#and Scar outright refused him on a number of occasions

[smoozie]

Oh yeah just realized Scar and Grian finally have the kind of alliance Grian was desperately trying to get with him in Last Life

[mssirey]

Hope (part 6)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5

Ushering Alex out with little more than an exchange of stiff nods and the understanding that their hands were tied—Kara’s weighty gaze leaving little other option—was the start of a shift in the landscape. Lena had drawn an ace that was never meant to be dealt to her and it unsettled Lex.

It showed first in Kara, manifested in little twitches, which Lena soon associated with Kara denying her own impulses—the ones provided by Lex’s input. On occasion, Kara would begin to repeat “Alex is not present and not a threat”, as if saying so relieved the need for her to respond to her programming, while returning to the singular line of coding she had written for herself.

Lena was certain it wouldn’t hold up, but she didn’t need it to. All she needed was to make Lex sweat enough to let his impatience and ego get the better of him. She encouraged new lines of thought, fed Kara new loopholes, ones Lex patched just as quickly as they were planted. They both knew that if any took root, his foothold would eventually erode, and he would lose some of the leverage that kept her from taking more bold action.

Lena had hoped to create a window to meet with Alex, the only ally she was aware had any sense that the world wasn’t right, to learn what had awakened her, but ultimately that was a pipedream. Lex was quick to give up their tug of war, eager to put her back in her place.

She was summoned—unable to refuse—to a basement lab she recognized with a twisting in her gut. It housed a cell of her own design, designed to contain Sam as she fought against Reign for control of her own mind, the parallels more distasteful than Lena cared for.

Lex did not boast his typical air of smugness. He was reduced to a boy, too spoiled to recognize his own entitlement, thrown into a fit of fury when denied his favorite toy. The difference was he could lash out without consequence and Lena would bear the brunt of his outrage.

“You think you’re cute,” he mocked her with the question, his voice overfilling the room, happy to make Lena shrink just so there was air enough to breathe. He snapped his finger and pointed to the floor before himself, demanding Lena heel, taking every opportunity to get under her skin. Kara’s weight shifted, an inch gained in the ground between them, and Lena wasn’t the only one to take notice. “Sit, dog,” he sneered.

Lena walked forward to avoid seeing Kara’s knee bend to him, subjected herself instead to his ire. The back of his hand sent white pain through her cheek to flare in one eye before settling into a dull throbbing as her neck pulled sharply. It took a moment to clear her vision and right her posture, but she didn’t otherwise flinch. “Dear sister, you clearly haven’t learned that misbehaving has consequences.”

Lena had been his outlet in the past, and while the scars were etched into more than her skin, she was hardened to his outright violence. He was always more effective when composed, his insidious tongue doing more to cut her down.

Lex exhaled a heaving sigh, smoothed his suit out, and fixed her with a vile smirk. “Tell me, Lena, what would happen if Hope was deactivated?”

Lena’s jaw tensed, inviting a roiling wave of nausea to wash through her. She knew exactly what Lex wanted to hear and had no reason to skirt around it. “Hope operates largely in the empathy center of the brain and with deactivation, Kara would become a being of pure instinct.”

Lex’s smirk twisted wider. “Close. She would become a predator of pure instinct, and you the prey that played at being her master.” He activated a monitor that displayed a large countdown timer, affording only ten minutes. “This room cannot contain her, but it will contain you,” he promised, before taking his leave as the numbers began to run down.

Nothing needed to be spelled out further. Lena could still command Kara while Hope was active. Lex forced her to make the choice between Kara and the risk she posed. Ten minutes wasn’t nearly enough time, not for the downward spiraling hopes she had.

Lena hadn’t moved from her spot, stared blankly ahead as her mind scrambled for any alternative, but all she could imagine was a beastial, hurt Kara throwing herself against the walls of her prison, feral and seething. Lena found herself debating the merits of setting Kara loose on the world.

“I am a threat.” Lena turned in time to see Kara rise from the floor. “I am a threat,” she repeated as she strode with jerky steps to the open cell door.  “I am a threat. I am a threat. I am a threat.”

Lena’s voice died in her throat, coming out as only a hoarse whisper of breath, her ribs ready to crack as the gravity in her heart tugged inward. She staggered as she trailed behind, but Kara barred her from entering the cell, hands holding her wrists one last time. She regarded Lena with the same hollow smile. “You must think of your health, Ms. Luthor.”

Part 7

[sodapill]

days like television

words: 3.9k

relationships: denji & hayakawa aki & power, implied akiangel

ao3 link

a/n: here’s something i wrote exploring the dynamic of the hayakawa household from denji’s pov!

cw: mild emetophobia, smoking, ptsd

These days, Denji finds himself greeting every morning with a face full of cat fur.

These days, Denji finds himself greeting every morning with a face full of cat fur.

Nyako has taken a liking to sleeping in his room, and she’s got a strict routine that he’s expected to follow. Breakfast doesn’t begin at the reasonable time after Aki doles out their portions, but rather whenever Nyako demands it, usually before the sun has peaked past the horizon and always when Denji is dead asleep.

Her favorite method of waking him used to be persistent yowling, but recently she’s adopted a new strategy—settling the length of her pudgy stomach over his head and cutting off his air supply.

It’s devious but effective, and as Denji’s body kicks into fight or flight from lack of oxygen, he can’t help but think they’ve raised a spoiled brat.

Power claims that’s how all pets are, but Pochita never refused the pathetic scraps of food Denji managed to scrounge up for their sporadic meal times. Nyako is the odd one for being a normal cat with normal needs.

It’s a good thing Denji is “nothing if not adaptable,” a phrase Aki used once that he’s since latched onto. Whether Aki meant it as an insult or not is irrelevant.

Occasionally growing a chainsaw for a head has made him realize he can adapt to pretty much anything. The hardest part of it all was learning to live with other people, and Denji sort of manages that. What difference does a daily smothering make in the grand scheme of things?

He’s gotten used to pulling a purring Nyako from his face so he can trudge to the kitchen and open a can of cat food. It’s considered one of his chores anyway—and yeah, they have a chore chart now.

That was all Aki, of course. Fed up with the stacks of unwashed dishes and dirty clothes strewn across the living room floor, he’d cooked and then withheld a delicious hotpot dinner until Denji and Power both agreed to work out a schedule. They’d decided to cycle cleaning throughout the week and set Saturday as laundry day. That way there was no excuse for Power to walk around in her underwear under the guise of not having anything to wear. It was her idea that the penalty for missing a chore be losing a finger, and Aki added it to the chart like that wasn’t something he’d ever have to worry about.

Denji didn’t want to give either of his housemates the satisfaction, so he’d gotten used to doing chores.

Begrudgingly.

Make no mistake—he can get used to anything, but he doesn’t have to like it. He’s learned to tolerate doing dishes like he tolerates the acrid smell of second-hand smoke filling his lungs whenever Aki feels like having a cig indoors. Bad smells never bothered him when he’d lived in poverty, but the weight of smoke in particular is stomach-turning.

As he’s forced to crack open a window and watch Nyako slink a similar retreat onto the sill, Denji considers how all this luxury has possibly made him a bit spoiled too.

After all, not everything he grows accustomed to is outright shitty.

For all her annoying living habits, Power proves to be a low-maintenance roommate. Her moods fluctuate so wildly, if she finds anything to complain about in the first place, she’s over it by the next turn of the clock. She also takes bizarre pride in completing her chores, dragging him or Aki around the apartment to boast of what a good job she’s done.

She pouts if they don’t praise her enough—but whatever. Denji is used to it.

Her constant chatter becomes less annoying the more time they spend together, until he realizes the apartment is too quiet on the rare occasion she’s not there. The sound of her exchanging meows with Nyako reminds him he’s home, and even her cackling laugh soon registers as comforting background noise.

Similarly, Denji now recognizes the shifts in Aki’s tone well enough to know if he’s actually in trouble, versus if Aki is scolding him for the sake of propriety. Denji watches for other tells when pulling pranks with Power—an indulgent shake of the head and a tug at the corner of Aki’s lips means they’re in the clear.

It's easy to pinpoint exactly what shade of melancholy he’s drifted into just by counting the number of consecutive cigarettes he pulls from the pack. Two is contemplative—four, somber. Anything past that means they’ll have to arrange for takeout that night.

Aki is consistent, and when he starts drifting in and out of rooms like he’s lost something, his fingers trailing the walls as if navigating in the dark, Denji knows he’s actually looking for a distraction. In those moments, Denji makes an effort to act extra obnoxious, riling Power up in turn until Aki has no choice but to pay attention to them and forget whatever bad memory he’d gotten hung up on.

Gathering facts about the people he lives with isn’t a conscious choice. It’s instinctual, like how his body expects food on the regular. He’d put up with a constant state of starvation for his entire adolescence, doing odd jobs on an empty stomach like it was nothing. Now it ruins his entire day if he doesn’t get at least three meals. What’s crazier, his body punishes him when he takes advantage of the unrestricted access to food.

