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firein-thesky · 3 years

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COIN TOSS– PART II

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read on Ao3

***

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

He keeps his distance.

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

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

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

You feel shockingly alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tells you everyone expected him to be a villain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shinsou is silent, watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re only kids.

You’re barely older.

Shigaraki is barely older than you.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toga, unfortunately, follows his line of sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the way he walks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouta would be proud of you.

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

You swallow hard, flex your freezing fingers.

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

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

But you followed him, didn’t you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This isn’t my home,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shigaraki–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thought strikes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You suddenly grab for his hands.

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

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

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

You squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.

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

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

He naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

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

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

But your eyes are bright with your Quirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moan, low and drawn out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine a little, ‘Touch me again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe still are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You let your eyes fall shut, too.

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

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

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

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

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

You think the guilt should hit you now.

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

You send a text to Shouta;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Shouta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no happy ending here.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lock had been picked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(He loved when you clung to him).

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

You’d fallen asleep all tied up in him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says, “Touch yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gives you a cold stare.

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

“I’m not taking care of a cat.”

“I’ll take care of it!”

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

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

“Yes,” you respond indignantly.

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

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

All over this little stray.

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

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

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

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

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

He unlocks the door, he lets you in.

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

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

But he’ll have to unpause eventually.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this about?” Shouta asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have every intention of going to Tomura’s.

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

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

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

You haven’t been here in years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You walk home together, hand in seeking hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty, you think faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

***

PART III

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calehenituseappreciation · 3 years

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Ive seen a lot of Dream (and usually Techno and Phil too) as gods au (i have one too dw) but all of you are sleeping on the funniest option.

Tommy is the god.

Tommy.

hes the only one in that galaxy (other than drista ofc)

Just imagine how fucking funny it is like

it would be so fucking hilarious

and tommy just doesnt tell them

so techno is just there making all these blood god jokes and jokingly telling tommy to serve him and tommys just laughing

imagine a god in the form of a chaotic 16 year old racoon gremlin just walts into your land commits arson and gets banned, only to come back with another person who he helps start a nation for drugs?

imagine how fucking funny it is

just

imagine tubbo banning a literal god from his lands and he just doesnt come back? he just plays by the rules? then goes and like sits in the corner all sad because some humans/dreamons told him to leave

ranboo, just joining the server: hi- a chaotic gremlin god: wanna commit arson with me? ranboo, just trying to vibe and maybe not disturb this god: sure

Phil and Ranboo recongnize Tommy as a god on sight.

Everyone else just refuses to believe it. hes Tommy. Tommyinnit. hes just weird lol

And Drista being a fucking chaotic blood god?

drista is open about her godhood and does not hesitate to spawn blocks

Drista finds Dream and decides she likes this small human, and dream just has to deal with it lmao.

drista and tommy are both born at the same time.

Tommy is a god of music, chaos, war and theivery (the last one bc he is a BITCH)

Drista is the blood god, chaos, deception, and theatre

okay but imagine the sbi interactions... like ig in this au tommy joins at like 12/13 years of age (in their minds) so he doesnt really grow much

and like tommy, a literal god, just claiming phil as his father???

phil, in his house making eggs, assuming one of his sons woke up and came to the kitchen, not looking: hey son tommy, from their couch, already deciding hes phils son now: whats up dad? phil: looks up at tommy who are you tommy: idk dad, who am i phil: *stares at tommy for a second* eh i made extra eggs you can stay

ASJIDGASUIOG IMAGINE TOMMY TELLING THEM HES A GOD BUT THEY THINK HES JOKING AND IGNORE HIM

everyone on the server: tommy is the youngest! tommy, as old as the universe: no im not!!!! im not a child!!!! he doesnt pout because pouting is for children and hes not a child but hes pouting tubbo: lol im older than you by a month tommy dont try to hide it tommy: im not a child!!!! techno: laughs

tommy doesn't try to hide that hes a god just its tommy

thats all the evedince anyone needs to think tommy isnt a god or powerful its like mcc hes good but only when he doesnt throw for content

quackity: sees drista written in bedrock lmao drista visited? tommy: yeah! i wrote that for her! quackity: snorts yeahhhh sureee tommy

imagine like how fucking funny it is jsut like

a fucking chaotic god breaks into your house androbs you makes a room under your house and decides to live in your floorboards

imagine dream like trying to manipulate tommy, and tommy a fucking anchient diety immeditly recongnizes what hes doing

but decides to play along for the angst and giggles and then actually gets mad when no one fucking cares for his theatrics

tommy, storming off to technos base to rob and build under: >:///// cant believe none of them acknoledged my deppression

i love that tommy stills robs everyone, he doesnt need to he can spawn in anything he wants

he just does it for the sport of robbery

JAKOGFSDOH

THE HOLY LAND

dream: im god actually tommy: thats so fucking funny lets make a cult about that :) dream: see! look! im god! and jesus! tommy: wheezing

imagine tommy getting stressed and letting go of his mortal form

Tommy, his human form peeling away, showing his actual form a bit: WH̸͘A͠T̷ ̶̢T͞H͢E ̡͘F̴̵͘Ù̧C͜K҉ ̶T͘͜͞E͟CHǸ͏Ǫ Techno: HAH?

tommy just saw tubbo and got emotionally attached

Tommy, a literal god: hello Tubbo: oh hi do you like my pet bee? Tommy: you’re mine now Tubbo: im okay with this

tommy, a bored god: gives techno shapeshifting powers techno, not even caring: changes into more human to pig-ishg forms as he wishes this is my life now ig

phil lets tommy do fuck all in exile bc he knows hes a god hes fine

phil: IDC IF YOURE A GOD! YOU WILL DO THE DISHES NOW YOUNG MAN! tommy: grumbles but does them

phil is the only one who can control tommy

god... tommy... with star freckles... on his human form... (as well as his god one)

tommy: f̷͛͠a̵̋t̵̒̑h̸̚e̶̓͝r̸͊ ̸̐̒i̴ ̸̅̿d̷̉͆o̵͂͋ ̵̛̆ñ̸̾ő̶́t̸̎́ w̶͆͘i̴͠s̵̓̈́h̸͗́ ̵̯͗f̶͋́ő̴͑r̷̐̌ ̶͝é̵̽g̸͊͂g̵̒s̷͂̃ phil: idc, eat your goddamn eggs tommy: pouts

tommy, despite being able to get supplies himself by fucking spawning them in: hey tubbo? we need supplies

In this au ig like if a god claims you you get a mark on your skin showing that. Drista’s would be like a green crown, Tommys would be a red and white disk (white as the outer ring and red as the center) (its different enough that if you don’t realise tommy is a god you wouldnt realise whos it is) (schlatt is the only one who never had one which shoulda been a sign dude :/)

Dream has two from the beginning, everyone else has only one, well until they meet drista. (sbi have had one since they met tommy, though they dont remember the first time they met tommy)

wait what if tommy like found them all as children one by one and later kinda pulled some strings to get them all in one kingdom. (he still joined sbi through forcing phil to adopt him)

OKAY BUT IMAGINE IF TOMMY MET TECHNO WHEN TECHNO WAS YOUNG ENOUGH TO NOT REMEMBER

tommy would hang out with baby techno and tell him stories

once he told him the story of a man named thesus

another time he told him the story of a blood god

like for example tommys first time meeting techno would be like

(for context techno lived in a shitty village and was an orphan and it was kinda a dog eat dog place, he learned how to be strong because of it)(he was young enough that he doesn’t remember this well, just like learning about the blood god and someone giving him gold)

baby techno: sighs tommy, appearing out of nowhere: oh heyyy whyre you sad? techno: jumps turning around with a knife up ready for a fight who are you tommy: im tommy! :) techno: what do you want from me! you dont scare me! tommy: whats your name! techno: i have a knife! i'll use it! tommy: of course, thats a given, but its rude not to tell people your name techno, confused: t-technoblade? tommy: smiles thats a nice name techno: so. tommy: hm? techno: why're you here tommy: i don't have a reason. im just a traveller! techno: then why hole to this terrible village! theres nothing nice here! everyone is terrible and so are you! tommy: hmmmm i dont agree techno: what are you? a child? i thought adults were supposed to know that everyone is mean tommy: mmhmm looks at the bruise on technos face where'd you get that? techno: fight. i won. i'll win against you too! so don't try anything. tommy: of course. i would never win in a fight against a blood god techno, putting down his knife a bit, stars in his eyes: blood god? tommy: grins blood. god. i think she'd like you. techno, muttering: maybe i can give the blood god some of your blood tommy: laughs yeah, she'd defenitly find you intresting tommy: here tosses techno a golden crown at techno, he spawned it in in the moment techno: whats this? tommy: a crown, thought it suit you screams in the distance tommy: huh. i need to go. have fun lil piglin. ruffles technos hair before running off towards the screaming unbeknownst to the pig the blood god was actually the one waiting for the god he met. techno: stares at the crown

Techno found a pouch of gold in his ‘house’ later that day. he didnt know who left it but it helped him get food for that night. (he kept the crown)

okay but imagine tommy not taking the war seriously at all, and only seeing it as a squabble between mortals, Like toddlers fighting

dream: SURENDER BY TOMMOROW OR WE'LL DECLARE WAR! wilbur: FUCK YOU WE'LL NEVER SURENDER AND JOIN YOUR SMP! Tommy: how cute

tommy doesnt realise that theyre serious until wilbur dies

tommy would usually go apeshit against anyone who dares messes with his humans, but what is he supposed to do when his humans are fighting Eachother?

wilbur: fucking goes insane and dies tommy: hey- hey can you guys let me talk to wil for a sec? everyone else leaves tommy, unsually somber: sorry i didnt help you i forgot how easily breakable mortals are tommy: this time you wont die, and i'll make it so that you dont break again, okay? tommy: brings wilburs soul out of its body and enters his mindscape ghostbur: wakes up what- where am i? tommy: hi there ghostbur: who are you tommy: i go by a lot of names all, one, you, the world, the universe, god, but you can just call me tommy ghostbur: oh okay. who am i? tommy: you're name was wilbur soot. you were the son of philza minecraft and brother to Technoblade, Tubbo and myself. ghostbur: was? tommy: well you see, you died. ghostbur: oh... well what am i then? tommy: a ghost! well actually its your choice. would you like to continue your existance or fade away with your body? ghostbur: i dont want to fade away! tommy: smiles thats what i thought you'd say stretches his hand to wilbur ghostbur: grabs tommy hand tommy: lets go home

ghostbur doesnt remember that though

he only remembers the good

tommy wont let him remember the bad, what if he breaks again? mortals are so fragile

phil realises what tommy did as soon as he sees ghostbur

drista, painting tommys nails (there both in god form btw) (after wilburs death btw): tommy shouldn't you of all gods realise how fragile they are? tommy: i know just... forgot drista: sighs and nods i get what you mean, especially with the ones we found... they act a lot like gods sometimes i forgot they arent tommy: ikr? wait- drista here gets drista's hair out of her face you were gonna get it on my nails, anyways, don't judge me. we all know if dream died you would turn him into a ghost too drista: smirks not if you do it first, we all know you would tommy: you say that as if you wouldn't fight me to do it first drista: .... tommy: ... drista: both of us when he dies? tommy: nods tommy: anyways my turn to do your nails

or like tommy with ghostbur like

ghostbur: i don't like this :( tommy, a worried brother and god: whats wrong? ghostbur: everyone is mad at me and i d-dont know why- why are they mad at me tommy: theyre mad at something alivebur did ghostbur: b-but im not alivebur sniffs it hurts. i dont like it. tommy: spawns in some blue here ghostbur: whats that? tommy: its some blue! it'll help you not hurt anymore! ghostbur: how does it work? tommy: see how its blue? ghostbur: nods tommy: well its blue because it sucks up all the bad feelings! it'll help ghostbur: !!!!! ghostbur: presses the blue into his chest ghostbur: !!!!its working!!!! :D tommy: smiles good

wilbur fucking died and tommy went from annoying little brother to caring older brother

tommy just wants to help his brother :) though he doesnt realise that not letting ghostbur remember bad memories isnt good

*at logsted shire btw* ghostbur: who are you? tommy, chuckling: did you forget me already ghostbur? ghostbur: i didnt forget you! i think! you're tommy! i just... you're different tommy, looks over at ghostbur: different how? ghostbur: you're not normal are you? tommy: grins whaaaaat? you think im weirdddd? how heartbreaking... my own brother thinks im weird, this is terrible ghostbur: giggles tommy: but really, don't worry about it bur. ghostbur: you sure? tommy: yeah, dont worry about me ghostbur: smiles okay! do you want some blue anyways? tommy: giggles sure! ghostbur: grins

ghostbur isnt worried about tommy

he knows hes strong

phil having to tell tommy that he cant just not let wilbur remember the bad memories

and tommys like "what if he breaks again!" and phil hugs him and tells him to at least ask ghostbur if he wants to remember and tommys like ‘fine’

tommy: hey bur? ghostbur: yeah? tommy: do you like you're memories? ghostbur: i mean, yeah its hard not to when you only remember the good tommy, quietly: would you want to remember the bad? ghostbur: w-what brought this question on tommy: answer the question ghostbur: no- alivebur was badi shouldn't want to- tommy: but what do you want bur? wilbur, silent for a moment: yeah- yeah i do. not that i like the bad memories! they hurt... but i wish i could remember tommy: ... ghostbur: hey tommy? tommy: yeah? ghostbur, with tears in his eyes: do you think they'd be less mad at me if i could remember, maybe then i could repair my relationships, what the hell am i supposed to do when i dont even remember hurting them? tommy: what if they dont? what if you break again? ghostbur, saltily: we'll maybe i'll be able at least be able to say i know why everyone hates me tommy: i know how to get all of your memories back ghostbur, looks towards tommy in shock: you do??? tommy: nods ghostbur, voice wavering: for how long tommy: since the beginning ghostbur: and you didnt tell me tommy: i did what i thought was best. i just didnt want you to hurt anymore. ghostbur, angrily: WELL THAT CLEARLY WORKED DIDNT IT? tommy: sorry wilbur, sometimes i forget how to handle humans ghostbur: what- tommy: sighs and taps ghostbur on the forehead and ghostbur does the ghost equivilent of passing out tommy: wont hide any memories this time

ghostbur doesnt wake up, instead wilbur wakes up weither thats good or bad we'll see

wilbur, waking up with all his memories: HOLY SHIT TOMMY WASN'T KIDDING phil, who was reading beside the bed tommy placed wilbur into, which was in technos house. yes he broke into technos house with a passed out wilbur. move on.: hm? wilbur: holy shit phil: huh? yeah. wilbur: wait you knew? phil: yeah i recongnized him as soon as i saw him about 5 years ago now? wilbur: excuse me while i freak out because my little brother is an actual god

it really hits wilbur that tommy is a god later

wilbur: hey tommy? tommy: yeah? wilbur: how fucking old are you? tommy: snorts of course thats the first thing you ask wilbur: well? tommy: i dont really know the exact years since years are kind of a human thing that were invented recently wilbur: they were invented thousands of years ago- tommy: but it was around the beginning of this galaxy wilbur, softly: what the fuck

tommy telling wilbur stories about different heros and villains and different humans he met during his life.

