#I'm gonna aim to get the next chapter out sometime in October

[recurring-polynya]

Writing/Art Update 2.6.2024

I managed to write exactly 4000 words of what I am currently calling Chapter ?10?, which is to say, "the last chapter," however many end up getting squeezed in before it. It's coming along pretty well, and I think the stuff I had planned in the outline is going to fill out the space of one chapter pretty nicely. I had been worried that I was going to write all of this up and it was going to be, like...3000 words total, and I was going to have to come up with some more stuff, but that doesn't seem to be the case. (phew!)

It's a little bit ambitious, but I've set "Finish Chapter ?10?" as my goal for this week. On this project, I have been aiming for 4k words/week, and it's probably going to be more like 5 or 6k, but we'll see!

It's kinda crazy, actually, because I can remember back in October, estimating out the size of what I thought this fanfic was gonna be and saying to myself, "If I can write 4000 words/week, I can finish it around March", which felt like both so many words and so far away, but somehow, it's February, and it's already longer than I thought it would be (finished) and I'm still trying to grind out 4k/wk and it still feels so far away, except that it's still looking like it might be done sometime in the vicinity of March and that's next month. This is definitely the hardest fanfic I have ever written (every fanfic is the new hardest fanfic I have ever written). 0% inspiration, just scraping every one of these words out of the dirt with my fingernails. Astonishingly enough, it's still kinda good. At least, I think it's kinda good. We'll see.

I used most of my daily drawing time this week to work on a combined Kuchiki Sibs birthday drawing. I was feeling pretty good about it until I showed it to my kid and she was like, "Mom, can I give you some constructive criticism?" and then I shriveled up and died, but I don't care, I still like it.

Okay okay okay okay I'm doing this update early today, so I can jump back in and start clocking words for next week, let's gooooooooo

[bunnyscribe]

Sure As the Setting Sun, Chapter 1

Fandoms: Mob Psyco 100, Boku no Hero Academia Warning: Canon-Typical Violence Length: ~7k

“I'm sorry Mob-kun,” Tsubomi says apologetically. “I just can't reciprocate your feelings right now.”

She genuinely does look sorry as she says it, her eyes filled with a gentle sort of pity. A soft smile sits on her face, sad and pretty, but it does nothing to soften the crushing blow of her words.

“I'm not interested in a relationship right now,” she says. “The timing is all wrong. I'm moving, I'm starting high school soon, and I've got my future to worry about. Even if I want to, adding a long distance relationship would just be too much.”

She breaks Mob gaze almost guilty, her eyes shifting down the bouquet of flowers. She bites her lip.

“You understand,” she says, voice quiet, desperate, “don't you?”

Mob stares at her blankly, attempting to make sense of the situation. Emotions roll around like waves under layers of suppression, an invisible counter sitting at seventy-nine...seventy-nine...seventy-nine…

“I understand,” he says finally, less because it's the truth and more because it feels like the right thing to say.

And it seems his intuition has done right by him for once, as Tsubomi looks him in the eyes again, her face warmer than it had been a moment ago.

“Thank you,” she says. She ghosts her fingertips atop Mob’s arm. “I'm glad you understand, we all have to plan for the future.”

Mob suddenly thinks about the blank academic aspersions sheet that he had gotten in class a week prior, sitting on his desk at home and collecting dust. Something stirs in him, though his consciousness instinctively crushes it down before he can even dwell on what it is.

“Yes,” he says, his voice hollow even to his own ears. “The future is very important.”

Tsubomi’s smile twinges as if something had just poked at it. She doesn't falter, however, leaning down to press a light kiss against Mob’s temple.

She pulls back so quickly that Mob barely even has time to process it. He raises a hand, pressing it against the spot where pressure had been. He realizes, despite hoping for this for two years, he actually doesn't know how to react.

The steady pressure in him moves like a heartbeat in response to his confusion; spiking and dipping before evening out again. Mob barely notices.

“Thank you,” Tsubomi says again. She backs away from him, movements delicate as she does, like she's being extra careful not to crack any eggshells she's standing on. “I’ll see you at school, Mob-kun.”

“Wait,” Mob says.

Tsubomi freezes up mid turn, suddenly still as a statue. She slowly turns her head, looking back at Mob with an expression that he can’t read.

“Please,” Mob tacks on a moment too late.

“...Yes?” Tsubomi prompts after a moment of awkward pause.

“Tsubomi-chan, I just wanted to thank you,” Mob says, his gaze drifting down towards his feet. “My master told me recently that is the journey that matters and not the destination. My feelings for you allowed me to grow, so I can not regret them. I-”

Mob risks a glance up, meeting Tsubomi’s awestruck gaze head-on. He flushes with embarrassment, unused to that type of expression being directed at someone as plain as him. His eyes dart back down to his feet, his head tilting so the red of his cheeks won't be as obvious.

“-Thank you for meeting me,” he finishes lamely.

Tsubomi chuckles. “You're a really good person, Mob-kun,” she says. “I hope you find something you really want.”

And with that final, confusing sentiment, Tsubomi turns around and walks away.

Mob watches as she goes, staring after her retreating back until it disappears around a bend in the path. He stands there long after she’s gone, unsure of what to do next.

It’s only the disappearance of the sun that gets him moving again, aware that his family will worry if he arrives home too late after dark.

