#to put so much thought into something ive written is so mind blowing to me

[comfortunit]

ALSO also this is tangential at this point but i love to write fiction with characters who are against or outside of the gender binary and i thought like, an entire series where the characters singularly and only use It for not only the protagonist but another really important character, a fictional universe written to exclude transphobia from the outset with nonbinary minor characters thrown in at random, and you still have people misgendering the fucking protagonist and finding ways to write in misgendering it into the text. at least i could pretend people would respect my character choices when i look at mainstream fandoms but seeing the like rampant transphobia in a series that is trans itself? heartbreaking. depressing. made me want to put down my pen for a whole moment (not even getting into how much "person treated like product/who had their agency invalidated learns how to direct their own life" narratives mean to me and expecting to see people who got that theme instead of. treating it like a product to force to do whatever they want. do people not see the sad irony there. its like seeing an anime girl whos character arc is "people objectify me against my will and i fight against it to reclaim my personhood" and then watching the fandom/company turn around and only sell/interact with highly sexualized shit of her. like i THOUGHT people who were fans of something showing corporate and consumer hypocrisy would be a lil smarter! ive underestimated the average persons ability to be in denial of things and themselves however) ok ok im done sending my silly little asks i hope you have a good rest of your day

right, and a MAJOR theme of mbd is, as martha wells put it (i'm paraphrasing), 'the 'ugly' parts of trauma that no one talks about'. murderbot is traumatized and it's a person but it is repulsed by the idea of being 'humanized'. it just wants to be comfortable after so much time spent being told what to do, what to be, everything. prescribing it pronouns other than what it itself has 'written' in its DIARIES (wow a concept... 🤯 first person pov. fucking mind-blowing, y'all, firsthand experience actually lets you know how someone thinks/feels/perceives things. i know. it's crazy), forcing things onto it, projecting things onto it, that it never opted in to... it's just more of the same. murderbot's ultimate goal is to feel like its own person, it wants to BE. it's literally a struggle for autonomy, and i'm sure humans in-universe and in the fandom alike, they just don't get it, they think murderbot is going about things in a counterproductive manner like "oh if it hates the company so much then why is it still so attached to being a secunit and protocols and all this bullshit?" like god do these people have any fucking idea how trauma works? have they ever understood the trauma of others? my guess is a resounding NO.

and re: my gripes about it being aplatonic and no one fucking caring enough to give it the decency of this canon fact in their fanfic re-creations of it; it GETS MAD at perihelion for trying to FORCE its emotions out. and people write this off!! because they want to believe this is like "aww it's MAD because it LIKES ART" like actually people who care about each other can be terrible to each other! and not everything is secretly cute and adorable! a big POINT of network effect is that ART DOESN'T GET IT; it DOESN'T know what murderbot wants, it DOESN'T know how murderbot feels. it DOES NOT GET IT. the fandom insists on smoothing everything over because the idea that murderbot might have genuine feelings of hate, or intrusive feelings that it both is internally upset with but also embraces... it's like they can't fucking handle this complexity. they can't. they act like they can and they can't fucking handle it, or i wouldn't see it represented so fucking atrociously in fanfic, lmfao.

it's fucking INFURIATING !!!! 🤝

[turnintoanotherholeigot]

loneliness is biting my lungs and impeding me from breathing. it eats my guts bit by bit and leaves nothing but a carcass. im nothing but a lump of skin and bones, no blood //it was spilled all over the floor and my veins turned into stone// what is left after the war? i thought the important thing was to defeat them, or defeat me. victory based upon hoarding my own and foreign bodies. i never thought about the emptiness of the battlefield when even the ghosts are gone. i never felt more alive than when life was pouring out of my wrists. im what's left of a soldier after signing his own desertion. now my spirit is wandering around this lands, searching desperately for a mine still buried that makes him blow in a thousand pieces. if i did blow up it'd mean there's still something real inside of me! but there are no mines. there are no rifles, no bullets, no trenches left. no enemies. not even i, who hated myself so much, who made it my vocation to cut myself open and undo my seams, who suffocated me with the sadistic satisfaction of being my own torturer and executioner, am capable of raising my flag and aiming the cannon at my chest.

  it's not that i forgive myself. forgiveness and guilt are only for the faithful who choose the chappel and the robe to mud and blood. there's no forgiveness. no forgiveness for so many forgotten, flowerless graves. i cant look at your names written on cold stone that doesn't smell, doesn't taste, doesn't feel like you. i became a haunted house to host all the souls that prowl me, but im so used to the cold and the darkness that i confuse your shadows with the dust accumulated in the corners. if i just knew how to bring you back! if i could be who i was when you were by my side and the only thing that mattered was to sing along on the trenches and pray to tell the difference between their fire and ours.

i realize now that there's no way out of the labyrinth. ive been trying to find a reason to put one foot after the other and keep groping while knowing there's nothing waiting for me on the other side. im trying to learn how to love the labyrinth, its stone walls, its quicksand floors, its freezing cold, its thunderous silence and that emptiness that grows slowly on a corner of my mind and ends up colonizing everything. but nothing is enough and im afraid it will never be, that nothing will fill me, that no one will be able to bring my pulse back like you used to, my love. my love, i don't feel you here with me anymore. i dont look for you, i don't yearn for you, i dont wish for you to come find me and promise me there's no more air to breathe without me. you're really gone and i cant even cry for you. god knows your name was written between all my lines, between all my heartbeats.

what does it say about me that i cant even feel you here with me anymore?

[spacedikut]

An Essay on The Blessing of a Blizzard (basically just love for ur writing)

Ok this story popped into my head today and made me smile because it’s just so soft and the miscommunication and pining and auhghhhhh. Sorry i'm not as eloquent as you in my praise but i hope this suffices

ANYWAYS

“Mike. His name is Mike, and Spencer hates him.” right from the start we’re wondering why Spencer is showing such a strong negative emotion towards this guy- this stranger we don’t know yet. Spencer’s not harmless, he definitely has enough bite to shut someone down but we never see him usually this judgmental or abrasive so this is such an attention grabber.

Then in classic Spencer fashion we get the rundown of Mike’s background and name origins, but then transition to Spencer’s almost childish jealousy and hatred of this guy just because he’s stolen your heart. 

I’ll be honest and say that when I read the list of things the reader shares with Mike, I was a little confused and thought “he seems weird” BUT not enough that I would suspect anything less than what’s at face value… The con is still going on. 

“That business is ripping Spencer’s heart out of his chest, apparently.” we’re back to dramatic and angsty Spence and I love it and of COURSE it doesn’t matter, right? Because “Mike’s probably ugly, anyway” asldkjlakfj Spencer you are such a child and it’s adorable

And this line “Fuck Mike. Really, fuck him.”  right before the transition is just perfect. I think I laughed out loud (probably too loud) 

The detail of Garcia’s “bejewelled hands” idk I find that a really pretty little addition, I like all the details of Morgan and Emily looking pissed lol and then we’re back to childish petty Spence “All Spencer can think about is how Mike will have to suffer another day without you. He bites back a smile.”

The short interaction between Emily and Spencer and it’s so obvious Spencer is pining for you and she just smiles when mentioning Mike,,, and YES they’re all profilers but Spencer is being painfully clear he’s in love with you

Spencer catching your little expressions after getting off the call with Mike,,,, he cares so much for you (he’d probably fistfight Mike or at least step on his foot [accidentally obviously,,,] because this man wants your affection all to himself)

It’s such a Penelope idea to have a gingerbread house competition and I love her for it. <3 The little comment Morgan makes is sad for one second before you sweep in and protect Spencer and that makes my heart soft.

This entire little interaction is just,,, perfect “Spencer’s surely got whiplash, but you’re looking at him and smiling at him and him alone. He’s breathless at the sight, how you chose him and have literal stars in your eyes, yet all he can think is how undeserving he is of such a beauty. How undeserving anyone is, mostly Mike, to exist in the same reality as someone who puts the definition of beautiful to shame.

Spencer’s about to make the best damn gingerbread house the world has ever seen.”

And then “like a virus to a computer you completely wipe Spencer of all thoughts” is such a Spencer thought to have?? The computer reference? He’s such a small nerd

AND THEN your eyes watching him roll up his sleeves?? Sir i am looking respectfully…

All the tension and electricity between them during the building??? Amazing. The almost kiss? The Yearning? The eye contact and the puff of breath on his lips? The physical contact? 

AND THE GONG! What a Penelope find. It’s the best and most abrupt way to disrupt the scene and poor you and Spence because the moment is over. 

We’re back to classic Spencer and his the cogs in his brain turning- “Spencer can’t think about that fact too much. That could mean anything – dilated pupils don’t necessarily mean you’re in love. You could’ve gotten a good whiff of the gingerbread and felt hungry, or a song you really liked started playing from the playlist Penelope created. Or, most likely, Spencer thinks, you were thinking about someone else.”

Sad spence hours because now he’s confused and yearning and disappointed and conflicted about trying to kiss you and you trying to kiss him because MIKE exists and Spencer probably wants to throw Mike into the void if he could. 

This line is just adorable: “(He’s making this more dramatic than it needs to be, really, but he feels everything so deeply when it comes to you)” and the gingerbread sharing? How you give the piece back to him first? It’s so cute

The little tells that Spencer picks up on before you’re about to laugh is really genuinely sweet because he just wants to be with you all the time, he wants to know all of you and he’s paid as much attention as possible. 

And then Spencer’s embarrassed and a little sad but you’re laughing with him and everything’s okay. You kiss him and he meets Mike and all’s well that ends well <3

Ok asdklja;d i dont know if you’d actually like this but i feel like maybe?? Because its just endless praise for this story and the absolute genius of mike being a cat and the childish jealousy and the almost kiss and its adorable and i love it and you!! Okay spacey this is the end <3

[cat3ch1sm]

🌲| okay im writing this based on some nsfw headcanons i saw on the jjk men trying to get your attention. however i CANT FIND THE AUTHOR stg the post disappeared into thin air so if you guys know who the author is pls tag them so i can give proper credit💔💔💔 enjoy reading this <333 i hope it isn't bad bc ive never written smut for gojo before😅😅😅

🌿| here are the fandoms and characters for which i write for!! also, the book the reader is reading here is titled "the beginning of everything!" it is a great read in my opinion, so i recommend it :3

🍃| also do you guys prefer "Y/N" or "[Name]?" y/n generally is a bitch in most stories, and ngl im not a fan of her myself, so i was wondering which you guys would rather me use:)) i would really appreciate your feedback so please let me know!!!

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ nsfw content ahead!! oral sex, fem!reader, degradation probably, language, gojo might be a little mean

gojo x reader smut- gojo tries to get your attention

You hadn't been so immersed in a book since you were still a child- you had been sitting on your couch for hours that only felt like minutes, taking in every word of the story. The fatalistic protagonist, Ezra Miller, never failed to interest you with his beliefs about tragedy following the fall of his former glory. His love interest, the fascinating but elusive Cassidy Thorpe, was constantly arousing questions in your mind that had you turning page after page. The other characters as well piqued your interest, and you found yourself wondering about them as well. So far, it was a wildly entertaining read, and you didn't really want the book to end.

So when your boyfriend Gojo Satoru, standing a distance away at the kitchen table, called your name, you didn't even hear him.

"Y/N."

"Y/N."

"Y/N!"

Finally, Gojo's voice cut through your thoughts, making you look up in surprise. Confused and just a little agitated, you gave him an aggravated "What is it" look, eager to return to your story.

"Damn. Anyone in there?" Gojo queried sarcastically, making a knocking motion in the air with his hand, his other arm propping his body up on the counter. "I had to call you three times to even get you to look at me."

"Yes, I'm aware. Do you need something?" you asked, tapping your foot impatiently and sneaking glances down at the pages.

Gojo pursed his lips and shrugged coolly, his piercing blue eyes glinting mischievously. "Nope- just wanted to bother you." He flashed a wide, goading grin in your direction, at which you simply rolled your eyes and angled your head lower to keep your distracting boyfriend out of your line of vision.

With a quiet sigh, you resumed reading your book, picking up right where you'd left off. You were closer to finishing the book than starting it, and you suspected a major twist would be revealing itself quite soon. Still, it was fun to speculate, and look for clues throughout the entire story.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before Gojo began to act out again.

"Y/N."

No response.

"Y/N."

Louder this time. Still silence.

"Y/N."

Still nothing.

"Y/N!"

Now you were really annoyed, slamming your open palms down on the splayed-out book pages. "Gojo, what?" you demanded, your glare beseeching.

Gojo seemed unfazed by your outburst, simply tossing his hands into the air in surrender. "You wanna go irritate Nanami with me? I feel like I've been cutting him too much slack."

"I would think you'd be exhausted irritating people, seeing as you have already successfully aggravated me." You turned your head to the ceiling, blowing out air in exasperation. "Congrats. Now please don't call me name unless you or somebody else is dying. Thank you." With a bitter smile, you promptly put the book in front of your face, obscuring everything behind it, including Gojo. You knew you were being sort of bitchy, but you hadn't had a moment of real peace in a while and wanted to make the most of this.

You tried to keep enjoying your book, holding it in front of your face firmly, but now you found yourself just waiting for Gojo to interrupt you again. But you couldn't let him know that, obviously, so you didn't budge, practically glaring at the words on the pages.

But suddenly, the words were gone- as were the pages. As a matter of fact, the whole book had vanished from your hands! Blinking in confusion, you turned left and right to scan the couch cushions before facing forward again to see a pair of long legs right in front of you.

Your eyes widened, and with a groan, your gaze wandered upward until it met the face of the smirking Gojo, one hand in his black jean pocket while the other dangled your book in the air between his index finger and thumb. His arm was stretched far above his head in order to prevent you from reaching it, and his teasing grin from earlier was about a hundred times wider.

"Got your book," Gojo announced tauntingly, leaning over your stiff figure on the sofa. He swung the book back and forth a few times before stopping to eye the cover dubiously. "The Beginning of Everything? Looks cheesy." Dismissively, Gojo tossed the novel over his shoulder, it landing on a coffee table a few feet behind him.

The book hit the wood with a hollow thud, and you snapped your head up to Gojo. "Are you serious? You can't possibly be this immature." Incensed, you stood up abruptly to go retrieve your book- now you'd have to find the page you'd left off of. But the second you got to your feet, you were lightly pushed back down by a pale hand to your chest.

Gojo chuckled self-assuredly, giving you a mockingly piteous look. "Now you have no choice but to pay attention to me."

You scoffed up at him, folding your arms stubbornly across your chest. "As if. Just because you've stolen my book doesn't mean I'm incapable of ignoring you." To make your point, you crossed one leg over the other defiantly and made a show of examining your nails, keeping your eyes averted from the man towering over you.

"Oh?" You could hear the teasing lilt in his voice, meaning he'd decided to treat this as if it was a challenge. You didn't reply, eyes narrowing. Gojo let out a short laugh before bending over so his face was in front of yours, both hands in his pockets. His eyes boring into you were almost impossible to ignore, but you managed, abandoning your nails to twirl a strand of hair around your finger.

"That's a challenge I'm willing to accept." You could feel Gojo's breath on your face, his voice low, and you stifled a strangled sound in your throat as he lowered his body to the ground, settling on his knees. Gently, he placed a hand on each one of your legs to pull them apart; he managed to do so despite your half-hearted resistance.

"Shame you decided to wear this cute little skirt today," Gojo cooed, sliding a hand up your thigh to hook a finger around the waistline of your panties; you couldn't hold back a tiny gasp. Eyes filled with lust, Gojo simply pulled your underwear down your legs and let it fall around your ankles. Before you knew it, both his hands were wrapped tightly around your upper thighs and he was kissing your exposed crotch, his wet lips sending ripples through your stomach. The end of his nose was concealed beneath your skirt, brushing against your slit as his kisses gradually moved upward until he had reached your folds, where he began to plant open-mouthed kisses on your clit.

You were barely able to choke back a whimper before it escaped your throat, throwing your head back to face the ceiling. Your thighs writhed uselessly- Gojo's grip was like steel. Knowing he was already close to breaking your resolve, his arctic eyes lifted towards you, flashing tauntingly. His tongue darted out from in between his lips and slowly licked you up and down before picking up the pace and flicking it rapidly over your clit.

Now you had no choice but to react. A soft moan left your lips, then another, and you could feel Gojo smile against your thigh. Wanting more friction, you started to gently rock your hips into Gojo's tongue, your breaths gradually becoming more ragged.

"Mm, shit, Gojo..." you whimpered under your breath, one of your hands traveling down to bury itself within your boyfriend's white hair, keeping him pressed against your sex. You could feel his warm breath on your inner thighs, sending a shiver up your spine. Meanwhile, Gojo's tongue painted wet circles around your clit, and when he closed his lips around it and began to suck softly, your grip in his hair tightened. "Oh- oh, fuck, Gojo-" Your eyes dropped to look down at him longingly, moving your hips gingerly up and down with your bottom lip in between your teeth.

"So you finally wanna look at me, pretty?" Gojo questioned, his gaze more piercing than ever. "Now that my mouth is in between your legs? Is that what I have to do to make you pay attention to me?" He paused upon hearing your whimpers, smirking at the pitiful sound and letting his tongue fall from his mouth briefly to taste you as you desperately rutted against him.

"You know, I should stop," Gojo mused, withdrawing his tongue and using two fingers to gently rub your aching clit. Feigning hurt, he dropped his eyes and wistfully stared at your dripping entrance, leaking all over the couch. "I really didn't like the way you snapped at me earlier..."

"I'm- I'm sorry, Gojo, I was just in a bad mood. Don't stop, please," you whimpered, thighs trembling. Gojo glanced up at you, sticking out his lower lip in a mocking pout.

"But do you mean it, Y/N?" Abruptly, he speared two fingers into you, pumping them back and forth at an agonizingly slow pace. A broken groan forced its way from your lips, your hips pushing into Gojo's fingers. "Or are you saying that 'cause you want me to make you cum all over your fucking skirt like a pathetic whore?"

Breathless, you gasped, "No, I'm- ah, I mean it- please. Gojo, I'm sorry."

Gojo bunched his lips together, pretending to think. "Well- since you asked so politely." He leaned back in, squeezing one of your thighs, and began to lick your soaking slit up and down, paying extra attention to your clit. At the same time, his fingers took on a vigorous pace, and you let out a cry as you felt your orgasm begin to build in your stomach.

"Gonna cum for me now, baby? Didn't take much for your bad mood to go away, huh?" Gojo crooned, only gripping your thigh harder as he reduced you to a moaning mess, chest heaving.

It wasn't long after that that you met your release, throwing your head back and gripping the fabric of the couch cushions so roughly it was a surprise they didn't tear. Cum gushed from your hole, coating Gojo's fingers and spilling onto the bottom of your skirt, the sight of which made Gojo smile as he replaced his fingers with his tongue to eagerly lap up your fluids.

Gojo didn't let anything else go to waste on the couch, swallowing everything you gave him without hesistation. By the time you were done, his lips were shiny, and your thighs were sticky and still trembling as you tried to catch your breath.

Gojo only scoffed in amusement st your disheveled state, simply getting to his feet again and gazing down at you with a cocky smile on his lips.

"Don't ignore me again," Gojo advised nonchalantly, lifting two fingers to his mouth to casually suck the remnants of your orgasm off of his hand. "You know where to find the towels." Slipping his hands back into his pockets, Gojo strolled out of the room, leaving you half-naked and staring at the book still resting on the coffee table.

🍵| now that i have finished I would like to say that this is trash. fuck.

[aimfor-theheart]

COIN TOSS– PART III

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I → PART II

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, 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 playlist I made for this fic, if you're interested!

A/N: here is your final part to this series! again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing this!! and thank you guys so so much for your support and comments, they mean so so much to me!! i had a lot of trouble with this last part, there was a lot of scenes i cut out and alternative endings before i settled on what is there now and i'm not even fully happy with it still lol. i have a lot of Thoughts about this, so feel free to reach out if you want to know more or just chat!! i hope you guys enjoy this!!

Read on Ao3

***

Shouta apologizes to you soon after. You sheepishly get out your own apology, even though you’d planned on holding a grudge a little while longer.

Still, Shouta confides that he also had his doubts and worries as a young hero and that he shouldn’t have dismissed yours. He talks in a soft, low voice for you, sits beside you on the edge of the couch.

You hate it because it’s easier to be at odds with Shouta lately, easier for your conscience. He put distance between the two of you, but you forced it apart further– if only to keep him in the dark. Maybe if only to spare yourself all the lying, all the pretending you’d have to do.

He says, “You know, you can always come to me. Whenever you need me.”

You have to swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

“I’ll always be here for you, despite everything.” he promises gently, trying to catch your eyes. Your gaze ducks away, out of his line of site.

Still, you hug him, tuck your face into his shoulder so he can’t see the guilt written across your face. Your secrets will constrict around you if you’re not careful. You know Truth is tricky and likes to reveal itself with Time’s help.

Once more, you become acutely aware of the clock ticking away on your relationship with Tomura.

But this time, you also realize how much trouble you could get in. You realize that you’re endangering Shouta now, too. You swallow hard, try to keep all of that down inside of you, but you feel nauseous suddenly. Bloated with guilt.

You wonder if you would’ve confessed to him then, if you would’ve spilled your guts the way you’d wanted to, if it would’ve saved you the heartache of it all.

Instead, you’d just clung to him, little fingers twisting in the back of his shirt, praying that you’d never need to make good on his promise. Praying you’d never need to test how far he’d go for you.

(It’s far– you’ll realize, further than it ever should’ve been. And you’re all the worse for it.)

***

Tomura thinks one of the troubles with heroes is their willingness to sacrifice anything for their greater good. He doesn’t think there’s anything noble in it, there’s nothing glorious or good in leaving their friend behind because they think it will save more. Nothing honorable in facing down a threat you know you can’t win against alone. What good is their world if they’re willing to sacrifice all that’s good to them in the process?

Everytime he watches you patrol, go up against other villains, maybe yakuza members, throw yourself in harm’s way needlessly, he realizes the Hero Commission uses heroes’ bodies as collateral damage. You are nothing to them. Even to other heroes; your sacrifice is expected. He knows it isn’t wanted, per se, but it isn’t surprising.

It doesn’t help that you have a streak of recklessness in you. You are quick to danger, just as quick to flash teeth and stand your ground, to fight mercilessly.

You struggle against large, powerhouse types. He watches you nearly get crushed or strangled some nights. Your Quirk doesn’t do much for you when your opponent has strength and weight to defeat you with a singular blow.

Your mentor is often pulling you out of danger with his capture weapon, yanking you away from a massive swinging arm or a curled fist about to smash you into the ground. But if it came down to you or the greater good, he knows what your mentor and your heroes would pick.

He thinks it’s strangely unfair, for you to give them your loyalty over him. He’s more loyal to you, isn’t he? There is very, very little he wouldn’t destroy for you. They would sooner let you be destroyed for the sake of their world.

Destroying the hero society that is so careless with you now feels, in part, like his gift to you. Freedom from the world that only cared about you when they realized you could be useful–

There is a night you become not just useful to your heroes but imperative.

It starts with your sacrifice, just as you were trained to do. You shove a civilian out of the way of a villain’s Quirk– it’s something with tusks and teeth that jut out from his body, sharp and ready to gut you.

Your mentor is busy with this villain’s accomplice.

Tomura watches when he shouldn’t. He was supposed to meet with Kurogiri, but he knows you patrol in this area and when there’d been commotion, he couldn’t help but watch from the shadows.

He watches one of those tusks jut towards you, your hand reaching out in hopes of disengaging the Quirk. But it’s a physical Quirk, not something like Dabi’s fire or his disintegration. And he doesn’t know if this Quirk disengages with it’s user or if it’s just his body.

Tomura feels his heart drop, the trapdoor given way to all icy fear as he watches one of those tusks pierce into your stomach.

Tomura stops breathing.

You grab hold of it, a scream getting caught behind your clenched teeth. Your fingers are tight, near frantic as you press into them– hope with everything in you, in him, that his Quirk disengages with yours.

Your broken off scream is wretched from your struggling body when another tusk rushes to crash into your shoulder.

You’re the only thing between the civilians behind you and this villain.

Your other hand reaches for the tusk at your shoulder, digging fingers and nails into it desperately.

Your eyes are bright and feverish with the hot pink of your Quirk.

Tomura stutters towards you, before the villain let’s out a pained groan. Your teeth are bared, blood bubbling up in your mouth, but you’re still standing, vicious and undeterred.

The tusks begin to crack where you grip them, splintering apart–

A sudden fission of light through those crevices, same fire pink as your eyes, arcs throughout the villain. A flare of it that makes the villain almost see-through, the lines of his bones burned by light, an x-ray flash, as if you’d struck him with lightning for a moment.

Eraserhead shouts for you.

When the flare dies, there is a scream of pain and it’s not yours.

The tusks shatter, splinter apart into gleaming bone that flies through the air.

You’re left standing, blood oozing from your stomach, your shoulder, but still standing, your eyes crackling and too bright.

The villain, tuskless, crumples at your feet, smoking. A normal, Quirkless looking man.

Did you–?

“What happened?” he hears the distant voice of your mentor, laced with worry, whose already reaching to staunch blood, blood that seeps so dark out of you. Tomura’s stomach rolls, twists suddenly, but you’re still standing. You’re okay– you’re okay–

“I-I don’t know.” you manage, but you sway into your mentor’s arms and Tomura has to look away, jaw clenched tight, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat.

He hears, “I need an ambulance– there’s a hero and villain down–”

But he’s already turning away, his mind churning, trying to keep the nauseousness from overcoming him. He feels suddenly furious, that it can’t be him at your side, that he has to watch, pushed to the outskirts. His fingers rush to scratch at his neck, his throat, desperate for relief from the pressure that has built in his chest.