Adsjbffsg what if Tommy made himself blonde and blue eyed and white bc thats hyow the first human he met looked like asjfhsd

and just didnt change that, despite meeting new humans, its just his defult settings.

he would totally do this tho im crying.

drista just based her human form off dream because she is his sister now. he must deal with this. trying disowning me when i look like you BITCH.

thats my take anyways later might continue this

#tommyinnit #dsmp #dream smp #drista #god au #technoblade #wilbur soot #ghostbur #dreamwastaken #tubbo #philza minecraft #long post #just needed to say this

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five-rivers · 3 years

Text

What Was Bound, What Was Loosed Chapter 3

Written for Dannymay Day 6: Core.

Ellie took to spending her days in the palace library.

Danny thought he was trapped. Believed he was trapped. So did everyone else. But Ellie didn’t believe it. All cages had keys. Danny had opened hers. It was only right that she return the favor.

(Of course, she wasn’t happy about being stuck herself. There were still things she wanted to see on Earth. She missed the stars.)

The books were old and new. Some were in English, others were in languages she couldn’t even begin to recognize. Most of them had nothing to do with what she was looking for. Like in any library, they were on a wide variety of subjects, all spread out.

Still, she searched. The stack of tomes that had to do with ghostly kingship and the laws of the Infinite Realms grew progressively larger. Occasionally, one of the shades would attempt to put the books back, but they were easily dissuaded, having no will of their own.

She was making progress. Not a lot, but some. Enough to keep her going.

Vlad knew when to quit.

Oh, maybe it didn’t seem like it, he was easily as obsessive as any ghost, but he did. Sometimes, a plan just wasn’t feasible, and he had to cut his losses.

Cutting his losses, in this case, meant getting incredibly drunk on ghost wine. Fright Knight didn’t approve, but who cared what he thought? Fright Knight was part of the reason he was in this situation in the first place!

If he had just been warned this would happen, he’d have been able to make arrangements, to find some way to keep his portal open, or to stay in the human world, where his life was.

But no. They were all trapped here. No way out.

When hundreds of ghosts all said the same thing, Vlad was inclined to believe them. Danielle, as motivated as she was, was simply experiencing denial. Or, perhaps, bargaining. He had to admit he was never exactly clear on the stages of grief.

Then, there was Daniel, who seemed to be firmly trapped in the ‘depression’ stage, more of a ghost than Vlad had ever seen him as. He lingered in corners, at the edge of Vlad’s vision, quiet, sad, always flanked by Fright Knight and that other ghost, the one with the clocks.

There were parts of him, his Obsession reasserting itself, that yearned to reach out to Danny, but… He didn’t even know how to begin.

Danny felt like a pale, wandering shadow of himself.

Most of the time, he slept, exhausted by the demands the Zone made on him and the continuing changes he was undergoing. The expanding circle of vitality, of rejuvenation, of reconstruction and growth, that so many ghosts were celebrating had to draw energy from somewhere, after all, and even though Danny was absorbing just as much as he was expending, that process made him drowsy in and of itself.

Pain, too, plagued him. His missing eye ached, and sometimes it seemed as if the crown was burrowing into his skull, not merely resting on it. His hand hurt from all his attempts to take off the ring.

He could hardly care for himself in even the most basic of ways. Clockwork often had to remind him, or help him, and he was always so excruciatingly gentle.

Then Vlad and Ellie came.

Their arrival was a relief. Ellie was a friend, was family, and hadn’t been complicit in his betrayal and binding. Vlad had been an enemy, and not even an honest one at that, but essentially everything they’d been at odds over was moot, but he was familiar.

Despite the relief, despite his desire to connect with people who hadn’t hurt him, at least not as badly as everyone else, he hung back. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

So, he lurked and lingered. When Ellie went to the library, when Vlad moped and bothered the shades that ordered the kitchen, he followed, he watched.

Clockwork and Fright Knight, of course, followed and watched him in turn.

At least, this is what happened when he was awake and aware enough to do anything. Danny was under the impression that being awake and independently mobile at all this soon after being… coronated… was unusual, perhaps even unnerving. Normally, he’d be curious, excited about new abilities and what they might mean. Maybe he’d even throw around a quip or two about how awesome he was but…

It wasn’t the time, and he didn’t have the willpower to reach for even that dubious coping mechanism.

In the too-numerous times when Danny was both awake and not well enough to follow Ellie and Vlad around, he liked to sit in the garden. It was almost peaceful there, by the fountain, although the plants had a distressing tendency to reflect his every change in mood.

Today was one of those days. He was too dizzy and lightheaded to drift after Vlad or Ellie, even if neither of them moved very much, but he didn’t want to stay in the bedroom, or, worse, the throne room. His core seemed to pulse, sluggish and painful in his chest. Or perhaps that was his heart. He couldn’t really tell with this mixed-up form. It could even be both.

Another slow wave of transformation swept out from him, making his extremities tingle. He watched, tiredly, as it briefly interacted with the walls of the palace and the scattered shades before moving on. The shades… another aspect of all this that Danny wasn’t comfortable with, but couldn’t bring himself to learn more about. They were sustained through his power, but what were they? Extensions of his will? Aspects of his personality? Constructs generated by the palace? By the Ghost Zone itself? He didn’t know.

As much as he should try to learn, he couldn’t help but think of them as yet another imposition, another burden he was being forced to bear.

This wasn’t a healthy mindset. Jazz would tell him as much. Jazz wasn’t here.

“Danny!”

He looked up, his one eye already searching for Ellie. Fright Knight stepped forward, as if to protect him, but Danny snarled at him, annoyed. He wasn’t going to let him get in between him and one of the few people he could currently stand. Clockwork stayed back, passive, but he looked… worried. Uneasy. As if anticipating a disaster.

“Danny!” exclaimed Ellie again, bursting from a bush, a thick book raised above her head. “I found it!”

“Found what?” asked Danny, leaning forward slightly as Ellie joined him sitting on the edge of the fountain.

“A way out!” She opened the book and started flipping through it, obviously looking for a specific entry.

Both Clockwork and Fright Knight looked extremely tense, now. They probably didn’t want him to find this, didn’t want him to leave. Would they try to stop him?

He hunched his shoulders. He might not be well, but he could fight and make it hurt.

“Here!” said Ellie, triumphantly. “Look at this.” She tapped a picture of a bright, spherical object.

“The core of the Infinite Realms?” asked Danny, reading the legend of the picture.

“Uh huh. Apparently, it’s what determines what the Ghost Zone is like as a whole and controls the rules and laws and stuff. Like, even when it comes to what ghosts act like, and what they can physically do, or how the Ghost Zone’s physics behave. But the important part is that you can go talk to it and petition it and stuff, and sometimes it’ll listen. I bet we can get it to listen to you and make it so that the Ghost Zone doesn’t need a king anymore.”

Danny felt a flutter of hope. The book was old from what he could see, and, ignoring Ellie’s paraphrasing, the language was fantastical and couched in metaphor, but still if there was a possibility…

Near their feet, small, bright flowers began to bloom, each no larger than the head of a pin.

“Daniel,” said Clockwork, in a careful, soft tone. It wasn’t pity, not quite, but it was the verbal equivalent of being handled with kid gloves. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Then what is it like?” asked Danny, hunching his shoulders and leaning protectively over Ellie.

“What do you think the King of the Infinite Realms is?” asked Clockwork.

Danny shrugged. Clockwork gave him a small, pained smile.

“The King of Ghosts and the core of the Ghost Zone,” said Clockwork, “they’re the same.”

Danny shook his head, unwilling to let this scrap of hope slip through his fingers so easily.

“Please, Daniel,” said Clockwork. “Why do you think it was so vital that you be crowned? The Realms cannot exist without their core.”

It made sense. A horrible, horrible sense.

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Ellie. “The core’s supposed to be the basis the whole Zone is built on. That can’t just be one person.”

“The library has some books on the subject,” said Clockwork. “But you can see how Daniel is changing things.”

Danny felt his hope collapse and doubled over, hands on his head, face almost touching his legs. A scream bubbled up in his throat, but he swallowed it. All those people, everywhere, his responsibility, his… Not just the people, everything. Everywhere. Not just his responsibility, but relying on him, modeled on him, dependent on him, centered on him.

He wasn’t just the Ghost Zone’s ruler, nominal or not, he was its heart.

“Danny?” asked Ellie. He looked up.

There were blast lines in the ground, radiating away from him. The fountain was cracked and leaking water. Fright Knight had, evidently, grabbed Ellie and leaped away, into the air.

Clockwork hadn’t left, still leaning towards Danny. There was a jagged, dripping slice across his shoulder. Danny gasped, reaching towards him.

“It’s alright,” said Clockwork. “It’s alright.”

“I can’t be,” said Danny. “I can’t be. I’m—I can’t be part of the Ghost Zone. Not—Not like that. That’s not—I can’t be what the Ghost Zone is built on, it doesn’t make sense, I…”

“It’s alright,” repeated Clockwork. “Would you like to go inside? You may feel better if you eat something.”

“Don’t want to bother Vlad,” mumbled Danny. Didn’t want another person to see him crumbling like this.

“We can send something up to your room,” said Clockwork.

He did feel tired. The fountain was repairing itself behind and underneath him. He groaned as the ground beneath him pulled together as well.

“I don’t want to be the core of the Ghost Zone,” he said, knowing that what he wanted was not and never had been a consideration. “I don’t want to be king. I don’t want to be in charge of anything.” He grabbed the edges of Clockwork’s robe, ignoring the moisture despite the pang of guilt it brought him. “I want to go home. And I…” His words failed as he reached for Clockwork’s injury. “I don’t want to do this.”

“This is nothing, Daniel,” putting a gloved hand over the wound. “I have had far worse.”

It started to rain. Great, heavy droplets of water tainted with just enough ectoplasm to glow.

It was one way to hide tears, he supposed.

#danny phantom #dannymay #dannymay 2021 #a king in chains #what was bound what was loosed

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what-i-call-men · 3 years

Text

Summoned

James Patrick March x GN reader

(I tried to go as gender neutral as possible with this)

Warnings: murder mention, not much otherwise just a bit of fighting then fluff with Mr. murder :)

Requested: by me for my fic thoughts “Another free fic thought for tonight! (Wow two in one night isn’t that much of a surprise) anyways the reader and James are dating, but have an agreement that on Halloween they get to go out and have a party/clubbing or just in general where James wouldn’t go. He summons them in the middle of devils night and they shows up wearing like a club outfit, in the middle of dancing too. They get in a fight over their agreement. Could be angst or smut or whatever”

(Pic is not mine)

You had come into the hotel purely on a whim. You had been searching out a place to stay because your relative you’d come to visit had kicked you out over some stupid disagreement. You’d come to the hotel in hopes of a cheap room with whatever money you had. Luckily enough you were able to get a room for a good enough price. Sadly though, you had been chosen that night by one of the monsters that lived in that hotel to be their victim of the night. Luckily though you were barely awake long enough to retain who it was.

For a few days after, you had walked down to the bar to talk to Liz and another woman you met named Sally, obviously there had been some others in there you’d met but Liz and Sally were the main ones usually at the bar. Although on a few nights you’d see a man come down from the elevator and sit further down the bar. Sometimes he’d be writing or reading something, sometimes he had a blonde woman with him and they’d talk quietly. He never really chose to interact with you so you would shrug it off and talk to Sally about her Instagram instead.

It wasn’t until one night that Sally couldn’t make it that you had instead spent the night with James, quickly hitting it off and soon going back to his room to talk pretty much all night. It wasn’t much long after that you two spent a lot of time together, slowly becoming infatuated with one another. You were murdered during the late 2010s and he was from the 1920s so you obviously had a lot of different outlooks on things.

After a few months of spending most of your time around James, you two became official and months turned into years of being together. About a year into your relationship you’d begun to go to devils night, which was not your choice, you only went for James. But it was the worst night of your life. Now you were fine with James murdering and whatever but his friends were the part you didn’t like. Aileen was really the only okay one in your book.

