms. “So, uh, Jeremy, how do you know so much about guns?” Ryan asked a little warily, and Jeremy glanced up from the paper. “Huh? Oh, my mom’s ex had a big collection and he kept it here when he dated her. He’d teach me all about them but I couldn’t ever actually touch one,” he explained as if it was nothing and Ryan just slowly nodded “Right…so where is your mom, again?” The words brought Jeremy’s hand to still and Ryan saw how his eyes stared in concentration at the paper. “I…I, uh, don’t know.”

[satire-please]

Don’t Stop Creating!

Okay, this can be applied to any fandom really, but I’m directing it to the Voltron Fandom in particular because a new season of the show just came out.

And some people can be such dickheads.

This short season gave us some great things! Keith learning step by step how to respect his team and on his way to be a great leader. Allura learning like a maniac and slaying like the fantastic queen she is. Lance getting more mature, more supportive and even being willing to step aside in this war if that’s what it takes. (Even if it hits every insecurity along the way)

As for Pidge and Hunk? I’m wigging in my seat, incredibly excited for when Pidge gets her own arc about finding Matt in the seasons to come. And soon they better stop making Hunk the blunt of food jokes and give that heart of gold a real chance to show off.

But I digress. Some people are going to be dickheads.

Some people are going to leave the most mean-spirited comments, rotten messages to junk up your inbox just because they’re sick of a certain character or ship. (In my case I was attacked about Lance...repeatedly) And you’re going to create amazing art or write awesome stories and it doesn’t matter if you tag the ever-living crap out of them. Trashcans are going to try to rip you down. 

So keep creating.

Delete their comments and messages, don’t even respond. Nobody got time for that! You deserve spending your time rocking it, not giving it away to that sewage. The most wonderful vindictive thing you can do is take away their voice. They want to rub their uncalled for opinion all over your face, so take bleach and dump it on that scum.

Everyone has their own agency.

Everyone can take responsibility to police what content they decide to engage in.

If they don’t like it, then they don’t have to click on your fic, they can choose another art blog, scan different tags.

As for you? Do no harm, but take no shit.

Block away on Tumblr. Take off the anon option on your ask box. (Ha once blocked they’d have to create another blog to insult you) Setup your messaging for only your mutuals if necessary. On ao3 delete comments liberally or click the options on who can see you work or disable anon comments there. 

But overall? DON’T STOP CREATING.

Your work is what makes a fandom great. Your work whether it be a drabble or a scribble is what people enjoy and appreciate, not the discourses or arguments other ‘fans’ spew.

So go create the universe. Voltron needs something to defend after all, huh?

[fyeahspiritofjustice]

It Was A Short Story Once

chapter: 3/?? author: N pairing: Mumen Rider/Metal Bat summary: The start of something new. Badd’s little sister is a fan of a different hero. He just wants a date. There are monsters in between. A/N: Guess what N is still alive despite all apparent signs and is posting again. As usual, if you dig it feel free to comment in our inbox here or over at AO3! ***

But he stands there and watches as Mumen Rider stops at a four-way stop, despite the lack of traffic, despite the hour, looking both ways before signaling to turn and disappearing. The last late bus passes Badd by as he watches the city move on.

His phone weighs heavy in his pocket as he stares out the window the next morning, city blurring by. Arms folded and foot bumping against the week’s supply of fruit from the market, meal planning already lost in his mind. A harried bicycle messenger goes by, glasses pushed up as he wipes his forehead on a faded uniform with unraveling hems, and it only deepens the unease in Badd’s stomach. It follows him like the creak of his shoulders, persistent and deep. He’s not known for having the friendliest of dispositions, but even so there’s a wider berth than usual around him in the locker room the next day.

All except-

SLAM!

Metal rattles and his grip loosens enough for the back of his head to meet the back of his locker door.

“Fuck!” It’s met with a short laugh - definitely at, not with - and the shake of the locker next to him being unlocked. He growls as he rubs his head, ensuring his best glare is spared for what passes for his best friend. “Seriously?”

Even through the slits in the door he can see the shark toothed grin of Tanaka. “Happened, didn’t it?” Tape catches on Badd’s hair as he rubs the new sore spot. Tanaka kindly gets to the point. “What’s got you in a funk?”

“Not in a funk until now.”

“Bullshit.”

“As shit as your sport is.” Tanaka’s straight mouth and slow death glare around his door warns perhaps Badd might be wrong in this. “Just thinkin’.”

“Know that’s hard for you.”

That gets a baseball sock thrown at the second-year and forty-two seconds later they’re both out of socks and Tanaka has his head under his arm, knuckles relentlessly drilling his pompadour down. “You got a head under all this?!”

“Not my fault you passed on it!”

Tanaka lets him go after a deft flick of a finger to his forehead. It stings, but he finds himself smiling in between breaths. He gets one in return. “Seriously, though, what is this?”