He will try to call you– later, much later– the only time you’ll answer him. He is certain you will be okay with your healers and–

He thinks of the flare of light, the breaking of those tusks, the sudden heap of that man on the ground. If Tomura is correct about what you’d done, about what your Quirk actually is, the heroes won’t let you die now.

No, now you’re imperative. Now you’re trapped.

And the destruction of hero society will be his gift to you, an end to all the strings in place, the hands holding you both back.

***

“You destroyed his Quirk.”

“W-what?” you manage to get out, wobbly. You’re bandaged up, your torso and shoulder wrapped in fresh gauze after Recovery Girl healed the worst of your wounds. You’d been sleeping, hooked up to an IV to aid you in recovering. “That’s not possible, my Quirk only cancels–”

The doctor that has entered to give you this news shakes his head, “No, we’ve done scans, tests, the works on this guy. His Quirk is gone from his DNA. No trace of it.”

Shouta, who's sitting beside your hospital bed, speaks up, “Is it possible that it will eventually return?”

“I suppose, but we think it’s unlikely. It’s gone from him. There’s nothing left. She destroyed it cleanly. It’s like it was never there at all.” The doctor answers.

“I don’t understand–” you manage to get out, your head beginning to swim, giving a painful throb at your temples.

“It seems your Quirk isn’t so simple as cancelling out another’s. It’s likely that subduing other’s Quirks was just the surface of yours.”

“Is the man okay otherwise?” Shouta asks now, fidgeting in his seat when he senses your sudden distress. He leans towards your bed more and you have the sudden urge to latch onto him and not let go.

“Physically, yes. He’s fine.” the doctor answers, “However, mentally...he’s inconsolable at the moment. As you know, Quirks are incredibly– well, they’re a part of who we are, aren’t they?”

You swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

You think Shouta says something else, finishes speaking to the doctor for you. The moment the door clicks shut, the tears that you stubbornly had been holding back rush forward.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” you get out on just a hissed breath. “I-I didn’t know I could.”

Shouta shushes you gently, “It’s okay, this happens. Sometimes people don’t know the full extent of their Quirk.”

“I destroyed his Quirk, it’s not okay!” you respond, guilt thickening inside of you, dragging you down heavy, clogging your throat and chest. “I didn’t mean to do that– what if I do it again?”

“You were under distress,” he soothes, reaching out to brush a tear away from your cheek, “Really, you were fighting for your life.” And when he says it, something gets caught in his throat. Something hitches in yours, too.

His eyes rove over your face slowly, taking you in carefully, as if he hasn’t been by your side the entire time. As if it wasn’t him in the ambulance, or him kneeling beside your bed when Recovery Girl put you back together.

“I should’ve been there. It shouldn’t have happened.” Shouta admits, the confession filling the small space between you two.

You take him in now, too, tired and worried, his face finally displaying the fear and care he has for you. It softens out his features, turns his eyes gentle and dark.

You realize suddenly that you miss him. You miss quiet nights on his couch as he graded papers. You miss his clothes and his cats and the tenderness that blossomed in all your silent spaces to fill you both out.

You wonder if he misses you as bad as you’re realizing you miss him.

You think of him cooking for one again, eating alone, and it does something horrible to your heart– mangles it, twists it up horribly.

It’s made all the worse because you’re lying to him. And here he is, at your bedside.

“S’okay, Shouta,” you get out, reaching up to touch his cheek with a trembling hand. He leans into the touch, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment. He savors your touch in a way that he hasn’t ever allowed himself to before.

But after a moment, he shakes his head fractionally, and he murmurs “I’m supposed to protect you.”

You don’t know why, but your bottom lip wobbles. Big, fat tears well up in your eyes, burn hot and put pressure on your already foggy head. You feel like you’re unraveling, your chest all swollen and tender, too, aching horribly.

You can’t decide if it’s because you’re lying and disobeying him so badly or because no one has ever bothered to say something like that to you, let alone mean it.

And you’re betraying him, your mind hisses.

When he notices, his face falls, his thumb moving to try and brush away your tears. “Don’t cry,” he hushes, “I’m sorry, don’t cry.”

You lean into his large and warm palm at your cheek, let him cradle and coddle you.

“I-I’m sorry–” you barely manage to choke out, for reasons far beyond him.

“No,” he coos, “No, sweetheart, don’t apologize.”

You choke on a sob and he grows more worried, leans over you more, brings his other hand up to stroke at your hairline, too.

He says your name softly, trying to soothe you, “Why are you crying, huh? What are you apologizing for?”

You shake your head, more tears loosening, your small fingers twisting themselves in the shoulders of his shirt. You think you’ll drown in all this guilt, it’ll fill your lungs with pressure, choke you out slowly as you struggle and thrash.

But for now, all you get out is a warbled, slurred, “Please don’t hate me–”

Shouta moves then, shifts to sit beside you on the bed. He’s painfully careful with you as he slides strong and sturdy arms beneath you, lifts you slightly into his lap, mindful of your IV, and cradles you to him.

You bury your face into his chest and try to hold back another sob as he murmurs, “Why would I hate you? I could never hate you.”

He strokes your hair, he hushes your cries, rocking you gently. Rocking you until you can stop crying, until you’re exhausted and aching and tender.

“I’ll help you with your Quirk,” he promises gently, holding you tight to him, “We’ll be okay, huh?” he murmurs, and it just forces another cry out of you, swallowed up by his chest that he cradles you to, “We’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

It’s the we’ll in that sentence that makes you squeeze him tighter. You wonder how willing he’d be to use it if he knew where you were every other night, who you filled your time with.

If he knew who called you late that night, when you’re alone in your room, aching and sore and alone. If he knew who you answered to, your voice hushed in the inky darkness;

“Tomura,” you exhale his name through the receiver.

“I saw what happened,” he answers instead, “I saw what happened today.”

You can feel the sudden jump of your heart, your nerves wringing themselves tight. “Oh,” you respond lamely.

To your surprise, Tomura rasps, “Are you okay?”

You don’t know why, but you cradle the phone to your cheek tighter, your eyes slipping shut for a moment.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Sore and tired, but I’m okay.”

“Good,” he responds, his voice softer than it usually is, just a breath when he asks, “What happened? What’d you do to him?”

You’re silent for a long moment. You can’t decide if you should tell him or not. You think of Shouta earlier and his voice like a hearth and the tender way he holds you, you think of his we’ll be okay.

But you can hear Tomura’s soft breath on the other line. You can see Ryuji in the patch of sun that splays out against the corner of the couch in the evenings. You think of him curled tight around you, like you’re the last good thing left on earth.

“I destroyed his Quirk,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “With mine.”

“That’s new,” Tomura almost hums, but it nearly seems like he was expecting the answer.

“I didn’t mean to.”

A quiet snort from him, “What are you trying to prove to me?” he asks, “I’m not your heroes. I won’t look at you differently whether you intended to or not.”

The thought strikes like an arrow between the ribs, sharp, sudden. It stings, when you realize it’s truth. How hard have you tried to prove yourself to Shouta? How hard are you trying to prove your goodness to yourself?

“You could’ve killed him,” Tomura says, “And I wouldn’t think differently.”

You wince for some reason when he says that, “Don’t–”

“What would your heroes think then?”

“Tomura–” you snap, voice gaining some bite, a warning.

But for some reason he presses, “How badly does the Hero Commission want you now? With a Quirk like that?”

“What?” you ask, suddenly shocked.

“Don’t be naive,” Tomura says and there’s an edge to his voice. He sucks in a breath, “That’s a big Quirk. Destroying someone else’s? You don’t think they’ll be interested in that?”

You feel the pressure of tears work their way through your head, your throat. Your fingers clutch so hard at the phone that your knuckles are turning white and before you can think, you hiss out, “And how interested are you now?”

“As interested as I was before.” he returns, sharp and quick, and then with a vitriol he hasn’t directed at you in months, he says, “Don’t compare me to them.”

You bare your teeth, tears stinging sharp at your eyes, prepared to fight back when he hisses, “Mark my words, they won’t let you go now.”

“Stop it,” you spit, “You don’t know anything–”

And he laughs at that, caustic, harsh, a grating sound. Villainous. It slithers through the phone, down your spine. Your stomach twists. You hate this– your head is throbbing. You don’t want to fight. You want to stop crying, God, you wish you could just stop crying–

“I’ll be here when you realize it.” he says and there is too much heat behind his voice, simmering and venomous. You can feel the end of this conversation, the bitter goodbye in his words.

Your bottom lip trembles, and for some foolish, lovesick reason, you gasp, “Wait– don’t hang up–”

But you hear the click of the other line and he���s fallen away from you, leaving you with an empty, static silence that buzzes around in your head. In your heart.

You throw your phone across the room. You hear it clatter somewhere in the darkness. You turn to press your face into your pillow and let out a sudden, childish scream. It tears at your throat, before tapering off into this pathetic little sob.

It’s worse because he ends up being right.

And it’s ironic because it’s another string tethering you to him, the ability to destroy something with a touch.

It’s like some part of him knew all along, or maybe some part of you.

You scream into your pillow again, louder, kicking at your covers before it breaks off into a bitter cry.

***

The Hero Commission is very interested in the new discovery of your Quirk. They run tests and scans on you, over and over again, trying to find something interesting. They want you to practice with it, but there’s no way for you to practice without potentially destroying other people’s Quirks.

They offer up criminals to practice on.

It turns your stomach.

“I don’t want to do this,” you tell Shouta one night after another long series of poking and prodding at you by white coats from the Hero Commission.

Shouta is silent for a moment, “No one is making you.”

“But they want me to. It’s expected of me.” you tell him.

“They want to make sure you can control it,” Shouta answers, “And the only way to do that is practice, unfortunately.”

Or do they just want to be sure they can control me? The question bubbles up unbridled inside of you. It sounds suspiciously like Tomura’s voice.

You frown, “I can control it. I don’t go around destroying Quirks with every touch. I just mute Quirks still.”

“Under distress, too? Can you summon it completely calmly? Or stop it in an instant?” Shouta asks.

“I don’t know– no, I don’t think so.”

“Then you can’t fully control it.” he answers, which makes you ball your hands into fists.

“It doesn’t feel right taking people’s Quirks– practice or not. And it’s controlled enough.” you respond, gaining a sudden edge to your voice.

“Then don’t do it.” Shouta responds, almost impassively.

You try not to grow upset or so frustrated that you say something you might regret. You swallow tightly. “Will you be disappointed? If I don’t?”

Shouta tilts his head and in the quietness you fear he will be, but he eventually answers, “No. You’re right; you have it controlled enough that it doesn’t hinder your day-to-day life.”

You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Besides, if you’re under that amount of distress again, it probably flares for a good reason. It’ll probably save you if you ever need it again.” Shouta then says, “And if what they want you to do doesn’t feel right to you, then you shouldn’t do it.”

You stare up at him, a little surprised but–

Relief sweeps through you, sweet and cool.

“I trust your instincts,” Shouta says, the curl of his lips small but promising, as he reaches out to nudge your chin with his knuckle.

The guilt blindsides you later, so hard that it makes you lock yourself in your bathroom and keep a sob trapped behind the palm of your hands.

But for now, you smile up at him, the curve of your smirk playful, something he hasn’t seen from you in what feels like forever that you give to him again freely.

“Can I get that one in writing?” you ask and his answering laugh strikes you so suddenly it almost makes you dizzy and it’s like hearing the notes to one of your favorite songs that you hadn’t heard in a long time.

Like you couldn’t ever imagine forgetting it, now that you’ve heard it again.

***

Tomura wonders what it will take to make you leave your heroes.

Specifically, your precious mentor.

When he sees you again, you look like you did before nearly bleeding out in front of him and destroying the Quirk of another. It’s almost as if it never happened at all, almost like your argument never happened at all, either. In this little apartment where the rest of the world doesn’t exist, just you and him and sometimes Ryuji.

Except when he lifts your shirt there is a twisted, ugly scar from where they patched you up. Another at your shoulder. He doesn’t kiss it or run his fingers over it gently, he doesn’t make any sort of comment. He just thumbs at your waist and glares at it, wishes he could make it disappear like the villain who gave it to you.

(Not because he finds it ugly or unacceptable, only that it is now a permanent reminder of what he’d seen. Only that it reminds him that you are not guaranteed to him, not in life nor in loyalty).

You’re a little hesitant with him now. You feel more fragile to him now, too, like you’re holding something back, waiting for everything to finally fall.

The inevitable crash and break.

Tomura is gentler with you– he knows he needs to play his cards right now. It’s crucial. Something is building, even for the League of Villains. There’s more on the horizons.

And despite everything, he wants you there, when the sun is bloody and falling on a dismembered, new world.

He thinks he shouldn’t have pushed you now, when you’re so delicate, barely stitched together. But he had– he’d started another argument. He’d tried to convince you of the heroes’ lack of care for you, their greediness upon discovering the depth of your Quirk.

You throw it back in his face; isn’t that what All For One does to him? Isn’t that what he does for the League of Villains? Aren’t they all just pawns for him? Is that what he wants of you?

He seethes, digging into the skin of his neck desperately. You don’t stop him. He can feel the facade of this little apartment beginning to crumble, fall away into dust and he–

He knows he destroys everything he touches.

But you were supposed to be different.

(You are, his mind hisses, you are, you are, and that’s the worst part of it all).

You storm out that night. You leave him, no doubt to return to your precious mentor.

He thinks about destroying the entire apartment complex. He could now– he knows what’s coming. He won’t be staying here any longer. He has plans, so many plans.

You come back to him a week later, though. You’re bound to him in some way, returning again and again when you know you shouldn’t.

The make-up part is nice, with him buried so deep inside you that he’s trying to turn your stomach. Make you sick with him, the way he is with you. Your gasping moans, with the arch of your body far too pretty for hands like his.

And still, you lay on his chest afterwards, you let him run his fingers over the planes of your shoulders, the line of your pretty neck. He drags his knuckles against your soft skin, enamored with the feeling, with the way you soothe the haunting, sunken part of him. His Quirk submits to yours easily, dimmed inside of him. Maybe he should be frightened of your new potential.

But you’ve never been frightened of him, so he’s not of you, either.

You’re very bold, though, he thinks, for you to say, “Your parents were cruel.” After the argument you both had last time.

He tenses beneath you, grits his teeth. He’d thought you’d both learned your lesson, getting too personal in a place as sacred as here.

“You don’t know anything,” he says and it’s just a breath. Surprisingly toothless. He’d said it to you last time, in your argument. You’d said it to him before that. It feels almost ironic now.

You shake your head against his chest, your nose nudging into him, lips soft against his skin. You remain calm. “I know your name is Tomura. They were very cruel to give you that name.”

You say this as if it’s a fact, something as simple as the sky being blue. But it’s dark out now and the stars are dull, the moon just a scythe in the sky, caught in the window’s glare.

“What?” he demands quietly.

At least you have the guts to tilt your head up to find his eyes now. You look up at him through dark lashes.

“Your name–” you say again, gentle, “It means ‘to mourn.’ I don’t know why anyone would give their child such a sad name.”

He knows what his name means.

But this takes him by surprise, for some reason. Only because it’s not the name his parents gave him. You don’t know that, though. You don’t know anything about him, technically. He has the urge to tell you suddenly, that’s not my name.

He doesn’t, though. He stays silent. It’s his name now. And he likes the way you say it, the syllabus softened by whatever it is you feel for him.

(He won’t give it a name, he’s realizing now that names can be very powerful.)

Your fingers are gentle on him, rubbing strange patterns against a scar near his collar bone.

You have rendered him silent.

And eventually, as you begin to drift off to sleep, you murmur, “You were just a kid, you know?”

He doesn’t really know what you’re getting at, only that it does something strange to the tempo of his heart. He swallows hard, tries to keep his fingers gentle on you. Your breathing has slowed, the rise and fall of your back measured and even, but his has gotten tight.

He squeezes you against him, glaring at nothing, at darkness.

You were just a kid, you know?

It’s this part of you, the one that sees the human in him, that makes him think maybe you will be at his side until the bitter end of it all. Your compassion, the sympathy you have for the child he was, for the person he somehow became. Your unending ability to understand the worst of people.

He doesn’t dwell on the child he was, just has buried it in the cemetery of his chest– a part of him that only you have been able to reach through Quirk, through something too massive to name. You’ve soothed it, put it to rest like the dead, lit your incense in the spaces of his heart. Said your prayers along the notches of his ribs. Tried to appease that restless spirit that possesses him.

He doesn’t know why, but he starts to shake. He can hardly breathe.

And in the dark, when he thinks you’re asleep, and his secrets will be lost to your dreams, he admits for the first time in years what has always trembled inside him. He speaks the tragedy that has made a home of his body, the mourning that he was given name to;

“I wanted to be a hero– when I was a kid.”

***

Tomura thinks, for a moment, when you’re splattered in blood, that this will be your great turning point.

Your fall, the tearing and burning of your wings from your holy back. It will hurt, but he will be there on the ground with you, a hand extended to guide you. He will be there to cradle you into his chest, to hold you close when your world falls apart.

The way All For One was there for him.

The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero.

But you save the wrong person.

Toga’s been following him around as she does every so often, dogging in his shadow, skipping along beside him. You’ve become accustomed to her, too. She likes having you around. Something about not being the only girl. You’re kind to her in the same way he thinks you probably wanted kindness at her age.

The sky is mottled purple, bruised as the day sets into night. The sun looks like an open wound, violent and red.

When he thinks about it, he figures he should’ve been more careful, but then there’s a petty villain Tomura knows vaguely, someone they’ve clashed with before, who he’s pretty sure Dabi and Toga pissed off. He spots Toga first. Your back is turned to him.

“Uh oh,” Toga says, peering over your shoulder.

Tomura grabs your wrist, “Hide,” he hisses, and when you try to peer over your shoulder at what Toga is looking at, he forces you back around so the villain doesn’t see your face.

He doesn’t know why he saves you like that. Only that he doesn’t want you to get in trouble, doesn’t want you taken from him like that. He is not an idiot; if the villain recognizes you, if it somehow got around that you were seen with two of the most notorious villains, the Hero Commission would eat you alive.

And here’s the part that really gets him. You listen to him. You trust him.

You dart away, swift and fast like a fox, disappearing into the shadows the way you were trained to.

“Hey!” the villain shouts and he’s large, Tomura remembers now.

Stupid, too, he thinks, as he barrels towards them.

The glint of Toga’s knife in the sun makes him pause.

Better to not engage, Tomura thinks, not yet, not now. Too much on the horizon for something foolish to happen tonight. The apartment isn’t far from here. He hopes you’ll retreat there. He just needs to get Toga away safely now.

“Oh, I’ve missed fighting!” she sings.

“No,” Tomura rasps, “Don’t engage. We need to go, too.”

She whines a long and drawn out, “Why?” just as the hulking mass of a person swings at her. She ducks away easily, quickly.

However, then his Quirk bursts to life and it’s far worse than what Tomura had hoped for. He doubles in size, his arms in particular growing longer, and fill out with what seems to be rushing water.

“Dammit, Toga,” he hisses, shoving her out of the way as the villain blasts a large cannon of water at her.

Tomura takes the hit hard, black coloring his vision when he hits the ground.

In truth, he thinks he is out for at least a full minute, because when he’s come to, you’re shouting at the villain. You’re tugging desperately at his massive shoulder, clawing and screaming. You’ve canceled his Quirk, but he’s still too big, even without it.

Toga is pinned beneath that arm, choking and spluttering, drenched. It actually looks like she’s choking on water. She can’t even scream, too garbled, too water-logged. She looks like a doll, she looks horribly small. Her face is turning a deep shade of red as she struggles for breath. Her little hands claw at his wrist, too.

Tomura tries to stand, his vision swimming, swaying so bad that for a minute everything goes sideways.

Fuck, he curses, just as he watches you get tossed away by that villain’s other hand like you’re nothing. His Quirk suddenly ripples back to life and he blasts Toga with another bout of water, plastering her to the gravel, the onslaught of it unending.

You’re up in an instant, throwing yourself onto his neck, trying to wrench him off. His Quirk disengages again, and Toga heaves and gasps for breath, coughing up large amounts of water.

“You’re going to kill her!” Tomura finally can catch onto what you’re saying, what you’re desperately screaming. His ears ring.

You get thrown off again. More water. Toga is being blasted so hard that she can’t even choke or struggle.

Tomura thinks you’re trying to rationalize with them, you’re trying to explain you’re a hero. And to disengage. Stop, please stop, please stop–

He’s not listening, though, of course.

And he’s too big. You tried knocking him out, tried putting him to sleep with the grip of your elbow. You’re trying everything, even to crush his Quirk beneath yours. Tomura catches the flutters of pink, your inability to summon your destruction when you need it.

It wouldn’t matter anyways, not with how big he is. You struggle against powerhouses.

Tomura stumbles.

But you’ve always been gritty and sharp and determined, if nothing else. You have always fought so desperately for your life, never mind law or honor or glory.

He thinks he catches the glint of your knife, the desperate threat to let her go, leave her alone!

The villain grabs you with a massive hand around the throat, lifts you clear off the ground.

Toga has gone slack against the pavement in a puddle of water, face colored a strange shade of red and blue. A little like the way the sky blurs before his eyes.

You kick and thrash, a horrible growl wretched from your throat. You don’t think, just lash out.

And then there is blood. So much blood. It’s all over Toga now, seeping into the water– did she cut him? She managed to cut his throat? Because that’s where the blood is pouring out of–

Tomura sways.

You’re dropped.

You stumble away.

Your blade– the one you used to threaten him with, is bloody.

“Fuck!” you shout, raw and so sudden that it jars him a little. He forces himself over to the scene. So much blood. His stomach rolls.

He looks at you, your shell-shocked face. You’re looking at the knife, at the blood. At Toga, who's still not moving.

He goes to her first, tries to shake her a little, fingers held away from her shoulders carefully. For a moment, she doesn’t respond, limp and lifeless and something inside of him threatens to overwhelm him. No, no–

Her eyes flutter, though, and she wheezes for a breath, suddenly turning over to vomit up far too much water.

“I-Is she-?” your voice, so small and lost, cuts through his thoughts.

He looks at you again, blood splattered and terror caught in your eyes. Pale and slack faced and half-mad. You look like a ghost, standing there in the aftermath, in your gruesomeness.

“She’s fine,” he says, just as she wretches up more water, “You saved her.”

Toga falls limp again. He checks frantically for a pulse at her wrist with two careful fingers. Still there. She needs a doctor, though. He stands to face you.

You make a noise, high pitched, trembling. You cover your mouth to keep it in, it’s something like a sob, an animalistic noise.

“I didn’t mean to– I didn’t, I didn’t– she was just–” you’re trying to get out, almost doubled over now.

Tomura doesn’t bother to check if you killed the villain. He knows the dead when he sees it. And he won’t lie to you now, he won’t soften this blow or shield you from it.

But he also knows what he needs to do.

You keel over, about to scream more and– no, that won’t do you any good.

He grabs for you, hauls you back up and you’re shaking so hard that he fears you’re going to split apart. You’re about to lose it.

“Listen to me,” Tomura hisses and you choke on a cry. He shakes you a little, tries to force you to look at him and not the body behind him. Your eyes, feverish pink, meet the wildfire of his, “Listen to me.”

“I– I don’t–”

“Sshh,” Tomura hisses, palm going to your cheek, a little too rough, forcing you to look at only him. “Sshh, listen.”

You try to swallow and he continues, “You’re going to call reinforcements. You’re going to tell them there’s a villain down.”

“W-what?! I’m going to– they’re going to–”

He shakes you again, harder, your teeth click together with the force of it. He needs you to understand this– needs you to hear this if he wants to keep you safe and out of jail.

“Tell them I decayed him. And before that, tell them Toga cut him, and it splattered onto you. Say you heard commotion and like the good hero you are, you ran to help.”

“Tomura–” you sob.

“Do you understand me?” he snaps instead, grabbing you harder, his fingers curling against your cheek to press desperately into you. “Answer me!”

“Yes–” you gasp, wide-eyed and terrified. “Yes!”

“Good,” he hushes, wiping blood from your cheek, “Good. You saved her,” he tells you, “You saved her, do you understand?”

You nod, jerky, and he continues, hand petting your cheek, messily pushing your hair from your face, “You did everything right.”

Your breathing is still labored, but you’re quieting with the praise. When he thinks you can handle it, he breathes, “Now, are you ready? I’m going to decay him and the knife, then I’m going to leave with Toga. You’re going to call for help.”

You glance at the villain, lying lifeless, in his own pool of blood and Tomura ducks his head to force you to look at him. “Okay?” he asks, “Answer me.”

“Okay,” you exhale slowly.

“Good,” he murmurs, “Good. Now give me the knife.”

You press it, trembling, into his hands. It’s slick with blood. He forces himself to stay calm for you.

He steps away, let’s go of you. The knife turns to dust.

“Look away,” he commands then, his voice a rasp.

And you– you listen to him. You trust him. You turn away. He sets his hands on the villain. And just like that, his body breaks down, gore at first, until it is nothing but dust. It blows away easily.

And then he goes to Toga and he lifts her carefully. She’s like a ragdoll in his arms, soaked and cold. He’s certain to keep his hands away from her, fingers lifted away, but she lolls into his chest.

When you turn around, Tomura says, “Thank you for saving her.” And he means it.

You swallow hard. You look to where the villain was. He’s gone now.

“Now call your heroes, just like I said.”