His body feels heavy as he walks like he had just loaded some kind of burden onto it instead of relieving one. He grasps around inside himself for some kind of solution, an answer to an unknown question, but his subconscious stubbornly keeps it on lockdown.

He makes it to the entrance of the park without recollection of how he got there, and probably would’ve continued home in that trance had someone not laid a hand on his shoulder.

He turns around and finds himself looking up at a smiling mask.

“Hello young man,” says a distinctly feminine voice. “I'd like a moment of your time if you would.”

“I'm not interested in buying anything,” Mob says, and goes to keep walking.

However, the person holding him has other plans. The hand on his shoulder grips tighter, strong enough to lock him into place but not quite enough to hurt. The person's head lolls down as if they were too woozy to keep it upright.

“Now one second, sir,” they say, a slight edge in their voice. The tilt in their head covers the masks in shadow, changing the smiling face into something far more menacing. “You look troubled, I just want to help you.”

“I'm fine,” Mob says. “Thank you though.”

“It must be very difficult coming from such a rough home life,” the person prods, tugging on Mob’s shoulder.

Mob stumbles back a half step. “My home life is good, I love my family very much,” he says. “Could you let me go now?”

The fingers grip tighter, nails biting into his uniform, before easing up. “Are your grades good?” the person asks.

“They're alright,” Mob says, pulling himself forward and breaking the person’s hold on him. “I'm not really concerned about them.”

The person hums as Mob moves to leave, tilting their head backward in an exaggerated motion and pulling their hand up to their chin. “Is it...an issue with love?”

Mob stops in his tracks, throwing a dark look over his shoulder.

“Aha!” the person exclaims. “It seems I've got it!”

“How did you know about that?” Mob asks.

The person in the mask stares at him, the silence growing tenser as the moments pass. “If you are troubled come with me,” they finally say, “I know someone who can help you.”

Mob hesitates. “I have to go home…”

“You'll become popular,” the person says.

Mob thinks of all his training, all that work that went into strengthening his body in order to stop relying on his quirk. He had wanted to find something charming about himself, desperately searching for solutions for problems like love and popularity.

And he had failed.

“Alright,” Mob says. “Let’s go.”

.-.-.

The person takes him to a group of dilapidated apartments little ways away from the park, a poor area that was never truly repaired after a major villain attack a few months back. They stop in front of one that’s not as quite as destroyed as the others, though through a broken windows Mob can see the chaotic toss up of objects and the cracks in its structure.

“I know it doesn’t look like much,” the person says, opening the door before glancing over their shoulder at Mob, “but this is the sacred meeting place of LOL.”

“LOL?” Mob asks, following them inside.

The person says something else, but Mob’s attention jumps to water droplets falling from the ceiling. It hasn’t rained in days as far a Mob knows, so there must be a pool of water on one of the upper levels. He makes a mental note to keep an eye out for mold.

“...And just remember,” the person says, their hand on Mob’s arm snapping him back into the conversation. “LOL is in no way, shape, or form a suspicious cult.”

The person pulls him into a now open elevator. They quickly hit a button, and the doors shut slowly, like a trap triggered in a tomb, sealing away Mob’s last hope of escape.

The elevator is rickety, moving slowly down towards the basement with jolts and groans. Mob tilts his head up and is greeted with a flickering fluorescent light. The sound of machinery grinding is the only sound that fills up the small elevator, it’s occupants both silent and unreadable.

After a few minutes of descent, the elevator creaks to a stop and the doors slide open with a small, barely heard ding. Light floods inside the elevator and Mob has to squint to be able to face it directly. A mass amount of blurry shapes fill the room, all chattering amicably amongst each other.

It takes a second for Mob’s eyes to adjust and realize that they’re all just people, hundreds of them, crammed from wall to wall in the basement. Every one of them bears a smiling mask, hiding their faces from view, and clothes that are in slight disrepair. Whether is filthy shoes, holes in clothing patched together in mismatched fabric, or shirts that look far too big, they all jointly carry some symbol of poverty. Mob wonders to himself if they live around here.

He turns back to ask his guide but finds that they have disappeared.

“Oh!! A boy without a smile mask!” someone shouts.

“A newcomer!” another chimes in.

“We should get him to the stage!!” a third voice says, and a chorus of other voices make noises of agreement.

Mob barely has time to blink before he’s being hoisted into the air by complete strangers. “No,” he says, too quiet to be heard over the jovial crowd. “Please, don’t touch me.”

His request goes unnoticed, as he is flung from person to person in a humanized game of hot potato. With the rise in his discomfort, despite how desperately he attempts to smother his emotions, his counter ticks up.

Eighty percent.

Mob feet finally hit solid wood and he spins around so fast he almost trips, wobbling in place. He looks out over the crowd, but the glaring stage lights are so bright that he can’t see anything past them. Including the elevator, he notes with a level of agitation.

“Mob-kun?” a voice asks, sounding surprised.

He turns, meeting eyes with a girl dressed up in a Salt Middle School uniform. The light blue tint of her skin clashes against the bright red velvet of the curtains, almost washing her out. She stands, back rigidly straight, her posture so taut it almost looks like it hurts. Her finger twitches over the button on the camera hanging around her neck.

She squints at him, as if in disbelief. “Why are you here?” she asks.

Ahh, she’s from my class, Mob thinks as he struggles for a name, unable to pull one out of his brain despite the semblance of familiarity he has with her. He remembers her quirk has something to do with her eyes...maybe?

