#SPECIFICALLY THE ONE WHERE HE WAS SPRAWLED ON THE FLOOR IN THE DISTANCE

[https-mika]

mr reca is my BIGGEST hmo. bro's cutscenes did something to me

can i offer y'all a badly edited meme while we wait for the server update?

[boots-with-the-fur-club]

The lore continues!!

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@phoebepheebsphibs

@littlemissartemisia

@daboyau

@foxolotlfreak

Karai and Mikey follow close behind April as she leads them to where she believes Leo is.

Mikey starts feeling nauseous at the fact that it’s so close to where he went missing.

“He’s been right here the whole time…..maybe if we had looked harder….I should have talked to my Gram-Gram! I wasted time!”

“You can open portals to your world? Why haven’t you done that already?” Karai questions.

Mikey looks down at the light coloring cracked across his arms. He knows fully well why he couldn’t do that specifically. He also knows that this Karai doesn’t realize he doesn’t mean that.

“It….it could kill me. Again.”

Karai’s brows furrow heavily.

“Excuse me?”

Mikey glances away awkwardly.

“L-Let’s just ignore that, for now. I’ll get the door open.”

“Just be careful, that hand could be anywhere.” April warns.

Mikey nods, summoning his chains as a precaution. He takes several steps towards the door April assures is the right one.

That’s when everyone notices the hand skittering across the floor nearby.

Mikey’s chain shoots out immediately and wraps tightly around it. He brings it over, allowing it to dangle in the air like meat on a hook. His eyes widen he sees that it’s holding something other than spores.

“That’s……Leo’s. You took his fidget toy. It….it was in his fanny pack. You’re the one who took the mushrooms. You made Leo think it was his fault.”

Karai senses the change in the air.

“Mikey! As much as you want your revenge, you must keep yourself from giving it what it wants.”

Mikey tightens his chains even further around the hand, eyes beginning to fill with orange light.

“What it wants? What about what we want? W-We could have had a fun time meeting other people, we could have finally relaxed for a little while! But we had to keep the spores alive and with us! Then this thing stole them and my brother! I-It’s not fair! What did we ever do to deserve this!?” He starts tearing up.

“You don’t deserve this! It’s not your fault, it’s that thing’s!” April insists.

Mikey’s chains start pulling on different parts of the hand.

“Then I’ll make sure it can never hurt us ever again!”

Although Karai and April are both all for this, something seems wrong. The hand always has too many tricks up its nonexistent sleeve.

That’s when April hears a click and release noise.

“Mikey! It’s a trap!”

Mikey snaps his attention to her and Karai before shoving them away with more chains. The two of them only have time to yell before spores explode in front of the door.

The distance and chains protect them, but Mikey is caught right in the majority of the blast.

He nearly coughs up a lung from how much he breathes in. Despite how bad this is he knows he needs to get to Leo. Keeping the chains around the hand, he tries to make his way to the door.

When his hands touch something solid he musters up all his strength and smashes his way through. This causes the spores that were trapped in the room to come out as well.

Mikey powers through anyways.

“Leo! Leo! Can you hear me!? I’m here!”

He soon finally sees a figure in the middle of all the thick particles in the air and rushes forward. Leo is there, laying on the ground.

He is not breathing.

Mikey takes his own deep breath.

“Y-You are alive, th-this is just th-the fear spores. I-I’ll get you out now, o-okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before picking up his brother.

He carefully makes his way back outside and to where Karai and April should be. Mikey knows they’re probably safe, but doubt creeps up into his mind when he sees them both sprawled out on the floor.

More tears come to his eyes.

“J-Just remember this isn’t real. Y-You’re seeing things. I-It’ll pass. G-Gram-Gram? April? Can you tell me everyone is okay?”

No answer.

Mikey can’t help but stare hard at the alternative Gram-Gram. She was just as nice and gentle and full of wisdom as his Gram-Gram. It stung a little bit that she couldn’t be alive in his universe too.

“P-Please just tell me that you’re okay. Th-That Leo isn’t…..that we saved Leo….”

Still no answer.

The body in front of him is tearing him apart inside. Karai is dead, not fully gone, but dead. Their lack of training killed her. They brought her out from the Twilight Realm and killed her. They released Shredder and killed her.

Did he….get this one killed too?

He shakes his head violently.

No! Stop being stupid already! You know this is fake! You can’t trust anything right now! Fight it!

“Leonardo has made his sacrifice like Hamato before him.”

Mikey shakily, slowly turns his head to the side.

Gram-Gram.

His Gram-Gram.

“No. She wouldn’t say that.” Mikey chokes out.

“I’m sorry, Michelangelo. He’s with us now. The other Karai and April are most likely with their world’s Hamato ancestors as well.”

“Stop it. Stop using her voice!”

“I wish I could tell you it isn’t true. I wish it had ended differently-“

Mikey punches her, breathing heavily.

He’s feeling the worst sense of déjà vu. He was losing it when he first got spored too. Back then he was scared and that made him force his family to confront everything.

He needs to calm down or else everything is going to fall apart again.

This isn’t him! He’s Dr. Positive! He cheers other people up and stops them from fighting!

Just breathe, breathe and move on.

“Mi….key….”

He quickly looks down.

“Leo! You are alive! Ohmigosh, I was so worried!”

“Too….late….”

“Wh-What?”

“R-Run…”

“No no no no, it’s not too late! I can help! I’ll fix you! Just like Donnie always does!”

Mikey holds Leo close and attempts to use his ninpo on him.

It’s not working.

At all.

“I-It….got Raph and Donnie too….s-save yourself, Mikey.”

Mikey stills.

“You’re lying. This isn’t real. G-Gram-Gram and April are going to snap me out of this.“

“I-It’s up to you, dad and April now. B-Be the coolest ninja you can be, Mikey.”

“Stop. Stop it. You….you freaky, creepy, dumb hand! You stupid spores! I’m not scared! I handled this! So stop already!”

Leo’s hand drops to his side and his eyes glaze over.

“I-I said….stop….” Mikey starts trembling.

Last time he was getting this way, he was just afraid of his brothers leaving.

Them dying is a whole other issue.

You can’t bring back someone from dying fully.

He doesn’t want to have to summon them.

They won’t be able to do all the things they said they’d do after they were fully healed up.

After this competition.

They lost, didn’t they?

So why are they even still here!?

Still suffering like this!?

If something brought them here then it should be responsible for fixing this! For bringing them home!

It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair…..

Not fair.

Not fair!

“NOT FAIR!” He screams.

His lungs further get agitated by everything in the air, causing his cough to return viciously. It gets so bad that he has to place Leo on the ground and cover his mouth with his hands.

When he moves them away, there’s glowing, orange ninpo on them.

It’s not normal, though.

It feels like sludge.

Is…..is he dying?

The spores can do that?

They….they really killed everyone….?

Mikey starts chuckling.

Mikey starts laughing.

Mikey laughs too hard.

He stands up.

If this is how he’s going to go, then he’s going to take everything with him.

The hand watches once again from afar.

This too, is increasingly entertaining.

Watching Karai and April see the entire made it the real cherry on top.

The turtles that came from the same universe as the spores thought the worst case scenario was seeing and living through their fears.

They were so wrong.

What is truly, truly the most terrifying is knowing that enough fear can turn you into something you’re not.

Two down, two to go.

[eatingstringcheese]

hanta shitposts - hanta sero

in which hanta is really silly

warnings: swearing, weed use

"Make me."

"That's tough talk for a fella within pegging distance-" a hysterical Y/n spoke from the other end of Hanta's phone.

"Y/n you're not even on the same floor as me-"

A few footsteps came from Y/n's end. "Open the door Hanta."

Oh shit-

~~~

"Y/n please!" Hanta whined. "Come on, say it!"

Y/n sighed. "Fine. Yes Hanta, you are my little pog champ."

~~~

Y/n pouted, kicking their legs as they swung from the chair. Their feet were a few inches off the ground.

"Hanta is too tall, how the hell am I supposed to kiss him?"

"Punch him, then when he doubles over kiss him." A spiky ash-blonde mumbled from the corner of the dorm kitchen.

"Tackle him." The bubblegum girl spoke in between bites of mochi.

The electirc blonde smirked. "Ahahaha, dump him, for me." Denki bit his lip and stuck out his pointer finger and thumb under his chin.

Sero's eyes widened as he choked on his orange slice. "Please don't do any of those, mi amor. Just ask me to kiss you."

~~~

Mina stared at Sero and Y/n with suspicion. "Why are both of your tongues purple? Tsk tsk tsk, mighty sus you guys." She grinned a the couple, who just laughed.

"Well, Yaomomo made a slushie machine Y/n had a red one and I had a blue one."

Denki listened from the other side of the room. "Oh, you drank each other's slushies? HEY WAIT WHERE'S THIS SLUSHIE MACHINE-"

~~~

"So..." Midnight looked at the students she was watching with Aizawa. "Specifically, how do Sero and Y/n get out of these messes?" She gazed out at the two, both of them tangled up in Sero's tape, bot struggling to get out of their situation.

Aizawa sighed. "Usually by creating a bigger mess that cancels out the first one."

~~~

Sero jumped into the dorm room, landing next to his joyfriend on the couch.

"Y/n! Quick math what's 18 + 51?"

"420!" Y/n grinned at their boyfriend.

"That's not even close-" a confused Tokoyami muttered from across the room.

Y/n grinned back at Tokoyami. "But it was quick."

~~~

Y/n and Hanta laid in Hanta's room, sprawled out on the bed with glazed eyes.

"Onion rings are vegetable donuts."

"Lasagna is spaghetti cake."

"Your stomach thinks all potatoes are mashed."

"Lobsters are scorpions to mermaids."

"Holy fuck, Y/n."

~~~

Hanta smiled, waving his hand at a curious Mina. "Y/n and I don't have pet names."

"What do bees make?"

"Honey?"

"Yea Hanta?" Y/n stuck their head around the corner of the wall. "Do you need something babe?"

Mina chuckled and glared at Sero. "Don't lie to my face again."

~~~

"Hanta! I don't want to go!" Y/n whined. "It'll be stressful and stress isn't good for the baby!"

Hanta stopped dead in his tracks. "Wait what baby?" He asked with fervor, eyes wide as he looked at his joyfriend.

Y/n put their hands on their chest. "Me! I'm the baby!"

lmk if u wanna be added to the taglist :) like n reblog if u enjoyed <3

[xhatake]

∗ 1oo﹕ sender  has  just  died ,  receiver  finds  out . / hey .... hey ..

This was a terribly sick joke. to be told through a letter, given to him by a nameless man behind a mask. It was difficult for Masaki to read the visceral words, sprawled down the letter he had been handed [ [ Kakashi Hatake was abducted by the Akatsuki. Unfortunately, he was killed before we were able to retrieve him. the whereabouts of his body are currently unknown. ]

There is a pressing helplessness that comes with the sinking realization that this was not, in fact, a prank. He's not sure when the man who brought him the letter leaves, nor how long he stands there with his eyes stuck on the terribly black ink. Each stroke emphasizes a specific string of words, a crushing reality that seems totally unreal. ' he was killed' Kakashi was killed. His brother, his twin, the single person in his life who had ever understood him, regardless of any imposed distance between them, Kakashi was the one person who was always supposed to be there.

Masaki had wondered, on many occasions, what would happen if he were to lose his brother. He had anticipated the rage, the fear, the sorrow... he thought it would be explosive, in every sense of the word. But the strange thing is... he feels empty. There is a well of feelings somewhere in his body, but they are transcendent of the capability of his understanding. Though Masaki was well-acquainted with grief, this was unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

Masaki had known about the Akatsuki being after Jinchuriki. He had been focused on protecting Naruto, on keeping him out of harm's way. So much faith had been wrapped up in Naruto that Masaki had always assumed his brother would survive. he had to, he always had up until this point. It seemed impossible that he was gone, just like that. His mind begins to race, raking through every funeral he had been to before, searching for some way to deal with the emptiness that was now beginning to burn. Every funeral he's been to, every grave he's ever lamented over.

The grave, the body. There would be no body & somehow this, is worse. He wondered where his brother is, if he was honored with a proper burial... or if he had been left out in the sun, to rot, a thousand miles from home. He crushes the letter in his scarred hand, the one that had begun to shake. He walks through the door of his home, slamming the door behind him.

Maybe he screams as he puts his fist through the wall, though he's not entirely sure. It's like he's observing the display of despair from outside of his body, far from the overwhelming emotions that make it difficult to breathe, to think. This was a false reality, it had to be. there was no world he could ever think to be alone in, it was never supposed to be in his cards. He kicks over a vase as he makes his way to the kitchen, digging in his cabinets. He throws many dishes on the floor as he searches desperately for one specific cup. It's a tiny, terrible, awful turtle cup that belongs... belonged, to Kakashi.

He holds it close to his chest as his knees finally give out. There would be no body, but he had this cup. he had this memory of his brother's scrunched-up nose beneath his mask when it was presented. he has this cup. Masaki knew this death could not go unanswered. The pit in his chest fills with righteous fury & he begins to pack supplies & weapons & the terrible turtle cup. Time passes strangely while his emotions run free, at last.

He ignores a knock on his door, a banging. It's Gai, he knows it's Gai, of course, Gai would be one of the first to know. But he can't bear to look anyone else in the eye, to betray the despair that was now dictating every racing thought. He's not sure what his friend says when he calls out to Masaki, but the voice is strangely grounding. he doesn't want to be grounded. he wants to feel this vengeful wrath that was beginning to take root in his lungs, threatening every breath. Masaki didn't want to be comforted, he wanted to get even. So instead, he calls out a terrible " Go away " & continues to pack. He will have Kakashi's body back if it's the last thing he does. He will have retribution.

[002yb]

Dick has an annoying quality about him where he always looks good.  Regardless of time or circumstance, Dick is handsome.  Fuck it being a matter of Jason being biased because he has a crush on the man–it’s the natural order of things; it’s divine law.  Dick is a monster among men.  A twisted combination that tempts and humbles.  Striking in a way that can take someone’s breath away and bring them to their knees.

Factor in Dick’s stupid confidence and irritatingly good personality and that awful sense of humor and the world just doesn’t stand a chance.

Jason, in particular, is fucked.

(Which is how he likes it, but that’s neither here nor there).

The point being, Dick is really attractive.  Always.  He’s handsome first thing in the morning with bedhead and pillow creases pressed into the skin of his cheek; he’s mesmerizing come the end of a rough night, bloodied and bruised and biting.  Lounge wear, workout clothes, casual jeans and shirts, that stupid pig suit of a police uniform, the Nightwing costume with those damned finger stripes.  It’s a wonder Jason is as productive as he is.  Dick and he probably only work like they do because Jason’s self-restraint is so damn impressive–because he can typically contain any ogling to quick double-takes.

Typically.

It’s a whole other matter when Dick is being indulgent.

“Alright, how do I look?” The man asks him, wandering out into his living room.  The leather soles of his dress shoes sound expensive against the floors of Dick’s apartment, which in itself doesn’t pique Jason’s interest so much as Dick’s follow up comment of: “Took your advice, but is it too much?”

Jason looks up from his book, propping himself up from where he’d been sprawled across Dick’s couch so that he can get a better view.  It was some months ago that Jason had commented on it–how he thought Dick would look nice in black.  Specifically black on black on black.  Dark, dark, yet darker.  It’s an attractive look to Jason on its own, so of course he hoped to indulge in seeing Dick dressed so dashingly.

He has to bite back the smile that pulls at his lips.  Handsome, he thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say it yet.  Instead, Jason tilts his head, giving Dick a slow once-over followed by another as Jason hmm’s and haa’s.

“Really?” Dick asks, humored because he can see right through Jason’s antics.  Jason isn’t fooling anyone, but that’s alright.  Jason smirks and twirls his finger.  It makes Dick roll his eyes, but he still turns in a circle, looking vaguely amused.

Jason nods, decisive. “Yep.” He motions to his own neck, a general gesture to indicate Dick’s collar when Jason says, “Button.”

Dick raises his hand to the topmost button of his dress shirt, brow raised at Jason in a way that conveys fondness and a general ‘really?’ vibe.  “It’s not a casual event–” Dick tells him.

“Button.” Jason insists.

Dick huffs a breath of laughter, but indulges Jason by undoing the top button.  Jason’s lips quirk slightly, easy and flirtatious when he drawls, “Hmm.  One more.”

Dick laughs in earnest this time, almost sheepish, “Jay, come on.”

“It’s too stuffy.  Just one more.” Jason says around a laugh of his own.

Another button gets undone.  Jason scrunches his nose.  Stands and closes the distance between them to brush imaginary lint off of Dick’s shoulder before he circles around Dick, himself.  Dick turns just slightly to keep eyes on him, following Jason’s path.  When Jason is in front of him again, Dick chuffs because he knows what’s happening.  It makes Jason smile as he reaches up, undoing a third button, himself.

“Don’t think this is appropriate, Jay.” Dick says, light and teasing.  There’s a brightness in his eyes though, mirthful and adoring. “I’m supposed to wear a tie.”

Jason snickers, a wide smile breaking across his face.  It undoubtedly brings attention to how his cheeks are flushed, but there’s nothing to be done for it.  Dick is handsome when he’s all dressed up, but he’s especially handsome when he’s a little more wild, a little more free.

“It’s appropriate for other things.” Jason says, finger hooked at the next button.  He lowers his gaze, taking in the show of Dick’s skin before Jason peeks back up at Dick, a playful smirk on his lips.

“Yeah?” Dick asks, taking Jason’s hand and lifting it to his lips.  The way Dick looks up at him draws a shiver up Jason’s spine.  There’s something wicked in Dick’s smile when he presses a kiss to Jason’s knuckles, when he drops his voice and asks, “What other things did you have in mind?”

Just like that, Jason is blushing.  Dick is too damn handsome.  He whines a bit, low in his throat because Dick’s teasing is always too effective.  Dick is sweet though.  He laughs, endeared, reaching up to cradle Jason’s face and bring him down until their foreheads touch.

“You look nice.” Jason relents, gaze averted.

“Thanks,” Dick says, pressing forward. “So do you.”

[aimfor-theheart]

COIN TOSS– PART II

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read on Ao3

***

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

He keeps his distance.

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

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

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

You feel shockingly alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tells you everyone expected him to be a villain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shinsou is silent, watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re only kids.

You’re barely older.

Shigaraki is barely older than you.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toga, unfortunately, follows his line of sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the way he walks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouta would be proud of you.

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

You swallow hard, flex your freezing fingers.

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

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

But you followed him, didn’t you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This isn’t my home,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shigaraki–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thought strikes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You suddenly grab for his hands.

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

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

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

You squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.

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

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

He naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

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

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

But your eyes are bright with your Quirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moan, low and drawn out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine a little, ‘Touch me again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe still are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You let your eyes fall shut, too.

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

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

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

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

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

You think the guilt should hit you now.

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

You send a text to Shouta;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Shouta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no happy ending here.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lock had been picked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(He loved when you clung to him).

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

You’d fallen asleep all tied up in him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says, “Touch yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gives you a cold stare.

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

“I’m not taking care of a cat.”

“I’ll take care of it!”

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

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

“Yes,” you respond indignantly.

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

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

All over this little stray.

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

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

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

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

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

He unlocks the door, he lets you in.

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

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

But he’ll have to unpause eventually.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this about?” Shouta asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have every intention of going to Tomura’s.

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

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

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

You haven’t been here in years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You walk home together, hand in seeking hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty, you think faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

***

PART III

[queerquintessence]

heyo

so i recently have been obsessed with the idea of the voltron paladins living in the same house together sooo

i may or may not have spent the last like 3 hours working on headcannons

the characters in the house are keith, lance, hunk, pidge, and allura

(since they’re all relatively similar in age)

so sadly no shiro or coran but

anyway

yeah here they are

(once again a bit unorganized but it’s whatev)

• first off allura and lance are both housewifes

• and neither of them take any shit from the others

• allura: keith, could you pick your feet up? i’m trying to vacuum down here

• keith, sitting on the couch: couldn’t you just do it later

• allura:

• allura: move your feet or i’m telling lonce you have a crush on him

• hunk does the dishes most of the time because he’s mainly the one who cooks their food

• but they also alternate on a schedule

• lance, sighing dramatically: i do everything around here! keith, when was the last time you washed the dishes?