You nod, eyes filling up with tears. That’s fine. They’ll have more sympathy for you, for what you’ve witnessed. They’ll believe you more. Your mentor will protect you, with those tears in your eyes.

Tomura’s eyes burn crimson as you pull out your phone, “Do what I said and you’ll be okay.”

And you do, just like that. You lift the phone to your ear. That semblance of calm that he had coaxed you into shatters the moment someone picks up on the other end.

Your voice goes high, near hysterical, “T-There’s a villain down–”

He turns away from you as you stutter and cry into the phone about what happened. You give them the lie he told you to feed them. You make Tomura out to be the villain, you make yourself out to be innocent. He holds Toga close to him.

He tries not to smile, a dizzy slip of a thing, as you do exactly as he told you to– as you lie and lie and lie through your teeth.

Toga stirs in his arms. Police sirens are heard in the distance. An ambulance for a pile of dust. The sun sets, darkness blanketing the world, shielding it from the light.

And as he stalks away, with Toga alive and in his arms, he thinks maybe he’ll make a villain of you yet.

***

The police believe you. It’s hard not to, when there is so little evidence otherwise. Tomura destroyed it all for you. It’s hard not to believe you, when you’re crying and terrified, as you should be for witnessing the death of another person at the hands of Himiko Toga and Shigaraki Tomura.

Shouta, however, is not as easily convinced.

Not after so many strange occurrences with Tomura.

When he brings you back to his apartment, when the door is shut tight, and you still stand in bloodied clothes with your teeth chattering, Shouta eyes you warily.

You want to shower, burn yourself beneath the spray of water, like you could wash away what you’d done. You squeeze your eyes shut.

You saved her.

You swallow down the lump in your throat.

“What really happened?” Shouta asks, almost tentatively, standing in the middle of his living room.

You turn and you don’t– you don’t know how you should react. Should you be offended that he’d doubt you? React in outrage after all that’s happened? Should you act confused? Play dumb?

You can’t stomach any of it. Not when someone’s dead at your hands. But someone is alive because of them, too.

Your eyes well up with fresh tears.

“I-I told you.” you choke out.

Shouta’s jaw ticks. He draws in a slow breath, “Something isn’t adding up. You have had more contact with Shigaraki Tomura than anyone has been able to have.”

Your stomach drops. Your tears fall harder.

“What’s going on?” he asks and the distance between you two feels massive. It feels continental in the small space of his living room. He seems suspicious.

The lie comes out on a sob, “I–I think he’s been stalking me.”

“What?” Shouta asks and any uncertainty he has in you evaporates as he watches your face crumple.

You let your guilt overwhelm you into choking on another cry, cover your mouth as if you could catch it in the palm of your hand. Shouta doesn’t know the truth of it, so he believes it.

He crosses that distance like it’s nothing now. He stands tall in front of you, reaches to try and brush tears away from your cheek.

“I don’t know–” you gasp, filling out your lie, “I think he's interested in me because of my Quirk. Because he can’t– I can’t decay, when he touches me.”

Shouta tips your face up towards his but you can’t look him in the eyes, let your eyes squeeze shut when he asks, “Why wouldn’t you tell me that?”

“I don’t know–” you choke out, “I wasn’t sure.”

“Did something else happen?” Shouta prods gently and you grit your teeth to keep back another sob. More tears cut tracks down your face, right into Shouta’s waiting, gentle hands.

There is a long moment where you think of giving everything up. You think of telling Shouta everything, if only to lift the weight that has settled onto your chest. Surely, it will crush through your sternum, surely your heart will burst with it’s pressure.

“It’s my fault,” you whisper, “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

“No,” Shouta says then, gentle but firm, shaking his head, “I know it may feel like it–”

“He was going to kill her.”

This stops Shouta. He goes very, very still.

“What?” he rasps softly.

“He was drowning her– he wouldn’t stop. I tried to get him to stop and he started choking me–and she saved me by–” It’s a fabrication to save yourself. That’s not how it went! Your mind screeches, that’s not how it went– you saved her by killing–

Toga was turning blue, she didn’t help you. She didn’t save you. She was drowning. She didn’t kill him. You did.

“You saved Toga Himiko, a notorious villain, one of the most wanted–”

“He was killing her!” you hiss, “She was turning blue–”

“She’s a powerful villain, too, you should’ve tried–”

Something inside of you fractures, bursts apart the way glass does when thrown against a wall. You think there are a million, shining pieces of you now lying on the floor.

“She’s Shinsou’s age!” you snap, hoping one of your shards cuts him, suddenly half-furious through all your tears. “She’s Shinsou’s age, do you know that?!”

You break now, wrenching away from Shouta’s touch and rushing to double over the sink to dry heave again, body squeezing painfully. You threw up everything in your stomach already at the scene, when recounting the story to the police, to Shouta. You claw at your stomach, trying to stop it, to keep it all down inside of you. You curl your fingers into the divots of your ribs, try to force them to give you air, but they won’t– betrayers that they are, they squeeze and squeeze until there’s nothing of you left.

Your knees buckle, head spinning when you turn away from the sink and crumple into a heap on the floor,“She’s just a kid,” you wail desperately, “That’s all I saw when I tried– when I–”

Your head bows forward, body folded in on itself, forehead digging into the ground as you cry, “I didn’t mean for him to die, I didn’t mean it– I didn’t, I swear I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

Shouta moves again finally, drops to his knees down beside you. He cradles your skull in his large hand, pushes your head into the crook of his neck to hold you, “It’s alright,” he breathes, curling his other arm tight around you, “It’s not your fault,” he hushes, “It’s not your fault.” You sob hard into his chest, fingernails digging into him, clawing at his biceps, “Sshh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

And he holds you, buries you in the bulk of him, like he always has when you need him. Your constant, the love you never once deserved. Especially not now. Especially not here, with blood stained on your clothes, sunk to the floor with nothing but the anchor of your guilt.

He strokes your hairline, gentle, cooing softly to try and calm you.

He murmurs, his voice so deep and soft and earnest, “You’re a good hero.” When you make a strangled noise against him, he presses on, “You are. You’re compassionate. You see everyone’s humanity and that’s a good thing.”

He hushes more of your cries, fingers gentle in your hair, and you try not to throw up again when he tells you;

“You’re a good hero, I promise. I promise.”

The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero for a villain.

***

The next time you see Tomura, he questions you about what happened, if you pulled it off. You tell him you managed it, somehow. You don’t tell him anything else. You don’t tell him you haven’t been sleeping, that you can hardly keep food down. You don’t tell him that you take too many showers, trying to wash away the phantom blood.

You remember when it was Tomura’s blood on you, so long ago. A beginning that now seems so hazy. You hadn’t minded blood, then. You had never been particularly squeamish but now–

Now it could make you sick on your best days, downright hysterical on your worst.

Your guilt tears chunks out of you, bites down and shakes the meaty, soft parts of you until you’re all torn up.

It is easier to be with Tomura than Shouta now.

We have more in common, you think, and it makes you want to laugh, empty and wobbly.

You look in mirrors and hardly recognize yourself, wonder if this is really your body. If this is really your life, or if it’s someone else’s. Maybe you are possessed, maybe that explains how you got here.

You don’t tell him any of this. You stay silent.

And that’s okay because Tomura seems strangely quiet after that, pulling you to lay on his chest. He doesn’t let you put the TV on. You can tell he needs to think. You let your eyes drift close as he runs his fingers through your hair with a surprising amount of gentleness, compared to his usual petting.

But eventually he says, so soft that you fear you almost imagined it, “A yakuza head visited the League recently.”

Your eyes flutter open and in your surprise, you sit up a little, looking down at him. “Tomura–” you start, almost a warning.

He knows he isn’t supposed to talk like this here, in this little slice of another world.

But he continues anyways, his voice just a rough scratch, “He killed Magne.” And then, “And Compress no longer has an arm.”

Now you really pull away to look at him. You can feel your eyes widen out, your shock, then the stomach-turning sadness. His face is unreadable, but his jaw is tight. His eyes are simmering, so red, even in the low light like this.

“It was a set up.” he hisses, “I failed them.”

He doesn’t cry, but you can feel the slightest tremble in his body.

You hurt for him, you realize, your heart falling into the pit of your stomach. Those are two of his closest, some of his inner circle.

He looks shaken.

He looks young, with the weight of his world on his shoulders, with the crown of thorns placed on his head. Heir to a monstrous throne. All For One’s successor, boy prince to inherit an underground empire.

You just see him, though, just Tomura who's twenty, who likes sour candy and video games.

He swallows hard. He looks angry and hurt.

“Nobody mourns us,” he says eventually, looking away from you, somewhere in the darkness of the apartment.

Except you, you want to say, with a name like Tomura.

You lurch forward, throwing your arms around his neck, hugging him tight to you. “I’m sorry,” you tell him, soft, the way Shouta speaks to you, “I’m sorry.”

And then you think, I’d mourn you, and you squeeze him tighter, I’d mourn you, oh God, I’d mourn you–

He doesn’t hug you back, but you can feel the shaky breath he exhales, and the way his fingers tighten in the fabric of your shirt.

***

Tomura thinks it should be you, at his side, when he takes Overhaul’s arm. You are everything Overhaul wants. Your Quirk is what he has tried to bottle.

Tomura thinks you could’ve been useful, to switch off his Quirk, to destroy it in an incredible twist of irony. It would’ve been the ultimate power move, to have you at his side by the end of all of this.

But you’re not there, no, not with him.

You’re with your heroes, Toga had told him.

It shouldn’t, but it feels like a betrayal. It stings hard and sharp inside of him, like a livid bee that jabs at his heart.

He seethes about it. Hadn’t he done everything right with you? He’d played this game slow, knew that the rewards would be worth it.

You’re still walking away from him, though. You’re still not his.

And you’ve still got one of his ribs, left a gaping wound inside of him.

He wants it back. He wants it back.

***

Eri looks up at you with watery, red eyes when you first introduce yourself to her. You crouch to be on her level. She has silver hair. She’s timid, wobbly bottom lip and flushed cheeks.

You almost start crying, looking at her now. You wonder if this is what Tomura was like as a child– small and terrified of his Quirk, round red eyes pleading with the world. All you see in her is every other forgotten child.

“Hi, Eri,” you hush, half for her, half because you’re scared your voice might break.

“H-hello,” she trembles.

You try to keep your smile in place, but it’s a weak, sad thing.

Still, you say, “I’d like to be your friend, if you’ll have me.” And you extend your hand to her, palm up and offering. “I have a Quirk like Mr. Aizawa’s.” you tell her gently, “If you touch me while using your Quirk, it’ll stop.”

She brightens at this, not smiling but, surprised, “Really?” she asks, just a breath.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat, “Really.”

She takes your hand then, eager, tightening with her small fingers, despite her Quirk still being off.

Then she looks up into your face and offers you a tentative smile. Small, just the corner of her lips lifting up.

“I’d like to be your friend, too.” she murmurs bashfully and you close your hand around hers. It’s small, almost fragile. She’s all bandaged up, arms wrapped in gauze.

You look at Eri and her red eyes and silver hair and see a coin toss, see it up in the air, spinning and spinning, catching in the light. A twist of fate like the flip of a coin.

But you think you could call it now, with her hand in yours, and the heroes that hover protectively around her.

***

There is a morning shared in blush light that isn’t the ending but feels like it could be one. In truth, you’d prefer to remember this as the ending, more of a whimper and less of a bang. The night before had been one of your better ones, too– you’d only woken once with a nightmare. Tomura had already been awake and he’d soothed you with a careful hand that drew patterns across the bare skin of your back.

That night, that morning, was gentle in the wake of all that violence, love taken root, finally bursting through your veins to make a mess of your insides.

Dawn is too mellow a place for the two of you.

(You have come to the conclusion that Tomura looks best in dusk, saturated, sharp and rich in color. Bold and vivid. You didn’t know it, but he thought the same of you.)

You never told him you loved him.

You think about that a lot, wonder if it would’ve made a difference in anything. You wonder who was the last person to tell him that, if anyone at all.

He’s still half hoping that you’ll follow him, but you think he knows he’s losing you. You are not content in fuming misery, cannot stomach to leave the mentor that has loved and cared for you with such perseverance and softness. You cannot stomach to turn away from the boy with violet hair, or now the girl that reminds you of him.

You wish you could keep him, too, despite it all, but all you see in the future with him is rubble.

In the least, you’ve always had a sense of preservations, survivor that you are, scavenger that you are. You know when to move on, can’t linger too much longer now or you won’t live through it.

You sleep better with Tomura, though, and that’s the cruel part. You wake with less nightmares. You sleep more soundly, wound up in him, so tight that you two might just grow together. Palm to palm, your Quirk quieting his, lulled and softened.

And that morning, you wake slowly, twisting around fitfully with the warmth that has blossomed gently inside of you.

Consciousness creeps to you, fighting against the pull of sleep, being coaxed awake by the fluttering of your heart, the slow roll in your core.

Your eyes lift, heavy with sleep, finally awake. You blink blearily before a sudden, sleep soft cry escapes past your lips.

You glance down the line of your body to find Tomura nestled between your legs, tongue tracing messy patterns into where you’re most sensitive. Your stomach swoops sweetly, flares into a spark of heat.

The light is soft on him. He cracks a ruby eye open to gaze at you, to open his mouth so you can watch the flash of glistening pink as his tongue laves against you slowly.

“About time you woke up,” he gets out, voice still morning-rough, a little grating. His fingers squeeze your thigh, pulling you apart further to be at his mercy, spread open all for him.

“Tomura–” you gasp, your hands finding their way into his hair, fingers gentle and weak with sleep.

He sets his mouth to you, sucks on the bundle of nerves in a way that makes you keen, almost arching away from him. He fixes his eyes on your face, watches as your expression twists up.

You can see the way his hips are twitching into the mattress. Sometimes you think he does this more for himself than you, takes pleasure in rendering you down to your most basic, most desperate.

Pleasure coils warm, simmers on the inside of you. Your fingers flex, tighten in his hair until he groans against you. When he pulls away for another moment to admire you, his lips are spit slick, a string of translucent spit and slick bridging between the two of you.

It makes you flush darkly, makes you throw your head back and whimper.

He takes you apart with the savagery and viciousness that he has always carried. Dawn spills over the bed sheets in rays of peach and honeysuckle, lovely for the impending destruction. You shatter like glass, pretty and ringing beneath his hands.

And then he’s flipping you onto your stomach, letting you claw at your pillow as he sinks deep inside of you. He hisses when he fucks into the crux of your sweet, supple thighs. Your hair is messy with sleep. He presses his chest to your back, presses you into the mattress.

You fist at your pillow, whining at the burn and stretch, and you can feel the sickle cut of his smile against the arch of your shoulder blades. He leaves sloppy kisses, scattering them, sucking at your skin until he has claimed and marked and branded you.

He nudges his nose against your cheek until you tilt your head back to his, to rub back affectionately, nudge into him like a cat. He hums in satisfaction, in pleasure, the sound of it rumbling against your back.

You feel like he’s trying to savor this. He doesn’t pull your hair, or speed up his hips. No, he waits until you arch your back for him, until you’re near begging.

He likes you weakened, maybe delirious, maybe like he’s giving you a dose of your own medicine. He’s trying to make you as addicted as he is, but there’s no need.

No need when he covers your hand with his, slots his fingers between yours. All five of them, squeezing at your hand.

“You were made for me,” he gets out, giving you a rougher thrust, his eyes flashing to your hands, “See?” he groans, fingers digging into your wrist, your knuckles, “Made for me.”

You moan, too, all wobbly and pitched, with all the pressure, with the squeeze of his hand. With the stretch of him inside where you’re vulnerable and soft and slick.

He drags everything out that morning, fucks you both into oversensitivity, until you’re both shuddering and gasping. He breaks you down, until there are tears streaming down your face, until he’s gripping you so tightly that he’ll leave a bruise in the shape of his hand.

He fits his hand against your throat at one point and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You end where you began, with the violet petal bruise of his fingertips into your skin.

You linger in bed with him that morning, letting him pet and stroke and touch you. You stay gentle, even when he gets rough.

You make cheap, bad coffee for the both of you.

You feel twenty something with a boy and his tiny apartment. A cat chirps at the window and you’re smiling when you let him in. The breeze is cool. You don’t put on clothes because you feel like an adult, with a lover.

You feel normal for a fraction of a moment after everything that’s happened.

You feel sated and tender and saddened. Your chest fills with aching as you watch Tomura drift in and out of sleep in the sunbeams.

You were made for me, he’d said and you reach out to brush a strand of hair from his face. You were made for me.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, the one that feels like needle pricks and the hard truth. You don’t have the heart to tell him that he may need you, but you don’t need him.

You want him, though, your fingers trailing down the lines of his face, you want him so badly that it hurts. Your fingers travel over the hitch of his scars, his body as familiar as a home.

You want him, but you don’t need him, you try to tell yourself in this moment. You want him, but you don’t need him. You will survive this.

Still, it’s going to hurt. You’re bracing for impact, can feel the free fall rush up to the ground, can feel your stomach swimming up where your heart is.

You’ll survive it, you think, breathing hard, trying to keep back your tears as you look at him. But it’s going to hurt, it might tear out something very precious inside of you.

You’d rather he just break your arm again. At the thought of it, you try not to choke on the bitter, furious laugh that splits from your aching ribs.

***

You get to know Eri, try to spend more time with her and Shouta and Shinsou like you’re trying to fix something you broke. The pieces aren’t quite matching up right, though. It can’t be fixed, not really, not fully.

You can’t close your eyes without seeing that villain in a pool of their own blood. Or Toga’s face made blue. Sometimes in these dreams, it’s Shinsou who is drowning. Sometimes the villain in blood is Shouta. Tomura is always the one who saves you.

You can’t look at yourself anymore. You can’t stomach to. Your lies explode out of you when you catch a glance of yourself, haggard and exhausted and beaten down.

Shouta takes you to a hospital after your fist collides with the mirror in your bathroom. Glass shatters into hundreds of reflections of your warped and terrible image. They’re not as pretty, when the sun isn’t setting in a warehouse with a boy that you think you love.

Your hand bleeds the way that man’s necks did–

Your world spins as you lean over the bowl of the toilet to throw up your lunch. You’d made it with Eri earlier, before Shouta had gotten home from class.

Shouta finds you on the floor, sitting in all that glass, with your hand clutched tightly to your chest. He must’ve heard the commotion next door.

“What happened?” he asks, voice flooding with concern. He doesn’t hesitate to step carefully over the glass to you.

The question feels too large for you.

I did something horrible, you think, that’s what happened.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter weakly, lifting your chin from its place on your chest. “I didn’t mean to.”

(That isn’t true and you know it.

(But you’re always trying to prove you’re good. Especially now. Especially to Shouta– trying to prove you’re worthy of his love.

You suddenly crave Tomura. You didn’t have to prove anything to him.)

Shouta lifts you carefully, cradles you to his body to carry you out to his car to bring you to the hospital. He treats you like you’re fragile, made of glass yourself. “What’s going on with you?” Shouta murmurs gently, but there's almost a plea in it, concern that is so transparent it hurts, “You’re scaring me– I’m worried about you.” he confesses, almost desperate, “You know you can talk to me, don’t you?”

The laugh that sputters out of you is hollow, a grating noise that gets choked off. Shouta looks at you warily, uncertain and fearful.

The hospital keeps you for three days. Eri asks Shouta about you, apparently. She misses you. Shinsou helps her decorate a card for you.

Get well soon! Is written in her poor handwriting with far too many colors, and in Shinsou’s messy scrawl at the bottom;

Miss getting my ass kicked by you.

The doctors tell Shouta you’re struggling with a lot of survivor’s guilt and you have to fight back another absurd, off-kilter laugh.

Part of you thinks you’d be better off with Tomura at this point (your coin uncertain, hanging suspended in the air), if only to relieve you of this guilt, when Shouta tends to you and cares for you and loves you so steadfastly that it makes you feel rotten and horrible and monstrous. He has no idea who he’s loving. And you don’t deserve any of it–

But you think of Eri and the way she clings to your sleeves. And how you and Shinsou share granola bars during training.

And mostly, you are terrified to be without them.

None of it’s the same, though, and you think it’ll eat away at you until you’re nothing at all but the empty lies you kept feeding them.

You want to be better, you realize, when Eri draws you in pictures, holding her hand. You want to be better, you realize, for kids like you, like her–

(Like Tomura–)

So you decide one night, with your hand still bandaged, with Eri sleeping peacefully on the couch in the crux of your arms, and Shouta at the opposite end of the couch, that you will stay with them. The easy thing to do would be to leave, to not look back. But you have always been nothing if not determined, if not a fighter.

You will become who they want you to be, who they believe you to be, even if it tears you apart from the inside out.

Which means giving up Tomura, which feels like giving up a rib.

***

You had hoped you’d be able to slip away from Tomura and leave your secrets in a rundown apartment in a part of the city you grew up in. You had hoped that you could get away unscathed, without Shouta ever knowing more.

But Dabi mentions you to Hawks.

Offhand. Something about another traitor hero. Something about Shigaraki’s bitch.

Tomura also mentions Hawks to you.

And here is your trouble, what you were hoping to avoid by never allowing him to speak about his plans; you now know that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor. However, the only reason you know that, is because of your secret relationship with the leader of the League of Villains that you have been slowly, painstakingly trying to sever yourself from.

(It doesn’t help that he’s latched on tighter–)

So, if you go to Shouta to warn him that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor, you have to also conveniently come forward with your own truth. And what if he thinks you’re a traitor, too?

Surely, it looks that way.

Truthfully, you might as well be– you killed someone.

You killed someone.

Your stomach squeezes tight.

You think of Shouta and Shinsou and Eri and the loss of their love, when you’ve been trying to earn it back.

You don’t get much time to mull this over, though, because while walking back to your own apartment at U.A., a shadowy span of wings fall over your form.

Your heart falls into the pits of you, the drop of it sharp, horrible.

You think running will make it look all the worse.

Besides, he’s fast.

You can’t decide how this will go. Maybe he’ll only want to speak with you, traitor to traitor. But then you will be confronted with the undeniable truth that you now need to share with Shouta, with the Hero Commission, for the sake of people’s safety. You will have to come clean. Maybe it will be worse. Maybe he’s not after you at all, but just in your neck of the woods because–

All other thoughts are cut short when he lands in front of you.

You try to think of a proper reaction. Should you be expecting him? On guard? Should you act surprised?

His wings flare and you realize quickly how massive they are. They throw you into their towering shadow, make you feel like a mouse.

His eyes glint when he pushes up his visor, the gold of them sharp, his pupils a pinprick. The eyes of a predator.

You try not to cower. You stand your ground, lift your lips a little like you might bare teeth in warning, your hackles raising. Backed into the corner, you feel half wild, too.

But Hawks beats you to any form of a greeting, his smile a menacing twist of his lips, like he’s trying to be pleasant but he wants you to see all of those sharp, white teeth of his. You think he doesn’t look like much of a hero in this darkness, with the way his wings look thorny and maroon. His voice is barbed wire, the drawl of it stinging.

You know you’re in deep trouble now;

“You and I need to have a little talk.”

***

You are kept in a steel room that the Hero Commission tells you is not a holding cell, but you definitely think is a holding cell.

Your mind has not slowed since you got here.

You scramble for a story to tell– for lies to sew.

Hawks is not a traitor. Not to the heroes’ at least. He is a traitor to the villains and you know, logically, that this is for the greater good, but something about it bothers you. Villains aren’t people to the Hero Commission. You feel strangely protective of Tomura’s league of outcasts, even if you know you shouldn’t.

But they’re young, with feelings and thoughts and lives and pasts.

Nobody ever mourns us.

No, they don’t, you think, trying to keep away bitter tears from springing to your eyes. They don’t bother trying to see the big picture, they don’t bother to try and figure out why villains are on the rise.

They can’t stomach the idea that maybe their precious hero system has given birth to their villains.

Or maybe they can and they just don’t care.

They need heroes for their charts and money and power, don’t they? So they need villains. A never ending cycle, forever going around on this carousel. You’re dizzy with it, you’re sick of it, caught up in it’s riptide.

You don’t look at Tomura Shigaraki and see the most dangerous, wanted criminal in the country. You see a twenty-year-old pawn, a chip in a bigger game. You see someone as starving and desperate as you were.

You see a coin flip.

(You see the person you fell in love with–)

Shouta enters silently and the moment you see him, you have to try to keep from bursting into tears. Your lip wobbles.

He approaches slowly, cooly, but when he gets near you, his eyes are livid and searching your face, like maybe he could finally find the lies you’d kept buried so deep inside of you. They’ve finally blossomed, you think, all of them sprouting from your body, creeping through your lungs and up your throat to choke you out.

“Tell me the truth finally.” Shouta says, sharp and icy. He speaks like he’s speaking to a criminal, “Now.”

You suck in a shaky breath, try not to flinch when he leans across the metal table and snarls, “And if you are a traitor, at least have the decency to tell me now, before they come in here and interrogate both of us.”

Tears catch in your lashes.

Through the throbbing of your head, you realize you have jeopardized Shouta in the way you never wanted.

“I’m not a traitor.” you get out, voice quiet but firm, barely above a whisper.

“No?” Shouta clips and you can see it now, the hurt in his eyes. He feels betrayed, deeply so, and you can’t even blame him. “Hawks says differently. Says you’ve been working with Shigaraki.”

You rub furiously at your cheek to try and keep the tears from falling, shaking your head quickly, “No–”

“Then what happened?” he snaps and through the blur of your own tears, you catch the way his own eyes glisten.