Aki’s cooking is good. So good in fact, that for a large span of time, Denji is constantly shifting into “eat as much as possible” mode, left over from when food was scarce. This results in several post-meal puke sessions, made all the more miserable because Denji’s body is pretty much invincible, right? He’d thought whatever devils were made out of meant they were above this shit. Ending up with his face inside a toilet bowl has forced him to rethink his previous assumptions.

It sucks waiting for his body to adjust alongside his brain, but Power and Aki do their best to make it more bearable. The first time Power kneels beside him on the cold tile, he’s sure she’s there to laugh at his misery—it wouldn't be the first time. He’s bewildered when instead, she places both palms on his back and rubs them vigorously up and down in what must be her version of a soothing caress. She doesn’t laugh or even complain, and only when his stomach is empty and he’s slumped against the wall in exhaustion does she get up and fetch Aki, who steps into the bathroom with a soldier's solemnity to deposit a mug of hot tea into Denji’s hands.

It happens enough times where Denji doesn’t bother to ask questions, filing it away as one of those things that fits into an unnamed category of half shitty, half not so shitty—like movie nights.

The three of them have vastly different tastes, Aki with his mind-numbing art house flicks and Power’s penchant for talking animal movies made for literal children. Denji doesn’t know what genre he likes most, but it’s definitely not either of those.

It’s an unspoken rule that they have to watch each one all the way through. Aki is the type to sit in complete silence because talking “ruins the integrity of the film,” whatever that means, and Denji’s running commentary annoys him to no end.

Denji and Power make bets each time on how long it’ll take him to snap or huff out a laugh.

On the rare occasion it’s Denji’s turn to choose, he splits the difference and puts on something from the best seller section at the video store. With this method, they all have to suffer through garbage, but occasionally he’ll stumble across a good movie—one he doesn’t mind staying quiet for. He watches Aki and Power rather than the television screen, their rapt attention filling him with an odd sense of pride.

Denji categorizes those nights as not so shitty.

After a while, he gets so used to the good and bad mundanities of domestic living, he can’t even imagine what a change in routine would look like.

Then they go to Hell, and instead of cat fur, Denji is more often violently jerked awake to the sound of Power’s screams.

She’s more dependent than ever before, clinging to Denji at all times like an extra limb. When the sun begins to set outside their windows, she startles at every sound, working herself into a panic while her nails dig half-moon circles into his arms that he’s sure would leave permanent scars were he fully human.

Looking after her turns out to be even more work than getting up at the crack of dawn to feed Nyako—but for some reason, Denji can’t bring himself to resent her for it.

He takes on the responsibility of comforting her with a resilience he never knew he had, going as far as holding her hand each night while she struggles to calm down enough to fall asleep.

Power isn’t the only one Denji has to keep an eye on.

At first, he doesn’t notice the way Aki will sometimes stop cold in the middle of cutting vegetables, gripping the knife handle hard enough to whiten his knuckles as a shudder of something awful passes through his body. He’s good at hiding it, and when Denji catches the tail end of one of these attacks, Aki brushes it off like it’s nothing.

It’s only after Aki suddenly sinks to the floor in the middle of a conversation, his hand clutching at the place where his missing arm wouldn’t reattach, that Denji realizes he’s overlooked something important.

Phantom limb syndrome, Aki explains, is an ongoing side effect of losing a limb wherein the brain gets mixed signals from the area of severance and translates them in the only way it knows how—as pain. He rambles off some more medical science that goes completely over Denji’s head, but from what he can gather, this affliction is severe, unavoidable, and sometimes life long. There’s no cure, but as with other chronic conditions, the goal is learning to manage it the best you can.

The thought of Aki suffering in silence makes Denji want to deck him as much as it makes him want to find a solution for his pain. He juggles these warring impulses until Aki clenches his jaw and looks away—and Denji understands that Aki won’t spend any extra energy looking after himself by choice.

So Denji and Power force him to.

They keep a hot pack in the cabinet above the microwave, and when Aki shows even the slightest sign of falling under the grip of pain, they warm it up and force him to sit with it pressed to the aching muscle. They know it’s particularly bad when Aki doesn’t bother hiding how much it hurts, and in those moments they take turns massaging his shoulder.

Aki refuses to speak with them during, so Denji and Power talk to each other, treating the situation like it’s something they’ve always done.

Denji doesn’t comment on Aki’s silence. He’s come to understand that there are some things they don't need to say aloud. When you’ve lived with a person long enough, you can share a thought with just a gesture, or pick up on ideas that you can't put into words

Power doesn't need to tell him she appreciates his company on her bad nights. Likewise, he doesn’t need to voice why he doesn’t mind taking care of her. He couldn’t even if he tried.

And when Denji questions Aki on why he’s wearing a glove indoors, Aki only has to shoot a single warning look to shut him up.

Later that night, Aki welcomes the Angel Devil into their apartment.

One arm between the two of them—Denji thinks that's pretty funny, but he doesn’t say so. Instead, he hangs back as Power slinks around their guest like she’s investigating a new play thing.

Angel endures her attention for a short time, then flicks Denji a cool look and tucks his wings in, settling on the couch without a word.

Aki hovers in the foyer, glancing between the three of them like he’s waiting for a fight to break out. It’s such a dumb look on him that Denji takes it upon himself to make the first move.

He plops down on the arm rest and asks Angel outright if he’s ever tried using the thing floating above his head as a frisbee.

Angel rolls his eyes and informs Denji that his halo is sharp enough to slice through metal.

“Sounds like a challenge,” Denji shoots back, and he’s sure Aki’s surprise mirrors his own when the corner of Angel’s mouth lifts into a smirk.

“By all means, be my guest,” he says, inclining his head in invitation.

Denji moves to take Angel up on his offer, but Aki comes back to himself and catches Denji’s hand in a tight hold. He then spends several minutes lecturing them both on how hard it is to get blood stains out of upholstery.

The rest of the night is...well, it’s still weird. But Aki so obviously wants it not to be that they all pretend for his sake. While he cooks dinner, Denji and Power keep their surprise guest company.

Angel is surprisingly talkative when prompted, though he always seems to veer their conversations into the morose. At one point, he stares glumly at Nyako snoozing on the counter and warns them to watch her closely.

“Cats don’t actually have nine lives,” he remarks, “I learned that the hard way.”

Denji doesn’t say anything when Aki lays out enough food to feed a small army, all special dishes that he’d never cook for Power or Denji even if they begged. He digs in without a word, and it’s a good thing his mouth is stuffed, otherwise he’d be gaping at the way Aki carefully feeds Angel, every so often lifting a glass of water to his lips.

They follow up dinner with ice cream—which must be Angel’s favorite as Aki spoons him two extra helpings—and then Power is tugging at Denji’s arm, urging him to come take a bath with her.

He relents under the assumption that Angel will be gone by the time they’re done washing up. But about half an hour later, Denji exits the bathroom toweling off his hair to find Angel is still there, sitting close to Aki. They’re angled towards each other, Aki’s arm thrown over the back of the couch and the fabric of his long sleeve shirt brushing the tops of Angel’s wings.

They both look up at Denji when he enters the room. Angel’s expression appears bored as usual, but Aki’s is strange, his face relaxed in an unfamiliar way.

Denji opens his mouth, then decides better.

Aki stands, helping Angel up with a steady gloved hand to his back, and it takes everything Denji has in him to stay quiet as Aki mumbles an awkward goodnight, shepherding Angel down the hall and into his room.

Denji immediately makes up an excuse to run to the convenience store so he can check the balcony outside Aki’s room from street level. Sure enough, Aki and Angel are leaning up against the railing, heads inclined as if they’re speaking in low tones.

Denji watches Aki light himself a cigarette. He offers the box to Angel, who says something that actually makes Aki laugh, the sound ringing clear even from a distance. Placing a second cigarette in Angel’s mouth, Aki holds his own steady between two fingers, bending forward to meet the smoldering end to Angel’s unlit one. A pinpoint glow of orange flares in the dark space between their faces like a morning star.

Denji turns away, stuffs his hands in his empty pockets, and decides he’ll swing by the convenience store after all.

By the time he gets back, Angel is gone.

Aki is once again sitting on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen with a stupid smile on his face, and Denji has to say something.

It turns out Aki can punch just as hard with one arm as with two.

After that, Denji pays closer attention. Without intending, he starts to notice the way Aki sometimes looks at him and Power—though he can’t focus long enough to figure out what those looks mean. They’re gentle and wistful in a way that makes Denji want to pull at Aki’s cheeks and mold a better expression.

He tries it once, but that puts Aki in a foul mood for hours so he doesn’t do it again.

Things get even more confusing on a night where they’re all sprawled out on the carpet. The movie Aki puts on is so boring it knocks Power out in minutes, her head pillowed in the crook of Denji’s arm. He starts drifting off soon after.

It happens as he’s on the verge of sleep. His mind is muddled to the world around him, but for a second, he imagines he feels Aki place an ear to his chest.