“Oh,” he says, a polite but unsteady smile forming on his face as he glances from her back out to the crowd. “Someone brought me here, but I’d li-”

Mob is interrupted by the sudden screeching of the crowd. “LORD DIMPLE!!” comes the harmonious cry, followed by applause and whistling.

Mob looks past the girl to where another figure is shuffling out from behind the curtains. He too bears a smiling mask, hiding whatever true expression he has underneath of it. However, whereas the rest of the group dressed in worn down clothes, this man wears an extremely fancy suit. It looks as uncomfortable as it does expensive, and Mob would probably feel bad for the man if he didn’t look so confident in it.

The man steps with clumping steps to the front of the stage and waves a hand above his head.

The cheering audience abruptly goes silent.

“Welcome everyone!!” comes a booming voice from behind the man’s smile mask. “I, Lord Dimple, have arrived to share a wealth of happiness with you all! But first…”

Dimple produces a large bucket, seemingly out of nowhere, and drops it into the hands of a person below him. The person scrambles to pull something out of their pocket and drop it inside. Coins, Mob hazards a guess at the sound of the metallic clink that comes when they hit the bottom. The bucket is passed to the next person and the process is repeated.

“We must give to the church!” Dimple says. “The wealth of the church is the wealth of us all!!”

A man with horns to Mob’s right, also without a smiling mask, scoffs. “So I was right,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the clanking of coins. “This is just all one big scam.”

There's a pause before Dimple’s head slowly tilts, the eyes of the mask almost eerily giving the man a once over. “It appears,” he says, voice dripping in honey, “we have a skeptic.”

The crowd bursts into uproarious laughter, though Mob doesn’t think anyone said anything funny. It stretches on an ungodly amount of time, to the point where the sound of it grates against Mob’s ears like concrete. Can’t they just get to the point already? he thinks, glancing up to the sweating face of the man next to him.

“Stoooooop!!” Dimple shouts, and again, the laughter abruptly comes to a halt. Dimple turns again to look at the man. “My good sir,” he says. “You would not be here if you were entirely doubtful of this organization. Believe me, my power will bring good fortune into your life, a wealth of happiness.”

“You mean your quirk?” the horned man asks.

“No,” Dimple answers, his head tilting and covering all but the eyes of his mask into shadow. “My divine power. A power so powerful it just can’t be contained into the measly word, ‘quirk’! A gift, to me, from the Gods themselves! The power of-” he swoops a hand out towards the crowd- “laughter!!”

The crowd devolves into laughter. Mob feels like this is getting old.

“Now,” Dimple says, turning back to the audience. “Friends, family of the church, today we have three new members joining us! What a wonderful surprise! Today they shall smile and laugh, and their burdens will lessen! For we all know-” his voices drops here, sinking into something far more dangerous that goes right over Mob’s head- “those who don’t laugh will continue with an unhappy life...until death.”

This actually seems to startle a laugh out of the horned man. “Are you serious?” he asks, looking surprised that he’s even speaking. “If just laughter makes your life easier, then you all must not be suffering through any hardships.”

The room is silent after that, tense in a way that Mob can’t quite pick up on. Next to him, the girl from his class twitches, sweat beading down her forehead as her eyes sweep over the crowd. Her gaze lands where the elevator should be.

“Mezato-san?” Mob asks quietly, her name suddenly popping into his brain alongside his concern. “Are you alright?”

She jumps, glancing over at him and then back out towards the elevator. “I-”

“Who is this man?” Dimple asks.

“I found him sitting on a bench in the park,” a person says, raising their hand out of the crowd. “He was looking blankly up at the sky doing nothing.”

“Ahh,” Dimple says. “Ahh, ahh, ahhhh...A victim of the recession, how unlucky.”

The horned man jolts in the corner of Mob’s eye as if having been struck by something.

“However sir, you needn’t worry!” Dimple exclaims. He begins moving over to the three of them on stage, his steps graceful and light like a hunter stalking up to its prey. “We have just the cure here at LOL! You will smile again.”

Mob goes stumbling back down into the crowd.

It takes him a second to realize he’s been pushed, and another to register the hands now grasping at him. They pull him, tugging his arms and legs, fingers tapping his waist, brushing against his face, too much, too suddenly. Sweat pours out of him, hot and horribly uncomfortable.

The hands puppeteer him down to the floor, before disappearing completely.

Mob can still feel the imprints they left against his skin, unnaturally warm spots that feel wrong and foreign.

“Now!” Dimple says, now alone on the stage and standing on the edge. He swoops his arms out in a wide and flowy gesture, the eyes of the smiling mask piercing into Mob’s. “Let’s give our new members a taste of happiness, shall we?”

An object gets thrust over Mob’s face, obstructing his vision momentarily. He blinks, the world coming back slightly darker than it was before. He’s confused for a moment before coming to the conclusion that he’s seeing through a smile mask.

Something buzzes in the back of his head, faint but still there. The urge to please, to obey someone wholeheartedly and find joy in their happiness. However, because it’s so small and so oddly out of place, Mob’s subconscious swallows the feeling whole before he has time to ponder where it might have come from.

“Yes?” Dimple says, speech muffled but curiosity evident in his tone. “It appears you have something on your mind.”

“...Yes,” Mezato says slowly.

Mob turns the sound of her voice and finds her to his right, staring down at the camera she holds in her hands. She bites her lips, her shoulder so tense that they almost are touching her ears. And then, as if a switch has been flicked within, something steels over in her eyes. She straightens herself out, posture relaxing into something confident and authoritative that Mob can only dream of.