“I didn’t tell you everything, when I said I thought Shigaraki was stalking me.” you say, having readied this lie the moment that Hawks brought you to the Hero Commission’s doors. You give them the story they want to hear of you, not the one where you fell in love, but the one where you jeopardize yourself for them. You are careful to peer up at him through damp lashes, “I–I got close to him, because he let me, because he was interested in me.”

Shouta goes very, very still. All you can see is his chest rising and falling, quick, as he slowly begins to walk the path you’re leading him down.

“And I thought he might tell me his plans, I thought that I could help–”

“No,” Shouta says in disbelief as it all begins to connect, leaning away from you in shock, “Please tell me you didn’t–”

You lurch towards him slightly, naturally, your hands coming up to the table like you’re reaching for him. “I wanted to prove I could do this–” you choke out, voice breaking, “I wanted to prove I could do undercover work like you wanted– like they wanted!”

“What were you thinking?” he hisses in return.

“You never would’ve let me do this!” you snap, almost plead with him, and it must strike true because he looks away from you momentarily, “I-I saw an opening so I tried to take it– I was perfect for it. Shigaraki was interested in me. I used to be a thief. I would’ve fit in.”

The moment you say it, you realize how true it rings. It startles you, maybe, with how close you were. Almost, but didn’t, your coin doing an extra rotation in air. And why didn’t you? Why not be with Tomura now? Why not be where you fit in most? Where hero society wanted and expected you to be?

“I’m not a traitor,” you cry, tears tracking down your cheeks freely now– you think you’re trying to convince yourself as much as Shouta now, “I promise I’m not a traitor– I couldn’t do that to you. O-or Shinsou. Or Eri–”

And there is your reason. The truth to disguise your lies. You look at him, across from you, his face almost unreadable, with his furrowed brows and tense jaw. His eyes shine, though, gleam with unshed tears as he listens to you. The man who gave you everything, who has cared for you since the moment he found you– perhaps the sole reason your coin has flipped in their favor. All because he did more than what was asked of him, because maybe he just saw someone starving, too, like the way you did with Tomura.

Believe me, you plead, believe this.

There is a long stretch of silence after that, where all you can get in is hiccuping breaths.

Finally, Shouta asks, “Did you find anything out about him? Or the League of Villains?”

You exhale hard with relief, your shoulders finally falling. You collapse somewhat, exhausted, folding in on yourself.

You hang your head, then shake it slowly, “No,” you sniffle, wipe at your drippy nose, “He didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t trust me.”

Shouta eyes you warily.

“So that’s why you encountered him so much. That’s why you were there with Toga Himiko when–” Shouta cuts himself off when he sees your wince, the shuddering of your features at the mention of that incident. But he finally put all of the pieces together. All the pieces you’ve given him, at least.

You nod, stray tears falling quick, dripping off your chin, “I’m sorry for lying,” you get out, “I hated it— I hated lying to you.”

Truth.

Shouta throws you a hard look, “You shouldn’t have. It was dangerous and irresponsible. And now look at what you’ve done–”

Your stomach knots up tightly.

“I thought I could handle it.” You breathe and there is another truth, sprinkled throughout your lies.

But you were so horribly wrong–

Shouta is about to open his mouth again, but the door swings open and a man in a suit enters slowly. His gaze is cool as it falls on you and Shouta. You know this isn’t the end of your conversation with him, you know he wants to know more. But now, he focuses on the higher up that encourages him to sit, too.

He says, because Shouta has been such an upstanding hero and teacher, they are allowing him the courtesy of explaining everything now.

And then you watch as Shouta opens his mouth and lies and lies and lies for you.

He tells them that it was his idea to allow you to get close to Shigaraki. He knew, every step of the way. He tells them he bypassed speaking with a committee at the Hero Commission’s because it would’ve taken too much time. He says that they needed to act quickly and accordingly.

He takes the brunt of it, saves you from far more trouble. He’s a trusted hero. You’re an ex-thief in the eyes of the Hero Commission with a too-big Quirk. They won’t believe you and truthfully, if they did more digging, if they pried more, there is a chance that the truth might leak out of you, open like a wound.

Shouta protects you, the way he always has. You don’t deserve it and you can feel your heart tearing itself to shreds.

You know you can’t go back to Tomura, not after all this.

You watch Shouta lie for you, speak for you, get you out of the grave you have dug yourself. For the second time in your life, Shouta saves you. You try to hold back more tears, you try to hold back from throwing yourself onto him, clinging to him.

And finally, they ask, “Did you learn anything, then? About Shigaraki Tomura?”

He likes sour candy. He has trouble sleeping. He drinks too many energy drinks. There is a scar at the corner of his lip. He has a beauty mark on his chin. He is desperate and starved of love. He let’s a kitten sleep in the sunlight of his apartment. He tries to take care of the League to the best of his ability– he cares about them more than he will admit. He is not heartless. His hands are often cold but seeking, longing for what he can’t have.

Your eyes well up with tears but you take a slow, steadying breath. They don’t want those pieces of him, the human, messy ones. No, they want to know how evil he is, how diabolical his next plan is going to be. But you don’t know any of that, just that he holds you as if he never wants to let you go when you fall asleep at night.

So you’re not lying when you say;

“I don’t know anything about Shigaraki Tomura.”

Only that he wanted to be a hero– when he was a kid.

***

The days following are the worst between you and Shouta.

He doesn’t trust you anymore. You can’t fight him. You have nothing to say, which is perhaps worse than if you tried to fight with him.

There’s no defending you, especially if Shouta even knew half of the truth. He barely speaks with you some days.

He wedges the distance between you two wide, forces it apart further.

He does not comfort you, he does not hold you when you cry this time. He’s not there with soothing, hushed words or the gentle touch of his hand to your cheek.

A piece of his trust is broken, now so severely that it’s just a jagged edge, something you don’t think can ever be soothed.

(And you’re right, in some way– there’s a deep shift in your relationship with him, changed and scarred. It never returns to what you once had, when your life was very simple and all you knew was him.)

He doesn’t ever say, I forgive you. I will trust you again, in time.

But he eventually will make dinner for you again and you will sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder at his table with a respectable, lonesome distance between his heart and yours.

Nothing is ever the same again.

You think about running– from Shouta, from Tomura, from all of it. It would be the easiest option, where you never have to look either in the face again.

But the Hero Commission looks at Eri the same way they looked at you when they discovered you could destroy Quirks and you can’t stomach the idea of leaving her to them.

(Tomura was right in a lot of ways.

And when there’s a war on the horizon and the Hero Commission seeks to use you as a weapon, you will think of him again.

I’ll teach you, if that’s what you want, he’d said to you once. And he did.

You hate the system, the endless cycle, Prometheus chained to his rock, the need of villains to have heroes, the creation of heroes to make villains. The endless bodies, the using and discarding of real, human lives for a greater good. You wish you could destroy it.

But there is more than only destruction, too. What good is rubble and ruin and death?)

You stay so you can do what you can, so you can protect a child with red eyes, with silver hair, and a Quirk too big for their own body.

And you think maybe if you stay with her, it makes up for leaving Tomura.

***

You go to Tomura one last time, walk the distance to his apartment with your hands shoved into your pockets. It’s a familiar walk now. The pavement is wet from rain. It’s cold out. You don’t know what you’re going to tell him. You wonder how he’ll react– for a moment, you’re fearful. Will he lash out? For a moment you wonder if he’ll try to kill you.

But you know, deep down, he wouldn’t. Won’t.

And you won’t pretend you’re scared of him now. You won’t play the innocent hero, not in front of him.

The moment Tomura sees you, he knows something has changed. You are too expressive and now you look at him with a sense of foreboding. With a sadness that he feels uncomfortable gazing at.

You tell him, “I got in trouble with the Hero Commission.”

For a moment, he lets his hope grow and stretch inside of him. Maybe this is finally your turning point, your fall from grace that he will catch you on. But no, your lip wobbles and your eyes dart away.

“I can’t see you anymore,” you whisper.

At first, he wants to snap at you, hiss out something cruel between his bared teeth. Maybe if you had done this a few years ago, a few months ago, he would lash out, try to tear into his neck or you or the world. He thinks about hurting you, slamming you against a wall or–

The thought is unfortunately repulsive to him. He doesn’t want to hurt you, not like that.

His anger and resentment wells inside of him, swarms his chest viciously. He wants to argue, to point out every way your heroes have failed you. The world feels so absurdly unfair suddenly, to give him you– you who quiets his Quirk and touches him gently and winds your arms around him in the way he likes so much– only to then take you away, too. You who destroys with a touch, too. Who is perfect at his side.

But for all his work and care and strategy, he can’t get you to stay.

You will run back to your heroes.

You don’t need him, he realizes now. But you have his rib, tucked away inside of you. He wants to dig into you, pry it out, rip it from your body and take it back for himself.

But you’re crying.

And you’re pretty in the dark, like you’ve always been. This time, though, you’re not looking for a fight, there is no viciousness in you now. Maybe you’re too tired to fight.

So instead of erupting, instead of lashing out, Tomura steels himself. He’ll play the longer game, then. You don’t want to go, but you will. You’ll go back to your heroes and they will disappoint you. As they always do, at some point, eventually.

You will come back to him again, he tells himself.

And he will be forgiving, the way All For One has been with him. He sees it now; you, needing his hand, needing him to take you back. He will welcome you back into his arms, as if you hadn’t even left, and you will know then that you were right to leave.

He gazes at you, red eyes smoldering, “Then don’t.” he rasps and he’s trying to remain dispassionate, but his voice has a trembling note in it, the hidden fear underneath the harsh coolness.

Your eyes flicker back to him, your lips parting in surprise. You wipe at your eyes.

“So that’s it?”

And this makes him angry, the sharp tug of it like a dog at the end of it’s leash. He lurches forward threateningly, like he might hurt you.

(You don’t flinch. And he stops himself before he gets too close.)

“What?” he snaps, “Did you want me to beg for you to stay?”

He wants to, he realizes, he wants to howl and scream and tear apart everything in sight. He wants to say don’t go, don’t go, don’t slip from me, too.

He wants to bargain with you– what is it he can’t give you that they can?

Your heroes only love you because they don’t know you, they don’t know what you’ve done. Your heroes only love you as far as truth and justice go. A hero would sacrifice you for the greater good and you would agree with them, even if you were shaking and crying, even if you burned with all that liveliness.

But he’d sooner sacrifice the world for you.

You have his rib, he wants to scream, of course he wants to beg.

You shake your head, though, more tears falling free, “No,” you say, voice surprisingly strong, “No, I never made you beg.”

The truth of it burrows beneath his skin. He knows. The itch squirms beneath his skin. His hand reaches up, digs into the crook of his neck to scratch at it.

It’s Dabi’s voice in his head that says something about getting too distracted with this braindead hero. He has bigger plans than hiding in an abandoned apartment with you. More to do. You were nothing but a side quest.

His pause screen.

Besides, what’s there to be upset about? You’ll come back.

He won’t even punish you for leaving, he promises. He promises.

“Then that’s it.” Tomura tells you, a bitter curl to his lips.

There’s no goodbye, just the breeze between the two of you, the empty space that he always hated. The nothingness between that he always sought to destroy.

Eventually, he just turns away from you. He can’t stomach looking at you any longer. He can feel your eyes pressing into his retreating form– he imagines you rushing for him, crashing into his back to throw your arms around his middle. You can’t do it, you’ll cry, burying your face between his shoulder blades. And he’ll freeze, but eventually he’ll wrap his arms around yours and bow his head with the strength of your feelings for him.

Or he imagines later, when it’s the end of the world, and you emerge from the rubble to reach for him. It’ll be like his dreams, when the sky is falling, and you only want to hold his hand in yours.

He imagines you shouting to him, changing your mind, saying his name like it’s a song to sing, not mourning bells, not a curse or an affliction.

But none of it happens.

And when he turns around, you are gone.

You leave his life as viciously as you entered it, suddenly there, all furious and beautiful, and now gone, like a lightning strike, like a lifetime.

***

You tell yourself you’re going to be fine, but you spend random days weeping over a villain. You spend long nights awake, missing him, replaying it all in your mind. You cover all your mirrors. You try to be different. You wish you could say you regret ever getting involved with him, but it would be one more lie. You wish for the time before the worst of it, the strange honeymoon you never should’ve had.

You wish you’d remembered to slow down, to savor it all a little more. You try to remember what your first kiss was like and the shade of his eyes through the evening light of an abandoned warehouse.

You try to remember when you didn’t feel so heavy, so corrosive and lost.

It doesn’t help that you’re suspended from heroing; a choice made by both the Hero Commission and Shouta. There’s nothing for you to do some evenings.

Shouta lets you train with him and Shinsou still. Shinsou tries to cheer you up, though he doesn’t know what’s wrong with you. Still, it hurts because he’s trying. It hurts because he cares so much, even about you.

You don’t deserve it, after everything.

You take care of Eri more, too, now that she is nearly in Shouta’s care. You babysit her while he’s away. You grow close with her, fiercely protective of the young girl, careful to keep the Hero Commission at a distance from her. She settles in your lap on the couch in Shouta’s apartment most evenings, watching TV and movies, while he grades papers at the opposite end.

Sometimes she falls asleep tucked into your side. You stroke her silver hair and try to bite back tears.

She catches you, sometimes, perceptive as she is, and asks very gently, “Why are you sad?” even if a tear hasn’t slipped free yet.

And you always shake your head, trying to dispel the thought of Tomura and the parents that gave him such a tragic name as a child. You force a smile for her and you tell her something silly to distract her, “I’m not,” you promise, “I just think there’s an onion nearby.”

She wrinkles her nose at this, “No, there isn’t!” but she’s easily distracted with tickles or the promise of painting her nails or having a tea party with Shouta.

Miraculously, your relationship with Shouta begins to heal, despite your betrayal. You think he can tell something worse happened to you during your time with Tomura, you think he can tell that you’re hurting, so he ends up gentler with you. He doesn’t trust you, though, keeps you on a tight leash. He looks at you some days like he isn’t quite sure he knows you.

Nothing is the same. Part of you wants to regret it. The part of you that loves Tomura can’t stomach the idea of regretting it. Someone is dead because of you. Someone is alive because of you, too.

But Shouta doesn’t ask and you don’t tell, can’t seem to speak the words.

You can’t even say, I fell in love, can’t speak the truth because it is so horrible.

And you know what everyone would ask; who could love the likes of him?

Me, you think, vehement and grief-stricken, me, you think defiantly. Why couldn’t you? He was a child once–

Shouta lets you burrow into his chest, wraps his arms around you. He sways with you in the kitchen until you can keep back your tears, until your heart has slowed to the tempo of his. He kisses the top of your head.

And it’s Shouta who is with you, when you return from training, and open the door to your apartment to reveal a scruffy, mangy looking grey kitten that wasn’t there when you left.

Ryuji chirps happily at you, rushing to the open door.

For a moment, you’re so shocked that all you can do is stand, startled, as he rubs himself against your legs.

“Don’t tell me you found another stray–” Shouta starts, but all you get out is a small, choked noise.

And here is the impact from the fall, you think, looking at that little cat that is excitedly winding itself around your legs. You can feel the shattering of your heart, like he’d lobbed it against the wall. You wonder if it catches light the same way glass does, all stained with color and broken into shards.

You drop to the floor with the weight of it all, with the clean splitting of your heart.

The moment Ryuji climbs into your lap, a sob finally ruptures out of you.

Shouta is fast, coming down beside you, you think he’s asking what’s wrong, why you’re crying, but you’ve already gathered the kitten into your arms, cradling him to your chest as the tears come quick and furious down your cheeks.

You think maybe you should be more concerned as to how he got Ryuji here, in U.A. dorms, you should be worried about security and safety but all you’re thinking about is that little apartment that you hid from the world with him in.

No, all you’re thinking about is the way light fell through the lone window to turn him hazy and soft in your memory. You’re thinking about how he never denied you affection, so long as you gave it tenfold in turn. The drawl of his voice. The pressing of his fingers into your skin like you were a miracle.

To him, you were.

Another sob spills out of you, from somewhere deep inside you.

What a lonely life, to only be able to touch one person in certainty. You wonder who will be the next person that will lay their hands gently on a body that has known too much pain. You wonder if you will be the last person to do it.

The thought hurts, opens up a part of you that is tender and shaking and desperately furious.

When Shouta can’t figure out what’s wrong with you or why you’re crying, he gives up, and sits on the floor with you. He gathers you into his lap so your back is pressed to his chest, pushing your head beneath his chin, Ryuji still cradled in your arms.

You cry harder when Shouta tries to comfort you, when he hushes softly, so sweetly, only because you don’t think there’s anyone to comfort Tomura like this.

You think of Tomura alone, even without Ryuji and it just–

Crushes you.

You squeeze the kitten tighter to your chest as you cry and cry and cry. You let Shouta hold you against him, but there’s no comfort in the aching hollowness that is growing in the pit of your chest.

You want to scream at the world that tossed the coin.

But all that comes out is a garbled, misery struck, cry.

You never told him you loved him, never gave word to what consumed you. And you realize, sitting on the floor with a kitten in your arms, that you won’t ever be able to tell him now.

It will live and die inside of you, never spoken into existence.

And even though it’s too late and Tomura Shigaraki is readying for a battle with a giant without you at his side, you still whisper the words you never got to speak into the top of Ryuji’s head.

Your lips barely move with it, the quietest, most desperate, “I love you– I loved you.” that escapes you with a trembling breath.

Shouta doesn’t even hear the confession.

Ryuji nudges your cheek with his, though, purring softly, keeping your secret safe.

And in the least, you are able to twist into Shouta’s arms and bury your face in his chest to cry as hard as you need. There’s no distance between the two of you now, like you always wanted.

Always here when you need him, even now, when it’s not him you want.

The irony isn’t lost on you.

You mumble incoherent apologies into his shoulder, try to hide in him, like he might be able to shield you from all the hurt and ache of your first love. He doesn’t ask, but he tells you very gently, his voice like the hearth of your home, “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always be there for you.”

You keep Ryuji, clean him up, fit him with a new collar, a new life. Shouta helps you care for him.

Eri adores the kitten, hugging him to her smiling face every time she sees him. Thankfully Ryuji is even-tempered, eager for affection. Almost desperate for it.

Ryuji is like proof of another world, proof that it all happened.

Sometimes you rub between his ears and ask, “Do you miss it, too?” but all he does is peer at you inquisitively, eyes large and fixed on you.

You sleep with him, though, let the kitten curl up in your lonesome arms, hold tight to him the way you used to hold tight to Tomura.

***

In the middle of the night, your phone wakes you with its insistent chime and buzzing. You blink awake sleepily, slowly and blindly paw for your phone.

You turn the screen towards you and squint at the bright light, making out the word that flashes on it;

Unknown Caller.

You grimace, rubbing at your eyes. You debate putting your phone down, letting it ring and go to voicemail. Why should you answer for an unknown caller in the middle of the night?

And yet, something in you squirms, urges you to pick up. You have no idea who it might be— maybe someone needs your help. Is it possible it’s Shouta? Shinsou? What if it’s—

You answer finally, groggy voice slurring out, “Hello?”

You’re met with static.

“Hello?” you say again, voice hushed with sleep.

Still nothing.

Tomura sits on the other side, with the phone pressed desperately to his ear. He holds everything inside of him, barely allows himself to breathe on the other end.

He doesn’t know why he’s done this, only that he is on his way to proving himself with the League and he wishes you were still at his side.

He swallows, hears you call again, “Hello? Anyone there?”

He tightens his four-finger grip on the phone, squeezing his eyes shut at the sound of your voice, sleepy and soft in his ear, wrapping around the jagged parts of his heart.

He exhales and you must hear it because you say, “Is someone there?”

He bites back an answer, feels his lip tremble slightly.

He hears you huff, indignant little thing that you are and his lips pull into a shaky, painful smile. “I’m going to hang up now,” you say, all prickly, the way you’d get if he woke you too soon.

He used to soothe you with lips and teeth and tongue, run diligent fingers over you until you were sighing and arching into his touch. Until all your hard, vicious edges softened with the flattening of his palm on your body.

And for some reason you try, one last time into coaxing him to answer, “C’mon,” you say, almost like you know, “Nothing?”

Nothing, he wants to echo, but doesn’t.

His heart pounds an uneasy rhythm, a haunted tempo. He feels himself shaking again.

“Okay,” you exhale, slow, like you’re giving him a chance to stop you, “Goodbye.”

A beat passes, before he feels his heart lurch painfully in the hollow place of his chest at the thought of not hearing your voice again like this, so near. He doesn’t want you to go, wants to listen to you until it coaxes him to sleep.

“Wait– don’t hang up–“ Tomura hisses into the phone at the last moment, unable to decide if he wants you to hear him or not.

He gets his answer in the buzzing silence, long and drawn out, that fills his head. His heart.

And he sits there with his phone still in hand and his heart still on the line.

***

Tomura shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be watching you from afar, in the park that he thought you’d looked like a painting in. You’re beautiful.

But what does someone like him know about beauty, anyways?

The fireburst leaves are nearly gone, barely clinging to lone and stark branches. They claw up into the sky now, but the sun is shining. It’s mid-morning. You’re in the park with your mentor, with the violet haired boy he’d seen you with before, and the little girl with silver hair. The one that was in Overhaul’s care, with the devastating Quirk.

She tugs excitedly at your sleeve now and you give her your undivided attention, your face lighting up with whatever it is she tells you.

You scoop her into your arms and her echoing giggle is like wind chimes, melodic and childish and care-free.

You look happy, he thinks, with your mentor’s hand on the small of your back, looking down at you and the girl fondly. The violet-haired boy says something that makes the girl laugh, it makes you smile as you watch her.

You look back at your mentor with a look that Tomura has come to know; one that begs of attention and approval and affection. He can see the desperate glint to your eyes, hungry for his love.

He swallows around the sharp bitterness he feels. Jealousy floods him in a way he has never fully known. But it’s more than just jealousy for you and your attention, for the way you’re looking at your mentor.

No, it’s something greater, far worse.

He’s jealous of your mentor, with the easy way he gets to touch and look at you out in public. But he’s also jealous of you and your life.

He doesn’t realize it at first, but he’s begun to shake.

Because you were saved– isn’t that it? You were saved. And he wasn’t.

Maybe he’s jealous of the boy with you, too, with the possibility of his life so much brighter already. He has more of a chance than Tomura ever had.

Or maybe it’s the girl in your arms, with eyes like his, who he is most jealous of now. He has never allowed himself to ask;

Why couldn’t it be me?

But now he does and he can feel the pit in his chest grow with a livid sort of despair. Grief for a life never lived. Didn’t he deserve to be saved, too? Like the girl in your arms? Like you? Didn’t he deserve a life like this, too? What’s the difference? He wants to demand it, what’s the difference?

You were just a kid, you know?

His fingers dig into his neck. There is no one to stop him from breaking skin, for drawing blood on his own body. His chest festers, angry, like a blister. His stomach turns, his body trembling harder, like he’s a child, like he’s going to shake apart.

He looks at your smiling face, the curve of your lips, and wants you so bad it hurts. He wonders if you ever dreamt of him as a hero, the way he dreams of you as a villain. He wonders why it feels so unfair suddenly, the turning of your lives, the coming together and falling apart.

He shudders, feels the sudden lump in his throat. He tried not to mourn you, when you left him. He told himself that there was nothing to mourn; either you would be back or you weren’t worth it. He feels the pressure of tears now, though, much to his frustration. He feels his lungs burn for breath as he watches you hand the little girl off to your mentor, who props her onto his hip easily.

He watches you throw your head back and laugh, the sound of it distant, but he catches it, the outskirts of it. He used to feel that laugh against his throat, against his lips.

But now he watches you live a life he apparently never deserved.

His bottom lip trembles, a furious scowl marring his face.

He could scream or shout at a world that wouldn’t listen. The fact of it all, the helplessness of it all, burns beneath his skin like wildfire, like acid.

Tomura takes one last look at you; the expressive glimmer of your eyes, the flash of your teeth. He lingers on you, commits you to memory as if he could ever forget you. Maybe someday he will. Maybe he won’t have to, if you come back to him.

But he won’t wait on it, in an apartment that still has traces of you in it’s corners and crevices. No, he has more to do, bigger than him. Bigger than you.

Even if the horrible tempo of his heart begs differently, even if the shaking in his shoulders is an indication otherwise.

One last look of you– you’re talking, saying something with your hands. The little girl laughs again, her red eyes crinkling up happily.

Tomura turns away.

He walks a familiar path to the apartment, the wind tries to slice through his jacket, kicks up leaves and litter in shadowed alleyways.

He enters and there is no one trailing behind him, your hands twisted into the back of his hoodie, or his sleeves. It’s quiet. Empty. He surveys it once, the bed with unmade sheets. The window that let in beams of colored light, that Ryuji would sit at.

And then he sets his hands on the wall, all ten of his fingers down, the way he used to touch you.

The wall begins to decay, cracks and crumbles beneath his hands. It spreads, and spreads, and spreads like a disease filling out the body of the apartment. Dust begins to fall like early snow.

His heart squeezes painfully, his eyes suddenly flooding with pressure, with tears he tries to keep back. His head throbs, feels like it’s going to cleave apart. His ribs ache– hurt so bad it’s like he can feel the one you took from him, the gaping part of his chest.

His Quirk flares hard and hot and fast. It burns through him, floods his veins in a way that makes him cry out, suddenly shaking, suddenly pained.

He destroys the apartment, disintegrates the tiny world he created with you that existed outside of the real one. He unpauses the game. He takes apart what the world should’ve been, when he was here, with you. He sees now that a world like this cannot exist.

The peace, the ideal, the way you had understood him. Your unending compassion. It’s rare. Not enough to save the rest of them.

