#this is supposed to be vaguely reminiscent of ch 15

[axealiin]

the finches

[thetomorrowshow]

Slower Than Words Ch. 2

1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11

A/N: So, I lied. I know I said that I was looking at 10 chapters, but it’s going to be a bit longer than that. I’m thinking 12-15 now! Anyway, I hope y’all enjoy!

Just a reminder that there is a cult featured in this fic. I am in no way endorsing cults, nor am I criticizing anyone’s religion.

CW: kidnapping, food mention, inflicted blindness

~

Patton had always been, in general, a happy person. Sure, he couldn't hear. His father, however, had always taught him that a disability was only an ability with extra letters.

He'd never been allowed to learn how to read lips—it was something he'd read about, but knew he couldn't figure out without a teacher. The one time he'd asked Father, the man had grabbed his hands and pulled him into the hall closet, quickly signing to never bring it up again.

Father had homeschooled Patton—not unusual, everyone in the Haven homeschooled, but what was unusual was that they also home-churched. Everyone else went to chapel, so why couldn't they? Father never explained why.

Patton didn't see much of anyone else. As a child, he played outside with the other children in the Haven, but soon they ignored him in favor of their hearing friends. He saw people at the socials, but Father tended to guide him away from the big conversations, letting him know that what they were talking about wasn't important.

While a little lonely, life was fine. Patton had Father to talk to, books to read, and a house to live in. He had a job washing dishes in the Haven's charity hall, mostly so that he wouldn't be alone while Father was at work. Father worked at the Lab in the center of the Haven, a very prestigious job that made him well-regarded in the community. Life was fine. Everything was fine.

Until one day, it wasn't.

That day, Patton walked home from work to find Father hurriedly packing a bag, his lab coat and tie askew.

That day, as Patton tried to get his father's attention so he could ask what was wrong, the burly perimeter guards of the Haven shoved Patton out of the way.

That day, the last thing Patton saw of his father was a quick flash of his hands as they dragged him away—I love you.

-

Patton had gotten on decently for the past year without Father. He continued to go to work, continued to study the Haven's theology. He missed dinner, where the chairs would both be filled. He missed sitting in Father's room on the bed, looking over a book together. Sometimes, Father would get out the big book of maps that he kept behind the bookcase and show Patton how big the world was.

Now Patton realized how big the world was without his father to fill it.

Patton attended chapel every Sunday now, even though he had no idea what was going on. The prayers were weird, once he realized they were prayers. It was nothing like Father had taught him—there was more pounding on pulpits and angry faces then he was used to. There was much more hand-holding, much more mouth-moving. Sometimes, there was even crying, but Patton didn't know why. Still, every Sunday morning he put on one of Father's many blue ties and walked to the center of the Haven for church, just beside the Lab.

That was how they got him.

-

It started out as a normal Sunday.

The alarm clock on the his pillow vibrated, and Patton gradually woke up. He rolled out of bed and put on his nicest clothes, brushing his teeth soon after. He didn't eat breakfast or lunch on Sundays—no one in the Haven did, that time was reserved for fasting.

It still felt wrong, disturbing the dust in Father's room just to get one of his ties. He supposed he could move the ties, if it bothered him that much, but Patton couldn't bear to move what was lodged so firmly in his memories. Hardly anything in Father's room was touched, and he intended to keep it that way. He had unpacked the suitcase Father had been hurrying to fill on that last day—it was mostly food and some clothes, with a blue pocket-sized notebook that only had nonsense scribbling in it. Patton kept it in his pocket at all times, and now slipped it into his khakis (his only nice pants, he daily wore Haven-made jeans and the khakis were one of his only possessions from outside the perimeter).

Tie tied, Patton started the short walk to church.

Church was as usual, but for some reason more uncomfortable than it had been so far—which was saying something. Now, though, Patton felt as if he was being watched. He shook it off as nonsense. Everyone knew who he was, just as he knew who everybody was. The Haven wasn't very large, after all.

Patton left just before church ended—he often left during the last hymn, it generally got very confusing after that—and discovered that he was not the only one who left early, as a sack was pulled over his head. He struggled for a moment, before the woozy smell of the inside of the sack hit him and he was out like a light.

-

The first thing Patton did when he woke up was cough.

The second thing was take in his surroundings. He was in a small room, plaster walls and concrete floor painted grey. He was on a bed, and there was another pushed up against the wall on his right. A heavy-looking door was set into the wall opposite, with what looked almost like a locked doggy door in the foot of it. Other than the beds, the only break in the monotony of the room was a curtained-off segment with a toilet and sink—if you could call it a sink. It was more of a faucet sticking out of the wall, a shelf with a bar of soap beside it.