So you and James settled a deal after you throwing up for about an hour after Jeffery “had his fun”. The deal was that you’d spend the day of his birthday with him, doing whatever he’d like because the two of you could leave the hotel, but at night when he had his dinner party you could go out and celebrate Halloween with Sally and a few others that were more involved in the modern works. It was perfect for the both of you. You were not to disturb him and vice versa.

After a long day of spending James’ birthday walking around town, showing a few different places, but mostly doing some shopping for the two of you, you had gotten ready for your night out. James already had given a few disapproving comments and stares to your skantly clad body. Really you just chalked it up to his jealousy and lack of knowledge of the club scene. “Why don’t you just stay home and drink in the lounge dear? I want to be able to keep an eye on you.” He said as you adjusted your top that left little to the imagination.

“James, dearest, you could always come with us but I think the club scene would kill you again if you weren’t already dead. This outfit is tame compared to other people on Halloween.” You muttered and glanced at yourself in the mirror again. You turned to him, seeing him in his extra formal suit. “I’m going to meet Sally, Tristan and Elizabeth in the lobby.” You said and walked over to his frowning face, giving a quick peck to his cheek as you passed.

“Wait Elizabeth is going? I’m really not sure I’d like you to go out with her.” James walked after you as you made your way out the door. He followed after you and grabbed one of his suit coats, slinging it over your shoulders, a bit to “keep you warm” but also to cover you a bit more than the outfit you wore.

“We settled things James, remember? She’s coming with Will and she is your eyes and ears.” You muttered and pushed the down button for the elevator, turning to give him a longer kiss on the lips as the doors opened. You turned back to the elevator as Aileen walked out of them, flipping her hair back. She made a quick comment and whistle about your look as you got in the machine and closed the doors. “Love you my dear. I’ll see you later. I’ll be home before 3.” You called as the door finally closed.

You hadn’t been gone long into the night, you and Sally really splitting off and hitting the drinks hard as the others stayed reserved. What you hadn’t noticed when you left the hotel was that a witch had checked in for the night to do her spells in a haunted hotel. This was unfortunate for you but very fortunate for James who couldn’t get his mind off you not being in the hotel. His friends had even asked about you and were surprised you were allowed out, considering how possessive and controlling James was.

After enough comments from his friends and the time getting closer to your curfew, James beckoned Miss Evers to get the witch to him. She surprised down the hallways with the witch in tow only to be met with James at the doorway to the gathering. “You need to summon a ghost for me.” He said and there wasn’t much fight from the woman after his commanding tone scared the crap out of her.

You were having the time of your “life”, currently dancing against Sally as the loud music pounded through your chest, she was riding the wave of whatever her drug of choice was for the night. Being a ghost from the 2010s meant at least you knew most of the music and blended in well with the others in the club. Tristian had also come to dance with you and Sally for a bit before finding some other people to dance with.

This was the only downside of dating a man from almost a century ago, you knew he was too molded in his ways to ever join you for something like this. You knew if he even knew what twerking was he’d disapprove of you even thinking about doing it. But you currently were, right against Sally who was also learning to do it, but instead rather enjoying the attention you two drew from those around you.

At the hotel, the witch currently sat in the hallway outside the murderous dinner party, her alter around her and one of your rings that James had gifted you sat right on top of the alter. As she began her spell, you were dancing along with Sally, getting a weird feeling in your chest. You chose to ignore it because you’d already felt a bit guilty leaving James today so you assumed it was just the alcohol and guilt weight heavy on your chest.

As Sally wrapped her scarf around you and danced with it around your shoulders, suddenly the scarf hung loose around the air, and when you opened your eyes, you didn’t see your hypodermic friend, instead a very angry James, and his murder friends behind him, sat at the table. You realized the coat he had given you on your way out was very obviously not on you, instead it sat at the club with Elizabeth where all of your things were left.

You opened your mouth to ask how the hell you got here, glancing to the clock to see that it wasn’t even past 2 am, and it wasn’t the time which had pulled you because because all of James’ friend were still sat at the table. James grabbed your arm to pull you out of the room, but you ripped it from his grasp, a sudden surge of anger coming out. “James, why the hell am I here?” You asked and glared at him.

“You told me you’d be home before 3. And you-“ James began to lecture you and you cut him off. “And you promised i would come home to just you and that i could enjoy myself tonight, but obviously both of those were broken.” You raised your voice back to him and crossed your arms. His face became somehow more angry as you brought him down in front of his dinner party. Aileen let out a small whistle to you fighting against him with a quiet “get em” which was met with a glare from James.

“Y/n lets take this outside.” He said lowly and you huffed. “Oh I’ll take it outside. All the way back to the club with my friends.” You said and walked towards the door, letting yourself out, and stumbling over the alter outside the door. “You fucking summoned me, you asshole. Can’t even trust that I’d be home on time. I’m leaving and I will be home as late as i want.” You yelled back at James and he grabbed your arm properly this time, stopping you in your tracks.

He began to pull you back towards your shared room and when he threw you inside, he slammed the door behind the two of you, guests and friends long forgotten as you two stared at each other. You definitely were a change from the silent obedient women he was used to, and him a change from the lenient and careless men from your life. “Why are you so controlling? You get 364 and a half days with me every year for eternity and i can get that one half of a day in peace doing what I want to do?” You shot at him, but he didn’t respond, just pulled his tie off and his suit coat.

“You don’t just get to dress like that and go dance on other people when you belong to me.” James spat back as he grabbed your upper arm again, pushing you back towards your shared bed. “News flash James, we’re in the 21st century and you don’t ‘own’ me. Because I am forced to spend eternity here I wanted to make the best of it and spend it with someone who I enjoy, but until you decide to make a legal commitment to me I am free to be whoever I want.” You shoved yourself away from him as he stood above you, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Letting out a long sigh, James watched you turn to grab a cigarette from his bedside table. “Who said I didn’t want to commit with you, y/n?” He asked in an exasperated sigh. You rummaged around the drawer to search for his matches and looked back to him. “Well for starters, how about your wife? Hmm? How about you on multiple occasions? How about the 2 years of dating and endless arguments how to treat our arrangement with your wife and her boy toys?” You muttered as you couldn’t find a matchbook, now looking back to the drawer.

You paused and gently picked up a small box you hadn’t seen in the drawer before. “James-“ he cut you off and walked to the drawer, catching your attention. “I wanted to ask you earlier while we were out but the ring itself wasn’t ready until after you left for the night.” He muttered and grabbed it from your hands. “I would’ve been more comfortable if people out in the world knew who’s you were. And the arrangement with Elizabeth is over, she can live her life separate from us.” He said and you could barely comprehend his words through your head spinning.

You dropped the unlit cigarette to the ground, instead opting to grab him in a big hug, pulling him down to you. Your makeup definitely was smudged as he pulled away to open the box. “May I at least ask the question? I’ve been planning this.” He unwrapped himself from your arms, using his hand to help you stand up, and lowered himself to kneel before you. His speech was full of plenty of reassuring words, also euphemisms about how death was the thing to bring you two together and bring new life to each other. Your own thought were drowning in love for the ring and the man before you. It was dainty yet plenty jeweled with his own initials being engraved on the sides. It now sat on your finger, you pulling his own lips to yours.

Your solid kiss was soon interrupted by a knock on the door and an exasperated Sally at the door, holding your things in her arms. She paused as you stayed in James’ arms. “Oh thank god we’re not in deep shit.” She muttered and James tapped your back gently. “Go back out but be home soon.” He said lowly. You smiled and looked to the ring on your finger. “I love you.” You whispered and he kissed you before you ran back out after Sally.

#james march #james patrick march #james march x reader #james Patrick march fluff #ahs hotel #fic thoughts fulfilled

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blu-eh · 4 years

Text

after school summons

[AO3]

or: Danny gets summoned. He doesn’t like it.

It starts with a tugging feeling in his very core.

Danny Fenton pauses. If there’s one thing he’s learned in the last year, it is not to ignore random things that are definitely ghostly in origin. He has just enough time to place his pencil on the desk from where he had dutifully been doing his homework—for the first time in two weeks, mind you—before his vision goes white, he hears a snap, and suddenly he’s not in his room anymore.

For a moment he’s weightless, lost in the feeling of falling. Then, his body jerks and he has just enough time to think, oh fuck—before he’s slammed to the ground hard. His knees buckle under the unexpected weight and he goes down, clumsily, and trying not to throw up what little he’d managed to eat between homework packets.

“Ow,” Danny says.

He lies there, just for a moment, taking in the cool concrete underneath him. He tries to steady his breathing just enough so his mind can process what the hell just happened in the last thirty seconds. He’s still blinking stars from his eyes when he hears the hushed whispers echo around him and a heavy pair of footsteps approaching him. All in all, very bad signs when mysterious (and somewhat painful) things happen to you suddenly.

A gruff, questioning voice asks, “A child?”

“Oh, man,” Danny says, because that definitely does not sound good. Then he forces himself to his knees and looks up.

The first and foremost thing Danny notices is that he’s not alone. He’s on some sort of altar or platform, elevated a foot or so above the ground. A couple feet away, a group of no more than a dozen people surround him in a semi-circle, faces all covered by tattered cloaks. Another cloaked figure, dressed in much more formal robes with gold trimming, stands on the platform a mere couple feet from where Danny is. They all seem to be staring at him, waiting.

Danny hastily gets to his feet. He shifts a little into a sloppy fighting stance, just in case things were to get messy.

The dimly-lit warehouse room and the head covers don’t give him much to work with in the facial feature department, but he’s pretty confident that none of them are ghosts. Mostly from the fact that none of them are glowing and/or ranting about how much of a pain in the ass he is, but it still pays to be wary. Especially when Danny’s situations tend to quickly dissolve from bad to oh my god there are ghosts lose in Amity Park and also he maybe-sort of-possibly died in the process.

Which brings him back to his next brilliant deduction; he’s definitely in ghost form. He definitely was not in ghost form before this. His ghost form is rather obvious considering he sticks out like a glow stick in darkness of the warehouse. He doesn’t even feel the need to check his hair color, this time, but that’s more due to the fact that he doesn’t want to take his eyes off the weird people who managed to summon him from his bedroom and forced him to change into his ghost form.

(He desperately hopes that they hadn’t seen him change—weird warehouse people are not people that Danny generally associates with secret keeping.)

“Is this a cult thing?” Danny asks before any of them can speak. He takes in white line that surrounds him, and the red liquid (which he very much hopes is not blood) used to paint runes and symbols that circle him, and their weird cloak-like robes, and says, “This is definitely a cult thing. Oh my god, did you summon me? Seriously—”

Before this, he hadn't even known he could be summoned. It's just the little ghostly things learned via accident, sometimes, that truly take the icing on the cake.

There’s a tiny spark of anxiety in his gut, but honestly there’s a large difference between humans threatening him and ghosts threatening him. On one hand, he’d take weird cultist over Skulker’s lair any day. On the other hand, pure white walls and experimentation tables aren’t super high on his to visit list either. Worst comes to worst—before they sacrifice him to some ancient gods, more likely—he puts on his scary face (and maybe adds a couple of explosions) and slips out before they even notice he’s missing.

“Silence, creature,” the robed man snaps. Danny zeros in on him and immediately deduces him to be leader from vibes alone. Also the gold trimming on his robe, which very much screams leader of weird cult that summons ghost kids.

“I—okay, you know what? That was just rude,” Danny says. He points to the white line that surrounds him, “Is that cocaine?”

Danny has a feeling he doesn’t want to know the answer to the mysterious red liquid and painted symbols, so he doesn’t ask.

“It’s salt,” one of the other cloaked figures answers, like it should be obvious.

(It’s not actually obvious, and actually leaves Danny with more questions than he started with. Mostly in the realm of how did a group of cultists summon him with salt. He knows salt is supposedly an anti-ghost measure, but Danny is pretty convinced it has little to no effect on him considering the amount of Nasty Burger fries he’s consumed haven’t taken him out yet.)

“Salt,” Danny repeats. He pauses, then awkwardly tags on, “That’s good, I guess, because drugs are bad. Uh, don’t do drugs.”

A cultist quietly, and a little slowly, answers back, “We, uh, don’t.”

“Right,” Danny says. His eyes catch another section of weird in this already weird, cultist warehouse. At the base of the platform sits a variety of bones, so fresh that some of the muscle still clings to them. “Are those bones? Oh my god, did you sacrifice someone? That’s not cool! Murder isn’t cool!”

“Those are goat bones,” another follower says.

“Oh,” Danny says. “Well, I mean, that’s still fucked up on a variety of levels, but I guess that’s better than murder. Unless it's considered goat murder? Uh.”

For a second, there’s silence. The nature of the interaction is so awkward and oppressing that he almost goes invisible just to save himself the scrutiny of these random people and get the hell out of dodge. His curiosity is the only thing that holds him back—that, and the fact that he’s not quite sure if any of these people are secretly hiding ecto-weapons.

Danny very much does not want to be shot tonight.

He looks around the room, eyes taking in every inch of the sparsely decorated warehouse. There’s nothing that immediately grabs his attention, nor anything that really screams danger but it pays to be suspicious of his surroundings in his line of work. A few of the cultists notice this, and start shifting awkwardly as Danny looks over them as well.

Then, Danny’s eyes flicks back to the lead cultist and he says, “I’m going to be real honest here and say that I have no idea what the heck is going on.”

The leader makes no inclination that he acknowledges any word that comes from Danny’s mouth. Instead, he brings an old, wrinkled hand up to his face, like he’s thinking about some complex problem. The leader circles Danny once, then again, and Danny feels something inside him defensively coil like a spring.