• keith: i literally washed them last night

• lance: well you missed a plate so it doesn’t count

• keith takes out the trash a lot except he doesn’t wear shoes so his feet are always dirty

• lance yells at him for it

• whenever lance takes out the trash he puts on whoever’s shoes are closest

• pidge: lance are those my shoes?

• lance, tiptoeing in sneakers that are 3 sizes too small: maybe

• the couch that they own is too small to fit everyone

• they either argue for 10 minutes over who gets to sit where or they just pile on top of each other

• pidge usually lays on top of someone’s lap when it gets crowded

• she can just flop on top of someone and they’ll just let her- no words spoken

• keith sits on the armrests and everyone gives him shit for it

• lance: aren’t you uncomfortable?

• keith: i like sitting here

• lance: alright edgelord

• lance lays with his legs sprawled on top of the couch

• sometimes pidge will lay on lance who will have his legs on keith

• hunk is fine with sitting on the floor but even he’ll start arguing over the good spot on the couch

• hunk: lance, buddy, you sat there last time- why not give someone else a turn?

• lance: hunk when was the last time you did your own laundry? huh. that’s what i thought

• dinners pretty chaotic

• that’s usually when they have their debates

• lance, pounding his fist on the table: mac and cheese is to be eaten with a fork and that’s that

• pidge: why the hell would you use a fork? spoons are just fine in my opinion

• keith, silently munching on his food knowing he eats it with a knife:

• pidge: alright, we need to acknowledge the elephant in the room

• everyone:

• pidge:

• pidge: keith, you gotta stop putting corn syrup on your peanut butter sandwiches it’s fucking weird

• allura: everyone in favor of limiting lance’s shakira privileges say I

• keith, pidge, and hunk: I

• lance, who’s totally offended: wh

• luckily, they all have their own rooms

• except the walls are super thin

• lance scream singing beyoncé: GOT ME LOOKING SO CRAZY RIGHT NOW YOUR LOVES GOT ME LOOKING SO CRAZY RIGHT NOW

• keith: why has god forsaken me

• even when they try to play music relatively quiet it can still faintly be heard

• muffled music from keith’s room: when i was, a young boy

• pidge: HA fucking EMO

• they all have Alexa’s in their rooms

• and pidge has access to all of them on her laptop

• pidge: psst- hey lance, watch this

• pidge: *fast typing on laptop*

• blasting from keith’s room: COUNTRYYY ROAAADS TAKE ME HOOOOME

• muffled keith screaming: pIDGE I SWEAR TO GOD

• in the morning during breakfast

• allura: why has lonce not come out of his room yet?

• pidge: hang on, i’ll wake him up

• lance’s alexa in the distance: I’M A GOOFY GOOBER YEAH YOU’RE A GOOFY GOOBER YEAH

• lance’s startled scream is then followed by a loud thud

• once a week they have a movie night

• keith: lance i am not watching a cheesy romcom for the 2nd week in a row

• lance: i have to listen to ‘welcome to the black parade’ eighteen times a day sit the fuck down

• keith, crossed arm for the duration of movie night: this love story is completely unrealistic

• everybody shushes him on cue

• they also have monthly sleepovers in the living room where they giggle like middle schoolers

• keith knocks over an entire bowl of popcorn

• allura discovers the concept of a pillow fight and effortlessly knocks everybody to the ground

• lance flops on the air mattress and launches pidge across the room

• while everyone is trying to sleep

• lance: guys guys i’m gonna say something

• lance:

• lance: mayonnaise

• everybody loses their shit laughing because it’s 2 in the morning and they’re sleep deprived

• the bathroom sink is a mess

• their toothbrushes are color coordinated

• since they have to fit so much shit on the sink they have specific spots where they put their stuff

• pidge: hunk, your toothbrush is in my spot

• hunk: what? no- this corner of the sink is mine

• the debate results in all of them crowded in the bathroom arguing for 10 minutes

• keith: i don’t even remember having a designated spot on the sink

• allura: we need a toothbrush holder

• sometimes they do their nightly routines together

• which is also chaotic

• lance is applying a face mask, which drips onto pidge’s arm

• pidge then jerks her arm away- hitting keith’s toothbrush

• it then catapults off the counter and sticks to the wall

• keith: i left the room for one second what the hell did you do

• i’ve seen this headcannon somewhere before and i love it so i’m elaborating

• whenever keith is tired he’s giddy and hyper and loopy

• keith after not having a good nights sleep for 3 weeks, getting a running start and flipping onto the couch: a woop

• pidge: what in fucks name are you doing

• lance is the same exact way when he’s tired so they act like complete and utter idiots

• keith: lance, hey lance guess what

• lance: what

• keith:

• lance:

• they both burst out laughing

• lance: keith, omg you know what- keith rhymes with teeth

• keith:

• keith: holy shit

• eventually they both burn out and are just exhausted

• lance with his face planted in the carpet: uuuggghghggg

• allura: you finally done?

• lance: *angry muffled grumbling*

• pidge tends to fall asleep anywhere in the house

• usually with her computer on her lap or nearby

• she’s usually discovered the next morning

• hunk walking into the kitchen, sleepily rubbing his eyes: kinda want some orange juice

• pidge is just asleep on top of the fridge

• everyone else eating breakfast at the table

• keith: has anyone seen pidge?

• soft snoring is heard from under the table

• keith: ah

• they just put up with each other’s bullshit all day everyday and i love it

• lance, slamming his bedroom door open: everyone in my room i had a nightmare and need affection

• everyone emerges from their rooms grumbling and all file into lance room with their pillows and stuffed animals

• pidge trying to keep the remote away from lance: go long, hunk!

• keith appearing in the doorway and getting hit straight in the forehead with a remote: fUCK

• lance: are those my socks?

• keith: huh? oh, i dunno they were in my laundry pile

• lance: no those are totally my socks give them back right now

• when they all moved in together it was before keith and lance started dating so obviously there was shipping

• pidge, bursting into hunk’s room: i have klance tea

• hunk: spill

• lance: wh- keith and i are NOT dating

• pidge: you guys literally live together!

• lance: WE ALL LIVE TOGETHER

• allura, to hunk during dinner: i don’t know about you, but it seems to me like keith has a thing for lance

• keith: princess you’re not even whispering we can all hear you

• keith and lance secretly holding hands under the dinner table while lance is telling a story

• lance, being dramatic and expressive, lifts his hands in the air to accidentally reveal that his hand is intertwined with keith’s and its immediate chaos

• keith letting go immediately: wH HUH HOW DID THAT GET THERE

• pidge: I FUCKING TOLD YOU

anywayyy that’s all

i literally love this so much so don’t be surprised if i come up with some more later

yeah

bye

[margaretbellaware]

The Azarola Girl - Chapter 03

Masterlist

Warnings: Vomiting and arguing.

Heisenberg and Y/n stood off to the side, watching as Alcina scolded Moreau for throwing up on her carpet. Y/n let out a small chuckle, although she wasn’t amused by the current situation.

Karl glanced over at the shorter woman next to him, noticing she was looking up at him. “What?” Heisenberg chuckled. Y/n just shook her head in response, a small smile gracing her lips.

Right as Alcina was done scolding Moreau, a swarm of black blowflies came rushing through the doors, a fit of crazed giggles coming too. Just then did Y/n and Karl notice the woman being dragged behind the swarm.

Heisenberg’s face went pale, anxiety flooding his senses. The woman he had an ongoing fling with was now laying on the floor with Daniela’s sickle hooked in her leg. “Found this one wondering around in the castle.” Daniela giggled, her body fully appearing, as did Bela and Cassandra’s.

As the woman took in her surroundings, her eyes immediately fell on Karl. “Heisenberg! Help me! Please!” The woman cried.

“Celine, I-” Karl was cut off by a laugh.

Specifically Y/n’s laugh. “Oh this is just too good.” She laughed, a crazed hint in it. Y/n let out a small sigh, trying to calm down.

Y/n started walking towards the door. “Heisenberg, please. I love you.” Celine sobbed. Y/n’s steps came to a halt beside Celine’s head.

The whites of Y/n’s eyes turned black. The calming E/c completely replaced with a harsh white, a bright red brimming her pupils.

A black and red, smoke-like force danced around Y/n’s fingers. With a slight flick of Y/n’s fingers, Celine’s eyes completely dulled, sending her into an illusion.

“Ну, развлекайся со своей маленькой игру��кой, Гейзенберг.” Y/n said, venom laced in her words. She turned to look at Heisenberg dead in the eyes.

(Translation: Well, have fun with your little toy, Heisenberg.)

Celine’s cries echoed through the room. All the lords were in shock, not knowing how to react, not knowing what to say. With a small exhale from Y/n, she turned on her heel, throwing the doors to the dining hall.

When Y/n finally made it out of the castle, she started coughing. A painful stinging forming inside her chest, it felt as if her lungs were being filled with liquid. Y/n’s coughing slowly became more violent.

Y/n collapsed to her hands and knees, a thick, black substance started pouring from her mouth when she coughed. The ink-like substance dyeing the snow, even melting it in the process.

Y/n’s eyes started to slowly fade back to her normal E/c ones. Her violent coughing slowly dying down. Any breath she took came out as a struggled wheeze.

Y/n fell on her side to roll on her back. She looked up at the stars, her body adjusting to the temperature of the snow and the air around her. Y/n brought the back of her hand to her mouth, slowly wiping off the black liquid.

Y/n closely inspected the inky substance, reminding her of the fungal roots that she was all too familiar with. A faint sigh escaping Y/n’s lips, causing a burning pain to shoot through her chest, “Ah fuck.” She hissed, grasping at the soft fabric on her chest.

A faint sound of horse hooves and a carriage were heard in the distance. They started to get closer and closer, a small chuckle coming from the abnormally large man.

“Ah, Miss Azarola.” The Duke chuckled, slowly bringing his carriage to a stop, just a few feet away from the woman sprawled out in the snow.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The Duke stopped his carriage at the Azarola Castle. “Miss Azarola, we’ve arrived at your home.” He said with a caring tone.

“Thank you, Duke. How much will it be?” Y/n asked, looking through the small hand bag.

“Don’t worry about it dear, just get some rest when you get inside.” Duke smiled. Y/n’s jaw slightly dropped, shocked that she actually got something for free from him. Duke let out a small chuckle as he drove his carriage away.

Y/n turned around to look at the doors of her castle. Just as she was placing her hand on the cold handle of her door, Y/n heard a small whimper. Turning around to look towards the direction it came from, the woods.

Y/n reluctantly walked closer to the woods, that’s when she noticed the faintly growing red eyes. That’s when a huge Varcolac Alfa jumped out of the darkness and tackled her.

Y/n tried using her power, although it wouldn’t work. Tears brimmed her eyes, she was practically frozen in place, right back to where she was twenty-five years ago.

She stared up at the Alpha, it wasn’t really doing anything, just looking at Y/n. Her body shook, from both the cold and fear. The big creature leaned down and sniffed her neck. Then it slowly backed off, looking like a puppy that just got yelled at.

Slowly sitting up, Y/n sighed, looking at the Alpha, completely dumbfounded with what just happened. Tears slowly rolled down her face as she finally found the ability to breathe again.

Y/n slowly looked down at the hand-like paw of the Alpha. Noticing a metal scrap of mental lodged into the palm of it.

“I umm…I don’t know if you understand me, but I can get that out for you. Just please don’t eat me, it’ll hurt, so just stay calm.” Y/n said, her voice shaky and slightly broken from crying.

The Alpha sniffed in her direction, taking slow strides to Y/n’s side. She held out her hand for the big lycan to smell, giving it a sense of trust.

Y/n started walking back towards the doors of her castle, the Varcolac Alfa trailing being her.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Y/n was now wrapping up the big lycan’s paw. “Hold still!” Y/n scolded, struggling to wrap the cloth around its injury.

Just as Y/n was finishing up the wrap, the castle doors flew open. The shadow of the floor clearly resembling Heisenberg. The lycan practically jumped in front of her. Growling at the man that controlled it’s kind.

Y/n jumped a little, the growling giving her flashbacks of the sight of her baby brother’s corpse. Shaking her head, trying to get the images out of her mind.

Y/n’s eyes met Karl’s. “Can I help you?” Y/n asked, annoyance evident in her voice.

“Azarola, we need to have a little chat.” Karl said, venom laced his words as he walked closer. The Alpha ready to pounce on him.

Y/n hesitated but brushed her hand along the huge lycan’s spine. “Go outside.” She whispered to the creature.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Oh but it’s okay for you to be a two timing asshole? Real nice Heisenberg.” Y/n taunted, crossing her arms to look at the man.

“Y/n, we kissed once! How does that give you any sort of authority over my love life? My god, you’re just like Miranda.” Heisenberg mumbled the last part, but clearly not quiet enough.

“I’m like Miranda? That’s really cute coming from you.” Y/n said, taking a step towards Heisenberg. Y/n was about to continue but a thick, black liquid slowly dripped from her nose.

She touched her fingers below her nostril, pulling her hand away and glancing at the liquid. Y/n quickly glanced up into Karl’s eyes. That familiar pain in her chest came back, the burning sensation even stronger than before.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

While Y/n and Heisenberg were fighting, a small BSAA squad were at the Megamycete, taking shots to it every few minutes.

This was now the second year looking into Y/n Azarola. Finally going to the village, the start of a cruel and twisted rabbit hole.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Make it stop.” Y/n struggled to get out. She was currently on the floor with Karl kneeling on her side. She had a death grip on Heisenberg’s hand. Her back slightly arching from pain.

Karl looked down at Y/n, worried, confused, and just lost. She was perfectly fine a few seconds ago, fighting with him, pissing him off, being feisty, just doing the things that drew him in. And now it seemed like she only had a few moments of life left.

“The Megamycete.” Y/n cried out. Her mouth opened as if she was about to say something else. Although, she gave into the exhaustion and slowly closed her eyes.

“Hey hey, you gotta stay awake for me.” Heisenberg said, using his left hand to cup Y/n’s face. He received no response, just silence, he was thankful she was still breathing, but it was clearly struggled.

Heisenberg gently lifted Y/n off the floor. He let out a loud whistle. Thousands of lycans started to rush towards her castle. Only some of them making it through her door.

“Go to the Megamycete, kill anything in your path and bring it back to my factory.” Karl said.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Taglist: @imagine-yourself-happy @the-soldats-kitten @ktdragonborn @ella-dragneel @jellyroom2 @frietiemeloen

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[faulty-writes]

Hello, I just read your tensei one-shot and loved it! Could I request something with him after his injury and he gets his wheelchair, he and reader adjusting to life again?

If not that's totally fine!

[ I would be more than willing to write anything involving the Iida boys. I just adore Tensei, poor baby stuck in a wheelchair. ]

You had visited him a couple months after the hero killer incident. “Is there anything else you’d like me to add to your new wheelchair?” you questioned as you tapped the tip of the pen against the paper which was currently held in place by your clipboard.

Despite trying to get over the fear of almost losing Tensei and getting used to the changes that had happened within the Idaten Agency. That is the change of command, it had taken a long while and plenty of discussion and arguments as to who was a worthy replacement for Ingenium.

You knew in reality that no one could replace the one-of-a-kind hero Tensei was. After all, he paved the way for many sidekicks and that wasn’t something that could be easily matched. Maybe it was selfish to say that you didn’t want to follow anyone else’s authority.

You were thankful that you were close to the Iida family, but it was only per Tensei’s request that you found yourself in his bedroom. It wasn’t that hard to spot the accessories that now littered the man’s room which included safety bars that allowed him to pull himself onto the bed.

But, at the moment he looked comfortable sprawled across his bed with his legs stretched out in front of him and a massive amount of pillows piled behind his back. He was dressed in a dark blue shirt, with an unbuttoned long-sleeved plaid shirt over it.

You were a little surprised he had decided to wear jeans today, but he looked handsome as always. You were also happy that his spirit wasn’t completely broken and that was evident enough from the way he smiled at you, showing off his pearly whites which made your heart race.

You glanced away in an effort to hide your flushed cheeks. “No,” he replied as he reached over to touch the top of your knee. You gasped and immediately looked down at that hand. Tensei’s touch was always gentle and you reached over, placing your hand over his.

The former hero seemed pleased and you took note of that gentle expression that illuminated his face as he looked at you. “I really appreciate it, Y/n. You’re the best,” he said just before he squeezed your knee. “Heh,” your cheeks continued to heat up as you brushed a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I-It’s nothing Tensei, I-” he interrupted you. “It’s not nothing, you’ve been there for me since we met back at Yuuei,” he leaned over with a slightly sympathetic smile. “I know I scared everyone, going after the hero killer. But hey, at least I’m still your hero. Right?” he questioned but your smile immediately faded.

“Huh?” of course Tensei noticed your now sad expression, but your sigh seemed to make matters worse. He knew it was still a tender subject to talk about and that it would take a long while to get used to the way everything was now. “Sorry, it’s just…” your hand clenched around the clipboard.

“Tensei you don’t think we stopped looking at you as a hero because of this, right?” you questioned, trying to prevent your bottom lip from quivering. But inside, you couldn’t help but feel your heart sink in your chest. Despite what happened and the end result of Tensei’s retirement and condition.

You never stopped looking at him as a hero and you never would, the day Tensei was reported injured it was like time stood still. Everyone frozen in their own grief and worry, you were surprised the Idaten team still managed to complete their scheduled hero tasks for the day. He glanced down, and you heard him take a deep breath.

“I know it was a big shock," maybe that was an underestimate, for a moment he thought he was going to die as he laid there in his hospital bed with all those injuries. "I also know I still have people that look up to me. I just hope I’ll always be a hero to my little brother and...to you,” he gave you a sheepish smile and your mouth went dry.

Once more you were reminded that without even trying Tensei could keep you right where he wanted you. Your fingers tightened around his hand that still laid on your knee and slowly, you found yourself leaning forward. Tensei remained where he was, however his eyes widened slightly.

As if he were wondering what you were doing, it was only when he raised his eyebrow that you seemed to snap out of your actions. “Oh,” you glanced away as that familiar heat coursed through your cheeks. “I-I’m sorry!” you stuttered before suddenly standing causing Tensei's hand to fall from its previous place on your knee.

“Hey,” he said as he attempted to reach out to you again. “Are you okay?” he frowned when the only response he got from you was a frantic nod. “Y/n,” he began, almost prepared to scold you but he stopped when you shook your head. “S-Sorry Tensei!” you replied as you cradled the clipboard to your chest.

“I-I’ll have that wheelchair for you next time I come to see you,” though once more you were reminded that you hated walking into the Idaten Agency knowing that Tensei wasn’t in control of it. Part of you was even worried that they would take away your workshop, the one that Tensei specifically ordered to be built for you.

It seemed unlikely, they needed you and your expertise which meant the workshop should remain untouched. But if there was anything you learned from Tensei, it was that unexpected things happen. You tried to push it to the back of your head, failing to notice the eerie silence filling the room.

“Y/n,” came Tensei’s voice and you heard the bed squeak as the former hero maneuvered his legs over the edge of the bed. You blinked and slowly turned to look over your shoulder. It must be hard to lift your own legs like that.

One of Tensei’s hands was securely holding onto the bed rail and the other was fisted into the mattress, his expression was intense as he looked at you with a present frown across his lips. It was a surprise to see Tensei so unhappy and you slowly turned around, lowering the clipboard from your chest.