Denji is sure he dreamt it until he walks in on Aki in the same position over a napping Power, his cheek pressed to her collarbone and his brows furrowed in concentration.

Denji backs out of the room and thinks there’s something he’s missing here.

The next time Aki is in the kitchen, Denji tests a theory, loudly announcing that he’s going to take a nap before stretching out on the couch. He feigns sleep long enough to rethink his entire strategy—when he finally hears Aki pause his task and tread softly across the room.

Denji struggles to keep a straight face as Aki kneels beside the couch and lowers an ear to his chest, keeping it there much too long for someone trying not to get caught. Eventually, he heaves a great sigh and pulls away, returning to the kitchen like he’d never left.

So, yeah. There’s the whole listening to their heartbeats thing.

Another quirk to add onto the list of Aki behavior that Denji doesn’t understand but has to accept.

Aki is still Aki. He still shouts at them when they break things, still cooks their meals and tolerates their company—though, maybe tolerates isn’t the right word anymore.

Denji is flipping through the pages of a porno mag when one of the ads catches his eye. A smiling woman in a bikini holds up a machine with a handle on top and an open space in the middle. He thinks it might be some crazy sex thing, but he has Power read the description, and she tells him it’s for making a dessert called “shaved ice.”

Neither of them know what that is, but the ad makes it sound like the best thing ever—

“—and it can be ours for the low price of two-thousand yen!” Power shouts, smacking the magazine against his arm.

Denji tears out the ad and goes to pester Aki into buying it for them.

Aki bitches and moans about wasting money on useless shit, but after getting it out of his system, he puts down the laundry he was folding and snatches the page from Denji’s hand, dialing the number with a sour expression. He’s curt over the phone, reading off his credit card details like someone has a gun to his head. Denji wishes he could see the face of the unlucky salesperson on the other line.

“Denji.” Aki says, and Denji tilts his head before realizing he’s not being spoken to. Aki pauses, and then directs a puzzled frown his way. “Last name?”

Denji shrugs.

Aki blinks at him, the furrow between his brow smoothing as if in stunned realization. After a bizarre stretch of silence, he readjusts his hold on the handset and glances away, mumbling out, “Hayakawa. Hayakawa Denji.”

When he eventually hangs up, his gaze stays trained on the far wall like he’s lost in thought. Denji decides not to test his luck by sticking around, but Aki catches his wrist as he goes to leave.

“What?” Denji grumbles. “I said thank you, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t, actually,” Aki replies dryly, but there’s no real reproval in his tone. “That’s not—just hold on a minute.”

His faltering words give Denji pause. He shakes off Aki’s hand but stays put.

“Listen,” Aki begins, messing with the pile of clothes he’d left aside. He unfolds a shirt, holds it out, and then folds it again, all the while not meeting Denji’s eye. “If you or Power ever needed— If for some reason I wasn’t here...and you needed something for documents…”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?” Denji asks, and thinks of their work. “If you’re traveling we can call you.”

Aki turns to him then, something unreadable in his thousand-yard stare.

It’s like facing a door labeled, “do not open.”

Aki sighs and looks away. “Forget it.”

And Denji does forget—until a fews days later when a package arrives at their doorstep postmarked to one Hayakawa Denji.

Placing the box on the living room table, he studies the characters of his given name, covering and uncovering them with his palm. He’d never noticed how incomplete they looked without a surname to go before. The sight turns rusty gears in his head, almost like he’s on the verge of understanding an important truth.

Power bowls him over in her excitement before he comes to a conclusion.

They leave the setup to Aki, who confiscates the shaved ice maker and reads the instructions with the two of them hovering over his shoulder. It turns out to be very simple, just a matter of filling the upper compartment with ice and turning the lever. The machine wobbles below Aki’s hand, so Denji holds it steady, watching with fascination as snow-like flakes collect in the bowl underneath. The novelty wears off a little when he dips a finger in to taste and finds it flavorless like regular ice, but Aki bats his hand away and pulls out a bottle of blue liquid.

“Flavor syrup,” he says, scanning the label. “Hawaiian Blast—what’s that supposed to be?”

Whatever it is, it tastes delicious drizzled over the ice flakes, sweet and refreshing like no dessert Denji has ever had.

Power gobbles up the first serving faster than Aki can make more, and he’s unsympathetic to the excruciating brain freeze that earns her.

She flicks the lever and turns to Denji with a conspiratorial grin. “Think it would work with blood?”

“Great idea,” Aki says, chin in hand. “Why not make this perfectly innocent activity fucked up and evil?”

Power sticks her vibrant blue tongue out at him.

Denji hates getting cut open on principle, so he appeases her by mashing up strawberries with condensed milk into a gory looking topping they can all enjoy. Even Nyako gets to lick a drop off his finger.

Aki takes his first bite and gazes into his bowl like it’s a window into a far off time and place. “I haven’t had this since I was a kid.”

“Old man,” Denji snickers.

Power echoes him at double the volume, falling back and kicking her legs in the air. The motion disturbs Nyako, who clambers off her lap and settles at Aki’s feet

“Oh, shut it,” Aki says, but the hint of a smile softens his tone into fondness. He scratches at Nyako’s ear. “At least you’re on my side.”

Shaken by her cat’s betrayal, Power stammers out, “‘Tis only pity! Nyako feels nothing but pity for humans, just like her master!”

“Is that so?” Aki raises a brow and—to Power’s great dismay—makes a show of lifting Nyako into his lap. “Lucky us then.”

“Yeah,” Denji says, a brilliant grin working its way onto his face. “Lucky us.”

[thearcanaartificer]

Okay! These are not the next ones I had, but I crunched through this ask list faster. Here is the original post. I will be cutting off my post a bit because I will only be doing half here and half in another post.

Thank you to those that are reading this and enjoying it. If you ever want to chat, I love talking.

OC asks that reveal more than you think.

1. Do they sleep with a stuffed animal? If they have multiple, who’s the favorite?

She has a few. She made a lot of stuffed animals when she was regaining a lot of her motor skills as a way to practice stitching and pattern making, though most she donated to the local orphanage for the children there and a few have been given to her pets. She likes making stylized bunnies, dogs, cats, birds, and teddy bears. Asra had to hide most of her old ones she had from their childhood- even the ones she had made him when he was ten.

Her most prized one is actually one that she found that Asra didn’t hide very well. A black bunny with mismatched button eyes. She calls it Pumpkin (Yes, she had just bitten into some of Sesali’s pumpkin bread when she named the thing). It’s not well put together and the type of stitching that was used is the wrong choice- like a surgeon had sewn it together like they would a laceration- and messy, but the thing is worn and obviously well loved. She felt attached to it from the first moment she discovered it.

She use to chew on its ears a lot when she was first recovering from her amnesia as a from of comfort. She’s stopped since then, but she takes the best care of it since its the only part of her past that she seems to be able to hold on to without headaches.

2. Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child?

Yes to all three! Though she is a bit of a scatterbrain when she’s in the middle of a big thought or job, she’s actually very good at taking care of things. Plants are easy enough, just water them and make sure they are maintained and make sure they get the right amount of sunlight. Boom. Done.

Pets, she has a multitude and some of them are exotic, so she has a few rescues scattered around Vesuvia to keep them properly cared for and has actually hired other Vopels to keep them for her. But she has at least five at home that are hers to care for and she takes very good care of them. Her dog is almost always by her side, her cat is intelligent enough to find her when he wants her company, and her familiar is a bird, so he comes and goes but she always has bones ready for him if he doesn’t want to have to scavenge.

3. Ask them to describe their love interest.

Big dumb, leggy bird of a man.

Okay, she knows he’s not dumb. He’s honestly one of the smartest men she knows- but he does dumb things when left unsupervised! So when she’s trying to describe him in a way that doesn’t give away the fact that he’s Julian Devorak- the wanted ‘murderer’ of the Count- she calls him that.

But if she’s asked to describe her love the right way? He’s a handsome man with the prettiest wild russet red curls of hair, strong nose, and a charismatic energy that will just pull you in. He wears mostly dark colors with at least one flashy bright one for dramatic flair and stands above the rest of the crowd with his height. He may be wearing his eye patch- no he doesn’t need it, its for the aesthetics, thankyouverymuch. He’s brilliant and kind and despite his towering, threatening looking frame, would rather cling tightly to her hand and draw courage from her presence. But he’s brave with or without her. He’s tender and altruistic and plays the part of being confident, but can get nervous and anxious if left alone in his head too long.

4. Do they look good in red?

She thinks she looks good in anything that isn’t predominately white or pastel. So red? Throw in some black or dark greys and yeah, she could work it.

She’d prefer orange though…

5. Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech! Will they give one, and what about?

Yes, she’d give you one. No, you don’t want her too. Hers are a bit complicated and unending and always to the wrong audience. One minute she’s giving some normal speech about whatever the occasion is and next, she’s trying to teach a bunch of drunks the nonlinear properties of the magic realms and how to navigate their way through time lapses, its like the folds of fabric with how they intermingle and touch from one time to another, and the different realms can be tricky based on their patterns and-hey Juli put me down! I’m trying to give a speech about- why are we leaving?!

6. Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is?

Old Glory, surprisingly. She’ll take most advice from other Vopel women and even Asra, but she’ll toss out a lot of their sillier ones- like don’t date Ilya (Asra’s). But anything Glory tells her tends to be very good advice (she’s never given her bum advice) and she’s far better with reading people than Odelia and so she’ll just default listen to her on a lot of topics.

She has a long list of who she won’t take advice from, but, to no one’s surprise, she’ll instantly tune out Valdemar’s advice. They rub her wrong and even if the advice is solid, she’ll ignore it because why would she ever want or take their advice?

7. Describe them in three words. Now let them describe themself in three words.

Smol chaotic neutral.

Controlled, chaotic exuberance.

8. Do complex puzzles intrigue or frustrate them?

The more complicated the puzzle, the more interested Odelia is. She has a deep love for whodunit novels because she loves a good mystery to piece together. Her mind loves puzzles of any sort. Magic and science both have the allure of being a puzzle, especially when she’s working on projects that require them to work in tandem (hence her unique brand of magical artificery). Asra use to bring her little puzzles to fidget with as she reclaimed the dexterity of her fingers and she’d just sit there playing with them- before she could even properly speak again- and figure out how solve them by herself.

9. Do they empathize with non-sentient things (dolls, plants, books…)?

She talks to them. A lot. Her plants are her babies and she’ll baby talk them. Her dolls have ‘personalities’ based on weird things they’ve done (like refused to stay in a particular spot so its persnickety about where its to sit or has fragile stitching so it’s an old lady stuffed toy). And books- she’ll talk to them about their condition or if they fall and land funny. A ‘there you are you sneaky thing’ to books that had eluded her.

But Odelia is a talker and it does help her focus on the here and now (rather than get lost in her thoughts) by talking out loud- even to inanimate objects.

10. What age do they most want to be right now?

The age she is now? She’s not one to daydream about her age or whatnot. She’s in her very early thirties and the world is her oyster. She’s fit and capable and her age is just an unimportant number to her. (especially since she doesn’t remember the previous years before ‘waking up’ anyhow.)

11. They’ve won the lottery. Spend, or save?

Haha, she’s already well off, so hurray more money? She’ll just invest the money responsibly as she did the money she had prior to that.

12. Do they like romance in the books they read (or in the book they’re in)?

Oh she’s a sucker for a good romance. If she likes the two characters, she’s in their corner rooting for them. She likes the wittier ones that banter more than anything. But she does get annoyed by impractical drama. Excitement! Danger! Ah YES! ‘Oh no who do I pick? I’m stuck between two choices!’ Grow up and outright pick. Let the one you don’t choose have a chance to get over you and move on with their life and find happiness (or pick both of them if that is a possibility! Just pick!). Because nothing is worse to her than pulling on the heartstrings of someone you aren’t going to pick.

13. Name one thing their parents taught them.

She doesn’t remember her birthparents. They were never a part of her life. Her birthmother briefly, but, when her magic’s rare classification came to light, she was taken into the care of another to raise and train her in the ways of their magic style. But she has had parents in her life. The most current ‘parent figure’ she has (one she remembers) is Old Glory (a nickname she gave the older woman and uses regardless of if the woman is present or not. A bad habit.).

She taught her through her actions that kindness isn’t reflected out outer beauty. Though most think she looks scary, as gnarled and scarred as she is (has a very mean resting bitch face), her heart is kind and compassionate. She tends to children with the utmost of patience, though tolerates no blatant disrespect. She remembers the names of everyone she’s been introduced to and what was last told to her about their day or life. Volunteers her free time to visiting the less fortunate and charging them no fee for her services. Hard shell, ooey, gooey insides.

14. Would they agree with the term ‘guilty pleasure’? Do they have any?

Oh she has guilty pleasures. A lot of the sweets she buys at Sesali’s bakery are guilty pleasures of her because she buys them by the dozens. Also mystery novels. She will re-read mystery novels she’s already read because she still likes the narrative and the build up to the big reveal. And theater. It’s fun, no matter how obvious the plot is sometimes.

15. What would they consider a waste of time– other than school or work?

Oddly enough, she finds sitting down to do her hair or having to apply make up or even more complicated outfits a waste of time. She’s very utilitarian in that regard. A ponytail will keep her hair out of her face so why spend hours learning how to do complicated braids simply because they look pretty?

Don’t be mistaken though. If Portia or Nadia or Julian want to do her hair or make up or dress her up- the time is no longer wasted. They enjoy doing those sorts of things and letting them enjoy themselves, despite how much she doesn’t understand why its enjoyable to them, means the time is well spent.

On her own though, nah. She’d rather do anything else- just throw on some clothes, toss her hair into a pony tail, and get going.

[c-qcatwrites]

So somehow. These accidentally feel less like dating headcanons than they do just sort of. General things, but hey. Some of it. Definitely has to do with dating so I can probably get away with it. *finger guns*

Dear @caryled, thank you. <3

Dear @alicesfracturedmirror, I love you, but suffer.

Thanks to @luvleekaotix-imagines again for the title and format.

Just Dating Diego Hargreeves Things:

Okay, so. I think it’s. Kiiiiiinda obvious, but Diego has. Issues. A lot of issues. Here is a man who has been told that he is lesser his entire life by the only father figure he has ever known. That his only purpose in life, the only way he can find fulfillment and possibly, just possibly come out on top, is by saving and helping others. And that shit stuck. Stuck so much so that he’s been doing vigilante work even after he left the Umbrella Academy—and that’s after getting thrown out of the police academy.

He is a man who wants so, so badly to help other people that he’s willing to break the law. He is an idealist refusing to be trapped by the the world around him, his reputation, his past, but these things are all all wrapped around him like rope he can struggle against, but never really get out of.

So to put it simply, to be with Diego…is a little bit of a balancing act. You need to support him—god do you need to support him, he really hasn’t had very much of that in his life—but you also need to play voice of reason. You need to tell him that it’s okay for him to rest, that he doesn’t need to do everything. You need to tell him that it’s okay for him to trust other people, to trust the world around him to be okay, to be safe for just a little bit.

Sometimes this will take words, sometimes it will take getting him to shut up and listen to you for what feels like once in his goddamn life, but other times? Other times the most it’ll take is just pulling him into bed with you and laying down with him, enough of your weight on him that he knows that to leave would be to disturb you, and he really doesn’t want to wake you up, doesn’t want you to let go of him. So he’ll stay put. If only for just that one night.

On that note, Diego is definitely touch-starved. In a group like the Umbrella Academy, he had never gotten much in the way of attention—let alone affection—that was just his, and the physical affection you give him is certainly just his.

Touch is absolutely one of his love languages, and he just eats that affection up when you express it, and he will more than gladly express it back.

(As an aside, he can be prone to jealousy over the little things, but over the little things it reads less as jealousy, than it does just being maybe a little more. Touch-y, hover-y, than normal. Most of the time it doesn’t even hit your radar that he may be feeling a little ignored, because you give the affection he wants so freely in return that most of the time it’s resolved before you need to think about it too much.)

(Jealousy over the big things, though, definitely reads as just straight-up jealousy.)

So for those of you who haven’t gotten the memo. Diego is (not really secretly) the biggest dork of the known universe. He also has a tendency to hide this. From my understanding it may be a factor of his experiences of abuse—you tend to hide the things that bring you joy for fear that they may be taken away or ridiculed. So dancing, singing, any sort of expression, really, these are all things of himself that he had hidden away, and to let them out, typically means being behind closed doors, if not locked ones.

To be with him means that you get the glorious experience that is being trusted to be within those doors. You get to see all the funny little things that make Diego who he is, not just the ones he always puts out there. You get to see the dancing that has obviously been practiced, you get to hear the singing that is pretty solidly off-key most of the time, and you get to see him in all these different, new ways that are just that: different. Because he trusts you to know all of him.

Sure, the first couple of times you catch him, you might find that he hides, that he decides to drop everything (figuratively) and pretend that you hadn’t just caught him doing what he was doing. But by the time you’re fully in a relationship, he’s moved past hiding what he likes from you and trying to share it with you.

So you catch him dancing and he’ll just grin at you and try to pull you over to join him. You catch him singing, you’ll get him serenading you, just to see you roll your eyes at him, because you also smile.

This all just showcases the sheer trust he has in you. He can trust you and be vulnerable around you because you love him, and he doesn’t have to be on-guard all the time, just waiting for someone to kick him while he’s not ready to take the hit. He can feel safe when you’re around—if nothing else he can at least feel safer.

And it’s for that reason you get to see the parts of him that nearly no one else does. You get to hear him struggle with his stutter, still, on occasion, sneaking up on him. You get to see the hurt in his heart, scars deeper than the ones on his skin. And you understand that to see all of him means that you can finally love all of him.