He tries not to be bothered when people treat him as something lesser—it’s not, exactly, uncommon for him to encounter. He dealt with being shoved into lockers long before he died, anyways. It doesn’t stop his shoulders from tensing just the barest amount.

Instead of showing this, he brings his feet up to his chest and crosses them mid-air, and fakes a yawn for good measure. A few of the other cultists gasp in wonder and fear. The leader simply stops his prowling and turns to face Danny.

“So this is the fabled Ghost King,” the man says, like he expected better.

Danny feels he should almost be offended if it isn’t for the tiny detail that these cultists—who summoned him by using salt and goat bones—assume he is the ghost king. “…Did you seriously confuse me with Pariah Dark?”

The man pauses, and asks, “Pariah Dark?”

“Yes! He’s like fifteen feet tall, has a huge sword, is a pain in the ass, and has, like, an entire ghost army. I have, I dunno, pre-calc homework in my bag. We are not the same.”

Some of the followers in the background shift uneasily. Danny bares his teeth in their direction, just to see them squirm. A couple take worried steps back and Danny fights off a satisfied grin.

Hey, poke a bull and get the horns. In this case, summon a ghost-teenager and get the ecto-powers.

(He’s slowly becoming more and more aware that these people have no idea what they’re doing.)

“I see,” the leader says. From his tone, he definitely does not see. “It doesn’t matter. Our book summoned the King of Ghosts and that is you, so you will do as we tell you and your pain will be lessened.”

“I am still not the Ghost King,” Danny tells him. “And no thanks. I’ve already used my yearly cult sign up and I can’t say I’m thrilled to join another. If you’re going to hold an initiation ceremony, at least decorate a bit first. Uh, not counting the goat bones and salt, of course.”

“You have no choice,” the leader snaps and steps a bit closer to him. Danny merely raises an eyebrow. “We are the Followers of Infernal. We have summoned you to serve us. You are bound to our will and bound to our grace, as the book foretold. Now bow, demon, for we are your new masters.”

There’s a very large portion of Danny Fenton that is convinced any good karma he held in life did not pass with him during his death a mere year ago. An even larger portion of him is convinced that these guys are no more serious than the GIW is. Danny does not tell the cultists this.

Instead, he squints and says, “Alright. I definitely failed US Government, but I’m pretty sure that’s not legal. Don’t you guys need like, a permit to summon undead beings of mass power?”

“It thinks it’s funny.” The leader’s face is mostly hidden by his robe, but Danny can imagine the sneer there from his tone alone.

“Trust me, I’m not the one who’s a joke right now,” Danny says. He looks back over at the dozen or so followers and grins at them. They don’t seem too keen that he’s not following their master’s orders and bending to their will. He turns back to the leader. “What’s in it for me?”

“What?”

“If I follow you and stuff, what’s in it for me?”

The leader pauses, then says, “You will be spared of punishment.”

“Hmm, that’s not good enough,” Danny says. He angles his body so he's once again looking at the followers and points at one in the middle. “Hey, you! With the cloak. No, not you, the other dude. To the left. Yeah! You. What do you have to offer me?”

The follower looks so startled that he cowers for a second. Then, seeing as he hadn’t been reduced to a pile of ashes from Danny’s gaze alone, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and silver. “Uh, I have a paper clip, your ghostliness.”

“A paper clip,” Danny repeats. “Yeah, sure, fine. Whatever. That sounds neat.”

“You’ll submit to us?” the man sounds so hopeful that Danny almost feels bad for being a jerk. Then, he remembers that they summoned him out of his nice, warm bedroom at ass-o’clock in the night and feels significantly less amounts of pity.

“No, dude, I’m not being your sack of potatoes for a paper clip. Man, you guys are stupid.” Danny rolls his eyes and floats just a bit higher. The other followers shuffle around again, uncomfortable. In front of him, the leader remains impassive as ever. “Where even am I?”

“The lair which you will spend the rest of your afterlife,” the leader says.

“Okay, this is definitely a warehouse, firstly. And secondly, dude, I meant what state.”

“…Wisconsin,” the man allows because of course everything terrible happens in Wisconsin.

“You chose the worst state to have your crappy lair,” Danny tells them. Now he has to fly a couple hundred miles home and hope he gets there by morning, all the while avoiding his creepy, obsessed arch-nemesis. He wonders if Vlad is even aware there’s a ghost-obsessed cult in his home state. Probably not. “Nothing good ever comes from Wisconsin. You can take that as, like, ghostly wisdom or something.”

“Hey,” one of the cultists says, offended. “The Packers are in Wisconsin.”

“Nothing good,” Danny repeats, firmly.

“Enough of this nonsense,” the leader says. “It’s trying to distract you because it fears control. Briar, bring me the orb.”

“Yes, sir,” one of them says.

The followers mutter to themselves and teeter around in their positions. The woman who spoke, on the end, bows and scurries off. Danny watches as she runs through the darkness of the warehouse, footsteps echoing around them, until he can no longer see her among the darkness.

“Hey, if they already listen to you then why do you need me?” Danny asks. The leader doesn’t answer, so Danny floats a bit on his side and puts his arms behind his head. “What kind of orb are we talking about, anyways? Like one of those Spirit Halloween ones? Or is it more like orbeeze? I can’t saw I’m super excited from your ominous it fears control statement, but—"

“Silence, beast,” the leader says.

Danny huffs. “I’m just asking. No need to be so snippy.”

The man ignores him which, rude. Danny’s just about to see how far he can test this guy’s patience when Briar comes back, just as quickly as she had disappeared. She jogs through the warehouse and up the steps of the platform. Danny can’t see her face, but from the way her hood moves to glace at him every so often, he figures that she’s probably nervous. Specifically about him lounging around in a circle full of salt.

“Father Johnathan,” Briar says and bows. In her hands is a glowing, silver orb. It really did look like a generic orb one would find in a Spirit Halloween. “The orb.”

“Your name is Father Johnathan?” Danny asks. He eyes the orb for a second, but doesn’t feel the tingle of ghostly energy from it, so he ignores it. He turns right back to the leader, not able to keep the grin off his face. “Your name is really Father Johnathan?”

Father Johnathan gently takes the orb in his hands as Briar scurries off towards the rest of the followers. Then, he sighs and says, “Yes, creature, my name is Father Johnathan and I shall be your new master.”

“Oh my god,” Danny says, positively gleeful. “I meet real life Papa John and he summons me with salt and threatens me with a Spirit Halloween orb.”

“Laugh all you want,” Papa John says. The nervous air shifts into something a bit more predatory. “You will not be laughing much longer.”

The cultists break into applause and talk amongst themselves loudly. They shift forward, eagerly, as if they want to watch the spectacle up close. They’re only a foot or so away from the platform when Papa John waves at them to halt.

Papa John holds up the orb. It swirls, the silver fog inside consolidating and then dissipating. Something inside it starts to glow the barest amount.

Danny pauses, just for a second, and watches it. There's still no tingle of ghostly energy coming from it. If he hadn’t already thought these guys are a joke, he definitely would’ve been a tad more nervous. As it stands, he thinks nothing of it—no ghostly energy means no control over ghosts.

(Unfortunately, he knows the feeling of ghost-controlling objects quite well. It’s not an experience he’s eager to repeat.)

The orb glows brighter, and brighter, swirling more furiously. The chatter of the cultists picks up to the point where they’re almost shouting, jeering at him. Papa John draws closer and closer, orb outstretched. He holds it through the salt line and touches it to Danny’s chest. The shouting from his followers almost becomes unbearable.

And then….nothing. The orb stops glowing. The fog inside stops swirling. It simply dies in Papa John’s hand.

“Was that supposed to do something?” Danny asks.

Papa John touches him with the orb again, a tad more forceful, so Danny assumes it was supposed to do something. From the panicked whispers around him, it definitely was supposed to do something to him. Danny’s honestly not sure if the outcome is due to him being a halfa or these guys being a joke.

(He’s willing to bet it’s the latter.)

“I think your LED batteries died,” Danny tells him. “Or maybe you mixed up your Spirit Halloween orbs. Better luck next time.”

Papa John stops furiously pressing the orb to his chest and if Danny could see his face, he has no doubts that Papa John’s expression would be livid.

“You will obey us,” Papa John says.

“No,” Danny says. “I won’t.”

“You will—”

Danny swings his feet down so hard that he cracks the very ground he now stands on. Dust kicks up around him as he stands tall, even though Danny’s at least two feet shorter than the leader in front of him. His eyes burn a brilliant green and he crosses his hands over his chest in an effort to look intimidating. The cult thing is interesting and all, but it's late, he still has homework to do, and Jazz has definitely noticed him missing by now so it's probably better to end this before they can get another object from a Spirit Halloween and try that instead.

It works, if the half-step back from Papa John is anything to go by.

“Listen,” Danny says, flatly. “Get a hobby and leave me alone or else you won’t like what I’m going to do.”

He makes his form flicker and the temperature drop in the room, just for dramatic effect.

Some of the followers in the background shift uneasily. A couple take panicked steps back. More than a few look ready to bolt for the door and leave this cult business behind forever.

Danny takes notice and stares at them, smiling wide enough that they could see his slightly-toothy grin. He makes sure his eyes flare, just a touch, and says loudly, “Boo.”

To say the cultists are startled would be an understatement. More than a few stumble back, a couple falling onto their asses. One trips on their robe and is sent tumbling. Another one yells and cowers. Papa John has no time to reign in the situation before two scatter completely.

“Peace!” Papa John shouts over the chaos of a dozen panicking followers. Those that remain do settle down enough to hear his words. “Stand down, there is nothing to fear. It is only trying to scare you into letting it free. It is trapped whilst it remains in the circle.”

Danny snorts. “I can leave any time I want.”

“You cannot leave here, demon—”

Danny raises one single eyebrow and dutifully steps out of the summoning circle.

The warehouse erupts into chaos.

The cultists are yelling now, but this time there’s only because of fear. They scatter over each other, running and tripping over their obnoxiously long cloaks. A couple trample the goat bones to the point where several loud snaps are heard over the pandemonium. It only adds more fuel to the fire as less than a dozen people scramble to get as far away from the platform—and subsequently the ghost-kid—as possible.

“Do better than a paperclip, next time!” Danny calls out to them. They only seem to run faster at the sound of his voice.

Papa John is the only one who doesn’t run. He had stumbled off the platform and away from Danny the second that Danny made it over the salt line. However, in the disarray, he had been knocked to the ground, his orb lay broken at his feet, and his robe’s hood had been yanked off and left on the ground beside him. He sits, frozen, but Danny doesn’t know if it’s from shock or from fear.

Danny takes a step closer to him.

“How…?” Papa John whispers. He’s not looking at Danny—only his old, wrinkled hands. He’s bald, with brown eyes. He looks like nothing more than any generic old man that Danny would see at a grocery store on Sunday afternoon. “We followed the book. We…we took every precaution the book said. We were supposed to have the perfect slave, bound to our every word. We…”

“That didn’t work out too well for you, huh?” Danny says and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s ‘cause you forgot the dunce cap when you decided to be the class clown.”

“Please,” Papa John says. “Spare me.”

There’s something wrong about this—seeing a human beg for his life at Danny’s feet. Danny doesn’t want to be feared. He never has wanted to be feared.

He presses his lips together and takes a single step back. Some part of him, though, knows that he desperately needs to make his point clear to avoid another situation like this (likely with more weapons, next time).

“I warned you,” Danny says softly. His voice echoes around the warehouse. The man below him shivers in terror. “Do not summon me again, or I won’t be so nice next time.” He pauses, just for a second and can't help but tag on, "Papa John."

He lets his threat linger and hopes the man takes it seriously enough that he won’t get summoned again. Then, the cool strings of invisibility wrap around his body and he disappears from sight. Danny takes one look at the man left on the floor before he shakes his head and shoots up into the Wisconsin night sky. He doesn't hear the shouted response of it's Father Johnathan from several hundred feet below him on the warehouse floor.

Danny waits about all of thirty seconds before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

"Jazz? Hey, yeah, I'm fine. Yes, seriously, I'm fine but you are not going to believe what I just went through—"

#me mentioning my love for spirit halloween no less than five separate occasions #anyways #my fics #danny phantom #i Attempted to mention every single ectober week 2020 in this fic so like. lmao #ectober #ectober 2020 #ectober week #ectober week 2020 #phan phic #phic #tw drug mention #there are no actual drugs but i do reference a drug by name so this warning applies

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purple-stuck · 3 years

Note

I really adore your writing! Can I PLEASE request a purple Sollux drabble? Maybe interacting with gamzee?

hey, gz. wanna hang out?

Gamzee stared down at his phone, squinting his eyes at the purple text. Somewhere in his addled think pan he thought it was strange. Sollux hardly hung out with anyone in person. He was always a shut in, especially for Purple blood standards. Only clown who'd attended less church was probably Gamzee himself and that was only because Sollux sometimes made video calls. But, ever sense Aradia... it was a miracle he still answered texts.

Still, Gamzee wasn't gonna say no to his blood brother's company. Maybe Feferi helped him cope. Maybe he went pale for Karkat, those two had always been close. Hardly mattered.

WeLl, ShIt. SuRe MoThErFuCkEr. CaN't SaY nO tO a NiCe AnD pRoPeR hAnGiNg SeSsIoN. wAnT mE tO sWiNg By YoUr PlAcE, oR wHaT?

nah. ii'm at the door. ii wa2 iin the area and fiigured ii'd a2k.

Right on cue, there was indeed a knock at Gamzee's front door. Huh. Sollux must've been right at the door when he texted. Made sense. If Karkat was any indication, Sollux had a habit of just barging into a brother's hive like he lived there and playing all their video games. Probably remembered at the last second that he and Gamzee weren't that close.