He wants to say it’s nothing. But they’ve passed notes through the slats in their lockers and more than once he’s worn navy socks to practice when a mending job didn’t hold up. So he sighs as a hand idly fixes the damage done. “You ever get the idea you’re in it for the wrong reasons?”

“Baseball?”

“Sure.”

They both know that’s not really it, but Tanaka is kind enough to give him the privacy of keeping it to himself. “No.” Tanaka shrugs. “Not really.” For a moment, he disappears into his locker. “You like it, right?”

“Yeah…”

“You in it for the money?”

“Wouldn’t say no to a scholarship,” he has to snort.

“Who would?” Tanaka emerges with knee pads, letting the locker bang shut. “Point is, though, what are you in it for?”

Badd has to think for a moment. “I like it.”

“Why?”

“Because…” He likes the adrenaline. He likes the rush. He likes the pay. He likes his name in the paper. But most of all, he likes watching the ceiling at night and knowing it won’t be crashing in. Not for him, not for Zenko, not for anyone.

When he looks up, realizing there was a pause, Tanaka is giving him a grin that has first years skirting them. “Exactly.” Tanaka stands, fingers twisting in his gym bag though they stay right as they curl around nylon handles. “Look, Badd. Everyone second guesses things. Even…” A hand gestures to Badd. “Baseball. Fact is, though, you’re doing it. And hell, man,the only kind of people who question doing...baseball like you are the kind who are doing it for all the right reasons. The people who aren’t get as far as they do because they don’t gotta crack their skull to prove it to themselves, you know?”

Tanaka hoists his bag up with a huff. “Don’t know what’s got you dragging, but it sure as hell isn’t the wrong reasons. Know that for sure.” The canines are back in Tanaka’s smile now. “Though might want to lighten up on the hair gel. Could help with that whole ‘drooping’ thing you’re perfecting.”

Badd rolls his eyes and flips him the bird. Tanaka cackles and turns, unphased, waving his hand. “Hey, Tanaka?” When Tanaka glances over his shoulder he knows he should say thank you. “Lemme know what the trash heap tastes like, yeah?”

“I’ve eaten your cooking; you already know.”

He’s proud of the fact that he manages to launch his last dirty sock right into the back of Tanaka’s head.

Baseball gives him a reason to put aside Tanaka’s words and his own unease, however, and focus on his number two love in the world. It’s a satisfying strain, a sign that he’s not just a prodigy rising quickly. More than a poster child of succes. An in the flesh high school student with perhaps slightly more calloused than normal hands, a competitive streak with eyes on that national title, and dreams of maybe, just maybe, being the one Tanaka and Ennoshita catch in the locker room after hours.

The crack of a wood bat sustains him through the evening, long after Tama has left for the night through Zenko’s window, howl of a tom beckoning, and the apartment is quiet. Thunder rolls in the distance but echo as it may if it makes it past the mountains he’ll be surprised.

The sheets whisper as he rolls over, sofa creaking. As tired as his limbs are, he finds himself still staring at his clothing covering the floor and he knows he’s avoiding something when he reaches a hand out, considering folding a shirt.

His hand falls and he huffs at himself. He’s ridiculous. There’s no way he’s getting cleaning done without waking Zenko and there’s no way the sudden concern for his own clothes is at all born of actual regard for their well-being.

Even worse, he even knows why he’s still up.

His fingertips brush paper. For a moment he reconsiders going down this route. But thunder echoes and a foot finds cold air and fuck it all. The paper’s in front of his face even before he can resettle on the throw pillow that still smells of soy sauce even three weeks later.

‘PURI-PURI GIVES FIRST INTERVIEW FROM JAIL!’ ‘BLIZZARD GROUP INDUCTS NEW MEMBER.’ ‘JUST WHO IS BLAST?’

There’s no mention of him, but more importantly there’s no mention of Mumen Rider. It shouldn’t give him the satisfaction it does, but he can’t help it. His shoulders sag and his head rests heavily against the sofa arm. No mention means no comparison and maybe just maybe there’s long term credence to Tanaka’s assertions.

Pathetic, get yer’self together, man. But it doesn’t make him any less relieved. Though it makes him wonder, as he does his best to not tear our Puri-Puri’s picture and chuck it in the trash, what was Mumen Rider in it for?

There was really only one way to answer that question.

Just like that, he finds himself waking up three hours earlier to trace the foggy park of City R, the stained canals in City M, the suburbs of outer City J. Never has he been logged into the forums more, and if Zenko notices his sly questions regarding her current favorite hero obsession she says nothing.

Mumen Rider has a route, he figures out. A looping, ambitious route that follows a predictable pattern of deviations. It’s far more area than any one man should be able to manage, but the guy does.