That first day, Patton wandered the room, pressing every spot on the wall, knocking on the door, pushing at the flap in the door. Nothing budged. Eventually, he retired to the bed he'd woken up in, the true magnitude of his situation hitting him all at once. He managed to retain composure until he checked his pocket—they had taken Father's notebook. Patton cried for hours.

Every day passed similarly. At first, it took Patton a long time to figure out the day and night schedule, but eventually he trained his body to wake up when the meal that felt most like breakfast was pushed through the flap. He'd been there, wallowing in his boredom, for maybe two weeks when the man was pushed in.

Patton was on the bed when it happened. The people that dragged him in wore masks, but Patton still recognized them from their hair—Brother Gracer, from next door; Brother Hadley, from the charity hall. They left the man curled up on the floor, not even sparing a glance in Patton's direction before leaving once again.

The man was dressed in Outsider clothes—a black hoodie with purple patches, soft-looking jeans. Like Patton, he didn't wear shoes—but Patton had to wonder if they'd been taken from him too, or if he'd never had any in the first place.

While he stared, frozen in shock, the man moved. He carefully stood, wavering dangerously, and on his first step stumbled and hit the floor. Patton winced, but the man got back up and tried again. This time he managed two steps before falling. He wasn't coming anywhere near Patton—he was actually facing the direction of the door—but Patton pressed himself against the wall anyway. Everyone in the Haven had an uneasy fear of Outsiders. They were rash and sinful, and would stop at nothing to drag everyone down with them.

The man seemed to realize that he wasn't able to walk, because now he was crawling, one arm outstretched and shaking. His fingers slammed into the door moments later, and the man recoiled before falling again. This time, he didn't try to get back up, instead curling on his side. It took Patton a couple of minutes to realize the man was sniffling—maybe crying, maybe cold.

Yes, it was an Outsider, but everyone got cold or sad, didn't they? Everyone needed help. A few minutes more, and Patton had gathered enough strength to slip off the bed and pad across the floor. Before he lost his nerve, he reached down and poked the Outsider's shoulder. The man gasped and reared back, preparing to attack, and Patton jumped away. It wouldn't do to make him angry. Still, though, the man looked cold, and that was something Patton knew he could fix.

He debated for a second over whether to get his own blanket or the one off the untouched bed—but that one was coated in dust, and for all Patton knew, the man was allergic to dust, so he grabbed his own.

It was vaguely reminiscent of creeping up behind a lion, Patton thought as he held the blanket out in front of him. The man was slowly relaxing, stretching a bit as he lay his head back on the floor. Before he could change his mind, Patton threw the blanket on top of him.

The man flinched, arms raised, then slowly sat up. He pulled the blanket around himself closer, but shivered still.

Patton was enthralled by this man. He'd only met two Outsiders before, both of them looking to sell things and investigate the life of the Haven. Neither of them had ever attacked him, and this man hadn't so far. Patton sat down opposite him, then reached out a hand to his shoulder.

For the first time, Patton could see his face. Before, he'd been turned away or his strangely long hair had been hiding his features. Now though, Patton could see his trembling lips, his small nose, his pale skin, his cloudy grey eyes.

The man's mouth moved, and his eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over at the slightest provocation. Patton smiled slightly and tapped his own ears. This man, strange as he was, needed a hug, a Patton was the perfect person to give him one.

When Patton pulled back, he tapped his ears again, but the man didn't seem to see. His eyes were focused at a point slightly to the right of Patton, and one arm flailed out, as if trying to find him again. Patton grabbed it, quieting the frantic fingers as his father might have when he was signing too much in public. Could the man see him?

Cautiously, Patton waved his other hand in front of the man's face, watching for any movement from those eyes. Nothing. Now that he looked closer, he noticed that what he'd first thought were bags under his eyes were bruises. The man couldn't see.

Well, they were two peas in a pod, weren't they? Patton tried not to think about how they would communicate as he pulled the man into another hug. They'd figure everything out.

~

Taglist (feel free to ask to be added!): @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222 @basiic-emo @patt0n-sanders @rosiepupper @fangirlgeekandfreak @dn-fan21

[strivingscribe]

ILIC ~ CH 30

It’s Lost Its Charm by  MsMoon

Chapter 30 ~ Whiling and Styling

Chapters: 30/?