When Gamzee open the front door, he found himself staring at Captor's chest. Even hunched over as he was, Sollux was still the tallest troll Gamzee knew. The boy managed to be both lankier and buffer than Gamzee somehow. Granted, that's not hard. It'd be a stretch to call any version of Sollux Captor buff, but any purple blood with a proper lusus was going to be thicker than Gamzee.

Gamzee stopped that thought dead before it sunk in any deeper.

"At least I know I'm not interrupting anything." Sollux said dryly. "That's not the hair of someone who had plans for the evening."

Gamzee snorted, appreciating that the ribbing was good natured. Sollux didn't regard him with the same contempt, say, Equius did, so it was hard to take anything he said as an actual insult. Same deal with Karkat, really. "So, what brings you around to my hive? Feferi finally convince you to go outside?"

Sollux's lips twitched into a smirk before he jutted his thumb behind him. "Nah. I'm just picking up an old hobby."

Gamzee's eyes trailed to the cart Sollux had parked at the bottom of the steps, a chill going down his spine at the sight of faintly blue blood trailing down it's side. "Oh..."

Gamzee's eyes twitched back to Sollux, who just sighed. "I'm on my second kill, so don't worry. I don't kill in odd numbers. Plus, I've seen you making diamond eyes at Karkat and I'm not that much of a dick."

Gamzee let go off a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Well, it's good to know I won't be adding to Aradia's fucking corpse collection-"

Sollux stiffened and Gamzee stopped dead. Shit. Fuck. He should know better. What was he doing bring up Aradia, fuck-

"It's... fine." Sollux sighed, bringing his hand to his temple as he steadied himself. "I'm fine. It's fine. She would've found it funny, anyways." Sollux forced a smile onto his face. "Besides, you're not wrong. She'd love to throw corpse parties for these motherfuckers in whatever rung of the Dark Carnival she wound up in."

Gamzee laughed politely and stepped aside to let Sollux in before the conversation got any more uncomfortable. Sollux plopped onto the couch, quickly propping his legs up on the table. "You got any video games? I somehow doubt you're much of a shooter fan."

Gamzee grunted, sliding him a faygo as he took his seat. "Nah. Tav got me into fiduspawn. You ever play that?"

Sollux snorted. "Funny story about that, actually. EQ got me into it. I was talking shit about it around him and he protested that NP was into it."

"Did he? Shit, man, good for him. He always kinda... rolls over around me. Motherfucker's always trying to please me."

"Well, yeah. It's NP we're talking about here. You'd complain is I started talking shit about Tavros."

Gamzee blinked. That was... oddly pointed coming from Sollux. Sure, every word sounded like a sarcastic insult when you put it in his mouth, but it sounded like he was trying to make a point. That suddenly serious stare wasn't helping, and it made Gamzee cough uncomfortably.

"Uh, yeah, I would." His eyes flickered towards the door. Towards the cart. "...Why?"

"You got any feelings for him?"

Now this was starting to get wildly out of character. Sollux was the last person to stick his nose into anyone's love life, unless it was to annoy Eridan somehow. Hell, people just being sappy around him annoyed him, which made this even more bizarre.

"Yeah, well, Tav, said he wasn't interested."

"He's not?"

"Look, bro, I appreciate it, but we don't need an auspistice. You can't mediate what ain't there."

"But you do feel something for him. You care about him, pitch, red, I don't care how." Sollux was almost looming over him now, even without standing up. Gamzee was beginning to wonder whether he should go for his clubs when Sollux sighed.

"Right, right. That.... probably doesn't make any sense to you. I'm sorry." He stood up, face not just sour like usual, but outright grim. "Let me show you what I'm talking about."

Sollux made his way to the door wheeled his cart inside, a chill went down Gamzee's spine.

"...Bro. Did you?"

"No. Gog no. Fucking Messiahs above, hell no! I cull trolls but I'm not a sick fuck who parades their corpses around in front of their friends."

Sollux looked down at the cart, at the body hidden beneath the crumpled sheet. He seemed far, far away for a moment, like his soul had been taken by the Messiahs themselves and his body was an empty shell they left behind.

"You... know Aradia's dead, right?"

Gamzee relaxed, more confused and sad now than afraid. "Yeah."

Sollux looked at him. "Do you know how she died?"

Sollux didn't need an answer and he didn't wait for one. The purple voids of his eyes showed behind his matching glasses. "It started... when Vriska abducted me."

"I was out doing my regular, bi-wipely rounds. Looking for two bodies for Aradia to preserve in a 'corpse party'. Or, more accurately, looking to make two bodies for her to preserve."

"I'd spotted a couple of burgundies, so I went to make my move. I'd barely seen Vriska's face by the time the bag was over my head and by then the needles were in my neck. My guess is she'd paid some FLARPers to help her. I know damn well she couldn't handle me alone."

"When I woke up, I was in Vriska's hive. She looked so... fucking smug when she had me all chained up. She explained what Aradia did to her. Talked about how she'd sent some ghosts her way... and she wanted to get even."

"So Vriska was going to have me kill Aradia."

"That's when the torture began. It was pretty amateurish, but that's all it needed to be. She just needed to distract me, make a crack for her to slip into... one opening was all she needed to grab my mind."

Sollux was staring down at nothing by the time he finished, bending the metal handles of his cart with his grip.

"I still remember the walk to Aradia's hive." He said, choking back something. "I could hear her scream in my mind before she even saw me."

Gamzee's hand landed on his shoulder, snapping Sollux back to reality. Sollux pushed the smaller clown back before clearing his throat. "So, the next time I left my hive, I decided to pay Serket a visit."

Sollux threw the tarp off to reveal Vriska's mangled body. Or, what was of it.

Gamzee took at a step back. The amount of patchwork Sollux had to do to get Vriska's upper torso back in one piece would be impressive if it didn't imply how grizzly the scene must've been before he started. Tellingly, Sollux didn't even try to put Vriska's legs back together. He just dumped the soupified slop into a box and put it on the bottom shelf of his cart.

"Jegus..."

"Yeah, I got carried away."

Gamzee backed up and fell onto the couch, mostly just to get away from the smell. Sollux pulled his two swords out of Vriska's head, wiping them clean in one quick stroke.

"So... why are you telling me this?" Gamzee asked.

Sollux seemed to think for a moment, staring at his reflection in the blades. "To try to understand." He waved his blades vaguely over Vriska's... "body" for lack of a better word. "Most of this was unnecessary. She died quickly but... it wasn't satisfying."

Sollux looked at Gamzee meaningfully. "I figured you could tell me why."

Gamzee's eyes widened. "Shit, man, you mean because..."

"Of Tavros. Yeah. Vriska killed him. The army won't take someone who can't walk and he has no where else to go. That's assuming someone like, well, me, doesn't just pick him up off the streets. He's living on borrowed time on a planet like this, and that's all her fault."

Sollux looked at Gamzee meaningfully. "So... is this satisfying to you?"

Gamzee sunk into the couch, staring up at the ceiling. "Fuck, man. You can't do this to a motherfucker. This is a lot to drop on me all at once." He looked at the corpse, trying not to curl his nose at the sight. "...I mean... no. Fuck, I'd hesitate to say anyone even deserves that, but mostly it just makes me feel... kinda sick."

Sollux slumped down. "I don't get it. This should be satisfying. We should be glad that she's dead, but we're not."

Again, Gamzee was there, suddenly resting a hand on Sollux's shoulder. "...Look, man. I'm sorry I'm not any help with this. Karbro is so much better at this shit than me, but..."

"...I guess it's not really her death that we're looking for. We're looking for a way to make it so all the problems she caused never happened. And... that's not gonna happen. I've accepted that Tav's not gonna get his legs back... and I think he's accepted that too. And, Aradia, wherever she might be now up in that Dark Carnival, knows that she's not coming back either. So... shit, maybe we should just... keep moving?"

Sollux stared at him blankly, before that default grouchy snarl crept back onto his face. "That's a really shitty way to end that spiel, you know that?"

Gamzee shrugged, that some color had bled back into Sollux's face. "Well, shit. I'm no Karkat and you know it."

"Yeah, you're not. I'd still be huddled up inside without that grouchy asshole."

Sollux sighed. Not tiredly, but like a weight had been lifted somewhat. With all that off his chest, Sollux tilted his head up. He nonchalantly lined up his swords and slid them down his throat, swallowing up his blades until only the hilts remained to dangled beneath his uvula. Gamzee squinted at him curiously.

"....What?"

"Shit, man, I have no idea how you manage to talk like that."

Sollux smirked, grabbing his faygo off the table and chugging it in two swigs. At this point, he was just showing off. "Very, very carefully. I'll teach you sometime."

Sollux threw the tarp back onto his cart and began peddling it out the door. "I'd better get going, the sun will rise soon." Gamzee waved him off as he opened the door, pausing just before he closed. "Oh, by the way. You owe me a game night. This one derailed."

Gamzee just nodded as Captor slammed the door, knowing that was Sollux-ese for "let's hang out sometime".

#bloodswaps #drabble #sollux captor #gamzee makara #aradia megido #vriska serket #tavros nitram #purple sollux

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xmalereader · 4 years

Text

Billy Hargrove X Male Reader

|| TWO ||

|| Masterlist ||

| ONE — TWO

Summary: Reader is new to Hawkins, his parents had just moved into the new house and are trying to start over from there old lives. But what if reader can’t? He’s still a messed up kid who’s tired of pretending to be happy...and that damn mullet head of a ghost won’t stop following him around!!

Warnings: angst, fluff, death, slight gore, PTSD, language.

“Tell me y/n, how is Hawkins treating you?”

Y/n was sitting across from his therapist, the therapist that his parents hired for him in case his mental health got worse. Hearing his therapist ask him that question makes him rolls his eyes. He hates this and he hates his parents, he was fine and he’s always going to be fine. He doesn’t need a therapist to tell him what to do or what not to do, he can take care of hismelf.

Sighing deeply he leans back on the couch. “Besides the smell? I’d say it’s alright,” he shrugs his shoulders. “It’s small and quiet but I like it that way, I don’t have to interact with anyone but myself.” He answers, giving the therapist a glance with a small frown on his face.

His therapist nods along to his words as she leans forward and sets her notebook down. “Your parents have told me that you’ve been speaking to someone named billy, is that right?”

Of course his parents would take notice of that, but like it even matters. “Yeah his name is billy.”

“And who is billy to you?”

Y/n rubs his temples in frustration. “Billy is a dead person that follows me around—a little annoying but he grows onto you.”

He really didn’t care if his therapist thought he was crazy, I mean; he’s been to a mental hospital and he knows what crazy is. He actually witnessed one of his friends go crazy on a doctor and used a spoon to try and gouge his eyes out...pretty funny actually, that was the most fun that y/n had seen that day before they took him away and sent him to his room.

“He’s a ghost?” Y/n nods in response, “I’m a little surpised that you aren’t freaking out about it.”

“Its my job to listen and besides I’ve heard crazier things.” She chuckles out and leans back in her chair, watching y/n closely as he took laughs. “I hate to say this but I miss the asylum.” This catches his therapists interest. “And why’s that?”

Y/n shrugs. “I mean its less lonely and I get to meet people that understand what I am going through and I don’t have to deal with my parents, its like all of my problems go away...had some really good friends there too, they were nice and crazy too.” He plays with the strings of his hoodie as he stares into space, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “The weird thing about them was their names.”

“Names?”

He nods and his eyes focus on the therapist. “They were named after numbers, like as if they were test subjects.” He mumbles out as his therapist makes note of this. “What about you? Most patients at mental hospitals go by different names, did you perhaps have a nickname between these friends of yours?”

Y/n thinks back to those other kids and remembers how different they are and how they were all just weird—freaks actually. “They called me Reaper—“ he smiles a little. “They thought it fit me becuase I was able to see the dead and reapers can see deaths and collect souls, expect mine is minus the soul thing.” He explains, smiling at the nickname that his old friends gave him before he was sent back home to his parents.

“It was nice being with them but at some point I had to go home.”

“Y/n?”

He looks up at her.

“How long were you in there?”

Y/n hesitates, licking his lips as he answers her. “Two years.”

“Thank you for coming Y/n, I’m glad that you took the time to come and talk to me.” His therapist stands up from her chair as she closed her notebook. “Our next appointment will be next week, same day and time.” She reminds him as y/n stands by the doorway and nods slowly. “Yeah, got it..” he grips the door handle and bids her a small goodbye before leaving, he makes sure to rush pass the front desk and outside. He’s quick to leave the premises.

“That was some deep stuff back there.”

Y/n groans and looks to his right to see billy standing next to him. “Yeah well, I can’t force you to leave now can I?” He points out with a forced smile. Making his way towards his bike , he grabs his backpack and unzips. “Your parents are really forcing this on you, huh?”

“Well what can I say? My parents think that they are helping me when really they are must making me go even more crazy and besides they have no idea that my appointment just ended, which is why I brought my bike in case they did forget—which they did!” He exclaims in anger and zips up his bag, putting his backpack on and taking his bike.

“Besides you can relate to me, right?” He gives billy a devilish smirk as he hopes onto the bike.

Both Billy and Y/n had gotttan to know each other to the point where they both knew everything about each other. Billy had told y/n about his abusive father and his mother who left him, he’s already met his step sister once back at the arcade but not his parents yet and he doubts that he’ll ever meet them.

As y/n bikes down the empty road he narrows his eyes at the street signs and makes a left instead of a right. “Home is that way!” He hears billy shout but he ignores him as he keeps biking and heads down a hill. The road was lonely and empty, he could sense a strange presence nearby and he can’t help but feel a little freaked out.