“Tensei what are you doing?” you glanced over at his current wheelchair which was sitting in the corner of the room unoccupied. “Mm…” you muttered, lowering your eyebrows as if you were angry. Why was the wheelchair so far away from him?

You took a step forward, fully intent on retrieving it when Tensei spoke again. “Wait,” the command, though simple and soft, halted you in your tracks. You slowly glanced back at Tensei who took a deep breath before he held his arms out in front of him.

You knew he was indicating a hug and felt your heart begin to race. “Come here,” yet another simple command, but you followed it as if you were under hypnosis. You closed the distance between Tensei and yourself, allowing his arms to gently wrap around you.

Despite the blood rushing to your cheeks as you were pulled close to him, your chin resting in the crook between his neck and shoulder. Your nostrils were filled with his musky cinnamon-like scent and the feeling of being completely safe washed over you.

You brought your arms up to wrap around his neck, though the clipboard made it slightly difficult. Tensei didn’t seem to mind the piece of wood resting against his shoulder blades and you enjoyed the blissful moment of peace before you stepped away.

“Um...t-thank you,” the stuttered words left your mouth and you looked down at your clipboard. Part of you was eager to start on the new wheelchair but another part wanted to stay with him. Then again, you didn’t want to overextend your welcome. “I...I should go now, but-” you pointed towards the door just as Tensei spoke again.

“Are you sure? You know you’re always welcome to stay as long as you’d like," a nervous chuckle came and you directed your glance to the floor. “I...I know but-” you paused, what could you even say? That you did want to stay, that you didn’t want to leave Tensei’s side?

All those things sounded nice in your head, but more than likely would be a jumbled mess if you tried to speak them out loud. So instead you swallowed your courage back and shook your head. “I...I can’t,” you replied, trying not to feel guilty when you saw Tensei frown.

You’d much prefer to see that pearly white smile of his. “I’m sorry, it’s just…” you trailed off for a moment, your eyes glancing back and forth before you continued. “I want to get a head start on your new wheelchair.” you hoped he'd buy that explanation.

Though it wasn’t entirely a lie, you did want to make the new wheelchair and you wanted every last detail of it to be perfect. “Hm?” you watched as a surprised expression came over Tensei’s face before softening into that normal smile of his.

“You really want to get started on that, huh? Just the thing I’d expect from one of my best,” you brought your free hand up to your chest where you could feel your rapid heartbeat. You knew your cheeks were a toasty red color and you looked away.

“Y-You really think that…?” you always seemed to get flustered when Tensei complimented you but that wasn’t much of a surprise at this point. He nodded, “I do,” he replied with a chuckle, his hand pressing to the back of his dark blue hair and his eyes remained on you.

Though he’d never tell you, he thought you looked adorable with your cheeks that rosy and felt a sense of pride knowing he was the cause of it. “Um…” you pressed your lips together, your mind coming up with a thousand responses before you actually settled on one.

“T-Thank you,” the words left your mouth quickly before you bowed and scurried to the door. “I-I’ll inform you when y-your wheelchair is ready!” you squeaked out before opening the door and running down the hallway.

It wasn’t the most polite exit and it left Tensei calling after you, but you kept running with the clipboard securely pressed against your chest. “I have to make this for him,” you said with no hesitation and from that point, you spent every waking moment in your workshop.

This caused a deal of concern to the Idaten Team. Maybe they knew of your feelings towards Tensei or maybe they were just afraid you were focusing too much of your effort on something that wouldn’t benefit the able-bodied heroes that were currently employed at the Idaten Agency.

You knew it was rude to think that way, but you couldn’t help it. You had known Tensei for so long, you saw him grow since your days at Yuuei. Helped him build the Idaten Agency from the bottom up, recruit the sidekicks, watch him become the pro hero he was meant to be only to see his downfall in the worst kind of way.

Well, it just didn’t feel the same without him. Tensei was always going to be the only one you would truly follow which is why you wouldn’t let him down. Your fingers ached and you had gotten a few cuts here and there, but to see the finished product was well worth it. You had added some features to the wheelchair that most wouldn't expect.

Overall, it appeared to resemble that of a standard wheelchair apart from its blue-tinted coloring and built-in gel cushion layers. It also had specialized wheels on the off chance Tensei wanted to use his quirk which part of you hoped he wouldn't. Apart from the wheels, you also built some self-storage compartments into it.

You managed to configure a way to make the foot petals automatically retract and return when weight or lack of was present, the sensors you installed were to thank for that. You had also added a secret feature that may take time for Tensei to discover, but essentially you made it so the wheelchair can fold upward.

Allowing Tensei to ‘stand’ once again and hopefully make it easier for him to transfer from his wheelchair to whatever he desired. Still, it had taken you the span of a month to complete and during that time you hadn’t had much outside contact with anyone.

Including Tensei, but part of you wanted to surprise him and you were sure he understood how consumed you got in your work. Not to mention the Idaten Agency was planning their annual celebrating sidekick's event.

The idea was Tensei’s and you were happy that despite the new management, the event was still planned to take off in a week’s time. You knew Tensei would be excited about it and despite your slightly exhausted state, you were looking forward to attending as well.

After a good night’s rest, you contacted Tensei who was both thrilled and relieved to talk to you again. It was shortly after this, that you found yourself visiting the Iida Estate. To say Tensei was excited when you presented the wheelchair was a bit of an understatement.

The smile on his face seemed to make up for the hours you put into crafting it and his mother seemed equally as joyful. Though you weren’t expecting her to embrace you in a hug nor for Tensei roll over and wrap his arms around your waist. The feeling of him nuzzling into your side caused tingles to course through your body.

You gave an awkward chuckle and tried to play off your hard work, but Tensei seemed to see right through it. “Aw come on!” he said as he playfully punched your arm which in turn had you stumbling forward. Tensei was bigger and more developed than you which meant something as gentle as a 'playful' punch still ached.

“Ow…” you muttered as you reached over to rub your arm and looked back at Tensei who was still smiling. It was nice to see him like that, even if he was paraplegic as a result of his mishap with the hero killer. He was still looking at life through the same positive eyes as before and you never wanted that to change.

“Do you...do you like it?” you questioned as you walked over to the wheelchair, glancing over the metal and screws that you had put together by hand. “I love it!” he replied as he raised his arms above his head, then he brought them down and curled his hands into fists.

“You’re always so amazing, I could never craft such beautiful things,” he chuckled as he then reached up to rub the back of his head. There he goes complimenting you again and you couldn’t help but glance away, once more feeling that warm rush course through your cheeks.

“I-It was…” you paused, regardless of what you said. You knew he'd always find a way to continue to compliment you, to defy whatever negative thing you could say about yourself. So was it pointless? You internally sigh before dropping your head, “Hm? Is something wrong?” Tensei questioned, but you shook your head.

“No, nothing is wrong,” you said, “I was hoping you’d like it," you wrapped your hands around the handles of the wheelchair. The ones you had spent hours crafting the details into. “It took me long enough to build and I’m sorry if…” you trailed off, how would you even apologize for basically ignoring Tensei?

“I...was too busy to contact you, I just wanted to finish this before the celebration,” you said and raised your eyebrow as Tensei's jaw dropped. “Jeez, I almost forgot about that,” he said as he slapped himself which made you wince slightly. But his laugh seemed to reassure you that he was fine.

“Guess I’ve been a little out of it since the whole ordeal,” while you understood that, Tensei was the one who created the celebration event, to begin with. He was always the star attraction when the time came and you tried to suppress the chuckle that threatened to come when you recalled the way Tensei would always dance in his Ingenium suit.

It was entertaining, to say the least, but you knew this year would be a little different. 'Ingenium' wouldn’t be present, and part of you wondered how Tensei would deal with everything now that he was in a wheelchair. Would he spin around on the dancefloor or would he remain on the sidelines?

You knew you wouldn’t allow him not to have fun, but then again you had no idea how the evening would truly play out. You found your smile fading as you walked around the wheelchair and reached out to place your hand on top of Tensei’s knee, similar to how he had touched your knee prior.

However, unlike you, he didn’t seem to hesitate to place his hand over yours in turn. You shivered when you felt his thumb slowly trace over your knuckles, but you kept eye contact with him. “Are you planning to go?” you asked. “It’s not the same without you,” which was an understatement.

You always found yourself willing to go anywhere as long as Tensei was there. His thumb stopped and a few seconds later you felt his hand tighten over yours. His face softened some and he reached up, gently cupping the side of your face which caused your cheeks to grow hot.

More than likely he’d notice, but restrain from saying anything. “I wouldn’t leave my best all alone! Of course, I’ll come, as long as you save a dance for me,” he said, his voice filled with confidence as he flashed yet another smile at you. “O-Oh…” you leaned back and a nervous chuckle escaped you.

Just the thought of dancing with Tensei made your heart race, though in the past he always seemed to save his first dance for you and you loved that the rest of the world faded away when you were wrapped up in him.

“You’ll be using the wheelchair I made you right?” your eyes glanced over the hospital chair he was currently sitting in, that thing couldn’t be comfortable. Tensei looked confused before he glanced over at his new wheelchair, then he nodded.

“I have to go there in style, right?” he chuckled at his own words and the sound of your own laughter joined him. You took a breath and slowly retracted your hand, though Tensei seemed a little saddened by your action as he rather enjoyed the warmth your hand provided.

But he still smiled at you and allowed his hands to rest in his lap. “I suppose so, but you always go in style and I’m sure everyone will be happy to see you,” even though the pro heroes that were invited almost never showed up.

In fact, you were always disappointed that the only heroes you consistently saw present were Best Jeanist, All Might, and Edgeshot. More than likely because Ingenium had past experience working with them. Not that you had any sort of problem with them, quite the contrary.

You enjoyed talking to them, despite the fact Tensei would always be leading the conversation. But you were always fascinated with the stories the heroes shared. As a support agent, the only real heroic aspect you experienced was the aftermath. The damage that was done to both equipment and hero.

At least you could still fix one of them. Still, this event wasn't about you, hell it wasn’t even about the pro heroes. It was about the appreciation, dedication, and even bravery sidekicks displayed. It was true that most, if not all of the time heroes couldn't do everything on their own.

The backbone of a hero was essentially those that supported them and it wasn't much of a surprise that a sidekick would always be dedicated to their hero. "I'm really glad you think so. Hey…" he leaned over in his chair and you tilted your head, unsure of what he wanted.

But regardless, you found yourself leaning down. "Yes?" you were a little suspicious as to what Tensei had planned considering he did most things out of impulse. But you were surprised when he reached up and gently brushed a piece of your hair behind your ear.

"Hm?" you were a little concerned when he allowed his hand to linger there on your cheek. "Would it be too much if I asked to pick you up? I know I may not go as fast as I did before but I'm still proud to stan-" he paused. "Sit," he corrected himself, "by your side." Why was he so sweet?!

You opened your mouth to speak, but it seemed no words came out. You quickly sealed your lips together, looking lost a moment before he chuckled. “Uh s-sorry,” you replied as you rubbed the back of your head.

Your cheeks were yet again red and you almost wanted to run out of the room again. “I just...you’re...y-you’re sweet Tensei,” you said, noticing his confused expression turn into a happy one. He grinned at you and reached up to grasp his armrests.

“I’m glad you think so! I like being sweet for you.” he teased with a playful wink which only caused your cheeks to turn dark red and you shyly glanced away. “Heh...thank you,” Tensei grinned and reached down for his push rims, using them to roll back.

“You don’t have to thank me!” he replied before pressing his hand to his forehead. “I’m happy to see you so happy,” you lifted your head, your eyes widening and you almost wished you could fan your face to cool it down.

But all you could seem to do was smile and place your hands in front of you before bowing. “Thank you Tensei,” you said as you leaned back up. “So…” you began, “I’ll see you when you pick me up?” Tensei grinned and nodded.

“I won’t let you down,” he promised with a playful wink causing you to turn your head as a nervous giggle escaped. You took one last look at the wheelchair you had crafted. Your hands were still a bit sore, but hopefully, the small cuts would heal.

“Until then...um,” you took a step forward and leaned down, you had to stand a little back taking Tensei’s footrests into account. Still, you were happy to hug him. When the day of the celebration came as promised Tensei picked you up, he was using the wheelchair you had gifted him and you were happy to see how well he adjusted to it.

But you were more distracted by the outfit he was wearing, a blue suit with a black tie and a striped button-up shirt. Somehow it suited him. You didn’t have many fancy clothes on hand and you thought about wearing the same outfit as last year, but due to the protests of many from the Idaten Agency.

You decided to go shopping for a new outfit instead, but as long as Tensei liked it you could care less what others thought. You smiled as you approached him, once more letting your eyes roam over his figure before you noticed a bouquet of flowers resting in his lap.

You tilted your head, slightly confused and for a moment wondering if they were for you. Luckily Tensei answered your question a moment later, “I got you these!” he said as he held the flowers up and despite being a little surprised.

You took them and brought them up to your nose, inhaling their sweet scent. Allowing it to calm the butterflies in your stomach, once again it seemed no matter how much you tried to convince yourself not to be nervous around Tensei. It never worked.

“Ready to go?” he questioned with a bright smile and you shyly lowered the bouquet. “Of course,” you said and out of instinct reached out to take his arm, but you stopped yourself when you realized or rather remembered Tensei was in a wheelchair.

“Oh uh…” you gave an awkward chuckle. “Sorry,” you muttered as you glanced away, old habits died hard. Tensei seemed to catch onto what you were trying to do and chuckled, sometimes you were grateful for his easy-type personality.

“It’s okay,” he said, “I’m glad you like the flowers.” You glanced down at the bouquet, oh right. Maybe it was best if you left them at your apartment. “They’re beautiful, thank you Tensei,” you said before glancing over your shoulder.

“I’m just going to put these in water and then we can go,” you said, watching as Tensei gave another grin before nodding. “Of course, do you need any help?” he questioned as he watched you walk away. You took a deep breath, trying once again to calm yourself as the faucet ran.

“I think I’m okay, thank you Tensei,” you said as the sound of the water hitting the glass vase echoed. ‘This is just like last year, nothing has changed.’ you tried to convince yourself as you glanced over at Tensei.

He was gently swaying himself in his wheelchair. The sight brought a sense of sadness, but it was nice to see him acting so cute. You turned back to the vase and turned the faucet off before unwrapping the plastic and paper the flowers were surrounded in.

You found a place for them on the counter and took a moment to admire them before turning back to Tensei. “I’m ready now,” you said, reaching over to run your hand across his shoulders. He jumped a little and you weren’t sure if it was out of surprise considering he always seemed to welcome your touch.

Either way, you offered a smile and the two of you made your way to the car. It was somewhat of a relief that an Idaten Team member offered to drive everyone. Though it was a challenge to try and get Tensei inside the vehicle.

Watching him being lifted from his wheelchair to the seat was different as was the fact his folded-up wheelchair laid across the floor of the car. But at least you got to sit next to him and laugh as he shared stories with everyone else.

Just like old times. Though you kept quiet during the ride due to the fact you were too busy watching Tensei, even more so when he had to be lifted back out and into his wheelchair once more.

"I can't wait!" he exclaimed and you could hear faint music coming from the building ahead. You watched as he began to wheel himself forward, however, he paused and turned his chair to face you. "Hm? What?" you questioned and Tensei chuckled before he offered you his hand.

You hesitated a moment before taking it, a smile of your own coming to your face as Tensei turned once more. Both of you were facing the entrance of the celebration, there was a long red carpet starting from the end of the sidewalk to the entryway.

String lights hung from the rim of the building and you could see how they illuminated the inside of the entrance as well. You could also see the many heroes that had already arrived, particularly you noticed a group of women crowding around the number one hero himself, All Might.

The sight alone caused you to laugh which caught Tensei's attention. “Everything alright?” he asked in a concerned tone, your hand was covering your mouth in a half-hearted attempt to muffle your laughter.

“Yeah,” you said as you lowered your hand and turned back to look ahead of you. The other members of the Idaten team who were in the car began walking past you, talking amongst themselves as they entered the building.

“It’s just, I’ve always thought it was funny how All Might seems to get all the attention. Do you think he ever gets tired of having all those women flock to him?” you questioned as you took a step forward and Tensei quickly followed, rolling along beside you.

“I only want one person to flock to me,” he responded and you turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. He only smiled in return, but somehow it was clear to the both of you who he was referring to. Regardless, you felt a certain sense of pride came over you as you passed through the entrance or maybe you just felt lucky to still be by Tensei’s side.

It was always the two of you and wherever Tensei went, you followed. In a way, you were like a sidekick, and maybe in a sense part of this celebration was for you as well. You took note of the several familiar faces and some new ones that you could only assume were upcoming sidekicks on the scene.

There was a large seating area with tall tables covered in white cloth and expensive-looking glassware. On the opposite side of the room were several tables pressed up against the wall, each one covered with an impressive amount of food, and most of it looked too fancy for your taste.

You preferred simple things, but between the two areas was the dancefloor and a few people looked to be having fun. Showing off just how fast they could move or gather attention while everyone else remained standing around chatting.

Some held plates of food while others seemed to be making conversation with little distraction. You paused, reaching over to lay your hand on Tensei’s shoulder. “Hm?” he turned to look at you, but you were busy glancing around the room again.

‘Hey, it’s Ingenium!’ someone suddenly called and you turned your head, watching as more people seemed to walk over to the former hero. ‘Here we go again,’ you thought as you removed your hand from Tensei’s shoulder, bringing it up to rest against your forehead.

‘Hey man, how are you?’ watching person after person greet Tensei made your stomach twist some, especially as they leaned down to shake his hand, was it strange you were allowing such a thing to bother you?

A frown came to your lips before you took a step back, wanting to distance yourself from the scene as people continued to converse with Tensei. The few women that were around smiled and folded their hands together and had the nerve to ask how he was since the hero killer incident.

"Excus-" you wanted to interrupt but Tensei's laugh drowned your attempted words out, how can he still be so fine with talking about what happened? In a way, you couldn’t blame them for being curious. But still, it bothered you. Yet, Tensei kept smiling.

“I’ve been wonderful thanks! This new wheelchair was designed by Y/n,” he then turned his head and you paused in your movements, still attempting to distance yourself from the former hero and the small crowd he had around him.

Instead, you found yourself frozen again and by nothing more than those eyes of his. “Why are you backing away?” he questioned, and honestly you couldn’t come up with a good explanation other than the fact you felt a little envious when you weren’t the one getting Tensei’s attention.

But you would never admit such a thing, at least not out loud. “Excuse me a moment,” he said before he reached down for his push rims and proceeded to roll over to you. “Everything alright?” he questioned and you felt your throat tighten, a little embarrassed for being caught in the act of trying to back away.

“Mmhm,” you replied with a simple nod, though Tensei didn't exactly buy it. He brought his arm up, stretching it behind your lower back to grasp the side of your hip. “Ah!” you cried out as you felt yourself being pulled toward him, your opposite hip hitting the armrest of his chair.

“This is Y/n! The brilliant support agent of the Idaten Agency, they designed my wheelchair and I sort of view them as my hero.” you felt your cheeks heat up and turned away if anything to make your red cheeks less obvious.

‘Oh yeah, I remember them.’ someone said, ‘Mmhm! They’re always by your side, huh?’ another one commented. “Well, I wouldn’t say always but…” Tensei trailed off when he noticed you were looking elsewhere. "Hm?" he leaned forward in his wheelchair, observing the dancefloor before he looked back up at you.

He opened his mouth to say something, but one of the women interrupted him, ‘Hey Ingenium, are you going to dance?’ her question came off rather desperate, but you made no comment. ‘I would love it if you could save me one!’ another girl commented and yet again that feeling of envy grew in your stomach.

You knew it wasn’t right, considering Tensei always danced with you. The man in question chucked and you felt his arm retract from your hip. “Well…” he began as he raised his hands up, you knew he was trying to find a nice way to decline the requested dance.