He watches from a bench as Mumen stops a purse thief, throwing himself off his bike and plowing into both thief and a rather full trash can. Mumen is unwavering in his arrest, even with over ripe peach oozing down his goggles. It’s only when the overenthusiastic purse owner thanks him that Mumen looks flustered and downright embarrassed. Blushing behind his goggles and stammering over his words.

It never makes the papers, but it sticks with Badd.

He also realizes it’s a pattern. A pattern he can’t talk to anyone about as he isn’t ready to admit he may or may not be following the rather reclusive hero. For a week he questions his judgement regarding his fascination. There’s a thousand excuses he could uses, does use. He’s clearing mysterious beings. He’s asserting his rank. He’s trying to do good.

But in the end it’s curiosity getting the better of him and he knows it. It’s a deep born fascination that has him watching as Mumen Rider gets to a call late (monster steaming in the street, B-Class hero doing an interview) and helps a family stop the water flooding their home. Mumen Rider even stays to help mop up the sidewalk.

He’s rooted to the spot as Mumen breaks up a fight. It’s late enough for street lights, not late enough for the bar to be closed. Colors clash as spectacularly as the teams playing that night. The argument is heated enough to spill onto the street.

It’s late and Zenko’s been home for hours now, as Badd should be. But Badd stands and watches as Mumen steps right in between both men and ignores the bottle that breaks over his helmet with little more than a wince. Glass glints in Mumen Rider’s hair, glinting in the street lights as he’s screamed at three inches from his face, spit flecking his goggles.

It’s not the first time Badd wants to step in. And he almost does, until a man to his right sitting patiently for the bus shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “That boy.”

And Badd stops mid-fist clench. “Huh?”

The older man looks over at him, tipping his hat respectfully. “That boy, the hero.”

“Mumen Rider.” He can’t believe he’s just corrected him, but it’s already done.

“Mumen Rider,” the older man repeats. “I’ve seen him before you know. Do this.” He gestures at the bicyclist, stalwart and steadfast in the face of disorderly conduct. “Remarkable.”

And it comes out before he can help himself. (He’ll claim later it was denial at the fact he was even there.) “‘s just breakin’ up a bar fight.”

The old man gives him a look, hands adjusting on the top of his polished cane. “And yet there are ten others who could have easily done so, and where are they?” Badd follows the gesture of the old man’s hand and counts twelve bystanders watching on. “Anyone could do what Mumen Rider does. What makes him a hero is that he actually does so.”

He wants to pop his lips but stops his tongue against the back of his teeth. All he manages is a huff of air that perhaps skirts the line of proper. Yet he knows the old man is right. “Seen bigger monsters.”

The old man laughs. Just one laugh that has Badd’s gut twisting because he knows what that is. “Yes, well. Haven’t we all. Thank god we have heroes for both occasions, eh?”

The wink and once over the old man gives him isn’t subtle and his ears burn. But he returns the nod with a bow this time. The bus comes with the screech of worn down tires, cane tapping on the steps and just like that Badd’s alone once more.

He turns back to Mumen Rider to find the cyclist steadying one of the brawlers, walking him carefully to a bench as the other is escorted away by friends. It’s over in a blink, with little more than an empty bottle and a few bruises blossoming on the over zealous to show for it. Mumen Rider looks no worse for the wear, though as he sits Badd swears he can see (even from his vantage point across the street) shoulders threatening to hunch and the stiff extension of a leg that’s been peddling for too long.

Go home, Badd. But he’s never been one to listen, not even to himself.

So he stands there in the cold, watching, waiting. And nothing happens. Not really. The brawler gingerly touches his new black eye. Mumen disappears for a moment only to come back with a bag of ice that he offers the grateful man. The two talk, sort of. One of Mumen’s hands rests on the brawler’s shoulder to keep him from falling forward. And in one instance he hears a soft chuckle. From Mumen, he can only assume.

The entire thing is completely...normal. Mumen’s padding is the only heroic thing about it all, and even then he maintains one could argue it looks like a bad Halloween costume. Yet that matters less than the fact that the clock reads late and Mumen surely, surely must have other things to do tomorrow. A life of some kind.

Who did Mumen Rider go home to at night? They all had to have someone. Right?

(Was it bad if he sort of, maybe, selfishly hopes that Mumen Rider doesn’t?)

His fingers are numb even in his jacket pockets by the time a taxi pulls up. Mumen stands to help the now dozing brawler into the car. It’s only after the taxi pulls away, and only then, that Mumen rubs his shoulder. Badd misses seeing just what is under those goggles, as Mumen turns away to run his fingers over his face. (It’s an action Badd also knows well. He’s certain most heroes do and the ones who don’t learn fast.)

By the time Mumen’s bike is disappearing around a corner, reflectors bouncing back quick flashes, it’s long past when Badd should have been home. It’s a school night. Zenko’s been alone long enough.