“I-” Mezato swallows- “This religious cult, LOL. You were only formed around month ago, weren’t you? And yet, you already have these many supporters? It’s just too suspicious.”

Dimple chuckles, “Oh my...You weren’t brought here by one of my followers, were you?”

At this, Mezato puffs herself up, going from confident to borderline aggressive. She brandishes her camera up like a weapon, holding it up for everyone to see. “I am Mezato! A future investigative reporter! I’ve heard some bad rumors about you, and I’m here to expose them to the public!”

“Bad rumors?”

“You’re brainwashing these people, perhaps with the assistance of a quirk,” Mezato says, unwavering in her accusation.

Dimple huffs, standing up straighter and gripping his hands together behind his back. He radiates confidence to the point where even Mob knows whatever expression is lying under Dimple’s mask is smug.

“I am not a fraud,” Dimple says, no ounce of uncertainty in his voice. “I shall prove it.” He lifts up a hand and gestures over towards the crowd.

Mob catches the sight the horned man from earlier, who has apparently also had a smiling mask shoved onto him. The man reaches up, pulling the mask slightly off of his face to reveal an unsettling smile. His eyes scrunch up as he begins to laugh hysterically, his shoulders bouncing from the force of it. The joy is unprompted, the unnaturalness of throwing Mob off.

“Hun, this is weird…” the horned man says, his fingertips coming up to brush against his lips as if they were a novelty. “I’m not happy, but I’m still smiling…”

People surrounding the man burst into laughter as well, sharing congratulations and telling him how wonderful he looks. The bucket Dimple had handed out before, now filled almost to the brim with loose yen, is thrust in front of the man.

“Give thanks!!” someone shouts, and the rest burst into an enthusiastic agreement.

The man, still laughing, starts feverishly rooting through his pockets. He pulls out a wallet on the third one he checks, jerkily opening it and dumping its contents into the bucket.

“Do you believe us now?” Dimple asks. His voice reminds Mob of his mother’s when she’s asking him a question she already knows the answer to. A scolding tone that screams, there’s a right way to answer this.

Mezato hesitates for the first time since she started talking, her camera shaking in her hand. “It appears...I’ve overstepped my boundaries,” she says, taking a small step backward. “You really do seem to be laughing to feel better. I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble.” Another step back. “I’ll be going now.”

“You think you can come in here, disrespect our happiness, and leave?” Dimple asks, venomous. “You can not just escape the consequences of your actions. You don’t even need to apologize, just show to us that you mean it.”

Mezato squeaks as hands latch onto her arms, keeping her from moving back towards the elevator. “I’m really sorry!” she says, pitch fluctuating with her nerves. “I won’t report anything about this, but I’d really like to leave now.”

The crowd is honing in on Mezato now, surrounding her like a group of ravenous predators after a week with no prey.

Mezato struggles, panic overcoming her features. “Please! I just want to go home!”

“No,” Dimple says. “Not until you laugh.”

“Excuse me.”

Eighty-five percent.

Everything in the room stops suddenly, like a movie put on pause during its climax. All heads slowly turn over to Mob, who has raised his hand in interruption.

“She doesn’t want to laugh,” Mob says bluntly. “You should let her go home, she’s scared.”

“Oh??” Dimple says, tilting his head this way and that as he inspects Mob. “Who is this?”

“I found him at the park looking troubled!” a voice Mob recognizes as the person who brought him here cries out from the middle of the crowd. “He was having trouble with love!”

“Not really,” Mob says, lifting up a hand to pull the smile mask off his face. His expression remains neutral, but agitation lines his posture. “Not enough trouble to stay here.”

The mask hits the floor with a small clatter which seems to break the spell on the room. Hushed, surprised murmurs break out amongst the crowd. Words like “no smile” and “no laugh” are thrown around like curses.

Dimple tenses. “Y-young lad!” he stammers as Mob walks over to Mezato and grabs her arm, guiding her towards the elevator. “If you can’t laugh, how do you hope to live a fulfilling life?! This is your chance to take a hold of your life and change it for the better! Laugh and just let me help you!”

Mob pauses in his walk, throwing a blank look over his shoulder. “I’m not going to laugh,” he says, voice cold enough to send a shock through the room.

Dimple jolts, and looks around at the crowd frantically. The air has gone from manically jovial to anxious confusion in a second. “Why are we here?” a person asks, and is met with nothing but unsure answers. “I don’t know why, but that boy made me not want to laugh,” another says.

Dimple strains, flexing out his hands and waving them over the crowd, which immediately bursts into laughter. “We’re here because we’re happy! That’s right!”

“Followers!” Dimple shouts. He gives a strained chuckle like he’s somehow out of breath despite not moving. “Please take a look! These children, they can not find our treasure trove of happiness on their own! We can not just leave them like this! They’re miserable! Only we can help them! Everyone, combine your strength and restrain them! I shall unleash their laughter!”

Arms start wrapping around Mob’s clinging onto him and weighing him down. Mezato is ripped from his grip, and he can see the same tangle of limbs attaching themselves to her as well. She looks absolutely terrified but still puts on a valiant struggle all the same. Something inside him stirs around furiously as he notices the sheen of tears in her eyes.

“Hold on a second,” Mob says, barely heard over the amicable chattering of the crowd. “Let us go.”