“I...usually dance with Y/n first, it’s sort of a tradition at this point,” he said as he turned back to look at you and flashed a playful wink that had your head spinning. This man was going to be the end of you. ‘Aw come on,’ the woman insisted as she took a step forward.

‘Can’t you break tradition just once? I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time and I just recently became a sidekick. I would love to say I danced with one of the heroes that inspired me,’ she said, and you suppressed the growl in your throat as she proceeded to bat her eyelashes at Tensei.

“Heh, I’m glad I could be your hero! That means a lot, but even if I’m retired now. I still like to think a hero always keeps his promises, so maybe we can dance later. Okay?” he said with a bright smile before turning his wheelchair.

You were in slight disbelief that he had turned down the woman. She was moderately attractive and seemed to be willing to do whatever she could just to get a dance, but he still turned her down. You were lost in your thoughts until you felt his hand take yours, your breath hitched and you almost ripped your hand away from him.

But Tensei threaded your fingers together so such an action was useless. “Want to dance with me?” he questioned, despite not knowing how to exactly ‘dance’ in a wheelchair. He was willing to try for you and gently stroked his thumb across your knuckles.

“I…” you paused and turned to look at the group that was previously talking to Tensei, the woman that originally asked for a dance seemed to have walked away. You frowned and took a deep breath, slightly hoping she wouldn’t come back and bother you. “S-Sure,” Tensei smiled, though he did sense something was wrong.

Still, he hoped a dance would make you forget about your troubles You tried to ignore the looks you received as you walked to the dancefloor with Tensei, the sound of his wheels echoed against the wooden floor. You partly hoped you two wouldn’t gather much attention as you reached the center of the dancefloor.

Then you turned to face Tensei just as the lights above you dimmed causing you to glance up. “Um…” you slowly tilted your head back, walking around to stand in front of Tensei. Your hand squeezing his before you glanced around, taking note of the many eyes on you.

Why were they all staring? Well actually, you had an idea as to why. “How are we…” you trailed off when a smile appeared on his face. “I have an idea,” he said and you raised your eyebrow. “Which is?” you questioned as you placed one hand on your hip.

Once again, you found yourself letting your guard down and as a result, Tensei yet again surprised you. Your vision blurred a moment as you were pulled forward, your hand pressed against Tensei's chest and before you could properly react. You felt his hand reach for the back of your legs and you were hoisted onto his lap

“Uh…Tensei…” you began, allowing your fingers to dig into the fabric of his blazer. You wiggled in his lap, but Tensei’s arm remained draped over your legs and he kept still as you got comfortable. “I know this is kind of different, but I’m sure we’ll both get used to this,” a soft song began to echo through the air.

You couldn't help the frown that came to your lips as his words echoed in your head, ‘We’ll both get used to this.’ when? Your thoughts were shattered when Tensei spoke again. “Hold on,” he warned. You weren’t sure what he was planning, but as fairly instructed.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as he reached down for his push rims. He started gently swaying his wheelchair back and forth, the motion was slow and tousled your hair back and forth. But in a way it was nice, you found yourself smiling as you nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

Your legs were draped between his foot pedals and you closed your eyes when he began to roll around in a circle. It wasn’t like the way you had danced last year, but you enjoyed the new closeness this brought and almost forgot about the eyes that were on the two of you.

The music continued and on occasion, Tensei would turn his wheelchair and rock you back and forth vertically or do silly half turns which made you laugh. At least he didn’t lose his sense of humor and as the song came to an end, you pulled back and glanced down at Tensei.

He was illuminated by the lights above, his red eyes standing out as he looked at you with a smile. You reached up and gently cupped the side of his face, trying to ignore the flashes from phone cameras. Part of you didn’t care if people took photos, it wasn’t like you were doing anything scandalous.

Still, you smiled and wrapped your arms around Tensei to embrace him in a hug. The rest of the evening seemed to go by rather quickly, at one point you lost Tensei only to find Tsunagu rolling him around. By the end of the night, you felt exhausted. Your feet ached and you couldn’t wait to get your shoes off so you could lay down in bed.

Luckily Tensei allowed you to sit in his lap once more as the two of you exited the building, like before you had to wait a few moments as Tensei was transferred from his wheelchair to the car seat. You had expected to get dropped off at your place first, but Tensei insisted he had something to show you back at the Iida Estate.

So with some hesitance, you agreed. “What do you have to show me?” you questioned as you walked behind him in one of the dimly lit hallways of the estate. You assumed everyone else was asleep. “You’ll see,” he replied and you didn’t miss that playful tone in his voice just as he reached his bedroom door.

You frowned as you watched him grasp onto one of his armrests and lean forward, stretching his other hand out for the doorknob. Part of you wondered why they hadn’t adjusted Tensei’s bedroom door, but then again the Iida family seemed to enjoy having everything in order. Maybe a different door would set them off too much.

Still, you were happy when Tensei finally got it open and rolled inside. “It’s changed a bit, I’m grateful my brother helped set it up for me,” he said and you had to admit, you were in slight awe of the equipment that now littered his room. His bed now had a rail that surrounded all sides with a small opening that you assumed allowed Tensei to securely climb into bed.

There was a grip molded into the rail and you imagined Tensei used it quite frequently so he could hoist himself up properly. “He did a good job,” you replied as you watched him make his way over to the bed. “You’re not having trouble with these new adjustments, are you? We could try one of the features of your new wheelchair if you want,” you suggested as your hand came to rest on your hip.

“New feature?” he questioned, turning his head to look at you with one of his unusual eyebrows raised. You nodded in response, “Yeah did you forget I added a feature that allows your chair to extend upward so you can ‘stand’?” you questioned as you shook your head in disappointment.

"There should be a button located underneath the seat," you explained, snickering some as Tensei leaned over one side of his chair, searching for the button that you had just described. “It’s to the left,” you crouched in front of him and reached underneath.

“You just press it for a few seconds and-” you words came to a pause when you retracted your hand and watched as the wheelchair vibrated. The footrests curved inward, keeping Tensei's legs in place as the seat of his chair folded flat.

The wheels remained pressed against the floor while a single metal bar pushed the chair up, allowing Tensei to stand upright. However, you ensured that it wouldn’t extend too far as you didn't want him to fall. Though it was slightly amusing to see Tensei look back and forth in awe. A laugh escaped him when he came to a stop.

“Wow!” he began. “You always surprise me somehow!” if only he knew the feeling was mutual. You cautiously took a step forward, “Do you need any help, can you reach the…” you trailed off to glance over at the handrail that looked within his reach, but you didn't know for sure.

“Hm?” he blinked and reached up to scratch the side of his head. “Well…” he began, trying to ignore how uneasy he felt. Standing up felt slightly odd since the incident, but he appreciated your hard work. Even if he didn’t see himself using this feature much in the future.

“I think I can but could you help me?” he questioned and you jumped. “Me?” you questioned as you watched Tensei nod. Then he gave you another smile, “I wouldn't trust anyone else!” and while you knew that wasn’t entirely true considering he seemed to put his trust in people too easily.

You reached out to graze your fingers along his sides. "I'll help you," you replied, giving him a shy smile in return. "Great!" he exclaimed, “I could hold onto your shoulders and you could help me sit on the bed,” he suggested, but you tilted your head. You were a little uncertain of what the end result of this would be.

Despite that, you allowed him to lay his hands on your shoulders. You tried to ignore the way he dug his fingers into your skin and in return, you properly gripped his sides. You were a little nervous given the limited amount of space between yourself and the bed. But you tried your best to take a step back, allowing Tensei to lean forward.

Of course, he was a lot heavier than you expected and your arms slightly trembled as they tried to support his weight. “Uh...Tensei…” you felt your knees buckle as he tried to reach over for the handrail while you found your legs pressed against the mattress. “Sorry about this,” Tensei said and you shook your head.

“It’s fine,” you replied, trying to ignore the way one of your shoulders started to ache. “Can you turn to the side?” he questioned. “What?” you replied, slightly confused as to what Tensei was trying to accomplish. “I can sit down on the bed if you step to the side, then pull myself onto the mattress,” Is that really how he thought this would work?

Despite the butterflies that began to swell in your stomach, you nodded. "O-Okay," you tried to keep your hands on Tensei as you maneuvered yourself, cautiously taking a step to the side and watched as the former hero somehow turned his body. You stumbled as Tensei somehow allowed himself to fall into the small opening in the bed rail.

You were almost straddling his legs at that point and though slightly embarrassed, you did your best to regain your balance. Gees, that was a lot of work. Your hands came to rest on top of his knees as your soft pants filled the air. “Are you alright?” Tensei reached over to thread his hand through your hair.

“Yeah…” you answered between your pants. “Do you do this every day?” you questioned, glancing up at him as he continued to run his hand through your hair. “Ten usually helps me, but sometimes he’s too busy so I end up doing it myself,” he explained with a half-smile as he finally dropped his hand from your hair.

He reached down to place his hands over yours. You paused, holding your breath. “Would it be too much to ask for your help to swing my legs over?” he questioned, giving you that innocent puppy dog look that always seemed to get to you.

You hung your head a moment, shaking it slightly back and forth. “As you wish, Ingenium,” you crouched down and gently took hold of his legs before lifting them over the railing. “There,” you said as you pressed your hands into the mattress. “Thanks,” he replied, flashing you another smile before he laid back on his pillows.

Then he patted the spot next to him, “Lay down next to me,” he instructed. “Hm?” you leaned back, once again feeling your cheeks heat up. “Y-You want me to lay down next to you?” a chuckle came before he nodded and once more patted the spot next to him.

You took a deep breath. “You don’t have to blush so much around me,” he commented, causing you to flinch back. “I-I’m not blushing!” you denied, waving your arms like wild. Tensei gave a knowing smile but said no more. “Hmph!” huffing, you crossed your arms a moment before sighing in defeat.

“Fine,” you stated before climbing onto the bed, wiggling some before you laid your head against his shoulder. Allowing your legs to drape over his, “Tensei, are you comfortable sleeping like this?” you questioned as you laid a hand on his chest.

There was so much about his current condition that you wouldn’t understand, but you wanted to. “It’s not so bad,” he said as he draped an arm around your shoulders. Part of you expected him to try and pull you close, but it seems at the moment he was content with having you at his side.

Of course, in some aspects, it was a little silly to be laying in bed with your former boss. But he was your friend before he became your boss and a hero above all else. Silence filled the air and after a long moment, Tensei closed his eyes and you couldn’t help but look at his resting face.

Then you glanced around the bed, it felt odd to be surrounded by a railing. Almost like you were trapped in a box, did Tensei feel that way as well? The doubt that you would get used to seeing him like this came back to mind.

But, you knew that you would always stay by his side regardless. Maybe one day, you could make him a support item that would once again allow him to walk. Until then, you’d figure out a way to accept this new way of life.

[chicksung]

Can’t You See Me? || Choi Chanhee

part of @ficscafe fic exchange event!

Genre: angst, little bit of fluff, ghost!au

Pairing: ghost!chanhee x reader (ft. younghoon)

Word Count: 2.4k

Warning/s: death, depictions of depression, dealing with death, mentions of a car accident

Synopsis: You loved Chanhee, with your whole being. You didn’t what you would do without him. However, it seems like life intended for you to be without him for the rest of your days

A/N: this fic is for rani @letteredwings please enjoy lovely. sorry that it’s a little late :/ this is unedited. please ignore any mistakes

any and all feedback is appreciated

Choi Chanhee promised you that he would love you until the day he would inevitably stop breathing and cease to exist. You always laughed off the comment, thinking it was just a stupid saying he would be saying into old age. You wished you had taken it as a sign, maybe you would’ve been more cautious, maybe this whole situation could’ve been avoided. What you didn’t know is that he had died a liar when he said those ridiculous words. He loved you after he passed too.

Chanhee stood helplessly in the kitchen, watching you stand there with an aching heart. You were wide eyed, shocked and frozen from the news.

“I’m…sorry?” You stammered, hoping, praying, that your ears were deceiving you with mean elementary school tricks.

“Is your partner Choi Chanhee?” The man’s voice seemed down, like he was scared to tell you again.

“Yes, he is. We’ve been together since high school,” You informed him, trying to push down the sickening churning in your stomach.

“I regret to inform you that your partner has passed away. We received a call this morning of an accident. A truck had collided with a car. The truck driver seemed to be okay, but your partner’s injuries seemed to be more serious.” Every word pricked your heart, which was as fragile as a balloon being poked with a needle, “We tried everything, but he eventually passed away. I’m very sorry for your loss.” You nodded, your chest tightened painfully, your vision blurry from the tears in your eyes. 

“Alright, thank you for letting me know. Have a good afternoon, sir,” You signed off, trying to keep your voice from cracking.

“You too, and again, I’m sorry for your loss,” The line went dead and you placed the phone on the kitchen counter. Chanhee? Dead? No, he can’t be. He had specifically said he would be careful on the road. Tears slipped down your cheeks like sweet raindrops, your knees pathetically giving out as you wailed, yelling out obscenities and curses. Chanhee ran behind you.

“No, I’m right here! Can’t you see-” He went to place his hand on your shoulder when he realised how pale, almost transparent, he was. He sat beside you on the floor, a million thoughts passing through his mind. He couldn’t comfort you, only able to listen to you cry his name in a desperate plea to bring him back to you. Chanhee’s heartstrings tugged harshly, but he was helpless. He was nothing but a memory now, a missing part of your shared apartment, a ghost. 

You stood amongst crowds of familiar faces, his friends, family, distant relatives, colleagues, the list goes on. Who they were didn’t really matter to you, what mattered was the casket being carried away from the church doors and out into the miserable weather. Fitting, you supposed, that it was pouring with rain on the day of his funeral. Attendees moved outside, umbrellas creating a dismal cloud of sorrow above them. It had been two weeks since Chanhee had passed away now, but for some reason you could not bring yourself to cry. No matter how many times you felt his absence, not even after looking in his open casket, no tear stung your eye. You watched emotionlessly as his coffin was slowly dropped into the rectangular hole just beneath his headstone. 

                    Here lies Choi Chanhee

                Loving son, brother and friend

                 April 26 1998 - August 17 2021

                   Until we meet again, my love

You felt a hand slide across your shoulder comfortingly, Chanhee’s best friend, Younghoon’s. You didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t move. You remained stone cold and kept your face void of expression. A different feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. Irritation? Anxiety? Frustration? It was hard to describe, which typically meant it was complicated, and you didn’t really like complicated feelings. You could sense a storm coming, and judging from the storm clouds of emotion in your mind, it didn’t look like it would be clearing up any time soon.

A distance away from the gathering of mourners, a pale figure stood solemnly. Sure, watching his own funeral felt weird, but Chanhee could only think of you, and how you stood there, in a similar way to him, unable to display your emotions. He wished for one second, just one, that he could understand what you were thinking, feeling, praying. Maybe there would be a way to ease the pain you felt in your heart? He was technically responsible for said pain, so shouldn’t he try and fix it?

Younghoon had been coming over more, Chanhee would notice when he would be sitting on the foot of your bed, which you had not made the effort to get out of. Everyday, the time you would eventually get up would be pushed back. Before, it was only an hour later, then it was two, then three, then four, until one day, he noticed that you only got up to go to the toilet. He would listen to you cry, sniffle, send the occasional text to someone. Younghoon had seemed to notice, so had made it routine that he would come over at exactly 1:09pm every day to help you get out of bed and try to create a productive day together. Chanhee had memorised the sound of Younghoon’s footsteps, the sound of his keys jingling in the door’s lock, the way he would hum as he made his way to the bedroom. Younghoon had become the life inside of the dead quiet house. Chanhee noticed the way that his best friend would look at you, the sad sigh that would escape his lips when he saw you, sprawled out and weeping. 

“Come on. You can’t keep moping in here,” Younghoon sauntered over to your bedside, crouching down to get a better view of your face.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want. Go away,” you hissed, pulling the covers over your head, childishly pretending that if you couldn’t see him, he would simply fade from existence. 

“Bubba,” he called out sweetly, tugging the covers out of your grasps, “you’re running low on food. I don’t want you going hungry, and besides, it’s a nice day outside. Whaddya say?” With a low groan, you slowly rose from the safety of your sheets, loose hairs sticking up in wild directions. Chanhee rushed to your side, his cold touch to your cheek sending a cold shiver down your spine. He sighed somewhat sadly as he watched Younghoon help you out of bed. It should be him helping you out of bed every morning, it should be him trying to motivate you with small activities. However, deep down he knew that if it were him, you wouldn’t even be struggling to get out of bed in the morning. He was the cause of your lack of motivation, he was the cause of your pain, your suffering. Every emotion you were feeling right now was because of him, and somehow, in some way, he wished he was still there. He wished he was Younghoon.

“Where’s Uncle Chanhee?” Your young nephew looked up at you with big eyes, confusedly looking around to find his favourite uncle. You sighed softly. You knew you would have to have this discussion with him sooner or later. 

“Uncle Chanhee...isn’t going to be coming today,” you explained, kneeling down to the four year old’s level. Chanwoo’s bottom lip quivered slightly, “Why not?” He asked with glossy eyes. He had been really looking forward to playing with Uncle Chanhee, and couldn’t understand why he didn’t wanna play with him. You knew Chanwoo was too young to understand death, but he had seemingly noticed Chanhee’s absence. You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to think of some sort of acceptable lie to tell a child. 

“He’s not well today. He says he really wish he could play today, but he had to stay home,” You pet the boy’s head softly, hoping he would understand. The little boy nodded, seeming to understand.

“Can I make Uncle Chanhee a get well soon card?” He asked with wonder in his eyes, and you would have to be a monster to have said no.

“Of course, Woo. Go get your craft things.”

You helped your nephew decorate his ‘card’ which was really just a folded sheet of printer paper, but you weren’t about to rain on his innocent parade. 

“I’m still sad that I can’t play with Uncle Chanhee. I wish he was here,” Chanwoo admitted, writing a sweet message in lopsided messy handwriting. 

“Just because he’s not here in person, doesn’t mean he’s not here in spirit,” you explained, drawing a sun in the corner of the card for the youngster to colour in. 

“What do you mean?”

“It's kind of like magic,” you pondered aloud, “like a hug you can feel from someone who is not there.” The child nodded.

“Yeah! Like it still feels like mommy is hugging me even when she’s not there,” it was your turn to nod. 

“Exactly, Woo! You’re such a clever boy,” you ruffled his soft hair, making him giggle uncontrollably.

You were right, in a way. Chanhee was there, as a literal spirit. He felt a warm surge crash over his pale body, knowing that Chanwoo wanted to make him a card without fully understanding what was going on. A child too sweet for this world. However, it wasn’t Chanwoo he was focusing on. It was you. You weren’t crying, you weren’t wailing his name in agony. You seemed peaceful, collected, like you were watching the sunset over the sea. You were starting to come to terms with no longer having your boyfriend there. Sure, it pained you every morning to roll over and say good morning to someone who never even got into bed that night, but it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. He was unsure how long you would stay in this peaceful mindframe, but only the best storyteller will tell, time.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Younghoon asked softly, eyes just as gentle as his words. You nodded, confident in your decision. You were a little unsure when you first brought up the idea to him, but it had to be done. The both of you walked up the hill in the cemetery, hands intertwined. You two had been dating for some time now, but you always had this lingering feeling that Chanhee wouldn’t like what you were doing. You loved Chanhee dearly, but you felt the same about Younghoon. It had been almost seven months since you received that phone call, but slowly everything in your life was piecing itself back together, formerly shattered after the tsunami of emotions that wiped out everything that made you feel human. You stood at the face of his gravestone, his name etched prettily into the cool rock. 

“Hey,” you greeted, your hand slipping out of your boyfriend’s. Chanhee displayed an invisible smile.

Hey.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The sentence felt awkward and heavy on your tongue. 

It has. How have you been?

“I’ve been doing well. Just trying to get by, you get it.”