It doesn’t take him long to arrive to his destination as he slows his bike down and jumps off, walking towards ‘starcourt’ the mall that had burned down almost a year ago. The place was boarded up and fenced up too but that never stopped y/n from finding a way inside.

He leans his bike up against the fence and hums. “Sure..” he gives himself a shrug as he climbs and jumps over the fence, landing safety as he adjusts his backpack and grins.

“We can’t be here!” He waves billy off, “shut up.”

Y/n walks up to one of the boarded doors and sighs, looking down he sees a small hole—big enough to fit his hand through it. So, without thinking he sits on the floor and lifts his leg up, bending it back as he kicks on the hole, making it big enough to fit his whole body through.

Once the hole is big enough, he slips his backpack off and throws it in first. “Y/n...” he hears billy say in worry as he climbs through and coughs at the sudden dust. “Will you calm down?” He coughs out, picking up his backpack once again and reaches inside for a flashlight, turning it on he flashes the light around the place. “This is where you died right?” He blurts out.

Billy stands frozen next to him asking him, “how did you know that?”

Y/n lets out a small sigh as he flashes the light infront of him. “Lately I’ve been getting this strange feeling when I’m around you.” He turns to face billy giving him confused look. “I just can’t—I can’t seem to know why...so, when you weren’t around I would go on walks and sometimes I would walk here—“

“This is far from home though.”

“I know but something keeps calling out to me here and now that I am here, I know that this is the place that you died in, I can feel it.” He whispers, walking around the now empty mall as he flashes his light around, trying to see if he can find anything useful. “How did you die?” He suddenly asks, catching billy by surpise. “I already told you, you dont want to know.” He rolls his eyes.

“Okay yeah, you told me the same thing months ago but now I want to know.”

He stands infront of Billy, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits for an explanation. The two have nothing to hide from each other since one, billy is dead and can technically see everything that happens in y/n’s life while Y/n has to wait until billy decides to open up on his own but now...now he needs to know who billy really is.

Billy can only glare at him until he starts to speak. “I gave up my life to protect my sister and her friends and in teh end I got myself killed.”

Y/n narrows his eyes at him, their was something that he wasn’t telling him. “Billy. The truth. Now.”

Billy can see the desperate look in his eyes but he just can’t talk about it, he can’t talk about the day that he died he just couldn’t. He shakes his head and steps away from y/n. “I’m sorry.” He says in a soft tone before disappearing from y/n’s view.

The other teenager sighs and groans loudly, stomping his foot in anger as he turns around and begins to walk quickly through the mall. If billy didn’t want to talk to him then fine, he’ll just have to figure it out on his own.

The walk around the mall was tiring, the place was huge and two floors and yet, he finds nothing about the events that happened here. Kicking an old rusty can as he walks around the first floor. He flashes his light towards a few stores, raising a brow he grins. “Hey look, a gap.” He says to himself as he approaches the store and jumps over the counter that was in the way. “Whatever happened here must’ve been bad, they didn’t even clean the mess.” He mumbles, bending down to pick up a discarded yellow shirt before sighing and tossing it to the side. “There isn’t anything good here.” He whispers, stepping backwards and fully Turing around to jump back over the counter.

Before he can call it a day he sees something black at the corner of his eye.

Frowning, he turns to flash his light his light towards the center of the mall where he spots a large black spot. He doesn’t hesitate to make his way over. He walks around the large black spots and raises a brow. “Is that...dried up blood?” He slowly bends down to take a closer look at the dried up blood, reaching out with his hand he uses two fingers to touch it.

Once his fingers touch the black smudges he feels himself get lightheaded and pulled into a trance.

“Billy!”

“Take that you sick son of a bitch!!”

Gasping, he looks up with wide eyes to see a large creature standing over him—no them, he wasn’t alone. He looks around to see billy standing over a young girl, noticing the look of anger in his eyes as he tries to choke the girl to death. Hearing loud explosion he looks up to see more kids on the second floor throwing fireworks at the creature, hearing it roar in anger as It tries to get to the kids. “Were running out!”

“Keep distracting it! We can’t let it get to El!”

The place was in chaos, y/n could barely catch up onto what was going on. All he can hear were the explosions and the teenagers screaming at each other as they try to help one another. The noise was too much for y/n that he reaches up to cover his ears and close his eyes as he tries to stop himself from getting a panic attack.

“Y/—“

Who’s that?

“Y/n!”

Someones calling out to him.

“Y/N!!!”

His eyes fly open as he gasps heavily, stumbling back as he sees billy standing infront of him. “Y/n can you hear me?!” He was shaking and breathing heavily, his eyes were wide open in fear as he tries to focus on billy. “Hey, count with me.” He hears him say as Billy begins to count outloud for him to hear.

“One.”

Y/n’s breathing is getting heavier.

“Y/n! Come on and count, now one!” Billy shouts out.

“O—one...” he hears himself breath out as billy nods rapidly.

“Good! Good!! Now, two.”

Y/n continues to repeat after billy, focusing his eyes on Billy’s as the two count with each other.

Once they reach ten, y/n was able to calm down. His heart wasn’t beating anymore and he felt calmer, now that billy was here with him.

“What—what was that? What did I just see?”

“What are you talking about? I leave for ten minutes and when I come back I find you passed out on the floor! Next thing I know your waking up screaming!” Billy exclaims as the two stare at each other in confusion.

Did billy really not see what he saw? Was he imagining it all?

“I—I saw you—you were standing over a girl, she was young and maybe around fourteen and you were...you were strangling her and you looked angry.” He breaths out. “Then I saw this huge looking creature, it was all gooey and it had sharp teeth it was also angry...” he explains to billy, looking up at him to see a look of fear on his face. “Billy, what did I just see?”

Billy opens and closes his mouth, shaking his head becuase he knew that it was impossible for y/n to know all of this. The freak had just moved ot hakwins so, how did he know about all of this? This stuff wasn’t announced on the news, they only told the people that a fire started in the mall and nothing else. So, how does y/n know about this?

“Billy—“

“Hey!! You’re trespassing! This is private property!”

Y/n gasps as he spots a few cops by the entrance, groaning he stands up quickly and grabs his flashlight. “I am not getting anything else on my criminal record.” He growls out as he makes a run for it, heading deeper into the mall as he hears the cops chasing after him and shouting at him to stop running. “Criminal record?! What else have you done that is this bad?!” He hears billy yell as the two run through the mall and head up the second floor. “This way!” He hears billy say as he takes him through the back doors of one of the stores, going through the back as he looks around. “Do you know where your going?!”

“Yes!”

The two make it back onto the first floor and quickly find an exit. “Hurry!” Billy shouts as the two make a run for it into the woods.

Y/n was panting as he runs, his lungs were burning and his legs were slowly giving up on him. “We can’t stop or else the cops will get you!” Billy is quick to approach y/n and helps him up, taking his hand as he guides him through the woods. Once they were far enough he makes sure to find a secure place to stay hidden in as y/n slowly sits down on the floor. “I think we are good.”

“What is the matter with you?! Criminal record?? What else have you done to get yourself into trouble?!” He hears billy shout.

“In case you forgot, I just got out of a MENTAL HOSPITAL!!” Y/n shouts back in anger.

“That’s because you can see dead people! Btu you must’ve done other too like maybe kill someone or—“

“Billy.”

“—maybe you tried to murder someone because you wanted to expirment on them or something or you ran over someone with your car?”

“Billy!”

“What?!”

Y/n slowly lifts his hand up to show billy that he was holding his hand. “your still holding my hand.” He whispers out. “Billy, your dead...so how are you touching me?” Billys own eyes widen as he takes in the realization.

“Holy shit.”

#male reader #billy hargrove x male reader #billy hargrove #stranger things #stranger things x male reader #reader #darce montgomery

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novelconcepts · 4 years

Note

your hot takes in bly manor are honestly making my day SO: jamie and dani being direct parallels to peter and rebecca (peter and jamie both with abusive/tragic childhoods, rebecca and dani both being au pairs and falling for them).....let's discuss

Okay. I’ve been sitting on this since it came in, parsing it out, because it’s suuuuch a choice. Such a good solid, sometimes subtle choice to place these two love stories end to end. To have Peter and Jamie both come from low-income, low-class beginnings with shitty parents, and to watch them grow into such different adults. Peter, trying constantly to game the system, to pull himself up. Jamie, who has been through not only trauma, but also the therapy that was necessary after the fact, throwing herself as far into the opposite of the system as she can. Down to the way they dress: Peter trying to look upper class and rich in his suits, Jamie slouching around in whatever is functional and comfortable, not caring the least if there’s dirt on her face. They hold themselves as complete opposites, and they scorn each other’s way of existing in the world. Peter because Jamie looks like the help. Jamie because Peter acts like a controlling asshole.

So these women come into their lives, these women who are so similar on the surface. Both good with children, both nurturing, both smarter than anyone wants to give them credit for by looking. Both want to make a difference in the world: Rebecca wants to be a lawyer, and Dani just...wants to make some kind of impact. Both have been boxed in by society’s expectations. Pretty young women aren’t expected to be anything deeper. They both are running from that, and that leads them both to this house and this family.

Peter, now, Peter doesn’t do family. Peter’s home life sucked. Peter isn’t here to make friends, he’s here to climb the ladder. Peter wants nothing more than to be of Henry’s class, and is so resentful of being viewed as lesser. And that bitterness shapes his interactions with the family of Bly. He’s charming and fake and constantly throwing barbs at Hannah—and repeats it with Rebecca—about how they’re just the help. They’re not family. They don’t get to have that.

Jamie? This IS Jamie’s family. She’s scrappy and she’s rough around the edges and she’ll threaten to throttle a child, but she loves them. She loves these people, and she does have her own separate home, as Peter does, but she spends so much time with them all the same. Dinners and fixing things around the house that aren’t necessarily the gardener’s problem. And she’s been there for the kids’ performances, even if she rolls her eyes every time. She teases Owen and Hannah, she knows them, she lets them know her. No one is surprised when she and Dani fall in love. There are no awkward “what’s this gay shit” looks between Owen and Hannah about it. Just like Jamie clearly sees the chemistry between them, like you do when you love people and want them happy.

So Peter meets Rebecca and she’s...not a means to an end, exactly. She won’t help him climb. I do believe he loves her, in his own way. But it’s manipulative from the start. Point out the stain on her blouse, an instant flaw. Here, have some flowers—but I’ll give them to the child while looking at you. Pretend to be so nice and so good with kids, but as a show to make her interested. And even their first night together, he just...is lurking outside her door. We’re meant to think he’s a bump in the night, a scary ghost, until she opens the door.

Contrast with Jamie and Dani. Dani is instantly such a part of the family for Jamie that she doesn’t even think to introduce herself. You’re here, and I’m here, and why weren’t you here all along? Feels like you were. She teases Dani from the start: about being crap at making tea, about being American, about silly little things, but the first time she sees Dani in distress? She goes to her. She instantly tells her she’s doing well. And before that, she gives a glimpse of her own self: “I cry all the time.” Here is my vulnerability. I see yours, I give some back. Their first night together isn’t quick and it isn’t dirty and it isn’t even easily won. They’re slow. Glances. A brush of hands. Jamie staying over in the house to be close, like Peter does, but not going to Dani; she just sleeps on the couch alone. And there are conversations. Conversations about how Dani needs to take care of herself. About how Dani has felt pain and loss. And when Dani throws herself into a kiss, Jamie instantly asks if she’s sure. Consent all the way down, setting the stage for their whole life.

And even when they do go on that date, and Jamie does share so much of herself, and they do go to bed together—Dani wants her to stay. Instantly. “You could come back.” And Jamie gently, lovingly, says, “There will be other nights.” Contrast again with Peter grabbing Rebecca by the wrist. Dragging her back with physical restraint. Forcing her to stay. Jamie leaves for the night, with the promise that she will be back, and when she does stay: it’s forever. It’s on equal terms. I’m back, and I’m here, if you want me. If you want the company. You get to decide, too.

Peter? Peter tries to sweep Rebecca away. Quite literally. Tries to hide away with her in the forbidden wing. Tries to wrap her in upper class clothing he has no rights to. Tries to memorialize her in photos, keeping her stagnant, keeping her with him in a way that promotes no growth. He decides for the both of them how they will be: when he can be kind, when he can abuse her for innocuous actions, when he will sweep back into her life and pretend it never happened. He doesn’t invite her to America; he says he’s got a plan. He makes it sound grand and exciting, but never tells her he’s going to make her an accomplice to theft. And when he dies, he intentionally haunts her—hides her away in her own memories—lies to her to make sure he won’t be alone. Kills her, because it’s better than never having her at all. He takes all that potential and reduces it to a moment’s decision without her consent. And leaves her to feel it alone.

Jamie...Jamie is all about growth. Jamie is all about organic forward momentum. Giving Dani space to say no, to breathe, to choose. Giving her options. Maybe we can go on this adventure together. Vermont, maybe—but doesn’t have to be. I just want to be with you, in whatever way makes you happy. They make a plan together. And they don’t hide away from anything. She certainly will never leave Dani to feel pain alone. She actively, intentionally says, “I will feel everything for both of us.” I will never let you carry this alone. You are here. Stay with me, please. Not by holding too tight or twisting the narrative, but just with the simple love of someone who wants to be with their person forever.

And of course that’s why the way Dani leaves hurts, and why it’s necessary. She knows Jamie too well. Jamie would want to be dragged down with her, if it meant not being alone. If Peter would kill to stave off loneliness, Jamie would die for it. And Dani can’t have that.