Dimple jumps down into the crowd, moving towards them with rapid steps. The audience parts for him, almost stumbling to get out of his way. He raises a hand towards Mob’s face, “Behold my divine power.”

The hand covers his face and Mob can almost feel his emotions spilling over, the invisible counter ticking up rapidly. Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety, ninety.

“Why are you resisting so hard?” Dimple asks. “You have no enemies here, who are you fighting? We all just want you to find your happiness. Go with the flow.”

Energy suddenly surrounds Mob, the same urge to please and obey as before only with slightly more intensity than before. The emotional vacuum inside of him consumes it, converting the energy into something new and far more dangerous.

Others around him seem affected though, everyone laughing and wheezing around him like they had just seen the funniest thing. He can even hear Mezato’s laughter ringing out next to him, familiar only in its rarity, as he had only heard her laugh once after a boy in class tripped and ripped a clean hole in the back of his pants.

Mob attempts desperately to figure out what he’s missing, what he’s overlooking that somehow everyone else has noticed.

Mob flashes back to elementary school, to the jeers made about emotionless Mob, to the jokes he could just never understand. “Jeez Mob,” a younger Tsubomi says in his head, “can’t you read the atmosphere already?”

Ninety-four.

The hand on Mob’s face snaps back as if had been electrocuted. “What was that?” Dimple whispers, voice a mixture of furious and awed. He stares down at his hand before glancing back up to Mob’s unsmiling face. “What was that?”

The crowd seems untroubled by their leader’s agitation, simply finding it to be something else to laugh at. “Master Dimple seems upset!” one voice notes among a chorus of amusement.

Hands land on Mob’s face pulling his cheeks this way and that. “Are you dead?!” he shouts, showing no hesitation to invade Mob’s personal space. “Laugh already! Laugh, you brat!”

Oh, Mob thinks, this person is using a quirk.

Ninety-six.

“Look,” Mob says, and the all the hands retreat from him at once. “I cannot laugh to please you, I am just unable to. If even you can’t make me laugh with your power, I don’t think anyone can. I just really suck at going with the flow.”

Ninety-eight.

“I don’t want to stop your fun, so please let me and Mezato-san go now.”

Dimple scoffs. “So you don’t have emotions, do you?” he says, leaning over towards Mob. His smiling mask glints in the light, reflecting Mob’s face in its pupils. “No wonder you’re having trouble with love, you can’t even laugh with the girl you like. Human beings respond to the emotions of others, but you simply cannot. You can’t cry or be moved with others. You’ll simply be alone forever.

This is your last chance to escape that. Laugh,” Dimple orders.

A feeling hot and sharp fills Mob to the brim, overwhelming him in its entirety. He can feel the blood pumping through his veins, thicker somehow as it rushes towards his head at an alarming pace. His palms are sweaty and he clutches them into fists by his sides. He looks up at Dimple through his bangs.

“Use your quirk,” he says, “and make me.”

The crowd stops laughing.

“Mob-kun,” Mezato says.

Mob’s unsure of what kind of expression he’s wearing when he turns to face her, but it must be something unpleasant as she jolts the second their eyes meet. He can almost bring himself to feel guilty about it, but the feeling is quickly drowned out by the bitter fires burning in his brain.

“You…” Dimple says, dragging Mob’s attention back to him. He clutches his head in his hand, and Mob can see veins popping out of it in rage. “I see...your quirk, it’s similar to mine. I tried to start a peaceful religion in order to make money, one without any bloodshed. But brat...you’re just a nuisance.

“In order for me to reach my goals, I must eliminate all nuisances.”

The atmosphere of the room shifts suddenly, the weight of the air pressing down on all the occupants. The crowd shocks to attention, even Mezato seems affected by whatever has spread through the group. Then everyone lurches at Mob, their bodies moving like cheap puppets. They pile on top of him, a mass of bodies pinning him against the floor.

A burst of energy exits Mob, leaving enormous cracks on the floor and lifting all the followers into the air as though they defied gravity. Mob pushes himself up to his feet, slow and deliberate. His hair tosses back and forth as if blown by some kind of invisible wind.

One hundred percent.

Anger.

“I see,” Mob says, lifting up a hand to examine it with almost no interest in the energy pulsating around it. “So the man was right then? This is all just a huge scam? That’s pathetic.”

Dimple stands across from him, his mask ripped off of his face and floating in the air above him. Dimple had hidden the face of a plain man underneath of it, average and ordinary in every way. His lips curled into a furious snarl, with big fat droplets of sweat rolling down his cheeks.

“So you have this type of quirk...No wonder the mask didn’t work on you.”

“Mask?” Mob asks, eyes snapping to Dimple. “So that was part of your trick.”

“Yes,” Dimple says, an unsteady smirk forming on his face. “They’re embedded with my energy, allowing my brainwashing signals to influence whoever's wearing them more directly.”

“It was so weak, I barely even felt it,” Mob says. Dimple bristles in response, opening his mouth, but Mob waves a hand to silence him. “Anyway,” he says, “all your followers are pinned to the ceiling now, you have no control over them. And if killing a member of your group is part of your teachings, then I’m going to have to call the police.”

Dimple stares at Mob, left eye twitching.

“Sorry,” Mob tacks on after a moment of silence.