Chapter Navigation: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,16, 17, 18,19,20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age,

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence,

Relationships: I feel like it’s a little early for that…

Summary: Siheta and the Iron Bull have a very candid discussion.

Notes: Don't get excited. I'm not...I mean, I've been sitting on this for a while and thinking it wasn't any good. I figured, it wouldn't hurt to post it.

“The Iron Bull.”

The mercenary captain in question was almost startled to have Siheta approach him, let alone speak to him. 

“That’s my name.” he grumbled, eyeing her with unmasked suspicion. 

She lifted a single eyebrow, almost as if she didn’t believe his statement ….then again, she was always looking at him like she didn’t trust him. He didn’t really blame her. In fact, it was nice of her to do him the courtesy of conveying genuine emotion. Sure, it was doubt, but at least he was confident it was authentic.

“A word in private, if you please?” It wasn’t a request. That much was obvious as she turned and sauntered away.

Bull sighed, rolling his eye expressively in Krem’s general direction before hefting himself up and following. She walked into the tavern, which felt odd. He supposed he could understand the logic. There are two entrances/exits and both were easy to monitor. Still, it didn’t fit with...well, with them. The tavern was a place of revelry, and the mood between them was tense at best.

“You know, if we keep this up, people are gonna think we’re fucking.” He drawled. 

She did not dignify that with a response, and he was a little perturbed that even the notion of it didn't so much as make her blink. Did anything get a rise out of this woman? Or was she just a cold fish through and through?

“I don’t really know you, the Iron Bull.” she began. “However, if I did, I think I would like you very much.” Now it’s his turn to look unconvinced. “You tend to make everyone around you very happy, and in spite of how intimidating you appear… you make them feel safer if you can.” she explained. Her eyes drifted, as though she were inspecting those words them seconds after she’d spoken them. She evidently approved of them, sealing them with a nod. “Yes. I would probably like you very much, were it not for the Qun.”

He gave a single big nod at that, snickering as he sat down in his usual spot. It felt a little weird to be in here with no one else.

“All that isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate you as you are, but...well.” she turned and walked around the table, sitting down once the length of the entire table was between them. “The Qun makes me nervous for many reasons, most of which I’m sure you can understand without my naming them.”

He had the good sense to look squeamish. “Is that what you asked me here for…? To talk about the Qun?”

“No.” she soothed, settling forward onto her elbows. “I’m prefacing our conversation with this because there’s something else that I want to tell you. And I want you to understand, I’m not telling you this because I have any desire to see your reaction to it. I’m telling you this because you’re the only Qunari I know here; and, more to a point, you’re the only Qunari Amy knows.”

Bull’s face froze as he considered this. Slowly, very slowly, he nodded for her to continue. “Alright.”

“Last night, Amy said two words in perfect Qunlat while she slept. She said these two words twice in succession. Then she settled again.”

“You know Qunlat?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It was my parents’ first language.” she said with an almost doting smile. It was strangely reminiscent of the Tamasaren he had been so familiar with… His only response to her statement was to shrug. 

“Well, don’t keep me on the edge of my seat, woman. What’d she say?”

“Katoh, Hissrad.” 

At that, everything in the Iron Bull went still. As if the words were a trigger that literally made him stop. 

His brain was trying to process what she was telling him, but it didn’t make any sense no matter what angle he tried to approach it in. 

Amy shouldn’t know about ‘Hissrad’. No one should...Not that she hadn’t gained a reputation for knowing what she shouldn’t. And he’d never given her the ‘just say ‘Katoh’’ speech (though if he’d had the occasion to do so, he’d be one lucky son of a bitch as it’s usually a prelude to more enjoyable things). 

When he finally remembered where he was and came back to himself enough to cover his tells, he was more than a little irritated to note that Siheta looked strangely satisfied. Dammit, he gave her that one. She just dropped two words, two repeated words that Amy had said, and he forgot to hold his reaction. Vashedan!

“To be clear… you’re just.. telling me this. Like..” he leaned back, throwing his right arm over the chair back while making a vague encompassing motion with his left arm. “...like just for the sake of letting me know it happened?”

“Well…” she began before letting out a heavy sigh, that damn-near indulgent smirk on her face still. “I don’t know anyone named Hissrad, but I reason that you may.”

“You know that the Qun is big, right?” Bull grumbled. “And besides, it’s less of a name and more of a title. There could be a bunch of guys walking around as Hissrad.”