Yeah, I get it. Is that Younghoon?

“I was getting to that. I’m not sure how it happened, but it did. He helped me a lot after you passed. I owe him a lot. Mainly ice cream,” You laughed at yourself, partially because of your bad joke, and partially because of how ridiculous you must sound to anyone passing by.

You’re dating now?

“Yeah. I just...I wanted to say thank you,” you blurted, playing with the tips of your fingers.

Why are you thanking me?

“You taught me a lot, Chanhee. How to cook ramen properly, how to make the best oven baked pizza anyone has ever had, but most of all, you taught me how to love. And while I love you so much, my god, you can’t even believe to comprehend it, I’ve found someone else that I love,” You felt tears spring to your eyes. You were the only one talking, so why did it sound like you were saying goodbye? You glanced at Younghoon, who only smiled weakly. 

“Can I say a few words?” Younghoon stepped forward, placing his hand on your shoulder, the same way he had done the dismal day of Chanhee’s funeral. You nodded wordlessly, watching your boyfriend stride towards the grave of his best friend. Younghoon traced the etched marks of his friend’s name before giving a small smile.

“You’ve been gone too long,” he started, giving a sad chuckle, “and a lot has happened during that time.” Chanhee laughed silently at his friend’s words, slumping against the cold headboard of his resting place.

“But I will promise you this. I will look after them for you. I will care for, and nurture and love them for you. It’s what best friends are for, right?”

Chanhee nodded, a friendly smile finally adorning his features. He felt something new, something he hadn’t felt in a long time, peace. His body felt as light as a feather, as if it was drifting through the breeze. He dropped his gaze to his hands, only to see that the aforementioned body part wasn’t there. He was fading, an experience he had thought about many times before, but somehow, it wasn’t as scary as he thought it would be. Chanhee looked to you, and he could’ve sworn that for a moment, just one moment, you could see him, slowly dematerialising out of existence. He wasn’t scared anymore, scared of how you would cope without him. You had Younghoon, the only person other than you that he trusted his life with. 

“Until we meet again, my love,” Chanhee bade his final farewell to this world, taking a small bow and with a slight change in the wind’s direction, he was gone. 

You felt light, like the weight of an entire urbanised city had been lifted off your shoulders. Younghoon took his place by your side once more.

“Should we go home?” He suggested, earning a relaxed smile from you.

“Yeah. Besides, it’ll be dark soon,” you squeezed his hand, your eyes glowing in the reddened flare of the sunset. Hand in hand, you walked down the stone path and out of the overly large rusted gate. It was never easy letting go, not by any stretch of the imagination. You would always carry a piece of Chanhee with you, and even without him by your side, you felt closer to him than ever.

[dilfbane]

Your Weeping(Your Need For His Touch)

Summary: When things go south on a mission, you have to confront more than just the sketchy town, cartoon villains, and one-bed hotel room you’re forced to share with Loki. You have to come to terms with not only the consequences of being captured, but also the God of Mischief’s feelings for you - Because for all that he might be an asshole, sometimes, he really does have a heart. Written for the Picture Is Worth A 1,000 Words 6k Follower Writing Challenge by @startrekkingaroundasgard 

Pairing: Loki/(Female)Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and medical treatment, as well as discussions of the inevitable mindset around sacrificing oneself for the mission that I feel like being part of the Avengers would entail. Also swearing, because at its core, this story started out as a bit of a crack! fic. 

Word Count: 7.8k. 

A/N: So apparently when I have mental breakdowns they result in me writing crack-fic that takes a 180 veer into angst and fluff for absolutely no reason. For the sake of the crack-fic, in this timeline Loki was forced to help the Avengers take down bad guys directly after the end of the first Avengers movie, so… Is that a confusing plot hole I didn’t know how to account for except by making this AU? Maybe. Did I do it anyway?…. Yeah. This really was meant to be a crack-fic about Loki and the reader confessing their feelings set in the bizarre world of meme culture, I didn’t realize there were going to be feels in it until it was three in the morning and all of a sudden this happened. That being said, your girl went there, so enjoy! 

“Oh, shit,” You say, as you take in the grimy hotel room. The walls all smeared in what looks like dried blood, the putrid smell of rotten eggs, a crack-screened television with a fine dusting of some suspiciously white powder. And, of course, “There’s one bed.” 

“Hmm?” Asks Loki, turning towards you, briefly, from unpacking. He had dumped his suitcase(Magically plucked out of a chaotic liminal space) unceremoniously on the bed’s scratching, pilling coverlet without so much as a second glance at the rest of the room. And why do you need a suitcase, anyways?? You wonder. It isn’t like we’re planning to be here that long. In fact, you hoped with every fiber of your being that you’d be here for as little time as possible, because this town might actually be the sketchiest place you’ve ever seen in your life; no small feat, for a bona-fide member of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

You’ve kicked alien ass on a mutated purple Mongolian death-worm three thousand feet over New York City. You’ve run reconnaissance to rescue debatably-magical items sequestered away in an ancient cave labyrinth plastered in paintings and untranslatable runes, gunfire and what could only be described as the baying of hellhounds in the near distance. You’ve fist-fought a gigantic hive-mind robot in a field of artificially sentient feral steel suits - You’ve even survived Tony’s parties. 

Yet none of those scenarios hold a candle to this fucking town. 

And Loki, the asshat, seems utterly, competently - no, maniacally - unfazed. 

“There’s one bed,” You repeat, into the air. 

“Ah,” Says Loki, straightening. 

“You don’t see that problem with that?!” 

“Should I?” He asks you, walking across the room in long, graceful strides to stand in front of you. He wears the same expression he always wears, amused and indifferent, but this time with the addition of a single, elegantly-arched eyebrow. You drop your head, refusing to meet his somewhat-curious gaze. It physically hurts, how attractive Loki is. Not for the first time, you curse whatever god decided that you and him would once again be mission partners - in this case, you belatedly realize, and choke back a thick laugh, said god is, unsurprisingly, Thor. 

If you survive this, you make a note to beat his head in with Mjolnir. As it is, you are here in this room with Loki, with perhaps twenty IPP agents and a reckless poisoner dogging your every move, and there’s a high chance that you won’t live long enough to navigate whatever the hell sleeping with your crush-who-has-murdered-men. Ok, so ‘murdered men’ isn’t entirely accurate. More like ‘caused the murder of men inadvertently through his schemes’. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, right now. 

And what about Loki? He is still staring you down, like you’re some wind up toy moments away from going off. Funny, that, you think. If ever there were a time to not have a mental breakdown, it would be here, with him. You’ve crossed a lot of moral lines in your life, but you will be damned if you let Loki Laufeysson see you cry. Loki is graceful. Composed. Sarcastic. Lithe. Rolls his eyes at almost every statement that comes out of somebody’s mouth. But he is, also, beautiful. Shockingly comforting, in his own nihilistic way. You don’t know what it says about you that you find comfort in statements like, Try not to die, you know that I hate funerals. Part of you - most of you - doesn’t want to. But it gives you strength, somehow, to shrug off the day and ground your flailing mind in evading Loki’s calculated manipulation. I won’t show you my weakness, you think to yourself. It’s not enough, but it’s a start. 

“No,” You tell him - too quickly, he’ll pick up on that - “You’re right, you shouldn’t. It’s fine. We have - a lot to deal with, is all.” 

Loki nods, seemingly accepting your answer, but his eyes are still narrowed, watching you like he’s calling your bluff. You talk right past that look - have to, to keep yourself sane, to not think about the one bed that looms large over this entire conversation. It doesn’t even look like a comfortable bed. 

“We have two days,” You say, to stop yourself thinking of it. And, also, to talk your way through your disarmingly disjointed thoughts. Loki nods. It would really help if you said something, you think. Swallow the thought, hot and thick, down your throat. What’s the point of a mission partner if you can’t even soundboard off them? “The Pink Cobra could strike anyone, anytime. The IPP is planning something in New York - “ 

“Isn’t everyone, these days, planning something in New York?” 

He sounds regretful, and for half a second you want to offer him the reassurance that his very presence offers you. But you are sure he doesn’t know what he does to you - with his words, with the sidelong glances that you’ve felt linger on your form far too long in the heat of a fight. If you didn’t know any better, you would say Loki worries about you. 

“We have to shut him down,” You say. Focus on the Pink Cobra, because honestly, that’s easier. “Find out where he manufactures. Not get poisoned,” You add, at the end. 

“Yes,” Loki says, tone dripping with sarcasm, “We should certainly try not to get ourselves killed. Failing that, I suppose, we can at least request that no one in H.Y.D.R.A gets autopsy access.” 

“Loki?” You ask. Rhetorically. “You’re not helping.” 

He smirks at you, then. He knows. 

“What do you propose that we do then?” He asks, taking a step towards you, getting so close that you can feel his hot breath. “About the Pink Cobra?” 

“Find him.” You say, fumbling, blush rising high on your cheeks. 

Tonight? 

One bed? 

You are screwed. 

                                                             ***

When you were a kid - think really little, Capri Sun pouches and still believing that true love wasn’t complicated - your father told you that every story needed a good supervillain. You aren’t sure if the Pink Cobra counts as a good supervillain, but he’s the least confusing one that you have to deal with - and, as far as villains go, a fine enough challenge to face. He’s like a madman out of some high fantasy novel, with dark eyes and a sable-sewn cloak and a penchant for poisoning. He is adept in all the arts of the woman’s murder; he has a keen grasp on the side-effects of arsenic and camphor and tansy and cyanide and strychnine. He’s been found to have dropped crystal phials filled with belladonna and ricin while fleeing a scene. If all else fails, he’s more than practiced with daggers. 

In other words, he’s the kind of villain that none of you, with your flying suits and telekinesis and super-strength, are anywhere near prepared to waylay. 

The plan, as far as team Avengers is concerned, is easy: 

You and Loki. This town, where the webs of his manufacturing production and the few glimpses of information that Thor has totally legally excavated out of his captured minions has led to. Two days until some undefined grand attack bears down on the city you live in. Two days to find the Pink Cobra and kill him. The more time passes with no headway, the more you think that this is an impossible task, but you know what Tony would say. We have our best minds on it. 

The thing is, you aren’t sure that that’s true. The minds that have been set to this task are you and the God of Lies. It’s hardly the best they could have come up with, considering your track records. Actually, you take that back - Loki was a good choice for this mission, because, not three hours after arriving in this hellhole of a city, he seems to have somehow developed the ability to read minds. More specifically, yours. And that could prove stunningly useful. 

The scene, as it stands: Loki, sprawled across the lumpy bed, three pairs of crisp white shirts, a plaid scarf, and a full set of Asgardian battle armor neatly hung in the mothball-infested closet, flicking through channels on the grain, cracked television with an apathetic expression and one arm thrown haphazardly over bent leg. Propped up in such a way that he could jump or spin or parry at a moment’s notice, yet perfectly, devastatingly languid, leafing through Nick Fury’s dossier on the Pink Cobra. He looks at you like a god, you think, and then remember. He is one. 

You, on the floor, because on top of all the other things this hotel doesn’t have, like two beds, there isn’t anything even resembling a desk, shifting through a glowing, holographed file archive from headquarters that barely runs on your severely outdated laptop. It’s a point of pride to you, keeping the laptop - not because it’s good, but because it’s survived five years of being an Avenger, which is something not even all the Avengers can claim to have done. You’re also fairly certain that Tony’s attempts to update the firmware had infested it with some sort of renegade virus. Elevated above your screen, the files are split into two groups, the sum total of everything that you know about both of the groups that are avidly trying to kill you. 

There’s the wealth of information containing the Pink Cobra’s poisoning sprees, but those aren’t the files that interest you, and you know that Loki’s not much interested in them either. That honor falls to the fanatics at the IPP, the Imminently Predictable Psyops organization, which you know even less about than you do about the Pink Cobra, chief among which the fact that they need a new name. Imminently Predictable Psyops?, Tony had said, when you’d finally apprehended one of their proxies. What do they think this is? Some type of ARG? 

What you’ve gleaned, from months worth of studying the network, is that they operate as a sort of cringe-oriented death cult intent on ‘reshaping the universe through meme agents’. They’d been on S.H.I.E.L.D’s radar for a long time - upwards of a year - before anyone at team base learned they existed - which, you can almost hear Loki saying, was a failure in the extreme. Currently, it was your job to obsessively worry over whether they were going to send ‘meme agents’ to bust through the door of your seedy hotel room and off you both. You hated - truly loathed - how casually Loki was taking it all. 

He’s acting like nothing was wrong with this situation, when, in fact, you’re ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that this night will end up with one or both of you dead. It is, to say the least, disconcerting. 

Kill switch, the holograph files read. Cross-referential Neil Cicierega acoustic weaponry. Your mind sees the words, but doesn’t comprehend them, and you run a hand up to rub at your bleary eyes with annoyance. You risk a glance upwards; on the bed, Loki scans page after page after page with disinterested nonchalance, punctuating the flipping over of each document with a noncommittal hum; as if to say, I understand you. As it to say, This could be worse. You try to slip into that mindset. Certainly, things could be worse. 

Actually, though? Not really. 

Because, for all the world, the holo-file in front of you just said ‘Pepe The Frog Chaos Banking Laser Initiative’. 

“What the fuck does that even mean?!” 

“Sorry?” 

You whip your head around. Loki, raising an eyebrow. Damn that - perfect - eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” You echo back at him, rubbing your eyes again, perversely glad for the break, even if it is this awkward. “I … said that out loud, didn’t I?” 

“Marginally,” He tells you. “Yes.” 

“Sorry,” You - well, it’s not a whine, not exactly. You’re tired, and there’s no way you’re going to sleep tonight, so you feel like your tone’s justified. “I didn’t mean to do that. I think I’m just - this is. Completely nonsensical.” 

“Show me?” He asks, and you snort. He could totally just look up, but - 

“Do you have a P.h.d in memes?” You ask him, and, before he can answer, “Because unless you have a P.h.d in memes, I don’t think you’ll be able to help.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Loki says. Vaults over the bed with the speed and grace of a panther, filling the air with a cringing wheeze as the rusty springs bend underneath him, and landing in front of the holo-file, pushing you aside slightly to get a better view. When his fingers brush against your side, cool and firm, you flinch. 

“Tired,” You offer, when he shoots you a momentarily concerned look. “Just. Need to sleep, later, I think.” 

But Loki is already scanning the file, and when he looks up, not five seconds later, you want to hit somebody. Preferably, you think, him. 

“I would assume,” Loki says, “That they’re using time travel in order to obtain and store monetary value by way of a Pepe-the-frog inspired laser array.” 

“Oh,” You say. You blink once. Blink twice. Still have no idea what that means. “Right.” 

“Do you not know your memes, love?” He asks you, smirking. And oh, if you don’t feel things. 

“I don’t go on the internet, much,” You tell him. “Too busy, you know, trying not to get killed.”

 Loki shrugs. Sidles away from the file. The groan and squeak of those springs tells you he’s back on the bed, giving you some well-needed space, but you can’t bring yourself to look. 

“You can sleep,” He says, “If you want.” 

“Ha!” You yelp/choke/embarrassingly bleat out into the room’s stale silence. Underneath the rotten eggs, you catch a whiff of bong-water. “No.” 

“There’s a bed,” Loki says, cocking his head pointedly and patting the lumpy covers. 

“Yeah, that’s - kind of the problem.” 

“Why?” He asks you. 

“You - really?” 

“I was only asking,” Says Loki, re-focusing his attention on whichever Pink Cobra document’s next in the folder. “If you aren’t comfortable telling me - I merely thought, seeing as you were tired, you might take this opportunity to rest.” 

“Yeah,” You  tell him, “Of course, that’s - nice of you.” 

It comes out stilted. Patently off. If he notices, he doesn’t say. 

“Are you going to - um. Do you need help, with the rest? The ones I have seem kind of hopeless. I mean,” You say, when he doesn’t look up, “I don’t think that we have to worry about getting demolished by trans-dimensional Agarthian wormholes.” 

“Of course not,”” Loki says, scoffing and incredulous, gaze, you are sure, on his page. “If they wanted to kill us, they’d send someone with a gun.” 

In reality, it’s several someones. 

                                                             ***

“You jinxed it,” Is the first thing you tell him, when the men leave you. They’ve thrown you into a one-room warehouse, rickety shelves stacked with cartoonish tubs of green goop and mildewing boxes filled with grenades and machine guns and what appears, at second-glance, to be twelve-fingered latex gloves. You’re tied wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and your throat feels uncharacteristically parched. Fear, you tell yourself. Apprehension. “Can’t you just - use your seidr to magic us out of this?” 

If you could see him - which you can’t, because you’ve been tied back to back - you’d swear that Loki was glaring. 

“Do you - do you have a plan?” You ask, after a moment. 

“I’m working on it,” He says. 

“That’s all?” You say. “We were dragged out of our drug-dealer’s hotel room by a bunch of robed men with guns and the only thing you have to say is ‘I’m working on it?’” 

“I’d get it done faster,” Says Loki, “If you wouldn’t interrupt me.” 

“Ok,” You tell him, “No interrupting you. Got it. That’s - Alright.” 

Unfortunately, not interrupting him is easier said than done, because without the sound of your voice, you are left to your thoughts. 

The men had broken in nearly immediately after Loki’s glib, sardonic retort to your worries, shooting the glass out of the room’s already half-smashed-in window and kicking the door in simultaneously. A bit much, isn’t it?, Loki’d asked, and you had wanted to smack yourself on the forehead. Really not the time, you had hissed, but Loki hadn’t seemed to hear you. Do you do this with everyone they send you to assassinate?, he had asked, instead. The men had been dressed in long, billowing cloaks of bright red, embroidered with orange snakes framing a picture of Beaker from the muppets with early 2000’s emo hair. Chaotic meme agents, you had thought to yourself. So that’s what they’re supposed to look like. 

You hadn’t picked up, until now, on the snakes. 

“They’re working together,” You say, when you can’t stand the playback of Loki being disarmed after spinning and tossing his silver daggers at the men, of the men kneeing him in the balls and twisting your arms behind your back, holding a gun to your head to stop you from trying to fight. Waking up in the back of a van that smelled like microwaved fish. Being tossed like garbage onto the floor of the warehouse, painted in bruises and cuts from the small pieces of glass that had dug their way into your skin. “The IPP and the Pink Cobra.” 

“Obviously,” Loki says. Sharply. 

“Did Tony not -“ 

“Stark,” Loki practically growls, and, ok, you’re not losing it but that did make you jump in your skin, “Is an idiot. He wouldn’t know how to connect the dots if they were presented to him in a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode.” 

“That’s - You had that on Asgard?” You ask him, momentarily distracted. You wish that you could see Loki’s face, and are very glad that you can’t. 

“That isn’t the point,” Loki says. 

“I know,” You tell him. You’re scared that your voice is trembling. Scared that he can tell, even though he’s not facing you, how badly your fingers are shaking. Scared that he knows your worst, biggest secret - 

That, despite being an Avenger, you are anxious. That, despite him being Loki, despite him being here, and wonderfully, infuriatingly himself, he cannot help you, this time. 

You are going to die, covered in cuts and abrasions, on the floor of a meme network’s headquarters, at three a.m in the morning. They are going to come in with umbrellas that shoot poison darts or the ex-presidents Point Break masks and mow you down, and Loki has no fucking plan. You feel the ropes tighten where they’re knotted, itchy and fierce, and you have to fight to keep yourself from whining in terror and nerves. Whining isn’t what Loki needs right now. Whining’s not going to save you. 

What is going to save you, you try and remind yourself, is Loki. If you can shut up. If you can let him decipher what needs to be done. If he can figure out some way to do it before the blowtorch-wielding robed vigilantes or some disincarnate meme god comes back and draws their electronically-sharpened fingernails across your throat hard enough to split skin and sinew, send waves of blood down the front of your shirt like a river of sweet, thick red honey and toss your corpse in a ditch by a highway and - 

“Y/N?” It is foggy, barely-heard. Posh. “Y/N!” Louder, this time. There are fingers on your wrist, bent backwards to grip you. Squeezing, insistent and there. “Breathe.” 