Dimple laughs so hard that he guffaws. “Call the cops?” he asks incredulously. “What are you five?” He reaches into one of his suit pockets, pulling out a small knife which he twisted in the light. His expression is exaggerated by the shadows underneath his eyes. “I’m going to kill you, you little shit.”

Mob’s frown deepens, his eyes don’t leave the knife. “I’m not going to fight you,” he says.

“Do you think you have a choice?” Dimple asks. And then he lunges.

Mob, caught off guard by the sudden turn of events, allows Dimple one clean hit. A shallow swipe against his cheek forming a cut that barely even bleeds.

Mob lifts up his hand on reflex and a burst of psychic energy that comes from it sends Dimple flying across the room.

A bitter satisfaction fills Mob, the livid parts of him absolutely eager to have landed a hit. However, Dimple takes longer than he should getting up, and when he does something in Mob’s gut twists with the scrapes on his face and arms.

“Come on now,” Dimple says, and the sound of smugness in his tone chases away any guilt Mob might have felt. “Don't act like some kind of pissed off human, you emotionless animal!”

Dimple comes charging again.

The seconds it takes Dimple to close the distance between them feels like an eternity to Mob. He thinks of coins dropping into a bucket, thinks of fancy suits and torn clothes, thinks of Mezato’s panicked face.

He thinks of Tsubomi.

The knife comes towards his face again, but this time Mob’s hand snaps up and catches Dimple’s wrist.

Mob uses psychic energy to push Dimple’s feet out from under him, letting go of his fist and allowing him to fall on his back to the floor.

He stomps Dimple’s wrist, hard enough to force him to drop the knife. Before it can even hit the floor, however, it goes flying and embeds itself in the wall furthest away from them.

“Y...You…” Dimple wheezes, expression stricken.

“You're the one who requested to see my emotions,” Mob tells him, removing his foot. “This is what happens when I let them loose.”

Dimple flips over and scrambles to get away, but Mob slams him towards the ground with his mind before he can get more than a couple inches.

“You can't just escape the consequences of your actions,” Mob says, voice dull with rage.

Dimple throws a panicky look up at him. “You're a monster,” he says.

“I know,” Mob replies, lifting up a foot. “I'm the worst.”

He lands a kick to Dimple’s jaw in just the spot his master taught him. Dimple slumps onto the ground, now thoroughly unconscious.

Mob feels a hollow victory at the sight of a bruise forming on the Dimple’s chin, the angry feelings inside of him, appeased, dissipate as though they were never there in the first place. He ponders the emptiness they leave behind.

From the ceiling, confused shouts and squealing erupts, snapping Mob out of his thoughts. He tilts his head back and is and is met with an extremely frightened crowd of people, hovering in the air.

“Oh,” he says.

.-.-.

It takes five knocks before his master finally cracks open the door. His pajamas are rumpled, his blond hair sticking up in odd directions. He blinks a few times at Mob, appearing to take in his disheveled appearance in stages. His eyes linger against Mob’s cheek. He opens the door the rest of the way.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite apprentice sidekick,” he tells Mob.

“I’m your only sidekick,” Mob says.

“That’s what makes you my favorite,” he says, waving a hand around before disappearing back into the apartment.

Mob lingers at the door. He went to find his master because it seemed like the best option at the time, texting his mother a lame excuse of studying late at a non-existent friend’s house to explain his absence, but he’s suddenly unsure of himself. He shouldn’t be bothering his master this late, should he?

He should just go home.

“Make sure you shut the door behind you Mob!” his master calls from the kitchen.

The request pulls Mob into the apartment before he can think any more about it, shutting the door behind him. He pauses and then snaps the top lock on for good measure.

In the next few minutes, Mob finds himself sitting on a ratty, old chair that he had helped his master move into the apartment. “This is a training of your precision!” he had told Mob at the time, attempting to assemble the TV stand as Mob levitated the chair onto the fourth story balcony.

He snaps out of his reminiscing at a glass being pushed into his hands.

“What’s this?” Mob asks.

“Warm milk,” his master says, taking the seat across from him. “You looked like you needed it.”

Mob doesn’t want to acknowledge that, so he doesn’t, instead taking a tiny sip of the milk.

“What’s that?” Mob asks after a moment of pause, gesturing to an open book on the coffee table.

“A treatise about the effects of the displacement of civilians caused by the destruction that heroics causes,” his master answers without a beat of hesitation, his eyes locked onto Mob. “So...what brings you here?”

“You weren’t at your office.”

His master scoffs, his hand swinging back and forth as though to brush off the statement. “Not this late at night, no.” He stares at Mob, visible concern lining his features. “Do you even know what time it is?”

Mob shakes his head. He had hightailed it out of the building the second he could, not wanting to stick around for the aftermath, and found that the world had shifted from dusk to darkness in the time that he had been stuck in the building.

His master sighs, tilting his head back and rubbing his eyes. “Alright,” he says. “Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning.”

Mob stares down at his cup, taking a few seconds to figure out the best way to recount the evening's events in the least boring way he could.

“I confessed to Tsubomi today,” he says finally because it feels like a good place to start.

He instantly regrets the decision though, as his master perks up in interest. “Oh! Did you? Good job Mob! See, I told you that you could do it! You really have gr-”

“She rejected my feelings.”

His master stops short, his mouth still forming the syllable that his vocal chords hadn’t gotten the chance to release. He deflates, his shoulders picking up tension that had disappeared a second ago. “Oh...Oh, Mob, I’m sorry.”