Another thing: here is a man who had never had to worry about making a home for a significant portion of his life. The way the Umbrella Academy ran, he wasn’t really ever required to do much in the way of chores. And then the boxing gym, well, that’s not really much in the way of a home to be made as much as a temporary living solution. But here’s the fun thing he finds out: there’s a number of things when it comes to homemaking that he finds out he really likes, when he moves in with you. Sure, part of it is just the sheer, “wow, I actually get to have this,” factor, but part of it actually is just straight-up enjoying these things.

Folding laundry? It’s tedious, but it goes faster with four hands, and that means he gets to spend time with you when he does it. Baking? He obviously may not do it all the time, but funny enough, the precision involved in following a recipe does mean he can get pretty damn good results.

There is so much comfort in moving in with you, and really, there is a part of him insisting that he needs to pay you back in some way for it—he doesn’t, you can insist, but he still will be hard-pressed to just sit back when he could be doing something around the house to help you, better still, with you.

It’s always the little things that he takes the greatest enjoyment out of with you. And while it’s a little sad to think of why, not dwelling on the why means you get to love the fact that he’s enjoying doing the dishes with you just because it’s in a home you both are a part of together.

But does this mean he will consider going grocery shopping with you a date? Mmmmmmayyybeee. (Definitely. Not like. A big date. But like. Still a date).

So Diego, he doesn’t do good with people not trusting him to get things done. And sometimes that can include taking care of himself. So sometimes he can get very defensive when you try to tell him to take care of himself, to not go out one night or another because he’s recovering from an injury or illness.

He insists he knows his limits. In truth, he knows how to push himself hard enough that he breaks and then to insist on keeping going. You can see that easier than he can. So a sizable chunk of the time, you need to be careful in letting him know that he needs to take better care of himself, you need to be careful with your words to let them speak louder than the chunk of his mind insisting, angrily, that everyone thinks they know better than him.

Your actions regarding this can speak just as loudly as any well-planned arguments. Letting him know that you trust him just builds his trust in you. So that the next time you simply tell him to sit down and goddammit stop doing that, you have stitches, Diego, you’re going to break them, he’s going to be more prone to listening. He’ll be frustrated, but. He’ll listen.

(He’ll listen even better next time if you stay close to him during the time he’s down for the count, an easy association for his sharp mind to make that if he lets you take care of him from time to time that he’ll be treated to a dose of his more obvious love language.)

In truth, you really need to be patient with him. You need to be willing to help him talk things out by being willing to communicate. He’s hot-headed and doesn’t always think before he says or does something just to make sure it hurts, but god does he feel how it hurts when it comes to you. He feels it in an instant. You have to be level-headed when he isn’t, and as frustrating as it is, as much as it takes, he will give more than enough to make up for it. This is something else that your actions can lead to, helping him learn to take a step back and cool off.

ALSO, delving into nsfw territory: you know this, I know this, we all know this, he is kinky. He’s interested in your comfort first and foremost when it comes to the bedroom (or, well, let’s be real occasionally outside it), but when it reaches the point where you fall into his sheets, he is observant about your tastes, and he is certainly vocal about his. Dropping hints is less like dropping hints than it is outright suggesting without shame about something to bring into the bedroom next you both get the chance.

(He’s a pleaser, just gonna leave it at that. ;) )

[prodiderat]

“stay in bed and let me look after you.”

hurt sentence starters

((Putting this under a read more due to potentially triggering content involving mentions of accidental self harm, mental illness, and trauma.))

This was why he couldn’t ever, in a million years, go against Ciel Phantomhive. This right here. A flicker of kindness in an abyssal darkness. He was his only coworker, the only other ‘Earl of Evil’ so to speak. At least, to a point where they would commit murders for the Queen if asked well enough. Ciel was the watchdog, the detective... He was the spider, the assassin. His expertise was murder and it got him into quite a bit of trouble. Killing someone and then framing someone else for the Queen’s sake was always a difficult and dangerous job... On occasions he’d do his own detective work, and on occasions Astre would commit a murder, but for the most part they had their roles... Sometimes they worked together, sometimes they worked autonomously, they were cogs in a machine constantly playing off of each other but hardly truly interacting. It hurt his heart, just a little bit, for a number of reasons. There was a part of him that obsessed over the earl, and there was a part of him that craved his attention and recognition. To say that the other was a role model would be a grossly large understatement-- a permanent fixation was much more akin to what fit. At the same time however, he wanted to turn down this kindness so graciously given to him... He felt he didn’t deserve it, not with how these wounds came to be.

His emotions were easy enough to predict while all the while being the most chaotic things on the face of this earth. for days on end, weeks, maybe even months he would be happy-go-lucky. in such an overwhelmingly good mood that he seemed to be on cloud nine. he would smile, grin, play, hell he’d even treat servants like Hannah with much more kindness and grace. other than a few small outbursts, he was, for the most part, utterly impossible to bring down. However his emotions were like a rubber band being pulled taught, eventually, to avoid breaking altogether, the band will have to snap back to form; and that’s what exactly would happen. He would be happy and then suddenly snap into a heavy aggression. He would enact violence and then immediately after fall into a deep depression. These aggressive spells could last minutes, or the entire day. He’d rip apart wallpaper, tear down curtains, beat his servants, even Claude wasn’t safe from his wrath on some days. by The end of it the room, or even the manor in it’s entirety, would be in shambles. Everything would be falling apart. But that wasn’t the most terrifying part… His aggression is terrifying in one way, but the deep depression he’d fall into after that was what really frightened most.

For almost twice the time(usually) that he’d been happy, he’d fall into this pit. He wouldn’t have the energy to get out of bed save for bathroom trips, wouldn’t have the energy to change his clothes, and wouldn’t have the energy to eat. It wasn’t uncommon for Claude to have to force him into a new night gown, or for servants to have to team up to lift him up while they changed his bedding. It also wasn’t entirely uncommon for Claude to have to force food into his mouth. He’d struggle against it, but as soon as whatever meal he was trying to get Alois to eat touched the earl’s tongue, he’d take it with little complaint. At one point the child had even bitten into the butler’s arm in one attempt to refuse a meal, only for it to be his own downfall as Claude wouldn’t allow Alois to close his mouth until a forkful of stake was on his tongue. Then that jaw would be forced into a closed position and that’d be the end of it. if Claude was a human there would definitely be a scar on that arm from the earl’s sharp canines. But he wasn’t, so no evidence of the violent action was left behind. In these deep depressions his world view would become malformed, so distorted in fact that he would often suffer bouts of what seemed to be psychosis or even vivid hallucinations. He would have flashbacks and terrible nightmares which only added to the terrible illusion of reality.

It wasn’t uncommon for him to request Claude stay by his side during terrible nights… This in of itself wouldn’t be too bad if not for how restless he’d be in the night and how at some points he’d still wake up screaming… It is in the delirium that he faced from his fragmented mind that servants would be ordered to keep a close eye on the earl, keep sharp objects and poisons away from him at all time, monitor all the things he has in his rooms– no belts, no rope, no buckles, no glass, nothing that he could inflict any damage upon himself. Alois didn’t want to commit suicide or hurt himself, not truly. In fact most of the time he didn’t even realize he was doing it until someone pulled him out of his near sleepwalking type of state. Often times, when this would happen, he would panic and attack whoever stirred him– as such it was imperative to grab him in a way that would neutralize any danger he posed. If he had a knife and was cutting up his legs, grab his arm and disarm him before he has a chance to truly struggle, then subdue him. That was the orders given, that was the instruction received. There was always the idea put forth by some that perhaps he needed mental care, but the prospect of an asylum was so outright awful that instead of treatment the only option was to hide his mental deterioration behind closed doors. He did well enough in public, it was just in private where things fell apart.

Sending the ‘young master’ to an asylum just to be tortured for ‘treatment’ was never a viable option and was something nobody would allow.

When Claude found him, the his white nightgown was stained a deep red. Blood caked his legs to the point where it was near impossible to tell wound from coated skin. He had to be washed before any bandaging could be done and by the end of it all, the bathwater was red and his wounds were being staunched by restrictive bandages. Bed rest was what was forced upon him. No leaving his bed until he recovered unless someone was there with him. There were so many scars upon his legs now, hidden behind his boots and socks. Perhaps a pair of tights. He wouldn’t allow for a soul to see them. They were his sin, his delusion, and nobody could see into his fragmented mind. And yet... there was one person who he knew could see through the veil he hid behind. Someone who had yet to step beyond it but could see ever so clearly through it to the other side. The only person that could possibly enact that switch to flip early in his brain to return him to either a positive or negative state of mind... Depending on how it all played out. The Earl of Phantomhive was easily a mental catalyst... 