So he tears it all apart, pushes at his Quirk in a way he hasn’t been able to before, nudges at its strength to test it. It flares outward, eating away at the entire space, at the furniture, at the floor. Everywhere.

He seethes, blooming, finally allowing that livid and vicious thing inside of him to burst forward. It’s explosive, wrenching out of him in the form of terrible destruction.

He’ll grow into what he was supposed to–

I wanted to be a hero– when I was a kid.

The only option he ever really had, the hand extended to him a villain’s, gentle when he’d taken it.

He destroys the boy inside him, the one that was naive and hopeful and weak. He let’s that boy inside of him fall apart, split open and leaks gore before turning to dust, too. He kills the part of him that he had only ever shared with you, in the blue-dark of night, when you were lulled to sleep with just the sound of his heart.

He swallows down his anguish and his jealousy and his bitterness, keeps it safe inside him, like All For One always said to do. He’ll nourish it, let it grow, fester inside of him until the only thing it can do is explode out of him to tear the world apart, too.

When he’s standing in the rubble of the tiny world you’d made with him, the apartment complex demolished, the people inside gone, he knows what he has to do.

And he has so much work to do in order to achieve it.

He tries to forget you, to destroy your memory, too. He will not carry the weight of you around inside him.

(But in his dreams, you sit cross-legged in front of him, serene and beautiful, like a painting he knows nothing about.

In his dreams, you ask for his hands to have, and he gives you them to hold.)

[mybillyhardgrove]

He loves you, he loves you lots b.h.

A/n: if you haven’t read Mango Kisses, check it out :) this piece may be my favorite thing ive written so far and im excited for you to read it!

Disclaimer: i don’t own any Stranger Things material

Word count: 2467

Warnings: some cheeky remarks from billy and a couple curses

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Reader (female)

Summary: after being with Billy for a few months, it has become clear how he shows his love for you

Physical Touch

The touches had been deliberate at the start, meant to convey the interest you two had in each other. Flirty touches of his shoulder or arm as he talked to you in the school hallways or at random parties on the weekends. Gentle touches of your lower back as he walked past you, his chest rubbing a bit on your shoulder blades, though there was room enough for him not to need to be so close.

As your relationship developed, the touches became more frequent and less subtle. His arm draped around your shoulder or his hand in your back pocket, your legs crossed on his lap or your fingers intertwined with his. No matter what, it seemed that you were connected in some way almost all the time.

Finally, when you accepted Billy’s invitation to a date and you were officially his girl, the touching didn’t stop. Not that you minded. You found it so endearing that Billy seemed to reach for you, sitting with his knee touching yours, his hand on your back, his shoulder rubbing against yours, his hand on your thigh while he drove. It also seemed he didn’t realize he was doing it most of the time. It was an unconscious pull he had to you whenever you were near. One of your favorites was when you and Billy laid together and he played with the ends of your hair, rubbing his fingers together and smoothing the bumps away. It tended to relax you so much that you had to fight to keep your eyes open, lulled by his steady heartbeat and the warmth of his body wrapped up in yours. “That feels nice, Billy.” You felt his chest vibrate as he laughed, pulling you closer and lightly scratching your scalp as you let sleep fall over you.

It meant even more to you that Billy was so comfortable being physically affectionate with you after you learned about his childhood and the physical and verbal abuse of his father. This point was driven home when you were sitting at a diner one evening, Billy’s sneakered feet rubbing yours as you sipped your milkshake. You grabbed his hand resting on the table, softly rubbing your thumb over his knuckles and giving him a soft smile. He squeezed your hand in response, wiping his mouth and making sure he had your attention.

“I’m glad you’re my girl.” Your smile immediately widened, teeth popping out.

“I am, too, Billy.” After a beat, “What made you say that?” He grabbed your other hand across the table.

“I’m just happy to have you. It feels nice that I can reach out and I know you’ll be there. Your hugs, the way you touch me, I’ve never felt that before. Usually it’s rough and my dad or a girl wants something from me. I like that you touch me and let me touch you so much because you’re happy.” You could see he was losing his nerve, pulling his hands away and preparing to put on the devil-may-care attitude that was common when with friends.

“I love you, Billy. And I love that you feel comfortable enough to share that with me. I hope I can always make you feel that way.” He looked up, smiling a little, the tension leaving his shoulders. You didn’t want to make him feel awkward by focusing on the confession too long, so you continued. “Now eat those fries before I steal some.” He chuckled and grabbed your hand again, reaching across with a fry for you.

Once he had dropped it in your mouth, he cleared his throat. “I love you, too.” You smiled widely again, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

Words of Affirmation

You were rushing to get ready, imagining the look on Billy’s face as he sat on the couch all ready to head to the party. Your hands were shaking a bit as you dusted the rose blush on your cheekbones and nose. As Billy’s girl, you could expect as always to be the center of attention for most of the night as girls looked at you in jealousy and boys looked at you while they talked with Billy. It wasn’t that you wished you weren’t with Billy, it just got tiring to have all eyes on you both.

“Are you almost ready to head ou-” as you turned towards the sound of Billy’s voice, you watched him lower the sunglasses from his eyes, dragging his baby blues down your body and back up. You could feel your cheeks get hot as he let out a low whistle. “God damn, baby, you look like that and we may never make it to that party.” He came closer and wrapped his arm around your side, his hand fanning across your lower back and with a small pull, your body was flush to his. He leaned down to press his lips to your jaw, murmuring compliments as he spread the kisses down your neck and behind your ear. “You’re so beautiful.” Kiss. “I can’t believe you’re mine.” Kiss. “So smart and kind.” Kiss. “I am the luckiest man in Hawkins.” Kiss. “I love you so much.” After this last profession, Billy pressed a soft and meaningful kiss to your lips, lingering there as his hands came to rest on your hips, giving them a squeeze.

You tilted your head to the side into the kiss, slipping your fingers in his hair and scratching a bit at his scalp before pulling away and grabbing your purse. “I’m ready to go. Let’s get this over with.” You grabbed his hand and led him out of your room.

He followed with a lovesick look on his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

Gifts

“Bill, shift your legs a little, mine are falling asleep.” You and your boyfriend were currently watching Red Dawn, your head resting on one side of the couch as Billy’s was resting on the other, legs intertwined and a thin blanket over the both of you. Sadly for you, it wasn’t quite enough to keep goosebumps from rising on your skin. Although the day had been fairly warm and you felt good in a sundress as Billy showered you in compliments all day, you were now verging on cold. Alone in the Hargrove’s house for the evening, the cool air coming in the open window was making you shiver.

Finally too distracted by the chill, you rose from the couch and shut the window, returning to curl up against Billy. You lifted the blanket, wiggled between his legs, and rested your back against his chest with the blanket up to your chin. He shifted a little and wrapped his arms around you, putting your hands in his. “Jeez, babe, your hands are freezing.” He pulled them up to his mouth, blowing warm air into your curled fingers, rubbing his palms together in an effort to bring them back to normal. You moved your feet a bit and accidentally pressed your cold toes to his bare leg. “Your feet are like ice cubes! Why didn’t you tell me you were so cold? Scoot forward, I’ll be right back.” You did as you were told and he swung his leg over your head, retreating to his room for a minute before coming back, a mess of fabric in his hands. “Here, put these on.”

You took the lump to the bathroom and laid it out, finally determining what he had given you. A cozy pair of his sweatpants, a long-sleeved henley shirt, and a pair of thick socks. Humming, you slipped your clothes off and changed into his, surrounded by the smell of cologne and a hint of smoke. You grabbed your things, dumped them next to your purse in the living room, and crawled back under the blanket with Billy.

“Feeling better?” He rubbed his hands down your arms.

“Much. Thank you.” You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his lips before settling to watch the rest of the movie.

A while later when the movie was finished and it was time for Billy to drive you home, you explained you would return his clothes the following day. “Keep them. They look better on you anyway. My gift to you, so you don’t freeze your ass off anymore.” You giggled and grabbed your things, admiring how loving Billy was to you.

Acts of Service

It was a bit of a tradition that had developed where Billy would climb up the trellis to the roof outside your bedroom window, tapping lightly so you would let him in. You loved when he did this and never asked why. He loved that about you - you didn’t need a reason or an explanation, you were there with a smile and a kiss, ready to snuggle and whisper until the morning.

This particular night was a bit different than usual. When he began the climb to your room, he could see the window was already open, likely because it was a cool night and the breeze felt nice on your skin. Smiling as he thought about seeing you, he peeked in the window and saw something that warmed his heart. The light next to your bed was on and illuminated the pile of books and clothes around your room as you slept in the middle of your bed, a notebook still open on your lap.

Billy let out a breathy chuckle as he quietly climbed in, careful not to wake you. He shrugged off his jacket and slipped off his shoes, placing them by the window. Who knew a girl who so lovingly helped Billy clean his room when Neil rode his ass about it would be able to make such a mess herself. He knew from your recent conversations that school was kicking your ass at the moment and it seemed cleaning was taking a backseat for the time being. He looked at the soft rise and fall of your chest, your tangled hair, and the pout of your mouth for a minute before getting to work. He gathered empty water bottles and crumpled up pieces of paper, throwing them in the small garbage can under your nightstand. He collected the school books that lay in a halo around you, gently lifting your hand to grab the notebook and pen you had been writing with before nodding off. Placing those on the top of your dresser in a neat pile, he went into the hall to grab a laundry basket.

After Billy had picked up the discarded clothes on your bed and floor, as well as those in your hamper, he tiptoed to the basement to throw the load in for you. Carefully avoiding the creaky spots on the staircase, he returned to your room, pleased with himself that it once again resembled the way you liked it. He pulled the socks from your feet, knowing you hated sleeping in them. As he did so, it dawned on him that they were his socks. In fact, you were also wearing the pair of sweatpants and the henley shirt he had given you the night you were cold while you watched a movie together. That memory brought a smile to his lips. Finally, he grabbed the rolled edges of your sheets and comforter from the foot of the bed, lifting them over your legs and up to your chest. This caused you to shift, taking a deep breath before rolling over, giving him enough room to slide in next to you. He did just that, humming a bit as he wrapped you in his arms, drifting quickly to sleep to the sound of your soft breaths and the warmth of your bed.

Quality Time

“Really, Billy, I don’t mind. I’ll just stay home and see you later.” You were currently on the phone with your boyfriend, trying to convince him to go to the party alone that you were going to go to together. It had been your plan all week to go to this party together and you even had an outfit laid out for the occasion. Unfortunately, you had woken up with a sore throat and a completely stuffed nose. After a few hours of blowing your nose, taking Vitamin C, and praying this would go away, you were resigned to call Billy and tell him he’d have to go without you.

“I am not going unless you’re there and I can tell from your voice that you’re really sick. Lay down and get cozy, I’ll be over in a little.” You sighed, disappointed that you were altering the plans for the evening.

“I’ll be fine. I feel bad that-” Before finishing that you felt bad for throwing a wrench in the evening, you were interrupted.

“I am not going to that stupid party, baby. I couldn’t care less. Trust me. Now get under the covers. I’m coming over. Is the door unlocked?” You answered in the affirmative and with one more order to get under covers, he hung up. You shuffled your feet across the carpet, burrowing under the large throw blanket, tissue box close by.

For a while, there was silence (apart from the sneezing and the pounding in your head from an annoying little headache that had formed since your call with Billy). You were somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, praying that this would end and missing the time you could breathe out of your nose. As you lay staring at the ceiling, you heard a familiar rumble in the distance get closer until it finally stopped in front of your house.

A few steps up to the front door and the creak as it opened and shut brought your boyfriend into view. “Shit, baby,” and with that, he kneeled next to the couch, running his fingers through your hair, wincing a bit as they ran over your forehead. He put his cheek there to confirm before saying, “I think you have a bit of a fever, too. You got it rough. But don’t worry, I brought all the things to make you feel better and I won’t leave your side until you’re good again.” He reached behind him, dragging a plastic bag full of medicine, chocolate, more tissues, and even a couple movies. You knew you were in for a troubling evening as you fought against the fever, headache, and sore throat. But with Billy by your side, it would all be okay.

By the next morning, after a night of movies, talking, snuggling, and even Billy spoon-feeding you soup, you felt almost your old self again. You were so grateful for your wonderful and caring boyfriend who showed his love all different ways. You made sure to tell him a million times, though he already knew.

masterlist

[chispas-and-broken-bindings]

Lmao 🤣 I know to which post you are replying about them being besties . That scene always gave me more ominous vibes than actually something that would ignite friendship . Also the title of " Usurper's Dog " isn't something @ry@ is going to take lightly .

Ha! I actually didn't have any particular post in mind. The Dany/Arya friendship is just something that I see float around the fandom from time to time and it drives me absolutely bonkers (not fanon. feel free to explore all your platonic dreams with these two in fanon. Go wild. You do you.)

If we are talking canon though, I can't think of a single character that has more anti-Targ foreshadowing in their chapters than Arya (even Jon comes in second place). I actually started pasting bits of Arya's chapters into a word document awhile ago, because I couldn't believe how much GRRM uses her POV to detail the horrors of fire and burning...it's almost comical how heavy-handed he is with it.

And yet...

After I saw this ask in my inbox, I looked at the Arya Stark tag and immediately found a post about Dany and Arya being best friends.

So.

Here we are:

A Storm of Swords - Arya I

Later they passed through a burned village, threading their way carefully between the shells of blackened hovels and past the bones of a dozen dead men hanging from a row of apple trees. When Hot Pie saw them he began to pray, a thin whispered plea for the Mother's mercy, repeated over and over. Arya looked up at the fleshless dead in their wet rotting clothes and said her own prayer. Ser Gregor, it went, Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei. She ended it with valar morghulis, touched Jaqen's coin where it nestled under her belt, and then reached up and plucked an apple from among the dead men as she rode beneath them. It was mushy and overripe, but she ate it worms and all.

That was the day without a dawn. Slowly the sky lightened around them, but they never saw the sun. Black turned to grey, and colors crept timidly back into the world. The soldier pines were dressed in somber greens, the broadleafs in russets and faded golds already beginning to brown.

Hot Pie opened his mouth and closed it. He did not fall off his horse. The rain began again a short time later. They still had not seen so much as a glimpse of the sun. It was growing colder, and pale white mists were threading between the pines and blowing across the bare burned fields.

A Storm of Swords - Arya III

That night they sheltered in a burned, abandoned village.

A Storm of Swords - Arya IV

The next night they found shelter beneath the scorched shell of a sept, in a burned village called Sallydance. Only shards remained of its windows of leaded glass, and the aged septon who greeted them said the looters had even made off with the Mother's costly robes, the Crone's gilded lantern, and the silver crown the Father had worn. "They hacked the Maiden's breasts off too, though those were only wood," he told them. "And the eyes, the eyes were jet and lapis and mother-of-pearl, they pried them out with their knives. May the Mother have mercy on them all."

A Storm of Swords Arya VI

"Please," Sandor Clegane rasped, cradling his arm. "I'm burned. Help me. Someone. Help me." He was crying. "Please."

Arya looked at him in astonishment. He's crying like a little baby, she thought.

Clegane tried to stand, but as he moved a piece of burned flesh sloughed right off his arm, and his knees went out from under him. Tom caught him by his good arm and held him up.

His arm, Arya thought, and his face. But he was the Hound. He deserved to burn in a fiery hell. The knife felt heavy in her hand. She gripped it tighter. "You killed Mycah," she said once more, daring him to deny it. "Tell them. You did. You did."

"I did." His whole face twisted. "I rode him down and cut him in half, and laughed. I watched them beat your sister bloody too, watched them cut your father's head off."

Lem grabbed her wrist and twisted, wrenching the dagger away. She kicked at him, but he would not give it back. "You go to hell, Hound," she screamed at Sandor Clegane in helpless empty-handed rage. "You just go to hell!"

(Okay, so she's not exactly sympathetic to the Hound's plight here, but still...another reference to burning, and a pretty graphic one at that)

A Storm of Swords - Arya VII

Jack-Be-Lucky, Harwin, and Merrit o' Moontown braved the burning septry to search for captives. They emerged from the smoke and flames a few moments later with eight brown brothers, one so weak that Merrit had to carry him across a shoulder.

The septry soon collapsed in a roar of smoke and flame, its walls no longer able to support the weight of its heavy slate roof. The eight brown brothers watched with resignation. They were all that remained, explained the eldest, who wore a small iron hammer on a thong about his neck to signify his devotion to the Smith. "Before the war we were four-and-forty, and this was a prosperous place. We had a dozen milk cows and a bull, a hundred beehives, a vineyard and an apple arbor. But when the lions came through they took all our wine and milk and honey, slaughtered the cows, and put our vineyard to the torch.

A Storm of Swords - Arya XI

"Dead," he shouted back at her. "Do you think they'd slaughter his men and leave him alive?" He turned his head back toward the camp. "Look. Look, damn you."

The camp had become a battlefield. No, a butcher's den. The flames from the feasting tents reached halfway up the sky. Some of the barracks tents were burning too, and half a hundred silk pavilions. Everywhere swords were singing. And now the rains weep o'er his hall, with not a soul to hear. She saw two knights ride down a running man. A wooden barrel came crashing onto one of the burning tents and burst apart, and the flames leapt twice as high. A catapult, she knew. The castle was flinging oil or pitch or something.

"Come with me." Sandor Clegane reached down a hand. "We have to get away from here, and now." Stranger tossed his head impatiently, his nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. The song was done. There was only one solitary drum, its slow monotonous beats echoing across the river like the pounding of some monstrous heart. The black sky wept, the river grumbled, men cursed and died. Arya had mud in her teeth and her face was wet. Rain. It's only rain. That's all it is. "We're here," she shouted. Her voice sounded thin and scared, a little girl's voice. "Robb's just in the castle, and my mother. The gate's even open." There were no more Freys riding out. I came so far. "We have to go get my mother."

(heart: broken)

Look, there is a lot to say about fire and about rain in Arya's chapters, particularly in A Storm of Swords. I don't have the energy for it, so I'm just dumping quotes. Draw your own conclusions.

This collection is by no means exhaustive, and I'm sure there is someone more dedicated than I am, who has written something about this symbolism. (If anyone has it, send me a link).

All I'm saying is that GRRM isn't throwing all this devastation by fire and blood into Arya's chapters as positive foreshadowing for how she'll feel when a certain conqueror cross the Narrow Sea with her dragons.

[lueurjun]

𝖱𝖮𝖠𝖣 𝖳𝖮 𝖥𝖠𝖬𝖤. 𝗌𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝖺𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗇

“=⌕ sim jaeyun x gn!reader. 

⌗ SUMMARY — becoming a tiktoker was never apart of the plan, but here you are, 4 million followers and a love for pranking your boyfriend. 

. . ⇢ LUEURJUN’S NOTES — this is supposed to be gender neutral but if i slipped up at any point then i do sincerely apologise. this probably won’t be written the best, i was kinda sick and had a moment of inspiration. this is super fluffy and cheesy, so brace yourself. 

₊❏❜ WARNING ⋮ uh tears of joy?? i guess.

2021 @lueurjun.

i. 

THE 30TH APRIL 2020 was the day that your life changed in ways that you used to believe only happened in movies. 

Honestly, setting up your phone and telling your devilishly handsome, yet so pure, so innocent boyfriend that you wanted to have a child—whether that be adoption plans or getting pregnant—it was a small prank you decided to pull and film for your group chat. You never had any intentions of uploading it onto the internet, until Jay, one of your closest friends, suggested that you posted it to Tiktok. 

Jake was cool with it, having not expected it to blow up as much as it did. Nobody had expected for you to get over 2 million views and over 600k likes on your first video. Nor did you expect the heaps of requests in your comment section of different pranks to pull on your boyfriend. And that’s where it began. 

That one video was a rabbit hole into what quickly became your career. 

Now, with over 4 million followers, you have created your own little fan base, who have grown to love you, your boyfriend and even your friends that occasionally end up in your videos.

ii. 

The light in the kitchen flickered once as you set up your phone against a bunch of cookbooks that your parents had yet to read. Mentally, you made a note to ask one of your family members to change the bulb when they returned home. Focusing on your phone, which was now recording, you put your thumbs up and turned towards the door.

“JAEYUN!” Your voice echoed through the quiet home, bouncing off every wall until it met your boyfriend’s ears. Brief shuffling could be heard followed by the padding of feet across the floor boards. He was only in the next room, so it didn’t take long for him to appear right before your eyes. 

The first thing your eyes set on was the crinkles in his shirt, suggesting that he had been laying down. His dark hair was hidden beneath a black hat, which he had placed on his head backwards. He was dressed so simple, but you still managed to fall in love once again at the sight of him. You often wondered how you had managed to bag someone like Jake, he was the epitome of perfection and you couldn’t really see why he would want to be with you. Jake never let these thoughts ponder in your mind for too long, since he was always quick to prove to you that you’re everything to him. 

Secretly eyeing the camera, you put on a pout and fiddle with the hem of his shirt. Immediately, the alarm bells go off in Jake’s mind. You’re never normally this quiet and it’s rare to see you pout. He frowns a little, eyebrows knitting together as concern washes over his face. Using his index finger and his thumb, he lifts your chin and gently rubs the skin just below your lip.

“What’s the matter?” 

“I just- don’t get mad,” you begin, forcing yourself to sound sad. “But I just think you could’ve been a little bit nicer to me today.”

He had been nothing but an angel to you all day, and you felt horrendous for making him think otherwise, but alas, Tiktok had spoken and they wanted you to do this prank. So, as bad as you felt, it wouldn’t cause much harm. 

“Did I do something to upset you?” He looks genuinely hurt by his own actions and guilt immediately tugs at your heart strings.

You shrug and avert your gaze downwards, focusing on the tiled floor beneath your feet. This was partly to stop yourself from giving in too quickly, you’d always been a sucker for Jake’s puppy dog eyes and you knew if you looked into them any longer, you would stop the prank.  

Jake cocks his head to the side and steps closer to you, nuzzling his nose against the side of your head. You feel his breath fan over your ear and you swear your heart stops beating for a second. His fingers trail over your waist and he plants the softest kiss to the side of your head. 

“I just feel like you’ve been a little mean to me today,” you continue. And he nods his head in understanding, though you know he doesn’t understand at all. Jake doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, but if you think he hasn’t been nice to you then he’s not going to argue. 

“I’m sorry, can you tell me what I did to make you feel this way?” 

You lean your head against his chest and bite your lip, it’s hard to contain your smile. With his sweet response mixed with the scent of his cologne fogging up your brain, you have a hard time holding onto your act and he quickly notices. 

“Is this a prank?” He asks, pulling away from you. 

You let the giggles slip from your mouth and nod towards the phone, that you had done your best to hide. Jake turns, his hand still on your waist, and he looks for the camera. Once his eyes land on his figure, he throws his head back and a breathy laugh falls from his lips.

“I should’ve known.” 

Yes, yes he should’ve but you still made up for it with plenty of kisses. 

iii. 

Picking Jake up from football practice had become a ritual. 

You didn’t need to be asked anymore, you’re just always there waiting for him and he loves that. The excited smile on his face whenever he sees you patiently sitting behind the wheel never gets old. Picking him up, as sad as it sounds, has become your drive to get through Tuesdays. They’re not your favourite day of the week, but knowing you get to see a smiley, yet sweaty, Sim Jaeyun at the end of the day gives you more than enough motivation. 

Just like any other Tuesday, you’re waiting. You like to get there early and so, you have about fifteen more minutes until you see your favourite boy walking through the gate. Music plays softly in the background as you lean back and scroll through your comment sections—people are so sweet, though you do get a bitter taste in your mouth when you see people fawning over your boyfriend like he’s a piece of cake. 

You ignore the thirst comments and look through the requests. Not many catch your eye, until you come across a particular one and a smirk appears on your face.  

Fifteen minutes turns into twenty and finally you see your worn out boyfriend heading towards your car. As tired as he never fails to smile and pick up his pace. He pulls open the door and slips inside. You reach over and greet him with a chaste kiss before pulling away.

“How was practice?” 

“Exhausting. Can we take a nap together when we get to your place?” He asks whilst adjusting his seatbelt. 

A nap sounds amazing, and you waste no time in nodding your head. “Before we go, I went shopping today. I picked you up a few things, let me show you.” 

He melts then and there. Reaching back, you grab one of the bags and aggressively tug it towards you, making sure you hit Jake on the side of the head. He hisses and turns to look at you. 

You don’t even apologize. 

“No this isn’t it,” you mumble to yourself. 

You grip the bag and throw it back where you got it from, once again making sure to slap your boyfriend with it. He stares at you, annoyed with your aggressiveness, though you don’t look back at him and instead, you hit him a third time with a new bag but you instantly regret it. You ended up attacking him with the new pair of shoes you treated yourself to and you can tell this one pained him.

Quickly giving up on the prank, you drop the bag and reach over to rub the back of his head. “I’m sorry! I really didn’t mean to hit you that hard.” 

He whips his head towards you, looking at you as though you had just murdered an entire family in front of him. “What? So you meant to hit me?” 

You drop your hand and retreat back to your seat, attempting to look innocent. Jake then finds your phone, which is pointing right at him and he sees that it’s recording. You feel guilty, having not meant to hurt him so hard, you can’t meet his eye. You are about to start driving again, when you feel an impact on your arm and a yelp parts from your mouth. 

Jake sits beside you, a smile on his face and a bag clutched in his hand. You scowl and he only grins wider. 

“Now we’re even.” 

Oh, he is evil. 

iv. 

On the 10th May 2021, you hit 5 million followers. 