This is long, I’m sorry, but one more thing: it’s not lost on me that Peter’s preservation of Rebecca is a static photograph and Jamie’s is a story. Stories have a way of taking on lives of their own. Of growing and changing details with every retelling. Of being organic beasts in their own right. A photo stays the exact same forever, until it fades away. A story? A good story breathes.

#the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #the haunting of meta #dani x jamie #otp: dani and jamie #this got way out of my control but I couldn’t help it #and there’s obviously what we’ve talked about before with flowers but there’s just so much more than I realized until I thought it through #the whole story is so so intentionally parallel

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pyraffin-drgo · 3 years

Text

All Heavy interactions in Poker Night at the Inventory.

For you to interpret however you wish.

Video Version

(They have [bootleg movies] in your country?) "I like movies, yes." (Yeah, like what? [Lists movies]?) "No. My favorite are The Dirty Dozen and the first twenty minutes of Rocky four."

(We can talk Tetris?) "Hmmph. Tetris is baby game." (Tetris Attack keeps it hood!) "Why does everybody think I love this Tetris? It is just stacking!"

"[To Strongbad] Tiny Heavy." (What is it?) "Do you get the nightmares?" (I get the jibblie nightmares. [Describes silly nightmare, shivers].) "I am talking about the visions of endless suffering. Dead doctors everywhere. Spy can not be found. (No, but that sounds like the Jibblies.) "I do not like these 'jibblies.'"

"Strong and bad. How is boxing career?" (These. Are. My. HANDS!) "I was boxer, once. In school. We have to either box or learn to herd goats." Silence, looking concerned. "I am not good with goats..." (Too much information, man.) "At first, I do not like punching other boys... But then I learn to love it." Punches his palm menacingly.

(Find any rare drops lately?) "I do not understand." (When you get a kill, you get a present?) "When I get kill, I get honor of team." Smile drops. "Sometimes... I also get nightmares. A man does not go home to his wife and children." (So, no loot?) "Oh! You mean hat! Yes, I love hats! Sometimes, I get these. They are the best."

(Hey, Heavy. You know any hot Russian spies?) "I hate spies." (But you gotta have the inside line on some deadly minxes.) "You want hot spy?" (Am I not wrestle man?) "I have friend who gets you a hot spy. (Get em on the two-way, man!) "His name is Pyro." (Tycho, to Strongbad: The spy is hot because it is on fire.) (Oh...)

"[To Tycho] What do you do with life?" (Me?) "Yes. What is possible with tiny, frail body?" (I occupy myself with simulations... of various kinds.) "What is these?" (Struggles to explain.) (Strongbad: He lives in his parent's basement.)

(So, is there a Mrs. Weapons Guy?) "No. Sasha is my only love." (Sasha kills people, I presume?) "No." (Oh?) "WE kill people."

"[To Strongbad] Maybe you and I box?" (I can't risk my beautiful face, it's the franchise.) "We spar. For fun." (I don't think so.)

"Strong and bad. You wrestle? With mask?" (No, I'm a wrestle man, not those hack wrestle-LERS.) "Not like Iron Sheik?" (No, Iron Stake is a LER.) Heavy nods. "Hmm. This is too bad."

(So how long you been with those Team Fortress fellas?) "I do not understand." (The game's been on Steam for like 3 years. I imagine there was some audition process?) "Ohhh! Yes, I understand! I kill many men VERY quickly." (Excuse me?) "I kill record number of soldiers, and I am commissioned to join RED team."

(Mr. Weapons. I am in the market for a new firearm. [Specifications].) "Hmm, for you I do not recommend minigun then. You know, there is this fast baby man that annoys me greatly with shotgun." (Oh! Oh! What are the available options? I'll spring for leather!) "Da, this is good for you. I suggest Force-A-Nature." (I'll tell them [shop owner] Heavy Weapons Guy sent me.) "It is no need. I know guy."

"I will make hat from you, little bunny." No reply from anyone. A reference for the player to the Max hat in TF2.

"You look familiar, bunny." (How closely do you follow the Manhattan Crime Blotter?) Also a reference to the hat, Tycho then takes over conversation.

(If I need someone snuffed out, what's your going rate?) "Five hundred thousand U.S. dollars." (Steep.) "Cash." (You can do it discreetly?) "Sasha... not so discreet." (That's fine.)

(How did you guys hear of the inventory?) "My engineering friend brought me one night."

(This reminds me of the time Artie Flopshark rigged an entire poker tournament to pay off his loan shark.) "I know of this. This is respectable profession in motherland." Conversation is stolen by Tycho.

(This reminds me of [story]!) "I am reminded of time Engineer kill my entire team." (Damn Heavy, that's... heavy. Sorry to hear that.) "I search entire base for him. He tries to kill me with turret and mini turret, but I crush his toys like they are made of paper." (Sounds like crappy toys.) "Then I find him. Hiding by teleporter. I take his gun away from him. He tries to hit me with wrench! Hahohoh! So I take wrench away from him. I take his wrench and shove it down his throat, all the way down to the handle." (Christ!) Heavy laughs. "Then I rip off all his fingers one by one!" He talks while laughing. "Lets see you build toys now!" He breaks out in laughter. "There's blood- everywhere! And- he's crying!" More laughter. "I think he cries out for mother, but- but-" Crumples over laughing. "The wrench is stuck in his throat! And it sounds like-" Makes choking motions and noises then laughs. "Is this not the funniest thing??" (Horrified looks) (Head shakes slowly.) (That's some bleeped up bleep, man!)

(How about you, Heavy weapons? I'm guessing you're a vodka guy?) "Peach Bellini. But bubbles can give me headache."

(Mr. Weapons, how do you like your line of work?) "It is good. There are many benefits." (Oh! Like a free pass to snuff out bad guys or a waffle bar?) "Both. And full dental."

(I wonder if this dump is haunted.) (I hope so! Roughing up who can't die is fun!) "...I do not like ghosts..." (It's okay, Mr. Weapons. I have [extensive experience]. I can handle a few ghosts.) "...You will take care of ghosts for me?" (You bet cha!) Heavy nods at him. "I like you, tiny rabbit."

[Story including a union] "I am union. RED local six fifteen." (You guys unionized?) "Eh. It was necessity for group medical."

"Tycho. This sweater, is special equipment?" (No, standard issue.) "You have no class specific head gear?" (Got a motorcycle helmet that protects from 100% of UV rays.) "This sounds beneficial."

(Why do you keep calling me 'Tiny Heavy'?) "You are Heavy. Tiny. No? You are RED team. You have killing gloves of boxing. You earn these for being great killer! You should try out for RED team." (Hmm. Guess I could join your team of ruthless killers and lame hat wearers and watch you get grenaded by 8 year olds.) "You will take many bullets before dying I think."

(Hey, Heavy. I just finished [Russian fantasy book]. Ever read it?) "No." (Oh. What's your favorite book?) "I prefer war." (Ah, War and Peace. Tasteful.) "No. Just war." (Art of War?) "Nyet." Silence. "I like 'Tsar Hunger' by Leonid Andreyev. You know this?" (...No.) "Is classic."

"You have hands like young girl." (I keep them shits moist.) "...So you are more of sneaky, stabbing type?" (In an extreme circumstance, I guess.) Heavy looks at him suspiciously. "I keep my eyes on you." (No, no no- I wasn't implying that-) Heavy looking at him angierly. (Shit.)

(Ever listen to music while you work?) "Yes! I just buy new walkman." (What gets you in the killing mood? Icelandic death metal?) "I just get Huey Lewis tape. Keeps spirits up on battle field."

"[To Tycho] You have woman?" (Not with me) "She is pretty?" (Yeah, cute, glasses, red hair.) "She has the red hair??" (No, Heavy! She is not on the other team! Don't have to kill her!) "No. But I love the red hair!" (Well, you can't have her, either.) Re-used image of Heavy looking at him angrily. (Well, maybe we can work something out.)

(Hey, Heavyman. You think you can 'take care' of the King of Town for me?) "I can assassinate king, yes. It is expensive, though." (By take care of I meant sneak in and shave off half his mustache.) "I am not best at sneaking." (Confront him in a dark alley then?) "This is better. That way blood wash away in rain."

(You have any interest in moonlighting?) "WHAT? I am not moonlighter!" (Just a little work on the side with Sam and me beating up goons!) "Oh. I can not do this." (C'mon it's fun and free!) "No, I am sure it is." (Then what's the problem?) "I have non compete." (Ah, yeah. Lawyers.)

(All these aces reminds me of [weird dream]. You have any weird dreams, Mr. Weapons?) "I sometimes dream that I am killed. There is blood everywhere. (Tycho gives him a weird look) But then I wake up and I realize this is ridiculous! Nobody can kill Heavy weapons guy! (Riiiight...)

"[To his chips] This is good Solider. This one is good Doktor. You are demolition man."

"Saaaandvich, sandvich, I love you sandvich!" (Would you like someone to order you some food?)

"Blue man." (Tycho.) "Tycho. What college do you go to? You are educated, no?" (Actually, no.) "No?" (I studied at Gygax Polyhedral if you catch my drift.) "I do not. This is good school?" (Uh. The best.) "I went to Soviet College of Mines, Farms, and Science. I have PhD in Russian literature." (Do you.. use that in your work?) "More than you think."

"Tiny Heavy, who is your favorite to kill in war?" (Those discount three-pack green helmets.) "To kill spy is glorious thing! How about you, Max? You are killing type." (My favorite enemy? Like asking me to choose between my children!) Heavy laughs. "You crack me up, little bunny!"

(Hey, Hefty Bag, you ever play video games?) "Just one." (Oh yeah?) "It is called-" (Tycho: WoW?) "Nyet. That is not popular. It is called 'Where's an Egg'." (Strongbad: I love Where's an Egg!) "Where's an Egg is as big as Tetris in homeland."

(Concerning your firearm, whay caliber we talking?) "Big." (What, we talking 300 Weatherby Mag here?) "Bigger." (50 cal, whereabouts?) "Bigger than 50 caliber. They are hand made custom tool cartridges with classified diameter." (Why's that?) "So enemy canmot use ammunition. But Sasha can chew through theirs." (Diabolical!) "I think so." Nods.

(Alright, big pretend killer man. Tell me the most awesome story you have with plenty of senseless violence!) Heavy thinks. "When I was boy, I was at camp, being trained in many ways of combat." (Assassination camp for kids! This is gonna be good!) "There was sparrow sitting on fence. Snow falls quietly around me. Without notice, another boy jumps from behind tree and kills sparrow with throwing knife. The boy runs away." (And then??) "I pick up sparrow, and hear his last breath before digging him tiny grave..." (Tycho crying) (Max silent) (That's not even a little bit funny, man.) Heavy shakes his head solemnly. "No..." Sits back. "It's not."

(So, what do you do for fun?) "Clean Sasha. Use Sasha... Clean Sasha again." (Proper maintience is crucial.) "I also collect old coins." (A fellow numismatist!) "Which I melt down to make custom bullets." (Of course.)

"I am hungry for sandvich." (Then order a sandvich, man.) "Oh, I can not have sandvich! I become unstoppable killing machine!" (Yeah, maybe order a water.) "Is best."

"You wear blue sweater." (All the time.) "What are you?" (Haven't we went over this?) "You are not Scout. Maybe very tricky blue Spy? Maybe... new class?" (I can use a keyboard to sabotage your entire team, steal your intelligence, and have your sister delivered to my doorstep in one afternoon. Yes, I'm a new class.) Heavy, shocked, "This is true??"

(Hey, Heavyman, what's your living situ-aysh?) "I live in RED barraks. Is nice. There is foos table." (How about taking a room in the house of Strong?) "There is vacancy?" (First you'll have to dump the current person in your room.) "This is enemy?" (He won't put up much of a fight.)

Hope you enjoyed, spent most of the day copying all these down. The non-Heavy lines are paraphrased for shortness. Heavy's are full, how they are in game.

#long post #tf2 #team fortress 2 #heavy #tf2 heavy #heavy weapons guy #poker night #poker night at the inventory #neat

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staticscreenwriting · 3 years

Text

The loneliest time of the year || Part two

Part 2 of 4

Summary: With a broken heart and the fear of having failed as a father, Frankie returns to his parents house for Christmas. What is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year feels quite lonely. Though when an old friend shows up unexpectedly with her young son in tow, Frankie’s Christmas seems to gain a little more happiness. Can they help each other fight the ghosts of their pasts and overcome their fears ?

A/N: This is part of my 12 days of Christmas / Advent special. Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated.

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Four messed up pies

By the morning of December 9th a heavy blanket of snow rests upon the world like a tick coat of marshmallow fluff.

A restlessness surges through Frankie as he turns from his left to his right to his back then repeats the process all over again. He kicks away the blankets then pulls them back. Sleep doesn’t come easy these days. In fact sleep hasn’t come easy in a while. It’s a price you have to pay for leading the life he leads, has led. For doing the job he did. You see things, bad things, and they stay with you. Not always but in the quiet moments they creep back into your mind and all you can do is stare and hope they fade again soon. Fill your brain with other things. Occupy your mind.

It’s moments like these that his fingers are twitching and his body is aching for release. For something to numb his mind. Help him forget.

There aren’t a lot of things that Frankie is proud of. In fact he can count them on one hand. One of them is his ability to fly. He's a damn good pilot … most of the time. (He is when someone doesn’t force him to navigate an overloaded plane across the Andes). He’s proud of Rosie. Despite his flaws and shortcomings he managed to create something so utterly perfect, that’s something to be proud of. And the. There’s the little coin in the pocket of his jacket. The one he fumbles with whenever he’s anxious or stressed. It’s gold and smooth and it proudly displays a big number 10 in the middle of a triangle on the front of the coin.

10 months. That’s a proud achievement.