“Why would you want to do something like that?” He asked him, blue eyes somewhat downcast, he couldn’t find the will to look him straight in the eyes. There was a heavy feeling of shame fluttering in his mind. Why is it he felt no shame for the bad things he did on purpose, and yet felt so much shame for the things he couldn’t control? Why did he pull his hair out when he thought about how he fell on his ass while dancing with someone, but not when he thought about how he gouged out Hannah’s eyes. “Look after me, I mean... It cannot be pleasant I imagine, to care after your... wounded coworker.“ He was going to say ‘mad’, but held his tongue. He didn’t know the extent for which the other knew. While he trusted Astre, he also did fear that he’d tell the Queen, not truly knowing how awful Asylum life was. “You don’t have to stay here, Ciel...” And yet he wanted him to... He wanted nothing more than the company of someone other than his servants. Someone that understood him much better... Even if just a little bit. Just one more soul.

Just one more wounded soul.

@falseearl -- ((feel free to turn this into a thread if you’d like))

[proheromidoriyashouto]

Quirkless Hero!Deku and Artist/Youtuber!Shouto AU expansion

Shouto was expelled from the Hero Course by Aizawa after the Sports Festival for his refusal to use all his might (neglecting half his quirk) when the chips are down. Shouto went to General Studies and after some serious introspection post-Hosu (he was dragged along by Ende*vore to do grunt work as punishment and happened to come across Tenya and an Idaten intern he didn't know facing off against Stain) began to find solace in art and writing classes and decided to take his life into his own hands.

Shouto started a gaming channel because Ochako- while introducing him to Super Smash Bros Ultimate- noted that he has a nice voice and he likes the story-telling capabilities of games, so why not? What does he have to lose? His striking appearance and slight fame will surely garner him a boost in viewership early on, and they do.

He initially has to run the channel from Tenya's home since Ende*vore would never allow it. He starts off playing multiplayer games because those are what his friends introduce him to so they can play together, but he inevitably shifts toward single-player games that devote quite a lot of time into compelling story campaigns and exploration. His first delves are into Horizon: Zero Dawn, God of War, the Fallout series, Portal 1 & 2, the Witcher series, and the Last of Us since these are the most prominent games at the time (remakes of games in 22XX tend to release in the same year and order the originals did to get the most playtime out of fans). He’s not good at it to start. He reads from a script and he’s stiff and uncomfortable in front of the camera. He thought he was desensitized to that given his time in the limelight thanks to his name but there’s something about talking to a small webcam that feels, well, silly, and... intense. Personal. It’s a serious detractor, and the comments he receives about it are almost enough to shut down the channel for good. His friends’ support gets him through though and he starts to develop a considerable following.

Before he realizes, he’s spending all his free time playing games with purpose, creating new videos on a nearly daily basis, brainstorming how to structure  theory and lore episodes, and worrying about how his uploads are perceived. He runs charity live streams, plays fan-picked hero games, scours every last hint of lore from side-quests, get those sweet sweet completionist Platinum trophies that only like 1% of players get for every game.

Ende*vore cuts him off from his money, and inheritance. Shouto tentatively starts support pages and is surprised by the number of people willing to shell out for him. He starts to really feel the burn-out as he struggles to create more video content for awards before Momo suggests making things. Real, physical things for awards that will give him a break for the grind, and that he can use to improve his art skills. He smacks himself when he realizes that he can also use art as a way of re-connecting with his mother.

Visits at the hospital become days spent drawing, painting, sculpting, and knitting. His mother shocks him in a display of lace-making and he feels a pang of grief when he learns that it was a tradition in her family that she hadn’t been able to pass down to him. She’d taught Fuyumi and Touya a bit but Ende*vore found out and put a stop to it, saying that his legacy was the only one they needed to concern themselves with. She was too afraid of the harm her husband would bring upon the children if she tried again with Natsuo and Shouto. After hearing that there’s nothing more Shouto wants to learn (lace-crafts are his awards for months, and then on occasion for years to come).

His channel, SpicyHeathenGaming, steadily grows over the years and once he graduates from U.A., he devotes himself entirely to running it. By the time he has the formal encounter with Deku, he has millions of subscribers and has become quite comfortable in the public persona he’d crafted (it’s easy to slip into given his natural penchant for straight-man-esque dry humor). He’s almost 25, successful in a precarious field, and... happy. Genuinely at peace. There are days when he misses the rush of a fight, the satisfaction of post-rescue, and on bad days, he thinks of all the people he never saved. He schedules an appointment with his therapist and moves on.

Deku is the one to note that the Day They Met wasn’t at the construction site as he thought, but during the battle of Stain vs Team Idaten Round 2 (and U.A. Students) as the media has labelled it. Shouto is shocked but not for long. The similarities to his then-Idaten costume are prevalent in Deku’s short white mask, midnight leg guards, and heavy black soles but the rest is substantially changed. He’s vaguely reminiscent of a teal/aqua All Might- especially with his cowl on- rather than the Ingenium line now.

He’d become infamous for becoming a hero “the old fashioned way“ through interning and shadowing directly with Pros for years, foregoing hero-high school altogether.

While none of the schools outright forbid quirkless students from applying, Deku had said in his debut press conference, despite passing Ketsubutsu, Shiketsu, and U.A.’s entrance exams, I was denied admittance. They all said something to the effect of ‘I had a “weak constitution”’, ‘my “supposed passion” had been deemed insufficient hot air,’ and ‘my “heroic spirit” wouldn’t be enough to match the rigor of a top-rated hero-course’s training.’ A good friend of mine, Tenya Iida, had been at the same U.A. entrance exam as myself and after learning about my struggles put in a word for me with his family. I didn’t ask for a handout, but when the legitimate options are not truly available to you, what choice even is there? I wasn’t going to turn down the one chance I had left. Team Idaten was good to me and I wouldn’t be the man I’ve become if not for them. In all honesty, Deku shrugged, an almost apologetic look on his face, almost. I was starting to fall into a pretty dark place. I might have become a villain.

Deku had faced ire from Pros, alumni and non-alumni from the schools alike for those remarks, and public opinion had been torn between disdain for slandering the institutions of hero education or support for him having become a hero despite all the odds against him- a true, old-school origin story. All Might had surprised many by showing Deku support, and many U.A.-borne Pros had followed in his example. Ketsubutsu and Shiketsu had not been nearly as kind, with few exceptions. Deku’s rivalries with Dynamic Blitz (one-sided feud in reality), Magnitude, Cloudburst, and Sideburn Tress were almost as well-known as All Might and Endeavor back when they were heroes.

Deku was a world-wide icon for the roughly 2 billion quirkless people in existence, only one of a hand-full of quirkless Pros throughout the world since the dawn of quirks, and the first ever in Japan’s history. He was leagues above Shouto. Shouldn’t have paid him any more mind than any other civilian he’d saved. If not for Shouto’s disastrous inability to handle situations like anything resembling a normal person. He’d seen a strong, handsome, trend-setting, status-quo defying, internationally known hero up close in person, who not only recognized him for his channel but his private art blog and shop, reaching toward his evidently panicking self and had activated his right side as though it was the neglected half, and frozen their hands together.

He’d made a fucking fool of himself... but still... wound up with a number in his pocket and a wink emoji. He never got such lascivious flirting sent his way. Curses, that wink emoji. Not with his scar and eye-straining coloration and lack of proper skin and hair care. No way. What if Deku winked at him in real life? In public? Scandalous. What was he going to do?

Fuyumi. Tenya, help me.

Um, sure?

With what?

...kill me.

-Shou-!

W-why would you-!!

Please, just, vaporize me right now, I’m staring at the moon just take me by surprise, I’m begging you. Actually call Aoyama I have money.

Little brother! What’s brought this on?

That’s not an explanation! If you need help-

I... I have a date.

(Shouto is verrrr out of practice with his powers and dating and is a complete disaster gay. Izuku’s kinda suave and you can thank Tensei’s Big Brother Influence for that. Izuku saved Eri and Kouta okay I promise I have an explanation. All Might was a dick and never found Izuku to apologize. Izuku’s kinda bitter about it but he’s living his best life so :///////. OFA? Never met her. Mirio would be OFA’s 9th in this AU after losing Permeation. Will expand into a proper fic and post to AO3 when its done- I already have too many AUs at once going on.

Population estimates put humans stabilizing at about 11 billion in the 2200s - BNHA was already in modern day when quirks came and its been 200 years since then as per canon- and 20% of the population is slightly more than 2 billion. 2 billion quirkless people.

Dynamic Blitz is that motherfucker. You know who Magnitude and Cloudburst are~. Three guess as to Sideburn Tress’ identity. He wasn’t outwardly hostile but something about him set off red-flags for me. Also strikes me as having a lot of school pride.)

[localqueerdad]

close these green eyes.

pairing: gavin/jeremy word count: 4055 warnings: unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied alcohol abuse, implied sex, implied past abuse. none of these are graphic, but please stay safe.