It was a shock, you rarely kept track of your follower count because you weren’t really in it for that ( though you are grateful for every single person that supports you ) so, you really hadn’t been expecting to hit such a huge milestone. In fact, you were so unexpectant, that you were sleeping at the time. 

“BABY!” Your eyes flew open as the bed shook. Jake had jumped on the bed, plastering kisses all over your face. “You hit 5 mill!” 

Disoriented, you blink. “Pardon?” 

Jake chuckles at your sleepy state, even with messy hair and puffy eyes, he thinks you look so attractive. His dark eyes trail over your features as he uses his thumb to rub underneath your eye, almost like he was trying to wipe away your sleepiness. 

“You hit 5 million followers, you did it.” His voice is softer this time, quieter but still filled with enthusiasm. You gape at him, and he laughs. 

“I did?” You ask, pointing to yourself. 

He nods. “You did.” 

The realisation crashes down at you at once and suddenly, you feel your nose sting as tears form in your eyes. Your fingers curl around the fabric of your boyfriend’s shirt whilst the other hand comes up to cover your mouth. Stray tears drop down onto your skin. You can’t believe it. 5 million people followed you. They like your content.

Jake coos at the tears that leak from your eyes like a waterfall. He’s quick to wipe them away, before he presses a kiss to your wet cheek. He’s proud and he’s filled with pride, his baby got 5 million followers and he couldn’t wait to brag to everyone about how talented and cool you are. That’s his favourite thing to do. Jake loves to brag about you. 

You sniffle and press your hands against his cheeks. Gently, you rub your nose against his own. “We did it. It’s your account just as much as it is mine, I wouldn’t have got this far without you. After all, you’re my main prank victim. So, we did it. We hit 5 million together.” 

You weren’t taking all of the credit, Jake was just as involved as you and he deserves the praise. You had done this together. 

“You do know Jay is never going to let you forget that he was the one who suggested uploading it to TikTok...right?” 

You laugh, nodding your head. “Yep. I know he’s gloating in the group chat, right now.” 

And he was. Jay was so proud of you and Jake, but most of all, he was proud of himself because without him, you would have never uploaded that first video. So, you let him have his moment. 

“To millions more!” Jake cheers as he lifts the pizza in his hand, the two of you had decided to celebrate with a victorious take away and a movie marathon. 

“To millions more,” you repeat softly. 

Whether you had 0 followers or 5 million, as long as Sim Jaeyun was by your side, you didn’t mind.

[polyghostfacehours]

And now some NSFW ones because this is ME we are talking about here.

Billy Loomis has a thing for vintage porn. Not like he doesn't enjoy hopping on the ol' hub but he has the biggest thing for old vintage porn mags, or! OR! If he can stumble across old ass home-made amateur stuff? NUT. Some racy polaroids? The thought and idea that they were taken for one specfic person in mind, who deff isn't him, that he is seeing something he totally isn't supposed to be? Gets him off hard.

When you eventually find this out, cuz you will eventually, for a speical occasion you indulge him. You manage to get your hands on an old camera and take some pictures, you go all out on the outfit and vibe and location (some of them outside in the forest, telling a little story with them, Stu totally helps with this.) You even weather them a bit and gift them by putting them in a place you know he will come across, but isn't super obvious, in a shoebox too. The note inside is written like it is for someone else but it is very clearly your hand writing and he appericates all the effort and pagentry you put into it. One of his favorite gifts ever. Also the type to cum on said polaroids.

Stu Macher is the world's biggest slut for glory holes. He adores glory hole porn. It is in his top ten fantasy's easy! He stumbled across that kinda porn early and fell for it hard. Something about it just gets him, the anonymous aspect? The fact it is focused on just the cock and the person who is on their knees blowing it? Hot as hell. And the fact that so much of that porn is in a more public setting? YUP!

He could go on and on about what he likes about it. So Billy is the one to tell you about it and when you find out he hasn't gotten to indulge in it? Well shit you deff gotta fix that! You and Billy engage in some defacing public property and actually make one in a public place. When you spring a surprise "anonymous" meeting on him? He could just about cum in his fucking jeans. The visual, or rather lack their of is TOO fucking great, being able to only focus on the feeling and not touch either of you is hard and frustrating but is also soooo good. You and Billy really treat him, he thought he loved double blow jobs enough already but yeah this really amps it up to heights he didn't know were possible. And after he cums so fucking hard his legs practically give out you tell him that now he gets to come around the other side. Billy is pretty fucking hard himself now and Stu loves being on his knees just as much.

What? You thought he was only into glory holes for the recieving aspect? As fucking if.

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH BEX 🙈

THESE ARE ALSO SUCH QUALITY HCs. Ive never even thought of Billy being into vintage porn! That's such a fucking interesting HC like jfc!

AND YES YES YES TO STU'S. HOLY SHIT. The idea of Billy and you blowing him through a glory hole to treat him??? Doing the most??? Somehow that's romantic af. And of coooourse Billy would want to be next.

PLEASE MORE GUYS.

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Falling Together Part IV

Author’s Notes: Here it is, the finale! What fun it was writing for this mini series, and now I can’t wait to embark on something else. Thanks to you lovely readers who made this a fun journey. If you have ideas on what you want me to write next, let me know in a comment or message. Enjoy!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 2977

Warnings: light angst

From his time as King of Kattegat, Ivar had taken many lessons from his failed ruling. He was intuitive, and would never make the same mistake twice. The people had followed him in battle, feared him, revolted against his crown until finally, he had crept away in exile. After all of that, there was one challenge he had never faced, and it was an illness.

The fever first started as a whisper,  maybe one or two elderly succumbing to a quick death. It was nothing out of the ordinary, and it had not caught the attention of the healers. But as able-bodied warriors began to grow weak and pallid, and children dropped weight, the alarm was raised. 

The first blow came when Hvitserk fell ill. He had shown signs during a discussion regarding the start of the fever, and now he was housed with the others in a large makeshift tent in the center of the city. The sick were kept away from the healthy, and only the healers came and went at their own peril. They tended to the infirm without complaint, even as it kept many of them isolated from their own families.

Ivar had heard stories of when the plague had crossed through Kattegat from Bjorn. A half-sister he would never know had been taken by the illness. He was reminded of this tale because of Hvitserk's condition. Fear was ever-present in his mind about losing his brother, and he had been passing along messages to the healers to take to him. Even though they refused to let him be by his side, he wanted Hvitserk to know he wasn't alone.

"We need to do something for the healers," You said, your voice bringing him back to the warmth of your chambers.

Ivar turned to you and watched you in silence. The occurrence of the fever had taken a toll on you as well. Memories of your mother's early death had been brought up in the still of the night as you lied together. Though he didn't have the words to comfort you, he had held you close, skin to skin, your air mingling together as you each took turns whispering soft things of care.

"Any provisions we don't need will go to them first," He said, coming to sit beside you on the bed. Dáire was sleeping against your leg, and Ivar ran his fingers through the dog's hair.

"I've written to Father, and he has agreed to send food and linens. We'll have to send men to retrieve the cart. I don't want outsiders risking coming through the gates."

You were calm and pragmatic in the face of turmoil, and Ivar was grateful to have you by his side. He leaned across Dáire, reaching for you to lay a quick kiss on your temple. You replied with a short laugh.

"What was that for?"

"For being strong. I have never dealt with illness among the people, but having you here has helped me with the difficult decisions."

You took his hand from your face and gave a kiss against his palm. "It's something we have to do, right? When the people suffer, we have to be strong."

You were strong, and with the both of you together, Ivar felt invincible. But there were the first signs of exhaustion creeping up. He felt it in his frail bones and saw it on your face. This was an invisible enemy, and no amount of brute force could be submitted. It was an isolating situation, helping the people from afar and relying on the information from the healers. The air in the city was reek from the sick, and the ground damp. Neither of you ventured out from the Great Hall unless it was of the utmost importance.

"Rest," Ivar told you, gentle but firm. "The people will need you."

'I need you' was what he wanted to say, but your eyes had grown heavy, and Ivar didn't like how warm your hand felt in his.

You agreed without complaint, and Ivar didn't mind that Dáire was nestled between you. He settled into sleep as well, for the few hours he could. He had been awoken in the night the past while by thralls or guards with updates on the illness, and he couldn't afford to squander a chance at rest. Turning to face you, Ivar pulled the furs over and let his eyes close, falling into a fitful sleep.

ooOOoo

It was still dark when your eyes shot open. Your chambers were filled with shadows in the small light of the candles that burned low. The season was late, but you were warm and covered in sweat. A sinking feeling woke you, something you had been trying to hide from your husband. In the past few days, your appetite had vanished, and an increasing malaise had taken hold. 

You jumped out of bed, jolting both Dáire and Ivar awake. An empty chamber pot was near, and you lunged for it, landing hard on your knees as you emptied your stomach. With your head buried, and your hair falling around your face, you couldn't make out what was happening around you. The room fell into chaos. Ivar was already shouting for a healer, and Dáire was running around, whimpering frantically.

"(Y/N)," Ivar called, combing your hair away from your face. 

You didn't know when he had joined you on the ground, but you pushed at his chest with a weak hand. "No, stay away. You'll get sick."

"I'm not leaving you," He barked back. "Nothing can stop that. We share everything together. I'm already at risk."

Dáire let out a growl at the guard that came into the room. He had two thralls and a healer with him, and they worked to separate you from Ivar. You were maneuvered back onto the bed, while one of the thralls took Dáire out from the room. Your husband refused to leave at the order of the healer, occupying the chair at your side with an immovable resolve. 

A cool cloth was draped over your forehead, and the healer was grinding down herbs for you to drink. You had lost control over what was happening, your body spent while everyone else spoke around you. Your head was stuffy, and you felt bloated even after retching.

"For the time being, you should room elsewhere, my King. And your wife should be put into isolation with the other sick," The healer said.

"No, she'll remain here with me," Ivar argued. "I will help look after her."

You felt the first drop of hot brew as the healer tilted your head up to drink the medicine. The taste was aromatic and bitter, and you hoped your empty stomach would be able to keep it down.

"How long has she been showing signs of the fever?" The healer asked Ivar.

"This is the first time I've seen her sick."

A wave of guilt washed over you for keeping your symptoms hidden. "It started a few days ago," You murmured.

You could barely make out what was being said by the healer, but you could see the anger and disappointment furrow Ivar's brow. Your marriage was a strong union and without lies. Downplaying your sickness had simply been about sparing him of the worry you now knew he felt. On top of Hvitserk being struck with the fever, and managing the concerns of the people, you didn't want to be his burden. 

When the guard stepped out, and the thralls were ordered around by the healer  Ivar took your clammy hand in his.

"If you weren't sick, I would be furious at you for your silence."

You smiled while running the cool cloth down your face. "That's unlike you to hold back. I like our arguments."

"Then I'll save it for when you are well again."

That was more on par with the Ivar you had come to know. From tales of his mother to the boat builder, Floki, you knew your husband struggled with loss. So he chose to deal in absolutes. He couldn’t fathom losing you from the sickness. 'When you are well', as if saying it aloud, it would keep you from death.

Your own mortality was not something you had considered until now either. When your mother had been taken by fever, she had still been young, and you wondered if she had thoughts about her own death before succumbing to it.

"I need to get word to my father that I've taken to bedrest," You said, pushing yourself up in bed.

"I'll help with that," Ivar said while easing you back down to rest.

It would be the first time Ivar would get to test his writing skills after your teachings. The thought would have made you happy had it been under better circumstances than informing your father you had taken ill.

The throbbing feeling was back in your head, and the fever made your eyes burn. You allowed your lids to shut, hoping to rest even if you were too worried to sleep. Thoughts of the people suffering weighed heavily on your mind, and you did not want to leave Ivar to deal with everything. You were aware that he was at your side, and you soon succumbed to the will of your body, falling into much-needed rest.

ooOOoo

"You look like shit," Hvitserk said, the first words Ivar had heard his brother say in person since he had been taken to isolating with the others.

The days had advanced, and so had Ivar's haggardness. More bodies had been piled to be burned in a massive pyre, and it was decided that once the fever was swept away, a celebration would be held for the dead. It was just one of few things Ivar had wanted to give back to the people. Their hope was clinging by a thread, and he struggled in your stead to keep it alive.

Many others had managed to fight off the illness, which included Hvitserk who was now on the mend. He was thinner from the ordeal, but his appetite had returned with a fierce need to prove he could still devour a whole chicken in one sitting. Ivar was pleased, if not disgusted, to witness his brother's return to form.

"Did you want something?" He asked around a mouthful of meat, indicating to the rest of the spread down the table.

Ivar shook his head while nursing his mead, which had begun to cool. "I'll eat with (Y/N) later."

"How is she feeling?"

Ivar frowned as his thoughts continued to swirl around that same thought for the past week. The last wave of the illness was ending with fewer people falling sick each day. You still remained on rest in your chambers, and while the fever had broken on you two days prior, you were still showing signs of illness.

"She's fighting," Ivar said shortly.

"(Y/N) is strong. I don't think the Gods would choose this to be her end."

If it was he would renounce them all...but he couldn't give in to such caitiff thoughts. You might not have shared the same Gods, but he preyed they would all grant you more time at his side. His days without you were endless, and though he had not spoken the words aloud, he knew he loved you. It was difficult to comprehend when it had happened, but it was a simple thing. With Freydis he had been besotted by her beauty but was embarrassed to find he didn't know what else he loved about her. His marriage to you was different. What started as a strange and loveless affair had grown into what he had always searched for. Perhaps it had been too easy, and now the Gods wanted to take you away. 

"I owe much to her father," Ivar said, thinking out loud his train of thought. "Without the extra supplies and medicine, our losses would be much higher."

"And how's he handling the news of his daughter's illness?"

The first letter Ivar had written to King Conall had been with your dictation, but what you didn't know was Ivar had continued to write to your father in his own words. He was the only other man who could understand his position, and Ivar craved the guidance and wise words he was able to provide.

"When he first heard of (Y/N) falling ill, he had wanted to come here, and damned the chance of catching the fever himself, but I persuaded him to remain away."

"I'm sure Ragnar felt the same way after he returned to find Gyda had passed," Hvitserk said, and it was the first time either of them had mentioned her name. "I wonder what she was like."

Ivar didn't. Dwelling on the dead was something he had done for so long after his mother's murder, and he could bring himself to do it again. He was comforted by the idea that Gyda was reunited with her mother and father in Valhalla, even if it meant peace for Lagertha.

"My King," They were interrupted by your personal thrall. She appeared rather giddy, which had Hvitserk tossing him a confused look. "The Queen requests your presence in your chambers."

"Is she well?" Ivar asked, bracing to stand on his crutch. 

"Aye, she is eating again," The thrall replied with a giggle. "Almost as much as master Hvitserk."

Hvitserk let out a belch and a chuckle. "Odin had heard you, brother."

Ivar refrained from allowing his relief to get the better of him, but he started for your chambers as quickly as he could propel his body. It was the first time in days he was approaching your shared room with excitement rather than dread. Seeing you spread out in the center of the bed with the furs pulled down to stave off the fever had weakened his heart. He took the words of your thrall with a grain of salt, deciding he would determine your state for himself.

He burst forth through the threshold the moment he reached it and was met with the strong smell of fermented fish. You were propped up with furs and cushions, a plate balanced on your lap. Dáire was perched up on his hind legs by your side as you tossed him a scrap of food.

"You're awake," Ivar said out of breath. 

"And you came all this way to see me," You teased with a tired but pleasant smile. "I missed you."

Ivar shut the door and came to sit on the bed. "I've hardly left your side."

"I know, but I wasn't aware of much that went on around me, and I must have made for dreadful company."

The only dreadful thing had been when watching the color fade out from your face as you slept through the fever. A warm glow was set upon your cheeks again, and it was the first time he'd seen you eat whole food.

"How is Hvitserk?" You asked, interrupting his reminiscing of terrible thoughts.

"He remains eating any extra provisions your father had sent to us," He explained, and you laughed at the answer. "I should grab a healer."

Your hand reached out and tugged on his sleeve, keeping him in place. "Hlíf was already here before you came. She thinks I've been free of the sickness for two days now."

"But you were sick this morning," Ivar said, not understanding the healer’s interpretation. 

"Yes, and that will likely continue for a time," You paused and breathed a small laugh. "I'm with child."

Ivar's strange first reaction was to look down at your stomach as if expecting to find a curve to your middle. It was too soon to tell by looking, but that didn't stop him from reaching out and placing a hand down on your warm belly.

"When did you find out?"

"The healer told me this morning, but I suspected it was possible as the fever faded, and I still was waking up unwell," You said, your hand joining his. "What are you thinking?"

So many things, yet his mind was quiet. There was fear that the child wouldn't survive long enough to be born, or worse it would carry his affliction. He couldn’t do to you what he did to Freydis, but he wondered if he would see his own child as a burden, much as Ragnar saw him.

"Ivar," You whispered, moving in close. "Come back to me."

He blinked, seeing the worried look appear on your face. "I'm afraid when I should be happy. What if this child brings nothing but disappointment?"

"Only if we let it. We cannot control our fate, and if we fall off one path we won't stop. We'll take a new one together, with our child. I don't believe this is a miracle or a blessing, it is just the result of us falling in love, together."

"I thought good Christians believed in those miracles," He murmured, while brought to ease by what you had said.

You wrinkled your nose in disgust. "No God should be so lazy, and they can't claim responsibility for every child born of one breath."

Ivar pulled you down beside him on the, and he was pleased by the surprised shriek you let out. "I'll make a heathen out of you yet."

"I love you, husband."

He'd held on for so long without the need for love, but now as you offered it, so safe and simple, he knew he would take it all. It was different than any other time before, not smothering or conniving. It was a tranquil pool he could wade into without the worry of squalls or tidal waves. Ivar was grateful you had both fallen together. 

"Of course you do, and I love you right back."

@peachyboneless

@didiintheblog

@soleil-dor

@zuxiezendler

@pieces-by-me

@xbellaxcarolinax

@heavenly1927

@everyartistwas-firstanamateur

@youbloodymadgenius

@xceafh

@shannygoatgruff

@tgrrose

@1950schick

@castielsangelsx

@rastakami23

[purple-dahlias]

“What’s the point?” for recovering!au?

thank you for the request! sorry this has taken such a long time to get out,  but it’s here now! 

trigger warning for eating disorders, relapse and hospitals  

“You heading for the OR?” Connor asks, falling into step beside Ava as they exit the lifts together.

“Yep,” confirms Ava. “Got another CABG scheduled. Been almost practically back to back all afternoon. How about you?”

“Surprisingly, I’m free now. Patient cancellation.”

“Lucky you,” Ava grins as her phone pings in her pocket.

Taking it out, her eyes scan the notification, smile dying on her lips.

“Ava?” Connor asks, concern filling his voice as he eyes the expression on Ava’s face.

“It’s Sarah,” she manages, the words heavy in her mouth. “She collapsed in the ED.”

“Again?” Connor remembers the last time this happened, a little over four months ago.

Ava nods, knowing exactly what Connor is thinking. “I have to go,” she says finally. “Could you—“

Connor doesn’t let her finish her sentence.

“Go,” he says, placing a hand over her shoulder. “I’ll take your surgery.”

“Thank you,” Ava whispers, gratitude in her eyes as Connor waves her thanks away, nudging her gently back in the direction of the lifts.

“Let me know how she’s doing, yeah?” She hears him call as she steps into the lift, anxiety filling every inch of her.

The last three or so weeks had been insanely busy, for both Ava and Sarah, what with the way their shifts had worked out. It had meant in the end the two had always ended up missing each other, with one leaving as the other arrived, or one returning when the other was preparing to go. And with that, there had been little communication, other than perhaps a passing hello in the corridor, a kiss goodbye, or a hug before having to get out of bed at some ungodly hour. So having this knowledge, and with what she had just learnt, Ava knew this was a red flag. She knows almost exactly why Sarah had collapsed, and it’s hard for her not to blame herself.

Maybe, she thinks, if she had made more of an effort to ask, had paid more attention, had passed over some of her surgeries or post-ops to Connor, anything so that she could have been there more, she might have seen the signs.

She hopes, oh how she hopes she is wrong, and that this is completely unrelated, and that she is blowing this out of proportion, that there is some other, alternative reason.

But she just can’t shake the sick feeling that pools in her stomach as she exits the lifts beyond the Emergency Department.

She’s wracking her brain, trying to think of any rhyme or reason why this could have happened, if indeed it is what she thinks it is: the thought she just can’t seem to rid her mind of, the one that she keeps coming back to.

“Where is she, Maggie?” Ava asks, on seeing the charge nurse.

“Treatment four,” she hears, and doesn’t stick around for any more, heading straight there, heart beating at what she knows is well beyond the normal rate.

Ava pulls back the curtain to find April adjusting an IV line, while Natalie scrolls through what must be Sarah’s test results on her iPad, concern written across her face.

But her eyes fall on Sarah, lying there, looking so small and frail in her hospital gown.

“What happened?” Ava demands, and April leads her outside, just beyond the curtain, with Natalie following.

“Natalie called her down for a consult. Things were okay until she collapsed right there in front of the patient. Scared us all half to death,” April informs her softly.

“You might want to see these,” Natalie says, and Ava doesn’t miss the sadness in her tone as Natalie hands her the tablet.

It’s just what she had thought they would show, and Ava shakes her head, blinking back tears as she sees how much damage had been done, how much progress had been reversed in just 3 short weeks.

“According to her charts it looks like she’s missed her last two appointments with Dr Richardson. Did you know things were bad with her?” Natalie asks, a hand to Ava’s shoulder, and Ava feels like the worst person in the world.

“No,” she hears herself say, though it doesn’t sound at all like her voice.

This is all your fault. If you had paid more attention, this wouldn’t have happened.

“Ava,” she hears Natalie, noting how the doctor had switched to the voice she often heard her use with paediatric patients. “None of this is your fault.”

It’s as though she can read her mind.

“But it is. Sarah is supposed to be my responsibility,” Ava hates the way her voice sounds, broken, as she runs a hand through her hair.

“Some things you can’t control,” April says beside her. Ava knows she means well, but it’s all just wrong and backwards. Because for Sarah, this was all about control. Ironic, really.

“For now,” Natalie begins, that coaxing voice back, “you should just be with her.”

Ava just nods, letting the curtain fall behind her as April and Natalie take their leave.

She takes a shuddering breath and drags the stool to Sarah’s bedside, where she sits, taking hold of the thin, limp hand of her girlfriend.

“Ava?” Comes a voice, weak beside her, and Ava swears that if she wasn’t a cardiothoracic surgeon, she would have thought her heart had stopped.

“I’m right here, Sarah,” Ava tells her, squeezing her hand gently.

“Where am I?” Sarah asks, a little groggily.

“In the ED. April said you fainted.”

“Oh,” returns Sarah, her voice small, panic filling her face as she notices the IV line in her hand.

“Hey, hey, relax,” Ava croons, taking hold of both Sarah’s hands when she sees how distressed she is. “It’s just some fluids to help give you your strength back. You need them, okay bokkie,” Ava continues, using the pet name.

“No, I don’t! What’s the point?” Sarah cries out, every word punctuated with an agony that pierces Ava’s very soul.

“Nothing I do will work and I’m just so tired. I’m a psychiatrist. I know this is bad! I shouldn’t be having this problem. Ava you know I try, but…” Sarah trails off, and Ava can’t help but notice the way Sarah runs a finger over her clavicle, a subconscious habit she had.

“Sarah, I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must be for you,” Ava begins after a pause. “But—“

“Then don’t,” Sarah grits out, harshly, cutting Ava off. “Please, Ava, just go,” Sarah practically begs, bunching up the thin bed sheets and turning to face away from her.

Ava sits there, a few moments longer, until it becomes clear that this won’t be going anywhere, that Sarah isn’t ready to talk.

Twisting her hands, she lets out a sigh she hopes is mostly silent.

“Okay,” she says, willing the heaviness in her voice not to be too pronounced. Ava stands and moves to adjust Sarah’s pillow just how she likes it, the only way she can think of right now to give Sarah a little more comfort. “But Sarah,” Ava gently tells her, “I’m here for you, okay. No matter what. Please know that.”

There’s no response. Not even a shift in the bedsheets. And if the machine monitoring Sarah’s vitals wasn’t still beeping quietly in the background, well, Ava doesn’t want to give much rise to that particular thought.

With a final kiss to the top of Sarah’s head, a last attempt to let her know she is here, Ava turns to leave, drawing the curtains back around Sarah.

“Well?” Natalie asks her from her position at the nursing station, breaking away from a conversation with Maggie.

Ava just shakes her head. She doesn’t know quite what to say. What does one say? Besides, Ava really doesn’t wan to have to talk right now. With anyone. All she can think about is how much she had let Sarah down. How she should have been paying attention. And now she couldn’t even get Sarah to talk, much less get to the bottom of what triggered this.

-

It’s windy up on the balcony, and the evening is drawing in as Ava stares out onto the city of Chicago, a hundred thousand lights twinkling below. There’s still no more word from Sarah herself. Only that Ava can gather loud and clear she wants to be left alone. Which is especially hard to know.

“Hey,” a voice says beside her, making Ava jump. The fact she didn’t even hear him coming is a telltale sign something is wrong. Ava normally never misses anything.

“Your CABG went off without a hitch,” he begins lightly, trying to gauge Ava’s mood.

“Wish I could say the same about other things,” Ava deadpans, staring off into the distance, her focus on nothing in particular.

“How’s Sarah?” Connor frowns, leaning against the railing.

“Nat messaged to say she’s being transferred up to a bed to stay overnight for observation. She still doesn’t want to see me.” It comes out a little cold, detached. And honestly, Ava’s just feeling more than a little numb right now, so that assessment it’s about right.