Both of her eyebrows rose so loftily as she nodded with an almost amused hum. “Would we call this collective of Hissrads a Qun or a Ben hassrath?”

He half growled, but it only earned him a soft chuckle. At least someone was enjoying this brouhaha. Still...the fact that she was being so congenial was...it felt more like light-hearted teasing than barbed discourse. 

“I am only telling you for your benefit.” Siheta soothed, and yet he wasn’t the least bit soothed. “Take it as you will. After all…” she shrugged. “It could’ve just been a random dream.”

He huffed out an exasperated breath, full of his disbelief and bitterness. No matter how it may seem, things were seldom ‘just random nonsense’ when it came to Amy. 

He snapped back into himself, into his persona when she shifted to stand up. She rifled through the sling pouch on at her waist. His brow lifted when she sets a canister of horn balm on the table.

“Amy got some for you too, huh?” he asked.

“She did.” 

He squinted at her as she pulled out the buffing cloth and brushes.

“...uh… You know, I got the same care package.” he figured his ‘you too’ question was enough to enforce that he also has all of this at his disposal.

“Maybe. But you’re doing it wrong.” she replied, brandishing the file. He huffed an indignant response. “You just smacked the balm on without doing any of the filing or buffing repair first.” 

She slid up behind him, and he had to work real hard not to tense up when she began filing at the base of his horn. Even as it burned, there was a satisfying element that crept into his ear bones and down his neck. It’d been ages since anyone tended his horns for him.

“Can I assume you'll want similar treatment?” he finally managed to grind out.

He didn’t see her smile, but her words didn’t feel cheeky or cruel. “I wouldn’t be against it.” So ridiculously, ludicrously sincere, this interaction with a Tal-Vashoth. Well...maybe she wasn't exactly Tal-Vashoth since it was her parents who had defected. But still... she was of the opinion that the Qun was wrong and... and it felt strange to be able to relax around someone like that. This sort of thing was usually reserved for people he considered closer to him... He grunted and groaned about it because he had an image to uphold. It wasn’t as if he could just sit here and get pampered, after all.

He didn’t think she wanted to try and kill him… and if she did, he was certain he could take her. But as time passed, he began to relax.  His horns needed the help since he had a heavy rack. She worked deftly, and all the irritation he felt simply melted away.

Then it was her turn, and she accepted his efforts with more grace than he’d accepted hers. Conversation and all, it took the better part of an hour before they were done… The door opened not a moment after he was finished making certain Siheta’s hair was fixed without getting any balm in it. 

It was Magpie, of all people! Her eyes widen fractionally before returning to their more neutral position.

“Hey… I was looking for you two. Didn’t think I’d find you together.” she said, looking between them before her eyes darted around. “I especially didn’t expect to find Bull styling Siheta’s hair.”

“What! I wasn’t—”

“Why were you looking for us?” Siheta interrupted.

..well, if she wasn’t bothered, he wouldn’t be either.

Hmph.

“They want a gathering in the map room.” She announced, her eyes staying on Siheta. “Your presence is requested.”

“Both?” the surprise was obvious in Bull’s tone

“Both.” she confirmed.

[erasethedarkness]

How Do I Love Thee: Into the Limelight

Ch.1: The End

Note: How Do I Love Thee? is a series that is meant to be a slow, slow burn. While ultimately a romance, readers will not find love and affection in the first few chapters- they may not even find it in the first parts, or “arcs.” The series is meant to lay down the foundation for friendships and then build on it towards romance. The reader character exists and influences this world as much as the canon characters do- therefore, the story isn’t just about the feel good moments, butterflies, and honeymoon phase- it’s about the development of the reader and her relationships.

With that in mind, I will let you all know that HDILT? will become an Aizawa x Reader x Yamada, and hope that the wait will be well worth it to those who choose to follow the series. :)

Summary: You’d spent that last 18 months on tour with your band, RUSE. Not only were you their lead singer and second guitar- you were the very reason for the namesake. After all, your quirk was just a ruse, wasn’t it? The band quickly grew in popularity thanks to your connections in the entertainment industry. Your uncle was the owner of a successful venue in Tokyo named Limelight, and it was there that many musicians made their first entrance into the real world of rock ‘n’ roll. 

Following the night of your last show, you met with your band manager. What was supposed to be a time of great relief and joy quickly turned somber. As fate would have it, you were returning home just in time for a funeral. 