Fuck, you think. You’d started to hyperventilate. To shake, with a full-body tremor that forecasts a great, unstoppable wave of sobbing panic. And Loki had noticed. “I need you to trust me,” He says. “Trust me to get us out of this. Can you do that for me, darling?” 

He has never called you darling before, but God how you’ve wanted him to. You feel like you’re being stabbed in the heart - because there is no way he means it, no way that this is anything other than a desperate and cruel attempt to get you to calm down. Something that belies how obvious you are. How needy you are. How pathetic. And yet - 

And yet, he doesn’t say it meanly. He speaks like he cares about you, and in the face of your impending death, you want to think Loki cares. You’d let him say anything, do anything to you, right now. More than that, though, more than any of that - as you think back to meeting him, to your blossoming late-night friendship and twitchy banter and the quiet moments you’ve shared with him in-between battles - 

“I trust you, Loki,” You tell him, and feel your breath quiet in you. Feel yourself growing still and calm with the certainty that Loki will do as he’s said. 

That you will survive this. 

That -

“Good,” Loki says. Not relieved, but determined. Leaving you no room to argue. 

“So what do we do?” You ask him. 

“Nothing,” Says Loki, and you can hear his wide grin. 

“Nothing?” You ask him, gawking.

 “Nothing,” Says Loki. He gives your hand a tight squeeze. 

And then the Pink Cobra walks in. 

                                                             ***

This will end badly, you think. It’s about the only thing that you can think, preoccupied as you are with - 

It might be easier not to - 

Fuck. 

The thing is - and you really do try not to move, not to groan, not to scream - the thing is, you thought that when Loki said he had a plan, that said plan wouldn’t involve you being collateral damage for a LARP-er who’d most likely broken out of an asylum. I wish that we could be back in that shitty one-bed hotel room, you think to yourself, and - alright, not the best timing, but it rips a laugh out of you, spiraling and unhinged, before you feel the Pink Cobra, resplendent in coral cloak and villainous swagger, slug you one in the jaw. It hurts worse than you’d thought it would - you’ve never really gotten injured on missions, you’re usually good at talking yourself out of things, which is why the Avengers keep you around. You can speak any language, as long as you’ve heard it once, and your customary daily awkwardness can shift into persuasion like flicking a light-switch on. 

Usually, though, you had an opportunity to speak, and weren’t rendered speechless by - 

Loki, if you’re being honest. How much you want to kiss him. How much of an asshole he is. Trust me, he’d asked you. Can you do that for me? The Pink Cobra’s grip is sharp and bruising on your side; he’s slipped his fingers up your shirt and is pressing the point on your side that threatens to make your knees buckle, making bile rise up in your throat, driving you wild with the aching need to flee. He has one hand clasped over your mouth, now that you’ve quieted, and you can feel something - pain, and a pill - pressed snugly into his palm. He will force it down you, you know, if Loki so much as sighs wrong. 

You’ll never trust him again. 

You wish that you knew what the time was. If you end up dying at 4:20, you’re going to throw fists with somebody in hell. 

You wish, also, for aspirin. Avengers training has left you woefully unprepared for the reality of getting punched in the face. You can already feel your jaw starting to swell, taste an egregious amount of blood. You’re pretty sure that the force of the blow knocked a tooth out. 

What strikes fear into you, though - a fear somehow deeper than the absolutely bone-chilling, blood-curdling knowledge of what the Pink Cobra might do to you - is the look you’d seen on Loki’s face in the seconds after he’d grabbed you, before it fell into practiced, amused apathy. He’d gone white, and his eyes had blown wide. His fingers had spasmed with anger. 

He’d looked as scared as you feel. 

And you have no idea why. 

It isn’t like you’re anyone special. Not any more than the rest of the team. Less so than most of them. You aren’t a god, like Loki and Thor are. You don’t have stealth-assassin training, like Bucky, or super-strength like Steve. You can’t seamlessly pilot mechanical suits over the New York skyline like Tony, or use a crossbow like Clint, or beat thirty people in single-hand combat like Nat, or change into a nitro-fueled rage machine like Bruce. 

You can’t do anything, much. 

Except, apparently, die.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not letting yourself look at him. You won’t let Loki’s disinterested face be the last thing that you see. It makes the Pink Cobra’s words all the worse, when he speaks. His voice is dark and sick and timbered, and you feel maggots crawling over your skin as he slots you closer to his body, tightening his already painful grip on you so that you can’t move even an inch away from his tensed, coiled muscles. 

“So,” He says, “You are superheroes? How long did it take me, to apprehend you? Ah - three and a half hours? Tell your boss-man, do better next time.” 

“I’ll pass it along,” Loki says. His voice sounds different. You can’t place why. Still won’t look. 

“You won’t,” The Pink Cobra says. You can feel his shoulders rise, then fall. Feel him smirk. You love Loki’s smirk - secretly delight in drawing it from him, sometimes - but the Pink Cobra’s only fills you with yet more terror. You’ve pursed your lips tightly shut against the intrusion of his hand, but when Loki speaks he forces your bruised, bleeding jaw open and shoves the pill into your mouth. The pain of your injury tears through you like white lightning and you thrash, trying to escape. A keening sound claws its way out of you, fevered and anguished, and you feel your hands, still bound up in ropes, trying in vain to push off and away. The man behind you sighs, and then aims a swift kick at the back of your knees, which sends you down before you can so much as yelp. Your knees hit the floor, and he’s holding you by your hair now, twisting it so hard that you’re almost sure he’ll scalp you. He’s pulled something - too big to be be a knife, some kind of shortsword?! - Out from beneath his cloak, and is pressing it up against the column of your throat. You feel the weight of the capsule between your teeth heavily now, and realize what it means in the split-second before the Pink Cobra bends and whispers, Your choice; stale and rancid into the shell of your ear. 

Next, he addresses Loki. 

“You’ll be wanting to know what our plan is,” He says. Our, you think. We were right. “Hmm? I know how you people are. Always wanting to know. Tell me this, Mischief Man. What will I get, if I tell you? What price are you willing to pay?” 

You know what this is. You know it like the ache in your heart when Loki brushes you off. Like the safety you feel in his arms. You open your eyes. Take in Loki’s face - he’s trying to hide, but you know, you know how he feels. You know what he’s going to choose. 

And you know that you can’t let him choose it. 

“You’ll let her go,” Loki asks, “If we let you leave here?” 

“The thing could be managed.” 

No, you think. No, Loki, don’t! Whatever the Pink Cobra’s going to do, whatever the IPP’s planning, knowing’s worth more than your life. 

“One thing I want to know,” Loki says. He’s twirling a knife of his own, a slim silver number he keeps on him at all times, and you feel the blade on your own throat start to dig in - not enough to draw blood, but enough for you to feel it. The threat of it. The promise of it, and the coldness of the gleaming metal. “You and the IPP? How does it fit?” 

“You want information from me?” The Pink Cobra asks. Lets his blade bite you, just barely, and the strength it takes for you not to scream is more strength then you’d known you possess. 

“Yes,” Says Loki. “It’s not like I’m asking for much.”

He meets your gaze. You meet his. You hope that he cannot read it. His eyes are so worried, so desperate, you nearly break down. 

“I suppose,” The Pink Cobra says, “That you’ve earned it. Getting here - getting this far - it must have been no easy task. Fine. There is no Imminently Predictable Psyops organization. They were a - what do you call it? Red herring? A scent of blood for the shark.” 

“You fabricated them,” Loki says. “Why would you fabricate them?” 

He is losing his composure, you can tell. You will never be ready for this. He will never be ready for this. You hope that he will forgive you, and you know that he never will, and you swallow the pill in your mouth. 

“Because it was fun,” The Pink Cobra says. 

And then your body knows pain. 

                                                             ***

“He didn’t think I would do it,” You say. Your mouth feels thick, clotted with blood and shock, and your body is one raw, gaping wound, but the giddy feeling of victory has begun to course through your veins. Pure, unfiltered adrenaline. You had waited for the moment of death to come, and it hadn’t. The pill is fake, your mind had screamed. But there’d been one thing left, that might work. You had breathed as slowly as you possibly could, forced every muscle of your scared, writhing body into single-minded limpness, rolled your eyes backwards into your head,  drew one last breath in, and fallen. Twitched, for a few seconds, like a rag-doll. Then made yourself still. 

Loki had slit the Pink Cobra ear to ear, beaten him within an inch of his life as he bled out, screaming like a man deranged. He’d left him a wet, bloody mess on the floor, and the blood had run down the not-quite-steady plane of it, pooling around you and mixing with the blood from your jaw, from the evening’s earlier glass cuts, from the deep, burning stab wound the Cobra had got on your arm. 

You breathe, and your body knows pain. 

You look at Loki, and your body knows pain. 

He is shaking. Visibly shaking. His hands are clenched into fists at his side, and he looks as pale as bleached bones. His eyes are shot red - he had sobbed, when you fell, and a howl had torn through his body. You don’t know what to do, what it means, what the hell even to say to him. His cheeks are tear-stained, his breaths ragged. 

You blink, and your body feels pain. 

“We won,” You croak out. “Loki, we won.” It hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt in your life. “I think he broke one of my ribs.” 

You don’t mean to say that last part, but you do, and you are the one crying now, because it feels like he probably has, and you can barely even stay awake through this pain. It feels like the Hulk is pulling you limb from limb. Like all of those nightmares you’ve had where Loki decided to leave you - to go back to Asgard, and never speak to you again. 

Stupid, you think. He won’t, again. Not after this. 

Loki still hasn’t spoken. He’s looking at you, and his eyes are wild. Desperately, jaggedly roaming your body. His fists twitch with every new part of your body they land on. 

“That bad, huh - Oh, fuck.” 

And just like that, the tension leaves Loki’s body. The dam that had held him firmly in place is broken, and he’s running towards you with none of his usual grace. Dropping down by your side. He hoists you, and you hiss, and the tears won’t stop coming, so you bury your face in his shirt, nose pressed at the crisply ironed collar. Don’t care that it’s bleeding, because Loki’s here now. Holding you. Keeping you real. He’s got one hand stroking your hair and his touch feels right, nothing like the Pink Cobra’s, and he’s whispering: You brave, precious, idiot, how dare you, how dare you throw your life away like that?! 

“It worked,” You exhale - it’s the most you can manage. You would laugh, if it wouldn’t shred you to pieces. Loki cradles you fiercely, hands grasping at the sweat-and-blood soaked fabric of your shirt, running over you as if he doesn’t believe you’re alive. “It - hurts,” You get out. Barely. “Loki, it - I can’t -“ 

“Don’t,” He tells you. His voice has gone brittle, choked with thorns. “Don’t talk. Don’t - Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me? You will never do that again.” 

If I need to, I will, you think. And you wonder if that’s why you’re here. Wonder if that’s why you’re strong. You wonder, and hurt, and believe. Feel the strength of him, clutching you like you’re the only thing in the world, taking in greedy lungfuls of your weeping, your need for his touch. 

You can’t talk, anymore. It hurts too badly. But you surge, upwards, up into where he’s holding the back of your head, pressing your forehead into the dark, warm space under his jaw that smells like smoke and peppermint. Loki is taller than you are - you fit right into the curve of his neck, and his long curls curtain you in a bubble of warmth and content. 

“Promise,” You say, but it comes out unintelligible, and Loki’s hands are running, so gently, over your skin. 

“What was your plan?” You ask him, forcing it out of your body. 

“Hush,” Loki says, “Later.” 

There might not be any later, you think. Not like this. 

                                                             ***

In the hotel room, an ocean of scattered pages and ceiling mold and blessed privacy, you balance, cross-legged, on the bed. The wind blows wet and cold from an earlier rain through the busted out window. You have managed this out of sheer stubborn-ness, because it is the most that Loki allowed you to do. You’d passed out, twice, on the journey back - he had magicked you there, though it had taken a considerable amount of effort that you weren’t sure you really deserved - and had immediately propped you up on the pillows and stooped to ruffle through his suitcase, emerging not long after with binding tape, cat-gut thread, and a needle so sharp you could feel it slicing your flesh. You had opened your mouth to protest, but Loki had silenced you with a glare that could fell Director Fury. So you had gone quiet, and caved, letting him kneel over you on the distinctly lumpy mattress and begin inspecting your wounds. It had taken a few tries and a Please to convince him to let you sit on your own, and it hurt much more than the manner in which he’d arranged you. You were starting to, slightly, regret it. 

“You don’t have to do this,” You say, pulling it from bleeding lips. He shushes you with a harsh, stern tut. “You’re not my mother,” You tell him. 

“You could have died,” Loki says. There’s a snarling undercurrent to it that you can’t even start dissecting. “What were you thinking?” He asks. It is easier, though still painful, for you to answer him - he had used nearly half of his Thor-limited magic reserve to perform a basic stasis spell on your injuries, but the spell wouldn’t last forever. You’ll need stitches, he’d said, choking it out like he was the hurt one when he’d seen the number the Cobra’s blade had done to your arm. 

“I’ve had worse,” You say, grinning weakly. 

“Are you lying to me?” He asks you, with the tone of someone who’s distinctly not in the mood for joking. 

“I thought,” You say. Steel yourself. “I thought you weren’t going to do what needed to be done. So I - Did it myself.” 

“What needed to be done.” Loki says, enunciating every word. 

“We couldn’t let him walk away,” You say, meeting his eyes. Emerald, clouded with fury. You don’t let yourself flinch from that anger. You don’t let yourself run from your choice. “You know what he would have done.” 

“I don’t,” Loki says. “I know nothing. I know - I know that you think that your life means so little I wouldn’t care if you were gone. That I could - Live, without you.” 

That’s… different. 

“And I know,” Loki continues, “That I told you to trust me, and I meant it.” 

“I do,” You say. There is no hesitation. “I trust you - Loki. Of course I trust you. It’s not - it wasn’t -“ 

“Stop talking,” He snaps. Gentles, when you jerk your head away, blink back a fresh wave of tears. “You need rest,” He says. “And - This is. This is going to hurt.” 

You nod. 

“Best get it over with, then.” 

“You should keep your eyes closed,” He says. 

“No! I want - I need to look.” You bring your eyes up to your arm, which he’s settled onto bed’s chewed, scratchy quilt without you realizing, but Loki tilts your head up with a barely-there graze of his fingers, achingly gentle to avoid aggravating your swollen jaw. He holds your gaze for a long time. Doesn’t look mad, anymore. 

“Are you sure?” He asks you. Like all of this could be over with, if you wanted. 

“How bad it could it be?” You ask back. 

The injury is horrendous. You’d thought - honest-to-God, you’d thought the pain was terrible, but you weren’t ready for what your arm has become. The line of the wound runs in a craggy jigsaw from just under your shoulder to the tip of your elbow. Small wonder you can’t move it, can barely think through it at all. 

“Y/N?” Loki asks, “Are you -“ 

“Fine,” You say. Blink, and your body knows pain. Try not to let how scared you are show, when you look back up at Loki. The Pink Cobra’s dead. You shouldn’t be scared, anymore. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?” 

Loki sighs. Long and low and sad. 

“Will I have to - “ 

“Bite,” Loki says, and shoves something - the sleeve of his shirt, crusted in blood which you realize, sickeningly, is yours - into your mouth. “It’ll help.” 

It doesn’t, but he holds your hand through it, hushing you through the pain with furrowed eyebrows, thread and needle flying deftly through skin, air, skin again. His fingers move precisely, deliberate,  quick, and when, on one stitch, you audibly whimper, he pauses to lean down and press a soft, utterly unexpected kiss to your hairline. You are unable to fully express how much it means to you, so you do the next best thing and kiss him yourself, pressing him back once he’s finished the last of his stitches and breathing all the the words you can’t say into him. You press every fear and gratitude and lingering nerve into the warmth of his lips, wending your fingers through his dark hair despite the pangs of agony still thrumming through every inch of your body. Your face hurts, but the kiss is all you’ve ever needed and more, and Loki is so, so gentle with you, pulling away with creased eyebrows and a look of genuine concern. 

“I wanted to,” You tell him, mustering all of your strength. “It didn’t hurt.” 

“Stop,” He tells you, voice cracking, “Stop lying.” 

“I’m not,” You say. “I wanted to, Loki, I did.” 

“And you wanted to -“ 

“No.” You are vehement about it, for a broken-ribbed, broken-jawed, freshly-stitched person coming off the high of his teeth and his tongue. “Not that, I swear, never that.”

 “Why did you do it, then?” Loki asks. He has steepled his fingers under his chin, and his narrowed eyes pierce through you to the soul. You couldn’t lie to this man, you think, if your life depended on it. 

You know that you have to tell him, this time. Really tell him. You don’t. 

“”Why didn’t you use your magic?”

“You know why,” He says, and you do. You’d remembered it as the white pill turned to white powder in your gums, as the Pink Cobra’s knife had carved its way into your flesh. Thor had put a set limit on it, as condition of Loki’s release - Proof, he had said, We can trust you. Loki had thought to save it for later, that you wouldn’t need him right then. He had thought you’d talk them out, to safety. 

You’d failed him. 

“You didn’t,” He tells you, voice raw. He goes to grip your chin, to force you to listen to him, but with a glance and ill-concealed wince at your purpled jaw he thinks better of it. “You think that you failed me? You let yourself be - be beaten and stabbed - just so people you’ve never met in your life wouldn’t die, and you call that a failure?” He runs a hand through his hair. Bites back a snarl. Drops your arm. “I need you to listen to me,” Loki says, “Very, very carefully. You’re going to tell me why now, love. And then we’re going to fix it.” 

You raise an eyebrow. Worse than he does, you’re aware. 

“Sleep,” He amends, with a pointed look at the bed underneath you, “And then we’re going to fix it.” 

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, “And I feel like I just got run over by a truck.” 

Loki huffs, a puff of warm air that you feel, from how close he still is. A grin twitches at the edge of his lips. It sets off sparks inside you. 

“I thought -“ You say. Shake your head, and restart. “You would have let the Pink Cobra attack. You would have let him just walk away, and I couldn’t just - let that happen.” 

“Enlightening.” 

“No,” You tell him, “I mean it. I couldn’t - I’m not - I’m not worth more than anyone else. We’re the Avengers. It’s our job to save people, Loki.” 

He’s regarding you carefully, eyes still narrowed, all vestiges of softness gone from his face. When he opens his mouth, it’s to close it. Form thoughts. Discard them. Exhale. 

“My mother once told me,” He finally says, “That I would never know what it meant to be human until I found the person who made me want to bleed the world dry. Take all of its’ suffering, all of its’ cruelty, and leech it out of the very fabric of time, just to keep that person from anguish, from harm.” 

“I don’t -“ 

He holds a hand up. You still. 

“She never said they would infuriate me,” Loki says. “She never said they would make me laugh, or smile, or question my sanity on a regular basis. She never said that they’d try and get themselves killed, and that I’d have to watch, and that I would feel like my heart was being ripped from my body and torn to a bloody pulp; that I would make the sky rain blood and fire at the sight of it alone. But she was right about one thing - Many things, but also this. She told me that it wouldn’t matter. That I would - love you - anyway.” 

“You don’t,” You say, not daring to hope. It’s an automatic retort. 

“Foolish girl,” Loki chides, and you blink back fresh, stinging tears. How long have you wanted to hear Loki say that to you? How many sneaky looks have you stolen in the heat of your missions, just to see his smart mind and tricky magic at work? How many nights have you sat up together, sequestered from your insomnia in a bubble of hard-earned banter and peppermint tea, fighting the tight, coiling urge to push aside your steaming mugs and pull him into your needing? 

He could not - he can’t - feel the same. 