Mob nods, not understanding the apology but accepting it anyway. “Then a new religious leader tried to brainwash my classmate and kill me, so I stopped him.”

His master just stares.

Mob starts to sweat, glancing up at his master and then back down at his cup. “I didn’t mean to use my quirk on him master, promise. I was scared he was going to hurt Mezato-san and it made me angry. And I was going to call the police like you told me, but he didn’t let me. I’m sorry.”

“Mob,” his master says, and Mob’s head snaps up at the hand that brushes against his. His master is closer now, out of his chair without Mob noticing. He makes a face like he just swallowed something slimy. “Did you get hurt?”

“Just my cheek.”

His master nods. “Alright.” He looks at the cut, his hand leaving Mob’s and brushing against his cheek. “It doesn’t look too deep, but make sure to keep an eye on it and disinfect it when you get home.”

Mob nods and his master leans back, heaving a sigh.

“Alright,” he says again, bringing a hand up to his chin and striking a thoughtful pose. He glances down at Mob, over to the book on the coffee table, and back at Mob. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” his master says and pauses, opens his mouth and closes it again.

It’s rare that his master can’t find the right words to say, but it’s all too common for Mob, and so Mob waits politely.

“I don’t think I have anything else I can teach you,” his master finally settles on.

“What?” Mob asks.

“You’ve been training with me to get a handle on your quirk for a long time now, and with my help and the task of helping others, you’ve gotten a lot more proficient at it. That progress is something to be proud of. However!” his master points a finger in Mob’s face. “My quirk, while powerful, is not suited to combat in the way that yours is.”

“What is your quirk anyway master?” Mob asks suddenly. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me what it’s called.”

His master twirls his finger around before pointing up to the ceiling. “Th-That’s not important right now! What is important, right now, is your quirk. With it, you’re far more likely to wind up making difficult choices in the face of dangerous situations because of its combative power. I’ve taught you some basic self-defense techniques, but,” he glances at Mob’s cheek, “I think you might need more guidance than that, from heroes who specialize in fighting to protect civilians and not just themselves. Mob! Have you filled out your academic aspersions yet?”

Mob shakes his head.

“Then, in order to become a great hero, like All Might or like me, Reigen Arataka; I believe you should enter into the greatest heroics academy in Japan! You’ve strengthened your body, now comes the time to strengthen your heart! You should take the UA entrance exam!”

“But master,” Mob says, “I don’t want to be a hero.”

Reigen stumbles forward, as though the lost momentum in his speech had a physical effect. “What?”

“I don’t want to be a hero,” Mob repeats. “I’m only your sidekick to get better control over my quirk.”

“Mob,” Reigen says. “Today, when you fought against a villainous religious leader, were you fighting for just yourself?”

“Well, no,” Mob says. “I didn’t want him to hurt anyone else.”

“And all those people you’ve helped at my agency, think about them. Would you not have wanted to help them if there was some other way to practice control over your quirk?”

Mob thinks for a long moment. “No, they still needed my help.”

Reigen leans down, putting both of his hands on Mob’s shoulders. “Mob,” he says, “You’re already a hero. Entering into a high school for heroics will just make you a better one, an official one.”

Mob stares blankly at him.

Reigen sighs and stands up. “Just think about it, would you?” he says. Then he pats Mob’s back, flashing a small smile at him. “Now, let’s get you home. You look terrible.”

.-.-.

Mob stares at the sheet of paper, the line getting shorter and shorter as more kids hand in their aspersions papers.

Before he knows it, Mob’s at the front of the line, pushing his paper into the hands of his teacher.

“UA?” his teacher asks, staring down at him with an eyebrow raised. “That’s a hard academy to get into Mob, are you sure you don’t want to add a backup choice?”

“I’m sure,” Mob says, “but thank you for your concern.”

Mob leaves the classroom that day feeling lighter than he has in a long while.

Two percent.

[total-lost-boys-simp]

SCREAM QUEEN Book 1: Conventional Final Girl

Stu Macher x reader x Billy Loomis

Okay so basically let’s just cut to the chase, the main character “(y/n)” is Sidney Prescott’s little step sister, yeah? Well what happens when she takes Sid’s place as the final girl? A whole lot.

Disclaimer: this follows the movie very closely with little change other than the reader insert portions, so like I’m not trying to be like “Oh yeah this is all me” bc it’s not (RIP Wes Craven 😔🙏🏻🕊⚰️)

—————

Epilogue

—————

Previous Chapter / Master List

  It's been what, about a year? I still have these bone chilling dreams about the boys. One minute we'll  be close watching a movie like Friday the 13th, Pieces, Maniac, or even Sleepaway Camp. The next I'll hear the phone ring. Quickly I'll say, "I'll get it," and move myself off the couch leaving a space between the boys. The person on the line will say, "Hello (y/n), it's been a while," instantly I could recognize it as Ghostface. Looking back at the couch the boys would be gone, no trace of them ever there. "Who is this?" I'll ask, even though I know the answer all too well. I'd hear a laugh on the other line before being yanked back into someone's arms. Looking at who it is I'll be filled with dread just seeing the masked killer as they raise the knife over their head. Suddenly I'm being pulled away by a blood covered Billy saying, "We have to get help!" When I look back for the murderer we stop at a door...