[read on ao3]

more than anything i want to save you from myself

- rupi kaur

there is a hole inside gavin’s chest that he can never seem to fill.

he’s tried everything; getting blackout drunk on rooftops in the middle of the night, leaving bars with attractive strangers and leaving their dingy apartments at five in the morning, pills, cars, anything he could think of. it had done nothing but widen the hole, and now it was this gaping mass ripping through his lungs that was invisible to everyone else but him.

the thing with him, gavin supposes, is that he tried to force himself to do things he knew he wouldn’t like. he had never liked sex, never understood the supposed passion or thrill of it, but he would go around with anyone who smiled at him from across a darkly lit room. the alcohol was always cheap and burnt his throat and made him cry, and the pills were just shit, really. his binder was always too tight and his ribs were black and blue and yellow and he was choking to death in the heat of it all. it was his self-destruction, and it was far from beautiful. these were ugly shards of glass littering his bathroom floor, and there was nothing he could do to stop himself from shattering over and over and over again.

there was always a catalyst for these extended periods of agonising memories that he wanted to drown out. when he first left miserable england for even more miserable los santos, he was bad for weeks on end. he doesn’t quite remember how long it lasted, but he knows it was too long. he sorted himself out eventually, settled in and unpacked his tiny suitcase and made a living.

he begins as vav, a small-time hacker that gradually grows bigger among underground circles. every damn criminal seems to want him to work for their filthy cause, but gavin remains freelance. it’s the only control he has. there’s a certain thrill to his work that he never achieved on his worst nights, and he thinks there is some kind of twisted irony in that. he can work himself to the bone and feel something, but when he drinks he doesn’t feel anything but the coldness in his bones.

during the first three years, gavin lives in the same old shitty little apartment he rented as an eighteen-year-old kid who had run away from home. ‘home’ was said lightly – his only memories of that were far and few between, with raised voices and bruises and broken bottles. no. he has never had a home. but this apartment in a back alley in one of the worst cities in the state is as close to home as he has, so he’ll take it. theoretically, he could move out; hacking pays well, especially when you’re as well known as vav is. but he doesn’t want to chance another bad spree again.

he’s doing fine. he’s coping. there may be too many prescription pills on his kitchen counter and coffee mugs littering his eyes and purple rings are imprinted underneath his eyes but he’s not getting bad again. he isn’t.

(he is.)

gavin goes to the shadiest bar he can find and he hates himself for it. he buys too many shots and sees a cute guy from across the room and loses the slither of self-control he possesses. the guy is nice, a little bit older than him and wealthy judging by the notes gavin sees in his wallet when he goes to pay for their drinks. he allows the guy to drive them to his nice apartment in the nicer side of the city, a penthouse with floor to ceiling windows and a plush carpet and fancy smelling shit. his bed is nice too. the sex, not so much, but not the worst he’s had.

he lies next to the guy in the bed for a few hours afterwards, listening to his quiet snores and staring blankly at the ceiling. he wants to feel something other than this terrifying numbness. he wants a life where he gets to wake up next to someone he actually loves rather than a one night stand who he’s about to walk out on.

there are two very clear rules gavin has set out for occasions like these: do not give them his number, and do not let them tell him their name.

he leaves at six in the morning and almost feels bad, before realising that he has a job at eleven and immediately switching to his professional mode. it’s easier for him to file all the sides of himself and push them to the side when he has a job to do. personal shit always gets in the way.

another year passes, and gavin has moved apartments twice. there have been one too many slip ups due to his own idiocy, and a nauseating anxiety has moved in with his thundering numbness.

at least he has a friend now. michael. mogar. demolition expert extraordinaire and resident creep puncher. gavin had been on a long streak of bad days when he had been cornered outside of a bar by a man demanding gavin to give him his wallet in a voice that sounded too much like the one in his nightmares. a moment before gavin falls apart, a flurry of curly brown hair and angry yelling appears from nowhere, grabbing the guy in a headlock and beating him to shit.

gavin gains a split lip and a best friend from new jersey all in the same evening. and he didn’t even have to bang michael to get him to stay. score.

michael confides in gavin a lot, and he does too. they learn that they can only trust one another in this city full of hatred. michael tells him about the blistering rage which reverberates from his head to his toes, in every atom of his being, and gavin tells him about the numbness which squeezes his chest until he can’t breathe. he tells gavin about how the fire helps him rein the fury in, rubbing his scarred knuckles, and gavin tells him how he only feels okay when he has a mask on. gavin tells michael about his childhood, or lack thereof, and shows him the scars on his back, forgetting that he is wearing a binder. michael laughs and lifts his shirt to reveal his own binder. they smile at each other. it’s not perfect, this fragile friendship built on mario kart and soda, but it’s theirs.

two years later, and their little crew has expanded to fit another friend and a cat. michael meets lindsay ten months after he saved gavin, and they become close so quickly it makes gavin dizzy. lindsay, ruby rose, has this glow about her, a hopeful energy that is infectious to everyone but him. she still wraps him around her pinky though, just as she does to michael, and she fits right in. there are nights where she wakes up screaming, and at the beginning both of them would rush to her side. michael and lindsay start dating two months later and gavin stays in his bed when he hears her yell in the middle of the night.

it wasn’t like gavin was completely alone. he dated a girl he met in a club on a good night for a few months, and it had been good. she had fireworks in her eyes and constantly changing hair and gavin had liked that fluidity. her ability to change. he buys a cat and she hates the thing, but she deals with it because, for whatever reason, she likes gavin. and gavin is happy and his head is quiet and the numbness isn’t as deafening. that doesn’t last though.

their relationship ends after five months, and it’s no one’s fault but his. he becomes distant, stops answering her texts and calls, and she gets tired of it. they’re still friends, she tells him. she cares about him. she just doesn’t want this… nothingness.

so gavin has his cat and his two friends. he’s okay with that. he isn’t getting bad again.

(he is.)

gavin doesn’t go to a bar this time. he doesn’t go out drinking or stand on the edge of a skyscraper or anything like that. he doesn’t leave his bed. sleep is a blessing, and he abuses it until he can’t sleep anymore. then, he stares at the ceiling until he blacks out.

michael and lindsay start getting worried after two days, and they get outright frantic after four days when gavin retreats to the bathroom and refuses to open the door. he just wants it to be quiet. a half empty whisky bottle lies next to him and his phone lies smashed across the tiles next to the bath tub. michael is pounding his fists against the door now, and lindsay is attempting to coax him out, but everything is fuzzy.

a sudden realisation strikes him. he is hurting the people he loves. who love him. he is never going to get better and he knows this, but his two friends don’t. they have no clue what is wrong with him. they don’t know that he is broken beyond repair.

they leave after a while, and gavin hears michael yell in frustration and muffle a sob. he stays in the bathroom until they retreat to their room, and he unlocks the door. he presses his forehead against his knees for a second, his hands gripping his legs, and then pushes himself off the floor. he leaves the bottle and his phone, and he walks out of the apartment in a daze.

he isn’t sure how he gets to the bar, but he does, and it’s a fairly decent one so he goes inside. he realises that he forgot to put on his jacket before he left and he is freezing. the bar is warm and crowded, bustling bodies and spilt alcohol and he, with his tired eyes and dark circles and messy hair, sticks out like a sore thumb. he grabs a seat by the bar and orders the first drink he sees on the menu. when it arrives, he stirs it idly and doesn’t drink it.

everyone here has someone. this probably isn’t a place you go on your own, which might be why the barkeeper looked at him oddly. that, or he wants to have sex with him. could be either one, really.

gavin is alone. he has no one.

some guy sits next to him and orders a drink, and gavin turns his head to get a better look at him. he has obnoxiously green hair and kind eyes with dark circles that rival his underneath. he catches gavin’s gaze and smiles. gavin looks back at the menu.

the guy gets his drink and exhales slowly, drawing gavin’s attention back to him. “so, what’s your name?”

“what?”

“your name. since you were looking at me.”

gavin flushes involuntarily, and the guy’s smile widens.

“i don’t like names. they’re stupid.” he says, taking a sip of his drink.

“well, i’ll start,” he holds out a hand for gavin to shake. “i’m jeremy.”

gavin stares blankly at jeremy’s outstretched hand and moves his gaze back up to his face. jeremy lowers his hand, rolling his eyes.

“you’re english, right? you know you’re like, a walking stereotype.”

“and you’re a kid with dumb hair who approached a stranger in a bar,” he deadpans, a slight lilt to his words.

jeremy looks him over for a moment, before snorting with laughter. “touché, bitch.”

they talk for what seems like forever, about anything and everything they can find. gavin laughs, and jeremy’s smile makes him forget his numbness for a bit. it doesn’t last though, and jeremy looks at his phone and jumps up, pulling his coat on.

“i’m sorry, i have to go, it’s super late.” he shows the time to gavin and he’s right. 23:56.

gavin shrugs and offers him a tiny smile. “it’s cool. i’ll see you around, yeah?”

a look of nervousness passes over jeremy's face, and he hesitates for a second. “give me your hand.” he says, pulling out a pen from his coat pocket.

“wait – what are you doing?”

his hand is warm as he holds gavin’s left hand still, scribbling numbers in biro quickly. he looks them over quickly and nods, before shooting a grin at gavin.