“She’ll come ‘round,” Connor assures, putting an arm around Ava, who leans into him.

“Ooh my ears are burning,” comes a familiar voice from behind.

“Oh, hey Nat,” Ava manages a weak, sort of washed-out smile.

“How are you holding up?”

How was she? How did one answer that? How was someone dealing with all of this supposed to be?

Connor’s phone buzzes, breaking the silence.

“It’s Latham,” he says, checking.

“You’d better go,” Ava tells him, grateful for the diversion.

“It’s gonna be okay, Aves. You’re gonna get through this. You both are.”

“Thanks,” Ava sniffs as Connor pulls her into a tight hug, wanting desperately to believe his every word.

And then he’s gone.

“How’s Sarah,” Ava asks, eyes trained on the spot Connor had just vacated. She’s almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Pretty much the same. I’ve paged Dr Charles though. I hope you don’t mind?”

Ava shakes her head sadly. “Maybe he’ll have better luck than me.”

“Oh, Ava,” Natalie hums, holding her close, up there on the balcony. She doesn’t even care that Nat is probably using some of the tactics she uses on kids down in the ED. Because all Ava wants to do is believe things will be okay.

“How about I drive you back to yours so we can grab some things for Sarah?” Natalie suggests, filling the silence, smoothing Ava’s hair.

Ava agrees with a small nod. That seems like a logical suggestion. And in any case, she’s not sure she should be driving herself anywhere right now.

“Great,” Natalie says softly, her arms still safely around Ava. “And Ava, I promise you: everything will work out. It may not seem like it right now, but it will.”

There’s a fierceness in her voice, and Ava just clings to her. She wants to believe her. Wants it to be true with her whole heart. Because it has to be.

[jpegjade]

When the Party’s Over - Spencer

WHY IS THIS THE LONGEST THING IVE WRITTEN???? probably bc drunk me is wordy. i do talk a lot when i’m drunk and it gets on people’s nerves. i just really love you guys. i was sad when i wrote this, really sad, and it’s the first “smut”???? ive ever written. so here we go frens and ferns. 

warnings: uuuhhhh smut???

________________

When the night started, you were at Rossi’s house, getting drunk with the team. It was right after a hard case, difficult on everyone’s psyche so Rossi invited everyone over to relax in the usual way. After pasta and drinks, most of the team was still there while Spencer offered to drive you home since you were not in the shape to drive and he was the only one who opted for water instead of alcohol. He was beat but he wasn’t in the mood to drink tonight. 

Spencer was being a good friend but he had his motives. He wanted to talk to you in the car. You weren’t so drunk that you wouldn’t remember the conversation but your inhibitions were lowered enough to be truly and completely honest with him so you were the slightest bit tipsy but not drunk. You were 100% lucid and could think for yourself but you took the excuse to drink some of the smirnoff you brought and keep going. 

He wasn’t planning for it to happen like this but you were being very outspoken to everyone at the party so he figured it was time to get you home before you were out of a job after calling Hotch, “Hotchner the Grouch.” They found it funny but Spencer knew that you could go wrong easily. 

“Spencer Reid.” You said, staring at him. “I’m going to ask you something and I want you to be as honest as I’m being right now.” 

“Okay. I promise to be honest.” Spencer said, a little nervous. He chuckled anyway because you were so adamant that he answered honestly. 

“Do you like me?” You asked, suddenly very serious. 

“Y/n, you’re my best friend. Of course I like you.” Spencer tried to give you an answer that wouldn’t expose his real thoughts. 

For the past few months, Spencer thought about you a lot. It caused him to avoid you a little bit but you wouldn’t let him stray too far away from you. You kept texting him outside of the team group chat. You continued inviting him over for dinner. You never relented on checking in with his mental health. You never gave up on your relationship with him. 

 You were so focused on his jawline that your hand worked by itself, poking his face. He smiled and made the turn into your apartment complex’s parking lot and parked. 

“While I appreciate the validation of our friendship, that’s not what I mean and you know it.” You said, very serious. 

Spencer looked over at you, nervous to answer. He swallowed and took a shaky breath. 

“Y/n, is it really important?” Spencer tried to avoid the conversation. 

He opened the door and got out, walking quickly around to your side of the car to open the door. He didn’t have to but he wanted to. It’s always what he did. 

“Yes, it’s important, Spencer. I want to know.” You bumped shoulders with him as the two of you walked to your apartment on the third floor. 

Spencer sighed. 

“Yes, I like you. A lot…” You and Spencer arrived at your door, handing you your keys. 

You just stood there, staring up at Spencer. You reached up to touch his hair. It was so soft… You wrapped your fingers around one of the curls and smiled. Spencer stood there, nose ghosting over yours. 

“Do you want to come in?” It was barely audible but it was there. 

“I shouldn’t. You’re not sober. Unless you just want to hang out.” He said, looking at his wing tip shoes. 

“Spencer, get in here. I have literally been waiting almost a whole year for you to say that.” You pulled him to you by his tie and kissed him. 

*****

It was tentative at first. It tasted like spearmint gum. Spencer wasn’t chewing any at the moment so you guessed that he had been chewing it earlier. You liked that. It was refreshing. Slowly, Spencer got more comfortable with the kiss and relaxed and got more involved. It was sweet and gentle and soft. You felt his hands in your hair and felt the gentle pull and you released an involuntary moan. You could feel Spencer smile, the two of you momentarily breaking apart. 

Breaking apart left you speechless and in a daze. It was almost like you were in a fog but your head was clear. You were more than ready to do what you had been thinking about with Spencer for the past year. Some part of you needed this release while the other part of you needed him. 

“So inside?” You said. “The apartment, I mean.” 

“Yeah.” Spencer said, just as dazed.

Getting in the door was a task by itself. You and Spencer tried to go in at the same time and it was quite awkward but he let you go in first. 

You closed the door behind you, pressing your back to the cold surface. Scanning Spencer’s face, you saw that he was staring at your lips. 

“Do you want to continue here or should we...” He asked, looking back up at your eyes. 

“You tell me. I’ll let you take control tonight.” You said, smirking. 

Spencer clenched and unclenched his jaw nervously before licking his lips. You always liked when he did that. He wore chapstick but he never did it for anything other than a sign that he was thinking. 

“I haven’t been in your apartment before.” He said, gingerly. He smiled as you took his hand, guiding him to your bedroom. 

You grabbed your cat off the bed, putting it outside the bedroom and shooing it away. The cat sauntered around to find somewhere else to sleep. 

“Are we really about to do this?” Spencer asked, looking at you on the bed. 

Laying back on the bed, half of you held up by your elbows, you marveled at Spencer. The light from your hallway illuminated his silhouette very nicely. You could see the curves of his arms and his slender frame very clearly. 

“Do you want to do it?” You said, tilting your head a little bit. 

“Yeah, a lot.” Spencer said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. 

He had dreamed about this moment, literally, but he didn’t know he would be so nervous. He didn’t think it would ever happen. He never imagined you’d be laying in front of him like this. 

“Then drop the pants and I’ll drop to my knees,” You smirked. 

“Do you mind if we skip that part?” Spencer said not really in the mood for a blow job. 

It wasn’t that he was opposed to it, it’s just that he didn’t want to think of you like that yet. He felt like those experiences were for days where there wasn’t much time. Tonight, you had all the time in the world.

“You’re telling me you don't want my mouth on your dick?” You said, confused. 

You stood up, getting close to Spencer. You started unbuckling his belt and he audibly swallowed. He was nervous, not because of you but because he wanted this to go right. There was pressure when it came to something so intimate for the first time with someone. He felt your hands on his hips once you got his belt undone. 

“Shoes on or off?” He asked. 

“I’m taking my shoes off, obviously.” You said, already flipping them off. “Oh, you mean you. Well depends on what you want to do. You can bend me over the side of the bed, fuck me from behind, and call it a night. Or, if you want to draw it out, you can climb on top of me and fuck me in the bed. Oh, there’s also shower sex if you feel gross. Wouldn’t recommend it because it’s slippery and counterproductive to me getting wet.” You were rambling off some of the many fantasies and logistics that you’d thought about over the past year. You had thought about it a lot. 

Spencer kissed you. He just wanted you to take a breath because the more you talked about what you thought about, the more he thought about it. And the more he thought about all the ways he wanted to make love to you, the more he just wanted to get started. 

“Spencer, please pick somewhere because I’m literally struggling to keep it together.” You said in a low tone. 

“Clothes off, on the bed, legs open. I’ve got you tonight, baby.” Spencer said with a little more confidence. 

“Yes, sir.” You said, getting undressed. 

Spencer watched you but at the same time, he got dressed down to his boxers. Staring at you, he wondered how you were able to stay so calm on the outside right now. He didn’t usually have the sex drive as high as this moment. His body was on fire with desire and excitement but he was trying so hard to contain it. 

You laid down in the bed, just like Spencer told you to. He flipped on the light and you protested lightly with a groan and covered your face with both hands. 

“I want to watch you come all over me and lose complete control of your body. I can’t do that in the dark.” He said, walking over to the bed. 

“Well damn. Look at you, Spence. Actually showing some confidence. About damn time.” You said, smiling. You loved confident Spencer in all aspects of life, not just here. There was something about him that made you...want to be laid out in front of him, completely naked like you were now. 

“I honestly don’t know where I want to start…” Spencer said. Climbing onto the bed, he did the first thing that came to mind. 

“What’s your line?” He said, kissing your inner thigh, right above your knee. 

“Fuck, uh…” You never really thought of it in relation to Spencer. “Just don’t kill me.” You nervously chuckled. 

More thigh kisses. You wanted to grab your phone and put on some background music but it was just out of reach and Spencer’s arms looped through your legs and pinned your waist down to the bed. His grip was pretty firm. 

“Spence, can we…” A deep moan cut you off and slipped out your mouth when you felt his mouth finally where you wanted him. 

“Hmm?” Spencer looked up at you while his mouth went to work. The vibrations sent shockwaves up your body. 

“Holy shit. More.” You said. More was what he gave you, slipping in two fingers that matched the tempo that his mouth set. 

You were almost there, Spencer’s hair firmly in your hand and his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer, when Spencer slowed down and all together stopped. 

“I swear to god the room better be of fire.” You said, gritting your teeth. You were so, so close and he was being a tease. 

“You’re being a brat, baby. I promise I’ll give you exactly what you’re looking for.” Spencer said, looking for a towel.

“Don’t be a wuss. Kiss me.” You said, drawing his attention away from his towel search. He was nervous that you wouldn’t want to kiss him after he just went down on you. Crawling on top of you, he just stared at your features before you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down to you. 

You hated breaking apart from kissing him, you really did. It left you in a daze, making the light seem a little too bright for your eyes. He rushed over to his satchel, digging in its contents to find the condom Morgan gave him for emergency purposes as a joke one day. Who knew it would come in handy. 

“Are you ready?” You asked Spencer. He chuckled. 

“I was just about to ask if you were ready.” Spencer went back to being a little awkward. He was nervous that he wouldn’t be able to keep up with you. 

“Spencer are you sure you don’t want me to help you out?” You asked, watching him shift as he got rid of his underwear. 

“I think I’m okay.” He said, blushing. 

“Okay well let me know if… Spencer, what the fuck?” You asked, looking down, between the two of you. “And you expect me to take all of that?” 

“Is it bad? I know I’m not like other guys but…” Spencer grew a little shy. 

“No, just work your magic because you’re different than most guys. Spence, just be confident because you are very special.” You said, hoping it helped him come back out of his shell. 

“Breathe, okay? It might be a little… Much.” Spencer said, lining himself up with you. 

“I’m fi…” You were cut off as he gently pushed into you. “Holy shit!” Was all you could breathe out while you tried to catch your breath. Much was an understatement with what you felt from Spencer just barely being inside of you.

He paused to let you adjust but it was tough. You could feel yourself stretching when he started moving a little more to help you relax. He took your leg and hitched it around his waist, making you gasp in shock. That was a completely new sensation that sped up your heart rate even faster, your head getting slightly dizzy. 

“Stay with me, darling, okay?” He whispered in your ear. 

If you weren’t all in with Spencer before, your feelings were definitely there now. 

The pace he set was slow and gentle, soft and delicate like he didn’t want to break you. It was just like you imagined it. Your hands intertwined with Spencer’s as he treated you so kindly. You felt pressure just below your stomach and it was like you couldn’t do anything but shut your eyes and let your body feel it. 

“Just keep breathing, okay? It makes it last longer.” Spencer said, trying to stay focused. His brain was going through the female anatomy but he wanted to stay focused. He opened his eyes as he continued pushing himself in and out of you. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable, taking his right hand and moving his thumb over your cheek. You looked so soft under him. 

“Faster.” You whimpered, the only thing you could manage. 

Everything felt nice, it felt comfortable. You were comfortable with Spencer. You thought it would be hotter, more dramatic when you would imagine it. You imagined him grabbing your hips and plunging himself into you until your body was exhausted and used. But that’s not how it worked. 

“Are you okay?” Spencer asked, quietly. He was going faster and a bit harder, making it very hard for you to concentrate. 

“I’m…” You couldn’t think of the answer. You couldn’t think at all right then.

“You’re doing such a good job, love. Just relax, I’ve got you.” Spencer kissed you on the forehead before shifting your leg a bit higher on his hip. That ignited something inside of you that was hard to turn off. 

Your body was on pins and needles. You felt your body shaking as you held onto Spencer’s hand. He kissed you, soft and slightly frenzied. He was chasing his own release so quickly. Everything moved so smoothly between the two of you. 

Spencer’s body rolled into yours like the ocean, and you were the beach. His waves rushed into your shore over and over, filling you with pleasure you couldn’t find on your own. He was kissing your neck, marking you with sweet mumbles of, “I’m all yours.” 

“Spence…” Another instance of being unable to think or speak clearly. 

“I know, I know. And I want you to let it go for me. Be good for me and let go, y/n. I’m right here.” He said, kissing you deeply. 

Spencer pushed into you a little sloppier, trying to stay composed but it was a challenge. He wanted to make sure you rode out your high, which you were definitely doing. Your body was shaking and you were out of it a little bit as you came down. Spencer finished in the condom and kissed you so many times that you lost count. Your cheeks, your neck, your lips, forehead, nose, lips again. 

“Spencer, that was… That was nice.” You said, opening your eyes. He was smiling over you, shaking a little bit. You weren’t sure if his arms were tired or if he felt like you did. You hoped to god that he felt like you did. It worked out so well up to this point. 

He rolled off of you, standing up to get that towel to clean you up. He saw the bathroom door cracked open so he slipped the condom off and put his star trek underwear back on as he went into the bathroom and warmed up a small towel and grabbed a big towel. 

“I got aftercare towels.” He said, walking back into the room. 

You had curled up into yourself, laying down on your side, as you fell asleep slowly. You heard him come back into the room and smiled as he cleaned you up and helped you put a t-shirt on. Putting the towels in your wastebasket, he flipped the overhead light off and came back around to the opposite side of the bed and gently nudged you to let him hold you. 

“How do you feel?” Spencer asked, nuzzling his head into the crook between your shoulder and your neck. 

He felt so warm on your back like that, holding you tight. You felt safe and secure. 

“Spence, I love you.” You mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“I love you too, y/n,” Spencer said, falling asleep himself.

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taglist: 

@i-love-you-green

[pinkykitten]

everything stays

chapter 1 - blood on her hands :: gisela klein [ an aot oc story ] 

note: hey guys i know its been a rlly long time since ive posted anything and u may be rlly let down and underwhelmed that ive chosen to write a aot oc instead of fanfic but its what i want to write and i rlly love my oc and wanna give her some love and some praise and let u a little in how i see her. im sorry i havent posted a lot im going to try to write more and who knows i may or may not finish this but its ok imma try lol but life sometimes is a butthole. i hope you love her as much as i do an tysm for taking time out of ur day to read this story. enjoy!

Even though she knew that this day would have to come and that it was near, it still was a surprise for her. She was taken aback. It didn’t make sense and add up to her; she was trained for this since she was little; preparing mentally and physically for phase one of the plan; and the day appeared through the trees; past the wall; the opportunity was present; the fate of the people were waiting in their hands; and yet she felt a sense of evilness within her heart. Was this right? But there was no time. 

The day was written down in history. The stories were spread around like a disease. Heights, jaws, teeth, feet, stench, the screams. If they survived that nightmare they were seen as a tough soldier; as someone that was applauded because they probably had PTSD and had to see everyday as a reason within themselves or God that they were alive. That maybe just maybe they were saved for a reason; for a purpose. That is what Gisela Klein thought. Maybe there was something greater out there for her to do, to accomplish and that was why she saw another day; breathed another breath. 

But one thing was for sure. Forgiveness would never come her way; she would never expect it. To be a warrior she had to endure the horror; the pain; feelings of worthlessness; and friendships lost. 

This is the story of the 10th finding titan; the Slash Titan.

The pounding of her heart rang through her ears. It had taken everything for her to keep going on this journey; to continue on the path to and through Hell. She felt a loss within her and the light in her eyes died out. The loss of her friend made it hard for her to function. To keep her head in the game and in the plan. 

She sighed as she stared at her hands. Broken and bruised like her heart; scars and scratches scattered on her skin. Her bite mark deeply engraved into her flesh. She heaved a huge sigh. Ready to give death a handshake and make a deal with the devil. Panic was rising in her chest from her stomach, almost ready to throw up. 

As she thought about her family back home she realized there was no other way; she had to do this. In order to be with her family, to save them she had to do the one thing she was trained to do. 

Kill.

A lightning strike shot over the wall. The wall that kept the monsters away and at bay. Something was wrong; the air seemed to change. The lightning strike caused a boom, clap and the ground started to shake. 

Bertholdt drew his leg back and with full force swung his leg forward, knocking a hole into the wall that was impenetrable. Many people flew back from the wind of the blow and some were crushed by the debris of the wall. 

Many were going to die; but it’s what needed to be done. 

The titans were called. 

Finally the titans entered the devils homes and started to rip up their lives. “This is right, this is right.” Gisela had to keep reminding herself. “For my family.” And something snapped within her. The image of her mother, tortured, flashed in her mind. And suddenly everything was worth it. “No regrets.”

Gisela eyed Reiner, an agreement, a sign. She exhaled and in a quick motion placed her hand to her mouth and bit into it. In a spark she transformed into her titan form. Her eyes were much like a cats, sharp. She was made into the slash titan, she was chosen for this program. Her titans fingers were like sharp knives, able to cut any object or person. They hung a little past her knees. 

Reiner then transformed and both stomped past the hole. Many citizens glanced up, horrified. Gisela and Reiner were titans never seen before. 

She nodded to Reiner, bent down and started to pick up debris and pieces of houses to throw over the bigger wall. The chunks started to smash against people. Blood splattering everywhere. Gisela almost wanted to close her eyes from the immense amount of dead bodies piled on top of others, graves upon graves. 

She was hauling boulders as high and fast as she could. Her titan held a high amount of power and strength. Being slim, muscular and as tall as the armored titan and female titan. Reiner took a step back and gained his speed to go onward to destroy the bigger wall. 

“Fire!” Their soldiers cried out. Fear evident on their face. They shot their cannons, not even slowing down Reiner. Gisela continued flinging, wanting to create a path for Reiner. She was faster than before and many of her hits flattened the men in the front lines. Their screams and cries loud. 

“Close the gate!” They tried, it was their last hope to save humanity. But it was not enough. Reiner broke the wall and killed those running and they went flying. They reached even higher than Gisela. It astounded her almost, they seemed like helpless birds flying high in the sky; but that thought was quickly wiped clean because the second they flew up in the air they came straight down with much force that many parts of their bodies broke. 

Reiner did what he needed to do, he opened up a way for the titans to get in and they were swarming by the bunches. 

In the distance, the survivors fled in boats across the river to get into the other walls. Gisela put herself in their shoes for a second. They had reason to be scared. Everything they have ever known was gone; their houses, loved ones, food, a place to feel the most comfortable you can feel despite situations; it was all gone. Gisela shook the thought out, not caring about these cruel humans feelings. They had none. No emotions. Gisela had to believe that thought; what she was told, she had to believe it with all her heart, or else what was real?

They waited till they were able to not be seen and Gisela turned human first and then so did Reiner. The four of them hopped on the boat. Talking amongst themselves. The wind howled through the vacant homes. Destruction everywhere. Gisela looked around her setting and saw a little girl had been crushed because a tree fell on her, her doll mere inches away from her grasp. She died with her eyes open; almost looking into Gisela’s soul through the eyes. Gisela’s body trembled and she threw up. 

“Don’t.”

Gisela looked up to see Reiner wiping blood and debris off his clothes. He picked his sleeve and turned Gisela’s head to look away, he wiped her chin and mouth off the puke. He saw the trauma in her eyes and felt guilty. But it’s what needed to be done. He kept telling himself that the more he did this the more he would understand and get used to it. It was still all new to her and he had to be strong for her. He knelt in front of her small frame. “It’s not your fault. They needed to die. We are in this together. You don’t need them. Look at me.”

Gisela looked into his eyes, away from the sadness. His eyes carried the feeling of wanting to be wanted. That was always what Reiner wanted. But they also had fear in his eyes. 

“Stop acting like you’re in control when I know how sick you feel. I know how afraid you are Reiner.”

He paused and took a look at his hands and others surrounding him. “You’re right. But I made a promise to Marcel.”

They joined the other citizens arriving at the food reserves. The master of disguise was needed in this mission. People needed to see four hungry, depressed children that survived the fall of their homes, not mass murderers. 

Annie was only able to fetch two loaves. “Alright, who's the most hungry?”

“You girls should eat, you’re more feeble.” Bertholdt sat on a crate, pointing to Gisela and Annie. 

Annie tsked, moving a bang from her eyes, “who says girls are more feeble? I recall kicking your ass all those times in training.”

“You guys can eat it, I’m not hungry.” Gisela sat on the other crate and saw the chaos of the crowds. A boy caught her interest. He had dark brown hair, tan skin, and light blue green eyes. He was having bread shoved in his mouth and he seemed to have such a strong personality to him. If only Gisela felt so strongly about her motive and her placement in this life. 

“You really should eat, you need your energy after all you did.” Annie broke all the loaves in half and shared it amongst the four of you. “It’s not much but at least it's something.”

Gisela sighed, “you’re right. Thanks.”

After that day there was land given to only a few refugees but there were too many of them. Luckily the four of them had a piece of land that was enough until further inching themselves within society. Through that whole span each day was getting easier and easier living with the lies and day by day Gisela felt more at sure with herself and knowing that she could fulfill this mission. Pills and alcohol helped the pain and ease the thoughts. She taught herself to put a gap between what she came here to do and feelings. She told herself every day that nobody else mattered except her family and Reiner. She trained her brain to not care, to not have strings attached or any love for anything. It was all a play, all a rehearsal for when the curtain would fall. She was readying herself for that fall. Everyday she educated herself more on these scums. What they liked, wanted, needed, craved for, and what they craved more than ever in their life was freedom. 

She trained her body as if it were her last day, barely getting sleep. The face of her mother haunting her every night making her get up at three in the morning to do pushups or sit ups. Not only was her mind getting stronger but also her body. Even Reiner would make jokes noticing the muscles that would appear. The six pack that formed on her stomach. Her thighs growing tight and firm, her arms growing stronger. The sweat growing on her forehead longer. 

With her body growing her relationship with Reiner also changed. They no longer were the tiny children that didn’t understand anatomy or the air between two people. Reiner and Gisela’s relationship was of being flirty, sharing a few kisses here and there, trying to be a couple but then yelling at each other and breaking it up and realizing maybe this isn’t right a million times. Even Bertholdt and Annie were getting tired of their outbursts. But each time they made up to be friends only and then the cycle started where the feelings came in the way and they wanted to be more. They would tease each other, especially Reiner. They were each other's best friends. Gisela was like one of the boys, loud, obnoxious, burping all the time, Reiner would get a look at her and smirk thinking he taught her well. When Reiner looked at her he felt at home and that everything was going to be okay. Her nightmares continued and each time Reiner would come to her room and hold her, let her cry into his arms. She felt he was the only person that knew her pain. 

Gisela understood many things in life and for once she understood her life here, she understood why she was born and chosen. 

It was the following year and in order to get closer to finding the founding titan the four became part of the 104th cadet corps. 

“Are you ready to train more?” Gisela nudged Reiner, eyebrow raised.

“What do you mean train more? This is going to be a new but scary experience honestly.” Reiner spoke as if he was a different person. As if he didn’t have a life outside of the walls. 

“Reiner?” Gisela placed her hand on his shoulder, steadying him. He looked fine on the outside but Gisela knew the issues were inside, his mind. She knew this was becoming disastrous to him, he was starting to have almost two personalities, two lives, two worlds, two people. Gisela tried to tell Annie or Bertholdt, they saw it too but there was nothing they could do. 

All that Gisela could do was smile as they made their way to the first day of training. 

note: again ty y’all sm!!!! If u liked it lmk and this is kinda new for me cuz I usually don’t post my ocs stories here or much at all but I’m rlly excited for y’all to see her and for y’all to know this oc of mine and hopefully accept her ❤️

Taglist: @witchofinterest @chlobenet @eddysocs @fpxloomis @whctsherncme-archive @ocfairygodmother @fandomchick80 @ocappreciationtag

[musecharm-writes]

Bad Influence, Pt 2 (Steve Harrington X Reader)

Summary: Jonathan, Robin, Steve, and Nancy find out more about what happened at Melvald’s; you have your first shift at the general store.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

When Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Robin head to the Byers’ later that night, Joyce is there, making herself a sandwich and smoking a cigarette in the kitchen.