   Looking forward I'll see ghostface yet again but this time he's taking off the mask to reveal himself as Billy looking in my direction with that crazed Kubrick Stare. "We all go a little mad sometimes," he says before raising a gun that barely misses me. That's when I realize it's not me he's aiming for. The person he does shoot changes every time, for instance, it could be; Sidney, Tatum, Casey, Steve, or even Principal Himbry... but they say the same thing each time, "Save me (y/n)," before they bleed out on the floor. Next thing I knew both Billy and Stu come charging at me, tossing me to the ground. They'll hold me down as they run the Buck 120 all along my body. They shout nonsensical things in my face. And when one of them raises the knife above their head and plunge it into my body, everything just goes white.

"Hey, earth to (y/n)?" I hear Randy call me from the counter.

"Hm? What's up?" I asked, snapping my head in his direction leaving my thoughts behind.

"You've been staring at the shelf for almost fifteen minutes," He complains

"Guess there's just too good of a selection?" I said with a false smile and a shrug.

"Yeah sure, just up and pick a movie already," Randy said, rolling his eyes.

"Jeez did anyone ever tell you that patience is a virtue?" I laughed out as I snatch up a copy of Amityville Horror.

"Still staying away from slasher?" Randy asks, a sympathetic look in his eyes.

"Yeah, they just remind me too much of that night..." I said, look down and scratching my arm.

"Anyways...What are you and your dad gonna do tonight?" He asked, trying to change the subject.

"Hmm? Oh Neil just wanted to stay in and watch some movies, maybe order some pizza?"

"He adopted you over half a year ago, start calling him Dad for once!" Randy said, cackling at his own words.

"Yeah yeah whatever, see ya later!" I shouted as I left the store.

So much has happened since October of last year. The day after 'That Night' Neil told me he didn't want me or my mom to ever be scared again...so he married my mom and adopted me. None of us see it as replacing Sid, my father, or even Sid's mom, if anything we see it as a better way to remember them and keep them close to our hearts. The town held a mass memorial for all of the victims. The individual funerals were hell. I just wanted to say goodbye to my friends but there were reporters and news vans at every turn.

   It's never been the same after I, not only lost Tatum and Sindey but also... Stu and Billy. I get it, I shouldn't have anywhere near a soft spot for those two but I do. I don't excuse anything they did because it tore apart almost everything that made me happy in the world. That doesn't mean I don't see why they did it. Billy was hurt and driven mentally insane once his mother abandoned him due to the affair. And Stu, oh god I can't imagine what Billy did to force him to participate in the killing spree with him. Does that excuse their actions? No. Do I still miss the boys they used to be? Absolutely yes.

  I like to think that had they not run away on 'That Night' they would've been sentenced but also would've been able to get the psychiatric help they really needed.

"Neil, I'm home!" I shouted as I opened the door. No response.

Mom was out on a business trip so I already knew she wouldn't be home.

"Neil?" I called out again, suspicion rising in my voice. No response again.

"Are you here?" I asked, looking around the living room, the kitchen, upstairs in his room, Sid's room, my room, every room in the house.

"Neil?!" I called out again this time with frantic breathing and hot tears itching at my skin.

"Oh woah, woah, kiddo it's okay!" Neil came from around the corner running to me.

"I thought- I thought you were gone! That they took you! Where were you?!" I asked, clinging to his sleeves and he pulled me into a hug.

"Shh shh, I was in the garage working on the car Kiddo," He said as he rocked me back and forth.

"I already lost Sid and Tatum... I don't want to lose you too, Dad," I said as I thought back to how I found Sid and Tatum at Stu's house.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm okay, we're okay," He softly said, trying to calm me down.

"Ya know what, you got a letter on the counter, looks like it might be from a family member, go take a look," Neil said as he ruffled my hair.

  Going downstairs I look on the kitchen counter, sure enough there's an envelope with neat and somewhat familiar handwriting. Huh no return address, I thought to myself. I'm careful not to rip the paper as I open the envelope. As I looked inside I saw a few polaroids and a folded paper inside. Taking the polaroids out ran my blood cold. One of them was a picture Mrs. Riley took of Sid, Tatum, and I from our final sleepover. The next was of our group at the fountain, all of us, but Sid and Tatum's faces were crossed out and small Ghostface stickers were placed over Billy and Stu's. The last two were pictures of me, Stu, and Billy on Stu's couch at one of our movie nights. Placing the pictures down I look at the paper... on the folded front said; To: (y/n), from: Yours Truly. The letter itself said;

Dear (y/n),

  It's been a while. We've really missed you. How's your mom, oh and Neil? We just wanted to check in and let you know we're doing fine after you killed us. Or well, almost killed us. You're wondering how we're still alive, Right?

  Well for starters, that knife? It was a retractable prop, a bit of a let down since you didn't actually get to stab Stu, right? Then that gun, we switched out Dwight's bullets for blanks while you ran to his car. Really explains how Randy lived. You most likely knew that already. Also when you kick someone against a coffee table, you should really check their pulse next time.

  We hope you haven't gotten too comfortable thinking we're gone for good because trust us baby, we're not.

P.S. you should pick up the phone.

Sincerely,

Yours Truly

  Just as I finished reading the letter I heard a ringing from the telephone in the lounge area where Sidney got the call the night we were attacked. Cautiously I walked over to it, fear in my chest making my heart race and my palms sweat. "Hello?" I asked, swallowing nothing out of pure nervousness.

"Hello, (y/n), miss me?" Asked an all too familiar raspy off pitched voice.

"Oh shit."