It could be more. It should be more! He really tried but after coming home from Colombia, one man less than they went in, after his girlfriend broke up with him and took Rosie with her. After everything. He needed the psi to stop. Just for one goddamn minute. He felt immediate regret wash over him when he woke up the next morning. Called Pope. Entered a 12 step program.

10 months and he feels better. He likes himself more now. But in those 10 months the voices have gotten louder, the images clearer, his heart feels heavier.

With sleep being so far out of reach, he kicks off the blanket and drags his body out of bed. The smell of coffee hits his nose as soon as he steps out of his room, it drifts from the kitchen all the way up the stairs.

His parents are sitting by the kitchen counter, mom holding onto a big steaming mug of coffee while his dad is deeply invested in the morning. Paper, glasses perched low on his nose. This is home, it sends him straight back to his childhood. If only, he thinks, if only he could provide this sense of warmth and domesticity for his own child.

A knock on the front door shakes him from his thoughts. As he swings it open, a sharp sting of cold winter air whips at him, nips at his nose, his ears and his bare feet.

“Frankie hey, oh sorry did I wake you?”

(Y/N) is once again bundled up in layers of cozy clothes, keeping her warm and sheltered from the harsh weather. She looks cute. Absolutely fucking adorable. But in that moment, he doesn’t really notice that. Doesn’t notice Leo standing behind her either. His entire attention rests on the steaming pie she holds in her hands.

“You made a pie?”

“She made 4.” Leo speaks up, his voice dripping with irritation and annoyance.

“Thanks for throwing me under the bus, dude!”

Frankie regards the exchange with a fond smile pulling at the corners of his lips. There’s something so distinctly familiar in the way she interacts with her son, so unapologetically her. The way she’s always been. But now grown up entirely. A mother.

“Why did you make 4 pies?” He asks, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Well I didn’t plan on making 4. The first one I mistook salt for sugar so you can imagine how it tasted. The second one I put way too much sugar in, might’ve been trying to compensate for my mistake with the first one but yeah that one did end up in the trash as well. The third … well I got pretty invested in an episode of unsolved mysteries and forgot it was in the oven so it turned out um — “

“Black. It was burned to a crisp.” Leo chimes up again, this time more amused than annoyed by his mother’s baking escapades.

“Yeah. It burned. But number 4 is looking pretty good.”

She looks up at Frankie with a smile so radiant it rivals the sun reflecting on the snowy ground. Pride shines in her eyes as she holds the pie towards him.

“Did you make me a pie?”

“Not exactly. It’s mostly for your folks. They agreed to watch this one while I got shopping for his Christmas presents.” (Y/N) explains, her tumb motioning towards the little boy over her shoulder. “This is a thank you to them for being literal angels. “

“Oh man you wouldn’t be saying that if you had to live with them growing up. I can’t tell you how many times dad unplugged my console while I was in the middle of a game.”

It’s a joke, of course it is. He really lucked out in the parents department and he’s not too proud or too shy to admit it. Maybe, he thinks, the good parent gene might’ve skipped a generation with him. His ex will surely agree with that statement.

“Hey uh — you mind having some company while shopping ?”

“You wanna go shopping for toys?”

“I need to get some presents for my daughter.”

“Oh that’s right, you have a kid too. “

He doesn’t blame her for not remembering. He doesn’t strike people as the father type. And really, he hasn’t seen his little one in quite some time.doesn’t see her during the entire Christmas time. Is he really much of a father anyway?

“Sure yeah! I’d love some company.”

Maybe, Frankie thinks, this will help him drown out the voice. Those that tell him bad thoughts, whisper mean things. Maybe it will help him filter out the images. The blood. The suffering.

Frankie was never overly fond of the extreme commercialization of what should be a peaceful family holiday. But maybe this year he is,a little bit at least. Because those bright colors, the loud noises, the crowds, the ads assaulting you from every corner, that all will help drown out the dark. At least for a moment.

“Alright lemme just get changed real quick.”

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Five days a week

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s uh … it’s a … a game?”

“A game where you have to catch a piece of … poop.”

A wave of laughter tumbles from (Y/N)’s lips as Frankie holds up the brightly colored box, proudly displaying a drawing of a smiling turd.

“It’s so dumb. And that says a lot coming from me, I can appreciate a good fart joke. But this is …. this is just dumb. “

“ It's what the kids these days want. I guess …”

“Would you buy this for Leo?”

“Absolutely not,” (Y/N) replies before taking the box from his hand and placing it back on the shelf between several more games of a similar kind. “But he wouldn’t like it anyway. Leo likes books and animals and fantasy movies. He’s so smart sometimes I wonder where he got it from.”

“You kidding me?” Frankie exclaims, “you’re so smart and if I remember correctly, you always carried around books when you were younger.”

(Y/N) just shrugs at his words though Frankie can’t make out a faint blush of red dusting her cheeks. “Leo is such an easy kid, always has been. Sometimes I wonder if that’s really the way he is or if he just tries to be that way because of me. Because he knows that I have to do all the parenting by myself and he feels he’s responsible for helping me along.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re doing good with him. Least you know what to get him for Christmas, what he cares about, what he’s interested in.”

His heart feels so heavy. His words seem to weigh down on his tongue like a stack of bricks. To admit your own failures to yourself is one thing, to admit them to someone else is quite another story.

“What do you mean ?”

“I — I have no idea what to get for Rosie. I don’t even know when I’ll see her next. She stays with her mom 5 days a week. I only get her on the weekends and even then her mom often finds a reason not to let her stay. Special occasions? I don’t get to spend those with her. Bet she doesn’t even recognize me anymore next time. She’s just a baby …”

This can’t be happening. He’s not going to start crying in the middle of a Toys R Us like a hyperactive toddler on a temper tantrum. Not in front of a beautiful girl who has been nothing but kind to him. This can’t be happening.

(Y/N)’s hand settles on his arm with a gentle touch. Almost as if she’s afraid he’ll break any minute now. And honestly, he might.

“Tell me about Rosie. I know she means the world to you and that’s all that matters Frankie. You’re trying. You’re trying so hard and I’m sure there’s lots about her that you know that no one else does. She’s your baby too. So tell me about her and we’ll figure out what to get her.”

And so they sit down on a swing set, one that’s definitely not meant for adults to sit on and have deep discussions, and Frankie starts talking. Once he starts it’s like a cork has been popped. It pours out of him, all of his pride and admiration and love for Rosie. All that has been brewing for so long now bubbles over.

“... and she, she loves cuddling onto my chest and just listens to me. She doesn’t understand a word but she looks at me with her big beautiful eyes and it feels like I’m telling her all the biggest secrets of the universe the way she looks at me. Sometimes I sing and she — she falls asleep immediately.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Nah I think it's because my rendition of Eric Clapton is just real bad and boring.”

Their laughter is quiet, almost as if they are afraid of breaking the spell of this moment. Sometimes you find yourself at your most vulnerable during the big moments of your life and sometimes you do in the middle of a Toys R Us, sitting on a swingest that just barely holds your weight while a plastic giraffe looks over your shoulder and Kacey Musgrave’s rendition of “I’ll be home for Christmas” plays over the same overhead speakers that have been installed there in 1983.

“I just don’t want to disappoint her.”

He’s already disappointing himself and that hurts bad enough.

“Frankie, let me be honest with you. She’s a baby, she’s not gonna care what you get for her. This is more about you than her. Whatever you get she’s gonna like it. Babies are easy to please, gets harder the older they get. We’ll find something cute for her but um … I think you should call her.”

“She’s a baby, she doesn’t have a phone yet.”

“ Really? I had Leo on a newborn data plan the second he popped out.”

Frankie raises his eyebrow in confusion.

“I was joking you dingus. Of course you’re gonna call her mom. There’s this thing, I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, it’s called FaceTime. You can actually see ther person on the other side. “

“ Very funny. I know what facetime is … “

“ Then call them. You said it yourself, the little one doesn’t understand a word of what you’re saying but that doesn’t matter. You’re there. You’re showing interest and taking initiative. It shows you care. And I think seeing her might be good for you too, even if it’s not in person.”

“ You know, that sounds like a pretty good plan. “

“ Yeah? “ she asks him, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes, in her voice, in her entire being.

“ Yeah. “

“ Alright! Now let’s go find some presents for the little princess. May I suggest a cellphone? “

This time her laughter isn’t quite. It’s loud and radiant and the way her own joke amuses herself, is so goddamn endearing to Frankie.

“ Ah shut up. “ he replies though his voice too is dipped in amusement as he throws his arm around her shoulders and they walk down the shiny linoleum floor, past dolls and teddy bears and Star Wars action figures.

And it feels right. Like the fit together perfectly. Like puzzle pieces slotting into place.

And that feeling is damn scary.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Six-hour flights.

The floor of (Y/N)’s living room is covered in wrapping paper. Reds and greens and silvers and golds hide what once was a nice dark cherry wood floor. There are bows and ribbons and gift tags in all shapes and sizes and colors.

“ Looks like Santa’s workshop in here, “ Frankie exclaims as he drops down on the floor next to her. All the presents they’ve purchased, neatly lined up in front of them, ready to be wrapped. Though to be fair, Frankie is quite sure he’s not gonna do a lot of wrapping himself. Sometimes you gotta admit defeat. And he ain’t too proud to admit that he is a horrible, horrible wrapper.

“ Yeah, I know I’m making a big fuss over things like this. Wrapping and the tree and stuff like that. I just — I don’t know it just makes me happy when I see that my actions put a smile on the faces of the people I love. “

“ Oh I wasn't judging. It’s sweet. “

For a while they stay in comfortable silence. Just them and the radio playing old Christmas songs. (Y/N)’s hands do quick work on the presents, Santa’s elves would be jealous.

It’s the first time in a long time, that silence doesn’t make him feel uncomfortable. That it doesn’t open up the gates for the voices to grow louder and the bad images to consume his head. No, this silence feels comfortable. It’s soft and warm. It’s tinted in golds and reds.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe seeking the company of someone who exudes joy and warmth does him good. Someone who knows him but not the bad. Never the bad. The faults, yes, the fears even, but not the blood that stains his hands or the vices he so desperately tries to fight.

“ What was the best Christmas present you ever got? “ (Y/N) speaks up as she glides a pair of scissors along the ribbon turning it into shiny curls.

“ Millennium Falcon playset.”

“ You and a million other little boys. “

“True. What can I say, I was easily pleased. What was yours ?”

(Y/N) thinks for a moment before a wistful smile settles on her face.

“My bubblegum pink roller skates.”

“Oh, I remember those!”

And he did. Squeaky pink roller skates with 4 pastel blue wheels and glittery silver laces.

“I remember the following summer all you did was skate up and down the street. “

“Yeeeah but that wasn’t entirely because of the skates.”

Frankie combs his hair from his face, he really needs to get it cut, and looks at her in confusion. “Huh?”

Another chuckle falls from (Y/N) ‘s lips. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”

“ Notice what?”

“That I had the biggest crush on you.”

Frankie is grateful for the fact that he’s not taking a sip of his drink right then, it surely would’ve ended in a spit-take. He was a nerdy kid, a nerdy teenager too. Kinda shy, a little lost. He wasn’t usually the boy that girls fancied.

“Me? You had a crush on me? “

It doesn’t make sense, not really. She was the one that was fascinating and exciting. Though he didn’t think of her that way when they were kids, he knew she was beautiful even back then. He hadn’t been interested in her romantically because she was a few years younger but that didn’t meanie didn’t realize the magic she held.

“Yes, you. You were cool, Frankie. You were older and you knew stuff about cars and planes and you could name every Star Wars spaceship and you had a skateboard. “

“I was a horrible skater.”

“Sure but it wasn’t so much about the skating as it was about the aesthetic. You were cool and you still are cool”

Frankie shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. She thought he was cool, still does. No one ever thought he was cool. He isn’t a smooth talker like Pope and even he himself can admit that look wise he isn’t even playing in the same league as Will and Benny. But if (Y/N) thinks he’s cool that must mean something. Right ?

“You were the one traveling all over the world with your dad and you thought I was cool?”

She sets down the scissors, let’s her hands rest on her lap. There’s a sense of nervousness exuding from her now. Like the words she wants to speak are resting on the tip of her tongue and yet they are so difficult to speak.

“Maybe that was part of it too. I never had a real home. Nothing stable at least. Except for my grandparents’ house. This was home and you were, you are, forever entwined with my idea of home. Sometimes I missed this place so much that I’d sit in my room and my little brain would think of all the fun adventures we could go on if only I was old enough to hop on a 6 hour flight by myself. I’d ask grandma about you every time I called and she always told me what trouble you got into.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yeah and that only made you more exciting in my eyes. Then she’d offer to let me speak to you but I was too chicken shit to do it. Thought you might look right through my facade and realize how into you I was.”

“I was so oblivious, I can assure you I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Well … it’s too late now.”

“I guess so. Just — next time you fall in love with me let me know, alright.”

Her laugh rings through the room like bells, like songs, like whispers of a childhood magic long forgotten.

“That only sounds fair. It’s a deal.”

“Good, now …. would you mind wrapping my gifts for Rosie?”

“Nope, but in return would you come see Leo’s play with me next week? My dad can’t come and I think Leo would like to have some more people there that support him. And he seems to think you’re cool so …”

“Huh guess if you both think so it must be true.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Of course I’ll come. “

She smiles and it sends a weird flicker through him. Like fire, like electricity.

“ Now let me teach you how to curl the ribbon properly.”

#francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagine #frankie morales x you #francisco morales imagine #frankie morales imagines #triple frontier imagine #triple frontier imagines #catfish imagine #catfish x reader #catfish x you #jos2020xmasspecial

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