“you better not leave me hanging.”

with that, he’s out of the door and gavin sits there staring at jeremy’s number which has been scrawled on his hand. what a whirlwind.

gavin knows his rules. do not give them his number, and do not let them tell him their name. he’s already broken one rule. why not another?

he feels okay as he walks home in the chilly breeze, before breaking out of his fog and remembering that he broke his phone. he threw a phone against the wall and drank half a bottle of whisky and left the apartment without telling anyone.

michael was going to fucking kill him.

a few weeks pass and gavin still hasn’t texted jeremy. he feels bad about it, but not as bad as he feels about worrying michael and lindsay to death. they didn’t kill him, not really; there was yelling and a few angry tears and a very tight hug but they said they understood. just don’t do it again. since then, they had been hovering over him like mother hens, but he didn’t mind. it was nice, having people who care about him.

the piece of paper with jeremy’s number sleeps on his bedside table, and a month afterwards he decides to give it a shot. he buys a new phone and boots it up, procrastinating by finding cool wallpapers and adding his contacts. jeremy’s number is the last one he enters, and he does so with shaking fingers.

he types out a greeting and looks at it, then deletes it. he does this again and again until his eyes begin to blur and phone number two is about to meet its grisly end against a wall. michael swoops in before that happens though, dodging gavin’s feeble attempts to grab his phone and ignoring his threats.

“what’s this, boi?” michael asks, holding the phone out of gavin’s reach and showing the screen to him. gavin deflates against his friend and michael instantly softens. he puts the phone down on gavin’s bedside table and sits him down on the bed, sitting next to him and looking at him expectedly.

“he’s just this dude I met a few weeks ago. it’s nothing, really, i just completely disappeared on him and, um – "

michael holds up a finger to stop his rambles, and takes a deep breath. “wait, is this from that really bad night you had?” gavin nods. michael shakes his head at him and lets a dark chuckle escape his mouth. “you’re a real piece of work, gavin.”

he stands up and grabs gavin’s phone from the table, pausing for a moment before chucking it at gavin. he lets out a squawk as he falls backwards, and he hears michael laugh properly this time.

“text the fucking dude, man. and eat dinner with me and lindsay later.”

he leaves gavin alone with the stark white background of his text glaring at him, and he decides screw it. he types out a ‘hey, this is gavin!’ and an apology, and sends it. he stares at the screen for a minute, and then lets it fall to his side as he stares at the ceiling. worry echoes through his mind and he thinks about if he should delete the message or just completely destroy his phone. maybe move to canada, change his name, all because a damn boy wouldn’t text him back.

a ping from next to him snaps him out of his thoughts and he rolls onto his stomach and picks his phone up. jeremy.

the text is short and to the point, but it’s open ended and fills gavin with hope. he pushes it to the pit of his stomach and asks him if he wants to get a drink sometime. jeremy replies two minutes later with a yes. gavin wiggles around to grin at the ceiling and holds the phone to his chest.

they date for three months before gavin starts spiralling again. what they have is incredible, and gavin feels dizzy from how much he likes this green haired man who waltzed into his life and refused to leave. he doesn’t know about how bad gavin can get though, and he doesn’t want jeremy to find out. they’ve shared plenty of ugly secrets, but this bogeyman hunts gavin and he can’t burden anyone with it.

that doesn’t stop it from creeping up on him and he gets bad again, which becomes apparent to jeremy when gavin snaps at him for accidentally knocking a glass off the counter and smashing it against the floor. gavin jumps and recoils away, and jeremy instantly looks concerned, opening his mouth to ask if he’s okay and to pity him. gavin strikes before he can say anything, venomous words that he doesn’t really mean hanging in the air, and it is jeremy’s turn to recoil. he recovers faster than gavin, and spits his own venom at him, walking out of the kitchen into the living room.

gavin pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. he glances at the broken glass and kneels to clean it up, and cuts himself on the first piece he picks up. it stings, but he throws it in the bin and keeps picking shards of glass up. he doesn’t realise that he’s crying until he hears jeremy’s soft voice next to him, and turns around to look at his boyfriend through tear filled eyes.

jeremy’s eyes widen with shock, and he gently holds gavin’s elbow to help him up. he leads him to the couch in the living room and sits him down, murmuring that he’ll be right back and vanishing again. gavin chokes back a sob as he looks at his hands and sees the cuts that litter his significantly paler than usual skin. he’s so stupid, so stupid, and now jeremy’s going to leave him because everyone leaves him and there’s no point in trying anymore.

the floorboard creaks and the couch sinks as jeremy sits next to gavin with a miniature first aid kit, one leg hanging off the edge and the other resting on the couch. he pulls gavin towards him and he goes easily, allowing jeremy to clean his cuts and cover then with plasters. quiet hums fill the air as he works, and when he’s done he holds onto gavin’s hands for a second.

gavin looks up at him, green eyes full of fear, and something in jeremy melts.

they readjust themselves so that gavin’s head rests on jeremy’s leg, and jeremy’s fingers are in gavin’s hair, and it’s so peaceful gavin could cry. so, he does.

“d’you wanna talk about it?” jeremy asks, breaking the fragile silence.

gavin’s breath hitches and he closes his eyes briefly. he looks up at this wonderful man through his eyelashes, and sees nothing but genuine love and concern. he nods. “i… i don’t know what’s wrong with me really, i’m sorry, i am, just – god.”

“hey, it’s okay,” jeremy says softly, “you don’t have anything to be sorry about. i care about you and i want you to be – shit, are you okay?”

tears are falling down gavin’s cheeks like miniature rivers as he sniffs and tries to wipe them away with his sleeve, pushing himself up and turning around so that he faces jeremy. he’s still crying, and now he’s getting frustrated and it’s obvious apparently because jeremy lifts a hand to gavin’s cheek to brush away his tears.

he covers his hand over jeremy’s and leans into it, the safety, the security, and he knows he’s okay.

“i, um. sometimes i have these really bad days and uh, there isn’t anything i can do to stop them, y’know? just, bad memories will spring up and i get irritable and sad and i can’t leave my bed. you deserve better than me, i’m just,” he lifts his hand from jeremy’s to gesture at himself, “nothing.”

“i don’t think that’s true.” gavin squints his eyes at him, and jeremy shakes his head and links their fingers together. “seriously. just because you have bad days doesn’t make you unlovable. i have bad days too.”

“you don’t get it,” gavin’s voice rises and jeremy lifts an eyebrow at his tone shift. “i’m a bad person, jeremy, i am, i do terrible things and i hurt people and i can’t stop it. i can’t.”

“let me help you then.” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. it is, gavin supposes, and he’s taken aback.

“i think i love you, jeremy.”

jeremy smiles, big and bright. “i think i love you too. wanna move in?”

“yeah.”

gavin moves into jeremy’s apartment a week later, and michael, the melodramatic son of a bitch, clings to his leg as he attempts to carries the last of the boxes to the car. he pries michael off without the help of lindsay and jeremy, who are cackling in the corner and mocking them both, and gives him a proper hug goodbye. not an actual goodbye, really, now that they have a crew.

the fake ah crew.

ramsey and pattillo had found him, vav, the day after gavin’s breakdown, and after a few negotiations and tweaks, they were all on board. gavin was going to refuse their offer, but jeremy convinced him not to, and so gavin convinced ramsey to recruit him, lindsay and michael as well.

vav didn’t feel right for him anymore. not with all the memories of who he used to be. vav felt out-dated and distant now. he says this much to jeremy as they drive to their new apartment, and he laughs and tells him to check the glove compartment.

gavin pulls a pair of tacky gold sunglasses out, and takes one look at them before dissolving into howling laughter. he presses the back of his head against the seat and takes a few breaths to calm down. a few giggles escape his lips as he put them on, and these escalate as he flips the mirror down to look at himself.

“jeremy, i look – i look so stupid, jeremy!”

“i think you look great, buddy.” he looks at gavin for a second and pats his leg, before turning his attention back to the road. “y’know what might be a good name for you now that you’re ditching vav?”

“what?”

“the golden boy. gotta have a theme.”

gavin snorts and nods, glancing at the mirror again before flipping it closed.

it’s a year later, and gavin and jeremy are relaxing on the roof of their penthouse apartment, their legs dangling over the edge. jeremy’s head is on gavin’s shoulder, and he presses a kiss against his head and leans his head on his. the fake’s are infamous now, and they are at the top of the world. they are mortal gods in a dying city, and they love each other in the midst of their newfound chaos.

gavin still has bad days. he doesn’t go to seedy bars anymore or drink himself silly; instead, he’d hide in bed or cling to jeremy and he would let him. the numbness is still there, but it’s quieter, and he can feels invincible sometimes. this might be the happiest he has ever been. it's good.

the masks still litter his bathroom floor, but now it’s accompanied by gold eyeliner and loose bills. the golden boy is different to vav, different to gavin free, and that is the beauty of it all. his life is in the thrill of the chase, in blood and green screens and lil j’s sniper rifles. gavin’s is in the night sky, soft smiles and familiar green hair.

he still thinks that he is going to crash and burn one day, but this isn’t it. he isn’t going anywhere.

the night slips through his fingers and he finds that it is a little easier to breathe.