“Loki,” You say, stumbling over the words, “You can’t - This is - This is me we’re talking about.” 

“Is there anyone else here,” Loki asks you, “That I could be talking about?” He seems nonchalant, now, as if this - this cruel fucking joke, when you already feel you’re on fire - is merely a fact of his life. “We’re going to leave this excuse of a town, and get you - proper care. Fix it. Because I will not, on my honor, watch you suffer in pain. But first, you’re going to sleep.” 

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, and feel your resolve as it shatters. You cling to the statement like it’s the last remnant of the girl you were and the woman that you’ll never be, “And the shower doesn’t work. And I’m covered in blood.” 

But when you look at Loki, his eyes twinkle, mischievous. 

“Will you stay with me?,” You ask him, biting your lip. 

“You astound me,” He tells you, and rolls his eyes, and it feels - it feels normal. Good. A tender heat unfurls in your heart like orchid petals in the sun, numbing the persistent ache in your ribcage. “To even think that I would do anything else.” 

Later, you will ask him why. Why do you love me?, you will ask, and Loki will hum, low in his throat, curled around you just like this first night; your back pressed into his chest, your legs tangled up hopelessly, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns onto your spine in the dawn-light’s syrupy gold. Because, he will tell you, trailing a line of soft kisses up the scar on your arm - an ugly thing, but it functions, mostly, and only ever seems to hurt on the days when he isn’t there - I was given no choice. 

But if you’d had one?”, You will ask, and spin around, propping yourself on your elbow. 

You tempt me, He’ll tell you, baring his sharp teeth. Shouldn’t you know better than that? 

You will lie there, next to each other, not needing a single word. Because you will know. Because he will have told you, a thousand times, a thousand ways, exactly how he feels about you. 

Tonight, though, isn’t that night. It takes a moment to get settled in his hold, and the rain spits and drums against what glass remains in your window, slicking the carpet with dark, greasy splotches. It figures, you think, that even the rain in this city has the smell and the texture of oil. You feel like a bag of bones, stretched too thin. But safe, in his arms, in a way that you’ve never felt, before now. Loki is with you, you realize. Wrapped around you like a traveler’s cloak, the comforting weight of a slim, balanced blade at your side in a fight. He is cool, around your afraid. Warm, where his clever fingers whine and needle their way through your skin to your heart. 

“I hate you,” You tell him, “You know that?” 

Loki laughs, a deep, rumbling purr. 

“Go to sleep.”

[stormjay0]

Xisuma and Xelqua

I was thinking about how Grian used to be an admin (Wynncraft) and we’ve ended up here so... ficlet time!

As nights went on Hermitcraft, this was one of the quieter ones. Many of the hermits had gone to bed (Bdubs having been asleep for hours), with only a few still awake tinkering at some redstone project or growing vines for a build. The lights in the shopping district had gone dark, one by one, as shops closed up for the night amidst the smell of newly laid grass. The diamonds hanging from the trees caught the light of a star here and there, but most of the movement in the cowmercial district had long since died down.

A flickering window blinked in the distance. Any passerby who found it worth taking another look would see that the flicker came from a cozy flame dancing in the glass confines of a lantern, resting on a desk. The window in question was a small opening looking out into the thick jungle, just large enough for someone to rest on the sill and watch the parrots. It was also over 100 blocks off the ground.

The flame began to die out, flickering slowly and sadly downwards, only to spring up again as if given a shot of espresso. Or a shot of coal, in this case, because the admin who refueled it wouldn’t be caught dead with coffee. A strong black tea was another thing altogether.

Xisuma sighed and leaned back in his chair. Rubbing his eyes, he checked the time for the first time in a few hours. One in the morning wasn’t bad, he reasoned, and turned back to his work. Earlier today, he had relocated some administrative panels to this room in his jungle base, the least concrete-y of them. He silently thanked his past self; working on admin duties was at least 50% less fun on the concrete floor. His helmet lay switched off on the cozier, carpeted floor of the preferred room. 

The panels themselves were resting between a desk and the wall behind it, propped up by their sturdy bedrock stands. Xisuma didn’t often think about that rare material that his panels were made of; many high-level admins required hardware (literally hard-ware) of that caliber, and though bedrock was almost impossible to obtain, it was well worth it for the administrative abilities of the panels.

Tonight was not a night for appreciating the panels, however; in fact, X was beginning to question if his work tonight was worth it in the first place. He was trying a particularly frustrating string of commands, as he was only halfway sure of how to accomplish the work he was trying to do. 

Xisuma briefly stretched his neck and back, cracked his knuckles, and tried another combination. The usual [ERROR: Action not recognized] message appeared in urgent red over his screens, and he let out a short breath and considered hitting the panels in a last-ditch effort.

He didn’t have the chance to hit the panels, though, because another object hit a different panel very nearby- a Grian-shaped figure slammed into the window beside him at top speed.

X, not even surprised, slid open the glass and looked down. There was a thin ledge about five blocks below, and as Xisuma had expected, a heap of elytra wings and red sweater was sprawled atop it. He chuckled, shaking his head incredulously, and grabbed a water bucket so Grian could swim up the stream.

“Do I even want to ask what you’re doing up?”

Xisuma passed Grian a cup of chamomile tea, which the red-sweatered man immediately dumped 6 sugar packets into, cancelling out the calming chamomile effect. 

“Well, you see, I was simply minding my own business over at Grumbot when I saw a light on over here- knew it was you immediately, definitely didn’t think there was a giant firefly hiding in the jungle.” Grian took a gulp of his tea. “Anyways, you’re up, and I’m up, so I may as well talk to you, Eck-sai-zooma.”

X rolled his eyes playfully at the mispronunciation. “Alright, but why were you at the Grumbot? That thing’s broken, ain’t it?”

“He was lonely!” Grian protested. “I wanted to visit my robot son.”

Xisuma raised an eyebrow.

“Aaaand I might’ve left a shulker box full of wool there.” Grian shrugged. “But it was a whole box!” 

He looked around the room that he had crash-landed into and noticed the administrative panels. “You’re not working, are you, X? At this hour?” 

Xisuma turned to look at the panels, still glowing red with error text. He sighed, and moved to switch them off. “I was working on a personal project, but you’re here, and I really need to take a break anyway.” 

His finger was on the off switch when Grian spoke up. “Hey, I know how to fix this. It’s a perception chain, right? You just gotta-” He typed in a string of commands deftly with his head tilted sideways. “There! Got it!” 

Xisuma stared at the message that had just popped up on the screen, glowing green. [Action approved. Enter commands to continue chain.] He turned back to look at Grian, who was now trying to hang his elytra upside-down from the ceiling. 

“How’d you do that?”

Without turning around, Grian replied, “Oh, it was pretty easy! Just entered some combos that you hadn’t tried. The keywords on these change wayyy too often.”

Xisuma stared at Grian, looked back at the panels, and looked back at Grian. After a moment, he collected his thoughts enough to ask again.

“No, how did you know what to do? I’ve been an admin for years and even I couldn’t figure it out.” X was surprised that his question came out so calmly, when his brain was currently a mess of ‘HOW DID HE DO THAT’ and ‘WHAT THE HECK’. 

“Oh!” Grian turned around, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t think I ever told you- I’m sure it was on my list, right after fixing that chest monster- I used to be an admin!”

He dropped to the floor, legs crossed, and took another swig of tea. “I used to moderate a server called Wynncraft. We had all kinds of people, but not like Hermitcraft- they came and went, played and left. Some came back, some didn’t, but everyone had a great time!” 

He wrinkled his nose. “Or, they better have at least, I spent a long time on those maps.”

“Anyways, we had a ton of quests, and loot, and all that stuff! It was a pretty cool place. You learn a lot about being an admin when you have to mod ghosts.” Grian grinned. “Hah! Those were pretty terrifying.” 

Xisuma was even more dumbstruck, but didn’t show it. Ghosts? No wonder Grian had known how to fix his problem- he was somehow experienced in some of the most complicated areas of administrating?

Grian leaned over to look at a different panel as Xisuma’s mouth moved silently, trying to think of something to say. The smaller man lightly tapped a thread of commands and looked up at X. 

“What’re you trying to do with these? This looks like a ban bypass. Did you accidentally ban someone?” His eyes grew wide. “If you did we need to fix it right now! Which hermit was it?”

Xisuma collected himself and sat down by Grian. “No, it’s- it wasn’t unintentional.” He stared at the wall. “I banned him on purpose.”

Grian was halfway to asking X who it was when he saw the look on his face. Xisuma looked stoic and almost sad, gazing off into the distance. Grian turned back to the panels, and read the commands on them thoroughly. The former admin recognized most of the threads, but some of them, covered in error messages, weren’t commands he knew that worked. After a minute, he realized what Xisuma was trying to do. The actions entered seemed to be working towards an uncoded goal- the objective being to see someone in another dimension. Specifically, the void under the end islands. X wanted to see someone who had been banned and sent into the void.

Grian may not have known why, but he did know how to help. He began typing in another string of commands, the sound of which brought X back to reality. He leaned over Grian’s shoulder as Grian continued to type, talking as he went. 

“The problem you had needed a bit of a workaround. I think the issue was in the way you went about it. See, to see the person, you can’t just open a window into where they are, you need to bring them here. Or at least a part of them, or- here, I’ll just show you.” He stopped typing and turned to Xisuma as the screen flashed the message [Enter administrative ID to give permissions.] “You’ve gotta enter me into your system so it lets me do this. Username should be Xelqua.” 

X, distracted, looked at Grian after a minute. “Xelqua?”

“Old username. It’s what they called me when I got my administrative license.” 

“Ah.” X reached for the panels. /permit user [Xelqua] }access_all

Grian finished up the last of the commands and held his finger over the enter key. “Ready to see whoever this is?”

Xisuma took a deep breath and didn’t respond. 

Grian took that as a yes, and clicked the final button, looking anticipatorily at the spot where he had entered the coordinates for arrival. 

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, the lantern dimmed of its own accord, and a fuzzy shape that looked a lot like Xisuma began to materialise in the center of the room. As the image became clearer, the person it showed did so too. Their face was just as shocked as Grian’s. 

Xisuma’s face, however, was misty. He looked quietly at the projection now standing in his base.

“Hi, Ex.” 

[kitty0boy]

More Marichat fanfic because there is none in the new season yet and I’m deprived? Abso-fucking-lutely. Now I’ve read this fic about an akuma becoming everyone’s greatest fear and it becoming Marinette’s greatest fear, I’m sure you could guess, and sweeping her away. So yeah, it’s inspired by that. If you know which fic I’m talking about, feel free to tell me so I can @ the proper person and give them credit. As always Marinette is 17, Adrien is 18. I do switch perspectives so I’ll probably put a “...” when it switches. Enjoy!

——————————————

It was a surprisingly calm night in Paris. Hawkmoth had been unleashing much more akumas lately, probably to stress her out more than usual. Poor Ladybug looked so tired whenever they patrolled. He volunteered to patrol alone but she insisted that after that one incident, she would be there. He couldn’t blame her, if he’d missed an akuma battle he’d never miss a patrol again. They’d just finished up and gone home. Chat Noir leapt through the window and with a flash of green, became his civilian self, famous model, Adrien Agreste. His kwami Plagg rushed off to the cheese cabinet as usual and Adrien rushed off to brush his teeth for bed.

It wasn’t long before an akuma alert sounded on his phone and with a yawn he called his kwami and transformed. He slumped over to the window and inhaled deeply. “It’s going to be a long night.” He moped before leaving his window in one great bound. It was Sandboy again, must not have learned his lesson the first time he watched a scary movie before bed. Then again that was 3 and a half years ago so who was he to judge. He sprinted across rooftops only to see nothing, people were shouting and screaming but there was nothing infront of them. He reached out to people on the street but no one seemed to know he was there.

...

Despite the long patrol, Marinette wasn’t tired. She had taken Wayzz’s advice and napped before she left and it worked like a charm. It worked too well actually, because now she wasn’t going to get a full night’s rest. Maybe some fresh air would bring sleep her way. It was a calm night in Paris, surprisingly. She didn’t want to jinx it but she had a feeling something would happen any moment now. She really did have bad luck didn’t she? One moment the world was calm and the next, she was back in a world flooded by water. She looked around in horror as she saw the moon split in two. “No no no, not again.” She begged to no one, before clutching her spinning head

She was going to be sick, what went wrong? Where was he? That last question was answered fairly quickly as a thump from behind her rang loudly in her ears. “Hello there, Marinette.” A broken voice spoke behind her, a chill ran up her spine as well as his cold, clawed finger. He slowly dragged the claw up her back before poking into her neck, a warm liquid dripped down her shirt. “Missed me?” He cackled. “Look at me Marinette. Look at what your love did to me.” She couldn’t move, instead she stayed frozen to the spot. His hands slid around her waist and pulled her backwards so her back was flush against his chest. “Oh how you wound me my lady, maybe a cataclysm will make you notice me.” Before she could register anything he pointed a finger at her foot and a white beam crashed into it. She screamed in pain before collapsing to the floor, her leg was slowing turning to dust and it was so painful. He walked around her and bent down so they were face to face, she slowly crab crawled backwards, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. He grinned menacingly and slowly stalked towards his prey, her back hit the wall behind her. “You’ve been a bad girl Marinette, you broke my heart again.” She frantically searched for a way out but found nothing. “You won’t get anywhere without me,” he stated. She held her arms in front of her face in an attempt to shield herself. He grabbed her wrists tightly and pulled her to him, he wrapped his arms around her back and lifted her off the ground. “So how’s about I take you on a little trip, maybe a dive off the Eiffel Tower will teach you some manners.” He started running with her. She knew he was too strong for her, but never the less she pounded and kicked him trying to break free. She screamed at him to release her but to no avail. Then he said something strange, “It’s just a nightmare.” And suddenly she was back on her balcony, with a sobbing Chat Noir holding her.

...

Then came the most horrifiying scream he’d ever heard in his life. He looked towards where the sound had come from and to his horror, his eyes fixed on Tom and Sabine’s bakery. More specifically, the balcony above. “Marinette!” He couldn’t run fast enough, he felt like he’d been running for hours before he saw her sprawled across the balcony. Her eyes were wide and full of pure fear. “Mari?” He called but she didn’t answer. She looked back and forth frantically at nothing and everything while slowly backing away from him. “Hey, princess it’s me.” He reached a hand towards her and slowly approached, she couldn’t see or hear him. “Chat please, not again.” His heart sank hearing her, it sounded like she was begging for her life. His eyes swam with tears and he could do nothing more but whimper, “What do you mean again, what did I do?” His ears flattened and he fell to his knees. He was kneeling in front of her now. He had to pull himself together and save her. He swallowed thickly, trying to clear his throat. “Mari I’m not going to hurt you just please, come back.” Slowly he reached a hand towards her, but she recoiled and held her arms protectively in front of her. What was the nightmare version of him doing to her? He hesitated before grabbing both of her wrists with his hands. He slowly pulled her towards him, and wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug. He rubbed her back, it wasn’t long before she fought back. He sobbed into her shoulder as she kicked and screamed at him, “Chat let me go! Put me down! Please don’t hurt me.” He sniffed, “I won’t Mari I won’t. I promise. It’s just a nightmare.”

And suddenly the kicking and punching stopped. “Chat?” She asked, confused. He pulled back and her hands came up to cradle his face, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I, was, it was a nightmare.” She sniffed, “I, I’m ok now,”His face collapsed again and he buried his face in her neck, his tears soaking through her t-shirt. “Please don’t be scared of me princess.” He pleaded, “I’m not Chat, I don’t think that’s possible.” She chuckled slightly, he held tighter to her, as if she’d disappear if he ever let go. “Chat,” she nudged him “you need to go save Paris, you can come back after if you need to.” She was right. He nodded against her. “Just, please stay inside until I come back.” He begged. “I will, just go save everyone kitty.” He pulled back and in one final attempt to calm himself down, he kissed her on the cheek before releasing her and taking off towards the akuma.

...

She took a second to collect herself, it was a nightmare after all, it wasn’t real. This Chat, this Chat Noir was the real deal, he was right here, crying in the crook of her neck. Tears rolled down her face despite herself and she wiped her eyes quickly. “Chat you need to go save Paris, you can come back after if you need to.” She felt him nod before he pulled back and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed slightly and watched as he leapt towards the akuma.

—————————————

I will write a part 2 tomorrow but for now, it’s 3 am and I have a doctors appointment in 7 hours so I need my beauty sleep. I’ll even figure out how to put a link and everything so you can read from this part, just wait until tomorrow! Thanks for reading.

Here’s the link for part two

[michals]

Hi I've just read your Luther and Vanya request and I just love it. Could I please if it's no bother to you request another one but it's them both as kids.

Firstly: Thank you! Secondly:

-

She tries to focus on the music but she can only play her violin so loud and it doesn’t drown out the sounds of running feet and chatter on the other side of the door. Vanya had specifically gone to the library just to get away from it, but dad’s in his lab so the others have taken free reign of the whole house. They only get thirty minutes of free time on Saturdays so there’s always a frantic nature to the games they play, all of them intent on getting as much out the half hour that they can. Today’s game is tag. Of course they didn’t ask Vanya to join, they never do.

She’s twelve and is used to listening to her siblings play from a distance, from wherever she’s sequestered herself. She’d used to watch sometimes, from the edge of their circle, hoping one day one of them will actually look at her and invite her to play. She has faint memories from years ago where she wasn’t always the odd one out, but that changed.

She sighs, she can’t keep her mind on the sheet music. If she’s going to do it she has to do it right, it’s not worth it to play badly. She packs up her violin, careful as always. When the half hour’s up the others have training but she’ll stay in her room, waiting for dinner.

The hallway’s empty when she steps out and the day dream that one of the others would be out here waiting for her, would grab her hand and pull her into the game, dissipates like always. She makes her way to the back staircase, away from the noises.

But when she turns the corner she’s slammed into by another body and thrown into a sideboard, sprawling on the floor as a bust of Copernicus rolls down the hallway. She lets out a yelp at the burst of pain in her shin.

“I’m so sorry!” a voice says above her and she looks up to find Luther staring at her with wide eyes. No wonder she fell so hard, Luther’s not just the strongest he’s also the biggest of them. She's always felt even smaller than she is next to him.

“You’re hurt,” Luther says like he’s surprised at the sight of blood starting to well up on her scraped shin.

She realizes she’d hit the edge of the sideboard, the scrape is about four inches long, the skin already turning red. Still she mumbles, “I’m fine.”

She expects Luther to turn away, run off back to the game, only he doesn’t. He takes a hesitant step forward, eyes still on her leg, brow furrowed. “You need a tourniquet.”

Vanya raises her eyebrows though the expression is lost on him because of her bangs. “Uhm, no, I don’t think I do.”

He crouches down by her and she’s thrown, she can’t remember the last time her brother was this close to her.

“Dad just taught us this, it’s basic first aid,” there’s a hint of excitement in his voice at getting to put one of dad’s lessons into practice.

She pulls her leg in closer to her, she’s wary now. She doesn’t want to be a practice dummy for him to try out dad’s teachings on. He isn’t deterred by this though, doesn’t even notice, as he starts to loosen his tie.

Vanya holds her hand out, “Luther, I don’t think- I mean, it’s not a big deal.”

He stops, tie in hand. Vanya is still waiting for him to get up, roll his eyes at her and stalk off, annoyed that she won’t let him help. But still he doesn’t, looks at her like he’s not sure what to do.

She’s never been the sole focus of Luther’s attention; she’d been dubbed ‘ordinary’ and that seemed to put her on the bottom of his list of things that mattered. He isn’t cruel but he also never cares enough to bother with her. That he’s here, making her his only concern, makes her feel important.

She unbends her knee and puts her leg out for him to see. Satisfied that he’s allowed Luther winds the tie around her calf under her knee and ties it carefully. He’s been well aware of his strength for years and has had to compensate, it’s made him surprisingly mindful. Vanya doesn’t know much about first aid but the knot is probably too loose to even do what it’s supposed to. She doesn’t say anything though.