--------------------

Finally, the longest and largest tour you’d ever done was coming to a close. After over 75 straight weeks abroad with some of your closest friends and business partners, you were ready to return home. The tour tested the bonds of everyone present, serving as a trial for even the closest friends and lovers. Everyone needed the upcoming break from RUSE to work on new material, and more than that, to work on themselves and their families. Plus, your drummer and keyboardist just got engaged and had a wedding plan.

Tonight, as the band was performing their latest chart toppers, you shut your eyes tightly as you held a note, hunching over as your body began to glow. When the note came to an end, you snapped upright again, raising your fist proudly, and with your upward momentum, spectral fireworks flew out from the transparent, neon aura that surrounded you. Brightly colored sparks bloomed above everyone, bursting just like real fireworks, crackling in the air and decaying at the same rates without leaving any residue or harm to the venue.  And as always, the crowd was riotous with delight for your tricks and grand displays, the excitement lasting through the end of the show. It was as if your quirk was meant for this.

Your ears were still ringing as the stage lights dimmed, leaving you all in darkness as you finished the encore. Arena lights came on as you walked offstage, the crowd slowly but surely moving along, their chatter creating dull white noise. Leaving your mic and guitar onstage to be packed up by someone else, you slipped passed everyone, exhausted by the last display of your quirk.

You would have done more than just fireworks for your last show, but the back to back performances between last night and tonight drained you of your energy. All you had left was just enough to get you back onto the secured RUSE tour bus and collapse in a seat as everyone else tore down the set and packed up. In the past, you helped with teardown, but it became more and more apparent that you needed to rest almost immediately after each show- something you begrudgingly accepted after you fainted before you could even make it off the stage early in the tour.

In most cases, you slept through the beginning of the after parties and made a grand, late entrance. But tonight, as if the relief of finishing the last performance unlocked the floodgates of hidden fatigue, you slept clear until the next morning. You woke up in the hotel room you shared with your bassist, Emi Mizushima, tucked into bed wearing last night’s clothes. The digital clock beside the bed read 08:15, giving you close to ten hours of sleep. Quietly and considerately, you made it out of bed and to the bathroom, desperate for a shower and change of clothes. As you undressed, you placed your phone on the counter- only to see an unread message from your manager.

Text me when you wake up.

The message was short and undetailed- which was very unlike him. Marcus had no issue with carrying out conversations through texts, and would often leave messages to be responded to at the earliest convenience. Being told to message him when you woke up just didn’t sit right with you. What did he need to talk about that he couldn’t just text?

After you showered and changed, you sent him a message, expecting him to still be asleep. Emi was after all, leaving you to assume everyone was up late. But your phone soon vibrated with another message, and to your surprise, your manager was requesting you meet him in the hotel cafe for coffee.

“(Y/N)!” Marcus called for you after you finished ordering your drink. He was at a table that was tucked away from the open lobby that the cafe blended into. You waved to him in acknowledgement as you waited at the counter for your drink, somewhat concerned for the man who certainly looked like he’d seen better days. It looked like he was out as late as you assumed Emi and the rest of the band were, and just never went to sleep. That, coupled with his vague message only worried you even more.

“Hey… Are you alright?” you asked as you sat down across from him, placing your drink on the table and holding it with both hands. “You look like someone just died.”

The look Marcus gave you instantly made you regret your words. His brown eyes were tired, as if they’d spent the night grieving rather than celebrating. They lowered from you as he sighed deeply, the mug of black coffee in front of him cold and full. You two sat in silence as an indescribable weight began to stifle the air, breaking as you spoke again.

“Who was it..?”

“...Your uncle.”

Your heart sunk as he broke the news to you.

While you were passed out after the show, Marcus received a call that he took in private while everyone else headed to the bar to celebrate. He knew the number- it was the personal number of a man who created music legends and ran Limelight, a successful venue back in Tokyo. The man was a good friend of his, but more importantly at the moment, he was also your uncle. When he answered, the voice he heard was your aunt’s. Even in her heartbreak, she didn’t want to call you and ruin your fun, assuming that you were celebrating with everyone. Through painful sobs, she explained what happened.

It was a classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time- at least, that’s what everyone else would say. That’s what your aunt said, and that’s what your manager repeated. But as you listened to the break down of events, you found yourself disagreeing with the sad story they were spinning. Your uncle was a man of action- that’s exactly how he got to be so successful, and how he helped musicians and bands become successful as well. He built and nurtured his relationships, and he always found solutions to the problems that were brought to him- and even to some that were not. So to hear that your uncle- a man whose greatness could easily overshadow most of the pro heroes in the world- died creating an opening for a young woman to get away from an assailant- well, that didn’t sound like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time at all. To you, it sounded like he was exactly where he needed to be.