“Jonathan, sweetie? That you?”

“Yeah, Mom,” Jonathan replies. “Nancy, Steve, and Robin are here, too.”

Joyce appears around the corner, a look of surprise on her face. “Oh! Hey, guys! Sorry, if I had known you were coming I would’ve cooked dinner, or--or gotten take-out, or something. Will is over at Dustin’s tonight so I was expecting it to just be me and Jonathan--” She cuts herself off to take a pull from her cigarette.

“That’s okay, Ms Byers, me and Robin were gonna get pizza later,” Steve says politely. He’s always been good with parents, moms especially, and for whatever reason Joyce seems to like him. 

He assumes that Jonathan has never breathed a word to her about all the shit Steve used to put her son through, otherwise he’d probably be eating all his meals through a straw to this very day.

“Hey, Mom,” Jonathan begins, in a characteristically unsubtle fashion, “we were wondering if we could ask you about something.”

Joyce smiles, somewhat unsurely. “Okay,” she says, with a nervous little laugh, “ask away.”

Jonathan and Nancy share a look before Nancy says, “We were wondering if you knew anything about what happened at Melvald’s earlier today?”

Joyce’s eyebrows draw together, a furrow appearing like magic on a face that Steve privately thought looked too young for all the stress Joyce Byers carries with her. “How do you all know about that?”

“Steve and Robin saw it,” Jonathan says.

“Uh, technically only I saw it,” Steve corrected. “I’m still not quite sure what it was all about, though, we were too far away.”

Joyce nods slowly, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Well… I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you. Technically, I’m supposed to keep it kind of a secret.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Nancy says, and Steve can tell she’s trying her absolute best to look innocent and wide-eyed. “We’re very curious, is all. And, honestly, a little worried that something bad is happening again.”

Clever play, Nance. They weren’t worried there was another impending apocalypse -- not really. She’s just trying to appeal to Joyce’s instinct to comfort.

Sure enough, it works; that furrow in Joyce’s brow deepens as her conflicted expression melts into a look of concern. “Oh, honey, no. It’s nothing like that.” She bites her lip, mulling it over for a moment, before she says, “Okay, if I tell you, you all have to promise you’ll keep it quiet, okay?”

They all give various answers in the affirmative.

“Someone -- a teenager, around your age -- tried to steal a carton of cigarettes from Melvald’s. I spotted them right as they slipped it into their pocket and started to walk away. Powell and Callahan happened to be there, stopping by on their way to the station, so they took the kid in.”

“Seriously? They tried to steal cigarettes?” Nancy asks, her nose wrinkling with her distaste. “God, that’s so stupid. I’m glad you caught them.”

Joyce sighs. “I feel a little bad for getting them in trouble. It seems like it’s just a case of a good kid making bad choices. I mean, I remember myself at that age…” She shakes her head, taking another drag from her cigarette. She walks over to the coffee table and flicks ash into the ashtray.

“I mean, you did the right thing though, right? Just because they’re some mixed up kid doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have to learn from their mistakes just like anyone else,” Steve says.

Everyone, save for Joyce, turns to look at him.

“...Why are you all staring at me like that?”

Robin puts a hand on his shoulder. “Probably because that’s the most intelligent thing that’s ever come out of your mouth,” she says, giving his shoulder a little pat.

“Hey!” Steve exclaims, but everyone else is laughing, and he can’t help but smile.

Even though he knows it can’t possibly be true, because he says intelligent stuff all the time.

--

The morning of your first shift at Melvald’s begins with your alarm clock, which you set the night before to go off at five. Unfortunately, it never actually went off; unbeknownst to you, one of the breakers had tripped in the middle of the night, which reset your alarm clock.

You wake up from a blissful sleep and roll over to see the blinking red 12:00 . For a second, you don’t comprehend what you’re looking at, and then when it sinks in, you scramble out of bed so frantically that you go tumbling to the ground, tangled in the sheets, yelling, “SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

You get ready faster than you ever have in your life, skipping breakfast and brushing your teeth in the kitchen sink while tugging on your clothes. As soon as you’re ready, you’re flying out the door, grabbing your bike, and peeling down the road that will bring you to Downtown Hawkins. You count your lucky stars that the only drivers out this early are the people driving to work.

When you get to Melvald’s, you chain your bike up at the bike rack and blow through the door like a hurricane, your cheeks bright red with exertion and your blood rushing in your ears. The tinkling of the bell over the door is almost mocking in its gentleness.

The store is almost completely empty except for a single woman in a uniform vest who appears to be pricing items. She looks over at you; you recognise her as Joyce Byers, the woman who caught you stealing the cigarettes.

“Oh! Hey,” she says, sounding surprised to see you.

“I’m so-- so sorry,” you pant, walking forward a bit to lean on the counter. “My… My alarm... didn’t go off, and I--”

She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re actually early.”

You pause, your chest heaving, looking at her in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yep. By about…” She looks at a clock behind the counter. “Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

You let your head loll against your back. “So I skipped breakfast for nothing.”

Joyce smiled sympathetically. “‘Fraid so. Sorry. If it makes you feel better, Hop’ll definitely be happy about it.”

And, embarrassingly enough, it does make you feel a little better.

You’d like to say your first day on the job goes pretty well.

You’d like to say that, but if you did, it would be a lie.

It starts with the pricing gun, which miraculously stops working moments after Joyce leaves you to your task. She assures you that it’s just because the damn thing is so old and Gary refuses to replace it because of how expensive they are, which makes you feel a little better, but part of you still feels as though you broke it despite her reassurance.

Then, when Joyce offers you a break to go and grab lunch for the two of you from the diner, you almost lose the money she gives you thanks to a hole in your pocket that you hadn’t even realised was there. Thankfully, you’re able to make it with the cash still in hand, but the incident makes you so nervous that on the way back to the store you almost drop everything multiple times.

When you finally make it back, the store is unusually busy, so you’re forced to stow the paper take-out bags under the counter as Joyce attempts to teach you how to use the register. You frantically memorise as much as you can, and are somehow able to make it through the rush without missing a beat, but by the time it’s over and the two of you are able to take a load off, your lunch is stone cold.

“I’m sorry,” you say to Joyce, staring dejectedly at your cold fries. “I don’t know why I’m having such a shitty day today. I’m trying so hard but it feels like everything is going wrong.”

Joyce shakes her head. “Hey, no. It’s okay. Sometimes, you just have bad luck, no matter how hard you try. It’s not your fault.” She places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes.

You wonder why she’s being so nice to you, but you can’t work up the nerve to ask. Instead, you ask if there’s a microwave you can use to heat up the food.

Toward the end of your shift at around 12:30, Joyce calls you over from where you’ve been organising a window display and says, “Hey, would you mind going into the back and grabbing the boxes that have ‘ballpoint’ and ‘pencil - yellow’ written on them? I need to restock.”

“I’ll do it for you!” You blurt out. You can feel your cheeks flushing.

“Oh,” Joyce says, raising her eyebrows at you. “Okay. Uh, I’ll show you where they go and then that’ll be the last thing you have to do before I let you go for the day. Okay?”

You nod, too flustered to speak. You need Joyce to like you for reasons you aren’t totally sure of, and you hope with every part of you that you aren’t being too obvious.

Joyce walks you through restocking the shelves and then sends you on your way to retrieve the boxes from storage. They’re bigger than you thought they would be considering they’re just boxes of pens and pencils, but you guess it makes sense, since it’s not like the boxes are full of individual pencils and pens. There are three of them, standard sized cardboard boxes; you lift each one and find that you could probably carry two at a time, if you were careful. You stack the two boxes of pencils on top of each other on the ground, squat, and lift them up with a grunt of effort.

Now that you’re holding them, you realise it’s a little hard to see around the boxes. You have to angle your head awkwardly to peer around one side, which leaves you with a pretty big blind spot. You guess you’ll just have to trust that any customers nearby will be smart enough to stay out of the way.

You’ve made it almost all the way to the correct shelf before tragedy strikes again.

You glance down at the ground to make sure that there’s nothing you could trip over or slip on, and as you’re adjusting your grip on the bottom box, you hear a voice coming near you.

“--And stop nagging me! You’re not my mother, Buckley!”

Shortly following this is a shout of, “Steve! Watch where you’re--!”

You look up right in time to slam into someone.

The boxes fly right out of your hands. Boxes of yellow Ticonderoga pencils go flying, scattering across the floor. Some of the boxes even come open and pencils go rolling every which way. You end up flat on your ass in the middle of it all.

For a moment, you stare at the boxes of pencils all over the floor, gobsmacked. Once you’re able to tear your eyes away from the mess, you look up to find Steve Harrington looking down at you with his eyes as wide as dinner plates, but not one strand of hair out of place.

The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. Then, Harrington opens his mouth.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” he babbles, dropping to his knees and starting to pick up the stray boxes and escaped pencils. “That was an accident, uh-- shit, I swear I’m not usually this much of a klutz. I’m sorry, please, lemme help--”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, somewhat dejected. You’re probably going to have to stay after your shift ends to finish picking all this up and do what you promised Joyce. You glance at the clock and find your theory is confirmed, to your dismay. “I can handle it. It’s my job.”

“No, really, I…” He pauses after a moment, squinting at you. “Wait. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

He has. The two of you went to school together for, like, your entire lives. That’s not what he means, though; he recognises you from yesterday, when he watched you get patted down and shoved in a cop car after making the dumbest mistake you’ve ever made in your life.

“We went to the same school for twelve years,” you say stiffly. Like hell are you gonna remind him if he actually forgot.

“...Oh,” he replies awkwardly. “Uh. Sorry. But, no, I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere else. Did you used to hang out at the mall? I used to work there. Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “Wait! I got it! You’re the one who got arrested yesterday, right?”

Before you can answer, a girl you vaguely recognise as being a high schooler a couple of years your junior appears at Harrington’s side, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him with surprising strength and an almost enraged expression.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She hisses at him, before turning to you with a sunny smile. “I’m so sorry about him, he’s chronically stupid. We’re going to go before he says another dumb thing, right , Steve?” She has him by the ear, now, and you have to admit it’s kind of funny; she’s a couple of inches shorter than him, so he has to bend down to keep her from tearing his ear off.

“OW! Yes , Robin, jesus! Let go of me, I’m leaving!”

As you watch them go, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You’d kind of wanted someone to help you pick up the pencils.

--

When Robin and Steve are outside of Melvald’s, Robin finally lets go of Steve’s ear, saying, “Steve, what have we talked about? About thinking before we speak?”

Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m trying. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “I know, dummy. I had to learn it, too.” She sticks her hands in her pockets and glances back into the general store through the front window. “So, what was your angle with that whole spiel back there?”

Steve blanches. “What?”

“I mean , you’re not just nice to people for no reason all the time, even if you did something to them. So why were you being such a hardcore nice guy?”

Steve opens his mouth to say something and realises he doesn’t have any clue how to respond. He crosses his arms and shrugs, flustered. “I dunno. Maybe I just felt like it. What’s it to you?”

He starts to walk away, tired of the conversation, and Robin comes trotting after him, still yapping right in his ear. (He pretends to be annoyed, but honestly, his heart feels full to the brim with love for Robin. Before her, nobody has ever chased after him before.)

“Uh, you’re my best friend, dumb-dumb! That’s what it is to me! My nose belongs stuck right in your business!” She catches up to him and runs around to plant herself in his path, grinning broadly. “So, tell me what it is that has you so riled up.”

Steve gapes at her for a moment before shrugging again. “...I don’t know.”

Robin arcs a brow at him. “Seriously? You’re still not gonna tell me?”

“Robin, c’mon, I’m telling you I have no idea ,” Steve insists. He sighs, and lowers his voice. “Look, I just felt this weird… Urge to stay and talk? And picking up the mess that I caused anyway seemed like a good excuse at the time. Until I stuck my foot in my mouth, that is,” he sighs.

Robin gasps. “Steven Janine Harrington--”

“Not my name.”

“--Do you have a CRUSH?”

Steve feels his entire body burst into flames. He looks around frantically, saying, “Will you keep your voice down?”

Robin’s face takes on an expression of pure glee. “So you do! Oh my god, I didn’t think you were capable. So, are you going to pursue anything? Or are you more the brood-from-afar type?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, will you shut up? You’re such an embarrassment. This is why I never take you anywhere,” Steve says, walking off in a huff.

Robin chases after him, laughing her ass off. He’s glad at least one of them thinks the situation is funny.

[x-ia-n]

━ you are.

➞ including: yuu nishinoya, gn!reader

overview: in which all he wants is to just confess to you.

word count: 1.4k

➼ haikyuu masterlist

↳ main masterlist

↦ this is an alternate version of [confession song], unrequited crushes but not quite

❛dedicated to jaine, the maya to my riley, the biggest noya simp ive met.❜

‧͙⁺˚･༓☾　　☽༓･˚⁺‧͙

‘stupid tanaka,’ yuu thinks, getting him into this mess. how was he supposed to confess to you, anyway? he was just a libero in their volleyball team, and openly obsessed over one (1) girl before he met you. his desk at home is littered with drafts of love letters he’s written to you; a drawer is filled with completed ones, he just can’t choose which one to give you. ryuunosuke suggested that he bakes you a cake because ‘who doesn’t like cake?’ and like two peas in a pod, sharing one collective brain cell, he agreed. 

that brings us to the present, as yuu desperately looks for the ingredients listed on a small piece of paper. he could always go to coach ukai’s shop, but he wants that as a last resort. it’s christmas eve, and he sure as hell is running out of time if he wants to give the homemade cake for you and your family on christmas.

as he looked through the supermarket aisle, he’s rehearsing what he should say to you. he’s tried to confess once or… three times before, all of which either got interrupted or turned out badly. the libero remembers when he tried to confess to you but yamaguchi accidentally hit you with a serve and caused you to get a nosebleed. ryuunosuke tried to calm him down before he went feral on his junior.

he paid for the ingredients with the money he saved up - which he had only for the sole purpose of confessing to you - and started heading home. he was mumbling under his breath, “hey, i really like you… no. i know this is probably out of nowhere but will you go on a date… no.” 

it was four in the afternoon when he got home, and focused on making the perfect cake he could. this time for sure, he’d confess to you, and it would be right. yuu spent two hours making the cake, not including the time it took in the oven. for the first time in his life, he dedicated himself to something equally as much as he did in volleyball. he has to make it perfect, because if his words fail him, he needs that cake to do all the talking.

the cake turned out half-presentable. it wasn’t good to put into an instagram post, but it wasn’t that bad either. to be honest, he feels proud of himself for making something that didn’t collapse in on itself.

he carefully put it in a little box before running upstairs to fetch one of the letters and to make himself look presentable. it is currently eight in the evening, four hours after he initially started.

he let his hair down, remembering the comment you made on how you never saw him with it down, put on his cleanest looking collared shirt and dress pants, and a winter coat over it. ‘fuck,’ he thinks, rummaging through the drawer filled with letters. which one to give you? the one he spent the most time on or the one that had everything he wanted to say but his handwriting made them unreadable? does he just… go without giving you a letter and hope that his brain will come up with something?

it was only when he checked his phone did he remember that he was supposed to meet up with you two hours ago. you called him so many times, and the text messages you sent him ranged from excited to concern to pissed that he stood you up.

yuu grabbed the box and one of the letters, cradling them in his arms as he practically ran to the park you both agreed to meet at. to his dismay, you weren’t there. cursing at himself, he headed to your house, the cold winter air biting at his cheeks. of course he forgot a scarf and a cap, but those didn’t matter to him anymore. how long were you waiting in the cold? he knew that you get sick easily in the winter, yet he left you waiting outside in the snow, even though it was an accident.

as he walked up to your doorstep, anxiety ate up his initial excitement, making him feel like vomiting from the uneasiness. was confessing this hard?

he unwittingly raised his hand and the door flung open mid-knock. you were already standing in front of him, arms crossed, your face flushed red from the winter air. you greeted him monotonously. “yuu.”

“hi!” his heart jumped.

“i’m so so sorry for leaving you alone, i was making something. the time flew by, i didn’t notice-”

you interrupted him, “nishinoya, i was waiting. for two hours. it was freezing. you didn’t answer any of my calls.”

shit, he forgot how much it reminded you of the times when you were stood up by friends, and even by dates. he knew they all took a blow of you, especially when you need the reassurance that you are still wanted somehow. he could see the layers of clothing you stripped off just laying on the couch, and how you were waiting for the kettle to boil water for you to make a hot drink to warm yourself up.

despite you being mad at him, you silently invited him inside by just… leaving the door open when you walked in. it took him a moment to get it, though.

“stop apologizing already.” you said, handing him a cup of tea. you could see the snowflakes in his hair, and the redness in his cheeks, from what exactly, you couldn’t tell.

you nodded to the box he’s still cradling in his arms, and raised an eyebrow in question. the libero thrusted the box into your hands, his face turning redder by the second. before you could even open your mouth to say something, he says, “please read the cake!”

your confused face slowly morphed into one in disbelief when you opened the box lid and all you read were the words ‘i like you so much!’ in bright red icing. your heart was pounding in your ears as you struggled to form words.

this set the boy into panic mode as he started rambling on how much he likes you but he didn’t know how to confess, and how he fears that he might have thrown you off because he joins ryuunosuke in complimenting kiyoko. he sprinkled in some apologies about leaving you to wait in the cold despite him knowing how much you hate being exposed to cold air. 

“yuu, shut up.” you say, your face red from his clumsy confessions.

‘this is it, you hate him, you’re going to reject him,’ he thinks. “please accept my feelings!” he took the box from your hands and set it on the coffee table and grabbed your hands in his. 

“i may not be much, and i may be far from your dream guy, but please give me a chance!” 

you look at him, his eyes burning with determination, then at your intertwined hands. “you… are an idiot.”

before he could react, you squeezed his hands gently. “i like you too, stupid. why’d you think i was willing to wait that long for you, all the time?”

he remembers you waiting for his practice to finish so you could walk home together, you missing the first fifteen minutes of a movie you were so excited for because he got caught up in the long line for popcorn, and so many more instances. “wait, what?”

he could yell and jump for joy right now. “i thought that someone like you would be too good for me.”

it took you all your self-control to not hit him right now. “for someone so confident, i can’t believe you’re so insecure. who wouldn’t like you?” 

he then proceeded to bask in the compliments you give him, but all that truly registered in his mind is that you like him back.

yuu’s trademark grin spread across his face as he wrapped his arms around you. “ha-ha! you like me back!”

he pulled away from you just to cup your face in his hands and bring your face close to his. “thank you. i’m gonna work hard to treat you well!”

you smiled softly at him, leaning into his touch. 

it is currently a quarter before nine in the evening when yuu finally confessed to you. he didn’t need to bring that letter, after all.

x-ia-n © 2020 | all content and its rights belong to me. do not modify or repost. general taglist: @mooniepotchi​​​ @hqnishi​​ | please fill out this form to be added to the taglist!

[lady-plantagenet]

if you’re still doing those: edward iv / elizabeth woodville for the ship bingo 🕊x

I’m so sorry, this whole past week has been one massive mental breakdown and I have been finding it incredibly hard to do anything besides uni assignments and writing. Also, I have a lot to say about these two so I didn’t want to half-ass it.

Some Comments:

I don’t know if I told you this but this used to be my OTP, like years ago when I first got into this era and did not think/know much about Clarence and the others. But now it’s no longer the case and that’s not necessarily because it got replaced by gisabel per se but because I’ve always found it extremely hard to reconcile myself with the infidelity aspect. Even when I was more childish I felt a bit dissapointed in the fact that he didn’t appoint her (or Anthony) regent, like obviously now I understand why it was to an extent untenable politically, but back then my younger mind just saw it as ‘he trusted his brother more’, which kind of threw a wrench. So much for the ‘it’s complicated’ square. The problem with long marriages is that the delicious aspect tends to wane, and that can’t be helped in a 20 year long marriage! But obviously the 1464-1470 years taken into isolation... well... it was the epitome of delicious, sexual and romantic. You might find me pointing this out wierd given that I didn’t make the same remarks on Catherine of Valois and Owen Tudor who were also a pretty long marriage, it’s just that... in my mind they kind of stagnate age-wise even as they advance past their twenties because the whole narrative (historical and fictional) around them focuses on the first years of their union and the tribulations, whereas Edward and Elizabeth have a presence way past that as they were after all monarchs and never at one point left to live a quiet life and were no longer chronicled - so in that way they age before our eyes. And with that age you see the infidelity issue get worse, together with Edward’s greater promotion of Gloucester, his drinking, eating etc issues and it starts painting a sad image into my mind of like idk a love that at one point stopped being what it once was and could never again be - like the embers burning out? This turns the what could have been a obbsessive unhealthiness borne from passion into another caused by disillusionment? I don’t put too much stock into this, personally I feel the change in Edward was caused by other external factors and not Elizabeth herself eg Warwick and Clarence’s betrayals and deaths, the massive burden of fixing the previous administration’s mess etc. Nevertheless, Elizabeth on her own did not seem to be enough to drag him out of it and prevent some of his unhealthy habits. I do realise it’s a bit too much to ask for though.

Nevertheless, I do see them as soulmates, she seemed like one of the only people who could keep up with him in will and wit (though Jane Shore seemed quite a competitor in this regard) I’m not the type of person who thinks Edward was dominated by his lust, and I think based on that venetian letter (you know the Ziglio one XD) and the fact that it said that Edward loved her for a long time before marrying her, it was clearly a decision from the heart not the *ahem* codpiece. Also a part of the soulmate/star-crossed trope is the whole ‘they defied all odds, they withstood opposition’, and Liz and Big Ed are famously that. I would totally read fic for this but surprisingly there aren’t many! I honestly don’t know how come?? Like yes they do appear in a lot of histfics and the like, but apart from TWQ they are never the central focus, and even there we don’t get enough of them (which really irritates me). Some write me some!! I am intrigued by the pairing but extremely picky when it comes to how they are written because I have particular headcanons which I am fairly wedded to but do not expect they will be abided by. More in the pragraph below.

The Ship:

I absolutely can not stand portrayals of Elizabeth Woodville as a golddigger, much less some Marilyn Monroe type of bimbo. We know the type of beauty she had... a chronicler called her an excellent but solemn (or sthing like that) beauty where York in his letters to her for the marriage of Sir Hugh complemented her deep sorrowful look or such. She was a pious, economical woman who took her queenship extremely seriously and led a cultivated court, patronised literature and may have also written a poem herself (you know the one about Venus we spoke about). She was years older than Edward and on top of that a widow with two children of her own. I want to see that dynamic! I want to especially see how she drew Edward away from Warwick’s influences in order to put him on the path he was angling for: the statute of livery 1463 and the new sumptuary laws (that most famously restricted the length of piked shoes to 3 inches hhh) are very indicative of a king who (even before meeting her) wanted to install a strong centralised monarchy with a monopoly on violence and its laws. Not because of some rapaciousness on her part but because her and her family believed in him, experienced the exequies of war and wanted to put a stop to it. I want her to love Edward for putting an end to people like Warwick who caused all her family’s (and the gentry class as a whole) misfortunes and struggles, and in a way feel like she provided him with not only a circle of people who would help him realise this but also with a sort of family to soften the personal blow that he felt when part of his birth family betrayed him. I love the father-in-law becomes surrogate father trope (as I think you can tell) and I like to see Earl Rivers as that for him, hell you can take it even further and make Jacquetta as some sort of mother-figure for him as opposed to Cecily who apparently scorned the marriage and at that time seemed to side more heavily with George. I like to think under her influence she empowered him to act more ruthlessly in pursuit of his goal, but at the same time I think that while certain things were good in the long-term eg Clarence’s execution, (maybe Desmond’s??) they may have had a toll on the relationship later on. I headcanon Elizabeth as tragically hardened by the loss of her brother and father at Edgecoat and I think that may also have thrown a bit of a wrench into their love, given how she was faced with the violent consequences of being queen and afterwards with how Warwick and co. went free and she lost her chance of vengeance. I don’t think they were ever out of love though, especially judging by how she continued to be pregnant up to 3 years short of his death and the absolute trust he put in her. But I headcanon his attachment to Jane Shore as him seeking the light-hearted wit and lively banter that Elizabeth slowly started losing as the years went on and she became less vivacious and a tad more calculating and icy. I headcanon them as having a rift when it came to dealing with problems: she would keep on with her ministrations whereas he would just want to engage in escapisms. But the thing with the infidelity is that one should keep in mind that during that period relations would have to stop once the woman started showing, so Edward having affairs should not be read into too much tbh, perhaps it was more a type of addiction on his part like drinking and eating was - like all part of an excessive Epicureanism which he adopted to relieve himself of his stresses and sorrows (and boy were there many!), so not something that necessarily indicated he grew tired of her or whatever. Maybe she understood that and that’s why she didn’t make a fuss? But then again, the fact that there wasn’t complete faithfulness remains a personal impediment for me with this ship :// that’s just me personally.

Also the discussion we had about Mélusine and the alchemical elements and Edward IV’s own interest in such (which was used as ammunition for George when he accused Edward of engaging in dark arts to corrupt his subjects XD... yes I know très ironique)... made me headcanon him and Elizabeth bonding over this, and perhaps seeing their union as somewhat quite mystical. It would be something so interesting to explore and I think it’s a real shame that people nowadays recoil everytime they hear the word ‘Woodville’ and ‘Mélusine’ put together which is a shame because when handled delicately it could turn into something beautiful and it was certainly not a PG invention!

Also... those two have some bitchin’ fannart!

So yes, this was quite the stream of consciousness... but I do have a lot of thoughts for this couple! They were my OTP for the longest time after all.