He stands, asks, “Can you walk?”

She gets to her feet, puts some weight on the leg. The thing is is that it doesn’t actually hurt all that much, not nearly enough to not be able to walk on it. But she pretends, picks her leg back up like she can’t bear it. She shakes her head, “No.”

There’s a beat of hesitation in Luther and she worries that he knows she’s faking, but then he turns around, crouches down a bit. He’s offering to carry her. It’s her turn to pause, feeling kind of bad that she doesn’t actually need him to, but then steps forward, wraps her arms around his neck and he hefts her up, putting his hands under her knees.

He starts to walk when she remembers, “Oh! My violin!”

It’s a few feet away from where she fell, Luther walks over and without warning dips Vanya sideways. “Can you grab it?”

She tightens her one arm in surprise, then leans out as far as she can, fingers reaching for the handle. Luther has to tilt even more and she worries they’re both going to tip over and end up on the floor again. They must look so goofy, she almost laughs.

She manages to snag it and pull it up, settling it across Luther’s chest, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Mom’s probably in the kitchen,” he says as he begins down the hall.

Luther often carries the others like it’s nothing. He has no problem picking Allison up whenever she asks, Ben when he’s too tired after a training session, Klaus when he pretends he’s the injured one, dramatically flopping on the floor til Luther puts him on his back. But he’s never carried Vanya.

He’d offered so easily, like she wasn’t the outcast, the extraneous child, the sister he never thought about. She misses it in a way that doesn’t make sense to her – how can she miss something that’s never happened? But that’s the feeling in her chest as he carries her down the hall. Maybe she misses all the ‘maybes’, the ‘what if’s. And she feels special.

They’re halfway to the kitchen when Diego suddenly flies out from the parlor, stopping in his tracks at the sight of them. Vanya’s struck by the feeling that she wants to cry. Luther’s going to drop her cause of course it’s Diego and Luther doesn’t want to be embarrassed in front of him. She’s not special.

But Luther doesn’t, again doing the exact opposite of what she expects from him.

“What’s going on?” Diego asks.

Luther gives a shrug that makes Vanya shift, “She got hurt. I’m taking her to mom.”

“Oh,” is all Diego says, looking over Luther’s shoulder at her. There’s that blank expression that she always got from all of them back when she still bothered asking if she could join their games – like they simply never considered it an option, considered her an option. Even Five, even though she was closest with him, didn’t think twice about it, as if it was hardwired in them not to.

It’s then that Five bursts into the hall, jumping forward and slapping Diego firmly on the back and running off laughing.

“Five you j-j- Ugh!” Diego yells, pivoting on his heel and darting off after him, Vanya and Luther immediately forgotten.

Luther doesn’t say anything, just starts walking again. Vanya tightens her arms a tiny bit around his shoulders, thankful and weirdly possessive, like it’s her turn for Luther’s attention for once. Her heart sinks when they reach the kitchen.

“Mom?” Luther calls walking in. She looks up from the bread dough she’s kneading. “Uhm, Vanya got hurt.”

“Oh honey!” Mom coos, coming over and immediately catching sight of her leg. “Let’s get you down to the infirmary and we’ll patch that right up.” She smiles reassuringly, briefly touching Vanya’s shoulder as she goes by, leading them to the basement steps. And still Luther doesn’t put her down.

When they get to the infirmary is finally when Luther crouches down and Vanya slips off his back. She sets her violin on the floor and hops up onto the medical table. She sits and feels like she’s too heavy, that gravity’s too strong.

Mom bustles over to her, starts to wash the scrape. Luther stands behind.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, “I really didn’t mean to.”

She nods, accepting the apology easily, “I know,” she says.

He smiles, relieved, and she feels herself smile too, for a moment she feels special again – but it’s dashed at the sound of Dad’s voice.

“Number One? What are you doing down here?” He stands just beyond the doorway, his expression harsh as he takes in the scene.

“Helping,” Luther says in a snap, his tone changing to serious and sharp. “She got hurt.”

Dad looks over at Vanya and she can’t help the way her heartbeat picks up. She doesn’t know what she’s done wrong, what Luther’s done, but she’s sure it’s got to be something. Dad’ll find something.

But Dad turns, says over his shoulder, “Come along Number One.”

“Yes sir,” and Luther follows quickly behind. He doesn’t spare a look back as they go.

“Does it hurt darling?” Mom asks, patting her shin dry before she picks up the bandages. Vanya shakes her head.

When Mom’s done Vanya walks back to her room, waits for dinner.

[annabethy]

under the mistletoe, watching the fire glow day 7: wrapping presents

Character can’t wrap gifts to save their life. Character B is their neighbor and can help,, percabeth

Percy should have known what went into being a single dad. He thought he did well enough, all things considered. By no means was he perfect, but he loves his daughter more than anything, and he always does his best.

Still, he did not ever thing that his biggest struggle as a parent would be wrapping presents for Christmas.

The pile of gifts he bought for his daughter sit in front of him, staring right into his soul. It’s embarrassing, because in his twenty-six years of life, he really hadn’t learned to wrap a present. It’s not like it’s a difficult concept — he is just severely incapable of making anything look pretty with wrapping paper.

Percy sighs and leans back, defeated. He tosses the tape dispenser recklessly in front of himself, rubbing his eyes tiredly. When he looks at the clock, he is both confused and personally offended that it could possibly be three in the morning on Christmas and he still has nothing done. It’s no one’s fault but his own, because he had time to get it done but decided to wait until approximately three hours before he knew his kid would be awake to attempt and fail miserably at wrapping presents.

He considers just giving up and not wrapping them at all — it’s not like she would really care — but then he remembers the pure excitement he would get as a child while peeling the paper off the presents, and he can’t bear to take that away from her.

He tries to think of a solution, but nothing comes to mind. He’s ready to just accept that he’s screwed up, but then it comes like a whisper in the back of his mind. He knows for a fact that his neighbor is a goddess at wrapping presents because he saw her hauling them in from the car earlier for her own daughter. He tries to tell himself to absolutely not wake her up at three in the morning, but the thought of sitting here struggling any longer makes him cave, and he finds himself standing on her porch minutes later in the freezing New York air.

He hesitates, then knocks lightly. It feels like forever awaiting a response, and he’s just about to give up and turn around when he hears the lock click open, and he is met with the sight of his neighbor looking thoroughly concerned.

“It’s three in the morning,” is the first thing she says.

Percy can’t help but stare at her for a good second. He doesn’t think they’ve talked more than once or twice since she moved in a few years ago, but maybe they should have because then maybe he would’ve known how pretty she actually was. Even on the brink of sleep, she managed to look put-together in her plain black leggings and oversized knitted sweater. Her hair was loose down her back, falling in cute ruffled ringlets, and he wants to reach out to smooth them down like he’s always done for his daughter.

Percy shifts nervously. “I know. I just – there’s an emergency?”

Annabeth blinks. Her hand is resting on the door handle like she’s about to slam it shut at any second. “Is everything okay?”

“No, yeah, everything’s fine.”

“Okay…” She looks around behind him, peering into the darkness like she expects there to be a hidden camera crew. “Are you going to tell me what the emergency is, or…?”

“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”

“You’re standing on my porch in the middle of the night on Christmas. I already think this is stupid.”

Percy scratches his neck, a heat slowly rising to his cheeks. “I got my daughter a ton of presents. And I also have a ton of wrapping paper. I just can’t seem to put two and two together and actually wrap the presents.”

“You haven’t wrapped any presents?”

“No.”

Annabeth looks thoroughly appalled by his statement. He can’t be too surprised. From the few times they have interacted, he’s always had the impression that she has her shit together. It’s part of the thing that’s always held him at a distance from her. He hated the way thinking of her felt.

Right now, he decides, he hates this feeling of uselessness even more.

“Can you help me wrap presents?”

Annabeth chokes on a laugh, wrapping her arms around herself. “What?”

“I really need help wrapping presents. Like, it’s bad. My living room is a mess, and I’m pretty sure my daughter is going to be awake in less than three hours.

“Hold on,” she says, holding up a hand. She looks more amused than anything now, which brings his nerves down. “You mean to tell me that you left your three-year-old daughter home alone so that you can come to my house at three in the morning on Christmas to ask for help wrapping presents?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god, Percy.”

“Listen.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Just be happy I didn’t show up with cookies and milk,” he says.

“The only thing that would make this better is if you did bring cookies and milk,” she replies.

Percy runs his fingers through his hair. “Can you help me or not?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a subtle smile splayed on her face. “Give me a minute.”

She goes back inside for a moment, and Percy just stands there waiting for her until she reappears. When she does, she’s holding a pack of stickers that he recognizes as those fancy Christmas labels.

“Assuming you don’t have any of these?” she asks, stepping past him.

“Now you’re just insulting me,” he says playfully, following her back along the sidewalk to his house. He opens his front door for her to step inside, and she does so for what she thinks is the first time.

Annabeth stops at the sight of his living room. “What happened!?”

“Wrapping paper and I are not friends.”

“I can see that,” she comments, setting her stuff down in the center of the room. She turns towards him while reaching up to tie her hair in a low bun. She cracks her knuckles dramatically, and she says, “Let’s get to work.”

Percy tries to help at first, but at some point, she swats his hand after using almost an entire roll of wrapping paper on just one present. He ends up sitting next to her as moral support, simply commenting on everything his delirious mind has to offer.

She looks… like a princess, is the best that Percy can come up with. She’s his own personal superhero, saving his ass on Christmas day, and she looks great doing it too. So warm and cute and small, the perfect size for holding in his arms, for cuddling, and kissing, and — what was he saying?

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” he asks.

“No!” She snatches away the scissors, waving them in his face. “I know you said you were bad at wrapping presents, but this is just…”

Percy smiles and leans his weight back on his hands. “Can I at least get you something to drink?”

“Coffee would be great.”

“Coming right up,” he says, getting to his feet. “Anything specific?”

“Whatever’s fine,” she says.

From the kitchen, he can see her working. She’s sprawled out on the floor taping a piece of wrapping paper with snowflakes on it onto a pink scooter. She looks so concentrated, her tongue sticking out through her lips as she focuses, and he is compelled to kiss away the scrunch on her forehead. It’s weird, because he’s never had a true conversation with her, but he finds himself wishing that he had sooner.

The coffee finishes brewing, and he brings it back to her side, holding it in front of her face. She hums in appreciation, dropping what’s in her hands to grasp the sides of the mug. As she takes a sip, she sighs and gives him a soft grin.

“Nothing like the taste of coffee in the middle of the night,” she says, setting it down. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” And as he sits down next to her again, he notices that the presents are all nearly wrapped. “This means a lot to me, Annabeth. I don’t know what else I would have done.”

“Don’t worry about it. Wrapping presents is my passion.”

He smirks. “So you’re that type of mom.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Jackson?” She raises a brow. “I’d like to remind you that that type of mom is currently doing your parenting for you.”

“It’s not a bad thing!” he insists. “It’s cute that you like wrapping presents.”

“Wrapping presents is not cute. It is a serious competitive sport. Cutthroat competition.”

“See? Cute.”

Annabeth laughs, shoving his knee with her socked foot. She takes the mug of coffee back in her hands and takes a long sip. “Look who’s talking.”

“Oh?” he teases. “I’m cute?”

“Sure,” she says, shrugging and nodding towards a small barbie box. “How could I not find it adorable that you are physically incapable of wrapping a square box?”

“So by cute, you mean easy to bully?” he asks, sniffing.

“Yeah, but you’re also just really cute in general.”

“How nice of you,” he says sarcastically.

“I’m serious, though. How have we never had a conversation before?”

“Because you’re you and I’m me.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“It means that you know what you’re doing, and I don’t.”

She laughs in his face. “I do not know what I’m doing in the slightest.”

“At least you can wrap presents.”

“You just have to practice,” she says. “Come here. I’ll help you do the last one.”

As Percy slides in next to her, she puts the scissors into his hands and scoots in even closer. He can feel her body heat radiating against his chest as she leans into him. She points out where for him to cut, and he follows her directions. He’s distracted by the way she smells. It’s dizzying, feeling her those close. She guides his hands with the paper, carefully tucking the paper into perfect creases, taping the wrapping taught.

It’s hands-down the best present he’s ever wrapped, though it was still Annabeth doing most of the work.

“There you go,” she says, smiling. “And now you know how to wrap a present.”

Instead of responding, he looks around the room. The sun is just beginning to rise in the skyline, the black space around them hinting at dawn. When he looks at the time, he realizes that it’s a little bit past six. It doesn’t feel like that much time has passed, but somehow it has.

Annabeth helps him clean up quickly and shove the presents underneath the tree. She comments on a few of the homemade ornaments, mentioning how much she loves the ones with the little handprints made with patchy glitter.

She’s looking at the tree, but Percy, he notices, is looking right at her, and he can’t bring himself to look away. She turns around again, shoots him a smile, and makes her way to the door. Percy follows her to walk her out. As he opens the door, she steps outside, and with the snowy background, he’s never seen a more perfect picture.

“Thank you so much,” he says. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Of course. It was surprisingly fun.” They stare at each other, unsure of what they’re supposed to say next, but then she says, “I should get back. She’s going to be waking up soon.”

“Was she home alone?”

Annabeth shakes her head, biting her lip in a smile. “A friend was home.”

Percy nods, and then he thinks he wants to see her again. “Do you have anything to do later today? After opening presents and stuff?”

She pretends to think, a subtle glow to her skin. “I can’t say that I do.”

“You’re welcome to come over,” he offers. “The girls could play together, and you could try my Christmas cookies.”

“I hope they’re better than your wrapping,” she teases.

“You’ll have to come over and find out.”

“Hm. I guess I will.” Annabeth steps away but seems to think better of it as she moves closer again. She smiles at him, lifts onto her toes, and kisses him once. It’s short and sweet but leaves him wanting to pull her closer to him when she pulls away. She doesn’t say anything as she turns on her heel back to her house, leaving Percy melting in a puddle behind her.

Maybe, he thinks, it was a good thing that he didn’t know how to wrap presents. And if she was going to make him learn anyways, which he quickly learns she would, well…

Percy certainly doesn’t mind one bit.

[ladyofpandemonium]

iii. another one bites the dust

series masterlist | fic playlist

     There is something about the cursed energy in the air—that, and the putrid scent, dense and vile enough to make one want to vomit. Long before you, Satoru had realized the cursed spirit isn’t a first grade; it is a special grade. Several things about its behaviour also makes him think this one has something to do with Sukuna—or, more specifically, one of his fingers. Still, he’d let you wander off alone. What’s the worst that could happen? If things go south—which they will—Satoru will be there and then you’ll owe him Kikufuku.

    Yes, that was the plan. Still, he knows your capabilities are far inferior to his own. So he keeps a lookout for any significant spikes in cursed energy—something he is familiar with—as he strides along the grey concrete, hands buried in his pockets as if he were taking a walk in the park. The cursed spirit, at least this one, seems to be the type that doesn’t come out unless provoked, which is why Satoru finally calls out to it after a few minutes of boredom.

    “HEY, PENIS POWER!!!” Satoru drags the ‘r’ out, mocking, “Compare sizes?” When the void remains silent, he sighs, “Scared it off, huh?”

    And then the thought crosses his mind; perhaps the spirit has found you instead. After all, the building sprawls over a significantly large perimeter and the two of you could be on opposite ends of it. He pauses in his tracks, slipping his phone from his pocket to dial your number only to find four missed calls in the last few minutes. Time to go.

    Within a minute, most of the lower floors have already been scouted by him, all except the parking lot, slightly behind the side of the building. Before Satoru can warp again, the building before him explodes like a piñata, bricks and debris raining on him as if a hale storm unleashed. Though his infinity prevents even a single spec of dust from touching his form, Satoru warps a good distance from the area. As he lands atop your car, he catches sight of your figure ripping through a concrete column.

    Did she miss or…?

    Whether you missed the target or intentionally blew up the building, Satoru doesn’t have time to decide. Instead, he chooses to make quick work of the special grade over whatever entertainment he could have possibly drawn from this winning battle. He pulls his blindfold down, as if in a hurry, before activating his technique; blue, the maximized form.

    Then, a void forms by the cursed spirit, alerting it enough to jump away. Regardless, as if it has a mind of its own, the void chases, sucking everything in its range like the vacuum it is. Try as the spirit might to destroy the force with huge blobs of its own concentrated cursed energy, its attacks are absorbed just as all other matter is.

    Despite the gravitational pull from the void, your body stays still and Satoru is quick to warp to and from the pillar you’re slumped against once his subconscious has pieced together your unconsciousness.

    Not a minute later, the force consumes the spirit as well, ripping a distorted screech from it. The void draws in its depths the crumbles of the building surrounding the area before snapping into nothing as if it never existed. All that’s left behind is a crusty finger—Sukuna’s finger; maroon-ish in colour, dry, scaly as if mummified.

    As the last of the spirit’s energy dissipates with its demise and only Sukuna’s finger remains, Satoru veers his eyes from it and focuses them on you. A moment passes with him crouched over, your head on his thigh; but you don’t wake, not even when he dares shake you as gently as he can manage without knowledge of the extent of your injuries. You’re not dead; he can tell as much, but you’re also irresponsive and scantily clothed.

    His eyes pendulum between you and the finger, out in the open where other, less powerful cursed spirits can consume it for the much-attractive cursed energy radiating off it. With a tense jaw, he lowers his knee to the ground next to the other and moves your head to rest on the concrete before standing again to retrieve the mummified finger. As he stalks over to the cursed object, dragging his blindfold back up over his eyes, Satoru looks over his shoulder. It’s not like you would disappear—you are unconscious, still lying next to your car, the while parking lines serving as your pillow—but he needs to make sure you’re there.

    With divided attention, he nearly steps on Sukuna’s finger but pauses mid-step to pick the cursed thing up and slip it into his pant pocket like it isn’t the sorcerer’s equivalent of a nuclear bomb.

    Time to call Ijichi. That’s what he always does; call the poor assistant and leave the cleaning up to him. As he scrolls through his recent calls, striding quickly back to your body, Satoru grimaces.

    I’d rather not hear from the higher-ups.

    With a sigh, Satoru strips himself of his jacket, replacing your form with his. He can’t quite find your car keys and, to be honest, Satoru can’t be bothered with driving and traffic. Not when he does not know the extent of your injuries. Mind made up, he crouches low to gather you in his arms, then warps to your apartment that he recalls is nestled in a highrise somewhere in Ikebukuro.

    Not one to need a key thanks to his warping abilities, Satoru actually bothers to take his shoes off right behind the closed door. It’s not at all entertaining when you won’t come marching out of the apartment to chastise him about the rug that is regrettably white.

    It takes him an odd amount of time to find your bedroom because he’s never been allowed that far into your home. Once he awkwardly pries the door open, a relieved sigh slips past his lips as he lays you down. You’re still unresponsive and that makes him uneasy so he does what he does best: tease. “You are heavy.” He calls out, waving his arm as if it is sore from carrying your form home when all he did was warp. It barely took a minute.

    “Nevermind,” Satoru runs his hands through his frosty hair, “This isn’t fun when you’re asleep.”

    Then, he realizes he can’t call Ieiri here because he has absolutely no idea where your keys are and that he should have taken you back to Jujutsu Tech instead, to Ieiri. With his third grimace of the day, Satoru leaves your room, closing the door behind him and fishes out his phone to call Ieiri anyway.

    When the doctor and Ijichi make their way here, a rather frustrated Ijichi wishes he received a call from Satoru earlier instead of having to pick your lock and practically break into your apartment, almost caught by your neighbour. With a glass of water left by your beside in silence after Ieiri is finished, Satoru leaves with the two and his jacket to deliver Sukuna’s nearly-forgotten finger to Jujutsu Tech.

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