The young woman waited for him in the hospital as the doctors did everything they could, and she was the first to speak to the police with information on the attacker. It didn’t take long for the killer to be apprehended after they got involved. Even with tears trickling down your face, you knew that your uncle would have been happy with the way things unfolded. He was simply that kind of man, and knowing that he saved one person would have been enough to put his soul to peaceful rest.

Still, you were heartbroken that one of the people you most looked forward to seeing was no longer waiting for you. After your 12 hour flight from Cairo to Tokyo, you wouldn’t be sitting with your uncle and telling him about the concerts you performed and the wild parties that were just part of the job like you planned to be. Every time you came back, you’d stop by Limelight and reminisce over how different your last show was compared to the first, which took place right on his stage.

Marcus left you at the table after sharing another heavy silence with you. Today, everyone was returning to Japan. Homecoming parties were planned by families and friends to welcome back their touring rockstar, and everyone was ecstatic to be home. Even with the emptiness that stung at your chest, you expressed a genuine delight in seeing your family and friends. For this one moment- this reunion after eighteen months- everyone was happy and grateful for your safe return.

But it ended just as quickly as it came.

One wonderful evening gave way to several nights of mourning. In the time it took to prepare your uncle’s funeral, you found yourself in your aunt’s company more than anyone else. They had no children- you were the closest thing to a child for them. As if it was some cruel trick of luck, you returned just in time to help her through the hardest part of her life since her parents passed years ago. More often than not, you took care of the legal work while she cried beside you, her head just as blurry as her vision.

You planned most of the funeral, inviting honored guests to speak that were outlined in his will, and each responded, confirming that they would give a eulogy for the legacy your uncle left. When the day came, the cemetery was full of family, friends, and famous artists who had once performed on his stage.

Sitting with your aunt, you held her hand as she sobbed beside you. Without surprise, each invited speaker was eloquent and commanding with their eulogies- the ones you recognized were performers, after all, that had graced your uncle’s stage more than once. But the last- the last speaker, you had never seen.

When the honored guest took the stand, he had an entirely different presence than the rest. Standing tall with a forlorn expression, he passed a sidelong glance to the polished urn that stood out among flowers and memorial ribbons. His green eyes looked over the rim of his white-rimmed sunglasses before he bowed his head, seeming to collect himself to begin his speech. As he lifted his face, he pushed the glasses up into his long blond hair, using them as a headband to draw back the straight, almost silky looking strands that slipped over his shoulder when he lowered his gaze.

The man wasn’t a performer you recognized, and you were certain that your uncle never introduced you. He was a complete stranger, and you felt yourself becoming a bit guarded, intrigued as he took a deep breath that hushed the attendees. Your uncle introduced you to most of his friends, helping you build your connections when you were just a fledgling musician- so, just who was this man that your uncle made sure to include in his will as an honored guest that never once made your acquaintance?

“A hero, by definition, is someone who is admired for their courage, achievements, or noble qualities,” he began, his voice carrying to the farthest person, and somehow gentle like a whisper, “yet today, it has become a prestigious occupation. The job and duty of a pro hero is to protect civilians from villains and disasters, often- if not exclusively- with the help of their quirk.

But what happens when there isn’t a pro around?” His question hung heavily in the air, awaiting an answer that would not come from the audience.

You squeezed your aunt’s hand, sharing a glance with her before you both turned your attention to the tall blond. For the first time, you noticed the small pencil mustache over his lips, and just as you did, he started speaking again.

“Well, that’s when the real heroes shine,” he answered himself softly before recanting aspects of your uncle’s life that somehow seemed new to you. Even if you’d heard the story before, hearing it from the slender man who almost looked a little too sharp in his black suit for a funeral, added something different to it. The way he spoke of your uncle had a flourish to it that you could have sworn was manifested in the man himself. Something about him just seemed to embody a strange whimsy that enthralled you and lowered your guard. His eloquence lacked the haughtiness most people of honor and prestige seemed to carry with them, and by his last words, the room was in tears.

A small streak ran down his cheek when he left the stand. Handing your aunt a last tissue, you stood as he passed you and gave him a small bow of your head. His green eyes met yours, and he simply returned a fragile smile before you replaced him in front of everyone to conclude the funeral. With everyone departing, you lost track of him, and before you could make a proper introduction, he was gone.